Chapter Text
Dorian felt like he was falling.
A few sips of his favorite brandy—the one Alexius had introduced him to—then a glance at the flask, the everite bottle worked with different dragons and snakes and, of course, the Pavus family crest. And that was it. All his self-control was gone, and suddenly he was drowning in the vortex of memories that wouldn’t leave him in peace. The feelings kept coming, so fierce and painful he couldn’t breathe.
“You are not my son, get out of here!”
“Have you heard? Halward’s son doesn’t want to marry. A disgrace. He should’ve thought better before dragging their name through the mud like that. So many generations wasted.”
“I should never have welcomed you into my house, into my family! I lost everything!!!”
The memories stabbed into him with such deep pain it spread through his chest, stealing his breath, making him dizzy. He kept his eyes shut, pressing his hands against his face, trying to steady his breathing, sick from the sudden vertigo seizing his body.
He didn’t feel the tears falling, not until the smell of burnt hair filled his nostrils. He opened his eyes, breathing slowly again, the pain ebbing for a moment, vision blurry, smoke curling from a few strands of hair in his palm. He had the terrible habit of messing up his perfectly styled hair when he grew anxious. And nearly setting it on fire, depending on the level of stress. At least it intensified his rebellious charm.
But everything grew a hundred times worse when the Inquisitor entered the tent and saw him in that state. Only then did he remember where he was. Damn this simplistic South and its shared accommodations.
After eight days in the Hinterlands—escorting druffalos, helping poor farmers with their disgusting chores, and even stopping to collect strange glittering shards revealed by skulls studded with gems in their eye sockets (those, at least, he admitted were interesting)—Trevelyan dismissed the route back to Skyhold and pressed northward.
The Inquisitor asked Blackwall and Cole to escort the caravan back to the fortress with supplies and news, while another convoy would bring Cassandra and Sera. Dorian hadn’t commented (yet), but he knew why the change. The stench and rudeness of the Warden, combined with the spirit’s strangeness, were too much to bear for more than a week.
Though he had planned to resume charming the Inquisitor as soon as they arrived at their destination and were finally alone, the women dismounted earlier, at the damned Storm Coast. Ugh. Just the sound of the sea already made him nauseous.
That place was particularly detestable. It rained. For. Entire. Days.
Why in the world did people live there????
And it only got worse. The terrain was rougher than in the Hinterlands, and the rain made it nearly impossible for him to move in his robes—even though they were waterproof—not to mention it smudged the perfect kohl lining his eyes. That alone was enough to make the Inquisitor treat him constantly like some damsel in distress. Checking if he was cold, helping him up slopes, even once holding a shield over him so he’d get less wet. All of it accompanied by Sera’s mocking laughter. It was infuriating. At least Cassandra seemed just as displeased.
Even though he felt like shooting lightning at Trevelyan every five minutes for all that chivalrous gentleness, Dorian found himself saying thank you more often than at any other time in his life. The fact that he could relax around the man after only a few days bothered him. He knew he would slip eventually.
And he did.
After another week of coastal duties, after dinner, when everyone had retired, Dorian sat against the tent pole, one knee drawn up, his forearm draped over it, the flask dangling from his trembling hand as he sobbed, trying in vain to calm the torrent of emotions seizing him. The Inquisitor walked in on him and surely noticed the miserable figure he made.
The mage immediately turned away, hiding his face, kneeling before his belongings, pretending to organize them while discreetly wiping tears and breathing deeply to regain control. He hoped desperately that the sound of rain would mask his sniffles.
Trevelyan didn’t say a word. He simply sat with his back to him, and Dorian could hear him removing soaked boots and cloak, hanging them on the improvised line inside the small space. That was worse than any annoyingly optimistic comment.
When the silence stretched, Dorian snapped. “Trying to catch a cold, walking out in the rain at this hour? You do realize they won’t give you a day off for that.” His voice came out less steady than intended, but at least it wasn’t shrill.
“Hm.” A brief chuckle was the warrior’s only reply.
Good. At least they weren’t going to talk about that ridiculous display of emotion in front of a near-stranger. The Tevinter decided that trying to sleep was the best option after that.
“Dorian.”
“Festis bei umo canavarum…”
“…What???”
“Yes, Inquisitor?”
He answered without turning, and soon felt a touch on his arm. It would be rude not to face him now.
He closed his eyes for a moment, bracing himself, then turned his head slightly—and the look he found froze him.
It was something only Connor Trevelyan had. He radiated an honesty so tangible, so real, it was almost inconceivable. It made his heart race. He didn’t like it.
“Do you want to talk?”
For a moment, he truly considered it. But they had been traveling together only two weeks. He would not bare his soul to someone he barely knew.
“As tempting as your offer is, I’d rather sleep. The Fade will surely be less cold than this hole.”
He began to lie down, turning on his side, though the gentle grip on his arm didn’t let go. Dorian looked at him again, raising his brows.
If it had been any other man, the mage would’ve thought The Inquisitor was after something. But he wasn’t. That was the problem. He didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to speak to him while this vulnerable.
He considered averting his eyes but refused. That would be worse. Dorian wasn’t a coward. And at least he could distract himself with that beautiful bronze-colored face, strong yet delicate features, full well-shaped lips now turned down with concern. Connor Trevelyan truly cared for his people. He was a dedicated leader, Dorian would admit that.
After a brief pause that felt eternal, the Inquisitor took a deep breath, opened his mouth as if to deliver a speech—but only sighed out an “Alright” before releasing Dorian’s arm, though reluctantly.
The mage lay on his side, his back to Trevelyan, but he could still feel those amber-flecked irises watching him in the torchlight, as if peering into his soul, even through his eyelids.
“You’re not alone.”
Kaffas.
Dorian cursed the Inquisitor in his head for being so gentle just as the tears began to flow again, until at last he fell asleep.
---
“Blessed are those who stand before—”
The dull thud of something hitting the ground repeatedly, accompanied by a whisper, made Dorian crack an eye open. Even the faint light seeping through the tent flaps bothered him. He tried to fall back asleep, but that familiar voice disturbed his rest again.
“…the corrupt and the wicked, and do not falter.” A soft exhale.
Blinking hard, slowly, a scene formed before him so alluring he was sure he was still in the Fade.
“Blessed are the peacemakers, the champions of the just.” Another exhale.
He squinted, testing if the vision would vanish, but couldn’t be sure he was fully awake. He was still drowsy, and a little drunk from the night before.
The vision did not vanish.
What a splendid gift.
“Blessed are the righteous, the Light in the shadow.”
He watched Connor Trevelyan, magnificent in his southern simplicity, with that dazzling body, flexing and stretching his muscles—sit-ups, stretches, those infuriating push-ups with claps—while reciting the Chant, shirtless, showing off his copper-toned skin, sculpted muscles, and that marvelous chiseled jaw. Thick, wavy strands of dark brown hair fell loose from a messy morning knot, brushing his face without breaking his focus, making him the sexiest man in all Thedas. That private show would stay in memory.
Stretching his back and arms at the end of the sequence, kneeling, the warrior bowed his head and, after a deep breath, spoke the last words of his prayer. “In their blood, the will of the Maker is written.”
Dorian had turned onto his side, head propped on his hand, a small smile curling his lips, parted in fascination. He was well aware he might be drooling after seeing that. Not that he cared if anyone noticed. He never hid his interest in any man. That wasn’t his style.
As if finally aware of the indecent stare, Trevelyan’s reddish-brown eyes found the mage. He didn’t look remotely uncomfortable with an audience. In fact, his gaze held concern for Dorian.
“Ah, did I wake you today? Sorry. Are you feeling better?”
Dorian waved him off. “No need to apologize, let alone worry, oh no. Not after such a glorious performance. A divine vision, I’d say.” He kept his suggestive tone, as well as his gaze.
“…Ah…”
The sight of that powerful man looking away, blushing, fiddling with his fingers resting on his strong thighs, trying to focus elsewhere, was utterly adorable.
After the humiliation of the previous night, Dorian relished being in control again. Teasing and flustering the benevolent Inquisitor had become a very pleasant pastime.
He wondered what reaction he would get if he closed the distance between them. Would the Mighty Inquisitor remain pure and innocent? Or turn into the fierce warrior that roared to life on the battlefield?
When the Tevinter stayed silent, eyes never leaving the Inquisitor, with a seductive smile clearly spelling his intentions, the warrior turned aside, clearing his throat.
“I—I need to get dressed.” He stammered, still flustered.
Trevelyan used the bucket and soap nearby to scoop water into his hands and wash his face, arms, and chest, preparing for the day.
By the Maker.
Time seemed to slow at the sight. Dorian’s eyes glimmered as the man’s bronze skin shone in the sunlight, droplets tracing the fine lines of his muscles—not too large, but firm and strong. They beckoned to be touched, licked, until the warrior’s long fingers trembled, fists clenched, eyelids fluttering, breath ragged, begging for release.
With each day they traveled together, he longed more for an excuse to touch those majestic shoulders, to feel those broad, slightly full lips against his, those long bronze arms around his body.
The Inquisitor was likely ten centimeters taller than Dorian, a little broader, much stronger. Despite his imposing appearance and title, most of the time he seemed completely lost, his eyes darting straight to Cassandra or Cullen, silently begging for guidance. But when someone was in danger… he was commanding and resolute.
That duality intrigued Dorian, and he liked the idea of not being the one in control for once. Though not the first time, of course.
Even before the first drops of water fell from Trevelyan’s body to the tent floor, Dorian had turned away. To keep staring at that man like a mabari salivating for a slab of meat wouldn’t get him what he wanted. Quite the opposite. That blasted Andrastian would probably think he was planning a blood sacrifice.
Surprisingly, that image of The Inquisitor was fading quickly. Yes, he was Andrastian, southern, a bit dim-witted, and sometimes acted like a Templar. And yet… he never looked at Dorian like he was about to burst into flames, unlike nearly every southerner. Why???
He was always polite. Kind, even. Dorian wondered if that “friendly demeanor” was just his way of leading, his naïve personality, or both. Now that he thought about it, perhaps the man had no real leadership style. He didn’t act like someone groomed for the role. Most of the time, it looked like he hoped someone else would tell him what to do.
Ninety-nine percent a wildflower, with that one percent of a fierce warrior. What an intriguing mix. The mage thought, trying to push back the growing affection for the Inquisitor blooming inside him.
Lost in thought, Dorian propped himself on his elbows, rummaged in his bag, and pulled out the small mirror he always carried, its frame of fine black marble with carved dragons, enchanted, of course, so it wouldn’t break in fights against wild bears, Templars, bandits, Venatori, or the Maker knew what else. The world really was ending.
With a comb adorned with tiny violet gems he’d had since childhood, he fixed his hair in the typical “rebel magister” style, as Varric had once called it.
Hearing the Inquisitor starting to put on his armor, he decided to prod him a little. He needed fun somehow. “By the way, is that a regular exercise routine? Or just a special occasion? I’d love to see it more often.”
He heard the warrior’s ever-warm laugh, then tilted the mirror just so, catching the reflection of that infuriating yet charming smile as the man busied himself with tightening all those straps and buckles around his many muscles, unaware of the Tevinter spying.
“I do it every day. A habit I picked up from my middle sister—she trained all the Trevelyan house soldiers to do it. Just not reciting the Chant of Light. That part I added myself. Forces me to control my breathing and focus.”
Hm. Every day? Interesting.
Dorian slightly regretted his brandy habit before bed, which helped him fight off the cold and worries but also meant he missed the Inquisitor’s endless morning energy—already armored and breakfasted while he was still drowsy. He had lost several mornings of shirtless exercise.
Pushing aside that small lament, he used the mirror to apply a fine line of kohl around his eyes, raising his brows lightly at the Inquisitor, who now watched him handle the small brush with skill, and teased again. “I see you’re a man who enjoys a good challenge.”
The warrior shrugged, playful, reinforcing his unceremonious attitude. “Well, I *am* responsible for closing rifts, aren’t I? Can’t think of a more thrilling task.”
The Tevinter sat up, stretching languidly like a cat, then turned to the Inquisitor again with a confident smile, fully aware he looked radiant and charming with the sun shining behind him. “If you ever need even more excitement, do let me know. I could take you to Minrathous. Between the Magisterium and the qunari, you’ll never be bored.”
“As long as you’re there,” Trevelyan said casually, focused on fastening his sword belt.
The Inquisitor’s reply left Dorian speechless. He loved making the warrior blush and stammer, but whenever he flirted back… it was simply wonderful. Fair, brave, and terribly handsome. That simple man was beginning to steal a piece of Dorian’s mind.
The mage watched as the other man walked to the tent flap, pausing a moment to breathe deeply. “Here we go.”
And there it was—that noble, commanding tone the Herald used whenever he needed to project authority. Dorian secretly wished he’d impose that attitude on his body.
As he dressed, Dorian heard the Inquisitor outside. Even as he greeted subordinates, asked about the night watch, and other trivialities, his tone remained gentle, soft. As if he truly cared. About all of them.
An optimist! I stumbled across a unicorn!
Dorian laughed to himself, remembering his remark a month earlier, when he had resented the Inquisitor for not helping stop Alexius. Now that they spent nearly every moment together, he noticed the sadness shadowing him whenever the subject came up. Connor Trevelyan had truly wished he could save both Templars and mages. But that had not been an option.
“Indeed,” Dorian muttered to himself, resigned, before finishing to check his bag and staff, then leaving the tent as well.
The moment he did, a bowl was pressed into his hands, along with a sincere smile. “Good morning, Dorian.”
His lips curved upward before he could stop them. “A pleasure to see you again, Inquisitor.” He answered automatically, taking the food, the same thing as the night before. It tasted of despair, but at least he could distract himself with that wonderful man.
“Bleargh! Go back inside and get it over with already!”
The loud voice drew his attention, and Dorian was glad for something else to focus on.
“Sera!!!”
Of course, Cassandra was indignant. She would never get used to the elf. Sera was truly something else.
“What??? You want the Inky too!??” The archer turned to the warrior beside her and laughed, pointing her spoon at Cassandra as she teased her.
The Seeker’s cheeks flushed pink. “No!” she answered promptly, her voice nearly an octave higher.
Poor woman, Dorian thought. He had spent enough time with the Inquisitor to notice the man’s exclusive interest in swords, of all kinds.
“I just think you shouldn’t disrespect him,” the warrior added, crossing her arms, trying to look entirely disinterested.
The Inquisitor, painfully unaware of the woman’s hopeless crush, tried to reassure her. “I didn’t feel disrespected, but thank you for standing up for me, Cassandra.”
Dorian sat beside the warrior, who was focused on his meal, amused by the morning banter, and decided he had been quiet long enough. “May I add that sharing a bed with me is a much-coveted prize?” the mage teased, already knowing what would come next.
“No.” The Seeker answered bluntly, not even looking at him, clearly annoyed.
“Perfect.” He flashed a mocking grin and went on eating in silence—until he noticed the Inquisitor watching him, that foolish smile on his face again, before quickly looking away, lips pressing tight, with the expression of a child caught misbehaving.
Not always a wildflower.
The thought wouldn’t leave his mind.