Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The kitchen door swung open, and Dorian Pavus stood panting in the doorway as if he'd just sprinted halfway across Minrathous.

Galen Trevelyan glanced at his husband, but otherwise didn't react. His hands—the right one, a typical human hand, and the left, a sophisticated magical-mechanical prosthetic—were both full. He held a hot frying pan and a spatula as he scraped the diced onions, translucent and slightly caramelized, into the cast iron pot where he'd been searing the stew meat. It was floured and seasoned with herbs in the Ostwick style. If he burned the oil and scorched the flour, he'd risk souring the broth. And that wouldn't make a good dinner.

"You're home early," he said to Dorian, without looking up from his task.

Still catching his breath, Dorian cast a spell, and the kitchen fires went out.

"We need to leave," he said. "Right now."

He didn't need to repeat himself.

"Weapons?" Galen asked, abandoning his cooking without protest or complaint.

Dorian nodded, and Galen followed him down the hallway towards the armoire in the sitting room. Its artistry was such that it looked strictly ornamental, a lovely cabinet. But no. Galen cast a spell, unlocking the door, and opened it to reveal a fully stocked arsenal of staves and swords and daggers. Enchanted amulets hung on their hooks alongside belts with potions.

He chose a staff with a vicious scythe, and he pocketed the hilt of his spirit blade. Dorian exchanged his slender, fashionable staff for a heavier one with a bludgeoning club.

"Are we fighting or fleeing?" Galen asked him.

"Hopefully, neither. Possibly both." Dorian glanced at Galen's feet. "You'll need better shoes."

"Right," Galen said, and hurried upstairs to change his clothes.

A few minutes later, clad in proper boots instead of house slippers, and wearing his leather coat, which wrapped him safely in a web of enchantments, he left the Pavus townhouse with no idea where Dorian was taking him.

Galen didn't ask. If they were being trailed and their lives in danger, a silent escape would be best. So he kept his mouth shut and relied on his own observations.

The political climate was tense. A Venatori resurgence, many years in the making, was gaining more ground under the less watchful eye of a newly chosen archon. The worst of the cultists could be planning something terrible, and perhaps right now was the best time to stop them. Or perhaps they'd woken monsters, like the one beneath the gardens. Maker only knew what bound and summoned horrors might be lurking in the abandoned catacombs. Perhaps he and Dorian were racing towards a strange new adventure.

Whatever it was, the cause seemed urgent. Dorian made his way quickly along the Hightown streets.

The main roads were quiet and practically empty. But was that a significant detail? Galen couldn't tell. Yes, mid afternoons were typically busier than this—a time for venturing forth to visit cafés and make social calls. But the pavers beneath his feet were wet from a passing storm. Rain showers always kept the upper classes indoors, lest they stain their precious robes.

"Turn here," Dorian said, snapping Galen out of his anxious musings as he veered down an alley and followed it towards a narrow stairway.

These stairs were a slaves' path leading precipitously down, with treads too shallow to inspire much confidence. Galen watched his footing as he took the lead, moving steadily towards the midtown markets. When an elven slave approached, climbing upward, Galen fell back on old habits. He stepped aside. To prevent accidents when meeting traffic on the narrowest stairs that led to the cellars and storerooms of the Ostwick Circle of Magi, the descending party, regardless of age or rank, was always the one to give way, pausing until the ascending person had passed them by. But here in Minrathous, the elf glared up at him, annoyed. Even on a rough hewn stairway, never intended for a magister's use, an elf had to stop and show respect.

"Go." Dorian prodded his husband forward.

Ashamed—for himself, for Dorian, for their daily complicity in all the little cruelties that Minrathous enacted—Galen brushed past the elf and kept going.

"Tea shop on the left." Dorian whispered as they approached the midtown landing. "Back room and down to the cellars."

Midtown had many tea shops, but Galen knew the one. He led the way forward.

When they'd reached their destination below the shop, a narrow corridor concealed by clever magic widened into a secret room. There, Maevaris Tilani stood waiting for them. Seated on a storage crate beside her was a freckled, elven woman who rarely visited Minrathous. Tevinter was not her main priority. Instead, she relied on a small web of agents to gather intelligence and send their reports. The fact that Charter, the disbanded Inquisition's current spymaster, was here in person, suggested that something was seriously wrong.

"Have you found Solas?" Galen asked.

"I'm sorry, Galen," she said. "It's not that, but I am here to take you home."

"I am home." His gaze darted to Dorian, his spouse in all ways but formal contract.

But Mae shook her head.

"Everything's changing," she said. "When the Senate meets this evening, I won't be there. If I were to go myself I'd be arrested for treason. Either way, I'll be stripped of my titles and standing."

"It's official, then?" Dorian asked. "Your sources confirmed it."

He looked alarmed, as if he'd still been hoping for better news, despite the urgency with which he'd fled his townhouse with Galen in tow.

"The Lucerni are being disbanded," she said, "by order of Radonis, the younger."

Mae handed him a note on a torn and folded piece of paper.

Dorian read it.

"Oh, that sniveling coward." He scoffed as his eyes scanned the page. "And we thought he would make a good archon! His treacherous father was a better man."

"Radonis II is an incrementalist," Mae said. "He favors a gradual change, but he won't push to make it happen. We knew this about him."

Dorian looked up from the note. "This list, who wrote it?"

Charter spoke up.

"One of mine," she said. "This leak came from General Mercar, who conveniently left the arrest orders where a servant could find them and make a copy of their own."

"Mercar?" Dorian's brow furrowed as he tried to work out the angles. "Why would arrest orders go through the military instead of the Templars?"

"Good question," Mae said. "We've got Templar sources and they've heard nothing. But Mercar's an interesting choice."

"According to my people, he's against enslavement on military principle," Charter added. "He calls slave labor 'a boon for the enemy in the ongoing war.'"

"And that's not all," Mae said. "He's got an elven kid, adopted—a member of Ashur's resistance in Docktown. The Magisterium at large doesn't know it, but the archon must. As best we can tell, Radonis went through Mercar for the express purpose of tipping us off before the purge."

Dorian sniffed—a sharp inhale, and a disdainful twitch of his beautiful nose.

"Even if you're right, that doesn't change my opinion of the man," he said. "Well, not much. Less sniveling, perhaps, but still a coward." Then he pivoted swiftly from critique to question. "My name isn't on this list. Why not?"

Charter retrieved the note from him, and was about to answer, when suddenly, Galen understood it. He saw all the treacherous pieces and how they fit together.

"Oh," he said. "Of course. It's because of me."

It all made sense. He hadn't called himself Inquisitor in years, but the Venatori still feared him as such. And more than that, they wanted to avoid a wave of assassins, sent by the Southern Divine to pick them off one by one if anything were to happen to Galen or his husband.

"The Venatori may be on the rise once more," Galen said, "but fortunes fail quickly, and they still have to govern. They can't fight the Qunari in the north if they're too busy looking south, afraid of what Leliana and I might do to them." He turned from Charter and Mae to look at Dorian. "And that's why I have to leave you. So your fellow magisters can't drop a rock on my head and call it an unfortunate mishap. I'm only a safeguard for you if they can't touch me."

Dorian shut his eyes against the bitterness of too much truth for an otherwise lovely afternoon.

"And I have to stay here, of course," he said, the full scope of his mission now clear to him, "as the only Lucernus not in hiding. Because we still need a man on the inside. And my name's not on that list."

"I'm sorry," Charter said. "But yes, that's the gist of it. I'm leaving right now and Galen comes with me. Mae and the others will find safety in the shadows. And you must return to your home and your life."

She held out the list of names and gestured to Mae, who cast a spell and burned it. Charter didn't flinch from the magic. When the fire went out, she blew away the ashes and wiped the soot from the palm of her hand.

Galen watched, and then he wondered: What else would burn to dust before their work was through?

Chapter Text

The kitchen door swung open, and Dorian Pavus stood panting in the doorway as if he'd just sprinted halfway across Minrathous.

Galen Trevelyan glanced at his husband, but otherwise didn't react. His hands—the right one, a typical human hand, and the left, a sophisticated magical-mechanical prosthetic—were both full. He held a hot frying pan and a spatula as he scraped the diced onions, translucent and slightly caramelized, into the cast iron pot where he'd been searing the stew meat. It was floured and seasoned with herbs in the Ostwick style. If he burned the oil and scorched the flour, he'd risk souring the broth. And that wouldn't make a good dinner.

"You're home early," he said to Dorian, without looking up from his task.

Still catching his breath, Dorian cast a spell, and the kitchen fires went out.

"We need to leave," he said. "Right now."

He didn't need to repeat himself.

"Weapons?" Galen asked, abandoning his cooking without protest or complaint.

Dorian nodded, and Galen followed him down the hallway towards the armoire in the sitting room. Its artistry was such that it looked strictly ornamental, a lovely cabinet. But no. Galen cast a spell, unlocking the door, and opened it to reveal a fully stocked arsenal of staves and swords and daggers. Enchanted amulets hung on their hooks alongside belts with potions.

He chose a staff with a vicious scythe, and he pocketed the hilt of his spirit blade. Dorian exchanged his slender, fashionable staff for a heavier one with a bludgeoning club.

"Are we fighting or fleeing?" Galen asked him.

"Hopefully, neither. Possibly both." Dorian glanced at Galen's feet. "You'll need better shoes."

"Right," Galen said, and hurried upstairs to change his clothes.

A few minutes later, clad in proper boots instead of house slippers, and wearing his leather coat, which wrapped him safely in a web of enchantments, he left the Pavus townhouse with no idea where Dorian was taking him.

Galen didn't ask. If they were being trailed and their lives in danger, a silent escape would be best. So he kept his mouth shut and relied on his own observations.

The political climate was tense. A Venatori resurgence, many years in the making, was at last gaining ground. With an Antaam invasion threatening to cut off trade routes by land and sea, the archon's attention was scattered, his resources spread thin. His efforts to undermine the Venatori were faltering.

The worst of the cultists could be planning something terrible, and perhaps right now was the best time to stop them. Or perhaps they'd woken monsters, like the one beneath the gardens. Maker only knew what bound and summoned horrors might be lurking in the abandoned catacombs. Perhaps he and Dorian were racing towards a strange new adventure.

Whatever it was, the cause seemed urgent. Dorian made his way quickly along the Hightown streets.

The main roads were quiet and practically empty. But was that a significant detail? Galen couldn't tell. Yes, mid afternoons were typically busier than this—a time for venturing forth to visit cafés and make social calls. But the pavers beneath his feet were wet from a passing storm. Rain showers always kept the upper classes indoors, lest they stain their precious robes.

"Turn here," Dorian said, snapping Galen out of his anxious musings as he veered down an alley and followed it towards a narrow stairway.

These stairs were a slaves' path leading precipitously down, with treads too shallow to inspire much confidence. Galen watched his footing as he took the lead, moving steadily towards the midtown markets. When an elven slave approached, climbing upward, Galen fell back on old habits. He stepped aside. To prevent accidents when meeting traffic on the narrowest stairs that led to the cellars and storerooms of the Ostwick Circle of Magi, the descending party, regardless of age or rank, was always the one to give way, pausing until the ascending person had passed them by. But here in Minrathous, the elf glared up at him, annoyed. Even on a rough hewn stairway, never intended for a magister's use, an elf had to stop and show respect.

"Go." Dorian prodded his husband forward.

Ashamed—for himself, for Dorian, for their daily complicity in all the little cruelties that Minrathous enacted—Galen brushed past the elf and kept going.

"Tea shop on the left." Dorian whispered as they approached the midtown landing. "Back room and down to the cellars."

Midtown had many tea shops, but Galen knew the one. He led the way forward.

When they'd reached their destination below the shop, a narrow corridor concealed by clever magic widened into a secret room. There, Maevaris Tilani stood waiting for them. Seated on a storage crate beside her was a freckled, elven woman who rarely visited Minrathous. Tevinter was not her main priority. Instead, she relied on a small web of agents to gather intelligence and send their reports. The fact that Charter, the disbanded Inquisition's current spymaster, was here in person, suggested that something was seriously wrong.

"Have you found Solas?" Galen asked.

"I'm sorry, Galen," she said. "It's not that, but I am here to take you home."

"I am home." His gaze darted to Dorian, his spouse in all ways but formal contract.

But Mae shook her head.

"Everything's changing," she said. "When the Senate meets this evening, I won't be there. If I were to go myself I'd be arrested for treason. Either way, I'll be stripped of my titles and standing."

"It's official, then?" Dorian asked. "Your sources confirmed it."

He looked alarmed, as if he'd still been hoping for better news, despite the urgency with which he'd fled his townhouse with Galen in tow.

"The Lucerni are being disbanded," she said, "by order of the archon."

Mae handed him a note on a torn and folded piece of paper.

Dorian read it.

"Oh, Radonis. Ever the opportunist." He scoffed as his eyes scanned the page. "And we thought he had principles buried somewhere in that treacherous heart of his."

"He still doesn't favor the Venatori," Mae said. "But he'll give in to their demands if it means he can save his own hide. We've known this about him."

Dorian looked up from the note. "This list, who wrote it?"

Charter spoke up.

"One of mine," she said. "This leak came from General Mercar, who conveniently left the arrest orders where a servant could find them and make a copy of their own."

"Mercar?" Dorian's brow furrowed as he tried to work out the angles. "Why would arrest orders go through the military instead of the Templars?"

"Good question," Mae said. "We've got Templar sources and they've heard nothing. But Mercar's an interesting choice."

"According to my people, he's against enslavement on military principle," Charter added. "He calls slave labor 'a boon for the enemy in the ongoing war.'"

"And that's not all," Mae said. "He's got an elven kid, adopted—a member of Ashur's resistance in Dock Town. The Magisterium at large doesn't know it, but the archon must. As best we can tell, Radonis went through Mercar for the express purpose of tipping us off before the purge."

Dorian sniffed—a sharp inhale, and a disdainful twitch of his beautiful nose.

"Even if you're right, that doesn't change my opinion of the man," he said. "He's not aiding our cause; he's helping himself. He spares our lives and we fight the Venatori for him. Brilliant plan, Radonis! Well schemed as ever." Then he pivoted swiftly from critique to question. "My name isn't on this list. Why not?"

Charter retrieved the note from him, and was about to answer, when suddenly, Galen understood it. He saw all the treacherous pieces and how they fit together.

"Oh," he said. "Of course. It's because of me."

It all made sense. He hadn't called himself Inquisitor in years, but the Venatori still feared him as such. And more than that, they wanted to avoid a wave of assassins, sent by the Southern Divine to pick them off one by one if anything were to happen to Galen or his husband.

"The Venatori may be on the rise once more," Galen said, "But fortunes fail quickly, and they still have to govern. They can't fight the Qunari invasion if they're too busy looking south, afraid of what Leliana and I might do to them." He turned from Charter and Mae to look at Dorian. "And that's why I have to leave you. So your fellow magisters can't drop a rock on my head and call it an unfortunate mishap. I'm only a safeguard for you if they can't touch me."

Dorian shut his eyes against the bitterness of too much truth for an otherwise lovely afternoon.

"And I have to stay here, of course," he said, the full scope of his mission now clear to him, "as the only Lucernus not in hiding. Because we still need a man on the inside. And my name's not on that list."

"I'm sorry," Charter said. "But yes, that's the gist of it. I'm leaving right now and Galen comes with me. Mae and the others will find safety in the shadows. And you must return to your home and your life."

She held out the list of names and gestured to Mae, who cast a spell and burned it. Charter didn't flinch from the magic. When the fire went out, she blew away the ashes and wiped the soot from the palm of her hand.

Galen watched, and then he wondered: What else would burn to dust before their work was through?