Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cloud freckles falling. Ice lace. Cold upon his fingers. Cold. He stared at the snow as it melted on the back of his hand. Wrong. A hand clasped in his, the feel of the Fade electric against his palm. Wrong. Tangled steam winding around them, heat and energy rising in a sizzling flurry. 

“Cole!”

He turned towards the familiar shout, his borrowed name in a voice he knew so well. Rhys. Scowling and turbulent. Panting from the exertion of a run. A run. Why would be he running? Run. “No! Run!” Cole shouted, raw, and pressed his blade to Dorian’s throat. Hesitated. No. No. No. No! He shuddered as beringed fingers touched his wrist. Light. Knowing. Wrong.

“You’re mine as well,” the thing that wasn’t Dorian smiled, slick and slow. “You won’t harm a single hair on this lovely head. You know that.”

“No no no no no,” Cole trembled. “Get out, get out!”

“What’s happening?” The mage named Miranda asked, closely followed by the man with the feathers and the cat. 

“Cole?”

“It’s not him! It came through. I couldn’t protect him. I was too slow!” Cole stared at his blade pressed to that warm honey throat. Memories and histories swarmed his mind like wasps. It was Dorian but not Dorian. He was Cole but not Cole. And Aran- he couldn’t look, couldn’t move, couldn’t risk the others. He could not hurt this mage. He had to. There were too many others in danger - innocents, mage and mundane alike. He knew that- knew there was only one way.

“I’m not entirely sure what he’s talking about,” not-Dorian lifted a brow, peering at the trio of mages at the crest of the small rise. “But I wouldn’t say no to an assist.”

Rhys placed a hand on Miranda’s shoulder as she started forward. “No.”

“But-“

“Cole knows what he’s doing,” Rhys insisted. “I trust him.”

“You might,” Anders grunted, “but I don’t know him from Adam and he looks just a tad psychotic at the moment.”

“Aran?” Miranda asked.

Aran exhaled slowly, eyes half-closed, still lost in the trance of a near kiss. Or something worse.

“It’s been an emotional day for him. He’ll perk up soon enough.” Dorian tapped lightly at Cole’s wrist, “Do put that away, my boy.”

“No!” 

“No need to shout. I’m right here.”

“You aren’t- I can’t-“ Cole felt wet heat on his cheeks. Leaking. He was leaking. Why did everything hurt? No; he had to think of Rhys! And all the other mages! Everyone. Every one. Their thoughts a chorus of worry and weariness. He couldn’t allow a demon to walk among them. Not even a demon wearing a pretty face. He shook his head roughly, trying to clear it, trying to find a path through all the memories that weren’t his ! He couldn’t get inside to heal the hurt. There was no hurt left. Only decision. Pleasure. Predatory pride. For now. Until the creature behind those eyes saw something else it wanted more. Until it leapt and changed and stole another, then another life, never satisfied- “I’m sorry,” he whispered, letting his blade fall.

“Very good. Now-“ Dorian’s eyes widened as the long dirty knife pressed into his chest and through. “No!” he gasped, coughed, looking down in shock. “What have you done?”

Cole watched blood well up over a full lip he could recall kissing with perfect clarity. He never had, yet he knew that he’d loved kissing that lip. Loved its shape, even though he didn’t care for many shapes. It was like a berry. Like the sometimes moon. He knew it. He’d loved it. He’d loved. Aran swayed and slumped to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut, and Cole stumbled back as the two blonde mages raced past him, falling to their knees in the snow. “I couldn’t save him,” he wept, feeling Rhys’ arms tighten around him.

“You saved us.”

“I couldn’t save him!” It was akin to being torn apart by savage claws, dark forest, screaming wind, a flock of ravens. He shuddered. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry- I’m sorry-!”

“Come. Come with me.”

“I can’t!”

“There’s nothing we can do.” Rhys spoke quietly, calmly in his ear. There had been a time where this would have scared the mage, or made him so angry, or disappointed him. Now he had seen too much. Too much blood. Too much loss. He held onto whatever he could for as long as he could. That was all. That was enough, until more was called for. “I need to get you somewhere safe. Before there are questions we’re not ready to answer. Cole. Come with me.”

“I can’t leave them,” Cole whispered. 

“You have to.” 

I love them. His skin felt too tight, ill-fitting. Stifling. Suffocating. I love them. 

He huddled in a corner, hugging his knees, as the arguments went around and around the big table. And in private, in hushed voices, Rhys and Evangeline continued those arguments still. Words, floundering, panic, decision. He paid no mind. Hours. Days. Time passed. He went where he was told. His body felt leaden. Mechanical. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. His heart was breaking. He hadn’t known he had one. Not like this. Since he’d learned he wasn’t human, he’d imagined himself to be full of sundown light- but that wasn’t true. He was shadows and pulp, a bruised pomegranate inside living flesh. 

From time to time, Rhys or Evangeline touched his shoulder. Gentle attempts at consolation. They thought he was afraid of punishment or afraid that they would stop being his friends. He couldn’t explain. He wanted to. He’d watched them swim through the emotions he was experiencing. They’d taken them in small doses though, like potions, strengthening them for the next. 

Cole was drowning. 

What they said, what they decided, he didn’t know. All he could feel was the hot blood pouring over his hand. Not the first time nor the last, but the worst. All he could hear was the shattering animal shriek from Aran’s mouth when he’d come to for the instant before his sister-cousin-stranger pressed her fingers to his brow and sent him, reeling, back to sleep. Even in sleep, he grieved. Blood. Snow. Soil. Burned bones. Roiling seas. Flowers being torn apart. 

Wake up, he wanted to say. Let me in, he wanted to beg. But he didn’t. So Aran sat still as stone, toiling internally; his gaze empty, reflecting flames. Tranquil horror. Hours, Cole perched invisibly in the shadowed corner and listened to him scream and weep with dry eyes and a placid expression. I’m sorry, he wanted to whisper. Wanted to touch. He gnawed his own gorey fingers raw instead. 

He went to the gates when Evangeline asked him to. Standing between the high wooden posts, he watched her speak to the commander. The sunlight flashed along the soldiers’ blades. They wanted to help. They didn’t know how, but the movement helped. Helped them feel whole. Made them sturdy. Their feet hurt, but they liked the pain. An earned ache. Not like-

“Cole?”

He blinked slowly, raising his gaze to hers, “Yes?”

“I need your help.”

Cole looked at the frozen lake. Something so fragile that was so strong. A hidden deep. He nodded. He followed her past the soldiers and into the forest, stepping into a clearing near a small house. 

“Cole…” she shifted her grip on the hilt of her sword. She would kill him now. Finally. She should. “When you go inside… I need you to tell me what you feel, what you hear, what you know. Tell me; don’t act. Will you?”

“Yes,” he croaked, quiet.

“Go on then.”

The door felt strange when he touched it. It tingled. Reminding him of the coast of an island, a day on a boat where he’d lay in the sun, letting tiny fish nibble his fingertips as Aran lazily threw a string with a hook into the sea again and again and again… 

It hadn’t happened, not to him, but he remembered it as though it had. No. What had happened? What did it really feel like? The keep- Pharimond- the circle… yes, that was it. The circle that had cloaked and strapped and trapped… He bowed his head and stepped through the door when she opened it. Yes. Inside was best. In the welcome shadow. 

He found the blonde, feathered man scowling in a corner, arms crossed, glaring. The light hadn’t touched him in days. His eyes were smudged red and black with smoke and exhaustion. “I know my business,” he snapped.

“Hush.” Evangeline nudged Cole ahead. “Anything?”

The mage in the corner was angry. Distrustful. He didn’t like Evangeline at all, and liked Cole even less. It surprised him - Anders, whose true name was buried beneath a hill of ashes; he hadn’t expected to dislike anyone more than a Templar. “Working my fingers to the bone and for what,” Cole murmured. “I’ve lost patients before but never stood aside and allowed my work to be undone.” 

“And now he reads minds,” Anders scoffed. “Just wonderful.”

Only Cole wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. There was a figure on the bed in the shaded corner. Breathing. Breathing. “Breathing,” he breathed. Dark eyes, gleaming. Tired, yes, but clever still. Clever and his. Cole staggered forward, ignoring the scuffle between Anders and Evangeline behind him. He brushed his fingers over the man’s cheek. 

“You stabbed me, I hear.”

Cole prodded at the hair that covered his face. Traced the length of his nose. “Yes.”

“I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Cole’s gaze scampered like a squirrel. Dorian. Dorian. “You’re not the same.”

“I apologize,” he whispered, his voice raw with misery. “I am mortified. Hubris. Quite the infernal muddle. Can you ever forgive me?”

Leaking. Cole was leaking, his cheeks hot with it, and his hands shook, like the girl under the ratty blanket on the muddy corner in Denerim. Hope and horror. A thick, wet sound climbed out of his throat like a drowning cat as one sun-touched hand cupped his cheek. 

“I am so very sorry, Cole-“

“It used us against you,” he sputtered, words wet. 

“I recall,” Dorian muttered darkly. 

“You’re here. You’re here. You’re alive. How?”

“I’m Tevinter,” he smiled, wan. “We’re like cockroaches, haven’t you heard? Would you be so kind…?” He lifted his brows, tapping his temple. 

Cole didn’t need to. He knew already. Knew the feel of him. The energy that collected on him like a rising storm then dissipated like mist. Nevertheless, he touched Dorian’s forehead, brushing his fingers through the too-long hair in the wrong color. Sloped edges, high towers, crackling with new energy, but familiar. Orange peels and sunsets. So beautifully at home in hills full of night-blooming flowers. “You’re you.”

“A blessing and a curse.” Dorian frowned. “It’s dead, then.”

“Gone.”

“Pity. I was hoping I could kill it myself. Several times.”

“No more demons,” Cole shook his head roughly.

“I wholeheartedly agree with your sentiment, Ocellus, but I don’t think we’ll - either of us - have much choice on that score going forward. We can but try our best.” He raised a brow, “Now, Aran is recovering under Miranda’s watch, I’ve been told, but I’m not allowed out of this cabin until you say that I can.” 

“This isn’t right,” Cole tugged at the beard. 

“I agree. Still, have a care.” Dorian glanced past his shoulder. “Do you see? I have been raised from the dead, as suits my practice; an experience even the most renowned courtiers in Nevarra would die for. Literally and figuratively. Well and so, may I please go and see him now?”

“You nearly died,” Anders snapped. “No. You can’t leave that bed.”

“Cole?” Evangeline asked, sounding as bewildered as he’d ever heard her. It didn’t matter. “It is truly gone? You’re certain?”

“Yes. Yes,” Cole pressed his forehead to Dorian’s shoulder and breathed. “Yes.”

“You have an effect on spirits, Magister.” She was worried, not angry. Aran and Dorian were both so afraid people would be angry if they saw, but Evangeline was his friend. They could trust her. They didn’t know it yet. “Are you a medium?” she asked.

“I’m an Altus,” Dorian told her quietly. “And no. By trade, I’m a shocking disappointment.” His voice was soft warm caramel. He smelled like strange herbs and wax. His fingers touched Cole’s hair, timid, then firmer as Cole leaned into him. “Is Aran well, at least? Can you tell me that much?”

“He’s alive, as are you, and that’s what matters,” Evangeline reported. “The healer is correct, though-”

“‘The healer-’” Anders scoffed as he threw dried herbs into a stone bowl, “-has a name.”

“You’re too weak to move,” she continued, ignoring him. “We’ll bring Conchobar - Aran - to you. Perhaps that will…” she trailed off, hesitant. “Cole?”

“I’m staying here.”

“...all right.”

“What? Andraste’s knickers,” Anders huffed. “Take his weapons at least, won’t you, Templar? That’s something your lot still does, isn’t it?”

“Use your eyes. He’s not going to hurt the man.”

“I thought that last time,” grumbled the mage. “Then I spent a week repairing lungs.”

“Cole saved his life!”

“Give a nail to a hammer,” Anders rolled his eyes. “You’d be happy to see us all saved in just such a way, wouldn’t you?”

Evangeline’s fingers tightened on her hilt. “You don’t know me.” She met Cole’s gaze across the room. “Stay. I’ll return this evening and we’ll… discuss our next steps.”

“Yes, but how-” Dorian asked as she left, the door closing behind her. “-is he?”

Broken, bitter salt and sharp stones, shredded and shorn, bloody, blood, blood in the snowfall, so much blood, so much- Cole buried his face in Dorian’s palm, pressing those long, beringed fingers against his eyes. 

“I saved your life, and it didn’t require getting uppity with a dirty knife.” Anders ground herbs into a paste, still eyeing Cole suspiciously. “Was that part of the plan? If you had one. Did you? As much a plan as anyone has when meddling with forbidden magic, among other things?”

Dorian glanced up, his gaze sharpening.

“It’s not my first stroll around the block.” Anders carefully poured oil into the herbs. “I hope whatever you were trying to accomplish was worth it.” The blonde mixed a paste, hip resting against a table strewn with papers. “You’re marked indelibly and, while I’m not familiar with that particular pattern, I’ve seen enough deals with demons to know what a binding brand looks like. At least you had the decency to bind yourself in addition to my friend.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to lie to your healer? Do I not have eyes?”

Dorian frowned down at the bandage winding up around his arm, tentatively peeling at a fold of the cotton. He flinched. His fingers shook as he traced the scales that wrapped his wrist and twined up his arm, raised and reddened, like a creature living just under his skin. A serpent. A dragon.

Cole touched the mark, causing Dorian to shiver. “It isn’t what you think.”

“A chain,” Dorian croaked.

“A rope.” 

“Little enough difference, Ocellus.” He swore, hissed, “I could feel myself bending. I knew better than to trust what we found there, but so much of it was- so much was-” His velvet voice vibrated. “He trusted me.”

“You trust each other.”

“He didn’t know what I’d found. He didn’t know and, it seems, neither did I.”

“You were trying to protect him.”

“Myself. I was trying to protect myself.”

“You still don’t understand,” Cole whispered. “He needs you. It wasn’t the spell that was the problem; it was old and it did what you asked of it. You became fire and spirit-“

“Weak.”

“Strong. It didn’t matter. You kept Envy from taking your form, your hurt it, and all it could do was the next best thing. To hide inside. For that, it only needed you to bleed and open; that was all. It didn’t matter how or why.”

“It certainly did. Does.” Dorian straightened, raising his voice,  “It matters to me. I married him and it nearly killed us both.”

“Was that it, then?” Anders inquired curiously. “Of course Tevinter marriages involve blood magic. To think mine was a mere prayer among the posies. Belated congratulations on your nuptials.” He fluttered his hands, scooting Cole to the other side of the bed, and drew open the folds of Dorian’s robe to apply the herbal paste. The freshly healed scar on Dorian’s chest was inches from his heart. Gruesome, raw, and dark purple bleeding into smooth brown. 

Dorian closed his hand over Anders’ wrist and received a swat for his trouble.

“Cut it out. Andraste’s underoos- Of everyone here, I’m the least likely to report you to Templars or wilting Circle flowers. If you want to be paranoid, worry about the medium your friend here is so attached to.”

“Rhys is my friend,” Cole insisted. 

“As I said. And we all know that a mage playing house with a Templar is the best of allies. What could possibly go wrong? What was I thinking? Speaking of playing house,” Anders smiled pleasantly at Dorian. “Fair warning, I don’t think anyone’s going to buy you any fancy flatware. What would you do with it anyway, I ask? We had to leave ours along with everything else the last time we ran. Kept a pair of spoons. Symbolic, I’ve been told.” He placed a layer of cloth over the paste and pressed Dorian back to the bed. “Don’t get up. I know they say marriage is the death of man, but you can stop trying to prove them right.”

Cole closed his eyes. “Flowers in her hair; petals from a shedding bough in dawn light. She wept for you both. You hid your face against her neck to hide your tears.” 

The healer cleared his throat, “It was a joke, you horrendous brain weasel.”

Dorian glanced away, his hand a gently curled fist against his own neck. A translucent eyelid blinked horizontally across his gleaming, dark eye, gilding his iris for an instant; then it was gone. The demon was gone, truly, but the beast they summoned yet remained. Did he know? Cole wondered. Could he feel it? 

“It was supposed to protect us. Keep us together.” Dorian gleamed gold in the hearthlight, an inward glow. “Why is it that I cannot seem to touch something but it sours?”

He was ancient songs and cracked glass, colored carefully, scorched by sunlight. Cole traced the whitened knuckles of his strained fist. Why couldn’t he see the wonder of it? That he had been ridden but not routed? That despite demons and the depth of his own blade, he was still drawing breath- too strong to be subdued. Smelling of smoke, but never turned to ash? 

And even now, when he believed his fate to be solitude… Dorian’s hand turned, fingers softened and spread like petals opening for the sun. Cole could feel himself in those opening petals, damp and dewed and so new that he trembled, fearful of the next sensation and the next. Mild breezes that set him shivering. 

“So far as I am aware-” Anders crossed to the hearth to stir a hanging cauldron. “-only the seven of us know what’s happened. And of those… I can only pray the Templar and her pet do not learn every detail. I assume they aren’t yet aware, or you would have been plunged upon a pike by now.”

“Evangeline is a good person,” Cole curled against Dorian’s side. 

“The ‘good’ are the last sort your friend here wants or needs at the moment.” 

“She is a Templar, yes, but she thinks with her heart and then her head before she lifts her hand.” He looked to Dorian, “She won’t hurt you.”

Dorian waved his hand negligently, rings catching fire to wink and sparkle. “If Cole says I can trust her, then I can.”

The blonde man ladled a thick green liquid into a cup. “Oh, by all means, believe the spirit that tried to kill you about the Templar who would love to. I wouldn’t, but I was cursed with a rare disease called common sense.” 

Dorian harrumphed, his gaze slinking to Cole’s fingers twined with his own. “I once suffered from that disease as well. I was cured.”

“More’s the pity.” 

“We’ll be safe, here, you’ll see,” Cole felt the warmth inside of him. Thrilling, thrumming, throwing him from wall to wall though he didn’t move. Neither of them did. And yet there was… touch and tangling, tasting honey from a thumb, listening to him read while Aran lay between them, mumbling in his sleep. Trusting. Trust. “We’ll stay tiny, no trouble, no one will notice us. They want his knowledge. He wants to tell them. Everything will be fine.”

“There, you see?” Dorian said, pleasant and pleading… with himself more than the healer. “Everything will be fine, he says.”

“I suppose we can only hope he’s right.” Anders handed him the cup. “Drink this and try to rest. And for all our sakes, keep that mark covered, will you? Miranda and I came here to help the Inquisition. I’d prefer not to have to murder everyone just to keep you and Aran alive.”

“Why would you do that?” Dorian lifted his gaze, sharp with focus. “Why do any of this? Why put yourselves at risk?”

The healer made a clicking sound, turning away, “I asked your shiny new husband those questions once. I remember we were standing in the endless wet of the coastal rains and the mists of the Waking Sea, dripping with gore. He’d been helping me evade those hunting me and had taken issue when they’d caught up to us. We fought them, and he got himself stabbed trying to protect me. And while I was healing him, he promised to help me find somewhere safe, a purpose, a life. He said, ‘Everyone deserves at least one chance to sit in a boat and dream.’ He gave me that chance. And Miranda. Both of us. He had us in the palm of his hand time and time again and never asked for anything. If this is our chance to shield him, and you, in our palms, then that’s what we’ll do.” He huffed, flicking through his papers, “Now close your blighted eyes and go to sleep like a good little practitioner of the forbidden.”

Dorian didn’t sleep, but he did rest. They resided for a time in the pathos of things. Two minds filled with power, knowledge, and a sense of the fleeting embers of hope that could all too quickly be extinguished. 

The crack from the sky snapped and crackled, burning the atmosphere. A bottle by the fire shattered. Books tumbled from a stack to the floor. It startled them all, even Cole, who’d allowed himself to float, lulled, atop the lily pads of the mages’ thoughts. The ozone of the Fade - his once home - seared the insides of his nostrils. Cole touched the door and flinched back from the spell that hid them inside. Dorian threw his legs over the side of the bed.

“No!” Anders snapped.

“I will not lie here like an invalid while the world burns.” Dorian flicked his fingers and a staff from the corner snapped into his palm. “Are you coming along or aren’t you?”

Chapter Text

9:41 Dragon - Haven

Cole:

“It won’t open,” Cole shook his head at the door. “It’s meant to keep us in.”

“It’s meant to keep them out,” Anders rolled his eyes. “As little as I enjoy being cooped up anywhere, this ward does serve a purpose. It would be a touch difficult to explain why a newly arrived apostate has a gravely wounded mage from Tevinter laid up in a cabin instead of helping the rest of the-“

Dorian leveled his borrowed staff at the door and it cracked off its hinges, flying into the snow beyond.

Anders threw his hands in the air. “Well, that defeats the purpose!”

Dorian stepped out into the late afternoon, the wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. The ward around the cabin dissipated like snow under the bright gaze of his power. Above them, the shredded sky shuddered, shedding tears of agony. The Veil.

“It’s the Breach.” Anders flexed his hand around his staff, gazing at the fluctuating chasm in the sky as another crack tore through the air around them. “They’re trying to close it,” he frowned. “It doesn’t sound too thrilled about the idea.”

“Priceless.” Dorian shook his head, “Who is ‘they’, pray tell?”

“The Circle delegation from Val Royeaux that arrived yesterday. The Templars who survived the Conclave. One of the girls who stepped from the Fade.” 

Poor little bird s. Dorian’s brow creased. Poor little pawns. “That won’t be enough.”

Anders’ gaze drifted to the trees, then to the dim light of Haven in the night beyond them. “They believe it is. They think that if they can seal the Breach quickly, they can stem the war before it truly begins.”

“It has already begun,” Cole whispered; they didn’t hear him, but they could hear the shouts from the ridge. Was Rhys there? And Evangeline? They needed him, didn’t they? Why would she have let him remain behind if- 

“Yes, yes, because we’re all aware how politics are so very simple.”

“The politics of fear have always been simple,” Anders murmured. 

“Where is Aran?” Dorian stiffened his shoulders, attempting not to show how heavily he was leaning on his borrowed staff. “Please tell me they didn’t take him along.”

“No- they wouldn’t have.” Anders ducked his head, “Perhaps… perhaps now is as good a time as any. While everyone’s occupied elsewhere.” He nodded towards the village. “Follow me.”

Cole shook his head as Anders turned towards Haven’s gates. “Not there.”

“Of course he’s there. Where else would he be?”

Cole pointed towards the blasts of green light echoing from the nearby mountain directly beneath the Breach. 

“They wouldn’t have-” Anders frowned, glancing at Dorian nervously, “They couldn’t have. You don’t understand. He’s not in a state to be moved. Nor is there any reason for them to try.”

“What do you mean, ‘not in a state’?” Dorian repeated, clipped. “You said he was well.”

“He is . He is well. Physically,” Anders temporized. “Miranda was letting him sleep- keeping him asleep- until we were sure that you were…”

“Alive?”

“And free of taint. Yes. My point is, he couldn’t have woken unless she- but she wouldn’t have, it was too- and in any case-”

Cole set off towards the bridge to the left. The little idiot is going to use his Mark, he could hear Dorian thinking- fuming. 

The Breach shuddered again, sky wailing, and pellets of twisting dark catapulted from its maw towards the village. Cole darted back as a misshapen shade resolved itself from the trembling, cracked shadows ahead of him. Then another. And another. He lowered his head and drew his blades. Behind them, they could smell smoke and hear the rising cries of villagers who’d remained behind. “Run- help them!” Cole told them; he flipped his daggers and-

“Fasta vass!” Dorian spun the staff in his hands, landing it with a snap in the snow. Fire blossomed from its tip with a heady hiss, writhing up and out like a nest of rousing serpents. They soared past and around Cole in a furious vortex, engulfing the bridge and the demons in one massive blaze to leave only the sticky remains of their corporeal forms in smoking puddles on the ground. 

Scorched earth. Snowmelt. A circle of pristine white at Cole’s feet.

He met Dorian’s gaze across the otherwise blackened ground and saw the sudden horror in the mage’s eyes. 

Anders whistled low, putting away a small bottle of lyrium. “Seems you’re fine, after-“ 

A massive chunk of stone landed behind Cole, shattering into dust. Another series of shouts and screams rose from Haven as more shards from the Fade slammed to earth. 

“Cole,” Dorian croaked. 

Cole touched his arm as he moved past him back towards the village. “We can protect them.”

Dorian:

“More!” Cole shouted. “I found more!” 

Dorian allowed a window of the flamed canopy protecting the chantry to shiver open like an eyelid and watched as Cole guided yet more villagers inside. As soon as they were through, it sealed behind them with a sizzle. A thought. The barest flexing of his will. 

Horrifying?

Wondrous.

He perched outside the open Chantry doors on a stool. The interior was packed full; bodies clustered together out of fear and panic and pain, soothed by the current of Chantry Sisters and Anders and Adan making the rounds, healing wounds, and easing the fears of the innocents who’d been caught and burned and terrorized by the demons. Demons that had fallen like meteors from the agonized Breach.

Foolish. Even with over a hundred rebel mages at their disposal, attempting to close the Breach in their own world and time had nearly cost Aran his sanity, let alone his life. Yet this Inquisition thought they could manage it with the scrappy combination of a handful of Templars and a dozen lost Circle mages? It was absurd. Reckless. And the length of time it was taking… It was only serving to stir up interest from the Fade. The risk to the mages on the ridge. The risk to everyone...

He should have been there. He should have been there, at Aran’s side, feeding his will into the girl this Inquisition had chosen to use in the same way they’d used Aran. Yet here he sat, feeding his power into the bones of the old building to shield it in flames. “That’s the last of them,” Cole murmured, pressing his hand to Dorian’s shoulder. “The once-Knight Commander and the here-hawk are making a last sweep of the town, but the villagers and pilgrims are safe.”

So long as no more demons fell. So long as they didn’t get past his barrier. So long as nothing else unforeseen occurred. “The ridge-“ he began. Aran, he thought. Was he still there? Was he well? If he left now, would it make any difference? 

“He’s...” Cole hesitated. Never a good sign, that. “He’s still there. They all are.”

“Blighted idiot.”

“Yes.” Cole frowned. “Something is coming. It feels strange. I should go see what it is-“ his hand flexed on Dorian’s shoulder. Comfort and contact. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“Kind of you to say,” Dorian murmured. “I’m fine. I could hold this barrier for a fortnight. It’s likely safer for everyone if I do,” he added quietly. At least maintaining the flames, focusing on the shape of the canopy and the strength of the shield gave his power somewhere to go. It was flowing from him like an exhale, so blisteringly pleasant, fuller, and stronger by the second. “Go. We’ll be here. Try to get back before Aran does. It would be a shame if I murdered him.”

Cole nodded quickly. “I’ll do what I can.” 

Another deafening shudder. Another verdant scream from the sky above and they watched the swirling abyssal breach snap shut. 

“They did it?” Dorian stared at the seam in the sky with disbelief. “They did it. How could they, without-” He glanced towards the people beginning to poke their heads out of the door to gaze up at the sky, then back to the swirl of clouds above and the soft green seam through the evening’s sunset. “That interfering-” He gritted his teeth, exhaling as he allowed his ward to lapse. “When he gets back here, I’ll throttle him.”

“The Breach! Do you see?” Cullen called, approaching the barrier; Dorian let it fall open before him and received a wary nod of appreciation from the commander. “Is it what it seems?”

Dorian nodded slowly, “It looks sealed. It shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be possible, but it appears-“ He could feel the Veil’s rough edges in the process of weaving together again, even now, even from here. “Yes. I believe so.”

“Thank you for your aid. We owe you a great debt.” His hand gripped the hilt of his sword, his chin lifted, “Remain alert and wary,” he announced to those inside the Chantry. “I’ll take scouts and soldiers to the ridge to confirm that the Breach is indeed sealed and to assess our losses there. Let us be cautious still, lest we are caught unawares.”

“I’ll come with you,” Dorian rose.

“You’ve kept them safe. If something comes, some unseen threat, I’d like to think you could keep them safe again.”

A growl rolled like a trapped, anxious cat in the back of Dorian’s throat. He was drenched in power, yet his chest still arched as though… well, as though he’d been stabbed. He glanced around for Cole and found the spirit missing. Gone to look for whatever strangeness he’d sensed. Cullen wasn’t wrong. With the soldiers gone, and Cole, there would be no one to protect these people. “Very well.”

“Good man,” Cullen clapped him on the shoulder. “Then I will trust Haven will remain in good hands.” 

Aran:

Aran gritted his teeth, his fingers digging into the paperbark of a birch tree as the energy of the Fade cracked and reverberated between him and the Breach. It ached- no. Stung- no; it was worse than anything- It always had been. He panted, tears leaking down his hot cheeks. From the ridge, from the trees, he could see them scrambling in the rubble of the Temple of Sacred Ashes- the Rubble of Sacred Ashes- fighting demons amidst the remains of memory and knowledge and history. A bastion of Circle mages all pouring their power into the dwarf who was screaming at the top of her lungs, caught in the same shuddering struggle as Aran, like trying to ride a dragon through a snowstorm- Well, he’d done that, hadn’t he? He laughed, manic, panting, sinking to his knees in the snow with the effort. Ozone and blood on his tongue. His flesh tearing and rebuilding itself in an endless, agonizing loop. 

The girl was managing better than he had. Better than he remembered. Fierce and swearing up at the hole in the sky. He could hear the echoes of her oaths from where he knelt. She would need care after this, as he had, but she was strong. She was strong and she had help and-

Dorian- His heart ached. No. He couldn’t think of him. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. 

The blood on his lips in the freshly fallen snow. The blood on Cole’s fist. The memory of that sight before the world had spun into darkness. The sound of Cole’s wretched voice, crumpled and uneven as paper, from the dark behind him in that stifling cabin. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ Words. Words that meant nothing. Nothing. 

He’d failed them both. 

They didn’t belong here. He and Dorian. Their memories. Their experiences. This wasn’t their world. Dorian was right. He was always right. They should have stayed away, far away, pursued their own questions. He hadn’t listened. He’d thought he’d known better. And as a result, Dorian was dead. Cole was drenched in blood and guilt. And Aran...

A drag of power snapped through him like a bolt, burning his kneecaps on the ground, throwing his head back with the shock as a fresh wave roared through him again- 

This- he could do this. He’d done it before. He’d been alone with the struggle then, young and untested like the dwarf who was kneeling amid the battle that raged around her. He was older now. Stronger. And by Mythal and the Maker and the Dread Wolf himself, he could do this much, if there was little else to live for-

He watched as their twinned bolts catapulted into the vortex of the screaming sky. Twinned… No. Three anchors? Three shimmering, emerald lines of power weaving into its eye- Its waking eye that seemed to crack open, scowling down at the world like the Maker’s own- Shuddering and shaking loose fragments as it fought to stay wide and watchful- They were winning, he thought, they were actually- They were-

Pain lanced through his shoulder - no, a barbed bolt of metal and wood- Aran spun to see a stout figure stepping towards him through the trees, a crossbow resting on his shoulder.

“Varric?” he whispered, feeling the poison take root in his veins, his muscles stiffening as darkness closed in around him. “What-“

He roused to watch the hoof-marred snow quake beneath his eyes, the edges of a saddle digging into his side. 

“You’re a fool.”

For a moment, Aran was certain that Fenris was speaking to him. He wasn’t wrong, certainly, but-

“Well, shit,” Varric laughed wearily. “Who isn’t, these days? Crazy times.”

“I’m awake,” Aran croaked.

An acerbic “We know” welcomed him back to consciousness. Fenris’ back was a rigid line, his chin lifted, his eyes focused ahead. 

Varric brought his mount around to ride alongside him, peering down at him. “Here’s the thing, Half-Glass. I like you. But you’ve got that glowy thing.” His wide grin was tight-edged. “You wanna tell me about the Mark, old buddy old pal?”

“Not particularly.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

Aran shifted in the ropes binding him to the saddle. “Don’t tell me you’re taking me prisoner, Varric. That would be very disappointing.”

“Prisoner’s a rough word. Someone blew up a building. Then you showed up. Have you noticed how someone always seems to blow up a building when you show up? Just between you and me, that’s not a great sign.”

“I have explosive interests.”

“Yeah. Chantry-exploding interests.”

Aran sighed, watching the snow churn. “I didn’t attack the Conclave.”

“Gotta tell you, Half-Glass: I kind of expected you to deny that. Wouldn’t make a lot of sense in your position to admit to it.”

“I did help a group of apostates attack the Kirkwall Chantry.” He twisted his neck to peer up at Varric. “It had to be done.”

“ Had to be done ? Mages and Templars. Templars and Mages. An endless fucking shitstorm.” Varric shook his head roughly. “So - what - Starkhaven wasn’t paying enough? You thought you’d make a little extra coin stirring up trouble in the South for the Vints? Do you really want Tevinter to invade? With the shitshow they’ve got going?”

“What in the Void are you talking about?” 

“That! I’m talking about that!” 

Aran turned his head to follow Varric’s indication. At first, he saw nothing- nothing at all. Snow cast in orange by the setting sun. Then Fenris gripped his shoulder, a pulse of electric heat cleared what felt like cobwebs from his mind, and he saw… Upside down and sideways, he gazed down the cliff to see the camps spotting the valley below. Colorful, high-peaked tents with fluttering banners. The scent of spice on the air. The distinctive black mail and horseflesh of Tevinter knights. 

Knights. Not Venatori.

An army. Not spies.

“See, we know about your friends. We know they came down through the mountains right between Orlais and Ferelden without either being the wiser. What we don’t know is what their move is.”

“My… friends.” Aran blinked slowly. “You truly think I'm working for Tevinter?”

“Showing up with a Vint in tow. Magic time-traveling.” Varric crossed his arms. “The mark on your hand that’s directly related to the attack on the Divine and the Conclave-“

“Blood magic,” Fenris intoned gruffly.

“Yeah,” the dwarf nodded, frowning. “The blood magic thing’s not great, either, buddy. Nor is the fucking army down there.”

“He may not be aware of what he has been doing. Their influence can be pervasive.”

“I’m not under- feck’s sake, Fenris. Varric, come on.”

“Is this the whole force?” Varric asked, watching him mournfully. “That’s what we need to know.”

“Varric, I’m not working for Tevinter. I swear to you.”

“That you know of,” Fenris growled.

“I’m not,” he insisted. 

“Is that why you were trying to stop us from sealing the Breach?”

“ Stop you? I-“ The sky was darkening overhead, a verdant seam through the constellations. So the Breach was healed. They’d done that much at least. 

He had to admit, it didn’t look good. He couldn’t blame them. Varric had a point. Several good points. Very compelling circumstantial evidence. He’d shown up at several inopportune times. Knowing things he oughtn't. Chaos followed him like a plague. He’d brought Dorian to Haven. Dorian who was dead, dead because of him. He’d fled as soon as he’d wrestled free of the magic holding him in place, keeping him a prisoner in his own mind. If they’d found him on the ridge above the Temple of Sacred Ashes… No.  It didn’t look good at all. He flexed his arms in the ropes. “I was helping her to seal it.”

“Do you know how much I want to believe that?” Varric sighed. “How much we do? We like you.” 

“And I like you.”

“But this is shady as fuck.”

“I can see how it would appear that way.” Aran gritted his teeth. “All the blood is draining into my head. I need you to let me sit up so I can think.” He glanced back from the colored fires erupting one by one between the rows of tents below. Varric was in his saddle, frowning, still. “Listen, I know how it appears but you have to believe me. I don’t know anything about this.” Nothing. “Fenris.” Not simply still. A light cling of blue crackled over the surface of their skin in the dim light. 

He felt the ropes at his arms and wrists shift and writhe, slithering free to fall to the snow like snakes. 

Not like snakes. 

Their gleaming, undulating bodies left warm, molten trails through the snow towards the boulders as a pair of robed figures stepped out of hiding. One of them knelt to collect the snakes into a basket. 

Aran slumped off the saddle, watching between the horses’ legs as the second figure moved towards him through the snow. “Stay back.” Varric wasn’t stupid; he’d taken his weapons, likely as soon as he’d passed out. Disarmed and bound him. His toes were tingling. His head still swam from hanging upside down. He ached- from the binding, from the Mark, from the grief over his loss and-

The hooded figure knelt on the other side of the two mounts, gloved hands folding on his knees. Black robes, gleaming with enchanted silver embroidery that seemed lit from within like stars. The inscription doubled and swam in Aran’s vision, as did the face that was revealed when the hood was nudged back. Warm, dark eyes. Full, smiling lips. Nests of unruly auburn curls at his temples, around his ears, at the base of his neck. 

“Ril,” he whispered.

“Aran,” Rilienus smirked, eyeing him curiously. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

Chapter Text

9:40 Dragon - Minrathous

Rilienus loved mornings. The play of shadows against the ceiling. The way the first dregs of day brushed like fingers across the night, stronger and stronger, until they overtook the whole sky. The quietness - not silence. The distant call of birds above the sea, the almost imaginary whoosh as magefires doused one by one with the coming day. His heartbeat. Dorian’s. The soft tickle at his shoulder; Dorian’s breath so deep in slumber that it could have been a breeze blowing feathers in a steady rhythm against his skin. 

The pad of footfalls in the hallway as the Archon’s household began the business of daily life. The Archon. His Archon. The one they’d killed and bled for. The one Tevinter needed. The Liberator. The Protector, with his protectorate. His council. Aelia Heres-Pavus, with her gift for Creation. Feynriel d’Alessi, the somniari they’d collected from the South. Gereon Alexius, chief of research of the Minrathous Circle and his son, Felix, freshly seated upon the dais as Divine. Aran… The seer, the spy, the spider that had brought them all together and helped them overthrow a nation. And Rilienus, himself. Of course. Concilior, guard and guide of the magisterium… among other things.

He knew the moment when Dorian began to wake. They’d fallen asleep where they lay the night before, still entwined, and he could feel Dorian inside of him. Shifting. Lengthening. Twitching. He’d felt his dreams in the night. He felt his waking awareness this morning. 

Rilienus exhaled quietly as Dorian’s hips shifted. Once. Twice. That slow breath quickening against his shoulder, the back of his neck. Slumbering, relaxed fingers curving around his hips in absent-minded pressure. Pressure. Rilienus rolled his hips back and down gently, following the path of those guiding fingers, and felt the answering brush of lips and mustache against his skin. 

Dorian’s growing alertness was like a slow motion thrust, filling him inch by inch through the sheer act of growth. Long, ringed fingers gently stroked Rilienus’ sensitive skin, tangling in the hair between his legs, cupping his tender, taut sack. Kisses like warm summer rain. “Good morning,” whispered the curl of a sleep-flattened mustache against his neck.

“It is.” Rilienus’ breath hitched as Dorian’s hips rocked forward, seating himself fully inside of him. With an instinct born of years, he scooped a few fingers worth of the slick paste he’d made and reached between them to coat the base of Dorian’s cock as he rocked gently out. 

“Ah,” he moaned under his breath. The scent of the paste wrapped around them, growing stronger as it smoothed the path for quicker movements, deeper thrusts. 

Aran loved this smell. Sex and slick. Almonds and honey and cream. And cream. And cream. Breakfast, he’d called it once, and ‘scran’ more often - as he lapped and rolled his tongue inside of Rilienus, what had felt like hours, like a wave washing against his shore. Gone. He’d been gone for nearly four months this time. He’d been dragged from them, despite their best efforts, just after they’d managed to free Dorian from that damned bloodstone. He’d missed his own Naming, and Felix’s, and most of the gross and subtle fruits of his labor- They knew he would be back, at some point, he’d said as much, and yet the waiting. When. When. When . 

Come home, Aran , he whispered in his heart. And, for once, he knew it was for himself. The last time he’d found himself actively wishing, wanting, wondering about Aran, it had been for Dorian’s sake. Dorian, crumpled and exhausted, asleep on his books, smelling of terrible wine. Dorian short-tempered and snarling at the most innocuous and typical of Magisterium machinations. Then, he’d needed Aran for the man’s ability to somehow just step in and soothe, reach into Dorian’s fracturing psyche and give him anchor, trust, patience. Maker knew Rilienus and Aelia had been running short on that last. But now. Now, Rilienus just needed him. Strange, how he’d come to love the time-ridden rogue. Aran wasn’t to his taste at all. Shouldn’t have been. He liked his men dark and handsome, smooth, relaxed and restful. Independent and lovely as cats. Strong and giving as fine fabric. The southerner was… erratic, pale and scarred, half in the Fade, half out of his mind, rough-edged and impulsive. 

Dorian groaned against his shoulder, his rhythm smoothing out to slow, steady rolls of flesh against flesh. Sweat against sweat. Rilienus sighed, “I want to see you;” extricated himself to climb on top of Dorian, sinking down onto his staff again with a relieved exhale. Spreading his hands over that smooth expanse of strong, muscled caramel. Beautiful , Aran called him, a statuesque god , and he was. Velvet and lustrous cotton, all sun-colored. The kind of color you could taste. But he was also flawed, deliciously. Just this side of asymmetrical, the kind of imperfections that could only be seen after intricate study. Rilienus bent to kiss those sleepy, smiling lips, brushing noses as he did. 

I miss him, too , he wanted to say, to whisper, to admit in this hushed moment, to bring Aran there with them even when he wasn’t, couldn’t be. Later, maybe, when Dorian wasn’t looking so peacefully pleased. They could spend a maudlin afternoon missing their shared lover together. Maybe knowing that Rilienus had become nearly as hooked on the madman as Dorian… maybe that would make him feel better. They could help each other through it. Find a slender blond at the baths, take him to a steam room, and pretend for a while. 

Rilienus sighed lifting up on his knees to sink again, eyes fluttering closed. Pretend. Yes. He wrapped his hand around his cock as he filled himself like a glutton with Dorian’s long, curved phallus. Imagined the wicked gleam in Aran’s eyes as he bent, taking Rilienus’ dripping tip between his lips, his hot, panting, slick tongue eagerly lapping and sucking. Rilienus bit his lip, swallowing a moan as he impaled himself again, again, deeper, luxuriating in Dorian’s hands drawing smooth warming spells on his skin. 

He was becoming very, very good at imagining. He could almost feel Aran’s breath on his skin, smell that rich tapestry of forest and loam that was so specifically his. Gasps and flutters. Hands on hands, smooth, caressing him. Then Dorian murmured, “Welcome home-” A rich purr, pleased, panting… 

Rilienus turned over his shoulder to see a head of damp, white hair just below his shoulder an instant before he felt the bristle of stubble scrubbed against the tender skin of his back. Lips closing over his spine. Kissing a pathway down. Rilienus blinked, gaze stuttering back to Dorian. 

Lighter than he’d been in days. Effervescent. 

Maker, Aran was real. Real and home again. 

He bit his lip as he felt Aran’s tongue slip down his cleft. The cool, slick tongue circling his cock-filled asshole. Rilienus leaned forward, taking Dorian’s lips with his own, kissing him breathlessly as Aran tasted their joined bodies, fingers, mouth, and tongue exploring inside and out. Those nimble fingers stretched him, opening him, squeezing past Dorian to press and caress Rilienus’s channel as he sucked and slurped at the base of Dorian’s shaft. 

He sighed as the fingers inside of him pressed him forward, forward, off of Dorian’s cock; he turned to watch Aran mouth sink over it, groaning. “Fuck, this scran,” he whispered after his lips released with a slight popping sound. 

Coarse. Coarse and ridiculous. 

Rilienus grinned, kissing Dorian’s cheek. Groaned as Aran’s fingers left his ass to drag his hips back, brushing his cock against Dorian’s saliva and slick covered one. “Aah-“ he pressed his forehead to Dorian’s as the slick head of Aran’s cock pressed into him, sinking, sinking, drawing away and beginning again.

“You been at the baths again, Ril, or has Dorian been riding you ragged?” 

Rilienus opened his mouth to answer, but all that emerged was a long series of groans as Aran took full advantage of his well-stretched, well-fucked ass to pound into him deep and hard and fast- Maker, fast. Dorian’s hand closed around their pinned cocks, stroking them together as Aran took him, took him, took him- Ah, Maker, deep so deep and heedless. 

“Ah, I’ve missed you. I- nng-“ 

“Missed- too-“ he dropped his head, sweat dripping into his eyes. 

They lay in a sweating pile as the sun poured bright through the tall, stained windows. “High ceilings, fancy palace, still can’t get the bloody heat under control,” Aran whined, drowsy, hushing as Rilienus sent a light coat of frost cascading over his skin. “Ah, thank the Maker.”

“Thank me, instead.”

“Thanks, Ril.”

Dorian was watching them, his dark, clever eyes soft as down feathers. “Did you arrive in the white room again?”

“Not this time. Dropped in the bay at Qarinus. Feynriel found me,” Aran was saying, his fingers brushing back and forth across Dorian’s shoulder. “The roads seemed safer on my way to Minrathous. The city seems calm.”

“Calmer. The liberati are still finding their footing, but we have several proposals being moved through the magisterium to address their needs. It will take time.”

“And the crazed cultist project? Time is running out there.”

“Nearly routed,” Rilienus hummed against his back. “We’ve just got one more-”

“It’s being dealt with.” Dorian pulled Aran to him, kissing him soundly. “The next project for you is breakfast. Have you seen Aelia yet? She’ll want to pick your brain, and I need you to fill in your latest trials and travels in the log book, if you would.”

Aran grumbled under his breath, clambering off the end of the bed. “Not back an hour and you put me to work.”

“The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can get back to enjoying your company. You know we can’t do anything about your dilemma without data-”

“I know, I know- Void and Deep,” he scrubbed his hands through his mess of shock white hair. There were new scars on his shoulders, bruises on his elbows. He flung the lattice-work door open and disappeared into the adjoining suite. “Like being back at the bloody Chantry,” he muttered, kicking the door shut behind him. 

“Grumpy,” Dorian lifted a brow, tilting his head to peer at the door. 

“You don’t want to tell him about Corypheus?”

His Archon eased up onto an elbow, smoothing the curve of his moustache. “Why? So he can go rushing off to the South when we’re handling it?” Rilienus allowed himself to be gathered to his side, following Dorian’s gaze to the door. “We’ll tell him when it’s finished. When it’s done. Not before. We are his only safe haven, as he was once ours. We have to protect him- cherish him- for as long as we have him.”

“If you’re certain.”

“I am.”

“Then I will be guided by you.” He narrowed his eyes as Aran stalked back out in a set of black robes, “You need a haircut.”

“I need parchment and ink,” Aran crossed his arms. “So I can do my lines like a good little soporati.”

“Very grumpy,” Dorian smirked, pressing a kiss to the top of Rilienus’ head. “We have our work cut out for us, you and I.”

“Why is nothing simple?” he sighed, easing from the bed. He stretched, feeling Aran’s gaze follow his movements and smiled, extending a hand as his robes roused from where they hung to drape themselves about him. “Come along, meus molliculus caseus .” 

9:41 Dragon - North of Haven 

“Come along, meus molliculus caseus ,” he called over his shoulder. 

“Don’t hurt them.”

“ Hurt them?” he paused, turning back. “Why on earth would I hurt them? They only shot you, poisoned you, and tied you to the back of a horse like a sack of refuse.”

“It was a misunderstanding.”

“It’s a very curious misunderstanding.” 

Aran lifted his chin in a challenge. Stubborn. Furious. Wary. Fasta vass , they’d hurt him . He’d been bleeding, raw, scorched and poisoned, not even able to stand- and yet he was defending them? It didn’t matter that the physical damage had easily been resolved by one of his field medics. That they’d dared to lay a finger on his-

Rilienus rolled his eyes, waving a negligent hand. “I’ve no interest in them personally,” he lied. “There’s only so much I can do, Araniolus. The lyrium wolf will be problematic if I release the spell that binds him. The dwarf has a reputation.”

“I can explain things to them.”
“What, precisely, do you plan to explain to them? You, who they clearly trust so very deeply?” 

Aran opened his mouth, shut it, looked around at the encampment they were walking through. The fluttering banners and gleaming black plate mail. “What are you doing here? What is all of this? What-”

“All will be explained,” he waved the mulish man forward, “when you come along.”

“Ril- I mean it. Whatever it looked like, those men are my friends. My comrades. They haven’t - either of them - had great experiences out of Tevinter.”

“Neither have I. We are a new Tevinter now and they will learn to love us. They’ve only to open their eyes and see.”

“You are new,” Aran frowned. “And different. But people won’t just know that. They’ve reason to be suspicious when they see a bloody army- Why, by all the gods above and below, is there a bloody army? What are you doing with them? What are you doing in Ferelden? In this Ferelden?”

“It’s frigid,” he clipped. “I can feel your energy like frayed threads. Let me warm you. Let me ease your suffering. Let me see you, breathe you, for one blessed moment without you arguing with me.” He clasped the space between them and pulled, dragging Aran bodily through the air and into his arms. “Do you know what I thought when I first saw you hanging there? The fact that your so-called friends still draw breath is a credit to my restraint.”

Aran stared up at him. “I’m fine- ”

Lying. His heart was in his eyes, broken, leaking tears to freeze on his cheeks. “You’re fine , yes. You’re always fine , aren’t you? Shredded and bruised, pulled asunder- I still haven’t been able to erase the time from my mind’s eye that we found you in the east garden covered in blood. Fine ,” he snarled, gathering him close. “You foolish puppy.” He kissed him, because he couldn’t bear not to, couldn’t bear to hold himself at a distance any longer. He released him, because holding him close for a moment more would mean tearing his beaten, useless armor off in the middle of the camp. 

Aran swayed, unsteady. 

“Come with me,” he repeated, quiet. “I need you to come with me. Out of the cold.”

“Promise me,” he whispered hoarsely.

“I promise I won’t allow a hair on their menacing heads to be harmed. Now will you come.”

Aran’s fingers were like ice when they twined with his own. “Yes. Now I’ll come.”

He rested his chin between Aran’s shoulderblades, tracing the raw, pulsing burn that twined about his lover’s previously unmarred arm. A dragon, a serpent, it’s maw open around his shoulder like it was biting him. They’d collapsed in a sprawl amidst the cushions, the incense spicing the air, pleasant and protecting. “So you found him again.”

“He's gone,” Aran whispered. “Lost. I couldn’t protect him. I can’t protect anyone-” 

“Patently untrue.” Rilienus kissed his spine. “A bond like this is eternal. Rare. Impossibly rare. And so very, very intricate. An exchange of power. Where did he find the ritual to work it?”

“In my head. Not that it’s done any fucking good.” Aran buried his face in his hands. 

“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Am I not supposed to grieve? Eternity is all well and good, but I have to live the rest of this fucking life-”

Rilienus peered at the curve of his spine. The tousled stark white hair, shorn and shaved around the edges. An answer. An answer was easy enough to give him peace of mind. He exhaled slowly, drawing a tendril of the power from the mark on Aran’s skin and casting it to the full mirror beside the bed. He watched the image of them lying together blur and shift, a flash of bright golden light blossomed from the mirror- blinding- and retreated to… Dorian. Not Dorian. Bearded and auburn. But there were those same clever, dark eyes, the full lips curved in a thoughtful frown, his fist tucked against the side of his face as he scowled at the pages of a book. Aran’s breath caught and broke in a sob as he saw it. 

“Stop- Make it stop-”

“It really is him, isn’t it?” Rilienus wondered, petting Aran’s head. “I believed you, of course, but it’s hard to imagine more than one of them existing… The realms should quake with them both here, you would think.”

“ Please .”

“It makes you sad to see him?”

“He’s dead- I saw him die- ”
“What are you quivering about? He’s right there. Quite alive and practically beside us.” Rilienus pointed. “Haven. See the mountain behind him. He doesn’t look particularly… Ah, there is a bit of a flinch. He’s had an excellent healer, certainly. One or two more couldn’t hurt. We could bring him here.”

Aran was staring at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

“There’s a schedule I have to keep to. Your schedule, actually. But I could send a scout to collect him, bring him here. Have our healers finish the work they’ve begun and get him back to full strength. I’ll admit, I am desperately curious to see him in person. Can we rid him of the beard, though? It’s horrendous.”

“That’s- that’s now ? He’s alive? He’s- He’s alive .”

“Of course he’s alive. It’s surprising that you can’t feel it through the bond.” He frowned, “Sometimes I forget you really are soporati. What a miserable existence.” He lifted a brow as Aran scrambled off the bed to the mirror, tracing Dorian’s features. “It’s a reflection, Aran. He can’t feel you. Not through that. But he knows you’re alive and well, of that I’m certain.”

“How? Because of the ritual?”

“The Bright Star of the North might well be able to say that and more within minutes. Alas, you’ve got me. If you let me study the binding mark for a few weeks, perform some tests, I could probably tell you everything it does. The ritual itself would be even more helpful. You could write it down for me-”

“Ril!”

Rilienus lifted one brow, “That would be my guess as to why, but for your purposes at this moment, it matters little. That he knows, by some means, I am sure; if he didn’t, if he's anything like our Dorian, he wouldn’t be sitting there reading a book.” 

“Consilior?” 

He glanced at the tent’s entrance, letting the ward fall away to let the messenger step inside. 

The young man’s eyes widened, glancing between Aran and himself, but he wisely held his tongue. “We’ve collected a spirit at the edge of the wards. Their mages may know we’re here, if they’re sending advance scouts-”

“They are Southerners,” Rilienus murmured irritably, rising. “How many times must I explain this. Their advance scouts are not spirits; I don’t care how many ‘mages’ they’ve collected. What do our Watchers see?”

“They closed the Breach. They are celebrating the victory. The tainted Templars are on the move. The dragon is in flight.”

“Then we maintain our wards and shields and hold our action.”

“What action?” Aran asked, looking between them as he slipped into a loose robe and belted it. “What spirit?”

The messenger’s eyes widened as he took in Aran’s gleaming lyrium scars, the pulse of green light in his palm, the telling white mane. “Apologies, my lord, my orders were only to report to the Consilior… I-”

“What. Spirit.”

“Go ahead,” Rilienus rolled his wrist, sinking into a chair and pouring himself a glass of wine. 

“It’s… one of the Compassions. An odd choice, an odd-”

“Bring him here.”

Rilienus glanced at Aran mildly. “Another friend?”

“Cole,” he breathed. “It’s Cole.”

“You heard the Consort,” he met the messenger’s startled gaze. “Bring the spirit to my tent. Take care with him. He spooks easily.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

“What action is he talking about?” Aran pointed after the messenger as he departed and the ward resealed behind him in a shimmer of light. 

Rilienus traced the lip of his wine glass. “The Archon believes in nipping problems in the bud. You know this. We drove the Venatori from our borders, but some still remained to the south. We made some attempts at diplomacy, but a new Archon…” He sighed, lifting a shoulder, “After the trouble we went through to put him on the seat, it will take some... effort to make the other nations see reason. We were able to draw many of the mages that Corypheus had recruited back into our fold with the aid of one of his former generals, but Templars are… idiots. Especially the ones down here.” He tilted his head back, “So here we are. To handle them.”

“Handle the- Corypheus,” he breathed. Realized. “The Red Templars.”
“As you predicted. Yes.” 

“You came down to help them stop him. Ril- Varric thinks that you’re invading the South.”

“I am not concerned with what a pulp novelist thinks,” he rested back in his chair, crossing his ankles, in a show of ease. “We are doing what is needed to end the threat you foretold.”

“ Tell them that,” Aran gestured wildly. “Go to the Inquisition, tell them you’re here, tell them that Corypheus is coming-”

“No.”

Aran blinked at him. “What- What do you mean ‘no’?”

“Aran,” Rilienus rose, crossing the tent, his robes following him, flowing onto him on the breeze he’d generated. “This ‘Elder God’ is on his last legs and he believes the Inquisition and their Herald of Andraste are the only things standing in his way. He knows where they are. He’ll come right to us, with his whole force, and we can end this once and for all. End him. End the whole game in one move. If your band of rebels still needs assurances after that, we’ll consider offering them then. Not before.” He nudged Aran back towards the bed with a flick of his fingers, “Now. Tell me what I need to know about your Cole; I’d prefer to avoid any unpleasantness.”

Chapter Text

Aran knelt on the thick rug, clasping Cole’s hands in silence. Rilienus had thoughtfully excused himself to give them a moment, but all Aran could do was stare into Cole’s cornflower blue eyes and hold his slender fingers. He trusted Rilienus, but Tevinter was still Tevinter, no matter what changes were being wrought. The wrong words overheard by the wrong ears could easily kill a stranger or topple a nation, and without Rilienus there to maintain his wards… 

Cole frowned slightly, brushing his everwarm fingertips over the curve of Aran’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t- Don’t be-“

“I had to do something.“

Aran pressed his forehead to Cole’s, shivering despite the heat that filled the tent. “I don’t know what I would have done. Probably the same.”

“No. Your will was gone.”

Aran sighed low. “That’s true.”

“It’s back now.” He touched Aran’s brow with his thumb, soothing points of pressure. “It is. You’re you.”

“Yes.”

“But also him.”

Aran peered at him; this close, this intent, he could see the motes of darkness that flecked those wide, soft eyes. He wanted to ask, wanted to pepper Cole with questions.

“He has parts of you as well.”

“Oh?” The walls, the cushions, the night outside- They all might literally have ears or sending stones. He dampened his lips. “Cole-“

“Yes. I know.”

“If you hadn’t-“

“I know.” He looked down at their twined fingers. “I do not regret, yet I am still sorry.” He hesitated. “I love him, too.”

“I know- I know you do.”

“He calls me Ocellus.”

Aran gathered him close, holding him as he trembled. 

“I was so afraid. I was afraid for you both.”

“I’m sorry.” Aran frowned against his hair, feeling Cole’s arms curve around his waist. Maker, but he wanted to simply hold onto him and never let go. Dorian was alive. Cole was here. Corypheus could be destroyed, permanently… So what if Varric and Fenris thought he was a traitor. He could live with the loss of their trust. He wasn’t meant to be here anyway. They could save Thedas, once and for all, and then he and Dorian and Cole could simply disappear into the night. Find a cabin near the shore, but not too close. Wait for the next tug of time. Look for a way to make their next trip home their last… 

“So this is the infamous Cole.” Rilienus smiled warmly, reasserting his wards with a flick of his fingers as he returned. “It is a genuine pleasure.”

Cole neither moved nor lifted his gaze. 

“It’s alright,” Aran whispered against his ear. “I trust him.” 

For his part, Rilienus accepted the silence with a light shrug and collected his wine, sinking into one of the plush chairs. “Everything is smooth as Rivaini silk. You should have a bath and a meal, preferably in that order. I’ve asked for a tray to be sent, and a disk of Fade-touched onyx for your companion. I’m sorely tempted to contact the Bright Star, but you know how he is; it would be a struggle to keep him in Minrathous if he knew you were here. Best to wait until the danger has passed, I feel, don't you?”

“Aye, he can’t be risked.”

“I agree.” He smirked, leaning forward, his fingers resting lightly on the goblet, the jewels inlaid in the gold of the cup and his rings glinted in the golden magefire. “Then I shall have you all to myself for a time. Pity the circumstances are so dire.” He tapped the lip of his cup thoughtfully, “You know, a spirit can appear as anything they wish, anything in the world or beyond it. Yet yours chooses dirty, torn leathers. Is it an homage to your poor taste, I wonder.”

Aran glanced up sharply. “It isn’t for me. And he’s off limits, Ril.”

“My my, off limits.” His kohl-lined eyes widened with surprise. “Who knew Compassion was-“ He touched his lips, smiling, and tossed a small amber ball of light toward the basin. Runes etched along its sides lit copper and blue and a billow of steam accompanied the sound of flowing water. “I withdraw,” he murmured apologetically. “Please, be at peace, the both of you. We have to hold our position until we move on Haven. I merely…” he hummed, smiling. “Well, I’ve never dressed a spirit before. Would you allow me to try, Cole? If only for a short time.”

Cole glanced up at Aran, a frown in his gaze, but he nodded slightly. 

“Excellent,” Rilienus’ eyes gleamed. “I have been needing a challenge.”

Aran breathed the steam and incense, the sweet and subtle scents of chamomile and cardamom and elfroot. Cole remained quiet and still at his side, his gaze focused on something Aran couldn’t see or maybe nothing; perhaps he was simply staring into empty air as a means of avoiding Rilienus’ study. It had taken Aran months to get used to the man’s penetrating gaze and the quick smirk that appeared and disappeared from his full lips like an unpredictable tide. 

Aran yawned, rising from the bath and pulling a thick woolen robe around himself, stepping into sheepskin lined boots on his way out of the tent, leaving them absorbed in their thoughts. The camp was impressive. Sprawling. Tucked in and around the few small farm houses in the lower valley. Only a day’s ride out of Haven, but undetected between the forests and the mountain. 

He paused by a campfire, warming his hands, and watched a few young Tevinter noblemen and women gather to laugh and nudge each other as a local shepherd boy chased his flock in circles. One of the women leaned forward on a fence, long and tanned, her movement creating a soft bellsong as the dark rings of her chainmail creased; she stretched out one gauntleted hand and opened her fingers, conjuring a ball of light in her palm, then sent it out with a light pop of her wrist. The light fled across the darkness, elongating and twisting as it moved, until it took on the form of a herding dog, scampering across the open snow to aid the child. The little boy stared at it agape as it swept around him, past him, and gathered his sheep, then followed its soft light trail back to the young knight. 

The slight widening of his lips from shock to wonder, the crease of his eyes from fear to thanks. That was all it took. Small, simple gifts. Such simple offerings to change the course of a nation. To show them that magic could be as good and kind as it was fearsome.

He shivered as the wind seemed to call his name, pulling the hood up over his head and padding to the edge of the camp to gaze up at the trees on the ledge above. He could see the soft light of the wards that protected and hid the camp, like starlight reflecting in the snow but for their forms - runes and glyphs and ebony stones every few paces to anchor the magic in place. 

“Aran-”

He turned, hearing his name on the wind again. Rilienus calling him back? Cole in his mind? The sound of cracking, crunching frozen snowpack drew his gaze across the ward line to the few feet of glistening white between the camp and the trees. Someone coming? Though there was no one. No movement in the shadows of the trees. No shadows moving on the ledge above. He heard the sound again, and this time looked down to the snow itself. It flexed in the moonlight, then flexed again like canvas being pressed from the otherside. Flexed until it gave way and a dark hand thrust up and through. Then a second hand. Golden rings and gemstones gleaming with the snowmelt. Arms. A pair of dark eyes peering up through the hole in the ground.

Aran stepped through the wards, feeling the lightest pull of threads across his face as he rushed to take Dorian’s hands. He’d been expecting cold from the snow, but they were hot, the familiar rings warmed so much they stung against his own chilled digits. 

Dorian grasped him, climbing his arms like a rope, “Where have you been?”

“Here. I’ve been here.”

“You were supposed to be in Haven.”

“I thought you were dead,” he panted, tugging Dorian out of the earth and snow and collapsing backwards with him. “What are you doing in the ground?”

“I wasn’t in the ground; there was a wall.” Dorian frowned, settling on his elbows above Aran to rake his burning gaze over him. “Where is here? Where are we?”

“Not far from Haven.”

“You thought I was dead, so you opted to freeze yourself in the middle of the wilderness?”

“I was in this… trance almost? And then I wasn’t. And Miranda was outside talking to someone, so I bolted through the window and headed for the ridge. I went to help them with the Breach. Then-” He licked his lips, tracing Dorian’s jaw on a sigh. “Cole’s here.”

“Yes, of course he is, but where?” His hands were warm wherever they touched, sending bolts of heat through Aran’s robes and down his spine. He lifted Aran’s chin and peered into his eyes, gold gleaming over the dark of his gaze like a fire’s reflection. “They closed the Breach hours ago. The others straggled home.”

“How many survived the fight on the ridge?”

“Most. Varric and Fenris are missing; the Champion of Kirkwall went to look for them. They lost four mages in the assault on the ridge, but everyone else came back. No one knew where you were, where you’d gone-”

“I- It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it.”

“How did you find me?”

“How could I not? As soon as I fell asleep, I could feel where you were. Foolish of me not to have thought of that sooner.”

“When you fell- This is the Fade?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know I was dreaming.”

“We both are.” Dorian frowned. “I could feel you. I could feel you here, waiting, like a distant bell. It was as though I was being called- so I followed that song until I found the wall.”
“What wall?”

Dorian leaned down, pressing his forehead to Aran’s, and his robes billowed out and around them like a blanket, sealing away the chill. “The wall you’ve been hiding behind. You and Cole.” He sighed. “But you’re here. You’re here now. And you know where he is.”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Let’s find him then. Once I see where you are, I can guide you both back to Haven.” He kissed him then, honeycomb melting over his lips, and Aran hummed against him, wrapping his arms around him to hold him close. “Aran,” he sighed, cupping his cheek. 

“Corypheus is coming. He knew when the Breach was sealed, just as he did with us. He’s coming. With Templars, tainted ones.” Aran kissed him, “You have to warn them.”

“Part of your dream-“

“No, Dorian. Rilienus is here. He told me.”

“Rilienus?”

“With an army. It’s been the same world all along: this and Seth and the Archon and the gods know what else.” He winced, thinking of Seth. “Fenris is here, too. And Varric. Seth needs to know they’re alright. And Haven needs to prepare. Get the villagers and the priestesses somewhere safe.” 

Dorian stared at him. “Now?”

“They’ve drawn him out. He’s weak. We can end it. We can end all of it for this world, right now.” He stroked his fingers into Dorian’s hair, “And then we can get away from all of this. You’re right. You were right from the beginning. We need to use this time to find a way to get home. That’s where we belong.”

“We do.” Dorian sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging below an invisible weight. “What ripples will this monumental change cause in this world, I wonder? A Tevinter army hasn’t come this far south in…” His eyelids fluttered closed. “Come back to me and we’ll muddle through the rest. Yes?”

“Haven. Alright.” Aran gripped his hands. “Just wait for me. I have to do something first. Before I go.”

Dorian exhaled a hiss, shaking his head. “Don’t tarry. And don’t get distracted.”

“Who, me?” he laughed, a little manic. “Distracted? When have I ever been distracted?”

“I’m being quite serious.” Dorian cupped Aran’s cheek, tilting his head from side to side. “I need to speak with you. And… other things. But-“ He smiled, pressing his forehead to Aran’s, the scratch of his beard rough against his cheeks. “You’ve finally realized I’m right. It’s so often the case I’m surprised it’s taken you so long.”

“Oh, very funny. Nearly dying has clearly muddled your memory. No worries. You’ll get used to it.”

“I certainly hope not.” 

“Well, I did. Maybe we can find a way- Get home and find a way to not have to-” He gritted his teeth. “Right. Sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for.” Dorian quirked a brow, before brushing his lips to Aran’s. “So long as you hurry with whatever task you’re finding more important than coming back to me.”

“Oh. Well. Ril sort of- He’s got Fenris and Varric. He’s… not great with prisoners. How’s that?” he squinted. “I just need to talk him down. I think.”

Dorian blinked, exhaling sharply. “Vishante kaffas, why does everything need to be so-“ He took Aran’s hand, pressing a mana-infused kiss to his knuckles. “By all means, try and keep our friends from being murdered by our other friends, will you? I’ll be waiting.”

“I’ll do my best.” He thumbed Dorian’s lower lip. Alive. They were both alive and they could get through this, if only- “Maybe don’t mention the whole kidnapping thing to anyone at Haven; would kind of crimp the whole plan your countrymen have going.”

“Oh, I had absolutely no intention to do any such thing.” Dorian kissed his thumb gently. “Circles within circles, Amatus. I’ll try and nudge them into making preparations without alerting them to the source of your intelligence, and then when you’re ready, I’ll lead you back.”

“How do I find you when I am?” Aran searched his eyes. Shining and bright and- the Fade made colors strange. He tilted his head. “Can you see through the wall now? What if his knights seal it again?”

“Leave its perimeter, of course.” Dorian chuckled. “Spare me the trouble of unweaving Rilienus’ wards, if you’d be so kind. There’s enough going on here without making my eyes bleed staring at his patterns.”

“Were his spells so complex, even when you knew him?”

“When I knew him, we were teenagers, and he didn’t particularly trust me. So, yes, though maybe not so refined as now.” Dorian drew him close, exhaling cardamom and brandy as he kissed him gently. “I thought we agreed to no distractions, hm? Unless… Would you rather I come to you instead? It may save a bit of time, in the end.”

“Would I rather- yes. Yes, I would rather that, very much. I can also see how it might send the Seeker into a full panic if people keep disappearing into the aether, but- fuck, if I go and you’re not with me- I don’t know what will happen.”

“I’ll handle her.” Dorian gave him a small, reserved smile. Weary, eyes lined, even through the shadows of the Fade. “And this. Just keep Rilienus in check for a touch longer, yes? Distract him - and yourself, if you’d like - however you see fit and I’ll be there before you know it.”

“Good.” Relief and exhaustion weighed him down in equal measure. He wrapped his arms around Dorian, face pressed to his shoulder. Planes of muscle and hints of spice. Familiar. Familiar. “Good. Be careful. I’ll-“ He flexed his hands at Dorian’s back, holding him tight. “We’ll be here. Right?”

“So long as you don’t go venturing off into the wilderness again on your own, yes, I imagine you will be.” Dorian raised a brow in a meaningful glance. “I love you, even as bloody maddening as you can be sometimes.”

“I thought you were dead,” Aran whispered. “The whole universe was a wilderness.”

“You think I’d leave you that easily?” Dorian ran his hands through Aran’s hair, drawing him closer. “No. It’ll take much more than a knife to the heart to keep me from you.”

Years they’d lost. A decade that was months to Dorian, dust in the wind. “Less knives,” he touched Dorian’s neck, brushing his fingers through the beard that attempted to conceal his features. “Less knives would be better.” He sniffed, summoning up a crooked smile. “Come soon, right? Come as soon as you can.”

“And as quickly as hooves can carry me,” Dorian nodded, cupping his cheeks to kiss him, his features becoming less tangible by the moment. “Rest, while you can, amatus; I’m not certain when we’ll next get the chance.”

He woke with his fingers pruned from the bath; Cole’s chin rested on the tub beside him. 

“I can get them out,” he whispered.

“They might not take kindly to that.”

Cole shrugged with a half smile.

“It would be better if they were freed, rather than trying to sneak out through an army of mages. For everyone’s sake.”

Only doing so meant finding Rilienus, talking to him, talking him down- and that was proving impossible as Aran scoured the camp. Thousands of knights and pikemen, banners catching each passing breeze in a snapping, ringing cacophony. It wasn’t long before one of the messengers he’d sent in search of Rilienus came back towards him at a run, but the news he brought was not what Aran had hoped for. “Consilior- My lord, the Archon has arrived at the edge of our encampment, and he doesn’t seem to be particularly pleased.”

“Where the Void is the general?” Aran asked for the twelfth time that night. 

“I was looking, my lord, but-“

“Keep looking. Find me when you’ve located him.”

“But the Archon-“

Dorian. His heart soared. Maker and Mother- “I will go to him. Where is he now?”

“Near the pasture, resting his horse. He was-“ The messenger pressed his lips together. “Well, he appeared to be glowing?”

Aran swiveled to look at him. “Pardon me?” 

“I’m just telling you-“ The fellow scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I asked someone else just to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating.”

What did it mean when a ranked mage said ‘glowing’ with sweat on his brow? “The Consort. Now, please.” He took off at a quick walk towards the pasture. Couldn’t run. Running was unseemly among Tevinters, especially Tevinters readying themselves for battle. He shoved his hands into his pockets, lengthening his stride as much as he could get away with until he reached the edge of the battlements and the pasture and-

Glowing. Golden light radiating around him in an almost tangible aura. 

Alive. Ril had shown him and he’d felt it in dreams, but he was- Aran swallowed a sob, his eyes stinging as he vaulted the low fence. “A little dramatic, eh?” he inquired, his voice so tight with emotion that the words came out as a whisper. 

“Hm?” Dorian looked up from his tack, turning in a slow circle to meet Aran’s gaze. He glanced down at his hands then back up again. “Oh. Yes, that. A side effect, I think. I am waiting for it to wear off.” He leaned on his staff, taking slow steps towards Aran, wincing each time his left foot touched the ground. “Come here, will you?”

“What’s-” Aran touched his shoulder as he reached him, peering up into his face. Hard to see through the shine. The sheen. Glinting like sun catching on armor, though he was only in simple robes. “What side effect? What- I thought you said you were alright.” 

“I’m alive, clearly, and as far as I’m concerned that’s fairly positive, given my state a short while ago.” Dorian tilted his head to the side, eyes bright as a cat’s at night. “Casting has been a bit of a- Well, I tried to light a candle last night and shattered all of the windows in the healer’s hut. So. There’s that. Good to see you, too.”

Aran scruffed his hand through his hair, grimacing. “Yes- Of course, it’s- It’s just- Damn, you’re bright. Hi.” He leaned up on his toes, hooking his arms around Dorian’s neck. “We ought to get you inside before the Archon gets a reputation. We’ll figure out what’s going on. I love you, you know that?”

“I know that.” Dorian wrapped his arms around him, skin as warm as the Minrathous sun, snow sizzling under his boots. “And I would hope the Archon already has one, being as he is, in a sense, me.”

“Aye, but not a- I mean, they call him the Bright Star, but he doesn’t actually shine like one. You know?”

“Well, perhaps he should consider it.” Dorian glanced around the camp, waving away a pair of onlookers. “Fine, fine, you can hide me away for a time. Where is Rilienus?”

“I don’t know. I was looking for him. He’s dashed hard to find when he doesn’t want to be. Cole went to keep an eye on-” Aran frowned. “Let’s get you inside.” He took him by the arm, studying Dorian’s limp and his grip on his staff out of the corner of his eye. “There are healers here, plenty. I could ask-“

“I’m fine, relatively speaking, and have had enough healers for a good while.” Dorian sighed, hand tight on his staff. “Let’s just settle this matter, hm?”

“He’s eager to see you.” Aran tucked his head to the side as they wound through the snowy camp back to Rilienus’ tent. “He’ll be pleased to see you’ve gotten rid of the beard.”

“…how did he know about-“ 

“Something about the mark?” Aran tapped his arm. “And some residual something? He pulled you up in a mirror.”

“The mark, yes.” Dorian pressed his lips together. “I have a little more than a hunch that’s why I’m a bit more radiant than usual.”

“Because of the ritual?” Aran squinted. “I didn’t think- What would it have-“ He pulled the heavy fur aside to usher Dorian inside. The high-ceiling of the tent was awash in dangling metal spheres filled with magelight and thick, dark fabrics spilled richly over every surface. He poured wine into a pair of goblets and passed one to Dorian, perching on the edge of a table. “It did something to your magic? Is that possible?”

“The ritual didn’t precisely come with a helpful manual, Amatus,” Dorian took the glass, dropping to a settee with a groan. “I can feel you; I could feel you even when you were behind the wards, but now- Gods, it’s like you’re breathing from my lungs. I’ll need to study the link, perform some tests-”

“Grand.”

“-but it seems as though there’s been a sort of transference of some of the arcane energies that plague you. Not such a problem, as you’re not accustomed to precise casting yourself, but for me- Everything is tilted off its proper axis and I’m reluctant to put anything to practice near people or without the protection of enormously powerful wards.”

“Like lighting candles.” Aran frowned, biting his lip. “Should I- I don’t know- breathe more quietly?”

“No. No.” Dorian traced the rim of his glass, leaning his head back against the tall backed chair. “It’s a relief. Knowing that wherever you might be, you’re alive. It’s more than I’ve had before.”

“You don’t… hear anything else, do you?” Aran squinted, settling onto an ottoman beside him. 

“Until I passed through the wards, it was too muffled to make out anything.” Dorian raised a brow. “Was there something I ought not hear?”

“Ah, you know- ancient gods, strange prophecies, the usual.” Aran rested his chin on his knee, smiling warily as he tapped his temple. “It’s a mess up here.”

“The most interesting matters usually are a bit tangled, yes.” Dorian took a sip and set his goblet aside. “You could come a bit closer, you know. I’m not going to disintegrate.”

“Since you ask so nicely.” He slipped to the arm of Dorian’s chair, resting his arm around his shoulder. “You seem sturdy enough.”

“Time and exercise, Anders said.” Dorian took Aran’s hand in his own. “I didn’t particularly enjoy waking up without you. Let’s not make it a habit, alright?”

Months and years. Aran pressed his nose behind Dorian’s ear, breathing him in. Coriander and the spike of chill still in the process of melting and him. “Aye. Good plan,” he murmured, kissing his neck. “Less waking and less sleeping. Time to make up for.”

“I can feel your heartbeat, too,” Dorian whispered, drawing him closer to splay his palm against Aran’s chest. “And not just when you’re close. How long do you think we have before the general returns to roost?”

“I’ve no idea. I didn’t think he’d be gone this long, to be honest.” Aran melted against him, embraced by the heady scent of him and the strength of his hands and the subtle shift of his voice when he grew tender and wanton. “You’re getting to know me a bit too well, I think. In my head one day. Listening to my breath and beat the next. You’re going to run out of things.”

“On the contrary,” Dorian smoothed his hand down Aran’s jerkin, skin glowing faintly red like coals left in a fire pit. “Only after years of careful study does one come to fully appreciate all the delightful little nuances associated with the subject of their interest. Like you said,” he lifted his chin to brush his lips to Aran’s, “time to make up for.”

Aran grinned- and then panicked as the lights doused and a spray of runes rippled through the interior of the tent like water pouring upwards. “My, my,” Rilienus’ voice slid through the dark like silk. “What have we here. A doppelgänger. Fascinating.” Rilienus strolled out of the shadow, casting the sconces back on to light the interior again. “I did see you before, of course, but there was so much ghastly hair in the way.”

“Rilienus,” Dorian cleared his throat, rising slowly as he disentangled himself from Aran. “You’ve still got a knack for appearing at the most inopportune times, I see.”

“Inopportune,” he laughed, collecting Aran’s discarded wine and collapsing lazily into one of the arm chairs. “Is that how I am in this other world of yours? Araniolus never would tell me.”

“I didn’t know you there,” Aran murmured.

“I hardly did either, to my chagrin.” Dorian lifted a brow. “You seemed utterly immune to my charms when I knew you. Very disappointing, that.”

“Did I?” he asked, lips twitching with amusement. “What a foolish facsimile he must be. You’re leaking, by the way; would you mind if I just collected a tad of the offings?”

“Be my guest,” Dorian swept a hand through the air. “As you can see, I’ve more than I know what to do with at the moment. Though, you should be warned, it’s got a different sort of flavor than you might be accustomed to.”

“You might well be shocked at what I’m accustomed to.” Rilienus smirked, quaffing his glass and letting his eyes fall mostly shut as he began to whistle quietly. Like watching a slow moving river, the aura thickening around Dorian began to dance into a stream across the tent, slowly condensing into a honey-thick ichor in the empty glass, gleaming gold flecked rose wine. 

“I certainly never expected to see you south of the Minater.” Dorian shifted, a sharp intake of breath as he moved. “Care to tell me whose idea it was to bring a Tevinter army along for the ride: yours, or mine?”

The quiet, winding lure of sound simmered into silence as the glass filled to its brim and Rilienus lifted his gaze lazily. “His,” he nodded to Aran. 

“I never said-“

“That Corpyheus would destroy the world, if left unchecked. That he would undermine everything we have worked for in the north. That allowing him to complete his work could lead to your lupine lordling unraveling the boundaries of Thedas and sending us all headlong into what you swim through daily. You very much did. Much easier to kill a god before too many people start believing in him.” He sniffed the glass, dipping his pinky into the mana pooled there and licking it clean. “Spicy.”

“And your plans to put a stop to that are what precisely, if you don’t mind me asking?” Dorian peered at Rilienus curiously, hands laced in his lap, the amber glow slowly suffusing his skin once more. “Cause the entire south to believe you’re intent on remaking the Imperium of old?”

“Of old? No. Intent? No. We have built something entirely new. It’s going quite well, actually, to the dismay and adulation of our neighbors. I don’t, frankly, care what the goat-herders have in mind,” he sipped, exhaling a low hum of pleasure. “They seem incapable of handling the matter in a timely and concise manner in any of the worlds I’ve learned of. Someone has to.”

“You’ve made both your lack of empathy and understanding of Ferelden quite clear by bringing a bloody force here,” Dorian exhaled sharply. “This is precisely the sort of ill-conceived nonsense I might’ve concocted if I’d never left Tevinter’s shores. You could cause a war, Rilienus, and then what’ll all of your work be for?”

“A war,” Rilienus purred. “With Ferelden. How do you imagine that might go? Would Anora send a little collection of pikemen to make druffalo kebabs for us? No, I very much doubt that she’ll do anything of the kind. This country is on its last legs as it is. They have no mages that will stand with them and their Templars, which were their strength, are now all of a rather sunset hue and about to be dispatched. In any case, if we were going to start a war, we’d do it with Antiva. I jest. Seheron, obviously.”

“The Inquisition, at least, deserves to know.” Dorian leaned against the back of the settee, taking up his wine again. “They think it’s over, and though I advised vigilance before departing this morning, they’ve no idea you’re here, or precisely what is coming for them.”

Aran hugged him about the shoulders. That was his Dorian, there; brilliant and thoughtful and clever and-

“One does not warn the mouse when one is trying to catch a cat,” Rilienus sniffed. “This ancient imbecile is weak, weakened by us, and he will only make his move when he is certain of his victory. So we will allow him to be certain, and then he will be crushed like an eggshell, and they can thank us when it is done.” 

“They will not,” Dorian said quietly, placing his hand over Aran’s. “They will not thank you when this is over if you continue on this path, of that I am certain. Do you trust me, Rilienus?”

“You taste very nice, darling, and your shape is pleasing, as expected, but you don’t know this world as I know it.” Rilienus thumbed the rim of his glass. “You are not my Archon, and my Archon has plans. That said, I am quite content to know you. Perhaps you may find some way of convincing me. I can think of a dozen.”

“I may not know this world, but I know the Inquisition.”

“Ah, you know yours. You know what they become if they are allowed to do so.” Rilienus cocked his head to the side. “That isn’t necessary here. The matter is well in hand.”

Aran straightened. “What- What are you talking about?”

“Araniolus,” he purred, waving his hand idly. “We are quite, quite secure. There’s no need for them to go scurrying about causing trouble across borders.”

“What are you saying?” Dorian narrowed his eyes. “You don’t mean for them to survive this, do you?”

“Oh, the people of Haven, of course. Barriers and shields will protect them well enough. But ‘the Inquisition’? I think not. It’s unnecessary. We have controlled the flow and harvest of the volatile lyrium. In a matter of days, this Corypheus and all his mess of Templar converts will be dotting the snow as corpses. A new Divine will need to ascend to keep the Southerners happy; one, I plan, who will intelligently work with Felix towards a stronger and better union between our peoples. And beyond that- really, there are simply better uses for the would-be heroes than clustered together on a mountaintop that we have already taken residence in.” Rilienus shrugged. “And the Wolf. No point warning the wolf or letting him sink his claws deeper. The world, quite simply, can be saved. And so it will.”

“And if you fail?” Dorian met the mage’s gaze, steely eyed and resolute. “If you’ve underestimated Corypheus, as he underestimates the people of Haven?”

“Darling, he is planning for pikemen and untrained mages and peasants. He will not know that the Imperium’s fifth, eighth, and eleventh legions have hit him. He’ll simply be dead.”

“Ril-“

“And if, by some chance, he isn’t,” Rilienus leaned forward, grinning. “Wouldn’t that be interesting.” 

Aran swallowed, nerves twisting like snakes in his belly. He’d been feeding them information for years, from everywhere, to warn them, to keep them safe. He’d never thought- Was it possible that he was right? That they were right? That they could really solve everything in a few simple strokes? “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I am telling you. I’m telling you there is nothing to worry about.” He smiled, lazy and sharp. “This world, at least, will be exactly as it should be.”

“I would like to believe in your vision.” Dorian’s gaze dropped to the floor. “But I’ve scarcely found that matters end up being as simple as I’ve hoped for them to be. You understand this well, given your line of work, do you not? How many Magisters and Archons have fallen to overconfidence? I shouldn’t like to add you and yours to that list.”

“Oh, you are adorable,” Rilienus chuckled. “When this is settled, you’ll come back with us to Minrathous. You should see just what is possible. It is so much more than you can imagine.” He rose, drifting past them in a shiver of black silk and breeze and the tight scent of sharpened steel. “My Archon would welcome you with open arms.”

“A kind offer, but there will be a great many pieces to pick up here, I imagine, if we’re even able to stay.” Dorian’s gaze followed Rilienus across the room, his mouth in a tight line. “Perhaps one day, if we’re so lucky.”

Rilienus glanced back at them over his shoulder, pouring the contents of his wine glass into a thick glass vial. “My lord does have a stubborn streak. Don’t you wish to see what is the same and what is different? We have been nearly incendiary with curiosity.”

“My only wishes at the moment, Rilienus, are for you to allow me to reunite the prisoners you’ve taken with their Champion, give me your leave to give the Herald and the Nightingale a hint of what is coming, and lower myself into an exceedingly long and scaldingly hot bath in a depressingly small cabin in Haven before all the madness.” Dorian sighed, shoulders heavy and eyes lined, despite the gilding of his skin. “Please. I just came back from the dead. Allow me this, will you?”

“Ah.” Rilienus squinted. “At the risk of putting our novel friendship at risk- no, to the first two, at least. The bath, however, I am happy to provide.” He nodded towards the wide dark marble tub in the corner. “Be at home.”

“Ril,” Aran squinted. “Varric and Fenris are-“

“Meddlers,” Rilienus interrupted implacably. “Fenris, yes. I wasn’t certain at first, but I did manage some small amount of reconnaissance. Are you aware that he’s dispatched several of our scouts? Unpleasantly, too. I’m not going to let them go killing any more innocents. They’ll see a tribunal. If the Champion of the Free Marches wishes to speak on their behalf, he is welcome to. When more pressing matters are complete.”

“This is our mess, Aran’s and mine, and our responsibility.” Dorian glanced up at Rilienus, frowning. “They wouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place, if not for us.” He wrinkled his nose, flexing his hands in his robes. “There are manners by which one can be made to forget what one has seen. I hope you realize I do not suggest this lightly. Please, Rilienus, if you cannot grant me my second request, at least reconsider my first.”

“I have explained, I think, why I am disinclined to consider either.” He lifted his bearded chin, a steadiness in his movements that spoke of that deep well of surety that Aran had come to know so well. “You are worried for strangers who bear a resemblance to your friends and I empathize, truly, but you do not need to worry. Those that remain at Haven will be fine. More than fine. Protected and sheltered by the Imperium’s best. The novelist will be free to plead his case, and the mage-killer as well- something the Archon’s predecessor would not have allowed. Perhaps there are extenuating circumstances by which he might make a case. I will not be the judge of that.” He pressed a stopper into the vial and poured thick blue wax over top to seal it. “I have orders, you understand. There are laws. One unfortunate portion of dismantling the old Imperium has been the freedoms of the leadership. Murder of Imperial citizens is murder. That is all.” He blew an ice wind across the wax and set the vial on a narrow shelf. “Now. Can I send for anything? Food, perhaps? A healer?” He flicked his fingers towards the tub and it began to fill with steaming water. “Perhaps the spirit you sent to stand guard over your kidnappers?” He glanced at Aran with a lifted brow. “I told you I wouldn’t touch a hair on their heads. When have I ever lied to you?”

“You have a temper.”

“Everyone has a temper. Anyone who seems not to is planning something.” Rilienus crossed his arms. “I know yours as you know mine. And yet.”

Aran frowned. “A tribunal.”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“Then I’ll stand as witness for them.”

“That should secure their place in a cell very neatly, thank you.” Rilienus rolled his eyes. “What in the measure of Thedas’ borders do you imagine you might say? They drugged me and kidnapped me but they meant well? And how do you imagine that will affect our purpose in the Imperium, when the Consilior admits to being bested by a dwarf and an elf?”

Aran rose, gripping Dorian’s hand. “They were protecting their own.”

“Well and good, then let their own defend them.”

“You’re not in the Imperium,” Dorian exhaled sharply. “To them, you look like invaders in a foreign land. They’re terrified of us, for good reason, and this campaign of yours will only further their fear. I know you think you can manage this all on your own, but I’ve tried and I can’t, Rilienus. We need friends, ones who can challenge our worst impulses and encourage the better ones” He closed his eyes, shaking his head, voice growing deep and wistful. “In my world, I used to watch a version of you sit on the ramparts in the morning, still as a statue, gazing out over the shadow of the city as it woke from its slumber. I wondered what he thought of during his morning rituals, and if it brought him peace. I wondered if there might be a place where I could find it, myself. Have you?”

“Oh, yes,” Rilienus smiled softly. “I have found peace. And so has Dorian,” he lifted his brows. “My Dorian. Delightfully so.” He stepped towards them, folding smoothly onto a short velvet bench at the foot of his bed. “Shall I tell you what I thought of on the ramparts of the Order of Argent? I cannot speak for this other self, but I can tell you the dream I held.”

“If it’d please you,” Dorian squeezed Aran’s hand lightly, glancing towards the opening to the tent and crossing to sit beside Rilienus, wearing an inscrutable expression. “I’d like to hear it.”

“I dreamed of revenge on the world that had chained me and put me in a box, tried to change me into something I couldn’t recognize. I dreamed of tearing every stone of Minrathous down. My whole world was blood. And then Aran drew me out of the dark and showed me him. That torch that I’d watched from afar, guttered and bound, and I saw what the world might be if we let it go on. I saw what the world could be, if we changed it, changed all of it from the foundation to the rafters. And we have.” Rilienus beamed, baring his teeth. “And we will. No more chains. Never again.”

“Never again,” Aran whispered. 

“Remember that dream and your new one,” Dorian nodded solemnly, his voice low and steady. “Think of them morning, noon, and night. If your Archon ever strays from it, I hope you will be brave enough to put a knife through his back before he can tear the world asunder.”

“We are the ones putting it back together,” Rilienus patted him on the shoulder gently. “You’ll see. It’s a brave new world.” 

Aran ducked his head, resting his cheek to his hands, curling in the chair Dorian had abandoned. “It will be. But Fenris-“

“-will get his trial,” Rilienus lifted his brows. “There’s nothing more to discuss. He’s out of my hands.”

“In that case, there’s no reason for us to remain any longer.” Dorian rose, sparkling as he dusted off his robes. “Thank you for the wine and the pleasant company.”

“You’re not leaving,” Rilienus murmured. “But you’re welcome, all the same.”

“I beg your pardon?” Dorian spun to face him. “We jolly well are.”

“You are so like him, it’s uncanny, but no. There are gears in motion, you see, and also- You’re dreadfully resonant. Outside of my wards, this self-proclaimed elder god will smell you from miles away if he’s worth a whit of his reputation. You need to siphon off a great deal more of your power, and that bond the two of you have forged requires investigation. You’re much better off here until the Templars and their leader are dealt with.”

“If you wish to keep me,” Dorian hissed, the light in his eyes flashing purple, “you’ll need to put me in chains yourself.”

“If you wish for all of those people you claim you wish to protect to die, for thousands more after them to die, because you would prefer to prioritize your pride over reason, then I think you are a far cry from the Dorian that I know,” Rilienus quirked a brow, folding his hands in his lap. “I certainly can’t stop you. I can only appeal to your sense of what is right.”

“What you believe is right.”

“If we do not stop him now, Corypheus will kill dozens, hundreds, thousands, more. That is a fact, proven in six separate timelines that I’m aware of.”

Aran chewed his lip, looking between them with a rising concern. “He has a point, cuisle mo chroi.”

“Fine.” Dorian threw up his hands and stalked away. “Your bloody world, your bloody choice. If it’s all the same to you both, I’d rather not stay in this thrice-damned tent and look at you for a moment longer, though.”

Aran staggered to his feet as Dorian swept out of the tent, “I don’t-“

“Just keep it inside of the camp wards, if you can,” Rilienus waved him off. “It will be a challenge to maintain the cloak otherwise.”

Aran scowled, taking off. The night air was frigid, biting his cheeks as he ducked out of the protection of the tent, following Dorian’s footprints through the snow until he reached him and touched his elbow. “What is the matter? I thought you liked him.”

“I do like him. I did like him.” 

“Then why are we freezing in the snow?” 

“Because, I just spent the last half hour looking into a crooked mirror of myself and finding it horrifying.”

“What-” Aran squinted. “But you didn’t- What’s horrifying? I don’t understand. It’s- strange, I know, seeing people who aren’t the way you remember them, the way you picture them in your head, but- you’ve been handling it really well-”

“This version of me has decided he knows better than anyone else in the world and will trample anyone who disagrees with his vision.” Dorian was narrow-eyed and gleaming. “He and his hound are so drunk off their own power they can’t see - or don’t care to see the myriad ways in which this can go terribly wrong.”

“Wrong?” Aran scrubbed his hands through his hair. “What’s so wrong? If it were me in that Chantry and an untainted Tevinter came in to save us, I’d have welcomed them with open arms. Anything to save us, to save those we lost. Wouldn’t you?”

“They’re using them as bait.”

“So what? If they’re bait and they survive, who cares?”

“I do! They’re not people to him; you heard him going on about mice and cats and-“ Dorian rubbed his hand across a freshly shaven cheek padding over towards an untended fire and dropping down with a grunt to warm his hands. “Go back and drink if you wish, celebrate another victory for your Archon. I’ll not stop you.”

“Dorian,” he sank to Dorian’s side, studying his profile in the firelight. It almost disguised the gleam of his power. Almost. Aran hugged his robes tighter against the wind. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think- It didn’t occur to me you’d mind meeting them, either of them. I thought- I don’t know. I didn’t expect you to-” He bit his lip, winding his hands together. “I’ve told you so much and I thought you’d sort of… know what to expect, right?”

“That they’ve been using you,” Dorian whispered, eyes focused on the flames. “That he’s been- That I’ve been- What else have they kept from you, I wonder, now that you’ve put them in power? What other lies have they fed you, themselves, so that they can- Vishante kaffas, I don’t trust that man as far as I can throw him and in my state I doubt I could even pick him up.”

“They’re not lying to me. They’re not using me. They’re only trying to do what’s right, what’s necessary.” Aran pressed his thumb beneath his ear as a headache began to set in. “You didn’t see what they did to- I pray you never have to know what he went through. What I had to stand by and let them get away with to get him this far. It has to be worth it, somehow. It has to.”

“Why? Why does it have to be anything other than abjectly awful?”

“Because if that’s all it is- if I have to dream of the echoes of your screams and see the hollowness in your eyes when I shut my own and it was for nothing-” Aran shuddered. “If it was for nothing, I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself. I’m not sure I can anyway.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t.” Dorian turned towards him, eyes suspiciously damp. “Have you ever stopped to think your efforts to save everyone might, in fact, be making everything indescribably worse?”

A laugh escaped him, tearing at his throat as it clawed out, followed by its brethren. Aran sniffed, pressing his palms over his eyes. “Ah. That.” He choked on a sob that slipped in with the laughter. “Aye. Only a few hundred times a day.”

“I need space,” Dorian turned back to the fire. “Tell the general I don’t intend to interfere with his plans. I’ll stay behind his wards. Don’t ask me for anything else for the time being.”

“Right.” He tried to swallow, but there was glass in every muscle. His eyes burned. “Right.” He climbed carefully to his feet. “Dorian… Do you wish you’d stayed in Skyhold?”

“No,” Dorian shook his head, running his hand through his hair. “No. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I just-“ He swallowed slowly. “Air and time to think. Please.”

“Sure thing. Time. I’ve got loads of that.” Aran tucked his fingers into the folds of the robe, hunching his shoulders as he left the fire behind. He felt the heat ebb away as he walked, watching the stars twinkling sweetly in the night sky. There’d been a time he’d looked at just this sky and been so full of hope and exhausted wonder that he’d wept. He pressed his teeth together, shivering, and let the tears freeze on his cheeks in the dark. 

Chapter Text

Waking to someone lapping at his cheek wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar experience at that point, but seeing that tongue combined with a pair of beady eyes and overly large ears covered in soft taupe fur first thing in the morning was certainly a first. Dorian scrambled away from the fennec that had, evidently, been enjoying the salt from his skin, spitting out sand as the creature scurried off behind a scrubby little bush. 

Gone was the opal laden army and the surprisingly comfortable bedroll he’d picked up from the Tevinter quartermaster. Gone were the tents and the flapping banners. Gone were his countrymen with their well-intentioned campaign that set Dorian’s teeth on edge and snakes slithering through his belly. 

And with them all, so was Aran. Nowhere to be found, in a desert, with no sign of civilization anywhere. So far as the eye could see, there was only sand, low scrub brush, and the vultures who were very excitedly circling over his head.

It was like this, then. Every time? This sense of being tugged roughly through time and space and then… being lost. Again and again.

Gods, he’d been so cruel when they’d last spoken. Of course Aran had thought about the consequences of his actions. Had tried, certainly, anyway. How well could one predict an outcome when one was struggling to attain a context? Dorian groaned, rolling over, the skin across his chest still tight against the wound that had very nearly killed him. 

“Dorian!” He heard the panicked shout, somewhere in the blinding, scorching sand. “Dorian?!”

Dorian climbed to his feet, sand cascading from his too-warm robes, arm lifted over his forehead to try and block out some of the sun. He was still sizzling with mana, sand turning to glass beneath his feet as he walked. “Kaffas,” he muttered, finding grit on his tongue. He shouted, “Where are you?”

He heard a bark of mad laughter from the direction of the ragged, eye-burning sun and the slippery water sounds of sand under feet until a figure emerged as shadow at first, then took shape - short and wiry and running full tilt as the ground gave way beneath his feet, the Tevene robes grasped in his hand and flying behind him like a flag. “You’re here! You made it! You’re here!” Aran catapulted full tilt into him, throwing his arms around him. “Fuck, I thought I’d lost you.”

“Careful- agh-“ A sharp pain jolted through Dorian’s body as he groaned. “I’m here,” he gasped. He stroked those familiar, pale curls. “We’re here together.” Thank the Maker. So it had worked, after all. Dorian brushed his lips to Aran’s, his fears and insecurities melting away, replaced with the simple joy of being able to hold him. To be with him, by the gods, no matter what, and to not trapped forever in a world that wasn’t his own. “Maker’s tears, I love you.”

“I love you,” Aran gasped, his fingers winding into Dorian’s hair. “I’ve been looking for ages. I couldn’t find you. I thought you’d-“ He tugged at Dorian’s lower lip with his teeth. “I love you, I love you, I’m sorry, I’ll never do anything again just don’t go away-“

“Hush, I’m sorry,” Dorian breathed, his eyes stinging again. Aran had been holding the weight of a hundred worlds on his shoulders for nearly a decade now and Dorian had blamed him for doing what he’d needed to survive. “You don’t need to worry about that, amatus; I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“Right,” he croaked, burying his face against Dorian’s neck. He sniffled, blinking hard as he lifted his head. “We have to find shelter or we’re going to boil. First things first.” He squinted into the endless sun and flat sands. “Fuck, I’ve no idea where we are. Is that a mountain or just the sun acting strange?”

“You said you’ve been ambling about; did you see anything more than these sad little trees?” Dorian asked. It was an effort not to fall against him bodily from the sheer exhaustion of the last few hours. Days. His chest still ached where Cole’s dagger had sliced and it was unlikely he’d be finding any herbs to kill the pain any time soon. “I believe it could be some sort of outcropping, based on how the shadows appear, but, gods, it’s so damned bright.”

“There was a patch of deathroot a ways back…” Aran turned, freckled features scrunched. “Somewhere that way, I think. I was using the robe for shade.” He puffed his cheeks out, grabbing the cloth from the ground and hefted it above their heads. “You need to teach me your trick with the heartbeat and lungs, aye, so I don’t panic every time I can’t see you.”

Dorian peeled out of his sweat stained robe and wrapped the sleeves around his forehead to keep out some of the sun and sand. “When we’ve found a pleasant little cave, we can work out all manner of things that need to get sorted.” He held out his hand, offering a slight smile along with it. “Yes?”

“Yes.” Aran clasped his hand, sticky with sweat, grimacing in the stinging sun. “Shelter. And water.” He blinked sweat from his eyes. “Let’s pray for an outcropping.” He looked skyward and shouted, “You hear that, you ancient, cranky elves? If you let us die out here, none of your dreams come true!” 

Dorian flexed his fingers out of habit, to condense the water around them into something they could drink and- “Damnit,” he hissed as a nearby patch of brush exploded into splinters. “You’d think I was a novice again.”

“And here I heard you were always perfect, even when you were a novice. Ril had these stories about how the Archon would waltz into a classroom, see a lesson for the first time, perform it perfectly and waltz out again.”

Dorian was liking the Archon less and less. He’d at least had the decency to act like it took a minute. Maybe even two, if he was trying to stay out of detention. “Another difference between us, I suppose.” 

“Your bowstring’s wound too tight, right,” Aran panted. “Just take your time. You’ll get used to… whatever this is. Once we, you know, figure out what exactly we’ve done.” What I’ve done, Dorian wanted to remind him. Dorian, after all, had not only found the scroll hidden in Aran’s impressive memory, but decided to read it, cast it, and made them… whatever this was. All Aran had done was, foolishly, trust him. “Sort of reminds me of when I was in the Chantry,” Aran was saying as they started off away from the sun. “I was so tightly strung there, you know? Everything had to be just fucking perfect. The right inks. The right angles. Made me a positive menace to be around.”

“I thought you were always seducing Chanters and going fishing.”

“Ta, and why do you think I sought such stress relief?” Aran smiled wryly. “To keep the barbed arrows of my wit from flying at the slightest provocation.”

“Pfft.” Dorian rolled his eyes, sighing. Barbed wit was one thing. A mage that couldn’t control his own bloody magic was worse than useless. “Let’s worry about that when we’ve found some shade. I just need to- Agh, I’m not used to having access to this much- I’ll think on it when I’m not melting.”

“Oh, good. You feel it, too. Neither of them ever let me get away with the misery of the heat up there, you know. Said I’d get used to it. Never did. Feckin’ nightmare weather. Sandstorms - Void and Deep.” He blew a puff of air up at his own forehead. “More hills though. This place is too flat for Tevinter.”

“Indeed.” Dorian frowned, glancing at the arid landscape. He wasn’t sure how much more he wanted to hear about the Archon or the maleficar Rilienus at the moment. It was going to take time to adjust to what they were doing, what they were capable of, who he might have been. “Actually…” He looked down at the trail of glassy footsteps he’d left behind. “Why don’t you go off a ways, over by that crooked tree in the distance? Perhaps if I can burn off some of the sheer volume of mana that’s pooling right now, I might be able to exert a modicum of control over my magic again.”

Aran’s lips pursed in frustration. He rubbed his wrist across his forehead, leaving a streak of dark sand. “If you think that’s best. Just- try not to get lost, right.” He squeezed Dorian’s hand lightly, then lifted his own in the air, backing away. “Go mad.”

Mad. This entire venture was mad, growing more so by the day. And whose fault was that? Dorian sighed. Self-recriminations wouldn’t help them now. They needed solutions. Dorian tried to relax, focusing on the unfamiliar buzz of the strange magic that had been flowing through him like a raging river ever since they’d performed that ritual. As soon as he could no longer make out Aran’s face in the distance, he released the careful hold he’d been maintaining on his mana, little by little. 

At least, that had been his intention. 

Once he opened the door, the power surged like a weighted line, trying to escape in one fell rush. The colors in the sky grew dimmer, everything cast in a blue-green hue as Dorian’s eyes raked across the horizon. Where Aran had been too far away to see just a moment before, Dorian could now spot sweat beading on his freckled forehead, dripping down his cheek as he batted at a fly. 

Dorian glanced down at his arm to see his blood-mark was moving, crawling up around his bicep to curl around his neck. And then, as he was suffused with strange mana, he began to stretch, impossibly, changing shape, arms lengthening and thickening, ridges forming on his skin and becoming metallic and shimmering. It should have hurt was all he could think. Stretching and reshaping his bones and skin. He’d been awake through healers work before and it was excruciating, but this… This felt…

Good.

He blinked, slow and lazy, dropping down to his hands and knees as he continued to grow, glittering and glimmering. Smoke puffed from his nostrils in thick, dark plumes.

Of course, he thought wildly. Hadn’t Aran mentioned Mythal could shift into the form of a dragon? That there were whispers in his mind constantly from her followers? Dorian let out a peal of giddy laughter, but the voice that echoed through the empty expanse of the desert wasn’t his own; a roar, ferocious and exuberant left his serpentine lips, followed by a belt of liquid-gold flame. 

That felt good, too. Releasing that heat. That energy. He was suddenly cool despite the baking sun. As relaxed and sated as from a long sauna.

He padded towards Aran, feeling for the first time in an age as though he were nearly invincible. Dorian dropped to the ground, nudging the slim man with his elongated snout, smoke curling around him in an odd halo.

“…Dorian?” Aran whispered. 

Dorian could hear Aran’s heartbeat like hummingbird wings. He could taste the wonder and fear that collected in Aran’s sweat to trace patterns down his skin: patterns like the fracturing scars that followed his veins, suffused with lyrium, glowing with his own internal light.

Aran stood still, his pulse jumping visibly in his throat, watching him nervously. “Are you… you?” he asked, his gaze roaming then skittering back to Dorian’s nostrils. 

Dorian nuzzled him with his nose, nearly knocking Aran over with his newfound strength. He blinked slowly, pulling back to allow Aran to regain his balance before extending a scaled paw towards him and resting it in the nearby sand.

Aran swallowed, the wild skitter of his attention traveling over Dorian again before he carefully stepped towards the paw and, hesitating, rested his fingers over the rise of one knuckle. “Void and Salt,” he whispered. “You’re a feckin’ dragon, mate.”

Dorian laughed, the rich sound reverberating deep within his chest, hot air billowing from his nostrils. He clasped Aran carefully in one claw and lifted him up towards his back. He could see the rise in the distance with clarity, rocky crags with a pool of water at the base, inviting them from across the desert. They’d never had made it, he could see now, not on human feet. As soon as he felt Aran flatten atop him, he took off towards the oasis at a hearty lope.

The air might as well have been a living thing itself. He tasted it as he ran, noting herbs and low trees and the frenzied sweat of creatures- fennecs and nugs and hyenas bounding low across the sand or burrowing beneath it as they passed.

Aran’s laughter, high and wild, ricocheted from his scales, swallowed by the desert that surrounded them. 

When they arrived at the pool, Dorian leapt into the crystal cool water with Aran still shouting and whooping from his back, creating a tidal wave that splashed along the smooth rocks. Dorian exhaled gilded light underneath the flow of a waterfall, mana leaking from his limbs as he began to shrink and become himself once more, scales transforming back into skin, his vision becoming brighter and less clear as he blinked away the reptilian eyes he’d used to traverse the desert he’d once thought featureless. He sighed contentedly, pressing his cheek to the blissfully cool stone, a delicious soreness taking root in his muscles and making his eyelids droop.

“You’ve got to stop saving me.” Aran slithered out of the waters and through the pour of the falls to climb over him. “It’s becoming a habit.” His fingers made Dorian’s skin tingle as he ran them across his brow and down the side of his neck. “You mad gorgeous feckin’ miracle.”

“You’ve turned me into a dragon.” Dorian smiled, tasting the sweat from Aran’s skin as he kissed him lazily. “I believe I owe you quite a few more heroic feats for that alone.”

“You did that.” Aran shook his head, wondering. “All I did was stand there and try not to piss myself.”

“Your magic did that.” Dorian nuzzled him, drawing him closer. “Your knowledge. Your goddess. You wondrous, delightful man.”

Aran’s fingers felt like dots of cool ice moving across Dorian’s scalp. He thumbed Dorian’s cheek. “You feel alright, though?”

“More than alright,” Dorian murmured, “Vibrant. Incandescent. Tired, yes, but fantastic otherwise. And-” He glanced down at his chest, where Cole’s dagger had pierced his heart, only to find pink, puckered skin. “Your goddess healed me, it seems, to an extent.”

“She does that,” he answered wryly. “When it suits her.” He slipped down to press his lips to Dorian’s chest, the lines of his back tensing as he wrapped his arms around him and held. “I’m very glad you’re alive.”

“Would it surprise you to know that I am, too?” Dorian rested his chin on the top of Aran’s head, running his fingers along the ridges of his spine. “If only to keep you company on this mad, dangerous sojourn.”

Aran chuckled softly, sighing. “My journal’s gone again.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll have to start another. Try to keep track.” He pressed his lips to Dorian’s chest, kissing the scar and continuing across his skin with soft, lingering touches. “You should have seen yourself. Gilded, reflecting the light like a sun yourself.”

“Watch out, amatus, you’re bordering on syrupy.” Dorian nudged him with his nose, breathing in the scent of ozone that lingered on his skin. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“I can get syrupy about dragons,” he mumbled, licking Dorian’s collarbone. “Not my fault you’re always the prettiest version of whatever you are.”

“It’s part of my charm, and my curse,” Dorian hummed, shivering under his touch. “I adore you, you know this?”

“Most of the time. More than I deserve, sure.” Aran nipped his skin, breathing deep as he skimmed a palm down Dorian’s side. “And you? Do you know what you are to me?”

“You’ve fallen in love with every iteration you’ve met of me.” Dorian murmured into his hair. “I think I understand.”

“Not true.” Aran lifted his head, solemn Fadeblue eyes meeting his own. “Not true. And not the point. You. Not your shape. You. This you.”

Dorian pressed his lips together, wrinkling his nose. “Yes. I’m delightful.”

“Look now, you can accept that you make my heart beat and give me hope in a completely unraveling existence or you can force me into attempting to make syrup out of dragons.”

“Too late.” Dorian’s chest was filled with butterfly wings, flitting in the too-tight space as he closed his eyes and held Aran as though he might slip away again. “Everything,” he whispered, eyes stinging. “As you are to me.”

“Aye.” Aran traced his brow, his cheeks, sliding up to follow each touch with kisses like feathers. “Everything.” His touch danced down the center of Dorian’s chest, then skimmed up the ladder of his ribs. “Everything and everywhere and everywhen.” 

“Mmhmm,” Dorian sighed, at peace for the first time in what felt like years, holding Aran as water poured down onto their shoulders. “Precisely so.”

“Thousands of strange and terrible and wondrous things,” Aran kissed the words around the shell of Dorian’s ear. “I still can’t entirely believe you’re here. I rode on your back and I can’t entirely believe you were a- You keep me guessing, Dorian Pavus. You after taking a dreaming time?”

“I think I need to, yes,” he hummed, eyes falling shut. “It’s been quite an eventful few days. Just for a little while or so.”

“Aye. Time and space, love. Time and space.” Aran kissed his forehead, settling in to curl at his side. “We’ve got plenty of that.”

Chapter Text

Dorian woke to the scent of smoke and cooking meat and the refreshing rush of fresh water. Aran knelt beside the waterfall, running a soft pink skin beneath the water and picking it clean with his fingers, casting glances towards a small campfire in the driest corner of the space. 

“You’ve been busy.” Dorian stretched his neck, working out the sore muscles as he sat up. “Was I out for long?”

“I don’t know. What’s ‘long’ for having just turned into a beast of feckin’ legend?” He stretched the nug skin across a rock, sitting back on his haunches to gaze at Dorian. “I need to collect things for a trap, but I didn’t want to go too far until you were awake. How are you feeling? I thought you’d be hungry. I was.”

“Ravenous.” Dorian crossed to sit at the edge of the flames. His love had a tendency to speak quickly for a variety of reasons, but this one struck him as nerves. Little wonder, Dorian considered. There was so much between them now that hadn’t been adequately put to bed. “Aran, I’m…” He cleared his throat, flexing his fingers over the fire. The shimmering, glittering light radiating from beneath his skin was gone again, and his magic felt, if not precisely normal, at least as though he wasn’t on the verge of bursting. “Last night. Or whenever it was. In that Haven… I wanted to apologize for everything I said. It was unkind and- I know you’re doing the best you can.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s good enough,” Aran muttered. His voice was light, but he looked away with an uncomfortable shrug. “Kindness, I think, doesn’t help a great deal when you’re trying to mend a sail in a storm. You’re right, probably. You usually are. I just…” He puffed out his cheeks, returning to the fire to nudge at the cooking meat on the flat stone in the center with a stick. “I don’t know. Ril and D- the Archon-” he amended quickly, rubbing his hands together. “They’ve saved my life so many times. They've saved my mind when I thought I was going to crack up. It never occurred to me that they’d haul south for anything; they’ve got enough going above the Minater. It never occurred to me that what we were doing up there might… I didn’t think about it. Just them. Shows how much I know.”

“I don’t disagree with them that the Tevinter forces will be far more effective at fighting Corypheus than our people at Haven were.” Dorian pressed his lips together, the memory of Rilienus’ eyes when he spoke of the world they’d built sending a shiver down his spine. “But your Rilienus’ disregard for Ferelden’s sovereignty gives me pause. They don’t seem to have even the slightest understanding of people south of Tevinter.”

“The only people from south of Tevinter they’ve really encountered have been… well… me? And the folk who’ve fled from the south - mostly mages. You have to give them a little slack. You know Tevinter.” Aran frowned at the rock. “The first couple years, culling the worst of the serpents, were… not pretty. Dorian probably just wants to avoid more bloodshed where it’s possible.” He glanced up. “The Archon, I mean. He’s been elbow-deep in gore long enough.” He dropped his eyes back to the meat. “And I’m making excuses. Fresh eyes are a good thing, aye. I’m not sure I could say what was right or wrong anymore, even if they were labeled with little colored flags.”

“I don’t envy him,” Dorian murmured, considering Aran’s wringing hands. “Your Archon. Not in the slightest.”

Aran squinted, turning the little filets over. “Did you think you would?”

“No, I suppose not.” Dorian peered at him as the meat crackled over the fire. “I really thought Rilienus would at least listen to me. I know he doesn’t know me, exactly, but- Maker, it’s strange seeing someone I thought I understood, at least on some level, and being so terribly, terribly wrong.”

“Tell me about it,” Aran muttered wryly. “Are they so different? You haven’t really told me much about the Ril you knew.” He tucked his knee up, resting his chin there, flipping the filets again. “He’s still there, somewhere, where we come from, aye?”

“I suppose he must be.” Dorian shook his head. “There was no reason for me to keep tabs on him, precisely. He was a prefect at the Order of Argent. He caught my attention. Where most of the people in his position took particular joy in meting out their punishments, he was surprisingly gentle. And he was quiet. Desperately private. Kind when no one was watching. He quite stole my young heart,” he admitted, warmth rising to his cheeks. “It’s not terribly often that I get rejected, and certainly not back then. It’s a bit embarrassing, really.”

“It’s not any less embarrassing when it happens regularly, I promise.” Aran blew a damp, white curl from his brow. “So you were… friends?”

“Oh, I’m not sure he’d have considered me even that, despite my best efforts.” Dorian wrinkled his nose. “As I said, he was very private.” 

“What, precisely, did you think you understood about him, then?” Aran asked.

And he was right to. Dorian shrugged helplessly. “I liked to watch his hands. He would play invisible harps when he was thinking, keeping watch over the disobedient. I liked the way he smiled at me: the secrets in his eyes that he never gave voice to. I spent such time imagining those hands and those eyes. I spent such time wondering what those secrets were. I suppose I imagined he would have stayed that way: dreamy and gentle and soft as silk.”

Aran tilted his head to the side, his lips twitching. “You had a crush.”

“You’re laughing at me.” Dorian sniffed, glancing away. “There’s no need to poke fun.”

“I’m not laughing at you. You just- You had a crush. It’s sweet.” Aran bit his lip, but it did nothing to conceal his spreading grin. “An unrequited crush, too. Maker, those are the worst, aren’t they?”

“Oh, hush.” 

“Probably the only time in your life you haven’t been able to bat your eyes and make someone melt.”

“Basically,” Dorian admitted. “It was very frustrating.”

“I can imagine.” Aran rubbed his nose, chuckling. “Poor lamb. And then he went and snubbed you again. The nerve.”

“Fool me twice,” Dorian grumbled. “It’s alright, the Rilienus we just met was a bit too much of a fanatic for my tastes.”

“Fanatic?” Aran quirked a brow, carefully lifting the meat from the center stone and moving it to a flat, wet stone beside the fire where it sizzled and smoked. “Ril?”

“I apologize. What I meant to say is: he’s…” Terrifying, but Dorian navigated around that thought as Aran waited. Rilienus had spoken with the same fervency as some of the Venatori they’d captured: the same language and expression, even though he stood in opposition to them; he might well have been fighting Corypheus, but he was manipulating the world for another god and that god, even more eerily, seemed to be this Archon. It made Dorian’s skin crawl to think of it. But Aran loved them. Rilienus and his Archon had taken care of him when Dorian could not. For years. “Perhaps we should stop speaking about this. I’m not sure it’s useful for either of us.”

“Does it have to be useful for me to know your mind?” Aran asked quietly. “Can’t I just want to?” 

Dorian exhaled slowly, eyes turning back towards the fire. “Yes. Of course.” But he didn’t offer to return to his assessment. 

Aran hunched over his knee, teeth working idly over a collection of freckles. “I guess- I never thought you’d cross paths with them. I always imagined I’d find my way back to you, to home, and that would be that. But here we are.”

“Here we are,” Dorian echoed thoughtfully. He placed his hand on Aran’s leg, tracing circles along his skin. “We will find a way home, you and I.”

“Right, aye,” Aran said softly, peeling the charred meat from the stone and tearing it in two, offering him half. “Maybe we will. Or maybe I’ve condemned you to a rootless, existentially bewildering existence. Lovely idea, that.”

“I’ve a root.” Dorian reminded him, brushing his fingers over Aran’s sunburned shoulder. “He’s sitting right here. I’m not unmoored.” He gingerly took the smoking meat, wrinkling his nose as grease dripped through his fingers. “Even if this is it- which I highly doubt, by the way- I am with you and I am content.”

Aran watched him for a long quiet beat. “May the Mother watch over us both so you don’t come to regret that.” He tapped his tear of meat to Dorian’s with a small, sad smile. “Slainte.”

“Inveniat pacem nobis,” Dorian murmured. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Tch,” he snorted, ducking his head again. “Gotta keep you fed; especially now that it turns out your teeth can be the size of me when you’re inclined.”

Dorian quirked a brow with a slight smirk. “True.”

Aran tore a bite off the meat and winced. “Fuck, I hate eating nugs.”

Dorian couldn’t have agreed more, but at least it was sustenance. “Hopefully wherever we end up next has proper spices and cutlery, hm?”

“Aye.” Aran leaned against him. “Or just… I don’t know. Ducks. Fowl. Fish. I miss good fresh fish. There was this place I went that looked like a nightmare version of where I grew up. Boatloads of mages coming in from the sea, seeking refuge from Kirkwall, but fuck me if there weren’t the best bloody clams. And crabs. And squid. Gorgeous squid.”

“I miss fruit so fresh it nearly bursts in your fingertips,” Dorian admitted. “There’s nothing so appealing this far south; the best fruit I’ve had in Ferelden is apples and that’s simply depressing.”

“Are you also mad for kumquats?” Aran asked curiously. “Strange to think I’ve not actually seen you eat any fruit other than apples. Well. Tomatoes are fruits, yes, but not Ferelden tomatoes. Orlesian tomatoes - those they could make wines out of.”

“Very odd wines, to be certain.” Dorian tilted his head to the side. Bizarre, whenever he was reminded how much Aran knew about him - or a version of him. A bit disconcerting, really, that there was a man in this other world, who looked and sounded like him, that shared so many of his preferences, from Aran himself to bloody kumquats. Who had sent an army to invade the south. Had he thought about it? Pondered the consequences? Had he cared if there were any? “I… am somewhat partial to kumquats, yes. I think I prefer pomegranates, though.”

Aran whistled low. “Aye. I’d get my fingers dark as blood trying to pick the little seeds from those caverns. And the mangoes in Qarinus? Mid-summer when they’re fair falling off and the skin is thin as rice paper? Fruit would be nice.”

“Glorious, yes.” Dorian chewed on the tough, stringy meat, imagining it stewed with onion and spice and fresh tomatoes. “…What did you think of my home, while you were there? Other than the temperature.”

Aran wrinkled his nose. “Well. It wasn’t your home. Not really. There’s always a thousand things that are different world to world. One place I went, all the apples were mealy. No reason for it. That was just how they were. But the Qarinus I have seen… The sea’s lovely from there, aye, a blue like none I’ve seen anywhere else. And the hills are so heavy with flowers, you’d think they’d collapse under them. Beauty in every rock and every tree.” He chewed his nug, his eyes falling shut as he laughed quietly. “Made sense it’d be where you hailed from.”

“I’d like to show you my home, one day.” Dorian gave him a quick, sly smile. “We can hop the fence or something, after my father passes on. The gardens were a thing of wonder.”

“Aye? Didn’t know you were a botanist.”

“I’m not, but I did like to hide from my tutors there often enough. It was impossible to find me among the hedgerows when I didn’t want to be found.”

“Ah, so were the gardens wondrous because they hid you, or because of some other quality?” He licked his thumb, lips twitching in amusement. 

“Both, my, you’re cheeky.” Dorian rolled his eyes, chuckling. “They were truly lovely, though the nude statue of my great-great grandfather I very much could’ve done without.”

Aran laughed, shaking his head. “Ah, see, you know how I feel about statues that look even vaguely similar to you. Best I never see that garden. I might well be overcome.” Each movement of his cheeks sent little droplets of sweat skittering down his skin, dampening freckles and catching wisps of white. The lyrium within his scars seemed to sing ever so gently each time he laughed. “We had kitchen gardens, right, but nothing grand. Da was more of a lead by example sort. Frugal. Kept the vassals happy. My aunt - now. There’d be galas at her manor each summer and those were masterpieces of torture. Hedge mazes and eighteen kinds of lobster stuffed into mushroom caps and so many bloody layers of clothes just to show we could afford to have - I don’t know what. Some kind of fancy Antivan silk next to a Nevarran velvet or vice versa.” He cleared his throat, dropping his gaze back to the fire. “What about your grandfather? Did you know him?”

“My father’s father? He was the third of eight siblings, and didn’t expect to lead our house, but Tevinter being Tevinter, he found himself in a position of more authority than he’d sought.” Dorian shrugged, trying to swallow the remarkably tough to chew nug meat. “He liked to play games with me, when I was quite young. My mother’s father, on the other hand, was a complete and utter arse and his wife always reeked of divining mushrooms.”

Aran shuddered. “Those smell so bad. The purple ones or the black ones?” 

“Both. In turns. Gods, I hated visiting the Thalrassians. Actually, they sound a bit like your aunt. Excessively gaudy, just to impress others, and that’s coming from me.”

“Who ever dared to call you excessive or gaudy? You’re exactly as you should be. And my aunt- eh.” Aran shrugged. “She had her reasons, I’d guess. I don’t know. She remembered to invite me. Sent little cakes on my nameday. That was more than most did. I liked her. I hope she’s alright. She’d set up a little haven for the Ostwick circle mages last I heard from Leliana. Using all that clout she’d built over the years.” He nodded to the fire. “You want more? It was a fat nug.”

“No, thank you. I’m quite full of rodent for today.” Dorian scooted closer to him, resting his cheek to the top of Aran’s head. “We should celebrate your nameday the next time we get a chance. We’ve a great many to make up for.”

“All of them.” Aran grimaced, wrapping his arms around him. “And yours. Aye. I never had a chance to give you your nameday gift.” He took a deep breath. “Don’t even know if it’s still there. Every time I’m back, I’m so distracted.” He sighed. “Remember that night after Haven? Our Haven. I was sweating and heaving into a bucket and trying desperately not to get any on your boots-”

“Of course I do.” Dorian pressed gentle kisses to his brow. “What did you plan on giving me then?”

“You’ll think it utterly ridiculous.” Aran rolled his eyes. “I’d seen this manuscript by Demetrius Deodatus at the University, so I remade the opening three pages of it with illumination. I hadn’t had time for more. And there was no gold leaf, so it was copper based and my pen nibs were pathetic and-”

Dorian breathed, glancing between his eyes. “Was it the one on latitudinal dispersion theory or the one on finite manipulation?” He beamed, light as air as he held the love of his life in his arms. “It doesn’t matter. You transcribed it for me? When did you possibly find the time?”

“Started working on it when I was trying to woo you,” Aran snorted, warmth darkening his cheeks. “Varric said by the time I finished, we’d both be dead and I’d be better off buying a good bottle of wine. But then I’d already started and I hate leaving things unfinished. I did get the wine, even if I never gave that to you, either.”

“Seems you didn’t need illumination or intoxication to woo me.” Dorian chuckled, nestling closer. “I’m afraid I’ve always had a soft spot for you.”

“Aye, and have you now,” he chuckled. “You were very clever to keep it to yourself. I’ll never think of that study the same way. You know every Skyhold I’ve visited, I’ve gone and found that little room,” his voice grew tight. “Usually it’s storage for the kitchens. Once it was where they fed the cats. But I can go in there and touch the stones and remember when you were sweating in that doorway as I stripped off my jerkin. And the look on your face when you’d pulled that despair demon out of my skull. It feels… safe. Like if I could find you there- find us- once- then maybe I could again.” 

“You have.” Dorian traced the lines of Aran’s jaw, down his neck and across his bare collarbone. “We have.” He pressed his lips to Aran’s hair, feather-light, sun-kissed and smelling of freshly turned earth and magic. “I’ll eat nug kebabs every day for the rest of my life so long as I can with you.”

“Kebabs! I’ll need better sticks. How are you with Amrita Vein? It makes a pleasant enough facsimile for citrus if it won’t make your eyes itch.” He lifted his head, peering at him with eyes that caught the light and turned into distant blue-green fractals from moment to moment. “And once I’ve enough for traps, I can catch a fennec or two. Maybe I can even fashion a bow. I never did get very good at them, but I doubt I’ll be much use without some sort of weapon.”

“You always find a way,” Dorian murmured, “though fennec would be a nice change of pace from a lifetime of nug. The desert seems ruddy with them; you shouldn’t have much trouble I imagine.” He brushed his lips to Aran’s, the waterfall providing a shimmering curtain, hiding their rocky alcove from the world as the sun rose in the sky. “Tell me what I can do to help you; I’m borderline wretched out-of-doors.”

“What- oh.” Aran blinked, the gears behind his eyes stuttering to a halt. “Oh. Yes. Not alone. Ah.” He smiled, abashed. “I mean, I knew I wasn’t, of course, but there’s habit and- How often, do you think, will you be needing to- I mean, if it’s what’s happened to you as a result of- It’s well enough here, brilliant even, but if we wind up in Denerim again, or Nevarra, it’ll be a sight harder to find a cozy spot for you to turn into a dragon, aye. We probably ought to figure that out. And the whole-“ He peered down at their arms with the matching, slithering marks. “The whole thing. Right?”

“Ah, I suppose that is a bit more my speed than hunting foxes.” Dorian traced the serpentine tattoo across Aran’s skin, which seemed to stretch into his touch. “Note-taking and research and experimentation. I suppose I’ll leave the ‘keeping us fed and alive’ bits to you.”

“Actually, I was thinking, rather, that you might be a fair sight better of a hunter than I with the claws and teeth.” Aran quirked a brow. “If we know how long it lasts and how often it can be done, we can ration the use of the ability for need.” 

“I suppose when I begin glowing again, we can put it to the test. I’m almost certain that if I tried to transform again at the moment, I’d just stand in the sand looking foolish.”

“Handsome.” Aran kissed his chin. “Not foolish.” He chuckled, climbing to his feet to stretch. “Traps, then. Don’t suppose you know how to make paper? And ink? I’ve started the nug parchment process but that will take time. And we’ll need a way to carry the water farther afield. Could start thinking of that. I’ve always-“ He gazed out through the spray of the fall, allowing the water to mist his face. “I’m inclined to think I’ve been sent to each place for a purpose, aye. Something to do with the prophecy, mayhap, or just whatever will is behind this- It’s not always clear at first what that is… Maybe there’s something here we need to see.”

“Or maybe your gods are finally giving you a moment to breathe,” Dorian suggested. 

Aran looked skeptical at that.

“Unlikely, I know, but not entirely outside the realm of possibility.” Dorian unclipped the book he kept belted to his hip, setting it aside. “My grimoire should suffice for paper, when it dries out again. We can figure something out for ink, yes? And in the meantime, if my magic behaves itself, we can use it as an alternative. Like this.” He traced a line on the stone nearby and it gave away, molding itself under his touch. The handwriting wasn’t quite right - he’d need to perfect everything again, it seemed - but the words formed all the same. “Not bad, is it?”

Everything and everywhere and everywhen.

“Ah, you,” Aran choked, hugging him hard. “Aye, dove. Just so.” He perched up on his toes, his gaze darkening as the top of his nose brushed Dorian’s. “Andraste’s tears, but there’s never been anything so beautiful as you in any realm.”

“Hmm, you might be right about that, but you come very, very close.” Dorian murmured, thinking about the grizzled, elderly version of Aran he’d held not long ago, just before he slipped through the Veil. Anything was worth it to keep Aran safe, to protect this little slice of peace they’d managed to carve out for themselves within the madness. “In my eyes, at least, and I hold my opinions in exceedingly high regard.”

Chapter Text

Dorian 

Orchids and tiger lilies dotted the manicured gardens in a swath of sunset hues that stretched as far as the eyes could see. The branches of mango trees dipped heavily with swollen fruit, waxy leaves skimming the ground in places, moved by a light breeze scented with salt from the sea. Marble statues carrying staves and torches lined the long, curling pathway back to the estate where he’d grown up, fled, and dreamed of returning to, one day, of his own volition and under his control. Dorian exhaled and watched the sculpted forms shift and change, from the faces of ancestors he’d memorized to ones he’d known in life.

Aran’s, chief among them, as he was when they’d met, young and as sweet as freshly pulled caramel. The form he wore now, Fadetouched and scarred, reminded them both of all he’d been through and how far they’d left to go. The old, wizened man Dorian had grieved over, strengthening his resolve to fight for what he had before it was lost.

There were others, too. Cole, taking Aran’s hand, and Dorian’s own, as they stared in different directions as though separated through time. Their anchor, wide eyes under a wider hat, hiding cheekbones that could cut glass and hands that could hurt and heal in equal measure.

Those he had lost. Felix smirking at something unseen or holding up what could only be one of the hundreds of pastries he’d offered Dorian in the middle of the night. Gereon - the bloody bastard - as he’d been in years past when they used to laugh - laugh - about the world or their research or Livia’s incomprehensible taste in art. 

His father, wearing the surprisingly delighted expression he’d worn when he’d found the scorch marks Dorian had left on the tablecloth. Not gone, but almost unrecognizably changed from the man Dorian had trusted, had loved, had wished to be, once, long ago.

Dorian crossed his ankles on one of the gnarled roots of the ancient banyan tree that stretched as tall as a castle itself, magic leaking from the bark from what it had absorbed in the soil. The only thing in the Pavus estate allowed to grow wild, untouched by the careful gardeners who pruned everything else within an inch of life, the way his family had sought to do to Dorian himself. As they had done, in another world, another time. 

He’d spent enough time in the Pavus gardens alone. Who would he have shared his secret moments with then, studying for the entrance exams at Carastes or waxing poetic about his first crushes? There had been no one he could have trusted with himself or his secrets then. No one he could turn to, who wouldn't have betrayed him in some way or another. But t here was no reason to be alone, now. Dorian flexed his fingers, searching for that shimmering, blood-red thread that he'd wrought through that bewildering ritual; he tugged lightly on it until he heard the quiet rush of bare footsteps through the manicured lawn.

Aran laughed, tumbling forward to roll head over heels in the soft grass, wiggling his toes in it. Freckled and Fade-scarred with wiry, nimble limbs. “Funny, I was just thinking about mangoes,” he murmured dreamily, gazing up through the branches. 

“Fancy that,” Dorian chuckled, slipping from a curly, curved branch towards him, light robes catching the wind as he walked. “So was I. Great minds, as they say.”

“What do they say?” Aran asked, grinning up at him. 

“They say that you’re always thinking of food,” Dorian decided, wrapping his arms around the rogue’s shoulders, covered with a thin, sheer robe of his own. “And I say that I’m going to quite enjoy being able to share my dreams with you, amatus.”

“Oh, aye, and what are those? Not food-oriented, I suppose.”

“This,” Dorian gestured around him. “So yes and no.”

“What do you mean ‘this’?” Aran laughed. “Your dreams are what is? Now who’s syrupy.”

“We’re in the Fade, dulcimus.” Dorian tilted his head to the side on a chuckle. “We’re dreaming and you’re here.”

Aran stared at him for a long beat, gears churning, and he plucked absently at the grass, a slow smile spreading across his lips. “Right,” he snorted softly, “sure, pull the other one.”

“Hm?”

“I’ve been to the Fade, lest you forget. It’s not trees and mangoes. It’s- fuck, actually, I don’t want to think about it. Why would you even bring that up? Just come here and kiss me, you scoundrel.” 

“Alright, no further mentions of you-know-where.” Dorian eased down to the grass beside him, smoothing his hand across Aran’s shoulder and up to his stark white curls. “You wound me, calling me a scoundrel.”

“That an invitation, Lord Pavus?” Aran grinned crookedly, leaning into Dorian’s touch like a cat. “I’ll spread sliced mangoes on your back and wound you for a few hours, if you let me.”

“So long as you don’t call me ‘Lord Pavus’.” Dorian glanced around the space, a reflection of where he’d grown up. “Feels rather strange here.”

“Right, right, apologies. Archivist Pavus. Rebellious, heretic archivist Pavus. My Dorian, my heart’s blood.” He tapped Dorian’s chin lightly, cocking his head to the side. “Better?”

“Infinitely, yes.” Dorian spread out on the cool blades of grass, tangling their legs together. “I suppose, under that circumstance, that I can formally invite you to wound me.”

Aran hummed low, sliding his hand down Dorian’s chest. “You know, I always thought marriage was a foolish, foolhardy thing. A massive waste of time and expense just to make promises in front of a load of people; promises that you just know will get broken. Then folks wind up stuck in the form of something they come to regret.” He plucked at Dorian’s robes, his gaze roaming Dorian’s face. “Void and salt, I’d promise you anything, you know? I’d promise you the most ridiculous things. I’d pray you wouldn’t come to regret me. I’d buy a cake the size of you.”

Dorian smiled, heart fluttering like falling petals in his chest. Embarrassing. Entirely unseemly to be twitterpated and overwhelmed by- “A cake sculpture,” Dorian murmured, “of both of us.”

“Ah, now you’re taking us to dangerous territory, dove. If there was a cake in the shape of your arse-”

“Perhaps one just for us, then.” 

“You’d get to watch me eat it, at least,” Aran cackled.

“That I would, you delightful, ridiculous man. And then I’d lick the frosting from your cheeks.”

“Ooh. A frosting mustache. Brilliant idea. I bet I could make one with the mangoes, too. Then we could match!”

Dorian rolled his eyes, gazing into the fade-sharpened emerald that danced in Aran’s. “You’d look absurd with a mustache.”

“Very true. Seen it. Hated it. You’d have been appalled. But. Gets you nibbling near my lips, so- worth it for a few seconds, at least.”

“As though getting me to nibble any part of you is a particular challenge.”

“Never have gotten you to three spots. I’m keeping a list.”

“Three? Do tell. I was certain there’d been a rather thorough investigation at this point.”

“On the contrary. You tend to go left, aye, so the back of my right knee is just ignored time and time again. And right here,” he wiggled his finger between his ring and pinky. “Always skipping this little gap here in favor of licking digits. Shameful.”

“And the third?”

“I’ve forgotten. Now I’m thinking about your tongue. It’ll come to me, I’m sure.” He smiled slyly. “The memory and your tongue, if I’m lucky.”

“Sooner or later, I’m certain.” Dorian traced a line down his cheekbone. “Is that what you want, after all this is over? After we’ve wandered back to our world and dealt with our monsters? A cake the size of me and endless promises we both try to uphold?”

The lines of lyrium buzzed beneath his touch. “I..." Aran began then let his eyes fall shut with a sigh. “I don’t know. I used to think about things like ‘after’. It doesn’t feel like there will be one anymore. Just frenetic insanity and, if I’m lucky, a quick end that hopefully results in things being marginally better for other people, so they can think about ‘after’.” He wrinkled his nose. “This is a weird dream. Usually, there’s a fish pie or a naked you by this point.”

“It's my dream, not yours, sweet,” Dorian reminded him gently, tracing the circles under Aran’s eyes with his thumb. His love needed a year of rest, of being fed fish stew and fresh fruit and not needing to worry about anything except whether he wanted to spend the day reading or making love, or some delightful combination of the two. “I’d like for you to have some peace when it’s done. Gentle, lazy mornings lingering in bed for as long as you like. I’d like to take care of you, for once, to make up for all the times you’ve done so for me, across time and space.”

Aran smiled, softening, tracing the curve of Dorian’s wrist. “I miss fishing. I used to sneak off to the river, anchor among the reeds, and watch the clouds with a line in the water. Or in Ostwick, in the summer sometimes, the sea would be so smooth it was like a mirror, like I was caught between two open skies. I think you’d like the sea on days like that. It’s so still; it’s like flying, not sailing. Just floating in the middle of nothing, waiting for something to climb up for lunch. Drinking in the sun, cooling off in the cold, a breeze that felt like gentle touches. The best naps.” He laughed. “It's hard to imagine I used to nap.”

“Sunbathing while you’re catching lunch doesn’t sound terrible at all.” Dorian smiled, studying the pulse of the lyrium lines in Aran’s pale, freckled skin. “I’d like to see a world where you’ve time to soak in the sun like a lizard.”

“Like a lizard,” Aran chuckled lazily. “A lizard and a dragon. What would you do?” he asked, opening his eyes, the Fade retreating just enough for them to almost be the same soft blue they’d been in the beginning. “After it’s all said and done?” 

“Other than making you the most contented man in Thedas?” Dorian asked. “I’d like to be able to read a book, not in a panic trying to puzzle out the impossible or to distract myself from something terrible, but just because I want to. Attend a proper gala or seven. Reconnect with some old friends whom I’ve spent a very long time disappointing. That sort of thing.”

Aran studied him, warm, fingertips tracing the curve of his ear. “What was the last book you read just to read? Just, for no reason at all. Can you remember?”

“Gods, I’m not really sure,” Dorian admitted. “Oh. Oh, that’s depressing.”

“Sorry.” He tugged gently at Dorian’s earlobe. “There was a while where I was stuck on this island. No way off it. Nothing strong enough to build a raft. Cole somehow could get there and back, but it was through some Fade nonsense and- he’d bring me books. I must have read a dozen, just to keep from going mad- more mad, anyway. Poetry and strange histories that were so unfamiliar, it seemed that they had to be fictional. Even that wasn’t just… reading; it was to keep from eating bark or diving into the ocean and just swimming out into it until I couldn’t anymore. I used to love simply reading. Hours a day. Did you ever read Leonides and the Harpers?”

“The mysteries?” Dorian nudged him with his nose, trying to distract himself from the thought of Aran drowning alone. “Of course, all of them, at least until I began studying with Alexius and couldn’t find the time anymore. Perhaps not the most highbrow literature, but they did keep me flipping through until the end.”

“Bah. Highbrow. There was a novice at the University who used to scribble in the margins of an old anthology of them. Lurid little addendums about how Leonides and Ser Korrigan were snogging behind the scenes. Fantastic. Hilarious. I wonder if she still does. I wonder if she stayed with the Chantry.” He chuckled. “Cassandra would have loved those entries, I bet.”

“Oh! That’s it. The last thing I read was that damned bloody romance novel Varric had the ill-advised idea to put to parchment.” Dorian laughed, shaking his head, careful not to mention how he may or may not have shed a few tears at the end of the second installment. “Maker’s tears, that was drivel, but the Seeker’s face was an absolute delight. She went red as a cherry every time the Knight Captain held hands.” 

Aran grinned, twining his fingers through Dorian’s. “Well. Holding hands is a grand thing, right. I tried to set her up with Blackwall once. She was peeved.” He whistled low. “You know there’s a timeline where she and Sera hit it off?”

“Really?” Dorian quirked a brow, considering him. “You’ve got quite the streak as a matchmaker, don’t you? Anyone you haven’t tried to set up?”

“I like seeing people happy,” Aran admitted quietly. “What’s wrong with that? Anyway, I didn’t set them up. They were like that when I got there. They were a thing, Varric had a beard, and Solas had hair down to his knees.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Next thing you’ll tell me I had a ponytail and only wore fur coats.”

“The Dorian in Orlais does have a ponytail.” Aran winked. “Short. It suits him. And he does wear fur in the winter.”

“The Dorian in Orlais is miserable and tried to kill you.” He wrinkled his nose. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Only six times.” Aran thumbed his chin lightly. “Given what I know of what you’re capable of, I don’t think he’s trying very hard.”

“Even so.” He couldn’t imagine a universe in which he could look at Aran's face with a thirst for bloodshed. “You might have the most caring heart I’ve ever chanced to encounter. It’s worrisome, at times.”

Aran shook his head. “Soft spot for you, that’s all. There's much better hearts out there, I’m certain.”

“I’m not.” Dorian cupped his cheek with a gentle smile. “That’s alright, though. Agree to disagree.”

“Hmph.”

“Fishing and reading, then, and a cake we can’t finish on our own.” Dorian lifted a brow. “Anything else to add to our list?”

“Mangoes,” Aran decided, leaning into Dorian’s palm. “And kumquats. And a month without knives of any variety. What do you want?”

“I think…” Dorian pressed his lips together. When was the last time he’d thought about what he wanted, for anything other than the short term? He’d spent much of the last five years in a stupor, grieving for Felix’s condition or his father’s betrayal, then rushing south in a panic to try and prevent Alexius’ work with the Venatori from succeeding. Then it had all been about the Inquisition, then grieving again, and then a single-minded focus on getting Aran back from the temporal anomaly. “I don’t know. I might- Hm.” The happiest memories of his life had been spent in the Alexius house before everything had gone sour. “Maybe I would teach. Take on an apprentice or two. Unravel the mysteries of the universe, piece by piece. A clever Laetan or, Maker forbid, one of the poor Southern mages with a quick mind and an eye for calculation. Is that..." He paused. “Silly, isn’t it?”

“Why would that be silly?” Aran kissed his thumb. “You’d be a grand teacher, aye. Better than I was, I’d bet. Or will be. Confusing how that works.”

“I don’t know. It just feels…” Dorian frowned, sighing into the grass. “All my life I’ve been told about this grand destiny I have, and so many of your versions of me have followed it, but- Ah, I’m not sure a seat in the Magisterium or an Ambassadorship is quite what I want anymore- if it ever really was. I do want to try and make the world a bit less horrible, but…” He peered into Aran’s eyes, unsure. “Do you think less of me for it?”

Aran blinked back at him, bewildered. “Why would- Dorian, they do what they do because that’s what they chose. It’s no matter to me if you want to lead a nation or a classroom or, I don’t know, grow purple marigolds and ride a tiny pony. So long as it’s what you want, aye.” He squeezed Dorian’s fingers. “Do you think I’ll ever stop traveling? That we’ll find a way to stop it from happening?”

“Indeed I do.” Dorian kissed his knuckles, right between the ring and pinky fingers. One less for his list. “I’m determined to find a way. Together, I think we can manage it. Eventually. One step at a time.”

“Right.” Aran took an unsteady breath, those unfathomable eyes misting over as he gazed up at Dorian. “Right. Okay. I'm going to believe you.”

“I love you,” Dorian whispered against his lips. “More every bloody day. If that’s possible, then anything is.”

“True enough,” he laughed wryly, cupping Dorian’s cheek. “Stranger things I’ve yet to see, aye. Don’t know how I’ve managed to have so much luck and so little all at once, you know?” His lips brushed Dorian’s- grass and ancient pine and the buzz of power between them. “I love you, too. Too much for words to skim it.”

“They don’t need to,” Dorian murmured, smoothing his hand down Aran’s arm. “I’ve seen. I know. And, gods and monsters, if I’m not grateful for it.”

“Dorian-” Aran searched his eyes, running his thumb down the side of his neck. “Maybe I shouldn’t ask. Maybe you shouldn’t say. I just- If you’d known… what was going to happen. What I’d become. How… tangled and torn up everything would get. Would you still have-”

“Yes,” the answer bubbled to his lips like champagne. “Yes, all of this is worth it, to be with you.”

“You’re certain? Even if I’ve made a mountain of mistakes you haven’t seen? That even I don't know yet? Even without mangoes?”

“Certain,” Dorian repeated, “even without mangoes.” He traced Aran’s lower lip with his thumb. “Can you believe that as well?”

“Ah, cuisle mo chroi, I’m inclined to believe just about anything you tell me. You’ve got such a mind, aye, and such lips.”

“Still thinking about my tongue, are you?”

“As long as I have breath in my lungs, I’m afraid. Especially the way you hold it between your teeth when you're at maths. Scandalous, that, you know.”

Dorian chuckled, breathing against him. “You’re scandalous. The way your eyes trail over me with that wonderful smirk. How am I supposed to get anything done when I know you’re watching me, thinking about my tongue?”

“That’s the grand mystery.” Aran grinned up at him wickedly. “But somehow you manage it. You’re an overachiever; that’s all I’ve been able to come up with. Or you perform better with observation? Maybe both.”

“Definitely both,” Dorian decided, slipping his hands under the folds of Aran’s robes to trace the scars that traveled, bright as quicksilver, along his chest and down to his stomach. He raised his hand in the air and a mango sailed into his palm, the sweet scent of perfectly ripe fruit lingering in the air. “Do you want to see what else I can manage, now that we have a moment to ourselves?”

“Aye, I’d like that. Are you going to turn into a dragon again?” Aran smirked, nipping at the scarce air between them. “You wanna make growling sounds and pretend? Or is your plan to snack?”

“On you, perhaps,” he laughed, rolling Aran onto his back, heat pooling in his belly as he kissed a gentle line across Aran’s neck. “Is that amenable?”

“Ever and bloody always,” the rogue cheered, arching under his hands, walking his fingers up Dorian’s shoulders. “Do I get to mess with your hair, seeing as I’m dreaming?”

Dorian chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Since we’re dreaming, yes. Just this once.”

“Yes!” It was worth it for the joy that warmed his eyes and widened his smile even as he scrubbed his fingers through Dorian’s hair, setting it all askew. “Gods above and below, you make me stupidly happy. I just need to-” He stared at him for a long moment, cataloging, tongue caught between his teeth. “Aye. That’ll make a nice addition to your gallery.”

“Hmph.” Dorian shook his head ruefully. “Statue or portrait?”

“Portrait for now. Maybe a bust.” He wiggled his fingers through Dorian’s hair, sighing. “You're so soft. Like goose down.”

“Don’t get greedy, dulcimus delectus,” Dorian nipped at his lower lip, tugging on it lightly. “Or I might need to rethink eating sliced mango off your lips.” He kissed the lines running between Aran’s nose and his mouth, tracing with tongue and teeth. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Aran vibrated beneath him, inhaling deeply. “No,” he mumbled as his gaze softened again. “No. Wouldn’t want that at all.”

“Aran,” Dorian breathed, rolling his hips as he tugged at the loose belt at his waist, spreading the thin fabric with his fingers. “I’ve missed you."

“Aye.” He was grinning, catching every kiss greedily, tugging Dorian’s robe down off his shoulders to taste his skin. “Always. Nice thing,” he chuckled, sliding his hands down Dorian’s bare back, “about big empty gardens is one can shout as much as they bloody well like.”

“Just so.” Dorian laughed, nuzzling Aran’s cheek and nibbling on his chin. Smooth skin, pale as moonlight, dusted with freckles in constellations Dorian intended to map. “You can shout down the sky if you’d like. I wouldn’t mind hearing you try.”

Aran cackled, breathless, calloused fingertips raking down Dorian’s back. “Have to remember,” he panted, nipping at Dorian’s shoulder, “when I wake up, have to- You ought to get to hear me shout. Bet it would echo miles in that bloody desert. Shake some birds from their roosts.” He squirmed beneath Dorian, rocking up against him, sweat rising on their skin to make them slippery as they twisted in the grass, grappling and swearing and laughing. The scent of the mango around them, juice dripping through Dorian’s fingers, the gentle sun warming more and more of them with each layer that was divested until they sprawled, bare, together, and-

Dorian's hands shook as he smoothed them over Aran’s skin, power rising from his lover’s body like a cracked cask, pouring over them, into them, until it was all he could do to hold on and thrust into that wondrous grip, breathe their scents, drip and grind and moan with him, over him, into him-

Then the sensation of falling- as in dreams- but the sharp bite at his hip wasn’t a dream nor was the-

He woke, plunged into sun-warmed water, dragged beneath its surface as boulders cracked and rolled down the outcropping. 

Aran gripped his hands, pulling him close, and kissed air into his lungs as they swam for the side and they burst together through the surface, gasping- gaping up at the little shelter they’d found… or rather where it had been. The waterfall was yards back now, rushing down over where they’d slept- A jagged, blasted crater where they’d lain already filling with the water from above. 

“Fuck, are you..." Aran panted, wide-eyed, as they climbed out onto the rock amid the rubble.  Without the shade of the little cooled cave, the desert sun was already drying them, baking them, circles upon circles of broiling light overlapping everywhere he looked.  “You’re bleeding.” Aran pointed at him. His voice sounded strange, echoing and distant. “Don’t move. I’ll get the robes. We’ll bind it.” He took off, scrambling over jagged rubble and picking his way up the side of the sheared cliff back to where they’d been. 

Dorian's leg ached. Dark red stained through his trousers at his calf. Dark red and gold. Sunlight wrapping around and through him. Then he was staring down at Aran’s white curls as his lover tore priceless silk and velvet apart with hands and teeth and sharp rocks, winding strips of it around the slice just below his knee. 

“Okay,” Aran whispered, steam rising off his back. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be fine. We’re going to be fine. Need a new shelter. One with fewer earthquakes. You with me?”

Earthquakes? “I’m here,” Dorian groaned. Would he be suffused with this power every time he slept? That… He’d need to find another way to disperse it rather than becoming a bloody dragon if that were the case. Sweat mingled with his blood and the crystal clear water, his leg stinging something fierce. “If we’re to leave, we’d best get moving,” he winced, “before it hits midday and we roast like ducks over a spit.”

“Maybe not directly under a waterfall this time.” Aran squinted up the cliff, then to the left, slipping his arm around Dorian’s waist. “Right. Lean on me. Maybe there’s somewhere to duck near that death root down there. You know, I was having the best dream.”

“Making love to me in a mango grove?” Dorian quirked a brow, staggering. “I do know.”

“Easy guess,” Aran chuckled, tucking his shoulder beneath Dorian’s to aid him as they moved. “I’m predictable is what you’re saying. That’s an accomplishment so far as I’m concerned.” He blinked sweat from his eyes. “Need to find you a staff. And make traps. Herbs. There’s something for infections, right- is that Amrita vein or dragonthorn?”

“Amrita.” Dorian winced, trying to keep the pain from his expression. “And not a guess. I brought you into my dream. That’s a part of it, the markings, I think. I found you in the Fade and I guided you to me. Useful, that.”

“That’s a somniari thing, isn’t it?” Aran frowned, staring ahead of them. “...Is it just me, do you imagine, or is that just something you can do now?”

“I would guess it’s just you, some effect of the ritual. Though…” Dorian grimaced as his ankle twisted against a stone, blood dripping down his leg, damp wrappings clinging to his skin. “It isn't as though I've tried with anyone else.”

“Mad. That’s- Grand, aye, but mad.” Aran growled under his breath. “I don’t like there being things in my head I don’t know about. I used to remember everything, right? Blessing and a curse, that, but everything I’d ever seen I could remember what it was, the kind of paper it was on, the smell of the ink, and when I’d read it and why- Now there’s all these feckin’ gaps. Where would I have seen a ritual like that? Which world?" he panted. "And if it’s a spell from some other timeline, does that change how it works here? Or-"

“I don’t know, love,” Dorian sighed, leaning more heavily against him. “It’s ancient, though. I’m not precisely an expert on blood magic, but I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Perhaps someone more versed in the subject might be able to tell us more.”

“We just left the only practitioner I know with any breadth of experience on the subject, and you weren’t a great admirer of his.” Aran puffed out his cheeks. “The only one I’d trust remotely, anyway. So I suppose we can look for another or wait until whenever the next time we hit that river is or-“ 

“Rilienus is a maleficar?” 

Aran shrugged. “I told you I knew good ones.”

Or he thought he did. Dorian pressed his lips together tightly. Perhaps just in that world. “I see.” Why was he surprised, when the man led an army of knight-enchanters into Ferelden without batting an eye? “Well, kaffas, that would’ve been useful to know.” Maybe it was for the best that Rilienus hadn’t studied their marks for more time. 

“Could be months til I see them again. Or longer. No idea.” Aran shook his head. “If we’re lucky, the next time we travel, it will be somewhere with a library. Libraries are usually my first stop, just to figure out where the Void I am.”

“Not a completely uninhabited desert? I would never have guessed.”

“The last time I was in a desert, Neriel and I were trying to recruit the Dalish to help her fight the Inquisition. They were living dug into the sand. Option if we can’t find some other shelter.” He shaded his eyes, squinting. “I hate when I’m in the wilderness. No points of reference. No idea when it’ll end. No way to track the time.”

“You said there’s usually something you need to see.” Dorian glanced around, nearly blinded by their surroundings and the glow from his skin. Nothing, anywhere, except for the pool they were walking away from. “I don’t think we’ve found it yet unless Mythal wanted you to see me turn into a dragon and nearly get crushed by rubble.”

“Fuck if I know,” Aran muttered. “Still don’t know if I was supposed to learn something being stuck on that island for who knows how long, either. But it can’t just be random. Not when I end up in some of the same places, or with the same people, from time to time.” His fingers flexed at Dorian’s side as he looked up at him. “You are a fetching dragon, though. Worth it for that, aye.”

“Hmph,” Dorian chuckled, pausing for a moment to breathe. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“And everywhen,” Aran agreed, stopping with him and pressing the soaked remains of their robes to the back of Dorian’s neck. “A little further and then you can sit and I’ll go hunt for us. I think there’s shade up there. At least a sliver if you lie under the deathroot.”

“I truly hope that isn’t an ill omen,” Dorian sighed, allowing himself to be led across the barren wasteland. “I suppose time will tell.”