Chapter Text
PART ONE: HERALD
Sometimes, Dorian can still feel his father's hand on the back of his neck, see his own clumsy child's fingers grip a pen as if to throttle it, scratching out his letters with the utmost focused care.
Dorian, says his father in his familiar, hard voice. You make your corners too sharp. Soften them.
It had been good advice. Good advice, like so much of what his father had given him. Dorian reflects on this now, and he remembers how much of himself he once poured into softening his corners.
It's strange to be among Tevinters again, even if they do not yet know he is here. Their presence is utterly unmistakable; he knows his countrymen, does he not, and these are among the very worst.
Since learning of the Venatori's arrival he has been staying in a small inn near Lake Calenhad, observing from his small and rain-fogged window the eerie Circle tower across the lake. It's long since devoid of mages, but the innkeep and his patronage still seem frightened of it. Dorian doesn't blame them— it's gloomy, oppressive, threatening. He imagines being a boy, rowed across the glittering lake by a glowering Templar, freezing and starving and terrified. The South, he concludes, is barbaric, and it's no wonder the mages here had had enough.
There's an insistent tapping at his window— he opens it, admitting a great deal of rain, along with one miserable raven with a scroll tied to its leg.
"Felix," he breathes, plucking the raven from the windowsill and untying the scroll before shoving the bird unceremoniously back into its cage. He has been in correspondence with Felix Alexius for some time now; in fact, it is only because of Felix that he is in a position to act at all.
Felix's note is succinct, emotionless— it betrays none of the charm and wit of its author, a fact Dorian has always found curious. Nevertheless, it is informative. He has two more clues, and they are these: The supposed ‘Herald of Andraste.’ The Inquisition.
He has heard only whispers of this, but many of them. The tales vary— in some, amusingly enough, the Herald is an elven savage of the Dalish clans come to bring doom upon them all; in others, merely a righteous human man, the chosen of Andraste. But all the tales agree: the Inquisition stopped the Breach from growing, and the Inquisition is doing something.
It all sounds a bit too Exalted March-y for Dorian, even the elven savage bit, which is clearly fanciful nonsense… but one thing is clear from Felix’s words— Gereon Alexius is extremely interested in this Herald, and Dorian must find out why.
He smooths out a fresh scroll of paper, dips his pen into ink and begins to write. He takes care not to make his corners too sharp.
Dorian has rarely seen anything quite like it; a rift, an emerald tear straight through existence as if it were a child's drawing. Demons pour through into the Redcliffe Chantry, and Dorian does his best to hold out. He's waiting for the Herald, the one who supposedly wields the power to close rifts such as these. At least, Dorian hopes he does.
He thrusts the blade of his staff through a shade, following this up with a blast of fire— the distorted flesh of its face chars black and withers away into ash. Dorian swings upwards with his staff, sending the thing reeling back, slipping into the floor, then he spins, bringing his staff down solidly on the head of another shade before whacking it across the face for good measure.
He pauses to catch his breath, and sees movement by the door out of the corner of his eye— at last.
“Good— you’re finally here!” Dorian says, straightening. He only has a moment to take in the unusual party— a ragtag collection of elves and dwarves and a tough-looking human woman with a big shield strapped to her back— because he can hear the rift behind him churning out more demons. “Now, help me close this, would you?”
An elf to the fore of the group nods, looks to his companions. Dorian blinks for a moment at the face covered in strange, bright gold lines and framed by a shock of wild dark hair, before the elf launches himself forward, in a blinding streak of magic, towards the rift.
And they’re fighting again. Dorian rapidly loses track of who is who as he sends fireballs streaking across the Chantry towards the demons pouring from the green chasm. There seem to be two mages among the group, both tearing around the battlefield in a whirlwind of light and energy— then, with a sound like a crack of thunder, the rift seems to collapse… standing beneath it, Dorian sees the wild-haired elf, hand outstretched and grasping a blindingly bright current of green magic.
The elf yanks on it— the rift expands, then implodes, vanishing into nothingness. The Chantry is still.
Dorian looks around, then turns back to the elf. “Fascinating,” he says, tilting his head. “How does that work, exactly?”
The elf— or Herald, it seems— doesn’t reply, doesn’t look up, just rubs at his palm, which glows with strange green light.
“You don’t even know, do you?” Dorian says with an awed laugh. “You just wiggle your fingers and— boom, rift closes.”
Finally, the Herald looks up at him. He’s just about the very last thing Dorian had expected— clearly, the rumours about him being some sort of Dalish had not been as far-fetched as he’d thought. But he’s strange, and Dorian has never seen an elf like him before. He’s tall for his race, wiry and lithe, almost catlike, with a spray of freckles across his skin and those odd tattoos, dark curly hair framing his face. And there’s something otherworldly about him; Dorian reasons that he’s never seen a Dalish elf before, and this must be why the Herald looks so unusual to him.
“Who are you?” the Herald says, speaking at last.
“Ah,” Dorian says. “Getting ahead of myself again, I see—” He gives a slight bow, and his most winning smile. “Dorian of House Pavus, formerly of Minrathous. How do you do?”
“Another Tevinter,” says the tough-looking woman with the shield, drawing Dorian’s eyes from the Herald at last, towards his companions. This one is regarding him with undisguised suspicion, dark brow furrowed. “Be cautious with this one.”
Dorian raises an eyebrow, gaze roving over a bald, comparatively nondescript elf and a dwarf wielding a wickedly complex crossbow, before looking back to the Herald.
“Suspicious friends you have here,” Dorian remarks. “Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable— as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“Are you a magister?”
Dorian suppresses a snort, crosses his arms. Southerners. He might have expected this. “Alright, let’s say this once— I’m a mage from Tevinter, but not a member of the Magisterium. I know Southerners use the term interchangeably, but that only makes you sound like barbarians.”
The Herald frowns, glancing around. “I was expecting Felix to be here.”
“I’m sure he’s on his way. He was to give you the note, then meet us here after ditching his father.”
The Herald meets his gaze with unwavering amber eyes. “Alexius couldn’t jump to Felix’s side fast enough when he pretended to be faint,” he says. “Is something wrong with him?”
Dorian looks back at him. Clearly, this Herald is not unobservant.
“He’s had some lingering illness for months. Felix is an only child, and Alexius is being a mother hen, most likely.” Dorian’s thoughts turn briefly to his own father, and how he’d once been bitterly jealous of Felix, a rival for Alexius’s affections— upon getting to know the lad, however, he hadn’t been able to resent him any longer. Felix is simply too kind, too good, all the things that Dorian is not.
“Are you the one who sent that note then?” the Herald asks. Dorian notices now that he wears a gold ring around his lower lip, which glitters in the half-light as he speaks.
Dorian drags his eyes away from it. “I am. Someone had to warn you, after all.” He draws a breath. “Look… you must know there’s danger. That should be obvious even without the note. Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mage rebels out from under you— as if by magic, yes? Which is exactly right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”
He lets this ring out for a moment.
The Herald looks at him appraisingly. “He arranged it so he could arrive here just after the Divine died?”
“You catch on quick.”
“This is fascinating, if true,” says the bald elf, speaking for the first time. “And almost certainly dangerous.”
Dorian addresses the Herald. “The rift you closed here— you saw how it twisted time about itself, sped some things up and others down— soon, there will be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe.”
The Herald still wears that appraising expression, doubt flickering in his amber eyes. “You’re asking me to take a lot on faith.”
“I know what I’m talking about,” Dorian says with an edge of impatience in his voice. “I helped develop this magic. When I was still his apprentice, it was pure theory— Alexius couldn’t get it to work. What I don’t understand is why he’s doing it; ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?”
“He didn’t do it for them,” says another, familiar voice.
“Took you long enough!” Dorian says, relieved to see Felix striding towards them. Perhaps with Felix here, the Herald and his companions will be more inclined to believe him… one can never help but trust Felix. He’s the trustworthy sort. “Is he getting suspicious?”
Felix shakes his head. “No… but I shouldn’t have played the illness card. I thought he’d be fussing over me all day.” He turns to the Herald. “My father’s joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists— they call themselves ‘Venatori.’ And I can tell you one thing— whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to you.”
“All this for me?” says the Herald, raising an eyebrow. He grins suddenly, and rather disarmingly. “And here I didn’t get Alexius anything.”
“Send him a fruit basket,” quips Dorian. “Everyone loves those.”
The Herald holds his gaze, amusement curling his lips. Dorian feels heartened— at the very least, this strange, wild elf is capable of humour. That ought to make his job considerably easier.
“You know you’re his target,” Dorian continues. “Expecting the trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage.” His gaze flicks to the stained-glass windows. The sun is low in the sky now, and it’s time to make a fashionable exit. “I can’t stay in Redcliffe— Alexius doesn’t know I’m here, and I want to keep it that way for now. But whenever you’re ready to deal with him, I want to be there. I’ll be in touch.”
The Herald nods, and Dorian turns to go— but then turns back. “Oh, and Felix— try not to get yourself killed.”
“There are worse things than dying, Dorian,” Felix says in that sombre way of his. As ever, Dorian doesn’t quite know what he means— he meets his eyes one last time. The Herald is already leaving, surrounded by his entourage, no doubt discussing the encounter— and Dorian— in quiet voices. Felix gives him a sad smile, then follows them out.
The journey to Haven has not been a pleasant one for Dorian; he’d managed to get a lift on a wagon bearing produce for the Inquisition, so at the very least he hadn’t had to trudge all the way there on foot— but arriving surrounded by turnips and yokels isn’t precisely the second impression he wants to give.
It’s also blisteringly cold. Dorian had expected it to be colder down in the South, of course, but nothing had truly prepared him for the weather in these blasted mountains. Shivering, he pulls his fur-lined cloak tighter about himself and presses a gold coin into the grubby palm of the vendor who’d given him a lift, before following the stream of people through the wooden gates and into the village.
It’s been a few days since his first meeting with the Herald, and he’s done some amount of poking around in the interim— he knows now, for instance, that the Herald’s name is Finian Lavellan. It’s a nice enough name, Finian, and in Dorian’s opinion it suits him.
As he carefully climbs a set of icy steps and ponders this, he spies a familiar face. Or, rather, a familiar head, bald and shiny.
“Hello,” he says cautiously.
The elf turns to look at him, recognition flashing in his eyes. “Ah, the mage from Redcliffe,” he says neutrally. “We meet again.”
Dorian nods, privately glad to have run into the elf, rather than the angry woman with the big shield. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name last we met— rather rude of me to have run off like that, I admit, but I couldn’t hang about.”
“My name is Solas,” says the elf, eyeing him. “Dorian, was it?”
“Yes— I’m here to see the Herald. Lavellan.” Dorian pauses, then plunges on. “He’s not… precisely what I expected.”
Solas arches an eyebrow. “No? You mean to say you did not expect him to be an elf, perhaps?”
“Well, to be perfectly honest, I did not,” Dorian says. “But that’s the least of it. I’ve never— well, even for an elf, he’s… unusual, you must admit.”
“He is Dalish,” says Solas mildly. It is hard to tell whether he is offended or not— this one, Dorian realises, keeps his cards close to his chest. “They have their customs, their freedom— of a sort. I think you’ll find him a far cry from the downtrodden, wretched slaves you’re no doubt accustomed to seeing in your homeland.”
“Hmm,” Dorian says, biting back a retort. He has no wish to rock the boat at this early stage, despite rocking the boat being his natural tendency. “That isn’t what I meant. Still, I’d like to know what to expect.”
“Can any of us truly know such a thing, Lord Pavus?”
“I suppose not. But Lavellan— what sort of man is he?”
Solas hesitates, appearing to consider his answer. “A surprising one,” he says at last, carefully.
“Well, yes, I believe I’ve covered that.”
“He is not what I expected either,” Solas says, still in that careful, measured tone.
Dorian suppresses a sigh of annoyance. Clearly, the elf is not forthcoming— out of caution, or perhaps loyalty— and maybe someone else around here will prove more talkative. “Is Lavellan in the Chantry?”
“Not at present,” replies Solas. “I expect he’ll be returning shortly from the Hinterlands.”
“Very well. Thank you, Solas.”
Solas bows his head, and Dorian retraces his steps towards where he’d seen a tavern— he pushes open the door and enters the golden warmth gratefully, shrugging his cloak off as he makes his way to the bar— yet another elf sits there, a girl, downing beer from a tankard taller than her scruffy head as if it’s water. Dorian is equal parts impressed and nauseated, but he takes a seat beside her.
“Thirsty, are you?” he says conversationally, holding out a hand to hail the barkeep.
She twists on her stool, wiping froth from her lips with her sleeve. “Don’t see how it’s your business,” she says rather rudely. She has an impish, mischievous face and messily chopped blonde hair.
Dorian laughs, unfazed. “It’s not, of course. By all means, continue.”
The elf eyes him suspiciously as he orders a flagon of his own and pushes gold across the bar towards the barmaid.
“You look posh,” she says accusatorily. “You sound posh.”
“I’ve been accused of worse,” Dorian says good-naturedly as he accepts his foaming flagon and takes an experimental sip. He grimaces at the taste.
The elf girl snorts with laughter at the sight of his expression. “Too friggin’ good for our beer, are you?”
“Oh, quite the opposite. I’ll drink anything, even if it resembles liquified dogshit like the swill you Fereldans drink.”
She snort-giggles again, but Dorian is pleased to see her hostility receding.
“I’m Dorian,” he says, taking another, heartier swig. “Are you with the Inquisition?”
“For now,” she says. “Still seeing what it’s all about, innit?”
Dorian inclines his head. “As am I. And who might you be, then?”
“’M Sera.”
“Well, Sera— what do you think about the Inquisition so far?”
“Mad bunch of sadholes trying to stuff a sad hole in the sky.”
“Well put,” Dorian says with a grin. “And this Herald of Andraste fellow? You’ve met him?”
“Yeah, I travel with him sometimes and all.” Sera shrugs. “He’s alright, for an elfy twit. Elfy magey twit. But he’s funny, he’s good for a laugh. And he’s not up his arse about elfy things like some baldies I know.”
“Ah, I see we’ve a mutual acquaintance in dear Solas.”
“Dunno about mutual ack-whatevers, he’s just a prig.”
Dorian raises an eyebrow. “I’ll take your word for it. Anyway— I’m supposed to meet with Lavellan and the others later on. You seem to know what’s what around here— any advice?”
“Yeah, ditch the moustache, right? And the fancy cloaks. Makes you look a right knob.”
“Much as I value unsolicited fashion advice, I meant about Lavellan.”
“Oh,” Sera snorts. “Well it’s like I said, right? He’s good for a laugh. When he’s not chucking lightning bolts around anyway.”
“Oh, I’ll be sure to have an arcane shield ready if one comes my way, never fear.”
Sera narrows her eyes, setting her tankard down with a thunk. Her gaze roves all over him. “Hang on. You’re a magey shite too, aren’t you? Hang on.”
Dorian says nothing, takes another swig of ale as he waits for her to come to her conclusion. If she’s close to Lavellan, naturally she’ll have heard of him. Probably.
“You’re that Magister pisspot. The one from Redcliffe.”
“Not a Magister,” Dorian says, knowing he’ll have to say it a thousand more times before this is through. “Merely a devilishly handsome and impeccably stylish mage from Tevinter. Easy mistake to make, I know.”
“You don’t look like a Magister.”
“That would follow, seeing as I’m not one,” Dorian says drily. “But you’re right, for the most part— I’m the one from Redcliffe. But seeing as we’re such bosom friends now, it’s too— what?”
For Sera has dissolved into a fit of giggles. “You said bosom.”
Dorian shakes his head, amused despite himself. “True enough. Well, any idea when our fearless leader will be back?”
“He’s just arrived,” says a voice behind them.
Dorian looks around, then down. It’s the dwarf from the Redcliffe Chantry.
“So, you’ve been making friends, I see,” the dwarf says with an easy grin. “We weren’t properly introduced last time. Varric Tethras, at your service— good timing, we only just got back. Lavellan’s in a meeting with his advisors about your Magister now.”
“Ah, excellent,” Dorian says, standing. “Thank you, Ser Tethras— and thank you, Sera, for the titillating conversation.”
Sera collapses in another gasping fit of mirth, as he’d known she would. “You said—”
“Yes,” Dorian says, lips quirking. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
Varric winks at him as he takes Dorian’s vacated stool, patting a choking Sera on the back.
Dorian leaves the warmth of the tavern with some regret, and pushes through the blistering wind up to the Chantry.
Inside is grand and austere, and clearly insulation isn’t a concern— the cold still bites at him even once the massive doors are closed behind him. Fielding curious stares from the clusters of people arranged throughout the main chamber, he makes his way through the long, candlelit hall.
A uniformed guard halts him before an oak door at the far end of it, through which voices can be clearly heard.
“Hold it,” says the guard. “What’s your business?”
“I’ve got information about the magister, Alexius,” Dorian says impatiently. “They’re expecting me.”
“I can’t just—”
“They’ll need me if they want to get past his defences,” Dorian says. He tunes out the guard’s reply and attempts to listen to the conversation behind the door— despite the thickness of the wood, it’s not very eavesdrop-proof.
“That’s why we need a distraction,” a woman is saying in a light Orlesian accent. “Perhaps the envoy Alexius wants so badly?”
“While they’re focused on Lavellan, we break the magister’s defences. It could work, but it’s a huge risk.”
Dorian thinks this a stylish point to intervene, and he pushes past the guard to open the door.
“Fortunately,” he says smoothly. “You’ll have help.”
“This man says he has information about the magister and his methods, Commander,” the guard says apologetically, hovering behind Dorian as he enters the room.
Dorian comes to a stop next to the Herald— Finian Lavellan— and looks him over as quickly as he dares. The Herald gives him a small, amused smile, interest flickering in his amber eyes.
Dorian feels a surge of courage and of something else, something further down within his belly, something he pushes firmly down as he turns to the others and begins to speak.
He’s been given temporary lodgings for the night, before he heads back towards Redcliffe in the morning— the Inquisition leadership all seem to agree that their plan must be carried out as soon as possible. This suits Dorian just fine.
“Dorian!”
Dorian turns, and to his surprise sees Finian Lavellan hurrying towards him through the snow.
“Oh, hello,” Dorian says, raising an eyebrow. “Couldn’t stay away, could you? I hardly blame you.”
Lavellan fixes him with a look, one that Dorian thinks borders on amusement. The elf doesn’t seem to feel the cold at all, as despite the furs slung interestingly across his body, bedecked with colourful beads, feathers, and all sorts of bits and bobs, his shoulder is bare, revealing more swirling lines of golden ink.
Dorian allows himself a moment to appraise him… in a purely clinical fashion, of course. Despite his unusual appearance he’s a good-looking man, as men go— and Dorian considers himself somewhat of an expert on the matter— but there’s something more, a strange sort of power radiating from him. It’s no wonder all those Chantry types hang on his every syllable.
“I wanted a word,” Lavellan says.
“Well, I’d be only too happy to oblige— preferably somewhere warm, if it’s all the same to you.”
The Herald nods, and jerks his head towards a small cottage nearby. As Dorian enters, a strong smell of smoky herbs and vinegar hits his nose. They’re in the apothecary— though, currently, it’s empty and dark.
A shivering light illuminates the planes of Lavellan’s face for a moment, before he tosses his fistful of fire into the empty hearth and gently expands it with a flex of his long-fingered hand.
Dorian watches curiously. He’s unfamiliar with Dalish magic, and he can already see it is somewhat different than his own. The way he manipulates the elements is almost rough, seemingly primitive to the untrained eye, but there’s something natural to it, an ease that comes from true expertise. This is no piddly backwards hedge mage, but he’d seen as much in the Redcliffe Chantry.
“Now,” Dorian says, stretching his palms gratefully towards the heat. “What can I do for you, Herald?”
“Don’t call me that, for a start,” says Lavellan, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the stone wall of the house.
“My apologies— Lavellan, then?”
“That’s fine,” says Lavellan, tongue darting out to flick his golden lip ring. “I’m curious about this time magic business. From what I know, theoretically, it shouldn’t be possible.”
“Well, that’s the thing about magic,” Dorian replies. “Everything’s theoretically impossible until someone figures out how to do it.”
“To what extent does it go?” says Lavellan with a small frown. “I mean, slowing things down is one thing, but altering past events…”
“Boggles the mind, doesn’t it? Still, with any luck we’ll stop Alexius and never get the chance to find out.”
“So you don’t know?”
“Not precisely, no,” Dorian says carefully. “As I mentioned, when I studied under Alexius the whole thing was merely theory. There’s simply no telling until we get there. But if we do encounter such magic, I’m the best hope of undoing it— I still remember the theoretical models we drew up at the time, after all...”
Lavellan heaves a sigh, closing his eyes. “What a mess.”
“Not what you signed up for?”
Lavellan snorts, opens his eyes. “Signed up for? More like thrown into against my wishes. It’s been madness from the start.”
“Yes, I can imagine,” Dorian says. “They say you were at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, that you… walked out of the Fade…” His voice falters.
“Yes, and that Andraste was behind me, I know,” says Lavellan, shaking his head. “I can’t remember a thing though, so no point in asking me about it. Now, is there anything else I should know? About Alexius?”
Dorian hesitates, looking at the elf. “Alexius wasn’t always like this, you know. All this cult nonsense… it’s not like him. At the very least, it’s not like the man I used to know. There’s got to be more to the story.”
“You know him well,” Lavellan observes.
“Yes. Or I thought I did.”
“Still, it should give us an advantage,” Lavellan says, and then sighs again. “Ma serannas, Dorian.”
Dorian nods, understanding the dismissal, though not the words. “Until tomorrow, then.”
Lavellan nods too, and Dorian leaves— at the door, he looks back for a moment at the Herald of Andraste, staring into the fire, cast orange by the light of the flames.