Chapter Text
“I want you to laugh, to kill all your worries, to love you, to nourish you.
Oh sweet bitterness, I will soothe you and heal you.
I will bring you roses.
I too have been covered with thorns.”
Rumi
In which Dorian has the worst day of his life
Once, it felt like a lifetime ago, Dorian thought he’d reached rock bottom in Minrathous running away from what was bound to be the last school his father could find. A handful of years later and he thought he’d found it again, further down, while he was locked in his room in Qarinus.
Then he’d escaped his father, joined the army-
And found it still lower in an Arlathan cell.
He’d been there a dozen days in the same ragged clothes he’d been captured in and watched while the other men in his unit had been dragged away in ones and twos.
They’d not returned.
He’d tried at first to find out what had happened to them and he didn’t know whether the guards understood Tevene but neither Dorian nor the soldiers had understood the Elvhen they’d shouted back. The guards had trees carved on their faces, half black, half white and Aelius-
Who they’d taken last, who had kicked and screamed and swore until they’d cracked his head against the bars of Dorian’s cell-
Aelius had thought that that was Elgar’nan rather than Mythal. It had sent fear through them all like a spell because Mythal traded back prisoners sometimes and men with her markings on their faces sometimes managed to stumble west over the boarder to home-
But no one with Elgar’nan’s marks ever did.
-
They’d kept him chained. Heavy, fused metal cuffs that kept his wrists crossed in front of him. They rubbed and pinched at his skin. They constricted his wrists when he held his hands up so that his hands went cold and numb and their full weight rested on the top of his thumbs when he held his hands down, making it feel like they were being levered off.
But the collar was worse.
He wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, aside from dense and metallic. He knew it hurt him. When he tried to cast spells, even harmless prayer spells, it sucked the energy from him and paid him with pain.
On the first day he’d tried to push himself forward, past what the collar did. He’d tried to cast fire at the door until his head throbbed and his chest burnt and his nose bled.
He’d tried again the next day.
And the next.
He’d tried, finally, to use his own pain, fear and the blood that had dried over his face and the effort had left him unconscious for three hours.
And then there was nothing he could do but wait.
Wait while the rest of his unit vanished and-
Dorian had never really been a religious man, but if ever there was a time to pray-
It had ended up breaking him in a way the simple terror of being captured couldn’t-
He’d tried to call Zazikel and for a moment the rhythm of the words he’d been repeating all his life had given him peace. But at the tiniest whisper of magic the collar-
He’d stopped and sucked in a deep ragged breath. He tried to keep himself calm. There were other prayers but-
But he didn’t know any without magic. Except-
He’d swallowed air, lifted his hands to rub at his eyes with his knuckles. He’d wondered if he was truly that desperate and then why he was even questioning it when it was clear he was.
They were only words. They might-
Dorian made it through the first verse to Andoral steadily but by the fourth he faltered and at the sixth he’d known he’d have to stop or cry and had chosen to stop.
They were only words. He was an Altus, Dorian of House Pavus-
He never thought he’d need to call on the God of Slaves.
-
He didn’t fight when they finally came for him. Fear, despair, the collar, they’d all eaten away at him until all he could do was stare at the guards dull-eyed and allow them to drag him away. They took him up through the temple to a raised platform which over looked the road outside, like a pulpit or an executioner’s block.
They’d thrown him to his knees and announced something in loud, clear and utterly indecipherable Elvhen to the disinterested crowd below. It was…formality, ritual though the significance of it was completely lost on Dorian.
The second verse of Andoral’s litany came unbidden to his mind: asking for the mercy of Masters.
The knife-ears didn’t practice blood sacrifice. They didn’t. He was almost entirely sure of it.
The guards’ pronouncements reached a natural pause and as the silence stretched they gazed out over the crowd.
And then someone answered.
Dorian closed his eyes. He’d been sold. He’d been-
Oh Gods above the elves tattooed their slaves’ faces!
He was fighting before he could think any further than that. And he knew it was pointless: even if he’d miraculously fought them off with no magic and chained hands, a single human in a city of elves he’d never be able to hide-
But they were going to tattoo his face.
So he kicked and screamed while the guards cursed and beat him until they could drag him away again.
-
They lifted him, struggling and shrieking on to a low table and strapped him down, folding his arms up over his chest. One of them moved behind him and then there were strong hands grasping either side of his head, holding him still-
And one of them had a knife.
Dorian froze as it came closer and he couldn’t close his eyes and he couldn’t quite see-
The razor scraped against his skin, cutting away the stubble. It was such a relief to have something that put off the inevitable pain that he didn’t even squirm. They shaved off the unkempt stubble first, then his beard and finally his mustachio.
The barber casually wiped the razor clean on Dorian’s tattered shirt and stepped aside.
May be, he thought desperately, may be they wouldn’t mark his face. May be-
And then one of the guards stepped into his field of vision and that last bit of hope died.
The elf held something that reminded him of a hoe, or a chisel. A long stick that ended in a neat row of sharp metal points angled down-
He couldn’t get away. He couldn’t stop them. He couldn’t even move his head.
Dorian closed his eyes and tried not to wince as the first tap broke skin.
The pain wasn’t unbearable. The careful, piercing taps were like…grazing or deep scratches, sudden but fading. The ink they brushed into the wounds stung as searingly as if it was made of lemon juice. They used more than the wounds could possibly hold, so the excess trickled down his face and dried in rivulets.
If he didn’t think about it, about what it meant, what they were doing-
If he didn’t think about it he could bear it.
So he thought about home and his wretched father who’d driven him so far that he’d thought joining the army a good idea and Alexius who’d doubtless still be obsessing over his only son-
Poor Felix, poor beautiful, dying Felix-
For a while he didn’t think of anything at all.
Then the guard let go of his head. They started talking around him, over him-
He heard people moving and then there was silence.
Above him and quite close someone sighed. Dorian opened his eyes.
An elf with an unmarked face was looking down at him. Small and bald and rather ordinary with the sort of reddish colouring that suggested naturally pale skin and too much time in the sun. The expression on his face seemed to be…pitying.
“I’m sorry.” The elf said in Tevene, Tevene-
He even sounded sincere although since the man was likely his master now Dorian thought it rather…doubtful.
The elf shook his head. “They’d have killed you if someone hadn’t claimed you.”
And that Dorian did not doubt.
After a moment the elf set about undoing the straps. Dorian sat up. The elf was frowning at him.
“How are your feet?”
“My…feet?” Dorian echoed uncertainly.
“Yes your feet.” The elf repeated impatiently. “Can you stand? Walk? Run if necessary?”
“I- believe so.” Dorian replied.
“Good.”
He leant closer and Dorian flinched away. But the elf didn’t touch him, instead he grasped the cuffs around Dorian’s wrists. With a whisp of magic they fell open and came away. The elf turned his back on Dorian, walked to the edge of the room and started rooting through a pack-
Dorian rubbed his wrists and edged his way carefully to the end of the table.
The elf returned to thrust a faded cloak and scrap of clothe towards him.
“Clean your face as much as you can stand to and put that on. When we go outside keep the hood up. Can you speak Our language?”
“No.” Dorian admitted.
“Then I’d advise you not to try and run away unless you’ve a particular urge towards suicide.” The elf paused, scowling at the discarded hand cuffs. “At least not until you’re out of Arlathan.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Dorian managed.
The elf stalked away again. After a moment Dorian realised that he ought to obey his taciturn master if only because he didn’t wish to find out what disobedience would earn him just yet. The clothe was soft and slightly damp but wiping it against his face hurt almost as much as-
Dorian stopped. Closed his eyes. Breathed.
If he dabbed at the mess and didn’t press too hard it wasn’t so bad. And it must have been doing something because the clothe was gradually picking up colour, a medium brown like raw umber and a bright red which he assumed was blood. There was less of it than he’d thought-
The elf started pacing. Dorian watched, if the elf was going to be responsible for him from now on then…
Then it was only sensible for Dorian to gauge what sort of man he was.
Impatient was the first description that came to mind, from the way he paced, his quick glances towards the door and Dorian, his set frown. He did not give the impression of a man who had just made a good purchase, more a man who was being unreasonably delayed on the way to something far more important.
Despite Dorian’s initial estimate he was actually quite tall for an elf, perhaps even Dorian’s height. His clothes were plain and looked quite hardwearing. His feet were filthy; there was mud at the bottom of his trousers and what looked like a scorch mark at the edge of his tunic.
“Have you been through an Eluvian before?” The elf asked abruptly making Dorian start.
“No.” He stated and the elf’s frown deepened.
“It can be quite unpleasant for your kind.” The elf admitted. “Unfortunately there are few other practical ways to travel. You’ll have to bear it I’m afraid.”
So he was being taken even further from home. Probably to another part of their Empire altogether, to Falon’Din’s domain in the far west or Sylaise’s south of Orlais. Either would be better than Elgar’nan. He tried not to think about the ones that would be worse.
“Are you ready to leave?” The elf asked as Dorian put the cloth aside and started awkwardly fastening the cloak around his shoulders.
“Yes.”
Belatedly he wondered if he should have been adding ‘ser’ or ‘master’ to the end of his responses. The elf didn’t seem to mind particularly.
“Do not speak Tevene in public here. If you want to ask me something wait until we’re somewhere private. Keep your eyes down. With any luck no one will notice you and we’ll be able to leave without being stoned by fanatics.” The elf paused looking straight at Dorian and once again his expression seemed to be pitying, even though that was impossible-
“I swear you will not be harmed.” The elf said quietly and Dorian-
Dorian wanted to believe him.
“Come.” The elf said, gently as though it was a suggestion instead of an order.
Dorian raised the hood as far over his face as it would go and followed.