Chapter Text
Choosing the chantry for their rendezvous was a bad idea. He knows now, fighting three shades at once – dodging them, really – waiting for his mana to replenish. He’s not superstitious, not that religious even, did not expect some holy force to grant him some amnesty here, in this once proud bastion of Redcliffe reduced to its haunted shell. Would he himself come to a place like this for a meeting with a total stranger? No, and he’s considering the embarrassing option of fleeing when the door to the chantry opens, and in walks the Herald.
He’s never met the elf before, but the mark on his palm is obvious, and continues to remain so even as the warrior grips his greatsword before joining the battle, his companions following suit. Between the volley of bolts and spells, the strikes of swords and shield, the battle ends in all of two minutes, maybe less, and when the last of the demons fall, the Herald lifts his marked hand and just like that, a conduit of energy is formed to the rift, sealing the Veil tight.
Fascinating… It truly is, and Dorian says so as he turns to face the Herald, paying attention to him for the first time since his arrival. He appears to be in his early-twenties, skin pale, hair platinum blond, and judging by wariness in his gaze, very suspicious of the mage. He doesn’t say it aloud, instead asking shrewd questions meant to catch a liar off-guard – a tactic the female warrior accompanying him doesn’t have the patience for, blatantly telling the Herald to ‘watch out’. Felix arrives. Dorian isn’t sure if asking the man to meet after ditching his father was also a good idea.
“Are we supposed to trust the Tevinter apprentice selling out his master and the son betraying his father?” he overhears the dwarf as their group leaves the chantry, as he stands in the shadows outside trying to figure out where to go now. Even with the hood covering his face, he feels exposed, feels the eyes of the Venatori following him every step. It’s all in his head, but when by sunset security is increased and the patrols are doubled, he has no choice but to leave Redcliffe. He has no destination in mind. ‘Away’ seems good enough, and maybe if he can procure a mount somehow, he could venture to the village of Haven. Just a cross on the map to stop him from wandering aimlessly – he doubts he gets a hero’s welcome, or any welcome at all. Word must have reached the Inquisition's spymaster by now, and Tevinter here is bad.
Maybe he shouldn’t go to the village of Haven.
Too late, Dorian thinks as Inquisition soldiers spot him in the Crossroads. The place has changed significantly. Last he was here, it was a battlefield for the rogue Templars and mages to tear each other apart, free buffet for any looters foolish enough to edge close to the rifts, the bodies lying around. With the Breach wide open, no demon bothers possessing the dead, but the old fear of shambling corpses remains ever innate.
That was the old Crossroad. Now it seems a refuge, the ground clear of the dead, healing tents set near the water, houses now occupied. The smell of food wafts through the air and it reminds him he hasn’t eaten since morning. He doesn’t have much appetite. As he passes an elderly lady, he hears her tell her son to go meet the Herald, ask for his blessing.
He must be here.
“Shouldn’t you be in Redcliffe?”
He spins round to see none other than the Herald himself, hands clasped behind his back, watchful. A man in Inquisition uniform is standing to his right.
“Had to leave. Alexius was getting paranoid,” Dorian replies.
Seconds pass as the elf decides whether to believe him or not, keeping his gaze, before turning his head slightly in the direction of the agent beside him to say: “Thanks for bringing this to my attention. You may leave.”
The scout affirms with a polite nod of his head, ‘Herald.’ and then he’s gone. Now it’s just the two of them. He could use his trademark retorts to break the silence but before he can open his mouth, the elf starts toward the tunnel on the far opposite side, motioning for Dorian to follow.
This close without the looming threat of demons and the Venatori, it’s easier to discern things he missed back in the chantry. Like that for an elf he’s tall – a few inches shorter than the average human perhaps, but nothing too obvious. It probably helps with instilling respect, helps that he doesn’t have to crane his neck back to give orders to his subordinates. As they reach the mouth of the tunnel, a man nearby thanks the Herald for the food, the blankets keeping them warm. It’s colder than usual tonight. It’s always cold here in Ferelden.
Dorian draws his cloak closer to himself. He’s not used to keeping his mouth shut, so he begins, “It occurs to me I do not your name. Anything less of a mouthful than Holy Herald of Andraste, Chosen of the Maker?”
“You can call me Lavellan.”
Lavellan… It sounds pleasant to the ear. Pleasant to say. Airy, like the final verse of an ardent prayer, a fervent sigh.
He turns his attention back to the present. Best not to go that route. “Not your real name, I presume.”
A little shrug. “I’ve gotten used to it.”
The tunnel is poorly lit, the few torches hanging on the walls not enough to cast away the shadows, and still, the elf beside him is not alarmed. It seems he’s used to going back and forth through this passage and knows it is safe. As they emerge from the tunnel, it is the Herald who breaks the silence. He asks of the opposition in Redcliffe, what is new, what to expect. Dorian tells him of the wards.
“Is there anything special about them?”
“They’re the usual type that evaporate you if you walk through them,” Dorian says.
The elf turns to him with an expression of mixed curiosity and disbelief tempered by professionalism.
“I assume you don’t have those in the south?” Dorian questions.
“No.”
"Then it's a good thing you have me around."
The sound of running water increases with every step they take. A river must be near.
“Where are we going?” He probably should have asked that a while ago.
“To our camp by the upper lake. I assume you need a place to rest for the night.”
When they reach the river, Lavellan continues to walk alongside it, drops down from a ledge before heading toward where the water is shallowest to cross to the other side. The conversation has shifted from Redcliffe in general to just Alexius at this point. The inquiries seem harmless enough, but Dorian knows a warrior asks about the power of a mage’s mind blast only if they want to engage them in combat.
Maybe it’s a test. To see if he’s truly willing to betray his mentor.
Maybe it’s just a polite way of saying things can get ugly in the future and if you want to step away, you have to do so now.
“They can send you across the room,” Dorian replies at length.
The camp comes to view.
Cassandra, Dorian learned, is immune to his charm. Now he simply sits outside the tent given to him for the night, going through a book he found on one of the makeshift tables - something about the history of Thedas. It’s boring and full of propaganda, but it keeps his mind busy while he waits for dinner to be cooked. Varric is preparing them a stew and thank the Maker he knows spices exist. Dorian was starting to believe seasoning food was a foreign concept in Ferelden. Then again, the dwarf said he’s from the Free Marches, the city of Kirkwall to be exact. Dorian had to stop his face from twisting in disgust. He visited Kirkwall once in his life and that had been more than enough.
“Lavellan is also from the Free Marches,” Varric adds.
Interesting.
Dorian shifts his attention to the elf sitting on the opposite side of the camp, honing his greatsword. Out of the dark longcoat and heavy armour, he seems less intimidating, and yet the aura of authority remains palpable. It’s the way he carries himself, assured, unafraid. In stark contrast with the elves back in Tevinter…
He stops staring because Cassandra is staring at him now and the last thing Dorian wants is for her to think he’s here for sabotage.
Solas walks to the Herald, carrying a flask of something smelling conspicuously like potent magebane. Hopefully, it isn't going to end up in his dinner.
He strains to hear the conversation.
"The effect wears off quickly. Apply it at the last minute," Solas instructs after giving the bottle.
"I say put it in a grenade," the dwarf suggests, to which Lavellan wryly replies, "Then what? Smash it at his feet, hope he'll stay immobilised and inhale it with utmost devotion?"
Dorian snorts.
So the elf does have a sense of humour.
"Mix it with a confusion concoction and Pitch formula," Dorian speaks up. "Pray it won't explode in your face."
Their heads turn to him.
He wasn't supposed to be eavesdropping.
It's not the first time he's been caught red-handed and he shrugs it off with casual sarcasm. "Is it meant for me? May I advise a lesser dose? That smells like it can drain the whole Circle of Vyrantium."
"It is not," Lavellan coolly responds, putting the flask on the potions table.
Who then? Alexius? He already pities the man.
Dinner is ready now.
Varric pours Lavellan a bowl of stew and the elf hands it to Dorian before grabbing another bowl for himself. It’s an unspoken way of showing the food isn’t poison. It’s a nice gesture. They talk around the campfire, of little things. It feels nice, even if he’s subjected to Cassandra’s glares once in a while. It’s Varric doing most of the talking but the conversation is genuine. It feels homely, the kind of ‘home’ described in story books, not the one he left behind.
It comes as no surprise when his dreams are haunted by visions of his father that night. And of Alexius, and the Venatori, and promises gone wrong, but mostly of his father. Disappointment is an oppressive force choking him in his dream, a monstrous hand crushing his throat, and even after he’s awake sitting on his bedroll, panting, it’s still choking.
He pushes the blanket aside, grabs his cloak before walking out of his tent.
It must be midnight. The twin moons of Thedas are mostly covered by thick clouds signalling a coming storm. Save for the guards standing watch, everyone else seems to be asleep - everyone except the Herald, sitting under a torch, reading a tome. The pages are barely hanging, yellowed, their edges scorched. Looks like something salvaged from one of the burned houses in the area, someone scorched by a demon. Or a mage.
“Can’t sleep?” Lavellan asks.
“I’m not used to the cold.”
It’s not exactly a lie.
The elf lifts his gaze from the book to Dorian. “How long have you been in the Hinterlands?”
“Not long enough to build frost tolerance,” he replies, taking a seat on a nearby rock. “Is it always this freezing?”
“It can get worse.”
“Lovely.”
He waits for the probing questions to come. He waits, because surely, surely, the Inquisition’s magnifico is interested in more than the cold resistance of the former apprentice of Alexius.
He decides to get it out of the way himself. “Why did you bring me to your camp?”
He’s never been the patient type.
“You had nowhere to sleep.”
“I could be a spy.”
“There are far easier ways to infiltrate the Inquisition,” Lavellan says, matter-of-fact. “I’m not going to tell you how.”
The Mark flares slightly, a sudden crack in the air and in the invisible layers of the Veil. Like the ripples caused by throwing a stone into a pond but more sudden, violent. The elf fists his left hand and just like that, the Mark is under control - a pocket of the Fade forever kept within reach, bending to his will. There to undo what the magisters of old spent eons to accomplish.
He tries not to think of the magisters of old.
“Is it true?” He’s heard the rumours, the gossips whispered with a mix of reverence and fear, but people tend to exaggerate. “That you were in middle of an explosion that levelled a mountain and lived?”
“I was in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, yes.” No gloating, no heroic embellishments.
As if that’s a feat that can be accomplished by anybody. He can’t help the wonder that drips into his voice. “How did you survive?”
There’s a long pause. “I can’t remember.”
He’s heard the rumours, the gossips whispered with a mix of doubt and distrust. ‘It’s so convenient that the only one capable of closing the rifts is also the one who was there when the Conclave was destroyed, is it not? And an elf!’
Lavellan gently closes the book before standing up, going to a nearby table before returning. At first, Dorian thinks the elf's back to pick up the tome lying on the ground, but then Lavellan comes to stand in front of him, holding out a parchment.
"We found this letter in Redcliffe. Will you translate it please?"
If he thinks Dorian can, then it must be written in modern Tevene. And sure enough it is, written in hasty penmanship.
Dorians casts a cursory glance over the lines. "Word by word?"
"An overview will do," replies Lavellan, returning to his previous position by the torch. This time he doesn't sit. He just leans against the rock, arms crossed, and waits.
Dorian directs his attention back to reading the note – an account on how to create an ocularum. Two sentences in and he starts to feel sick, at the unfeeling way they described the torturing and culling of tranquils. And to think that not long ago, he mocked the skull as some macabre decoration of the south, tasteless.
Alexius' name stands out in the text.
He looks up. He's supposed to be translating this. "It's... about the creation of an ocularum – the skull sitting atop a pillar-"
The elf nods, aware of what object he's talking about.
Dorian continues, "The skull belongs to a tranquil, forcefully possessed by a demon, then killed at the site the ocularum is meant to be built. Apparently, the Venatori are taking advantage of the chaos of your mage rebellion, as your tranquils are left unprotected. They're trying to unearth as many shards as possible. To reach something, but the letter doesn't say what."
"I see."
That wasn't everything.
"The order was given by Alexius," he reveals at length.
Now the Herald is regarding him, pensive. Did he expect Dorian to hide this – this proof that his former mentor and friend has warped into a monster, the very embodiment of a typical magister? A villain? Oh, the thought crossed his mind, back when he first spotted Alexius' name in the letter, when he had to quench the urge of crumbling the parchment in his hand, of burning it, out of anger, out of shock. Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised anymore.
This is the same man who approached him with the offer of joining supremacists not long ago, to lay siege upon Southern Thedas.
He exhales.
"Do you know why the deathblow must be delivered immediately?" Lavellan calmly asks, and it takes Dorian a second to realise, that the elf knew all along.
An abrupt laugh escapes his mouth, short and without humour. "Is this also a test?"
"No."
"I don't have anything more for you than what you've already learned from this note."
He gets to his feet to return the letter. It feels heavy in his hand, the weight of all the words.
Lavellan doesn't take back the parchment. Not straight away.
“Most of the recruits don’t know you’re from Tevinter. You might want to keep it that way.”
It’s not a secret that can last very long.
The elf straightens, picks up the book lying on the ground, but not before saying, “There are cold resistance draughts in the chest by the table. And sleeping potions.”
So he didn’t buy Dorian's excuse for his insomnia. Somehow, it isn't surprising.
“Goodnight,” is Lavellan’s parting word.
The sound of footsteps grow quieter with each long stride.
“Goodnight,” Dorian murmurs, to no one in particular.
The twin moons of Thedas disappear behind the clouds. There’s a certain chill in the air, the kind before a storm.