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The fade crackled and spat in the presence of the rift. Demons shambled around the fallen ruin where the fade had split open, never straying far from the swirling rift. Arlaros counted at least five, including two rage demons and a despair demon, and this was just the first wave. The demons that came after always seemed to be worse.
“Blackwall, Varric, those rage demons are going to be the biggest threat,” Arlaros said. “I’ll need the two of you to handle them.” He still wasn’t comfortable giving orders on the field, and likely never would be. However, Cassandra and the others had made it clear that the companions he chose to follow him on these rift-hunting and region-stabilizing missions were under his command, despite his lack of experience.
Blackwall, soldier that he was, didn’t question Arlaros’s orders-that-weren’t-orders. “I can keep the rage demons focused on me while you disrupt the rift, and Varric’s bolts will put them off-balance.”
“That leaves a few wraiths and a despair demon for me.” Arlaros turned to Dorian just in time to see his lips twist into a smirk that seemed almost pleased. “How thoughtful.”
Arlaros didn’t have a response for that--an all-too-common occurrence with Dorian--so he turned back to the rift, which was still throwing out magic and light. “On me,” he ordered and felt more than saw his companions nod. Then he took a deep breath and launched himself out from behind their cover, summoning down a strike of lightning that leapt between the two rage demons and one of the wraiths. Blackwall was right behind, vaulting over the cover with a bellow that immediately drew the rage demons toward him.
Arlaros didn’t stay to watch what his other two companions did. Instead, he darted toward the edge of the rift’s sphere of influence, sending bolts of electricity toward any demons that strayed too close. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a wave of fire roll over the battlefield. He could just make out Dorian’s shape through the flames.
Most of the demons were moving toward Blackwall and Varric, which meant the center of the rift was undefended. Arlaros dashed closer and then held out his left hand, his mark crackling in response to the tear in the veil. A tendril of connection formed in his mind, and he seized that tendril and yanked . Magic jumped between his mark and the rift, disrupting the tear and drawing the demons’ attention back to him.
A burst of icy magic flew past his head, and he heard Blackwall curse and then the sound of metal hitting something solid. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw Blackwall charging toward the despair demon as the rage demon he had been fighting shuddered and collapsed.
Pain flared in his hand, and his focus snapped back to his mark and the rift. He grit his teeth and pulled his hand away, severing the connection between him and the rift. The rift shuddered in the air before exploding outward, sending energy rippling across the battlefield and paralyzing the demons for a few moments.
A few moments was all his companions needed.
In quick succession, Varric embedded two crossbow bolts in the remaining rage demon, causing it to howl before it collapsed. At the same time, Blackwall shoved his sword through the chest of the despair demon, and the remaining wraith was swallowed in a pillar of fire from Dorian’s staff.
As the demons’ essence returned to the fade, Arlaros quickly retreated toward the edge of the battlefield once more. In all likelihood, he wouldn’t be able to disrupt the rift during the second wave--the demons always seemed to be stronger the second time. Instead, he readied himself, lightning crackling between the jagged branches atop his staff.
The instant the fade spat out the second group of demons, he slammed his staff down, creating a roiling orb of lightning in the middle of the field that struck and paralyzed any demons that tried to leave its boundary. Blackwall rushed in that same instant, yelling a battle-cry and launching himself at the nearest demon. Varric’s bolts were close behind, sending the demons scrambling for non-existent cover. And of course, there was Dorian.
The mage stayed near the edge of the battlefield like Arlaros did, but the way he spun his staff and sent arcs of flame dancing around him before hurtling them at the enemy looked more like a performance than a fight. He laughed and cursed as he fought, as loud and eye-catching as always.
Arlaros made a mental note not to bring Dorian on any stealth missions.
He turned his attention back to the fight as his orb of lightning faded and launched a series of lightning bolts at the rage demon Blackwall was fighting. As the fight continued, Arlaros wove his way around the battlefield, paralyzing their enemies and sending concentrated attacks at demons that threatened to stray too far.
He had just hurled a powerful bolt of lightning at the final rage demon when he saw a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. A despair demon had turned away from the center of the battlefield where most of the fighting was concentrated, seeming to lock onto a new target. Arlaros followed the demon’s gaze, eyes widening as they fell on Dorian. The mage was in the process of summoning another wave of fire, his back to the demon.
The despair demon was too far for Varric or Blackwall to reach it in time. Arlaros’s slashed his staff across the air, but all he managed to summon was a single weak bolt of lightning which didn’t seem to phase the despair demon at all. His magical reserves were drained, and he wasn’t close enough to pull the demon’s attention away from Dorian.
Moving on instinct, he dashed across the battlefield.
Arlaros crashed into Dorian just as he finished casting his spell, sending the mage tumbling to the ground. Arlaros would have laughed at the startled and betrayed look on Dorian’s face, but the burning cold ray of magic that hit him that same moment stole every thought from his mind other than pain. Dimly, he heard Dorian yell something in Tevene and then the icy magic disappeared.
Arlaros looked over his shoulder, wincing in pain as he did, and saw that Dorian had summoned enough fire to reduce the despair demon to nothing more than a smoldering pile of robes. He blinked at it for a few moments, trying to get the pain in his side under control as the sounds of battle continued around him.
He took a shuddering breath and then turned back to the battle. Under the flickering green light of the rift, Blackwall and Varric were still fighting a rage demon and a handful of wraiths. His magic now mostly restored, Arlaros lifted his staff and summoned another field of paralyzing lightning, quickly following it up with a concentrated burst of electricity at the rage demon.
Behind him, he heard Dorian stand and a moment later a cool weight settled over him. A barrier spell. He shot a glance at Dorian, and Arlaros couldn’t help but notice the way his hair, disheveled and sprinkled with dirt as it was, still looked gorgeous.
“Can’t have you dying on me, Herald,” Dorian quipped. “Cassandra would have my head.”
Arlaros inclined his head in thanks, words failing him. He turned back to the battle, throwing lightning with renewed vigor and doing his best to ignore the way his side screamed at him.
A few minutes later, the last of the demons fell, one of Varric’s crossbow bolts sticking out of its gut. Its essence returned to the rift, and Arlaros’s hand flared, the pain there nearly eclipsing that of his side. He raised his hand and once more pulled on the connection between his mark and the rift. This time when the rift exploded, it did so for good, sealing the tear in the fade.
As soon as the rift closed, Arlaros scrambled for the health potion that hung on his belt. It took him two tries to pop the cork off, and he mentally berated his shaking hands. He swallowed the potion down quickly, closing his eyes as warmth spread through his body, the magic beginning to heal his injury.
When he opened his eyes again, it was to his companions’ concerned faces. Arlaros straightened his shoulders and schooled his features. “Everyone alright?” he asked.
“Pretty sure you’re the one who took the biggest hit,” Varric said. The dwarf’s eyebrows drew together. “Are you going to be okay to move?”
“I’m fine. The camp we were planning on stopping at for the night is only three hours away.”
Blackwall looked him over, eyes scanning him for any additional injuries. “That’s assuming we don’t run into more trouble. There are bandits in this area, and we still haven’t cleared out the last of the rogue templars.”
“Our options are either stay out in the open or push toward the camp,” Arlaros insisted. “I suggest the second option.”
Blackwall nodded and Varric shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
It was only when they had begun walking again that Arlaros realized Dorian hadn’t said a single word. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the mage walking at the back of the party. His eyes were fixed on some distant point, and he looked deep in thought. He often wondered what went on in Dorian’s mind, what had driven him to leave his home and comfortable life to wander the wilds with the supposed Herald of Andraste. People in Tevinter believed in the Maker and Andraste, if he remembered correctly, but it was different. Either way, Dorian didn’t seem the type to abandon everything he knew for religious zealotry.
Back in the Chantry, when they had first met, Dorian had said he was here to stop his old mentor from making a terrible mistake. But they had done that. The two of them had been sent forward in time to that terrible future where demons had overrun the world, where Leliana had been tortured until she was a shell of the woman she currently was, where his companions had been infected with red lyrium until it was growing out of them . And Dorian had figured out how to escape. While his companions from that alternate future had sacrificed themselves to buy them time, Dorian had reversed the spell and sent them back to the present. They had defeated Dorian’s mentor, Alexius, secured the rebel mages as their allies, and won the battle.
But Dorian was still here.
Arlaros didn’t know why he cared so much. He hadn’t interrogated everyone else’s motivations this way; he was glad they had any support at all. So why was Dorian different?
Following this thread of thought would lead him nowhere useful, Arlaros decided. Dorian was here now, still alive and helping them, and that was what mattered. He nodded to himself and turned his thoughts to other things, like how many rifts they still had left to close in the Hinterlands and whether he should investigate that cult he had heard of in the mountains.
Unfortunately, none of those thoughts were engaging enough to distract him from the lingering pain in his side, and by the time they reached the camp hours later he was longing for rest.
The two scouts at the camp saluted as he walked in, yet another thing he wasn’t sure how to deal with. He waved vaguely at them and they relaxed, which was good enough for right now. His feet carried him to a log near the campfire, and he sat. Around him, Blackwall, Varric, and Dorian began settling the camp. Varric began moving around the perimeter, setting up additional traps should anyone try to surprise them while they rested. Arlaros heard Blackwall talking to the scouts, no doubt asking for reports on enemy movement in the area and security assessments. Dorian stood in the middle of the camp, his staff glowing brightly as he muttered a spell under his breath that would alert them if anyone crossed the perimeter.
Arlaros should be helping. He hauled himself to his feet and walked over to where their packs were and began gathering ingredients for a meal. It wouldn’t be anything special, but he had lived on the move long enough that he could make a decent meal out of the rations they had.
He fell into the rhythm of cooking, and before he knew it, the sun was setting and the scouts and his companions had joined him by the fire. They talked amongst themselves, and Arlaros let the sound wash over him. The last several weeks had been isolating beyond belief, and while he couldn’t say he felt at home amongst this group of people who saw him as a savior, it was nice to hear Varric’s voice rise and fall with the flow of a grandiose story, interjected with incredulous questions and observations from Dorian, quiet snorts from Blackwall, and laughter from the scouts. It wasn’t home, but it was good.
Eventually, the food was ready. It really wasn’t much, but Arlaros couldn’t help the tired grin that spread over his face as his companions dug in. Even Dorian with his “refined palate” seemed satisfied. Arlaros ate slowly, watching and listening. He gave his opinion on Varric’s new armor when asked (no armor should have a v-neck that deep) and agreed with Blackwall when he said they needed to do more joint exercises between the mage and soldier recruits, but otherwise he stayed quiet.
When his food was gone, he stood from the fire and said his goodnights. It was early still, but no one questioned him, and he slipped into the silence of his tent.
For a few moments, he simply stood in the center, breathing slowly and allowing himself to feel his body. His side still hurt, but it was more of a dull throb than the sharp and vivid pain it had been immediately after the fight. His feet were tired and there was a headache building behind his eyes, but overall nothing serious.
He pulled his sleeping clothes out of his pack and changed into the loose pants. They weren’t quite as comfortable as the pair he had brought with him to the Conclave, but the explosion had taken those and everything else he had brought.
His side pinched and pulled as he shrugged the robes off, and he winced at the pain. It only got worse when he pulled his undershirt over his head. Then he looked down and saw the bruising. Dark purple and blue spread across his side, reaching all the way from his hip to the top of his ribs and wrapping around part of his stomach and back. He poked at the tender flesh carefully, assessing the damage. Thankfully, there were no signs of frostbite or any other major damage. The potion he had downed after the fight had done its job.
In truth, he could drink another. Although it wouldn’t remove the bruising entirely, it would make a significant difference and likely stop the headache from fully forming. They had the supplies to make more potions, but he couldn’t shake years of resource scarcity off so easily. Healing potions had never been rare in his clan, but they weren’t used lightly. Besides, he’d likely heal a fair amount after a good night’s sleep.
He decided against wearing his sleep shirt and instead began to move through his other nightly rituals. He sat on the edge of his cot and carefully unraveled the braids in his hair, letting the repetitive movements calm him. Once he finished, he fetched a bar of soap and a small basin from his pack and filled it with water using a few simple spells. He hummed as he worked, an old song his keeper often sang when they were winding down for the night.
He had just begun washing his feet when a voice called from outside the tent. “Herald, may I speak with you?” Dorian.
“Come in,” he called.
Dorian ducked into the tent but stopped short. “Ah, it seems I’m interrupting.”
Arlaros shrugged. “Unless you need me to go somewhere, you aren’t interrupting,” he said, although he was suddenly starkly aware of his half-dressed state. “What do you need?” He gestured for Dorian to sit on the small stool across from his cot. He did so, looking uncertain.
“I wished to discuss your actions at the fade rift earlier today,” he said, his eyes flicking around as if he wasn’t sure where to focus. “You shouldn’t have put yourself in harm’s way for my sake.”
Arlaros hummed thoughtfully as he continued to wash his feet, using the action to avoid looking at Dorian’s eyes. “The despair demon was too far for anyone else to reach in time, and I had just expended my magic reserves. It was the only option.”
“The demon wouldn’t have killed me. There was no need for you to step in,” Dorian insisted.
“And listen to you complain the entire way to the camp? This was the better alternative,” Arlaros joked, trying to lighten the air between them. But when he looked up, Dorian’s eyes were shadowed.
“With a bruise as colorful as the one you’re wearing, you have the right to complain. But you didn’t say a word. Is the Herald of Andraste so self-sacrificing?”
Dorian’s eyes were searching, peering deeper into Arlaros than he was comfortable with. He could shut the conversation down, ask Dorian to leave. But Dorian was stubborn, and he had a feeling the next time he approached him with the same question, it would be far more public. But what did Dorian want?
He let the silence stretch for several moments before sighing. “Arlaros Lavellan,” he said.
“Pardon?”
Arlaros met Dorian’s eyes again. “My name is Arlaros Lavellan. I don’t claim to be Andraste’s Herald, and I didn’t ask for this mark or the powers it carries. I apologize if I’m not what you wanted or expected.”
“I--that is not what I meant.” Dorian leaned forward, his expression more conflicted than Arlaros had ever seen. “I am simply trying to figure out why you would risk yourself for me, a Tevinter mage. I’m incredible, of course, but to literally take a blow for me?”
Arlaros pulled his feet from the water and began drying them. He lingered longer than he needed to, trying to find a way to put his disjointed thoughts into words. Eventually, he put the towel aside and looked back at Dorian.
“The events at the Conclave have made me into a leader I never asked to be. But I am, and I bear those responsibilities, which include keeping the people who follow me safe. You’ve fulfilled what you left your home to do--you stopped Alexius--but you’ve stayed and followed me anyway.” He forced a small grin. “Besides, you fight like you’re performing for a court. One day you’re going to get yourself killed because you can’t resist showing off.”
Dorian chuckled. “But you have to admit I look fabulous doing it.”
Arlaros rolled his eyes. “Some of us are too focused on the battle to watch,” he replied. He was lying, though. Even in the middle of a fight he found his eyes drawn to Dorian. He didn’t have the time to investigate the implications of that right now, though.
“Either way, I owe you my thanks, Arlaros.”
Arlaros’s brain stuttered--Dorian said his name right. Humans never said his name right on the first try, getting tripped up in the ‘r’s. Some of his shock must have made it onto his face because Dorian frowned.
“I’ve mucked it up again somehow.”
And now Dorian was admitting to wrongdoing despite having done nothing wrong. Arlaros had once heard him argue with Varric for hours over his innocence in a matter where he was clearly guilty simply to avoid apologizing. But here he stood.
“No, no! You simply surprised me. Most people don’t pronounce my name correctly the first time,” he said. The words came out rushed in his desire to reassure Dorian as quickly as possible.
Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Do most people try?”
Arlaros laughed, and the sound surprised him. “No. And I don’t think the Orleasians could even if they wanted to.”
Dorian chuckled. “You might be right.”
A silence fell, but it wasn’t awkward. Instead, it was almost like home.
Eventually, Dorian broke the silence with a question. “May I ask why you don’t wear shoes with soles? Is that something all Dalish do?”
The question surprised Arlaros, a feeling Dorian induced all too easily. “Not all Dalish, no. And I wear boots when I know we’ll be in rocky or hazardous terrain. I think the ‘why’ varies from person to person, but generally its because it connects us to the earth. It keeps me grounded and reminds me I am part of a larger whole.” He shrugged. “It’s also habit.”
Dorian nodded. “Tevinter education doesn’t exactly cover Dalish culture,” he said, and a shadow of that conflicted look flitted across his face. “I hope you will forgive any missteps on my part as I rectify that.”
“Only if you forgive mine.”
Dorian eyebrows drew together and his lips twitched as if he wasn’t quite sure what to say in response. Silence stretched for several moments before he asked, “Are you planning to take another potion? As vivid as the colors in that bruise are, it’s hardly an artwork worth preserving.”
“The worst of the bruising should fade tonight,” he said, glancing down at his torso. “There’s no need to waste supplies.”
That caused Dorian’s lips to pull down in a frown. “Surely we can spare a single healing potion?”
“I’ll be fine,” Arlaros insisted, but guilt flooded him even as he said the words. Dorian shouldn’t need to be this worried about him. He should be a symbol of strength, someone untouchable, a person people could--
“Arlaros?”
He blinked, eyes focusing back in on Dorian whose brow was creased with worry. “I apologize. Can you repeat that?”
“I asked you if you would allow me to heal you,” he said. “My talents are more suited toward flamboyant displays of pyrotechnics, admittedly, but I can at least help the bruising fade.”
Arlaros blinked. And blinked again. Eventually he realized he still hadn’t answered Dorian and nodded once. Dorian tilted his head like he wasn’t sure, but he moved forward when Arlaros nodded again.
Dorian knelt across from him, moving the basin of water out of the way with steady hands. Then, he closed his eyes, and Arlaros could feel the pull of magic in the air. When Dorian opened his eyes again, his palms were glowing a gentle green. He held them up, hovering mere centimeters over Arlaros’s skin, and began to heal him.
Arlaros couldn’t tear his eyes away from Dorian’s hands. He had never looked at them this closely--had never let himself. They were strong, but soft, calloused only where he held his staff or a quill. He could feel heat radiating off of them along with the magic that pulsed through his body, and suddenly he wondered what those hands would feel like actually touching his skin.
To pull his mind away from that dangerous train of thought, he began to speak. “Thank you, Dorian. My own healing abilities are abysmal, something that always dismayed my keeper. It would have been useful to have another person gifted in healing arts in the clan, but my magic tends toward the combative.”
“Something we have in common, then. I struggled to learn any healing spells, but my parents insisted. They wanted me to be able to keep myself alive until proper healers arrived if someone tried to assassinate me.” Dorian said the words in an off-hand tone, as if he were commenting on something as common as the weather.
“I know I just promised you to be open to learning about Tevinter culture, but that’s awful,” Arlaros remarked. The pain in his side had lessened considerably, and he could see the bruising beginning to fade from blue and purple to green and yellow.
“Isn’t it?” Dorian laughed. “The possibility of my imminent demise kept me motivated though, and now you get to benefit from my talents.”
“I’m honored,” Arlaros replied, smiling slightly.
A few moments later, Dorian pulled away and stood. “There. You’re practically brand-new.”
There was still some minor bruising, but when Arlaros stretched experimentally, he barely felt a sting. Dorian’s healing had helped significantly.
“Thank you, again,” he said.
Dorian waved a hand. “There’s no need. It’s only polite to heal the damage I indirectly caused.” He flashed a brilliant smile. “I should let you get your beauty sleep, if such a thing is possible in these…camping conditions.”
Arlaros laughed, and the movement didn’t hurt. “I’ve slept on cots and bedrolls like these all my life. It’s worked out so far.”
“It certainly has. Well, not all of us can be so lucky. Goodnight, Arlaros.”
It wasn’t until he was watching Dorian duck out of the tent that Arlaros registered the flirtatious compliment. He shook his head and returned to his nightly routine. As he began to drift to sleep a thought lingered in his mind: Dorian was going to be trouble--hopefully the good kind.