Work Text:
Dorian Pavus was a warm-blooded man, blessed with great magical proficiency and looks that could bring even the finest marble to shame. But the nation of Fereldan (and its people) were not so easily charmed by his presence. Strong gusts of frigid mountain air, colder than any magic, whipped at the flesh of his face as he walked, turning his skin a motley blend of crimson reds and royal purples. Fresh snow crunched under his boot as he trekked the mountain path outside Haven.
“The south and their cursed winter weather.” Dorian said aloud, “How could anyone think this is a good place to set up a military force that’s supposed to fix the world? Pity I hadn’t been here when it was founded. I would’ve chosen somewhere more tropical, preferably with a nude beach and private baths.”
"Its just now becoming morning, Dorian. Give the sun time to rise." A voice speaks out. A soft chuckle and a short exhale. Behind him, a smaller man with pointed ears draws his shoulders closer into his body. His breaths are uneven, and his hands are tucked into his armpits to conserve heat. He looks ahead at the near-endless path ahead of them and catches Dorians’ gaze, the older man quickly turning away. The unnatural glow of Misadahl Lavellan’s eyes unsettles Dorian every time he looks at the elf. It wasn’t the reflective glint elven eyes did in light when it was dark out nor was it the reflection of a flame. His eyes shone with the same brilliant green as the anchor on his hand, magic coursing throughout his entire body When he first saw him cast a powerful lighting spell in the field, Dorian could swear his entire body shined with light for a fraction of a second like the fade was in him. It was extremely unsettling yet… beautiful. He claims that they were dark brown before the events of the conclave which Dorian found very Interesting and would surely study when given the opportunity. That was if he got the opportunity. Misa was a mage so magic obviously wasn’t something new to the elf, but he reacted with a sort of indifference to the mark at times. Like if he ignored it, the anchor would go away. Dorian and countless other arcane scholars would die of glee if they possessed something so extraordinary and powerful, yet Misa seemed to have no curiosity about the thing. Actually, he did ask questions about the anchor and studied it too, but those studies were reserved for when he was alone with that elven apostate who regarded Dorian like rabbit dung beneath his heel. A pity.
Today, they had wandered further away from Haven than the elf had ever dared to before. Josephine recommended they practice magic further away from Haven today and every day after that so that the “little people” (as Sera so eloquently called the general populace) wouldn’t be too perturbed by their abilities. The faint sounds of clashing blades and Cullen barking commands were no more than a whisper against their ears as they marched forward. The pair didn’t have a set destination, just putting enough distance between them and the town so they could practice magic without the former Templars, overly cautious Seeker, and fearful non-mages eyeing them with suspicion.
Misa elects to fill the silence and immediately regrets it, the skin on his lips cracking as he opens his mouth to speak. “Shems and their fear of magic,” he says “Pitiful. They’re so scared of something so natural, something gorgeous. They refuse to see the beauty in harnessed lightning or a controlled fire that dances from finger to finger.”
“Not all “shems”, my friend.” Dorian looks back to Misa and flashes a smile, which the elf can only return with his eyes and a nod of his head, a scarf covering most of his face.
“I always hear about magic in Tevinter, but I’ve never heard about it from an actual magister before. What’s it like there?”
“Oh, it is absolutely wonderful. You would love the dilapidated, ancient buildings held up entirely by magic, lower society mages being used just to light candles on the street or clean shit clogged in the sewers, entire cities smelling like a rotting corpse, and rivers running red from blood magic experiments being practiced behind closed doors. It’s a rather divine place indeed, I’ll have to show you around someday.”
Lavellan takes a deep sigh and rolls his eyes at the response he’s been given. “That’s not what I was talking about, Dorian.”
“Oh, I know. Just trying to drag the conversation out until we get to our destination.”
They walk a few more paces before Misa speaks up again. “Up north, where we’re from, it’s so different. Everyone is much less terrified of magic there.”
“Where “we’re” from? From the tattoos on your face, I would’ve thought you’d never have set foot outside of your clan until the conclave though I did find it rather odd that your accent was so hard to pinpoint. But I wrote it off as your Dalish tongue being foreign to me.”
Dorians’ gait slows down to where he matched strides with Misa, walking side by side with him. Even through the space between them, he could still feel the magic of the anchor. A shift in the air, like a soft vibration, or the air whistling through a crack in the window. It reminded him of holding veilfire torches in elven ruins. Interesting.
“-stuck close to the riverbanks and escaped quickly on the water. Lots of shems don’t know our aravels can float too, which we used to our advantage.” Lavellan had continued speaking while Dorian was trapped in thought, leaving him lost in the conversation.
“Pardon me, Misa. I was within my mind for a moment there. Those aravels can float as well? What a fascinating culture you belong to.”
A sigh falls from Misa’s lips as he speeds up his pace, putting distance between him and the human “Don’t be condescending, Dorian. I could have you executed for your constant whining alone.”
A nerve had been hit. Dorian’s eyes go wide, and he immediately stops in place. “You’d remove this rather perfect head, sculpted by the maker himself, from its even more dazzling body? How barbaric.” He enunciated the last part with a deep frown and wild gestures. The two share a laugh that’s quickly silenced by the howling wind. Dorian breaks into a light jog to catch up with the surprisingly fast-moving elf. He slaps a hand on his shoulder and pulls him to a complete stop.
“In all seriousness, Lavellan, I did not intend to insult you or your people. Sometimes my tongue moves too fast, and I misspeak.” Misa turns his head to the taller man and rolls his eyes with a scoff. “Yes, even me I know. Alas, no one can be perfect, though I do come frustratingly close, wouldn’t you say?”
“I thought you were above begging for compliments, Magister Pavus?”
The two share a look before erupting into even more laughter that bellows down the mountainside. It doesn’t take them long after to arrive at their destination, a flat clearing along the path to the formerly standing Temple of Sacred Ashes. It was the same path Misa had walked to close the breach the first time, but it was a speck in the distance from their position. No one would bother them this far up here.
“I do have to say, it’s quite a beautiful sight up here.” Dorian sits on a collapsed statue of Andraste and gazes out at the horizon. “If it wasn’t so damn freezing all the time, I’d be much fonder of this place.”
Silence. Looking to the elf, he sees his eyes are closed and his hands held out, fingers extended with his palms pointed flat to the ground. Misa takes in a deep breath through his nostrils and exhales through his mouth repeatedly, in a rhythm. Dorian feels the wind twist and tremor as it falls from a blasting gale that throws his coat wildly about, to little more than a standstill. The snow at their feet first turns to slush, then completely melts, soaking into the ground. Looking to the elf again, he watches as a smile grows on his lips as he lets the magic flow through him, and Dorian feels his chest grow warm at the sight. He loved watching other mages use their magic, not only during battles but outside of it as well for tasks like this. The pride in knowing you have such power at your fingertips is close to intoxicating and observing someone as they cast, feeling the energy in the air shift and bend to their will, fills him with content. Minute’s pass and as Misa finishes casting the spell, Dorian begins to clap in admiration.
“Bravo, my dear boy! A warmth barrier like that would’ve taken me more than half an hour to cast on this blasted mountain.” Misa looks to the man with a dark look before softening his features as their eyes met.
“Oh…I thought you were making fun of me. Thank you, Dorian.”
Dorian’s smile drops and is replaced by a puzzled look. “Why would I make fun of you? You are a very talented mage and I’m complimenting you on that. You have been given a compliment before, right?”
Misa lightly chuckles at that but turns his gaze to the ground, quiet for several moments as he traces lines in the dirt with his foot. “I’ve been given compliments before. It’s just… I’ve been removed from my clan for so long now that I’ve forgotten that there are people who genuinely enjoy magic. Everyone else would’ve felt uneasy if I cast that at Haven and I would have to endure another endless lecture on the appropriate usage of magic from Vivienne and Josephine.” He looked at his unmarked hand and closed it into a fist.
“I’m…sorry, Misadahl.” Dorian rubs his own shoulder and turns away, his face red with embarrassment. “I didn’t know the others made you feel like that about your magic.”
“No one can ever make me feel ashamed of my magic.” The elf’s eyes had a fire in them whenever he spoke this passionately, something Dorian thoroughly enjoyed since their first meeting in the Redcliffe chantry, weeks ago. “The mages here view magic as a tool, something foreign and dangerous to be used, controlled, and reined in. I see magic as a part of me like my heart, my breath, or my hands. I use it without even thinking because it’s natural to me and they see it differently. Sometimes, I just want to extinguish a candle with a flick of a wrist or pull a book off the shelf with nothing but a thought, but I have to stop myself and hold back my gift. I feel like a prisoner here.”
Dorian sits there, motionless, with nothing but a parted mouth and solemn eyes locked onto the unkempt stone path. He too had felt the same way since he’d been traveling outside of Tevinter but never to the same degree as his friend. Being from Tevinter, his reputation preceded him and there was nothing he could do to make anyone see him as anything except a blood magic-wielding slaver. But he wasn’t the Herald of Andraste. Thousands didn’t look to him as a messiah or a shining symbol of the Maker’s love. He didn’t have to perform for the acceptance of others or receive training and lectures on his etiquette. Maybe they should’ve decided to stay, and practice magic a bit closer to Haven, Dorian thinks. Then, he wouldn’t be stuck trying to think up something to say. He could just fetch Solas to wipe the elf’s tears away and regale him with stories of the fade and spirits till Misa fell asleep of boredom.
“You have a great deal of self-control you know. If I were in your shoes, I’d be getting handfed grapes, fresh off the vine, at every waking moment. Throw in a concubine or two and I’d never complain.” Dorian flashes a smile, trying to soften the somber tone around them. Misadahl smiles slightly, only out of nicety, continuing to drag his foot through a pattern in the dirt. Dorian ponders something, looking around the clearing for a bit before shooting swiftly to his feet. He quickly approaches Misa, whose eyes grow wild at the foreigner rushing him so quickly, grabbing him by the shoulders and beaming his bright smile.
“Teach me that that spell you cast. Please.”
“What?” Misa asks with a squint of his eyes and a tilt of his head. Confusion showed in the lines furrowed above his brow.
Dorians’ resolve faltered a bit before he regains it, a steeled look in his eye. “Your spell warmed this patch of dirt up faster than any warmth barrier I’ve ever seen cast before.” He grabs the elf’s wrist and pulls him toward the edge of the clearing, almost lifting him off the ground in his rush.
“Dorian, what are you-?”
“Look there.” Dorian sticks out his finger toward the ground and Misa follows his pointed arm to a spot of grass.
“What am I supposed to be seeing, Dorian?”
The human glares at the elf and lets out a scoff. “And here I thought those magic eyes of yours made you see better. Hm, back to the drawing board I see.”
Misa begins to pull back on Dorian’s grip, tired of the magisters prattling. Dorian tugs back even harder, nearly pulling his friend to the ground. He kneels on the ground and looks up at the elf, entrancingly silhouetted by the morning sun. Shaking those thoughts from his head, he gestures for Misa to kneel as well, so they may rest at eye level. Dorian, for once, isn’t unsettled by the fade green eyes of his friend.
“Look closely at where my hand is, Misa.”
Staring closely, Misa notices the grass is covered by snow on the opposite side of Dorians' hand.
“The snow isn’t melted on that side. So what?
“Ugh, you are such a daft man when you choose to be. What I’m trying to show you is the thoroughness of your casting. The ground is completely dry, but the grass is still alive and healthy. There is a perfect circle of dried soil throughout this entire clearing. Now, hold your breath and just listen to the sounds of the mountain. Do you hear that?”
Misa closes his eyes and waits for a sound to catch his ear. The moment lasts for a while before he gives up. “What am I supposed to be hearing?”
“That’s it. You cannot hear anything at all. You made the wind stop in the mountains! Do you know how hard that is for even an accomplished mage? Who taught you such an intricate spell? Nature magic like this has got to be Dalish in origin.”
Misa smiles and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, I learned the spell from my Keeper when I was young but I’ve tweaked it quite a bit since then. The way she taught it was much smaller in scope, designed to dry a spot of wet wood enough so it’d burn instead of smoke. And it didn’t keep the wind out, so I added a small airflow charm to it that I came up with while camping in caves.”
“You’re a magical scholar, Misadahl Lavellan, and a damned good one at that. You have a gift and don’t let anyone make you feel like anything but.”
Misa searches Dorian’s face for a tell, a smirk, a halted breath, anything to show that he wasn’t serious, but he found none. He had meant every word of it and was speaking them directly to and about Misa. Tears start to well in his eyes and he abruptly stands so Dorian cannot see the Maker’s chosen cry from only a compliment.
“Did I say something wrong?” Dorian stands up and takes a step back from Misa, afraid he’d trespassed on feelings he was not supposed to see. Was he serious about having him executed on a whim?
The acrid scent of smoke creeps into the mage’s nostrils. Dorian looks to his side and sees the grass slowly turning shades of umber and black as if it was burning with no flame. His head snaps to Misa who was turned away from him.
“You didn’t say anything wrong, Dorian.” Misa softly chokes out his words. He turns towards Dorian and his face betrays the calm he’s trying so hard to always convey. His cheeks are shiny with lines of tears and his ears twitch reflexively. He looks down from the dying grass to his clenched hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I…I didn’t know what I was doing.” With a release of his grip, the grass stops burning, and he takes a step toward Dorian. Looking up at the taller man, he pauses for a moment, unsure of what he should do. Dorian looks down at him, also unsure of how to proceed. Should he say something or-
Misa cuts his thoughts off with a hug that surprises them both. Dorian holds his arm up, unsure of whether to reciprocate. Seeing as there too far up the path for someone to catch up with them, he elects to wrap his arms tight around Misa and rests his chin on the top of his head.
“The magister and the herald, hugging on a mountaintop away from prying eyes, surrounded by an experimental magic spell from the dalish. Sounds like the beginning of one of Varric’s erotic novels. Or an edict before we’re burned at the stake.” Dorian snickers at his witticism, his voice slightly muffled by Misa’s black hair. Misa laughs into his chest and holds him tighter for a short while before pulling away and with a wipe of his face, Misa is back to his normal (albeit slightly less moody) self. It may have just been a trick of the mind, but Dorian could swear the clearing dropped in temperature when the embrace ended. Interesting.
“Thank you, Dorian. For putting things in perspective for me.”
“Anytime, Misa. Anytime. Now let’s see if we can make the warmth barrier follow us all the way back. Or we’ll just call for a carriage. You can do that can't you? Surely they don’t want the Herald of Andraste dying of frostbite out here.” The pair laughed once more, all the awkwardness between them melting into the ground.