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For one who ran from his entire legacy and inheritance, Dorian acclimates to his role as a Magister very well. He influences those in the Magisterium that would be his allies, and wears the mantle of power as if it is a familiar cloak.
When Hadiza arrives at the Pavus estate, she has already been pummeled with the archaic majesty of the Imperium. She has read about it in books, has studied its legacy in dusty tomes in poorly lit reading chambers, and has only just tasted its thirst for blood, and felt the presence of a power that for all the Chantry’s glorification of its defeat, has not waned in her eyes.
The stairs leading into House Pavus are wide, carved from the very stone upon which Minrathous sits. Colossal statues of House Pavus’ founding ancestors stand erect and austere, holding aloft the globe of an astrarium. Hadiza adjusts her pack on her shoulder and continues the climb. She knows how she looks: road-weary, covered in dust, smelling of foreign soil and sea, and nothing like a daughter of House Trevelyan and House Fayé.
She is halted at the front doors, which remain adamantly shut. The entire estate looks like a prison to her. It is nothing like the white-domed architecture of Ostwick, or the colorful mosaic-tiled walls of Zazzau. Hadiza is too tired to remember Samson’s description of Kirkwall, but it is what she thinks about the longer she lingers here.
“I’m here to see Magister Dorian Pavus,” Hadiza says, surprised at her own voice, which sounds as if her throat is made of sand, “he’s expecting me.”
Behind the visor of their helmets, the guards’ eyes narrow in unison. Hadiza takes stock of their weaponry: halberds, wickedly spired and gleaming in the afternoon light. She flexes her false hand instinctively, and begins to calculate how long it will take to dispatch them.
The doors open before she can finish, however, and she blinks as Dorian stands in at the ingress, looking supremely amused.
“I see nothing’s changed, near-cousin,” he says, smiling until the corners of his eyes crinkle with cruel mirth, “the dust from the road can’t dim your beauty.”
Hadiza laughs tiredly.
“Shut up, you liar.” She says, noting the guards have now bowed their heads. Dorian opens his arms, and welcomes Hadiza with a hug.
“You were always so good at getting to the truth of things.” He says, holding her at arm’s length. “You smell like you’ve been walked on. When I invited you over I thought you’d at least bathe, first.”
Hadiza wrinkles her nose.
“I was hard-pressed to stop when you contacted me. Aside, I’m not that filthy, am I?” She knows it for a lie. She’s got grit in places she wants badly to rinse with fresh water. She longs for her bath in Skyhold, the oils, the soap cakes, the feeling of absolute cleanliness.
Dorian fixes Hadiza with an arch look. She sighs.
“Please tell me you’ve a guest room prepared. With a very large bath.” Hadiza murmurs, her tone plaintive. Dorian smiles.
“I think you’ll find if we Tevenes excel at anything, it is excess and luxury.” He says proudly, leading away. Hadiza is too tired to take in the interior of the place, but she notes that the atmosphere feels heavy on her skin, like a bruise. Everything about the Pavus estate is a reflection of their power and influence, a reflection of the Imperium’s heart. Hadiza just wants a bed and a bath.
“How have you been enjoying Minrathous?” Dorian asks, “I suppose you found the university to your liking?” He shoots Hadiza sidelong glance.
“You know me too well, Dorian,” Hadiza says, “I did get a chance to visit the university. The library was…intimidating. I’d need the rest of my life if I want to study it properly.”
“Three lifetimes, actually,” Dorian corrects, “the private and rarities collection is about the same size.”
Hadiza brightens at the thought. The thought that there might be books on magic she’s never read before makes her forget the need for a bath momentarily. But she remembers why she is here, and pushes her excitement aside. Dorian stops in front of a door. It gleams black, the wood carved in intricate designs depicting spirits of the Void being beaten back by a mage, likely an ancestor. Hadiza ignores the macabre imagery and opens the door. She sighs.
The bedchamber is immense, lavish as she is accustomed to. Yet she does not feel the relief that she knows she should at the end of a long, arduous journey. Instead, there is a waning grayness, a flat expanse of nothingness, empty. She feels as if she is standing in the Fade. The lavish appointments, the sharp and wicked accoutrements of her chambers, do nothing.
Dorian leaves her to her own devices, shutting the door. It is soundless on its hinges, a soft snick and Hadiza is alone in a foreign land, in a home that is not hers.
“A bath.” She breathes into the waiting emptiness, “A bath, and then we think.”
She stumbles when she remembers it is no longer we but I. Beneath her jerkin, the steel bird is warm against her skin. She shuts her eyes and breathes deep. She wants to call Dorian back, ask how to summon the servants, but is startled when she finds the bathing chamber, and that she is not alone after all.
The girl is dressed elegantly, befitting a servant of House Pavus, but there is a hushed and subdued quality about her, and when Hadiza speaks, the girl lowers into a reverent bow.
“I’m sorry,” Hadiza says, “who are you?” She keeps her eyes on the girl, whose eyes stay rooted to the gold-veined marble floor beneath their feet.
“Celia, mistress.” She says in a breathy voice, “I was assigned to see to your needs during your stay here in House Pavus.”
Hadiza blinks, sees the gold earrings on the girl are trembling. She’s afraid. Hadiza sighs, remembering. This is Tevinter.
“Right. Right.” She breathes, “Alright. Well, if you’d be so kind, could you draw me a bath? And…” She thinks to herself, “How do I summon you if I need you?”
The girl hesitates.
“There is a bell on your bedside table, mistress.” She says. Hadiza’s brow furrows.
“That makes no sense,” she mutters, “I never understood…alright. A bell. Just draw me a bath, Celia.”
The girl moves with alacrity, at least. Hadiza retreats to the bedchamber and slowly begins stripping out of her clothes. Straps and buckles come undone, and her false arm goes limp as she disengages with the lyrium core, the glowing veins dimming as she sets the arm on the bedside table, next to the bell. Hadiza recognizes runing in the metal and wonders at their purpose.
The bath is sumptuous, Hadiza can’t argue that. Celia insists on remaining behind a screen in the bathing chamber, but Hadiza scoffs, sends her instead to tend to something else.
She wants to be alone. She wants to remember what being alone feels like, because if she isn’t, she will never be able to bear these moments. How long has it been since she’s leans against the cold wall of a tub instead of the warmth of another body?
She doesn’t want to count the days…the year that has gone by. Instead, she submerges herself in the water, opening her eyes to stare at the world as it ripples. She imagines she is trapped, that the rippling, golden world beyond is unreal, that she will rise and break the surface, renewed, cleansed of her grief, purged of the perfidious roots his death has left in her soul.
Or better, to find that he is not dead at all. That his ashes are not scattered to the sea. Hadiza marvels at the wildness of grief, how it twists the truth of the world around her.
Her lungs burn, and the pressure around her is persistent and pronounced. She longs to take a breath. She wonders what it will feel like; imagines the water rushing down the cavern of her throat, filling her lungs. She has seen drown victims before, and has been told it is painless when one doesn’t struggle.
Like falling asleep.
Hadiza wants to sleep most days, wants to sleep forever.
She shuts her eyes against the rippling world of soft, golden light, and can already hear him chastising her for losing her courage.
And so she floats up, and emerges, opening her mouth to breathe in the cool air. The world seems brighter, and eerily sharp and still. She slicks back her hair, drawing her knees to her chest.
And then she begins to cry.
Dorian treats Hadiza to the finest Tevinter cuisine his cooks can whip up. Knowing her love for sweets is unparalleled, he has the chef craft a batch dessert balls made entirely of cheese and clotted cream. Hadiza does not glance at them save but once, even as she eats with a prodigious appetite. Dorian watches, amused.
“I see your stomach remains undaunted by the rigors of rough living on the road.” He teases, “Perhaps I should have had a larger helping brought out?”
Hadiza stares at him, a mouth full of leavened bread and spiced lamb. She chews, then swallows, washing down the bite with the chilled wine from her goblet.
“Have you forgotten already, Magister?” She asks, though the humor is half-hearted, “Going without the accoutrements of our class makes for a sharp spice to the appetite. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten anything but salted and sun-dried druffalo meat, and millet balls.”
Dorian laughs. “That’s positively savage, Hadiza. You should have contacted me sooner. Where have you been staying?”
Hadiza smiles. “With a friend.” Is all she gives him. Dorian fixes her with that shrewd look, and Hadiza feels all those afternoon teas with Vivienne have prepared her for this moment. Still, the remarkable gift of Dorian’s intuition is to pull out the truth one does not expect.
“Do you want to discuss it?” He asks. Hadiza drops her fork, pushing away from the table.
“I’m sorry,” Dorian says quickly as Hadiza rises from her seat, “Hadiza, please. Sit.”
She stares at him, reluctant. Dorian’s face is soft, his eyes open and honest. She sits slowly.
“I’ll not pry into the nature of this friend of yours,” he says, “but…when is the last time you went home?”
Hadiza stare at her plate. The chickpeas are bunched in one quadrant, and she imagines them as an army marching across the plain of rice. Anything to distract from the answer to his question.
“What of your students?” Dorian asks softly. Hadiza swallows.
“They are well taken care of,” she says roughly, reaching for her wine to drown the tightness in her throat, “and I go home enough that the dust doesn’t collect on my things, if you must know.”
Dorian tilts his head.
“You have been in Minrathous for almost a full year, Hadiza.”
Hadiza glances up at him sharply.
“You were spying.” She says, her voice hard. Dorian leans back, as casual and sleek as a jungle cat.
“I am trying to ensure your safety. Tevinter is a different beast–an older beast–than Orlais. Minrathous is a city that hides assassins and spies in its alley-ridden heart. When you arrived, I was alerted. I had to ensure you weren’t followed.”
Hadiza swallows hard, torn between anger and relief. Anger that her friend would do this, relief that he cared enough to do it at all.
“So you know.” She says softly. Dorian nods.
“I’m not going to tell you how to grieve, Hadiza,” he says softly, “or with whom. But you should have contacted me sooner.”
“I can’t go home,” Hadiza says, “I have a mission.”
“And that mission will fail if you don’t give yourself time to recover.” Dorian says, “Did you not give me this self-same advice some years ago?”
Hadiza sinks in her chair.
“I hate when you throw my own words back at me.” She mutters. Dorian smiles.
“Serves you right.” He says warmly, “But Solas said it would be some years before anything happens.”
Hadiza laughs derisively. “And since when did we start believing anything Solas says? He lied about everything. Who is to say he didn’t tell us that to lure us into a false sense of security?”
Dorian sighs.
“We’ve found nothing since then. Nothing. In the seven years since the incident with the eluvians, there’s been no word, not a breath, not a whisper. It’s as if he’s vanished.”
Hadiza runs her hands over her face.
“And what of the somniari? What have they found? Solas was practically married to the Fade the way he went on about it…surely the Dreamers have found something?”
Dorian is quiet.
“The somniari…” He says slowly, “the ones willing to search, that is. They are all dead.”
Hadiza freezes.
“What?” The word sounds as if it has been yanked from her throat and torn to shreds mere inches from her lips. Dorian’s face is saddened, but whether it’s from the loss of the gifted mages or from the fact that Solas is in fact more than they could ever bargain for, Hadiza cannot say.
“Feynriel,” Hadiza’s voice rises in panic, “is he…?”
“He’s alive.” Dorian says. “He’s fine. In fact, I told him it would be prudent if he stayed in Rivain.” He watches as Hadiza sinks further, this time with relief. She sits up, and resumes eating.
“Go home, Hadiza.” Dorian says, “You have to face it eventually.”
Hadiza laughs.
“I don’t have to face anything, Dorian. My home is fine, my students are fine, but I’m going to find Solas and tear his damned heart out.”
Dorian laughs.
“I see your late husband’s influence on you has stood you in good stead.”