Chapter Text
Here he is, with the better part of a year spent back in Tevinter and precious little to show for it.
With each passing day, he becomes more anxious for news from the south, for a tightly folded paper with the wax seal of the Inquisition. Even the thought of sailing over the Waking Sea is not so terrible to him at this point. Of course, the moment he should step into a boat --but there is precious little point in reminding himself of that. He would be very happy to return to Orlais, he tells himself, even if he should have to swim to get there. His time in Tevinter has not been a waste -- never that -- his movement slowly gains ground. However, minds are amongst the hardest things to change no matter where you are in Thedas, and his countrymen are no exception.
Meetings and speeches, intrigue and a healthy dose of subterfuge are all required to press forward. Then there are the assassination attempts.
All signs of weariness that might cling to him vanish when he sits down to write the Inquisitor a letter.
Dear Inquisitor Trevelyan,
I am quite enjoying being back home now that the seasons are changing. Considering how frigid it will be in the South, avoiding the cold of that dried out old castle you insist on occupying serves me just fine. Here, I continue to enjoy the sunshine and the proper level of humidity. I dare say I shall be a completely new shade of sun touched when I return.
I trust Leliana and the others are keeping you well, do remember to eat between jaunts into the Heartlands. For myself, I have only had to foil two assassination attempts since the last time I wrote. The first, a misguided rogue in the market who attempted to put his knife through the back of my favourite robe. Quite garish for someone to turn to such measures in Tevinter when there are poisonings and accidents that could be arranged, but I digress. He seemed distracted by how handsome I was up close and I was able to snatch the knife from him.
The second came in the form of a staircase no doubt enchanted or trapped in some way, as I toppled end over end I swore never to take another stair. You will have to install some kind of lift to the library or else I will never visit again. Assuming Leliana is reading this missive I would like her to know that enchanted staircases are an excellent way to make someone's death look like an accident. Just another trinket of information I have shared with the Inquisition. Feel free to add a statue of me to the courtyard.
As always, you are terribly dull and I hate you.
Dorian.
Ah but there is so much else to say. Dorian always bites off the last bit of sentimentality. It would not do for someone other than Leliana to read his letter. Two important men like them -– cannot have the Inquisitor becoming a target to hurt Dorian or vice versa. Of course, the latter is far more likely, but he has to worry for them both. So he folds and seals the envelope and sends it as quickly as he is able.
Then the waiting game begins and, Kaffas, he hates waiting. Back to the meetings, the standing on the dais, the imploring and flattering of certain people and the dismissing of others.
Every magister in Tevinter seemed to regard Dorian with cool distaste when he first arrived from the south but now he is beginning to attract allies. Other members of the magisterium as equally disturbed by the Venatori cult as he, others who detest blood magic, who refuse to play the game. It is all quite boring, really, when compared to saving the world.
And then a letter arrives.
Cool parchment, wrinkled in places by the water, smelling salty as the ocean between them, the red wax with the eye impression of the inquisition standing out against the smooth paper. He unfolds.
Dorian Pavus,
The cold is not so bad as you remember, Dorian. Besides, these days the keep is filled with Cullen’s idealistic recruits and it seems the more bodies in the keep the more warmth in the stone. I do not want for heat or food. Every day more support pours in and with it, delicacies from far-off kingdoms and offers of this and that.
We received some bitter candies from Tevinter and I thought of you. Don’t think I’ll be developing a taste for them anytime soon. I am sorry to hear about the stairs.
Leliana says it is possible you are clumsy and a fool, but she will look into the possibility of enchanting stairs in any case. What she will not entertain is installing any kind of lift in Skyhold. She reminded me you would still have to climb the stairs from the courtyard to the front door and we all agreed we could put you up in the Tavern instead (should you deign to visit us). I cannot promise you will wake without Sera drawing on your face or removing your moustache, but at least you will arrive in one piece.
Assassination attempts here have been somewhat more mundane, poisoned Orlesian tiny cakes being the most exciting form of punishment I have had to endure recently. Luckily, I do not eat the things in one bite as others do, and the amount of poison I ingested was small enough not to harm me. Iron Bull, it turns out, has an Iron stomach, and no one else would go near the things. I will not soon be getting that taste out of my mouth.
There is an impression in the paper and a small oblong splotch of ink as though the stylus rested for some time before the words.
As always, you are a dreadful man and I hate you, Dorian.
Inquisitor Trevelyan.
Should he see the Inquisitor again Dorian will need to offer tutelage on how not to sound like a lovesick puppy and give away your relationship status to your enemies. Ahh, but the way he uses Dorians name –- he pulls out another piece of parchment and immediately starts with his reply.
Inquisitor Trevelyan,
Those tiny cakes always taste like that. Are you sure it was poisoned and not just deep mushroom flavoured? I have heard consuming deep mushroom in that fashion can cause incontinence so, for the sake of your dignity, I am glad I was not present.
As for sleeping in the tavern, despite the fact I have done so in the past (not on purpose mind you), I would rather climb six flights of stairs then do it again. I take immense offence to the rude things Sera chose to draw on my face the few times I nodded off with a bottle of brandy. I would have you make some enquiries on my behalf to determine if it was, in fact, just Sera and not some combination of The Iron Bull, Varric, Blackwall and she. Something about the scrawl of the giant penis said Bull, the lack of eloquence Varric, and Blackwall looked much too smug when he saw me the next morning. I am certain he was an accomplice.
I know I said I would visit, Inquisitor, and by now you must realize I enjoy being fashionably late. That said, I might be able to sneak away this spring to visit the south. Do let me know if all those idealistic youths have left enough room for one Tevinter Altus and his sizeable… book collection.
As always, you are terribly dull and I hate you.
Dorian
Days quickly become weeks while he waits for another letter. Suddenly those few weeks have strung together a month and Dorian can tell by the air that winter is passing. He thinks of Skyhold in the spring -– all musty and damp and the sound of rain reverberating through the keep. He is almost anxious enough to just do it, just throw his things in a boat and leave. His allies grow stronger and he thinks if I can just set someone up to do the dirty work maybe I can operate this rebellion remotely. Of course, it is a bit of fantasy, things would surely lose their momentum without Dorian's conviction. Nevertheless, he can dream of a time when he might again perform his ranting and raving from the mountains of Orlais instead of the ruins of Minrathos.
Just when he is beginning to worry and exactly two minutes before he would have stooped to ask some random stranger if they had news from the south, Dorian receives another letter. From the outside, it appears mundane, the same as all the rest, but upon breaking the seal his heart immediately swells in his chest to press painfully against his rib cage.
Altus Dorian Pavus,
I must implore you to return to Skyhold with due urgency, at the behest of our Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan.
Sister Leliana
Dorian’s mouth is dry and he swallows with difficulty. Obviously, the spymaster was loath to go into detail, just as he refused to wax sentimental. Any perceived weakness on the Inquisitor's part could mean the end of the Inquisition, or a renewed effort to assassinate him. She gave no hint as to what was happening at Skyhold, no detail that Dorian could grasp or agitate.
Immediately his mind is full of the details to arrange, crossing Nevarra and then the Waking Sea would be the fastest way to reach Orlais, but the journey would take time. If he pressed himself, rode through several days and nights on the Imperial highway to Cumberland he might be able to get there in less then two weeks. Could he do it? Better to try and fail, Dorian decides, then show up too late. Too late for what, he is unsure, but the mere fact that Trevelyan himself did not sign the missive, or write it, makes Dorian's stomach clench with fear.
A few letters to his Tevinter allies informing them of his departure and, he must promise, imminent return, are essential. A word left with the proprietor of the house and a sack of coin. A much smaller bag packed then would be wise, and Dorian is atop a horse and on his way back to Orlais. If this were some kind of ploy to have Dorian return in a hurry, he would just as quickly slap Trevelyan across the face as kiss him.
But upon landing in Jader and making a few well-placed inquiries, it soon becomes clear, it is not a ploy. The ride from Val Dorma, where Dorian had been staying when the letter reached him, had taken the better part of a week. Luckily, it was highway and not traipsing through the countryside –- which allowed him to ride through most of the nights. A blessing really, as he was so tired when he finally disembarked from Cumberland that he slept, albeit fitfully, for most of the two-day sailing voyage. A vast improvement over his previous sea voyages.
With Inquisition emissaries taken up residence in most major cities throughout Ferelden and Orlais, Dorian decides it worth seeking the local chapter out. A few questions asked, a few corners turned and Dorian is face to face with the Inquisition representative in Jader. The boy is hardly out of puberty, Dorian thinks as he sizes him up. Though as an agent of Leliana, Dorian quickly discovers the boys usefulness. Previously of a noble house, the emissary is vague and diplomatic to a fault. He does not even waver under Dorian's scrutiny nor does he seem to know exactly what is taking place in the Frostback Mountains. It takes some manoeuvring for him to admit, “Sister Leliana does not divulge private information to her agents' ser, if there is something wrong at the keep, it is being carefully hidden. That being said,” and here he speaks conspiratorially with Dorian, “I have heard from the network that the Inquisitor has not been seen at Skyhold for a month now. It is possible he is duty-bound somewhere else, but I thought it odd.”
Dorian takes his leave quickly and returns to the road. A horse is easily acquired and he sighs as he looks at the beast. Here we go again, and just when my spine was beginning to thank me.
There is no Imperial highway from Jader to the mountainous home of the Inquisition, the path through the Frostbacks winding and unpleasant. Luckily, it is short and Skyhold finally seems within reach. It is with pleasure Dorian notes that the Inquisition has made improvements to the path since last he travelled it, no doubt for the benefit of all those visiting dignitaries and nobles. Soon the keep is within sight.
“Who approaches?” a voice calls out once Dorian's horse steps foot on the bridge.
“Dorian, of house Pavus.”
There is a long moment of whispers and scuffling of feet before a familiar voice calls down, “Open it.”
The gate opens and Dorian rides past a series of grim-looking Inquisition soldiers.
The first recognizable face he sees is Cullen's. The big blonde lion strides down the stairs from atop the wall where he called and offers his hand in welcome. Dorian dismounts and grips Cullen’s hand firmly. “Dorian, it is so well you’ve come.”
Dorian can see lines of worry in his friend's face, but the firm grit of his jaw seems to indicate he is going to say no more. Dorian nods and jibes, “I imagine you’ve been letting Trevelyan best you in chess while I’ve been gone, no worry, a worthy opponent appears.”
Cullen hardly presses his mouth into a smile, motioning for some young soldier to approach and take Dorian's horse. “We should speak to -- ah, there she is.” Leliana is watching from the landing leading up to the keep. She nods when their eyes find her, but does not approach.
As Cullen leads Dorian up the turning path, Dorian grips his elbow and steps in close beside him. “I am absolutely beside myself with exhaustion and if someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on...”
Cullen nods sullenly and continues to lead him to Leliana who makes a show of kissing Dorian's cheeks in front of the entire hold in a gesture of welcoming. This vint is to be trusted. This vint is a friend.
Then she motions for them to follow her and they fall into step behind as she ascends the rest of the stairs to the doors of the keep. Dorian chuckles mirthlessly as he thinks of Trevelyan’s letter, surely there could be more stairs at Skyhold, why not build another tower or a raised dais or …
Inside the keep, it is silent. Eerily so. The fire burns brightly by the door to the rotunda, it's crackling the loudest sound in the hall, but there is no dwarf standing there. Light glints off the gold of the unfinished mosaics to his left and the Inquisition throne sits empty beneath the expanse of stained glass at the end of the hall. No dignitaries, no visiting nobles in sight. Not even Josephine there to meet them.
“Now truly, what is going on?” Dorian’s voice is still light but there is an edge of unease creeping in.
“Not here,” Leliana says lightly, if overheard, she would sound as though she was quipping with a friend and not cautioning him to be silent.
“But there’s no one…” Dorian hisses back, quite unwilling to play whatever game she is encouraging. Leliana steps curtly to the door of the Inquisitor's personal chambers and pulls out a key. “Why is it locked?” Dorian probes, interrupting his previous thought. She gives no response, pushing the door in and continuing her solemn march.
When the door closes behind them Leliana blocks the stairs up to the chambers. “Dorian,” she says, as though she is speaking to him for the first time, “thank you for coming so quickly. If I knew you were close, I would have sent someone to meet you in Jader.”
“I did meet someone, an emissary I sought out in the city who told me the Inquisitor hadn’t been seen in Skyhold for over a month. What is going on you two? And please, don’t step around it.”
“Ah, yes. I'm sorry but that's quite correct. Some four weeks ago, the Inquisitor… went to sleep, and upon morning could not be roused.”
“Kaffas, poison or injury?”
“We believe it to be magical in origin. We have had healers of all kinds and mages besides, but none can determine what ails him.”
“And why wait, why wait and only send for me now?” Dorian pleads, unable to keep his gaze steady and composed.
“I’m sorry Dorian.” Cullen puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. “We wanted to be sure. When the matter became serious, we sent for you. Letters take time, and travel besides.”
“Yes, I know, I’m rather inconvenient. Can I see him now?”
Leliana steps aside with another blasted nod and Dorian pushes past her, momentarily fueled by anger, exhaustion forgotten.
The chambers smell sickly sweet, elfroot and lyrium. Everything is clean, too clean as if every trace of Trevelyan’s life has been neatly stacked or hidden in a drawer. No papers litter the desk in the corner, no open books rest there. The doors to the balcony shut to keep out the spring damp and the air vaguely heady, hanging with magic. Of course, how else would they sustain a man asleep for so long? Starvation and dehydration abated with spells and potions. For all of that, Dorian can instantly see Trevelyan is reduced. Not skeletal, not yet, but thinner then he remembers. His mighty Inquisitor supine in the bed with the blankets folded neatly over his chest and his arms atop them. His face, ah! How long has Dorian longed to see that face? Blank and expressionless. Eyes closed, not a single line of worry or strain standing out on the forehead or around the eyes. Dorian suddenly misses the slight crinkling of those eyes as Trevelyan spoke, or smiled or laughed. His hair is longer, about two inches longer than the closely cropped cut he prefers. His stubble too has grown slightly although it is plain someone has been tasked with his upkeep.
Dorian sits down on the bed and takes Trevelyan’s hand. Cold skin, not deathly so but cold all the same. Dorian unconsciously begins rubbing the hand within his own, trying to ignite a spark.
“You ungodly lazy man,” he manages. Expression pained, voice not quite lilting, as it should. “Festis bei umo canavarum.”
Dorian reassures himself of the other man's breath with a small kiss, feeling the heartbeat strong beneath his hand. He closes his eyes, summons mana, the power tingles in his fingers, and still, he summons more. A great ocean of it capped only by Dorian's exhaustion and the feebleness of his wavering emotion. When he holds as much power as he can contain he slowly and gently channels it into the sleeping man, sending some of it out in a healing pulse and the rest as a probe. Evaluating his condition, sensing the magic inside him dragged down
and down
and held.
Trevelyan is indeed under a spell. Something about the sensation is familiar to Dorian; it feels of untouched things, forbidden things. Blue, tinged with red. As the light of his magic begins to fade from the room Dorian opens his eyes, squeezes Trevelyan’s hand and turns to Leliana and Cullen, staring meekly from the top of the stairs, watching and pretending not to watch.
“Its blood magic,” Dorian says, and the taste in his mouth is of iron.