Chapter Text
Dorian was quite used to hostility. He’d endured it from his family, from his peers at most every college he’d wandered into, and now from nearly everyone in Haven. Most dismally it seemed, from the one man he respected most.
The Inquisitor.
True, it hadn’t always been that way. When they’d first met, Mahanon Lavellan had been nothing short of professional and courteous towards him, even if they’d disagreed on a few things. Their time together had been short, mostly brief conversations in passing. The Inquisitor did a lot of talking to his magical advisor and Dorian was conveniently on the way. He’d have liked to know the nature of such conversations, but alas. He did not speak the elvish tongue. But barely a month had passed and now Lavellan wouldn’t even so much as glance at him.
Then again, it might have had something to do with their last bit of interactions.
“That’s just it-- You don’t question it!”
“Up North, that’s just how it is,” Dorian said, bristling defensively. “Alienages. Slums, both human and elven alike. There’s no way out. But, back home, a poor man can sell himself. As a slave, he could have a position of respect, comfort, and could even support a family.”
The look the elf had given him that day had been nothing short of venomous. Dorian remembered it now with a frown as he trekked at the back of their troop, using his staff for balance as they climbed up the hill to make camp.
He'd stumbled over his words back then, trying to reconcile at least a bit of their lukewarm camaraderie, “True-- Some slaves are treated poorly, yes-- but do you honestly think inescapable poverty is better?”
Mahanon had grown eerily quiet then, turning his face away to glare daggers into the tavern wall just down the stairs. “At least they’re free. They don’t have slavery forced on them.”
Dorian scoffed at the elf’s naivety. Something he regretted later on while he reflected on his poor choice of words. “You think people choose to be poor and depressed? I severely doubt th--”
“---I think people choose not to be slaves. Not to be stolen from their homes and camps in the middle of the night. Not to have to decide between servitude or death. I think 'those' people would give anything to be treated like beings with thought and feeling!”
Dorian shut his mouth, baffled at the crack in Lavellan’s usually mild disposition.
“I think they’d choose not to be chained up and carted across all corners of Thedas like cargo. Tell me, Dorian,” Mahanon spat, voice trembling with rage. His eyes were such a frightening shade of green and sparkling with venom that Dorian feared a rift would open up above them, right then and there. “Would you choose to be sold like livestock on market day? Praying to any deity that may be out there that something would spare you that kind of suffering? Or pray that at least your buyer be someone with kindness in their heart? Knowing very well that they could potentially be some kind of cruel monster. Someone that would be disgusting enough to take advantage of your position. As if they already aren't?!”
Dorian watched in silence as the rogue took a moment to compose himself, shoulders curled in obvious discomfort as he had pointedly never tried to see this issue from the eyes of an unwilling slave.
“Just--- Just forget it. I was a fool to think that there was at least one good shem from that skeevy, backwards country you’re so terribly fond of.”
Scratch that. It’d had everything to do with that conversation.
Still, Dorian sighed. If his timid friendship with the Inquisitor had ended there, then he wondered why he was continually brought along on their outings. Surely if Lavellan disliked him so much, he’d leave Dorian back in Haven. There were two other mages just as skilled as him and yet he was always dragged along. Verbal sparring with Cassandra and Bull could only be so entertaining...
"Keep up back there twinkle toes!" Rumbled Bull's voice from somewhere above. Dorian heaved another sigh and mumbled a cuss in his native tongue, turning his attention back to the hill. He could wonder how to fix the Inquisitor's opinion of him when he was comfortably seated by a fire.
~~~~~~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To say the mood was sullen was an understatement. Haven was completely destroyed and many of the faces Dorian had grown used to seeing were no longer around. True, Mahanon had miraculously returned to them, bundled tight in Cullen’s massive cloak, and for all their current animosity, Dorian couldn’t help but be relieved at the sight of him. At least mostly alive.
He recalled the way Corypheus had lifted the elf off of the ground and tossed him as if he were nothing but a child's plaything. Wincing at Mahanon’s pained whimper as Corypheus slammed the Inquisitor against the icy ground and broken trebuchet, their party watching in a mix of shock and horror. To see their Herald look so helpless in the wake of their enemy, to see him be handled in such a manner unnerved him. With a sinking feeling, Dorian realised that he too had been seeing Lavellan more as an idea than a person, which in turn reminded him of their heated chat on slavery in Tevinter.
He’d been an ass.
A special talent of his, really.
Heaving himself from the frosty ground had been harder than he thought. His frozen joints creaked in protest, but he dragged himself from his little nest nonetheless. Josephine had shooed the bulk of the crowd from around the Inquisitor’s tent, but she could not move their closer circle. Sera and Varric sat huddled together for warmth near the fire. Vivienne had retired to a more sheltered part of camp and was quietly engaged in conversation with Cullen and the spymaster. Bull and the Chargers stood idle by the tent and Dorian could hear their quiet murmuring as they neared.
“....---got a high fever. Doesn’t sound good.”
“You’re unnaturally warm boss, maybe you could climb into bed with the little spitfire and help ward the cold.”
“Hahah, very funny Krem.”
Dorian pulled his borrowed cloak tighter and was relieved when Blackwall stood aside to let him enter. Cassandra and Solas hovered by Mahanon’s makeshift cot, faces pinched with worry. He wasn’t a skilled healer like Vivienne, but Solas was channeling whatever magic he could into Lavellan’s glowing palm. When Dorian entered, Cassandra’s gaze darted to him, and for a moment he expected her usual hostility, but she only nodded to him and tore her pensive gaze away from Mahanon to look at him.
“Dorian,” she began, her husky voice uncertain, “It’s good to see you.”
“And good to be seen, I imagine. I am quite nice to look at.”
She might have rolled her eyes at his vanity, but Mahanon breathed a quiet moan and the anchor sparked with the sickly chartreuse of rift magic. Solas reared back, the tips of his fingers singed, and fixed Cassandra with a terse look.
“I cannot repair the damage this time,” he breathed heavily, nostrils flaring slightly. “He is too weak and out of it to control it at the moment.”
“Then what are we supposed to do in the meantime?!”
Solas took a seat, rubbing the sweat from his brow with the back of his fingers. “We can see if his body will heal. It’s all we can do.”
She did not look satisfied with the answer, but Solas was clearly done talking to her. Cassandra opened her mouth to protest, but was silenced when the anchor pulsed once more and Mahanon gasped in pain. She only fretted, then nodded, brushing past Dorian on her way out.
“He is with fever, and his wounds are severe,” Solas said, not looking to see if Dorian was listening or not. “But I suspect he will pull through. He is rather tough.”
Tough was an understatement.
Dorian helped himself to a seat near the Inquisitor’s cot, much preferring the heat inside the tent to the merciless mountain air outside.
“Is there anything I could do to help?” he heard himself ask, surprised by the mere thought of it. He usually wasn’t one to offer his assistance so easily. And especially not to someone he thought wouldn't be grateful for it.
Still, he supposed he did respect Lavellan. And he had been rather unkind. He wondered what he had been thinking that day, defending slavery to an elf. One that no doubt faced persecution and racism every day in his life. Solas was awfully still and quiet for a long while. Dorian thought he might have actually fallen asleep, but the rift mage had sighed into wakefulness after a minute.
“He will die if we remain here, as will many others,” he paused, then turned his gaze to Dorian, honey eyes dark and serious. “There is a place, not far from here. It is abandoned, and unknown to most. However, I have not been there in some time. I must return there if I am to remember how to find it. Which means I must have time to dream.”
He leaned over and drew the furs closer around Mahanon’s shaking form, a gesture that was rather caring and tender for someone that seemed as distant and emotionally reserved as he was.
“I'd ask that you sit with him. Place a cool rag on his forehead every half hour or so. He should be with a friend right now.”
Dorian couldn’t stop the snort that left him. Solas raised a brow.
“Something I said?”
“We are not exactly, friendly. In case you haven’t noticed. I’m almost certain he regrets meeting me. Either that or somewhere in the vicinity of causing me some kind of bodily harm.” He reclined in his chair, voice lowering and losing some of its usual haughtiness. "Not to say I don't deserve it. I wasn't exactly... As understanding as I should have been the last time we really spoke."
Solas stood and went to the tent's opening, turning to look over his shoulder to say one last thing before he left. “Regardless of anything he’s said to you recently, he's always spoken rather highly of you.”
Dorian scoffed at the elf’s retreating form, but fell into a stifled silence once left alone with Mahanon. Even though the other was deeply asleep, Dorian still felt out of place for company. Almost as if he was intruding. He fidgeted for a moment, crossing a leg so that he could look casually comfortable, just in case someone were to walk in. Though, anyone outside of the Inquisition would probably think that he, the evil Magister, was sitting idly, twirling his mustache like the villain out of a storybook, waiting for the Herald to draw his last.
The idea amused him for a while, morbid as it was. He only returned to the present when Mahanon murmured feebly, troubled no doubt by his fever.
He was so pale, too pale. The intricate tattoos on his face were so much darker now without the healthy glow of his skin. His hair, usually bright and bronze, now was thin and lackluster, spreading out waywardly on the pillow supporting his neck. It stuck in odd places to his forehead. Now that Dorian could see it down, he noticed that several white streaks had started to pepper the left side of the elf's hairline. For a moment Dorian thought he saw something akin to jewelry sparkle in the dim lantern light of the tent, but when he looked closer at Mahanon's fretful face he could see nothing. The rise and fall of his chest was sporadic, uneven, and shallow. It made Dorian somewhat ill. He was so used to seeing Lavellan prance about like the nervous deer he was, full of energy. Nothing like this weak thing lying pitifully under a mountain of blankets.
Remembering what Solas had asked him to do, Dorian reached for the bowl on the chest beside the cot, taking the wet rag from it and wringing it a little before gingerly placing it on Mahanon’s feverish forehead. He shivered, and Dorian’s hand lingered.
“Ma'halani…” the elf mumbled, “Ir abelas. Nuvenin…”
Garbled nonsense as most elvish was to him, Dorian could hear the distress laced in Mahanon's muted tone. He let his touch remain for a while, frowning at the feel of Lavellan’s burning skin, and then leaned backwards back into his chair.
Hopefully Solas didn’t plan on being gone for too long.
~~~~~~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Much to his disgruntled dismay, Dorian found himself hoodwinked into permanently watching the recuperating Inquisitor.
True, Vivienne was there to spoon broth into his mouth. She rubbed poultices on his wounds, changed the sheets, and saw to his bandages, but she always came and politely found some way to lure him back into the stuffy tent.
Days crawled by, Solas continued searching, and Mahanon’s conditioned steadily worsened.
Dorian could only watch in dismay as his health slowly declined. No longer did he fight his blankets, or open his listless eyes to look around the tent and whoever was nearby in befuddled confusion. Vivienne had to coax the soup down his throat now and Dorian had to prop him up while she tugged the damp blankets from his ever sweating body.
Sera peeked in every once in a while, sitting crosslegged by Mahanon’s cot so that Dorian could have a brief respite. He tried not to eavesdrop on her one-sided conversations, but he often caught snippets when he eventually did return.
“---innit? I mean, you really showed him what for. I bet’cha he’s off licking his nasty claws right now. Bet he’ll think twice ‘fore he tries steppin’ on us again, huh?” She picked at her nails, twitching. “He will try again--stepping on us. The little people. The Inquisition. So that’s why… That’s why you gotta get better, yeah? Who else will stand up fer us?”
Cassandra also was a regular visitor, much to Dorian’s amusement. He hadn’t known that Mahanon was popular with the women in their party.
He supposed the elf was attractive. With his bright hair, slicked back just so. His vined tattoos were a marvel, masterfully detailed and a beautiful contrast to his creamy skin. His green eyes, vibrant and shining as spring leaves, offset and glowing eerily with the rift magic that had torn a hole in the sky. That shy, lopsided smile he’d offered after admitting that he was glad it was Dorian trapped in the potential future fade with him....
Dorian squashed the fluttery feeling in his stomach at the memory and greeted Cassandra snarkily when she entered.
“My my, people will talk. Or at least, I certainly will.”
“I probably shouldn’t ask you to elaborate, but about what?” She leaned on a support beam, arms behind her back and eyebrows raised inquisitively.
“Your unyielding love for our dashing Inquisitor of course. You’ve come in here every day, twice a day, without fail. Truly a dedicated woman.”
Cassandra spluttered for a moment, something Dorian thought rather adorable, and pushed away from the beam. “Nonsense. Certainly I care for him as my friend and look to him as a leader, but nothing more than that!" She regained her cool composure, frowning deeply at the Tevintian. “Besides, he is the Inquisitor. He should not be distracted from his duties with such silly frivolities."
He only laughed, wholly unconvinced of her denial, and tipped back in his chair.
The tent grew silent again, the sounds outside and Mahanon’s shallow breathing the only things to break the quiet. Cassandra hovered for a moment, her gaze saddening as she watched him fretfully sleep. She pulled her arms to her front and fidgeted, revealing the parcel she had been hiding behind her back.
“Here,” she said with uncertainty, offering Dorian the wrapped package. “You must be tired of just sitting and watching.”
“How observant,” he replied with sarcasm, but accepted the parcel regardless. It was light, and he was interested enough to open it in front of her.
“I remember you mentioning that Haven was ‘lacking in literature.’ It’s something you can do while you watch him. It's one of Varric’s.... novels...”
Her tone made him raise a brow, and he pulled the coverings loose with interest. “Swords and Shields?”
“So you aren't surprised later, I'll tell you now that it’s a... A romance novel.”
“So not yours then, I take it?”
Cassandra was quiet.
“Sweet Divine, it is yours, isn’t it?”
She glared. It was frightful enough that he shrunk a bit. “Tell anyone, and I will rip that furry caterpillar from your lip and sew it so that it connects your brows. We'll see how cute you think you are then. Understand?”
“P-Perfectly.”
Cassandra seemed placated, and she glanced at Mahanon once more before leaving the tent. Dorian turned to the sleeping elf when she had gone and leaned down to the pillow, whispering lowly into his ear.
“If that’s the woman you have your eye on, I wish you all the luck in the world.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two more days passed, and Vivienne’s checkups became more frequent. Even she was starting to look grim. Dorian had skimmed what he could of his borrowed book, but was interrupted when Mahanon had started to stir.
At first he thought it a good thing, as Mahanon was partially awake and somewhat focused. Why, he’d even greeted Dorian!
It may have been a garbled and confused, ‘good morning,’ but it was a 'good morning' nonetheless. Dorian helped him sit up, hand on the small of his back, and answered what questions he could understand. He suspected something was off when Mahanon shakily stood and tried to leave the tent.
Dorian caught him when he fell, holding the elf upright even when he struggled.
“Let go…! Let go'a me... I’m fine… Mm'fine.”
“Ah---no, no you’re not. You’re... burning up and I’m no healer, but I think whatever you have has evolved.”
Mahanon grumbled and tugged on his wrists more fervently, glaring up at him with all the annoyance he could muster in his sorry state. “Do---...rian let go. I have… Have to get up. No time... Time... And Corypheus...”
“It’s alright, we’re fine. Sitting ducks at the moment, but we’re in no immediate danger.”
He was not convinced, however, and continued to pull backwards. For him being so ill, he was still fairly strong. Dorian tightened his grip, and thought on what to do. The only thing that came to mind was letting the elf exhaust himself with his struggling. Mahanon flinched at the grip and stumbled back against the cot, looking panicked and trapped. He paled and stopped his struggling, bowing his head in defeat.
"Please, let me... Lemme at leas' go o'side? For a moment?" Mahanon murmured, finally settling some, "I can'breathe.... So hot... s'cold.... cold...."
Dorian released a wrist and caught Lavellan's lulling head before it hit his chest, feeling for himself just how high the fever had gotten. The rag compress had stopped working. Mahanon was going to die of a heatstroke if he wasn't cooled down, and fast.
Where were Solas and Vivienne when you really needed them?!
Lightning was more Dorian's forte as a necromancer, but he could manage a simple cooling spell.
He pushed some energy into his palms, lowering the temperature to that of ice water, and pressed his hands on the back of Mahanon's neck and forehead, reveling in the elf's instant sigh of relief. Dorian supported him as he sagged, pointedly not paying attention to the smaller hands that found and clutched at one of his various belts for leverage.
"You're very stubborn you know," he heard himself say with a softness in his own voice he'd not heard before.
Mahanon mumbled something incoherent in response and moved his face so that Dorian's hands were touching other parts of his heated forehead and neck.
"How about this, if your temperature doesn't go down within the next minute or so, I will personally escort you outside. The cold air might do better than my hands."
"I like your hands."
"Blessed spirits, you are delirious."