Chapter Text
Aedmon Trevelyan sat in the corner of the tavern, attempting to laugh and drink with the Chargers. All the while, he silently watched the newest addition to their rather eclectic group he had started to collect for the Inquisition. Though why anyone would allow him to collect people for their fledgling organization was beyond him. Months ago he was in chains, shackled as the alleged murderer of the Divine and over a thousand others. Now he was the Herald of Andraste, prophet and savior of Thedas. None of it made sense to him. Neither did his latest companion.
The man was a complete enigma, wrapped in sarcasm and leather. The stranger defied almost everything Aedmon had been taught about Tevinter and her mages. He was far from being the psychopathic, cliché villain the rest of the world painted his fellow mages to be. He wasn't bent on world domination, nor did he subscribe to the rather unorthodox means of magic as did many of the Tevinter mages Trevelyan had recently met, like the strange Venatori that had mysteriously and recently become an issue in Redcliffe and the rest of southern Thedas. Most of all, he wasn't a blood mage. If the Chantry was to be believed, the man should at least be a blood mage.
Then again, when was the last time he believed something the Chantry told him?
Bull said something, slapping his shoulder to get his attention.
"I'm sorry, Bull. I wasn't paying attention," he mumbled absently. "Got a lot on my mind, what with our heading out to the Breach tomorrow and all." He hoped the excuse worked, that he hadn't been caught staring at the mage who was ensconced next to the fire, leaning towards it as if his life depended on its warmth.
"I noticed, boss. But I don't think it's the Breach that has you distracted," the Qunari said with a laugh.
Trevelyan groaned, bringing his hands up to his face and resting his elbows on the table. He felt, rather than saw Dorian, as the mage stood up from his seat near the fire and left the tavern.
"I don't claim to understand what the two of you went through back in Redcliffe," Bull continued. "Honestly, I don't want to. Weird time magic is well outside my range of comfort. But if it's bothering you, and he's the only one that understands, then go talk to him."
That was the other thing. Redcliffe. No matter how he tried to wrap his mind around it, the experience just wouldn't quite fit. The entire experience for him was just as Bull explained, outside his comfort zone. He had seen the Breach as it would be if he failed, expanded and ripped open even farther, the tear in the Veil encompassing the entirety of the sky. He had seen his friends and companions, new as they were, die for him. It was too much.
"I saw you die," he mumbled into his hands. "The demons drug your lifeless body back into the hall and tossed you aside like a ragdoll. And I couldn't do anything. All I could do was stand there and pray that Dorian could reverse that damned spell."
"Boss…"
"I prayed," he laughed. "I actually prayed to the Maker that it could be undone. That Dorian could right things and I could see you and Cassandra alive just once more." He sat up, turning himself to look Bull square in the eye. "Now before you remind me, I understand. You're a mercenary. You get paid to fight, and possibly die for other people's causes. I get that. But it doesn't change the fact that in that one moment, I was so terrified I called on a Maker I don't even believe in anymore, regardless of what title they may give me."
Bull stared at him, unsure what to say. "Shit," Aedmon cursed, draining the last of his mug. "I'm hardly fit drinking company tonight. Sorry, Bull," he said as he got up from the table. "I'll see you in the morning, before we head out."
"Night, boss," Bull replied, as the man got up to leave. He watched Trevelyan leave the tavern and shook his head. Weird time magic really was outside his range of understanding.
*****
Dorian stood outside the doors of the Chantry, huddling in his thin cloak, cursing the Maker for creating snow. Alexius was just past these doors, underneath the main floor of the chapel, under lock and key. Part of him wanted to go to his former mentor, to ask him why he would sell his ideals short and join forces with the Venatori. Part of him already understood. Felix was dying, and there was nothing any of them could do about it. Still. It hurt for him to see Alexius, someone he respected and loved, turn away from everything he had tried to instill in Dorian.
With a sigh, the mage ran his hand across his face, then shivered in the cold. He turned away from the Chantry door. Why did he torment himself like this? He would get no new answers, no matter how hard he looked.
"You can go in, you know," an amused voice said from the direction of the quartermaster's tent. He turned again, seeing the Herald walking toward him. "I'm sure the Maker wouldn't strike you down just for crossing the threshold of one of his chapels," the man said with a smirk and a wry laugh.
"Yes," Dorian purred. "I'm sure even the Maker would consider smiting me a waste of perfection."
"Even though that may be, you stay out in this cold much longer, and you'll do his job for him." There was a glint of mischief in Trevelyan's eyes. "Beautiful Tevinter flower such as yourself, you're far better suited to warmer climes than this. I'm sure you'll wilt if we don't get you warm soon."
"Wouldn't be such a problem if the weather here wasn't as barbaric as the rest of you Fereldan dog lords."
"Free Marcer, remember?" Trevelyan pointed towards his chest.
Dorian chuckled at that. "Almost as bad."
"Be that as it may," Trevelyan continued. "I happen to have come into possession of a rather vintage bottle of whiskey. Should warm you up in no time. Care to join me?"
"Should you really be seen conversing with me, the vile Tevinter mage, in the dead of night? Is that even proper?"
"Propriety be damned," Aedmon growled. "I've never been much of a fan of it anyway. Besides, I need to get good and drunk, and no one here really understands what happened. They can't begin to wrap their minds around it. Hell, I can't even wrap my mind around it, and I lived it." The man ran his hand over his hair, tucking a stray strand back into his elaborate braid. Then absently drug his hand down the back of his neck and then up into his beard, scratching at it nervously. "Hence the desperate need to get drunk."
"Well," Dorian said, sliding his arm through Aedmon's. "If you've got a rare vintage that you're willing to share, then I believe you have a drinking partner for the night. But should you do this? I mean we are attempting to close the Breach tomorrow and all."
"I just need to wiggle my fingers, remember?" Trevelyan said with a smirk, wiggling his fingers exaggeratedly in front of them.
Dorian laughed. "Yes, I did say that, didn't I?"
Trevelyan nodded. "You did."
"Then lead on, oh mighty Herald! Let's put those magical fingers of yours to good use." Dorian blushed as soon as the words were out his mouth. What in the Void was he thinking? "Like opening vintage bottles of whiskey," he amended quickly, hoping that Trevelyan wouldn't take his incessant, and sometimes incontrollable need to flirt when he was nervous, the wrong way. He didn't even know if the man remotely shared similar tastes as him. Besides, he didn't think seducing the southern Chantry's Herald of Andraste would endear him to them anymore than he already was.
*****
Dorian woke up on the floor in front of a dying fire, the weight of someone curled up against him and a hoard of angry darkspawn pounding at the inside of his skull. Aedmon hadn't lied when he said it was a rare vintage whiskey. Where the young man had found it, Dorian didn't want to know considering what little bit of dust and mud that was still caked under the bottom of the bottle was suspect. Still, his head throbbed with the weight of a terrifying hangover that only the best of liquors could provide.
He stretched, slightly, testing to see if he could extricate himself from Trevelyan's hold without waking the man, only to have Aedmon's arms tighten around him. He sighed. There was no way to get out of this gracefully.
"Really?" Cassandra's dry, unamused voice sounded from near the door to the small house Aedmon occupied.
"Would you believe me if I said that none of this was my fault?" Dorian asked.
The Seeker just scrunched her nose in disgust and shook her head.
Aedmon chose that moment to wake. "Morning," he said sleepily. Despite his scandalous position, draped as he was across Dorian, the man made no attempt to move. "My head is killing me. It's like there's a rift inside there, just waiting to explode."
"Yes, well don't look now, my dear Herald. But we have company."
"What?"
Dorian nodded in the direction of Cassandra where she still stood, watching the events on the floor in front of her unfold with a growing dislike.
"Ugh…" her nose curled even more. "When you have the time, the others are waiting for you in the Chantry to finalize things before we move out," she said before turning to leave.
"Yes ma'am," Trevelyan replied like a scolded child as he sat up slowly, still clutching his head. Dorian had to admit, the man was still gorgeous, even hung over. His hair had come unbound sometime during the night and now cascaded past his shoulder blades in dark, mahogany waves. And though his beard was slightly disheveled, it didn't detract from the rest of his face, slightly broken nose, scars and all.
Cassandra made one final noise of disgust as she shut the door behind her.
"You would think she found us in the throes of passion, naked and completely debauched instead of fully clothed and passed out drunk for all the fuss she just made," Dorian said.
"I think it's more for the passed out drunk the morning of a major mission than anything else, Dorian," Trevelyan said warily. Was that a blush Dorian saw dusting the rogue's cheeks?
"She is more of the all work and no play, sort, isn't she?" Dorian mused.
"Yes, well, we can't all be noble, pariah, playboys, now can we?" Aedmon answered with a wry laugh only to clutch at his head again.
"True. I do rather like being an original."
Aedmon stood, carefully and extended his hand to Dorian. "Come on," he said. "Let's go join our darling Seeker in the Chantry before she busts a blood vessel in frustration."
In response, Dorian gripped Trevelyan's hand and allowed the man to help pull him to his feet. His heart pounding in time with his head, he tried desperately to ignore the strength of that hand, or the ease with which Aedmon lifted him from the floor.
*****