#working on chapter three and this is a semi-important decision ive been going back and forth on

[fortjester]

tlt peeps, for my rock rolled back au, tell me

[trulycertain]

Reprise (4/8)

Part one | Part two | Part three

In this chapter: “sad magical fridge notes”.

IV. I love another, and thus I hate myself

The library is silent when Dorian climbs up the stairs. His steps echo off the stone, as do the low sounds of silk on silk - and in its strangeness, that makes him pause. Before, he’d almost never be here in full robes, and certainly not in these, which are half-ceremonial and weighed down with unnecessary nods to status. This was his place; somewhere that, for once in his life, he could be quiet. Some of the politicians he knows would burst into appalled laughter at the thought of him running about in leathers and trekking through swamps, but they don’t know the man who lived here, nor the man who fled from his ancestral home with nothing but the staff on his back.

He should go back to the others, perhaps offer them a proper tour, not the cheerful but no doubt sanitised one Josephine will be offering. That’s where I mistimed a force spell experiment and nearly made a hasty exit through a wall, and Cremisius had to catch me while slagging off “bloody stupid aristos.” That’s where Josephine caught me making off with a 9:32 vintage and then drank half of it with me. That’s where Gal sang “Little Langdon’s Mabari” in front of half the troops for a bet and almost went puce. That’s where the cook asked me for a Qarinus stew recipe and made a sincere and very nearly edible attempt. That’s where Gal saddled my horse and kissed me goodbye before things went entirely to shit.

Instead, he stays.

He runs his hand over the spines in the Imperial History section. It feels familiar, like greeting an old friend, even if the silence is new. At least his fingers haven’t come away dusty, he thinks as he rubs them together; this place is still being used. Even so, he watches the dust motes dance in the sunlight through the windows, looks at the empty corner where Fiona and the researchers used to be, and thinks that he didn’t remember this place being quite so dark.

It’s strange, being here again. It can only have been, what, eighteen months? Perhaps more. And yet it feels like a lifetime.

Well, of course it does. Back then, most of his friends were here, and he’d only have to take a flight of stairs, if that, to see the man he…

Ah. With no-one to see him, he grimaces, as if he’s prodded an old wound. Which might be too close to the truth, actually. It certainly doesn’t feel like it’s healing. He knew it would hurt, all this, but he hadn’t quite expected… Seeing Gal felt as if someone had reached into his chest and attempted to tear his heart out. It still does. He wanted to turn and run, or blow something up. Or drink until he couldn’t see straight and sobriety was just a word said by fools.

No, none of that. He made himself come here. He’ll never get through this if he doesn’t put it neatly somewhere he doesn’t have to think about it, much like his father’s death and the years he spent attempting to drink himself into an early grave. But those memories are different. The pain is more obvious. Moreso than…

The mornings, he thinks, as he rounds the corner. Waking up with warm skin and drowsy laughter next to him, and marvelling at the bedhead of a semi-conscious barbarian. He remembers the sleepy affection and mumbled conversations and finally, with the world just about saved, having time for decent morning sex. And later the dreadful Fereldan food, the supposedly “hearty” - meaning grey - stews that he couldn’t bring himself to mind when his friends were laughing with him. Later still, those quiet, awkward attempts at Tevene cuisine from the kitchen staff. The way he’d groggily look up to find some young cook or other standing, looking expectant and hopeful at once, and he’d end up trying not to grimace too much and make encouraging noises, because look at them, it’s hideous, it would be like kicking a mabari, and I don’t even know where they found that recipe for garem…

Frightening, that sort of belonging - how easy it is to accept it, and take it for granted. Frightening, how good it felt to have a man kiss him and say I love you in front of anyone who could see them, uncaring of the whispers.

To have a man who promised him more.

He shakes away the thought and unclasps his cloak, throwing it over the back of his old armchair. Then he starts to browse the Chantry History shelf, trying not to close his eyes, to feel like it’s two years ago and he’s waiting for the quiet, clanking steps of a man in mail and -

“You were right.”

He carefully doesn’t freeze. Instead he says, “I beg your pardon?”

Gal’s exhale is a small thing, barely there in the echoing silence of the library. “I should have told you about the kidnapping attempts. I thought I’d rather explain in person. Didn’t want to imply an urgency that wasn’t there.” Still so soft-spoken, for such a large man; but then, it’s not as if he has anything to prove.

“No, no, Ser Trevelyan, I’m sure you knew best.” Dorian steels himself, and turns, sighing. “As I said, it’s not like intelligence is key.”

“I - “

“It’s not as if you could have disappeared from Thedas entirely and left an organisation scurrying around in your wake, wondering what happened to you.”

“I knew I could take the Venatori,” Gal says quietly. The tired way he rubs at his forehead belies the arrogance of his words.

“Yes, of course. The same way you could take Solas,” Dorian snaps. “After all, who can stop the mighty Inquisitor when he’s determined to get himself killed?” The words are a snarl, too loud, and when the silence returns, it’s deafening.

It sounded too… everything. It sounded like he cares.

Gal stares at him. Those eyes are still entirely too blue, too familiar, beneath the warpaint. This could almost be one of those arguments where Gal wanted to run into danger and they’d argue until a decision was made - or the mission came around, and one was forced - or they’d distract each other.

Dorian keeps his expression blank and his arms crossed, even as his heart is speeding; even as he tries not to remember the man who used to laugh against his mouth and fall into bed with him, the man who asked him to stay and promised him -

He’s had enough practice. He’s been not-thinking of such things since he arrived and saw this short-haired, hollow-eyed stranger who’d actually bothered to shave - and that alone told him Gal must have been dreading the meeting, dreading him.

He adds, more calmly, “Not that it’s any of my business, of course.” You made sure of that. “Some of us have more important things to worry about.” He adds, too casually, “The fall of the Imperium, for example.”

Gal looks at the shelves, the walls - anywhere but at him. “I know. That’s why I waited to tell you.”

Dorian barks a disbelieving laugh. “I see. So this is my fault.”

Gal frowns. “That’s not what I meant.”

That’s only worth ignoring. Dorian sighs. “Why are you here, Herald?”

Gal sounds frustrated when he says, “The others wanted to see you. They’ve started discussing the findings from the Venatori camp.”

“Right, yes. Of course.” He waves a hand and wonders when he started sounding like an exhausted magister. No - he wonders when he started sounding like his father. “I’ll be right with you.”

He gathers himself, assumes the stonefacedness one should expect from a representative of the Lucerni, and then follows Gal out of the room. He feels every inch of the space between them, and Gal still won’t look at him.

The opposite problem to Mae’s, he thinks later, in the mages’ tower. Gal and Josephine, even Lucia, are intent on the scraps of parchment and half-torn diagrams, but Maevaris… She keeps glancing at him, and if he didn’t know her better, it would look casual. But he does know her better, so he knows that she’s worried about him. Even while she’s running a hand over the parchments and unbinding minor wards - Did they really think this would keep anyone out? - she has half an eye on him.

He wouldn’t mind so much if it was general worry, the sort she’d expressed on the journey over. Instead, this feels far too much like she’s saying, You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you? He knows that look. It was the same look she wore when he was about to hop the wall in his second Circle and run for the nearest red-lantern district.

She’s wrong, of course. He knows how to keep his distance, even if she’s always accused him of wearing his heart on his sleeve.

He frowns down at one of the diagrams, pulling it closer. Not a diagram - a map. He snorts, shaking his head. “Half of this is complaining about the weather - mal, mal, mal - but I know this place. They’re saying it’s where they’re storing the red lyrium for their little enterprise.” He feels the silence and the others’ eyes on him, but he traces the cliffs and throws a little magic into his touch, a basic prodding of barriers. The ink spreads, changes. “Is this part of why you weren’t content to say they were only in the Storm Coast?” He looks up and addresses the question to Josephine, but he hears mail and leather as someone steps closer. “I suppose this could have passed for Long River, but this is… See for yourself.” He moves it to the centre of the table with an unnecessary flourish, and he pretends it’s not partly so Gal won’t have to lean over him.

Gal says quietly, “It’s a stream off Lake Lothias.” He inhales. “We didn’t have the countercharms to…”

“What, no convenient Tevene rejects running about? Couldn’t you have taken a few of the Venatori captive?”

“They tended to die,” Gal replies flatly. “Usually had a few blood wards laid out in case of capture.”

Dorian tries not to let his frustration through. “And the work I left you on this specific topic? My own countercharms and dispels?”

“They’ve created new forms. Spells I’ve never seen before. This isn’t like before, when we had an entire Inquisition and the Redcliffe mages at our back to research. They’ve been careful to cover their tracks.”

Maevaris laughs at that and says, “I never thought anyone would call the Venatori thorough. But perhaps this group is different.”

“Or luckier.” Gal ducks his head, frustration in the line of those broad shoulders. “We’ve never managed to take them unawares.” He must see Dorian’s appalled look, for he adds, “Blame lack of numbers and other priorities. We were focused on the remaining rifts, and we thought these were just stragglers. We were wrong.” He looks back to the map.

Dorian sighs. “I’m missing the days when you had a decent commander. But I suppose he’s off house-training ex-templars.” From the letters he’s received, that seems to be the case. One of them knew the Herald, Cullen had said. She writes to him, on occasion. He’s not sure whether to mentally congratulate Cullen for getting out of this mess or go and drag him back by that hideous fur ruff. He crosses his arms and straightens his spine. “So, what are you planning to do?”

“We need to take a separate team back to the Hinterlands…” Gal pauses. “But we need good barriers. If they’re handling the red lyrium, we can’t let them only do it with armour. We need mages.” He runs a hand through his hair. “We haven’t got many, these days.” He closes his eyes. “We have to get rid of the lyrium. I’ll speak to the troops. Tell them we’re changing plans.”

“I’ll accompany you,” Josephine hastens to add, and she glances at Dorian with a flash of something like empathy.

Then Gal’s leaving, and Dorian’s trying not to think that the room suddenly feels… emptier.

“I should have offered to help,” Lucia says, sounding bitter. “Here I’m only going to be a paperweight.”

Dorian half-grins at her. “I spent half of the campaign against Corypheus as one. Surprising, how many useful things you can find when you’re stuck to a desk.”

She tries to smile, and fails.

“He’ll drag you out eventually. He always likes to see what a decent mage can do.” He shifts more of the papers, piling them up next to him. “That goes double if they’re from the dread Imperium. I’d brush up on your pyromancy, if I were you.” Not that she needs it. She’s one of the best she’s seen, probably far better with fire than he is.

“Dorian…” Maevaris starts.

He shakes his head. “I know. We have work to do.”

And work he does. But no more revelations are forthcoming, even when they untease a few wards and charms he’s never encountered in the wild before. Old Tevene. How very traditional. And snotty. 

He finds letters home and other such uselessness, with no names he knows; herb lists and cookery, of all things; an artistic sketch of a tree. None of them seem coded, or useful, though he puts them aside just in case. He wonders why they even bothered; perhaps they do all this as a matter of course, like a self-conscious teenager with a first diary.

The hours pass, and he finds himself with a headache and too many distractions, but no useful information. Eventually he admits defeat, and journeys groggily from the tower with a wave and some muttered cursing. 

He looks up when the echoes of his footsteps change. A certain kind of stone, a lower ceiling. He realises his feet have led him to his old quarters.

Perhaps he was given new ones. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. He locks the door behind him and barely bothers undressing before he falls onto the bed.

He tries not to see Gal’s sad eyes every time he blinks, tries not to think at all - but there’s a hum under his skin, and he drowsily raises his hand, quite without meaning to…

The old enchantments flare to life. The annotations in light next to empty shelves, the small reminders floating in the air in his own handwriting: Take an extra shirt. The Mire, he reads, next to the armoire. And an addition, in a familiar, Chantry-neat hand: Warmth wax for Dorian’s boots. He’d shown Gal how to tap into the spell, taken his hand as he’d written. To channel energy, he explained, but that wasn’t entirely the truth.

He looks up and sees the hastily-drawn maps hovering on the ceiling, the names in Tevene next to the old Arcanum and Common ones because Gal wanted to learn, always wanted to know…

“How many languages do you know?” he’d asked, in mounting amusement, one of those semi-rare nights Gal had ended up in his bed rather than the other way round, after one of those labyrinthine middle-of-the-night conversations. It had been surprising how enjoyable they were, and how many they could have, now neither one of them had to wake up early and rush out on missions at the crack of dawn.

Gal looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Common,” he said, as if that wasn’t obvious. Wryly, after a pause: “Orlesian.”

Dorian knew his cue when he heard it, and said flatly, “I’m appalled.”

“Did you not see my name?” Gal said, with one of those white-toothed, slightly silly grins. “Besides, most nobles know some. You do.”

“Well yes, but that’s because we aren’t all barbarians and some of us need to trade.” It was an old game to slip into, the insults, all fond.

“And some of us had an Orlesian grandmother.”

Dorian blinked and turned his head, watching the spell-light reflect in Gal’s eyes. “Now that I didn’t know.”

“Never met her. She died soon after I was born. My mother didn’t like talking about her much.” Gal shrugged. “But she picked up the language from her, she always said. Made sure I got some of it.” He exhaled, and looked Dorian in the eye. “My Antivan’s a little rusty, but Josephine lets me practice. And the only Tevene phrases I know are curses.”

Dorian couldn’t help laughing at that. “It seems I’m a bad influence.”

Gal just smiled back. “True.” A thoughtful look appeared on his face. “But there’s... there’s one other word I know.”

“Oh?”

Gal leaned across and said softly, into Dorian’s ear, “Amatus.”

Dorian’s laughter returned, because he knew full well he wasn’t being mocked. He took Gal’s arm and said, “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

Gal just looked at him like he was something… rare. Precious, perhaps. All startled delight. “I told you, I like it. It’s a good word.” Then the affection was replaced by something fiendish. He leaned across again and repeated, “Amatus.” He said it as if savouring it, smiling against Dorian’s cheek and ignoring the fact that both of them dearly needed a shave. He pressed his nose to Dorian’s neck. “I love you,” he said, with a hint of that low, delighted laughter. And then he said it again, with a kiss to Dorian’s shoulder - and then again, ignoring Dorian calling him an “utter sap” and proceeding to say it through laughter until Dorian had to shut him up and they were both thoroughly distracted.

Dorian stares at the ceiling - at the remnants of a life he’d thought was his - until the words begin to blur. He should have unmade the spells before he left, but... he thought he’d be coming back, once. 

He glares at his own stupidity, extinguishes it all with a snap of his fingers, and tries to sleep.

He wakes too soon, freezing. He’d forgotten how bloody cold it was down south. He reaches down the bed, out of habit more than anything… and pauses, raising his head from the pillow to look again. He stares at the furs and extra blankets, neatly folded at the foot of his bed - more than the servants used to give, and Gal had always sneaked a few more in because You’re shivering, Dorian, putting them away in the mornings with that silent, Chantry-raised scrupulousness while Dorian was still trying to stagger to the privy and not break his neck - and then he grabs them. He shoves them over himself without ceremony, trying not to think about any of it, or about the new spellweaving candles laid on his old desk. The servants, no doubt.  

He slides into the Fade mostly warm and trying to curl around someone who isn’t there. The same as usual.