Chapter Text
The world had changed since the last time they met.
There was a hole in the sky, for one; and an evil god-magister bent on destroying the world. Dorian no longer lived under his father's thumb, trying to live up to trite expectations which outweighed, evidently, his happiness, his virtue and his free will.
And Fenris was a free man.
Dorian was aware of this, distantly, from rumour and word of mouth. He had read Varric's book, spoken to the dwarf with practised bravado over games of Diamondback and Wicked Grace, relief curling his lips and fond memories warming his heart, quickening it. If Varric noticed the interest he took in his stories (the Lyrium Ghost of Kirkwall: holy terror of Slavers and all enemies of the Champion!), he respectfully said nothing of it. He simply poured them another round of some rank Southern swill and spun another tall tale; of dragons and Arishoks, Deep Roads and pirate queens.
Fenris had become something much more than that dark haired boy he once knew, with the huge green eyes and the trusting heart. Dorian was glad. That boy wouldn't have survived the trials the Maker had in store for him. His heart ached for that boy, but it sung for Fenris, and for the triumph he had torn from all of his adversity.
He had broken free from Tevinter, who had wronged him so terribly; and, he couldn't help but think, with the heavy stones of guilt weighing down his heart, so too had Dorian.
At the very least, he thought, he would never have to face that guilt, never have to look into those bright elven eyes and see what his folly had wrought, what consequence his boyish naivete had brought down upon his friend. But, alas; Dorian found one spring morning that fate was, as always, conspiring against him.
The hour was still early when the commotion began. Dorian was dressed immaculately and perfectly coiffed of course, as Skyhold was busy from the moment the sun rose to well after it set, and if he must continue to be branded the serpent in the chicken coop, he was damn well going to be the best looking snake any of these busy little Southern birds had ever seen. To be fair, his reputation as a devious, not-to-be-trusted Tevinter 'Magister' had diminished from its initial intensity within the keep. He received far fewer icy glares as the days progressed and he continued to devote himself to the Inquisition in any way he could.
Still, it didn't stop Mother Giselle and a fair few of the Inquisitorial plebs milling around the busy castle from spreading as many nasty rumours as they could think up about him and his loyalties, his magical disposition and his love life (or grievous lack thereof). On one occasion, the good Mother had even insinuated that Dorian was keeping private company with (and thoroughly corrupting) the poor, righteous, impressionable Inquisitor. He had shared one look with the Qunari, a woman and a mage herself, nearly as tall as the Iron Bull and who happened to share his proclivities towards same sex attraction (if her nightly trips to Sera's quarters seemed to speak of anything), and they had both burst into such ugly laughter that eventually Adaar had to flee the castle entirely with a hand over her face, her snorting, breathless laugh echoing all the way from the tavern back to the great hall. But then again, gals will be pals, as the old Tevinter saying went. He wasn't sure that Mother Giselle had caught on to that particular scandal yet.
On this morning, however, no one seemed to spare him a second glance as they all bustled past him, chattering and murmuring as they went. He could make out no more than scattered words, phrases that, without the proper context, left Dorian puzzled.
“He's here.”
“Who-”
“The Champion-”
“I heard...”
“...mage...”
“the one who started the rebellion-”
“Kirkwall-?”
“And a couple of elves-”
Dorian caught the sleeve of Grand Enchanter Fiona, a woman he found easy to talk to and even easier to admire, for the most part. “What on earth is going on here? Where is everybody running off to in such a hurry? Please tell me Sera hasn't hoisted Cullen's smalls up the flagpole again. Actually, nevermind- that would improve my morning greatly.”
Fiona didn't laugh as he'd expected her to, instead pulling him along and tugging his arm down so she could speak levelly into his ear as they went, her smoothly Orlesian-accented voice uncommonly hurried and worked up. “Apparently the Champion of Kirkwall is here to see the Inquisitor. He arrived early this morning at the gates with an entourage.”
“Well that's lovely and all but hardly worth this mob, don't you think? I mean, I heard the man was handsome but this is a bit over the top unless the sun shines right out of his- “
“The mage who blew up the chantry in Kirkwall and started the mage rebellion is with him.”
Dorian blinked heavily, taken aback. “Oh,” he said smartly.
“Oh is right,” Fiona replied, still pulling him through the doors from Solas' office to the Great Hall and the Throne Room beyond. “The Inquisitor will judge him and there will be a great many people calling for a great many things. Everyone will want to see this.”
Well at least it all made sense now. Dorian supposed he couldn't blame them for lusting after a good spectacle, and this was an issue that would be near to many of their hearts. Being from so far to the North, there was much he didn't understand about the complexities of the Mage Rebellion. He knew that mages were not treated here as they were in the Imperium, kept locked away in circles that were more like prisons with Templar guard dogs that abused their power and often their wards. He knew that it was shameful to be a mage in the South, and that, honestly, a rebellion was a long time coming. He also knew, however, that the incident that had started the Mage Rebellion, the burning of the Kirkwall Chantry, had cost hundreds of innocent lives. It was almost akin to the use of Blood Magic in the Imperium; not necessarily used for evil purpose by default, but like the act of this apostate mage, it became a question of whether the ends justified the means. He was not sure, in this case, that he had the answer.
There were plenty in Skyhold, on the other hand, who firmly believed they did.
As Dorian stepped into the Entry Hall, with it's massive dragon statuary and sweeping banners bearing the Inquisition Heraldry, he was reminded of the Imperial Senate back home, when the Magisterium called a recess. He had accompanied his father there once when he was young, and though he was not allowed in the upper portions of the Senate while they held court, he remembered the chaos and the noise as the magisters and the bureaucrats all filed out and he clung desperately to his mother's hand as they scanned the crowd for his father. He had heard that the slave market was even more overcrowded and hectic, but he was never allowed to accompany his family there, and he had not the desire anyhow. The Magisterium was bad enough. His father wanted him to have the exposure to it, the glimpse into his future holding the family seat among all those other powerful men and women. It terrified and thrilled Dorian.
There was nothing thrilling now about the throng of people clustered around the Inquisitor's throne, however. It was a mad scramble of shouts and curses, emotions flaring and arguments breaking out among the best of them. Dorian pushed his way through, leaving Fiona with a polite apology. He couldn't help that he was born with a sense of importance that wouldn't allow him to linger in the back with the riff raff. He was part of the Inquisitor's Inner Circle, dammit, and he wanted to see what was happening.
At the front sat the Inquisitor on her throne, horns long and gleaming in the torch-light, her hands folded in front of her and a frown on her face. Josephine stood to her right, as she typically did whenever there was a judgement to be made, and the prisoner, as Dorian edged around the side of the crowd to get a better look, was a man in perhaps his early thirties with golden blonde hair tied back in a messy bun, his face unshaven and his eyes downcast, shoulders slumped. He looked less like a violent revolutionary than Dorian expected and more like a simple man, broken and defeated.
Behind him stood what must have been the entourage Fiona had mentioned. A human with fierce eyes and a bright streak of blood or dye across their nose stood at the party's lead, their arms crossed and their gaze fixed firmly on the Inquisitor. This must have been Hawke, Dorian assumed. They had the bearing of a hero, a champion; someone who was used to leading and inspiring those around them, and the protective way they stood as close as the guards would allow to the prisoner didn't escape Dorian. He had no doubt that if things didn't go the way the Champion wanted, the twin daggers at their hip would make an appearance.
The two elves at Hawke's side were easy enough to identify as well. Varric had told him enough of his time with this group in Kirkwall that he recognised them instantly. The shorter one was the Dalish blood mage, Merrill. Her hair was no longer in the many short ponytails she had been described with, but it was still close cropped and framed her tattooed face nicely. She seemed to be having trouble standing still, and shifted her weight anxiously, turning her attention from the Inquisitor, to Hawke, to the prisoner and back again to Hawke, as if lost and looking for guidance.
He would have known the other elf even without Varric's stories. He had the bright lines of lyrium and that shock of white hair Dorian had heard so much about, but he also had the richly tanned skin, the long delicate looking ears and those big green eyes Dorian remembered from his childhood, when he had been more than a family slave; he had been his friend, and briefly, his lover.
Dorian would have recognised Fenris anywhere.
His lips parted in silent surprise and Varric, from Hawke's other side, turned and met his eyes in a moment that made Dorian feel like he knew everything, but then Varric's attention was back on the prisoner and he was left with his own emotions, his thoughts a flurry of memory and wondering. He studied Fenris like his face held the answer to all of his questions.
Those eyes he remembered with such vivid clarity were trained on the prisoner with a focus so intense he was amazed he didn't manage to bore a hole into him, like a glass magnifying the sun on a scorching Tevinter day. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, as if he was fighting the urge to reach back for the (ridiculously, to be perfectly honest) oversized axe strapped to his back. His upper lip was peeled back in a snarl that appeared to be plastered to his face, baring his teeth like a wolf with its hackles raised. He lived up to the name that blighted man had given him, in that moment, and Dorian was reminded that Danarius had turned him into a weapon. His stomach turned and guilt boiled hotly again inside him.
It was his fault.
He fought with himself for several long moments between wanting Fenris to turn and look at him, and wanting to flee before such a thing could occur. Would Fenris even remember him? Varric had said, with a bit of needling about Fenris' past, that many of his memories were stolen at worst, or buried at best. It was entirely possible that he wouldn't recognise his former master's son at all, and perhaps, Dorian thought ruefully, that was for the best.
Josephine interrupted his rumination by calling, rather unsuccessfully, for silence before Cullen took over and, in a resounding and authoritative voice that spoke of his training as a Templar, told everyone to be quiet and let the trial begin.
A hush fell over the crowd.
Dorian turned his attention from Fenris to Adaar, whom he had rarely seen this grave and focused. Beside her, Josephine cleared her throat and began. “The accused stands before us, having plead guilty to the crime of arson and murder. In attacking and razing the Chantry in Kirkwall, he single-handedly started the Mage Rebellion and can arguably be held responsible for not only the deaths of all those affected by it, but for the death of Divine Justinia herself-”
Murmured curses and outright shouts had broken out among those gathered in the hall already, but at a single raised hand from the Inquisitor, both they and Josephine quieted, the ambassador letting her proclamation die on her lips, looking to Adaar with malaise.
The quiet stretched in the vastness of the Great Hall, Adaar's gaze fixed firmly on the prisoner and the crowd's fixed firmly on Adaar. Dorian noticed, with some small shock, that Fenris had taken a purposeful step forward and seemed to be held in place by Hawke's hand on his chest. The guards holding the prisoner watched him warily and he met their stares with narrowed eyes.
Finally, the Inquisitor dropped her hands to grip the sides of the throne and spoke, voice echoing off the walls with a rarely utilised command and surety.
“Anders.” The prisoner lifted his eyes to meet hers, and though he appeared resigned and small under her scrutiny, he stood up straight and held her gaze. “You admit responsibility for the crime you are accused of.”
She spoke plainly, as though she already knew his answer and sure enough, his voice replied clear and flat, “I do.”
The Inquisitor's eyes flickered over to Varric for the briefest of moments. Dorian, for once, couldn't read her at all. “Then tell me why I should let you live.”