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For those of an uncompromising mind, the precipice beckoned.
Lavellan knelt before the desk in the rotunda, her arms wrapped around herself, her throat clogged and mind oozing at a thought per minute. She knelt contemplating the vial of red, evil-smelling liquid, uncorked and then corked again and still waiting for her. She rested her chin against the desk surface, recoiled at the poking edge, and eyed that bottle like it contained nothing but Sera’s wasps.
While she oscillated Solas was painting onto plaster in the same room, giving life to the deeds of the Inquisition whole on the vestibule’s walls; they had their backs to each other, but she listened to the sound of it like it could put her into a trance. He painted with full intent, with certainty—once begun in earnest there was no stopping and starting midway through, no hesitant pauses.
Solas. Solas, Solas, Solas, Solas, Solas.
He belonged to her, now. Or–Lavellan to him. It didn’t feel real at first, when he took her aside and confessed; it had felt unthinkable that someone would take back something they said, no less in a way that vindicated her mindless, keening heart. Just when she thought she might well have ruined everything, there he was begging not to lose her. As if he could lose her.
No, it still didn’t feel real. But even so she glowed at the thought, the smile that wouldn’t leave her stupid face in the small hours of the morning. It made her tremble, the shiver of entering the water before knowing its temperature. It made her heart pound, but right now it was a rush that she wanted to seek out over and over.
And at times like this, it was nice to have a source of joy in the room with you when contemplating something actually terrifying.
"You’re not making your stories up, are you?"
Somehow it had become acceptable to sit on his desk while he wasn't using it. She went from leaning against it to letting her heels twitch against the side in remarkable time, very careful to, in her ascension, keep undisturbed the books and shard piece with which she was sharing space. Like sitting in his equally unused chair was unthinkable.
He finished applying plaster and smiled wryly as he stepped away from the wet fumes, the wall glistening where his designs were outlined. "No. These are the truth. I would take no pleasure in my telling them, otherwise."
Lavellan shifted, wiggling to get comfortable on the hard wood. "Tell me another one, then. Tell me a story about the Fade."
"I once encountered a dream," Solas began, without missing a beat, as he rounded on her. He drew in close and caught hold of her hands. "That echoed, through fragments, an occurrence in a small village hundreds of years before.
"A young man, ill-tempered and given to drink, was sent to war. When he returned to his young wife, he was a changed man, a loving partner and father." His lips against the skin of Lavellan’s cheek, a kiss and then murmuring, "Together they sired a child, and spent many years in happiness… until the day her real husband came home."
Their fingers tangled; Solas drew back, the faintest smile on his face when he saw the bewildered look on hers. "–Wait, then who was he?"
"That is the question, is it not?" he hummed, cocking his head to the side. "Who was this man, this supposed imposter in their midst? A spirit or demon, perhaps, assuming his face as it assumed the life he left behind? A simple thief, taking a name for himself with the hope his deception would go unnoticed? Or perhaps the option most tantalizing for his bride; was the vengeful newcomer the imposter, and the first man the woman’s husband in reality?"
Lavellan was watching him with larger eyes now, waiting until realizing that the answer might not be forthcoming. "So. Which was it?"
Solas released her hands. "I could not say. The Fade presented each possibility as the truth."
"Oh!" She couldn’t help it; she laughed, her ankle thudding against the side of the desk. "You can’t just finish it that way! You have to give it an actual ending!"
He chuckled. "I am afraid if it is a convenient ending you seek, you have chosen the wrong storyteller. Perhaps Varric is more your preference."
Truthfully the actual words passing between them was turning into fuzz. Lavellan reached out to draw him nearer again, some gleeful, anxious energy bubbling from her depths that spilled over and made her heart pound. "Varric. His yarns are fine but I doubt he's as good with his tongue."
Solas paused.
Then a sudden creak sounded behind him. A thud of the door which Lavellan knew instinctively, enough to gasp and slide back off the desk and to the floor. Solas similarly put distance between the two of them, his hands behind his back.
Why specifically they both did so, she couldn't name.
The disturbance came from a messenger boy in Inquisition clothes, who blithely entered the room as if he hadn’t noticed anything untoward, bearing a small box in his arms. "Ah! There you are. Delivery for you, Inquisitor," he said as he set it down on the desk beside Lavellan.
She twitched. "What is this?"
"It’s from Ser Tham. Ser—Breaker?" The boy paused a moment, and then shook his head. "Well, you know. Probably."
"Oh!" Lavellan rubbed her hands, picking up the package with some reluctance. "Thank you."
Creators she was going to die.
By the time the messenger boy had left, she was already tearing the box open and pulling out the contents. She caught Solas with his eye on the bottle across the room, and met his gaze with the same gravity it requested. She smiled at him. A smile as the weight of what she was holding sank in deeper with its growing dread. A philter of dragon’s blood. "I'm sorry. I think it’s time that I attend to this."
"...You have as much time as you require, lethallan," he said, his brows pinched.
She set the bottle on the desk. Did not put it in her pocket, knowing if she did it would never come out. "That’s a kind thing to say but I, I disagree. Give me space, I need to… to focus."
Wasn't it silly? To come so far, to face so much worse, and be trapped in this particular hurdle? She had stood up to dragons, thrown herself into the thick of demons, and in this and other battles she’d faced death hundreds of times over. Sometimes she found herself lying awake at night at all of it. Wasn’t it silly of her, then, to treat this step with such trepidation? If anything, shouldn’t she be eager for a means to better protect herself and her comrades?
It felt so. She suspected, though he would not say as much, that Solas felt the same way. Patiently working on his mural, likely more aware of the time passing than she could be in her state.
"Is this truly what you wish to do, Liora?" she finally heard him ask from across the room. The gravity of his question was undercut a touch by the thrill at hearing her name on his lips, in his gentle cadence of speech. Not gone completely.
Thinking back, he hadn’t objected to the idea when he learned of it. He understood, perhaps more strongly than anyone else who’d counseled her, what even a small difference could mean when they were fighting a war they didn’t fully understand. Eventually said something to the effect, though, of "altering one’s physiology is not a step to be taken lightly."
Reavers. Berserkers. Not hunters and providers, but warriors by design. Fighters of insuppressible drive, who did not fall to mere injury. What would they say back home, if she could ask her family about it? Well, she knew Nessie would laugh. That’s not you, she’d say.
"Yes. It is." Her throat felt constricted, the words coming out faint.
But Solas heard them anyway. He sounded sad, if mutedly so. "I fear it will not drink itself."
She did not move. "True."
Admittedly Dorian’s was a much less treacherous precipice upon which he stood.
Or sat, rather, dwelling in the Maiden’s Rest with a pint of cheap Fereldan Ale which he was deliberately nursing. Listening to the Iron Bull regale his Chargers with his exploits in the wilds of Orlais and Ferelden with their Inquisitor, the missions they hadn’t been allowed on. His tone warm, his wit sharp, and his manner genial with his comrades, a motley crew of all sorts.
And Dorian—Dorian’s tongue was getting dulled, his mind not yet clouded with drink but rather becoming too aware of itself. The tavern’s conversation, a buzz of mercenaries and soldiers on rests between their service to the Inquisition, had long faded into the background by now. Save for that particular voice that resonated below all the rest, all the more recognizable for the company it kept out in the field lately.
A few minutes before—well, he wasn't counting how many—that voice was speaking to him, as the Iron Bull put a frosty mug of Ferelden Ale down in front of him; it hadn't startled Dorian, if only because, much as he would deny it, he was paying an unreasonable amount of attention to him anyway. How could he not, with the man's musk?
"Here, let me save you the first round."
Dorian looked down at the mug in front of him, raising an eyebrow. "Forgetting how late this is, I believe it was Cassandra who won that bet."
"Nah, it's not about the bet," he said with a rumble. "Just figured you could use it."
Ah.
"Besides, you weren’t half bad during that last outing. I owe you a little."
Feeling a prickle in his chest, Dorian was inches from releasing a barb about the evident limits of his generosity, seeing as this was the cheapest ale that he had deposited in front of him. But then he remembered how many times he had been making an ass of himself lately and stopped. It didn't help, either, when he caught sight of the recovering wounds on the Iron Bull's skin, a sight that brought a certain kind of warmth to him.
Besides, he would have hated any of the more expensive stuff. Irritating as it was, a part of him suspected that the Iron Bull knew that.
"Well–" he said, giving a sniff to fill the gap as he looked for his words. They came out more deflated than intended. "It's appreciated, then. Cheers."
"Bottoms up."
He returned to his people—his Chargers—and left Dorian by his lonesome. On the one hand, Dorian could think of better things to do than join a group of sweaty mercenaries in their rabble rousing (well, alright, it depended on the mercenaries) but a part of him madly thought about what it would be like to be invited over. The Inquisitor had been invited to drink with them, though he didn’t know if she’d taken Bull up on that offer yet. Perhaps a leader to leader kind of thing.
So much harder to be maudlin in a group, that was all.
A low whine drew Dorian’s attention from inside his thoughts; additionally, something furry and large thudded against his leg. "What the–?"
The big mabari that Varric had taken home from the Hinterlands—Paws, wasn’t it?—was standing directly beside his seat, tongue out and panting heavily as his tail wagged.
Dorian knew precious little about Mabari Hounds, save for that they smelled and bit and that, for whatever reason, Fereldens loved them. This one apparently belonged to a friend of Varric's who was unavailable to take him back; more's the pity. Since his arrival, Paws had been a common sight in the Maiden's Rest, begging treats and attention off of the patrons. Cabot had allegedly gotten some use out of him as a bouncer, well-muscled as he was, but he seemed a touch too soft for that to Dorian.
For the love of Andraste, but this creature had better not be wanting belly rubs off of him. He stood there, tongue lolling, eyes fixed on Dorian as he had been contemplating his drink. When he barked, the sound of it strained his eardrums.
And when he headbutted him, Dorian was struck by the notion that he would be sporting a bruise on that leg. He yelped, wagging his finger at Paws admonishingly. "Ah! None of that!"
The dog, damnable thing that it was, of course didn’t listen. He yipped, pushing in Dorian’s space as he panted and whined. Any attempts to physically push him away made the situation even worse, as the dog’s tongue lolled out and started licking at the hand that shoved his head.
Dorian shoved harder. "Don’t you have a reputation to maintain with hating Tevinters? What if someone sees you trying to cozy up to a big scary altus? What then?"
Paws whined and dug his head into his side, almost knocking him off the chair.
Dorian gritted his teeth through it; may the Maker curse Varric for bringing the hound up to Skyhold.
A whistle broke through the air, just as he was considering whether using magic would be the wisest course to separate himself and beast, or if that would only make things worse. Paws froze, ears perking up, and then he turned and dashed across the floorboards to the opposite end of the tavern.
To the Iron Bull, who smirked as he rubbed the dog's ears and scratched his backside, skillfully capturing Paws’ whole attention. A dog-whisperer with horns and an eyepatch; the hound whined and pushed in on his new bestest friend as he had tried to do with Dorian, and in response Bull dropped a morsel from off his table to the floor, where Paws ate it up greedily.
From there the dog began to move, rather systematically, through the rest of the Chargers, and Bull caught Dorian's eye.
It hurt. Perhaps a little more right now than it would have normally. But Dorian smirked and raised his glass to him, a brief acknowledgement.
Turning back around in his seat, he then paused to wipe the sticky saliva off his free hand, and took a long swig out of his glass. Heady and strong, a momentary taste of fruit and hops with a resonantly bitter finish; an ale suited to an abysmal backwater corner of the world. An ale that didn't waste one's time.
He chased his first gulp with the second.
Yes, though, his precipice was much less treacherous. Technically.
She had finished her required reading by the time they returned from their excursion into the Dales, and had at that time received her bottle from Breaker Tham—empty, so far. It had come with the message that if she truly desired this path, if she desired aught to drink, this sacrifice should be hers to make.
Telling herself that what she was doing "was nothing like blood magic" was easier when people were not referring to the collecting of dragon blood as "sacrifices", but she wasn’t planning to complain openly to Breaker Tham.
As it so happened, there were reports of a High Dragon nesting a few miles outside of Redcliffe, a mother gradually expanding her territory. Not yet a threat to the people settled in the Ferelden Hinterlands, but reports said it was only a matter of time before that changed. The Hinterlands were only a few days’ journey from Skyhold. If all went well, it wouldn’t even take a week for her to have the blood she sought.
If that wasn’t reason enough, they had renewed cause to visit the area again—judging by the missive becoming crumpled in Lavellan’s pocket as she ascended the steps of the mage tower, her teeth clamping on the skin inside her cheek.
True to its moniker the tower, one of the wings of Skyhold’s fortress, was the refuge for many of the Inquisition’s mage recruits and refugees. Templars had been… gently discouraged from occupying it, at the insistence of the Grand Enchanter, so it was a popular place for the Libertarians in particular to dwell.
They made no secret of themselves now, the mages who went about these halls in mended and laundered Circle robes. Books would levitate above tables and drift across the bookshelves, or even across floors, like lazy birds exploring their territory. Faintly chanted litanies filled the air in the upper quarters, sometimes accompanied by flashes of light too quick to properly discern. Sigils glowed on surfaces, which kept the air dry and warm inside no matter how miserable it was in the rest of Skyhold. On her few trips up, Lavellan had wondered if this was what the late Circles of Magi were like in the rest of Thedas. Or if this was what mages would have liked them to be.
She usually only stepped in the tower to visit Solas in the vestibule (her heart broke a little each time she peeked inside and saw that he hadn’t returned yet;) she hadn’t made such a habit of visiting Dorian, but she knew him to frequent the library on the middle floors. She passed a Chantry scholar on the stairs who greeted her with a polite, "Good morning, Inquisitor," and then on the second floor was almost bowled over by two young apprentices racing after each other. At the entrance to the library she heard snatches of some theological debate. And then, from elsewhere, Dorian’s voice.
"...yes, Tevinter has slaves. No, I don’t keep any myself, though my family does, and they’re treated well. —Until I came south, I’d never thought much of it before." There was a strained quality to his tone, and Lavellan found herself hesitating, like she’d been frozen in front of one of the bookshelves, listening.
Another voice, this one recognizably young. "That’s it? You never thought about it?"
"It’s just—how it is, over there. I’m not sure what you want me to say, Lucas." From strained to terse.
She could almost see them in the gaps between books, Dorian in his wraps and buckles and expertly curated Tevinter style. Then there was the boy—definitely Lucas, yes—with his messy hair and apprentice robes always on to cover up the holes he kept tearing in his tunics.
"Are you mad at me?" he said. Cautious, but not repentant.
Dorian sighed, a suffering sound. "It’s just not a topic I’m comfortable discussing with an eleven-year-old. …I would dearly love to tell you that every line your Chantry Mothers ever fed you about Tevinter was a falsehood, cousin. But the reality is, it’s complicated. Much like our stories about the South, I’ll wager."
"I think you still should have known it’s bad," Lucas muttered begrudgingly, fidgeting just visible through the book gaps. "You knew it was bad that they locked up mages."
"... I am a mage."
She suddenly did not want to overhear anything else about this topic. Lavellan decided to pick up and stomp her feet loudly in the entryway, raising her voice as she called, "Dorian? Are you there?"
"Hm?" There was a small noise of scrambling and scattering papers. "Yes! Up here, Inquisitor."
When she passed into Dorian’s customary nook of bookshelves, he was already kneeling to pick up pages that had fallen on the floor. Lucas stood nearby, wiggling his heels, and he smiled briefly at the sight of her.
"At least you’re consistent," Lavellan said, speaking to Dorian but giving Lucas a small nod of acknowledgement. Her insides felt cold and her words clipped. "I didn’t like the thought of looking everywhere for you."
If he noticed, he didn’t show it. Which was better, she supposed, than doing so. "And so you’ve found me. Is there something I can do for you?"
"There is." She struggled for a moment to find the words, chewing on the skin of her cheek; her reason for coming up to this library suddenly felt so far away from her mind.
While she was clawing it back, Dorian whispered to Lucas, "Struck dumb by my good looks, apparently."
"No she isn’t!" Lucas hissed vehemently back.
"There was a—" Lavellan’s voice felt loud out of her mouth, not helped by how quickly it drew their eyes back in her direction. Her next words were a bit quieter. "There was a letter for you, Dorian."
"Oh? I like getting letters." Dorian folded his arms. "Is it something that will make for juicy gossip in this barren corner of the world?"
Lavellan sucked in her cheeks before answering, digging into her pocket. "It’s from your family. Mother Giselle said she was contacted by them; they're saying they're worried about you and want to meet. They're sending a retainer to Redcliffe to wait for you."
The entire time she had been careful saying the words, her eyes on Dorian’s face to see his reaction. But as the sentence left her mouth, and as her hand left her pocket, she barely saw a twitch of his facial muscles. And she didn't have long to wonder why that was.
"See? See?" Lucas nudged Dorian with his arm, a look of charged satisfaction on his face. "I told you she would tell you about it."
Letter still pinched between her thumb and forefinger, Lavellan frowned at them. "Sorry?"
Dorian gave her a dry, but not unkind smile. "I’m afraid the boy here overheard your entire conversation with your meddlesome Mother. It’s not difficult for me to suspect something is afoot when he comes marching into the library, saying, ‘Dorian, your father is trying to kidnap you!’"
"I didn't say exactly that…"
"I see." Lavellan pursed her lips, turning the folded message over in her hands. "Lucas. I need you to give Dorian and I some privacy, alright?"
Lucas’ pleased expression vanished. "I’m not being mean."
"I know you aren't," she replied. Firm. "But I need to speak with Dorian about this alone."
Dorian nudged him, offering a smile that quirked the end of his mustache, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Go ahead; we'll talk later, cousin. Perhaps you can read something and then tell me about it."
To that Lucas simply scowled, looking repeatedly to the letter that Dorian had yet to take, but he put up no further protest. Instead, what he did was put a hand on Dorian's arm, his face one of dead sobriety, as he said to him, "It's going to be okay. My parents don't like me anymore either."
Once he had left the library, the goodwill on Dorian’s face fell, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Maker's breath," he muttered. "Perhaps it's a family trait."
All she could really do was hold out the letter for him to take, which he did reluctantly. "I don't want to pry, but is that the kind of relationship you have with your family? They would arrange for something like that?"
Dorian's lip twisted. "What, throw a bag over my head and drag me all the way back to Tevinter? It would be an awful lot of trouble for them to go to at this stage." As he finally took the letter, he regarded Lavellan curiously. "And what's your stake in this? You did forewarn me, but is it your desire that I meet with them anyway?"
"I'm worried this will turn into something to worr–to wor—" Dammit. "To worry about. Having people with an interest in dragging you back home, or else, uh," she threw down her hands. "Cultists."
"Or else cultists," Dorian repeated, giving a smirk of amusement that made her feel small and inarticulate. Then he finished reading the rest of the letter with an irritated sigh, all amusement gone. "I’ll say this, it certainly reads like the same perfectly cultivated banality my father is known for."
Lavellan folded her hands behind her back. "So?"
"So, I suppose I need to go to Redcliffe and meet this ‘retainer’ for myself, then. I don't suppose I can convince you to come with me? In the event it is cultists, or some insidious trap? You’re rather handy to have in a fight."
Funnily enough, Lavellan didn't think Dorian sounded like an unwanted son looking forward with apprehension to a reunion with disapproving parents. He was calm, voice still level and posture relaxed. A bit irritated, but that was all.
All the more power to him, then. As for her, the pit in her stomach kept going, and she was itching to round the bookshelf and scurry downstairs. " You can come with me . I have to visit Ferelden myself; I've a dragon hunt to… hunt."
Dorian made a face at that. "Ah, joy. One of your Reaver tasks?"
Lavellan was just resting her hand on the shelf edge as she circled it, and now she gripped as she looked back. "–How do you know about that?"
"Is that not the word around here?" Dorian shrugged. "You keep a small circle of associates, Inquisitor." And then, when he realized she was still staring, he added a bit more apologetically, "Was it meant to be a secret? I didn’t think…"
"No," Lavellan said before her mind could catch up. And then, once her mind did, "I mean I was just surprised. It’s not a secret, I just. Haven’t told anyone. But everyone keeps figuring it out anyway."
He chuckled. "Not the best sign for a major political leader to be so transparent."
But she did not laugh back, lungs tight. She rubbed at an itch in her eyes and turned away. "Well. Whether you want to take part in my ‘Reaver task’ or not. Be ready to accompany me when we set out for Ferelden."
Dorian hadn't needed a rumor mill to learn their Inquisitor's plans; technically speaking, she was the one that told him. Albeit not intentionally. Which was to say, his source had been good, old-fashioned eavesdropping.
A few days ago, they had been engaged in that tiresome trip back to Skyhold from Orlais. He’d never ridden so much horseback before he joined the Inquisition but now, Maker help him, he could consider himself an expert at the hobby. They rode from dawn to dusk, stopping for brief breaks but otherwise trying to conserve as much time as possible between Inquisition outposts.
On this occasion he was riding in the front. Not sure how that happened; it was usually the Inquisitor in the front. Ah, but she was lagging, still hung up on her absent source of pining, their elven apostate who was upset over something and left the group accordingly. He didn’t know more than that. Not that Dorian didn’t have sympathy for her—but she did not often confide in the likes of him, for an understandable reason perhaps.
Sometimes, though, she would confide in Cassandra—which seemed a tad unfair given the circumstances of framing and false imprisonment that allegedly defined that first meeting between the women.
"You ought to be careful, Inquisitor," their Seeker was saying as she rode her mount alongside Inquisitor Lavellan’s own, only sometimes within earshot of Dorian. "Dragon’s blood can affect you in ways that you will not expect."
Lavellan’s voice, restrained in nature, he heard only just barely over the sound of hooves clopping against stone. "What do you mean?"
"Many of the Pentaghasts in my family history have become these Reavers, harnessing the power of dragon’s blood against their quarry. But each one went terribly insane in the end. That is why it is now forbidden in Nevarra."
"Te… you said terribly insane?"
"It was their own doing, I understand," Cassandra was saying. "Greed drove them to use more and more. The blood… deformed them. Caused growths, scales, things of that nature. They became enraged over the barest slights, and in time that rage consumed them, drove them to do unspeakable things, even to their own loved ones."
It occurred to Dorian, as he listened with a frown, how much of the world from the North to the South seemed to run on buckets of blood. Bloodlines, yoking the children of nobility. Blood magic, extracted from the innocent. Dragon blood elsewhere, swallowed up by warriors of the Qun and Nevarra alike. How tedious the world, at times.
They traversed the Imperial Highway at present, a luxury they would every-so-often get after days of camping, riding, on uneven ground and sticking soils. Paved road, grand arches, some unbroken stretches spanning for miles across the countryside. Sometimes utilized by the most foolish of bandits looking for easy marks, but they’d been lucky this trip.
It was a relic of the Tevinter Imperium, a glory day that Dorian had never personally known. Glories which were also, of course, built on blood.
The Iron Bull suddenly overtook him; it wasn't as if his monster of a horse was moving particularly fast, currently carrying Lucas while the boy slept through the morning ride. It was simply that Dorian had slowed, his own Ferelden Forder twitching its ears as it took a more relaxed pace along the path of stone and old magic.
"No one told me about that before," Lavellan said in a strained voice.
"It is old history. Tales from hundreds of years ago," Cassandra replied. "Likely there were exaggerations. I merely suggest keeping them in mind."
"Well, I won’t be taking it straight. Breaker Tham would have me cut it in a potion. P-perhaps whatever side effects there are, they won’t be so bad."
Heaving a sigh, Dorian spurred his horse to move a little faster.
As he did, the last he heard from Cassandra was, "Well, if anyone is a match for dragon’s blood, it is you. I only suggest caution."
After that Dorian tried to stop being such a dirty little eavesdropper, for what that was worth. He tried to take in the sights from the Highway instead, but he'd gotten a little too much in his way for that.
Let them all hope the Inquisitor was, indeed, a wiser person than some of the greatest minds in Nevarra and Tevinter.
***
Fighting dragons, Lavellan had read, was like fighting the wildness of nature itself. Monstrous beings of chaos and the elements, the base of gods in the old Imperium and the scourge of all human settlements. A fight with them was to court death more than any other hunt.
All the better to prove yourself worthy of consuming their blood. Theoretically.
She wasn’t completely sure if it counted when she had other fighters along with her, including two who were already apparently big fans of killing dragons. But there was no way she was going to face the Ferelden Frostback by herself.
They found it in the north sweeping through a valley of matchstick trees, a landscape both heavily waterlogged with rain and yet set aflame with its breath. Larger than the Crestwood dragon by a visible margin, skin golden and clouded like a vibrant leopard, the burnt yellow scales of its belly like tiles in elven ruins. It moved through the sky faster than a creature of such size could possibly be expected, and as they pursued it on horseback it threw blasts of fire from its maw that splashed across the wet grass.
As she fought not to be thrown off by her horse, Lavellan took a shot with her crossbow that buried itself in the dragon’s belly, accompanied by Sera’s arrows. A lot of their shots fell wide of the mark, but there were a handful that hit, sticking like briars. Once the Frostback realized that these interlopers were not going to be scared off, it retreated—back to (what she presumed to be) a nest built on carved out cliffs by an abandoned mining operation. And there before that nest, where the valley was flattened and cut through with rock, it landed to meet them with yellow wings wide, screaming to break the sound barrier.
They had to dismount or risk losing the horses. Lavellan and Bull took the front, his battleaxe and her sword and shield. Sera and Dorian held back, arrows and spirit blasts which at first only took the dragon's attention like gnats in a bog.
"Would you look at her!" roared the Iron Bull over it, fierce with a blood-lusting delight. "What a beast!"
A massive talon-tipped foot sent Lavellan flying and she screamed.
In battles against dragons, there was no shame in running. No shame in hiding behind your shield when a maelstrom of flame came your way and you had no chance to duck. No shame in putting yourself out in the soaking floodwaters of the valley. Buckling down to the ground so you won't be ripped off your feet by the monster's massive wingbeats, its summoned storms.
The wings were the problem—producing turbulence, taking their quarry back out of range.
So Lavellan used her grappling hook to scale the dragon’s flank, sinking her sword into the tender skin of one such limb. She was nearly smashed against the cliffs for the trouble when her foe tried to bodily throw her off, moving against the walls of rock like a dog trying to scratch an itch against a table. But instead of being squashed, she tumbled over the hard ground when she released her grip and fell, her arms and legs scraping and her armor twisting.
The Frostback shrieked as she picked herself back up. Its wings spread wide; one of them was torn, was covered in blood, and the length of her grappling hook dangled from the creature’s back.
With only seconds to breathe, Lavellan fumbled for a bottle of elfroot potion and choked the contents down before finding herself diving out of the way of another blast. She fell face down into a pool of floodwater and spluttered, dripping wet when she came back up. Steam trailed off her armor, even in the chill of the Ferelden valley, flames behind her back.
She caught her breath. The Iron Bull hollered, roared, and it drew the dragon's ire. Sera had run for higher ground on the rocks, dipping the tips of her arrows in vicious and vile-smelling poisons. Alongside all that, Dorian had—
Dorian had been abruptly forced to switch targets. From the dragon itself, that now grappled with the Iron Bull, to little drakes and hatchlings starting to appear out of the stonework. Dozens of them, the Frostback's brood, spitting and snapping and biting with sharp teeth. They should have expected that they would come to the defense of the nest.
Numerous they may have been, but they didn’t have their mother’s strength; Lavellan could end them with a few quick and decisive swings, keeping them from her ankles with her shield that bashed them back. Into the thickly clustered groups Dorian shot lightning, and the smell of their bodies practically burned the hair in Lavellan’s nostrils.
"Big guy needs help!" Sera hollered.
Across the way, the girl was shooting arrows at the dragon as fast as she could nock them back, her quiver running low. She wasn’t so much as a buzzing fly to her target, who only had eyes for the Iron Bull. Claws as sharp as knives slashed across his body in a blow that sent his greataxe tumbling from his hold, would have sent him flying if he were a smaller man. Even from this distance Lavellan could see the torn skin, see the blood spilling, and she broke into another run. "Bull!"
The Frostback caught her cry and pivoted to pounce; in that moment that it did, the Iron Bull didn’t race to regain his weapon. He reached out and grasped the long chain that was still dangling from the dragon’s side, held it in both hands, and yanked. Another terrible scream rocked the valley; the pointed ends of Lavellan’s grappling hook ripped away a strip of the dragon’s flesh, rained scales down on the rocks.
The pounce never came. Instead, the creature turned to scramble up the side of another cliff, climbing to the bounds of its nest as it bled.
It took a moment before they went in pursuit, the four of them downing potions of stamina and healing, getting their weapons back in hand and watching dragon hatchlings go scurrying. It was morning when they started this hunt; the sun was high in the sky now. These restoratives were not enough, exhaustion beginning to creep in, but perhaps at least they were more than the dragon had.
With heavy armor and heavy weapons, they pushed themselves up the slope to meet the dragon in its final resting place. It was waiting for them, wings tucked close to its injured body, and once they were in the enclosure of rock it came for them.
Right away Lavellan realized she’d miscalculated. It wasn’t slowed. It didn’t even move as a creature injured, coming at the four of them with teeth and claws and flame washing the ground. Rather, it moved like a creature possessed, and all of them scattered. With a sweep of its heavy tail it knocked Dorian off his feet, nearly clipped Lavellan’s ear off with its teeth.
Sera fired the last of her arrows into its side, and then reached back to her quiver in panic to realize that she was out. So instead, zig-zagging across their little arena, she dug into her pack and started mixing chemicals, shaking them up in the jar.
In the rush of this beast’s most violent death throes the battle was blurring, a series of jumps and dodges only to keep alive while they each fought this slow war of attrition. It was the size of it that did it for her. There should be nothing in this world the size of a High Dragon, much less something moving. As if to keep herself from having to look at it, Lavellan tried to keep underneath it, tried to jab her sword at the softer underbelly, but all that occurred was the monster deciding she was more of a threat.
She raised her shield to block a swipe from large claws and was taken right off her feet. The next thing she knew, the dragon loomed before her, snarling. Feet pressed back in preparation to pounce once more, to charge, or perhaps to simply crush her.
Something smashed into the dragon’s head. Glass shattering, it was Sera’s formula. Bright light burst as the concoction exploded, had even Lavellan seeing spots and the dragon shaking its head madly.
Then it charged, anyway.
As the creature bore down upon her, Lavellan held up her sword and let it drive deep into its head.
Something sparked on the other side and seared her fingertips—lightning? Something made a terrible noise, another scream? All she could feel was the vibrations in her hands as the sword knocked against bone, pushed through flesh, the speed of her attacker bringing the blade hilt-deep. The heavy weight of the head pushed on her, pinned her to the ground, and the beast began to spasm as it died.
Then it lay still, quiet. Though Lavellan’s ears were still ringing. Had been ringing the whole time.
Lavellan lay still for almost a minute, breaths coming in quick and shallow, her vision wide, with a dragon’s dead head pinning her body.
The sky was sunny above them, only a handful of white clouds. Whatever noise there was out here in the Ferelden wilderness—even Sera, whooping and hollering their victory—felt like silence now. Still Lavellan trembled. Her teeth chattered. She almost couldn’t get her hands to let go of the sword hilt to start pushing her way out from under the massive weight.
Once she was free of it, only then did she try to retrieve the sword. Collapsing on her knees, she pulled and pulled until it was loose, and leaned heavily against the dragon head trying to catch her breath from that alone.
The now-unseeing eyes were so small, relative to the large head. That wasn’t anything, but it was something, Lavellan thought, staring at those eyes while she rested her cheek against the dragon’s snout. Small little eyes, large teeth, large claws, a mother with children by the dozens all dead or fled. A monster, an animal that fought its fiercest up until the very last moment.
And it was, like the Iron Bull said, it was beautiful. Beautiful and horrible. It—she.
No one at home will ever believe I did this, Lavellan thought.
No one at home will ever believe that this is me.
After a few seconds Lavellan staggered back to her feet and dug into her pack for her supplies. Her ears were picking up her companions’ voices again, but she was not finished yet. Expelling breath, she planted the point of her sword against the dragon’s neck and punctured the ravaged underside. Leveraging against the massive carcass, she was sawing through skin and scales, watching the warm blood drip down her blade. Dripping into bottles she’d been promised were enchanted to keep it from spoiling (she probably didn’t need much, but one couldn’t be overcautious.)
"You know," she grunted as she collected, seeing the Iron Bull and Sera sidling up behind her out of the corner of her eye. The former was bleeding again—wounds closed by elfroot had reopened—but he moved as if he didn't notice. "It’s kind of like my master hunt before I got my vallaslin. Find your quarry, take it down, take a trophy…"
"Put blood in your face," Sera said with a scrunched up nose, sticking out her tongue.
Lavellan’s face felt hot. "M-my vallaslin wasn’t made with deer’s blood."
"Hey, don’t make a difference to me if you want to drink that piss or put it in your skin or whatever," said Sera with a giggle, elbowing Lavellan and nearly causing her to fumble her grip. Her face was flushed as well, her straw-like hair sticking to her scalp from sweat. "We got to take down a dragon! Never gets old, that!"
"I wasn’t asking for your—yes, it was—it was something," Lavellan wheezed. She had enough by now, she was sure; she took the sword out and planted it in the ground with a second gasp, her arm muscles on fire and her heart racing for dear life from the single motion.
The Iron Bull was laughing now, thumping Sera on the back as he also crowed about their kill today. Dorian was somewhere in the distance, checking his reflection in one of the pools of water. If Lavellan didn’t know better she would have thought that it was vanity, his checking to make sure his hair and clothes hadn’t been singed. But since she did know better, knew why his appearance being "kempt" was of importance for the near future, she just hoped that he hadn’t been singed either.
Lavellan had been singed.
She’d been on fire a lot. Just for a second at a time but it was in her nostrils, the trim of her clothes smelling faintly of smoke, her armor blackened where the flames licked the surface. She stood there with her hands and her arms coated in warm, sticky blood—up to her elbows—with a thousand scratches and fractures, a thousand pains that crept up in pins and needles.
Her vision wide enough to encompass the valley and its charred remains. It wasn’t going to stop any time soon.
"Send a message to the campsite," she said; who she was commanding, she didn’t know or care. "The rest of this dragon shouldn’t go to waste."
Dorian was coming back. All was well; magical shem, he’d not gotten even a speck of mud on him, as usual.
Lavellan was sitting on the ground outside the tavern when Dorian finally exited, her hands clasped together and legs crossed such that it took her a moment to get back on her feet. She took one look at Dorian, and he must have looked about as drained and disturbed as he felt, because the first thing out of her mouth was, "Are you alright?"
He heaved a sigh before he said anything. "First let’s put some distance between us and this place, shall we?" Tense at the idea that his father would be coming out of these doors after him and make everything even more awkward than it already was. Though given the lengths his father had gone to keep this all hushed up already, he suspected there was some back entrance that would be seeing use instead.
But nonetheless Lavellan walked with him, quiet initially as they crossed over the village square. If there was one thing that he could count on with her, it was that she kept most of her thoughts to herself. Although what those thoughts were at the moment, given the little tableau of family drama that he had just engaged in, he didn’t like to speculate.
"Inquisitor. What you saw in there…" He spoke up first once they were far enough, the statue commemorating the Hero of Ferelden far behind their back. Lavellan kept her eyes on him, giving him her attention, but she did not yet respond. "Between my father and I. I know it’s not the kind of dirty laundry one wants to air to their direct superior."
A part of him stayed tensed in apprehension, waiting for the probing questions. For her to interrogate exactly what his father had tried to subject him to, what footing they were on now. A small part of him even wondered if she was waiting to say that he’d patched things up and he would be returning to Tevinter. That Skyhold’s gate would never again darken under the shadow of a mage from the country that conquered her people.
But Lavellan did not say any of this. She only offered Dorian a wan smile. "I’m sorry. I probably wouldn’t have been your first pick to see you getting into an argument like that."
He frowned at the overcast sky above. "I’m not sure there is a first pick for that sort of thing. Maker, it’s not a conversation I wanted to have at all."
Though perhaps a necessary one, all told.
"I just can’t imagine what you must think of me after that," Dorian finished.
Lavellan sucked in her cheeks.
"I don’t know what I think of you, Ser Pavus. I don’t know you very well, however highly Lucas speaks of you," she said as they passed through Redcliffe’s gates. "But this—this trouble with your father.
"I know how—" Something caught, cut off, and she cleared her throat. "I think you were brave to come. And I think you were brave to stay." The last Lavellan added with a turn of her head back in the direction of the village.
Dorian swallowed. "In that vein, thank you for bringing me here. Thank you for telling me. This wasn’t what I expected, but it was… " His mind windmilled. "... Something."
Lavellan was silent for a moment on the dirt path. Staring at the fading light dappled through Ferelden tree leaves, before finally saying, "You’re welcome, Dorian."
It was only later, in the dark of their wretched little campsite that evening, that he had even started to get the most disparate of his thoughts in order.
After tonight it was back to Skyhold, where their Inquisitor would incessantly wait for news about Solas and he would—well. Do what passed for research in that pitiful excuse for a library there.
Dorian was returning from the dispatch (his father was well on his way back to Tevinter, thank the Maker) when he spotted the Iron Bull sitting before the fire. He had his bad leg up, nursing the deep gashes across his torso from where the dragon of that morning had, as he put it later, "gotten her hits in".
"Ah, there you are," Dorian announced himself as he approached; he had a small pot in hand, given him by one of the surgeons that accompanied them on their expedition into the Hinterlands. "I’ve got something for you."
"Hrm?"
When Bull looked up, Dorian dangled the pot in front of his face, before sitting beside him with it. "A healing poultice. Some nasty elfroot concoction, I'm told it has a longer-term effect than the potions. While being less addictive."
The Iron Bull snorted, though in a way that sounded more amused than irritated. "I know what a poultice is. You're really new to field medicine, aren't you?"
"If you don't want it, I'm sure someone else in our party can use it," Dorian replied as he unscrewed the top. Oh, Maker, it smelled like mint and garlic.
"Nah. Thanks for the gesture; hand it over."
Out of the corner of his eye Dorian watched him apply the spread like an ointment onto his new bandages, feeling the awkward silence reign as he sat there trying not to stare at those broad shoulders.
…During the fight with that dragon, the Iron Bull had been so exhilarated, so triumphant even after the fact, when he was almost comically beaten to a pulp by the creature he so admired. He moved a bit more gingerly now in the dead of night, now that his injuries had a chance to settle in. Dorian had himself survived with only a few minor bites and scratches, but he wasn't throwing himself into the thick of it.
"Do you need… assistance?" he ventured once the bandages were all practically stinking of the poultice, raising an eyebrow.
Bull almost looked surprised when he glanced back his way, though it was harder to tell on a man with an eyepatch. "Ah? Yeah, appreciated."
"Well, after all, you did make for such an effective shield in that battle," said Dorian as he stood and started to apply the bandages to that large torso. New to field medicine, please . He was picking up skills left and right.
Bull chuckled, but paused. "Speaking of battles… You and the Inquisitor were a while at Redcliffe. You didn't seem in too good of a shape after you got back."
Dorian chuckled bitterly. "I didn't, did I?" A sigh. "Only father issues. Nothing a Qunari would ever have to concern himself with."
And that was unworthy of him, but the Iron Bull just batted back, "I know family issues are rough, whether it’s your father or your Tamassran. Being burnt out? Having to leave behind everything you knew and start over in a country that hates you? I know something about that."
For just a moment Dorian’s fingers lingered, and he expelled a breath that had been stuck in his chest. Then he went back to helping, like he actually should be doing. "Yes, yes. Not quite the same th… I’ll be alright." And then, because uncomfortably that didn’t feel like enough, he added, "It hardly compares to fighting a dragon, anyway. Looking your father in the eye, hearing him make excuses, and not being sure if you’ll ever be able to forgive him, or if you should."
Oh, perhaps that was too much.
"Takes a strong man to do both," said Bull.
Dorian didn’t know what to say to that, his throat constricted and his tongue heavy, so he finished binding their Qunari companion’s wounds in silence. Once he’d finished and stepped back, uttering a brisk, "There we are," he watched as Bull flexed experimentally, turning back to him with a smile.
"Hey, that’s pretty good, thanks." He stood, barely even a flinch. "Guess you’ve picked up something after all."
"Like a disease," Dorian drawled. And then, "You’re welcome, Bull."
Only just visible in the moonlight, their Inquisitor Lavellan sat on the other side of camp. Perched on a log, stubbornly tending to her armor. Her brows down in concentration, her hands trembling. Preparing to hide in her tent for the rest of the night once she was finished, he wagered.
What a group they all were. This country was doomed.
She was tired of the close calls. She was tired of the struggling. She was tired of the feeling sick after, of the dread that filled her bones between battles, the energy that she had no idea where to put it. She’d gotten tired of never hitting hard enough, of demons that got the better of her, of insurmountable monsters and nightmares and friends chatting around the campfire she couldn’t bring herself to join. She’d conquered a dragon, and on some days not even that had been enough.
Their one hope rested on a little boy who didn’t understand anything and could perish on a whim. The entire Inquisition, meanwhile, rested on her, who had never planned to take it on her shoulders to begin with. Her vision flickered and muted even as it widened, like she couldn’t get enough light in no matter how far open she pulled her eyes, the sparkling arcane tower of mages rendered in dull colors.
Lavellan took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. Lucas’ trick, or rather, the Iron Bull’s. Her eyes focused on the bottle that glittered darkly in the light and waited for her, blood that sat suspended, not breaking. If she’d gasped it down during that first fight, might that have been easier than this?
If more likely to drive her mad.
It was ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous, Liora. A single bottle won't drive her mad.
She straightened, took it in hand. She twisted the cap, opened up the lid on the top. Then with one more deep, held breath, she tilted her head back, eyes closed, and drank the contents in a single gulp.
Creators guide me.
She didn’t expect the kick. It didn’t taste like blood—not the rusty bitterness of broken skin in her mouth or an enemy’s slam into her teeth. Rather, the taste was swallowed entirely by its energy; it was like a burning fury rushing into her throat, snapping through her body as it made its way through. Lavellan slammed to the floor, knocking the desk on the way down, coughing while she held her pulsing throat—trembling as vibrancy flooded her senses.
"Liora?" A small clatter sounded out behind her, where Solas put down his paint supplies and rushed to her side.
Lavellan snatched the edge of the table with her arm and started to pull herself up, still coughing and then swallowing in an alternating measure. Her throat and chest burned, but it wasn’t the kind of burn one got from alcohol, or even a bitter potion. The fire was moving, was shifting inside her; every cell it touched, it left awash with its flame. She trembled in her fingers, her shoulders.
Vaguely she knew Solas’ body was beside hers, his touch trying to help her upright. "I…" she gasped.
"You swallowed all of it?" He took the bottle from the death-grip she’d previously held it with, peering inside, himself, to see not a drop of the concoction remained.
She pressed her palms flat against the desk, coughing and clearing her throat as her head pounded back to reality. "I… by An-Andruil, I…"
"Perhaps you should sit."
"No." He tried to guide her to his chair, and Lavellan pulled from his hold. He wasn’t exactly taking her in a death grip, but the suddenness of her own body still startled her, as well as him. She smiled weakly. "Sorry, don’t–don’t tell anyone I reacted like that. It's ridiculous. I’m alright."
Solas frowned, searching her face. "Are you certain?"
"I just didn’t think it would feel al, alive."
For the taste was a pulse on her tongue, hot rushing in her throat and veins. Unbearable in the first instant, dizzying now. If even these sensations were diluted by coming from a philter, what sweet agony it must be to drink it from the source.
Solas still looked worried. But the light-headedness, at least, was passing on her end. Lavellan shook it off as best she could as she spread out her hands, showing him how the shaking had stopped. "But I’m alright. I swear. Uh, how do I look?"
"...You look the same, lethallan." His concern seemed to soothe, and he leaned in and gave her a kiss, quick and light. Then he paused after, thoughtfully licking his lips. "Although you do happen to taste of rust."
Lavellan's face grew hot. "That will clear up soon."
There you go, she told herself as his smile followed her, her body light with relief. There you go, you did it. It wasn't that bad. You don't have to do it again. It wasn't that bad.
Not mad yet.
"... Um. Where were we?"
"Oh, hey boss—hrnh."
Apparently this was one of the rare occasions that the Inquisitor dropped by the Maiden’s Rest. Dorian was just about finished with his ale and contemplating another—with his own money this time—when she stepped inside, making a beeline to greet The Iron Bull. It was never her way to sample the food and drink here; Lavellan was only ever there to make conversation with those in the Inner Circle who frequented the tavern.
It didn't go the usual route today. "... B-bull?"
He was sitting upright, more alert than he was a moment ago, his eyes narrowed. Their Inquisitor Lavellan looked like she might turn and run, or at least break out in a sweat, watching him—until he suddenly relaxed again. "Sorry," he said. "You got some kind of new perfume or something?"
"N–what?"
Dorian was wearing perfume. Not a thought he particularly meant anything by, but he was. Was deeply intrigued by the fact that this was not a common practice anywhere in the South except for Orlais. And to the point, no, he couldn’t smell that anything had changed about Lavellan himself, scent-wise, at least not in the brief moment she’d passed by him.
"I don’t want to sound weird," said the Iron Bull, in the meantime. "But you smell really good today."
Dorian frowned at nothing; his drink, he left unfinished.
Then whatever else passed between Lavellan and the Iron Bull was drowned in the sound of that insufferable Mabari, Pawswin barking and yapping his head off as he charged back downstairs to their startled Inquisitor. Apparently, Bull wasn't the only one who caught her scent.