#pavellan fanfic

[herearedragons]

Homecoming

(3,876 words; Dorian/m!Lavellan; angst, post-Trespasser)

written for a Florence + The Machine prompt from @greypetrel : “Can you protect me from what I want? The lover who let me in, who left me so lost?”

read on AO3

On a summer night, the Pavus estate stands empty.

Not empty of visitors or of the presence of its owner - empty of everyone. There are no guards at the gates or in the garden; no cooks in the kitchen; no servants in the hallways. Its rooms are cold and unlit, illuminated only by moonlight breaking through the large windows and painting bright geometric shapes over surfaces and decorations.

In the study upstairs, one of those shapes falls directly over an armchair with a small wooden table by its side. On the table, a freshly opened bottle of wine; in the chair, the last remaining resident of the estate raises a glass to his lips, appreciating the fine vintage. 

A staff rests balanced on his knees. An artisan dwarven clock with twelve handles ticks away on the wall beside him.

Magister Dorian Pavus drinks his wine, and waits for the man who is supposed to come kill him.

*

“All staff have been escorted off the premises, Magister.”

“Marvelous; thank you, Valeria.”

The captain of his guards regards him with a look that is familiar: respect, alertness - and the slightest hint of suspicion. She is saying, without speaking a single word aloud: you are behaving unusually, and I would like to know whether my job of keeping you alive is about to get harder.

“What are our orders?” she asks.

Unfortunately, she will not like the answer Dorian has for her.

“Go home,” he says. “Forget everything you’ve seen and heard here today.”

If she has an immediate reaction to his words, it doesn’t register on her face. Wait, no - it does, just very subtly; a slight tilt of her head to the side, a twitch of her brow.

She’s saying: excuse me?

“Magister, I beg your pardon, but I’ve been led to understand that someone will attempt to assassinate you tonight.”

Valeria is highly professional. A slight emphasis on the word “assassinate” is all she allows herself as an attempt to communicate extreme incredulity to her employer.

“Exactly - and I want you to be as far away as possible when it happens.” He sees the resistance brewing beneath her composed exterior and adds, quickly, before she has a chance to speak again: “This is an order.”

The resolve drains from her at once; an expression of defiance becomes one of defeat. She will not argue; this is above her station.

“Yes, Magister.”

Her tone, though subdued, is unbearably miserable; he can’t possibly end the conversation on this note.

“Oh, don’t look so grim; you don’t have to shop for a new employer quite yet,” Dorian says. “I can assure you that I have every intention to survive the night - and, when I do, I’d like to have your services still available to me. That last part will be tricky if you are dead; reanimated guards have fallen out of fashion, I’m told.”

Confusion, writ large across her face; the veneer of professionalism broken.

“This is about protecting me ?”

“This is about protecting all of you, if I can help it. You are very skilled, and I would trust you with my life - I do , in fact, trust you with my life, regularly - against any threat but this one. If you are here when he comes, you’ll be in his way, and you will die.”

Her brow furrows. He’s gotten through to her; there was enough gravity in his words to make her realize that his decision to send her away isn’t a foolish whim.

“And yet you will survive… him?”

“I certainly plan to. Now - ”  Dorian raises an eyebrow -  “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Valeria nods shortly and hastily collects herself; their little moment of eye-to-eye sincerity has passed.

“Of course.” She hesitates. “...Have a good evening, Magister.”

The setting sun shines in bright oranges and reds on the back of her armor as she walks away.

*

In the moonlit garden of the estate, there are shadows.

Their presence is subtle and easily overlooked. Their footsteps make no sound; their clothes blend perfectly with the dark greens and grays of the night, hiding them behind pillars and in foliage, in solid blocks of shadow and in the mottled patterns of bright moonlight filtering through leaves.

There are twenty-seven of them, in total. Fifteen serve the Divine, and have traveled to Minrathous in secret from various corners of Thedas. The remaining twelve are Dalish, who have made the long, long trek from Wycome to one of the most dangerous places for their kind - just to be here tonight.

Some of them are on the outer side of the fence. None of them are inside the building. They are scattered across the perimeter, and, when the intruder comes, they will make no attempt to stop him.

They are not a wall keeping him out; they are the iron teeth of the bear trap, waiting to close on him once he has taken the bait.

*

The morning sun reflects off the crystal embedded in his transmitter amulet, each facet polished to perfection. He’d be able to spot his reflection in one of those quite easily, had he tried.

He doesn’t.

“Tonight, then,” Dorian says. “Are you sure?”

A small blue glow ignites inside of the crystal for a fraction of a moment, indicating that his message has been sent properly. Some seconds pass as the other party speaks their response, and then the amulet vibrates with the familiar voice of the Inquisition’s former spymaster - or, as she is more widely known these days, Divine Victoria.

As always, the sound of her speech comes with a pinprick of irritation in  his chest. This is not what this amulet is for, and no, he has not gotten over that gripe after four years of it being used in this way. 

Still, it would be foolish not to use it at all. The ability to instantly communicate between Minrathous and Val Royeaux has granted them an immense advantage in their hunt.

“As usual, we don’t have much evidence when it comes to his intentions - but what we do have shows that it is likely.”

Dorian allows himself a moment to process her words, taking his thumb off the back of the amulet so that it would not record and send the sound of him taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it, with only the slightest shudder at the end.

He always knew that this was a possibility; hoped for it, even, on some of the worst (and best) days.

He tries to parse his own feelings. Fear is certainly present, his self-preservation instinct kicking in (good - it’s still working). There is also anxiety - different from fear; the vague tremble of uncertainty rather than a call to action - and something like… excitement. 

Hope, even? 

No. Not hope. He’s made some good progress from the point of denying himself hope for anything at all, but hoping for the best in this particular scenario feels too daunting.

Excitement, however, is something he can definitely work with. He did always love a challenge.

The amulet vibrates in his palm again.

“Is everything alright?”

He puts his thumb back on the warm copper.

“Never mind the pause; I’m still here. Now, what are our plans for tonight?”

*

The Magister finishes his glass of wine and sets it aside. He looks at the bottle for a moment too long, but does not reach for it. 

This was his first and last glass for tonight. It was certainly good, even though he could barely taste it after the first sip; his mind is elsewhere, try as he might to anchor himself in the present.

For a moment, he thinks that he hears footsteps echoing downstairs, but he dismisses the thought. The sentries will not enter the building - and it couldn’t have been him , either.

His hand, idle without the glass, moves to rest on the grip of his staff.

The Magister knows: when he shows up, no one will hear any footsteps.

*

The first of the Dalish arrive soon after Valeria leaves.

Two figures at his front gate; two elven women with scarves on their heads, their faces bare, carrying large baskets. Servants; no one would look twice.

Through the study window, Dorian sees the taller of the two set her basket down and stretch; as she does, her hands form the signal gesture that was described to him. 

He activates the spell inscribed into the wrought iron, and the gates swing open of their own accord, letting the two women inside.

He comes downstairs just as the front door opens. The first thing to cross the threshold is is one the baskets, which look even more enormous up close; the women haul them in and set them down unceremoniously, the shorter of the two slamming the door shut behind her.

Both of them acknowledge him with a brief glance before beginning to furiously wipe their faces with their scarves, removing the thick layer of makeup that was necessary to hide their vallaslin.

“Would you like some water?” he asks.

The taller - and older - woman takes the scarf away from her face, meeting his eyes in earnest for the first time. Hers are brown and warm, just as he remembers; her hair, also a painfully familiar brown, has more grey streaks than it did the last time he’d seen her.

Four years and six months ago.

His last visit to Wycome before he left for Minrathous; the last time he has seen her son.

“Would you like some water” is not, by any means, an adequate greeting for the situation they’re in, but - even after years of imagining their next conversation  - he doesn’t have anything better.

To his own surprise, Dorian realizes that a significant amount of his fear has nothing to do with the impending attempt on his life, and everything to do with meeting her again.

Adria Lavellan smiles - a small, humorous smile; just a quirk of her lips and a slight rise of her eyebrows - and nods.

“Yes, thank you. Both to drink and to wash up.”

Nothing about her tone or demeanor is hostile. She’s friendly, and the attitude she projects suggests that she is genuinely glad to see him again. 

Something in his chest tightens and tightens until it hurts. He tries to say something in response, but finds his mind horrifyingly blank, and his tongue heavy.

He silently nods and walks away.

More elves arrive. Most of them come in pairs; some come in a group of three, or alone. All in the guise of servants.

Many of them carry baskets. Inside - armor, weapons and traps.

The sun disappears below the horizon, the sky painted twilight purple in its absence. 

When he speaks to Adria again, she has donned a set of ironbark armor - her husband’s finest work, no doubt - and is in the process of stringing a longbow.

It’s strange to see her like this. Every time Dorian has met her in the past, she wore dresses and aprons and seemed to prefer the role of hearthkeeper; here, she is in charge of a party of eleven, armed to the teeth.

He starts by complimenting her armor. She thanks him with the same small smile; still unbelievably non-hostile. She compliments his house in turn.

Be it any other person, Dorian would have interpreted her attitude as cleverly disguised contempt - but this is Adria Lavellan ; he knows her, and he knows the son she raised, and she would not lie to him.

He wants to ask her a question.

How - 

No, why - 

Does she - 

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t write to you,” Adria says all of a sudden. “If the Inquisition was still around, they could have gotten my letter to Minrathous - but without them, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

She’s throwing him a lifeline, giving him an easy topic for conversation - and, shamefully, he elects to take it.

There is, at least, a question he can ask here.

“…Why would you want to write to me?“

The words come out without his usual flair. Flat. Vulnerable.

Thank the Maker that no one else seems to be listening, for the moment.

She regards him kindly with her warm, brown eyes.

“I lost my parents and my first husband almost at the same time. I remember what it feels like; I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I’m glad that you held up well.”

“…Well. Yes.” Dorian clears his throat. “I try. I - “ 

This is the perfect place to say something clever, perhaps some witty remark about his father’s demise, but the words do not come. This woman’s presence is equal parts comforting and terrifying to him, and it causes his brain to stop working.

He must do something about this. Now . He absolutely cannot remain a bumbling fool around - around his - around Neilar’s mother.

Dorian takes a deep breath.

“Why are you so calm?” he asks. “Why - “ his voice quivers - “Why are you not furious with me?”

A slight frown appears on her face as she parses his words.

“Well,” she says after a moment’s pause, “Those are two questions, and I’ll answer both. Why am I so calm: I’m not. I’m worried, and scared, and angry, and many other things - but those feelings are for me, not for the world. Sharing them with the world right now won’t help me or my children. And for the second question, I’m not aware of anything I should be furious about.” She tilts her head to the side slightly and perks up her left ear, which is closest to him. “ Have you done something I should be angry about?”

…Yes? No? He has spent countless sleepless nights trying to answer this exact question, and he still has no idea.

Is he to blame for what happened? Should he have postponed his return to Tevinter? Should he have been more thorough with his questions when he spoke to her son through the amulet that is now being held by the Divine?

Should he have dragged him away from that bloody Well by force before he could ever drink?

“I don’t know,” Dorian says.

Adria’s gaze lingers on him for a moment, inspecting him.

Judging?

Then, she nods and turns her attention back to the bow.

“I don’t blame you for what happened,” she says. “Not any more than I blame him. Everything you two did, you did out of love, and it was right; now we must deal with the consequences. I don’t like those consequences, but I don’t think that you could have chosen to do anything differently. If you could, you would have been different people.”

It’s not forgiveness or absolution, but it is something much more precious: acceptance.

*

A creature walks through an empty hall.

Despite the dry summer night, beads of condensation shimmer on the edges of its form. Its movements make no sound, save for a faint dripping noise.

The creature has taken nineteen lives so far. Thirteen throats slit open, bodies found in pools of their own blood; three of them Dalish Keepers, one a First. One a Tevene Magister.

Six more bodies found drowned or strangled, floating face-down in a body of water or inexplicably buried in undisturbed soil. All six served what remained of the Inquisition; all six died on duty.

Thirteen assassinations. Six casualties.

In the Magister’s study, the temperature begins to drop.

*

He was right - there are no footsteps. In fact, there is nothing at all; not even an ominous whisper on the wind, a creaking door or the howling of wolves in the night to herald the intruder’s arrival.

The doorway is empty. Then, Dorian blinks, and it’s not empty anymore.

His only exit out of the study that isn’t a window is blocked by a wraith with glowing eyes the color of veilfire. The dark figure stands unmoving just past the threshold, every detail of it obscured by shadow.

Tonight is the night.

His entire body tenses as fight-or-flight kicks in; he forces himself to relax again, easing back into the chair. He remembers the investigations of previous murders; the target was never struck on sight. There will be a trigger, something that will set off the assault.

Outside, twenty-seven fighters are getting into position.

“You came, then,” Dorian says. His voice does not betray him, thank the Maker; it manages to produce the exact amount of sarcastic aloofness he had hoped for. “And all I needed to do was to get rid of my guards and staff and sit alone in the dark for a couple of hours. Who knew it was that easy?”

The figure steps forward, over the threshold and into the rectangle of moonlight streaming in from behind Dorian’s back. At once, it ceases to be a shadow and becomes a material presence.

A revenant.

His face is pale in the moonlight, the green vallaslin of Ghilan’nain appearing dark grey. Scratches and dirt on every visible part of his skin; grown-out, unkempt hair with leaves and twigs caught in it. Eyes glassy, pupils glowing veilfire green.

When he speaks, his voice is low and rasping, barely familiar - but familiar nonetheless.

A single word.

“Vhenan.”

Fuck. He can’t do this. This is too much - this is wrong - he can’t - 

No. It’s too late now. Either he sees this through, or he dies.

“Amatus,” Dorian states dryly. “Long time no see. Next time you decide to become possessed and disappear forever, maybe leave a note? ‘Dear Dorian, just letting you know that I’ll be away for a while. The ancient spirits I let into my brain have finally claimed my soul and I’m going to spend four and a half years murdering people on their behalf. You were right about everything and I should have listened to you. Love, Neilar.’ ”

It feels good, at least. Sure, he’s just rambling to buy a few more minutes for the people outside - but, while he’s at it, he might as well get some things off his chest.

Now that he’s been forced to work through the fear and the guilt at an incredibly fast pace, all that’s left is anger; quite a hefty amount of it, with the name of this glassy-eyed idiot written on it in giant glowing letters.

“Or how about using the amulet? You know - the magical marvel I invented specifically for the purpose of talking to you? It didn’t cross your mind to maybe mention all the sleepwalking and speaking in tongues that was happening? No! It’s all I’m alright, Dorian , and things are fine, Dorian , and I have to spend a month wondering if the amulet is broken before Leliana calls to tell me that you’re gone - ”

A sharp edge against his throat, clutched in ironbark fingers. Appearing without the warning of sound or motion, like Neilar himself.

The others should be about ready by now, shouldn’t they?

Neilar speaks. Ancient elven.

Dorian understands every word; he’s been doing his homework on everything elven and ancient ever since the disappearance.

“The will of Mythal demands your demise.”

The blade presses deeper - fuck - no, not deep enough to end it. 

It takes all of his willpower not to start casting. Not yet. This isn’t just about saving his own hide; this is about capturing him for good.

The signal. Any second now. Surely - 

*

“...Hold on, just a second - he’s not peeking, right?” Dagna asks, adjusting buckles and leather straps.

“I can’t - he’s covering my eyes!” Neilar protests.

His eyelashes tickle the inside of Dorian’s palms, as if to prove the point.

“Well, good - keep covering them. It’s all wonky and misaligned and you’re not allowed to see it until it sits right.”

Dorian can relate to her fretting. This particular project was, in many ways, a work of passion, and the necessity to finish it as soon as possible only added to the frantic energy of everyone involved. His own part was relatively small; he chimed in at the design stage and provided some arcane support at the tail end of the process, drawing on his necromantic knowledge of animating limbs.

It looks good, though. It should also work well; they’d checked everything a thousand times over. 

Dagna finishes the adjustments and leans back to inspect her work from afar. Satisfied, she nods:

“Alright, let him see it.”

He takes his hands away from Neilar’s eyes and steps aside, making sure that he can see Neilar’s expression as he looks at his new prosthetic.

The look in his eyes is blank, at first, processing what he’s looking at. Then - surprise, curiosity; he leans closer to the artificial arm, inspecting it for details.

“Try holding it up to your face instead,” Dagna suggests.

“But how do I - ”

“Don’t think about it too much! Just do it.”

The arm moves, rising up to eye level and turning, allowing Neilar to look at it from different angles.

Silverite-inlaid ironbark, the metallic parts lovingly engraved with images of vines and halla.

Dorian can see the exact moment when Neilar finds the writing hidden among the designs. His lips move silently as he reads the text.

The same quote in elven, dwarven and Tevene, snaking along the vines:

“Wounded and blinded, I will find my way home.”

A line adapted from the tale of Ghilan’nain, changed ever so slightly to make it into an oath; the same oath Neilar had taken, years ago, upon completing the trial to earn him a place among the clan’s scouts.

Despite the recent revelations from Solas, it seemed appropriate. Dorian doesn’t remember who was the first to float the idea for adding text, but the approving look he received from Taren - Neilar’s father - upon suggesting that particular quote has been firmly burned into his memory.

And yet… This is all fine and good, but the most important question is - 

“It’s… perfect.” Neilar sounds almost puzzled, as if liking their gift is a surprise to him. “I didn’t know what it would look like, but now - I can’t imagine it looking any other way.”

Dorian feels something inside of him deflate with relief. Neilar keeps inspecting the prosthetic, turning it this way and that, then starts playing with it, testing how far the fingers can bend and how quickly he can shift from one gesture to another.

It’s not as good as the real thing, it’s a little slower; Dorian knows that for a fact.

Still, right now Neilar doesn’t seem to mind; after messing with the hand some more, he shifts his attention to Dagna and pulls her into a hug, thanking her. Then, it’s Dorian’s turn.

The hug is tight enough to make his ribs hurt.

For the first time in weeks, it feels as if everything will be alright, after all.

*

A sharp whistle cuts through the silence.

Neilar freezes, both ears perked up. Distracted.

At the sound of the signal, relief floods Dorian's system. He feels the corners of his mouth twist into a smile of their own accord.

“I still love you, for the record,” he says, “But letting you slit my throat is a little too much, don’t you think?”

With a snap of his fingers, the lightning glyph he’d drawn on the floor of the study hours ago detonates.

[blarrghe]

The Hunter, the Snake, and the Fox

M | No Warnings Apply | M/M | Pavellan | Canon-Divergent

Summary:

When Magister Dorian Pavus' expedition meets unexpectedly with a clan of unhappy Dalish elves, First Taren Lavellan may be the unhappiest among them. Unhappier still to be put to the task of helping to see his quest through. This is the tale of how a fortnight in the forests of the Free Marches can change everything.

Ch. 2/28: No Harm Done

Snippet:

Dorian regained his footing, propping himself up with his staff. With a quick push of his will, a barrier of repelling, blue-tinged magic sprang into place around himself and Sylvanna, who braced beside him. He looked up to find a pair of bright eyes looking back at him from the brush beyond the path. Dorian rose and turned slowly, glancing about his periphery. Behind where he had just been standing was a tree with an arrow lodged deep into its bark. 

Dorian tensed, his posture rising up straight and his hand tightening to a secure grip around his staff.  He hadn’t brought his best, travelling instead with one that was more practical for the venture; a metal cane of a walking stick with a simple core. No flashy enchantments, no exposed lyrium crystals. It wasn’t an expedition looking for a fight with more than a few giant spiders. The other two Magisters had their magic, but not their youth. Crastus was spry enough, Dorian gathered, but a downright waste of a mage. The four bodyguards in their company might have been able to make up the difference, but the remainder of Augustus’ and Prycis’ slaves were utterly defenceless. A fighting force they were not.

He held up a hand in a signal to hold. Who knew how many more archers lay waiting in that thick mess of trees? 

DAFF tage list: @warpedlegacy @rakshadow @rosella-writes @effelants @bluewren @breninarthur @ar-lath-ma-cully @dreadfutures @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb @theluckywizard @nirikeehan @oxygenforthewicked @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisusthewee @agentkatie @delicatefade

[lindira]

“Flawed Enough” - Chapter 10

Aeric has an encounter with one of his clanmates. Comments and reblogs appreciated! Art above by @merwild​.

Title: “Flawed Enough”, Chapter 10

Rating: M

Story Summary:   After the Exalted Council, Aeric Lavellan copes with the loss of his arm and the Inquisition, and worries about his future with Dorian. Both are determined to keep the relationship going despite the distance between them, but a long-distance relationship proves harder when there’s no plan to be together in the near future.

Read Here On AO3

(Link to beginning)

[first-talon]

It's not Wednesday but can I still ask about your Pavellan fic?

Ya here you go :3

The first time that Iveani had wandered into Dorian’s dreams, it had been an accident. He hadn’t meant to wander so far that night. As a somniari, he could slip into the Fade with relative ease compared to other mages, who had to wait for their dreams. As a somniari, his Keeper had informed him that his waning sight in the waking world was a result of his unfathomable capabilities. When in the Fade, however, he found that his sight was restored in full—and it had been an accident when he found Dorian there, amidst all the dreams.

The scene had been set against the backdrop of familiar bookcases and stone walls; his favored library alcove in Skyhold. For that reason, it was easy for Iveani to duck behind the cover of a shelf and watch him from afar. Something unfamiliar bubbled up in his chest at the sight of Dorian’s animated pacing and murmuring and gesturing as he went on about the intricacies of time magic.

The first time had been an accident. Every other night that week had been intentional. Iveani told himself it was the Fade leading him back, but he knew that he could leave if he wished. He just couldn’t stop himself from trying to commit every detail to memory, from the gleaming silver buckles of Dorian’s outfit to the wry curve of his smile when he worked through a troublesome problem in his dreams. There was a hollow in Iveani’s chest when he knew the morning would come and he wouldn’t be able to make it out clearly in the waking world, but it had grown so familiar that he could almost see it in his own head.

“I know you’re there,” Dorian suddenly called out, and Iveani’s breath hitched in his throat. Stubbornly his fingers curled around the bookcase, as though Dorian could be speaking to anyone else. After a beat of expectant silence, Iveani peeled himself away and into the line of Dorian’s sight.

“Do you usually come traipsing into the dreams of your friends without so much as an invitation?” Dorian asked, resting a hand on his hip. Iveani had never had the chance to notice how fluid the motion was.

“Occasionally,” Iveani sniffed, brushing past the other mage to continue exploring around him. When he glanced back over his shoulder, the glimmer of curiosity in Dorian’s otherwise dark and intense gaze nearly stopped him in his tracks. His hand trembled as he reached out aimlessly for a book; perhaps Dorian didn’t truly know how often he had lingered in his dreams. “I find it prudent to know what my allies look like.”

“Is that so?” Dorian crooned wryly. “You know, if that were the case, you could have just asked. If I had known that I would be hosting the Inquisitor himself, I would have dreamed up a more exciting scenario for us.”

Iveani’s ears warmed at the tip. “Oh? Would it happen to include you, me, and having a clue about what to do about Corypheus?”

“Bah, you’re always so worried,” Dorian scoffed, in the usual lighthearted way that sent Iveani’s heart racing. “You could live to loosen up a little, you know. A dream is a break from the waking world. Corypheus doesn’t have to come between us here.”

“And is there something for him to come between when I wake, Lord Pavus?” Iveani asked as he turned his head over his shoulder once again. He wasn’t sure what book was in his hands and it didn’t matter, for Dorian had nearly closed the distance between them and was intently looking down at him. Iveani gulped. “What is it?”

“Your eyes,” Dorian said, with an uncharacteristic lack of levity. “They’re brown. I didn’t know that,” he continued, and he reached up to brush a hand against the curve of Iveani’s tattooed cheek. “Is that what you meant by knowing the look of your friends? You can see in the Fade, but not in the waking world?”

“You sound like you’re about to experiment on me,” Iveani protested meekly, and with that, Dorian withdrew his hand. He bit back another protest, as the sudden lack of warmth on his cheek was worse than the curious line of questioning.

“They’re charming,” Dorian said. “Your eyes, that is. Forgive me my vanity—or don’t, for I hardly apologize—but I do have to ask if you find that I live up to your imagination. I can only imagine that nothing compares to a glance at the real thing.”

Iveani’s lips twitched upward into a rare smile at his teasing. He leaned in, and Dorian raised an eyebrow, and then he whispered, “Ask me again in the morning.”

Iveani woke up alone in his bed, as his heart pounded in his chest.

[scurvgirl]

@lillotte17 said:  Plz show us an instance of Dorian with The Boi realizing that he is in fact morosexual 😌 like watching him walk straight into a glass door and being “oh no I love him”

Dorian Pavus, scion of House Pavus, educated by the finest instructors in Tevinter and co-developer of time-traveler magic has been with his pick of intelligent and beautiful mages and scholars throughout his homeland. He would dazzle his company with his intellect, wit, charm, and of course his amazing good looks. He in turn reveled in the intelligence of his affairs. The shared passion for the esoteric and arcane. 

Inquisitor Varas Lavellan was a good man. A kind man. A diplomatic and charismatic man who was surprisingly good at getting what he wanted by smiling and speaking calmly. He too was devastatingly handsome with long, thick black hair and bright green eyes. His long nose, high cheekbones and square jaw were all complimented by his dark green vallaslin. After Dorian did some research, he’d discovered that Varas’s vallaslin honored Dirthamen specifically, a god of knowledge and secrets. It was fitting. The Inquisitor had so many secrets after all. But knowledge?

As charismatic and kind-hearted the Inquisitor was, however, he couldn’t exactly be accused of being the cleverest sort. 

“The daggers, of course, they’re heavier than feathers,” Varas said, utterly convinced. Dorian blinked in surprise.

“Listen - ten pounds of feathers, ten pounds of daggers. They both weigh ten pounds, neither is heavier,” Dorian explained but Varas shook his head.

“Makes no sense. Have you ever held a feather? No way it weighs the same as a dagger.”

“A singular feather, of course not! But both weigh ten pounds, erego, there are a lot more feathers present than daggers.” 

“As an expert in daggers...I don’t see it.”

What was there not to get? Varas shook his head and curse him and his beautiful hair! This whole conversation was ridiculous and stupid. Dorian couldn’t even remember how they had gotten here, but they were and it was absurd Varas couldn’t get the logic. What was more absurd was that Dorian wanted to end the stupid argument by kissing the man on his stupid mouth with stupid tongue instead of making some witticism that Varas would invariably not get! 

Varas leaned forward and smiled which was of course the worst thing because his smile was incredible. “I know you’re trying to tell me something, so why don’t you just say it? Take out the guesswork.”

“You are infuriating.”

Varas chuckled, “I’m charming.” And for the first time in that entire frustrating conversation...Varas was right. Shit.

(I am currently accepting prompts! Send’em on over!)

[anarchybutdragonage]

Fic List for the DA Fans

Realizing now that I've never posted all my fics for Dragon Age so here he go~

Halla Statuettes & Mabari Figurines

160k+ of Pavellan, unfinished, NSFW; following the main story. The Inquisitor is a well intentioned gremlin, solving everyone's problems but his own.

Darkspawn Totems & Cameo Lockets

The prequel to HS&MF, less than 10k, unfinished, SFW; in which the Blight is escaped, Kirkwall explodes, and an Inquisitor is born

The Grindstone

Finished, original work, SFW, less than 10k; a group of Wardens go on a rescue mission to an abandoned outpost that quickly spirals into chaos.

The Enigma of Ser Daphen Atterwin

Finished, original work, SFW, less than 10k; Ser Daphen Atterwin, field biologist and lover of all of Thedas' fauna and flora (no matter how deadly), makes the discovery of a lifetime- and maybe his last.

Hopefully there is more on the horizon, but updates are a bit slow right now~

[k9rage]

13 and 16 for the new years ask game, please and thank you!

Hope you’re having a resplendent day, my heart ❣️

-Lexi Sun ☀️

13. Aside from fanfic, are there any other fan works you’d like to try creating? Fanart, or fanvids, gifsets, or podfic? 

I'd like to do more fanbinding/fanfiction bookbinding, but printing so much stuff and getting the pages right intimidates me 😔🕺 maybe this year I'll start by rebinding some of my existing books then doing fanbinding again :0

16. Do you have that one fanfic that you wrote a ton for, ages ago, but never posted? Will this be the year, come hell or high water, that it WILL get finished and posted?

Yes... 😔😭 I wrote a whole bunch for my original pavellan fic concept before scrapping it and a lot for my original Fen'an x Yuo Lavellan before setting that one aside as well. I may revisit the latter this year since I think the concept is good and I was just skittish about writing OCs the first time around!

[vendynee]

People You'd Like to Get to Know Better

I forgot I was tagged forever ago by @kal-sharok and meant to do it and never did 😅 Also combining some questions from @sillyliterature 's post bc why not :)

Favorite Color: Crimson Red and Sapphire Blue

Currently Reading: I mostly read fanfic nowadays but I did start rereading Six of Crows recently.

Last Song: Thinkin' Bout Me by Morgan Wallen

Last Series: Technically going through a Shameless rewatch with my partner but we can't watch it consistently. Before that it was Shadow and Bone (rip 😭).

Sweet, Savory, or Spicy?: Savory. My sweet tooth has been slowly dying as I'm getting older 🥲 and I can't handle spicy food for the life of me.

Currently Working On: Now I'm starting to get ready for finals but besides that I have some little oneshot WIPs I'm slowly chipping away at. Also been playing through DA2 several times over.

Three Ships:

Fenhawke (Fenris and Hawke, Dragon Age 2) -- More specifically Fenoah, which is Fenris and my Hawke, Noah. But I'm a sucker for Garrett or any other m!Hawke with Fenris. I just love that broody elf so much he deserves so much love and happiness.

Fenhanders (Fenris, Hawke, and Anders, Dragon Age 2) -- I am a sucker for polycules what can I say. Fenris and Anders are great enemies/rivals to lovers with Hawke being the glue that keeps them all together. Love it.

Pavellan (Dorian Pavus and Lavellan, Dragon Age: Inquisition) -- Dorian is such a sweetheart and Lavellan is my favorite inquisitor (which is why all five of my inkies are Lavellans 😅). I romance Dorian on every run because he's just so sweet.

Last Film: I couldn't even tell you it's been so long since I've seen a movie. I do plan on watching Barbie and FNAF eventually though. Dunno when.

Currently Watching: I still have to finish Shadow and Bone 😅. Also was in the middle of a Heartstopper rewatch and got distracted.

Currently Consuming: Everything Dragon Age. In the middle of my fourth DA2 playthrough rn and I recently bought all of the comics to read.

Currently Craving: I could use a margarita rn ngl 🤭

Tagging: Anyone who's interested :) I feel annoying tagging people so if you wanna do this consider yourself tagged

[sermacsteph]

Aftermath

Estelle bit back a cry as the anchor crackled, rift green lightning arced up his arm, crept towards his neck. He barely registered falling to his knees, bent double, cradling his arm. There was only the fire in his veins, pulsating, nauseating - readying to explode once more at any given moment. A part of Estelle knew that this was it, that this may well be the end,

‘The mark will eventually kill you,’ Solas’s voice floated from somewhere above him. ‘Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you … at least for now.’

Estelle blinked up at him. The elf whom he’d seen as a friend, who he had trusted. The icy bite of betrayal still lingered, a contrast to the blazing agony that was his arm. Solas had betrayed that trust, had used him as no more than a pawn in a bigger game. 

He heaved a shuddering breath. ‘If … if I live through this - I’m coming to stop you.’

‘I know,’ said Solas, something like regret passed over his face. ‘Take my hand.’

Estelle didn’t move. A part of him, still raw and hurting, wanted to refuse, even though it would mean his life. If Solas didn’t have the anchor … pain spasmed through his arm. He was running out of time. If he died here, now, there was nothing to stop Solas from just taking the anchor anyway. If he died here, the world would have no idea what Solas was planning - the chaos he was about to unleash.

To stop Solas he needed to live, needed to survive. For Thedas; for himself and Dorian, and the future they wanted together, he needed to live. With gritted teeth, Estelle reached for Solas’s hand.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Solas.

That pulsating pain flared, sending the world spinning. Estelle screwed his eyes shut, bit down on his tongue, trapping his cry inside him. He felt Solas’s grip slip from his and with it the pulsating vanished, faded, only to be replaced with a burning, blistering pain that ate at his arm. As if his arm, his hand was on fire; as if his very own magic had turned against him.

He forced his eyes open, his vision swimming. He glanced at his arm, it looked … Estelle swallowed. It looked as if his hand was melting beneath the armour. Bits of fade and rift-green tinged blood dripped between his trembling fingers, sizzling on the broken stones.

Solas was saying something, words that didn’t sound like words. Slowly, with far too much effort, Estelle tore his gaze away from his ruined arm in time to see the Eluvian flare as Solas vanished without so much as a backwards glance.

For a moment, the world had gone quiet as Estelle knelt alone amongst the ancient ruins and Qunari-turned-stone statues. Everything was spinning, his mind reeling with a hundred thoughts at once. Solas is Fen’Harel, was planning to tear down the veil which may well destroy the word and his arm…

Estelle blinked, trying to clear his head but it felt like wading through mud. He needed to move, he knew that much. He couldn’t stay here. Solas had taken the anchor but the blood loss would still kill him. The potions were all but spent and it was an effort to think, let alone attempting to form a spell. He needed to get back to the others.

His gaze snagged on the only other Eluvian. The one he had come through to find Solas. The one that would lead back to the others, to where Dorian was waiting. Its surface no longer dull as it had been when he’d come through it, it’s shimmering blue surface taunting him. It wasn’t far, he could make it. He had to. 

With fumbling fingers, he gripped his staff, hauling himself to his feet. The sudden movement made the ancient ruins, the petrified statues sway violently; trembling legs threatening to send him toppling back down. He tightened his grip on his staff. Ghilan’nain guide my steps, I can do this. Just one foot in front of the other. A couple more steps. A few more, until he was stumbling, slow, methodically past the qunari. Beside him, his trembling arm hung limp, rift-green blood dripped steadily leaving behind a macabre trail on the broken stones.

The mirror was tantalisingly close now. Just down the steps, past the remaining petrified qunari. Creators, why did it seem so far? The world span and never stopped. Every step, every breath was an effort of will and somewhere deep inside, Estelle knew he was never going to make it. 

Seconds, maybe minutes, seemed to flash by. He was half dragging himself now, his hand clutching the staff shaking so violently that he could barely keep his grip. When had it gotten so cold? 

Without warning, his legs buckled beneath him, sending him tumbling forwards down the last few steps. Estelle howled. Pain spiralled through him as he curled into a ball at the bottom of the stairs, watering eyes screwed tight.

He lay there, cheek pressed against hard stone. The coolness of it, a relief against the fire burning inside. He watched the statues sway like branches in the wind. Creators, he felt so tired. The exhaustion from the past few hours, days, weeks, crashed into him. It would be so easy to give in. To give into that beckoning darkness and the relief it offered from the agony spiralling through him. 

The part of him still coherent, screamed at him to move. Through hazy eyes, Estelle glimpsed the Eluvian just beyond the Qunari. Bright sunshine danced across its surface and the crumbling stones that surrounded it. He was so close - he’d only need a few more steps and he’d be there. Only a few more steps and he would be with Dorian again.

The thought of never seeing him again, or hearing that wit that hid such a caring heart, that had made Estelle fall so hard for the Tevinter mage - it hurt. Hurt more than the melting remains of his arm.

“Why didn’t you say something?’ Dorian had cried before they’d entered the Delvaraard mirror what seemed like a lifetime ago. ‘I could have … I don’t know, something!’

Estelle had cut him off then with a kiss. ‘Vhenan, whatever happens, I wouldn’t trade the years we’ve had together, for anything. I love you.’

‘I … I knew you would break my heart, you bloody bastard,’ Dorian had sobbed before burying his face in his shoulder.

A bitter sob tore through Estelle’s chest at the memory. This - it wasn’t fair. Two years they’d spent a part. Two years of letters and promises, and when they finally had the chance to be together again something had to happen to tear them apart. Angry tears slipped into his hair as he glared at the sky. Damn you, Solas! Damn you! He glared at the Eluvian - that shimmering surface called to him and his heart ached. He just wanted to see Dorian again, one last time, to tell him he was sorry.

He willed his legs to move, clawing his way forwards with his good arm. Pain blazed through him, and Estelle screamed. There was a dull clang of metal hitting stone. He stared at the fallen gauntlet, at the melting stump of his wrist in shock. Estelle froze, unable to tear his gaze away. He shook his head, desperate to make sense of what he was seeing. His hand… it was gone. How … how was that possible? Was he just simply hallucinating? 

Estelle let his head fall back against the stone. Exhaustion stole the energy from his muscles. He leant against one of the statues, staring at his arm as whatever magic the anchor had left behind slowly disintegrated his arm. He knew he would never make the distance to the eluvian. 

‘Mythal’enaste, la abelas, vhenan,’ He whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’

***

Dorian wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there, back pressed against the unforgiving surface of the eluvian. Every second, every minute that passed, felt like an eternity.

In the moments after Estelle had disappeared through that mirror, he had thrown every spell he could think of at its surface. There had to be something - some long lost knowledge stolen from the elves that could reawaken it. But his spells slid off its surface and the eluvian remained dormant.

He sat with his head bowed, desperate to keep his mind from jumping from one bad scenario to another. Estelle will be fine, he told himself. After all, he had survived thus far. Yet, Dorian still couldn’t forget that horrible moment when the anchor had exploded, throwing Estelle about with its force. The pain and exhaustion that had been in his face, and there had been nothing Dorian could do to help. Now, Estelle was trapped Maker knew where…

No. He couldn’t think like that. Solas had to help. Agent of Fen’Harel or not, surely Solas wouldn’t just let Estelle die? Hurry back, amatus, please.

The silence that had settled over the three of them was deafening. Varric sat nearby, crossbow in his lap, whilst the Seeker stood guard, shrewd eyes flicking between both eluvians. None of them spoke. What was there to even say? They could only wait. Wait and hope that the next person through the eluvian was Estelle.

There was a sudden faint chime from behind, the mirror finally springing to life. Dorian scrambled to his feet, staff instinctively in hand, a defence spell at the ready. But as they stared at the mirror, there was no sign of either Estelle or any Qunari.

They waited.

And waited.

Still there was no sign of Estelle. Dorian’s heart sank. Something was wrong, very wrong.

‘Where is he?’ Cassandra muttered.

Dorian didn’t answer. He had a hunch, one he desperately hoped was wrong. Without a word, he stepped towards the eluvian, its surface rippling at his touch. A part of him knew this might well be a trap, but he couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. Not when Estelle might need him. Taking a deep breath, Dorian stepped forwards.

Swirling blue light gave way to a broken courtyard. Crumbling ruins and stone statues towering over cracked flagstones. Only the statues weren’t elven as Dorian had first thought. They were qunari, the very same qunari they’d been pursuing. A chill crept through Dorian. The qunari were facing away, expressions of fear frozen on their faces. It had to be Solas, who else could it have been? And if this was what the elf had done to the Qunari, then Estelle....

He didn’t let himself finish that thought. Without waiting to see if Varric or Cassandra had followed, Dorian moved through the statues. Panic carried his steps, his mind racing, feet moving to the pounding of his heart. A flash of red hair, the rift-green glow caught his gaze, and there slouched against a statue was Estelle.

‘Amatus!’ Dorian breathed, tearing across the courtyard towards him.

He dropped to his knees, reaching a hand towards him. But Estelle barely seemed to notice that he was there, his bright green eyes glazed as he stared at his still glowing arm. But… Makers breath! Where Estelle’s hand should have been there was just tendrils of rift green at the end of a bloody disintegrating wrist. Dorian swallowed, his chest tightening.

‘Estelle?’

But he didn’t answer, Dorian wasn’t even sure he could hear him. At a loss what to do, he gently pulled Estelle towards him, holding him close.

He felt Estelle shift, his good arm clinging to him and Dorian could practically feel him trembling against him. ‘Do… Dorian?’

‘Shh, amatus,’ Dorian whispered, holding him tightly. He wished there was something - anything he could do. ‘It’s all right, I’m here, I’ve got you.’

‘Andraste’s ass,’ Varric muttered, as the dwarf and Cassandra finally caught up with them.

The Seeker’s face was white as she looked at them. Her eyes lingered on Estelle’s arm, the blood and bits of fade dripping from the trembling limb. Dorian knew she was thinking the exact same question - what exactly had happened? But it was a question that was going to have to wait.

‘We need to get you back to the palace, Inquisitor,’ said Cassandra, ‘can you stand?’

Estelle nodded. ‘I’ll … I’ll be fine,’ He said, even though it was quite clear he was as far from fine as it was possible to get.

Dorian wanted to argue with him, but he knew that determined look in Estelle’s eyes, knew that arguing with him would be a waste of time - something they didn’t exactly have on their side right now. So he hooked his arm around Estelle’s waist, helping him to his feet, letting him rest some of his weight against him; the anchorless arm draped around his shoulders.

Through eluvian after eluvian they staggered, going as quick as they dared. Time seemed to speed up and slow down all at the same time, almost as if it knew they needed to make haste. Dorian was all too aware of Estelle staggering beside him, his pained breaths, his arm slowly disintegrating beneath his grip.

‘Hold on, amatus,’ Dorian murmured, not even sure if Estelle was listening. ‘Just a little longer.’

How much further did they have to go? Dorian wasn’t sure. On their way through the ruins, they had been so focused on trying to get to Solas, on fighting the qunari, that Dorian hadn’t thought to count how many eluvians they went through. He was starting to regret that now.

It was a relief when crumbling elven ruins gave way to solid stone walls of the fort. The Delveraard looked somewhat less intimidating in the early morning light but no less dangerous. Two more eluvians stood between them and the safety of the palace.

The fort was eerily quiet. Even though they made sure to make as less noise as possible, their footsteps echoed through the deserted passages. They staggered through battle worn corridors and bloody stairs. Dorian felt Estelle stumble, feet slipping on slick stones and he tightened his grip.

‘Come on, just a little further.’

‘This … this wasn’t how I … I pictured this week … this week ending.’ Estelle muttered. His voice was so quiet and the pain in it - a lump formed in Dorian’s throat. ‘I’m … I’m sorry, vhenan.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Dorian, ‘we just have a penchant for attracting trouble, you and I.’

‘If … if I make it -’

Dorian cut him off. ‘Don’t … Don’t you dare say it like that.’

‘We’ll … we’ll have to find .... something to do … that isn’t fighting for … for our lives,’ Estelle finished.

‘I’m holding you to that,’ Dorian replied. ‘You are not dying on me yet, amatus.’

Estelle didn’t answer. Dorian glanced at him in alarm. His heart skipped several beats as Estelle sagged against him. No! Not now! Not when they were so close - the eluvian to the crossroads just over the bridge.

‘Amatus? Estelle?’ Dorian gently tapped his cheek, but Estelle didn’t respond. Eyes closed, limp. No! His skin was cold, icy against Dorian’s own. Makers breath, please, no! That familiar panic crept into Dorian’s heart. ‘No! Come on, amatus, stay with me!’

‘Shit,’ Varric muttered, ‘he's not going to make it.’

Dorian didn’t answer. He had to do something! Magic pooled in his hands, mind racing to form a spell to try and quell the bleeding. But there was so much of it. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a flash of silver.

‘What are you doing?!’ Dorian snapped, as Cassandra knelt down beside them, a knife drawn.

The seeker merely fixed him with a look. ‘Easy, Tevinter.’

And without waiting for a reply, she leant forwards, placing the blade to Estelle’s lips. The metallic surface misted with his breath and somewhere inside him, Dorian felt the knot of tension loosen. Just a little.

‘His breath is strong,’ said Cassandra, ‘we still have time, but we must move fast.’

Without a thought, Dorian gently hoisted Estelle up into his arms. He moved as quickly as he dared without jostling him. He forgot his exhaustion, the ache in his muscles as they raced towards the eluvian ahead. He had never thought of Estelle as fragile. Reckless, perhaps, but there was a strength and determination to keep going when everything seemed hopeless. Estelle had a quick wit that hid his gentle heart, who stood his ground for his beliefs and tried to do his best with everyone and everything. But now … Dorian swallowed and prayed to the Maker that Cassandra was right.

‘Hold on, amatus, please just hold on.’

[elfsidian]

Stories of Thedas 2

Day 13: Kids Character: Jamor Lavellan

A/N: Skipped day 12, also this is very shit and is meant to be a few years or so after Trespasser, idk when tho dkhdjf sorry

The two had been holding hands and walking around the gardens for some time in comfortable silence. Dorian looked over to Lavellan’s face and smiled. He was too afraid to voice it, but for the past few months he had been imagining what Jamor would be like as a father. Things were slowly improving not just in Tevinter, but in all of Thedas. An elven mage and a magister might be able to start a family in the near future, a notion neither of them had ever expected to consider.

He had seen Jamor with children before, and he seemed to have a natural affinity with them, so nurturing and patient. In those moments, it was hard to believe that this was the same man who had sealed a hole in the sky and defeated an ancient, dragon-wielding magister.

Jamor looked up and smiled at his partner, bringing Dorian back from his fanciful thoughts.

[blarrghe]

The Hunter, the Snake, and the Fox

M | No Warnings Apply | M/M | Pavellan | Canon-Divergent

Summary:

When Magister Dorian Pavus' expedition meets unexpectedly with a clan of unhappy Dalish elves, First Taren Lavellan may be the unhappiest among them. Unhappier still to be put to the task of helping to see his quest through. This is the tale of how a fortnight in the forests of the Free Marches can change everything.

Notes:

This is a canon-divergent, enemies-to-lovers tragedy. I'm just gonna say that last bit once. Set in a canon-compliant Thedas where the Breach/Inquisition simply never happened. Other game-typical politics and prejudices are intact.

This is also a first for me in that this fic is already finished, and I will be updating weekly! Consistency! Wow!

Ch. 1/26: Master Pavus

Snippet:

The dawn rose misty. Soft brushes of pale white fog hung low in the air, painting the forest floor in a glittery dew. Rays of watery yellow echoed through the slats between trees in a faded memory of sunlight. It was quiet. The blue-grey soaked cushion of a cluttered forest floor insulated the small clearing where Dorian's company had made their camp. Only a few faint birds chirped, calling out desperate, lost calls in a farewell to summer. 

Dorian Pavus woke damp in his tent, cursing the chill.  

DAFF tage list: @warpedlegacy @rakshadow @rosella-writes @effelants @bluewren @breninarthur @ar-lath-ma-cully @dreadfutures @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb @theluckywizard @nirikeehan @oxygenforthewicked @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisustheweee @agentkatie @delicatefade

[lindira]

“Flawed Enough” - Chapter 11

Dorian starts work in Minrathous and butts heads with an old acquaintance. Please let me know what you think!

Title: “Flawed Enough”, Chapter 11

Rating: M

Story Summary:  After the Exalted Council, Aeric Lavellan copes with the loss of his arm and the Inquisition, and worries about his future with Dorian. Both are determined to keep the relationship going despite the distance between them, but a long-distance relationship proves harder when there’s no plan to be together in the near future.

Read Here On AO3

(Link to beginning)

[hadiden-lavellan]

I am going to shameless post this because I’ve been gone awhile and haven’t written anything good.  I suppose I should actually put what it is so: Rating: Explicit Relationship: Male!Lavellan/Dorian Pavus Chapters: 24/? Words: 104,365 Thedas fears mages. They are often kept in Circle Towers where they spend their lives, imprisoned while studying their talents. For the few mages that are Dalish, often kept as Firsts or Keepers, they study silently and away from the prying eyes of Templars. Clan Lavellan is a small Clan just outside of Kirkwall. Hadiden Lavellan is the son of two of the Clan's best hunters. At an early age, the boy's magical abilities surfaces and he's faced with a choice; admit what he is and learn to master his talent, or hide what he is and continue his normal life. Will another mage cause him to be sent away, forced to leave the only home and family he knows? And what of the Rite of Tranquility? Hadiden decides that hiding what he is is better than living as a mage. The hardships he faces challenges his beliefs, his values, and how he learns to interact with people. When he leaves for the Inquisition, Hadiden has to confront his magic, as well as unlearning all his survival tactics to keep himself safe once he becomes Inquisitor.

[buttsonthebeach]

Life Itself

I had the pleasure of writing about Darva Lavellan and Dorian for @goblin-deity - thank you for trusting me with such a moving moment in their lives, friend!

My Ko-Fi || My Commissions (Slots currently CLOSED as of 8/7/19 - but check out my giveaway!)

Pairing: Darva Lavellan x Dorian Pavus

Rating: Teen for mature themes. Trigger warning for terminal illness similar to cancer, and death of a parent.

*******************************

If Darva Lavellan had been feeling poorly lately, that was to be expected. Weight of the world on his shoulders and magic hand eating him up, and all that. Who wouldn’t be feeling a little poorly? Plus there were the nonstop treks back and forth and back and forth across Thedas. That was the only reason he was feeling unwell.

It was only when the ache set well and truly into his bones - when all of his joints hurt - when he felt the swelling at the points of his jaw, that tender spot, the gland that the clan’s healers said had to do with your body’s ability to fight infection - that he knew it was something more.

It was then that he thought at once of his father. Ahgie Lavellan. His safe haven throughout all his childhood. The parent he could trust and turn to, who did not wear his fear like a badge on his sleeve the way his mother did. Ahgie Lavellan, strong and brave, who died at the hands of an Orlesian hunting party when Darva was fourteen. Ahgie Lavellan who, before that, did not fear the blades of vengeful humans, but instead the sickness growing in his own bones.

“You’re going to stop being sick though, right? Someday?” Darva had asked him when his father told him why he was tired, why he was in pain, why he had to keep going to the healers.

“I will,” Ahgie said. “But I don’t think it will be because I get better, da’mynatha’la. I think it will be the opposite.”

Darva still felt a shiver of sadness, an ache, whenever he thought of his father’s nickname for him. My little moon.

He’d died only a few months later. The sickness never got the chance to eat him up. But now, sixteen years later, looking in the mirror and seeing a face that looked more and more like his father’s every day, Darva knew what was wrong.

He went to the healers to confirm it. A wasting illness, one that crept into your blood and your bones, resulted in hard knobs of swollen tissue within your body. A death sentence.

“I need your utmost discretion with this,” he told them at once. 

His mind was already thinking of the currency he dealt in frequently now: secrets. Of how the Inquisition’s enemies would react if they knew. The Inquisitor was not only a Dalish elf whose greatest qualification for his office was a magic glowing hand, whose greatest protection was a pair of daggers that he wielded with particular style and lethality, but a man whose own body was in revolt, who was dying?

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

He would tell Leliana to monitor the correspondence of the healers nonetheless - without telling her why. She might start to work out her own reasons, but he trusted her entirely. Whatever she did work out, she would keep to herself.

He felt oddly calm about it all. So he was sick. There was also an ancient would-be god who had it out for him, so in the grand scheme of things it wasn’t that big of a deal. He just had to stay well long enough to fix this mess. Then he could fall apart. Hadn’t that been the plan all along? Hadn’t he been running from one disaster to another ever since he took his vallaslin and left his clan? This was just the next disaster. Nice to have a bit of a head’s up, really.

He’d keep it secret until absolutely necessary to do otherwise. That was the logical, responsible thing to do. Pretend it wasn’t happening.

He’d almost convinced himself of that until he was standing in the great hall of Skyhold, and he saw Dorian across the way. He was just leaving the rotunda, Vivienne at his side. The two of them were talking animatedly. Dorian was gesturing wildly with his hands, as he was wont to do when he got worked up about something. Darva froze, sticking close to the shadows of the door he had just exited, watching the two of them go. Watching Dorian go. His broad shoulders and his sharp, handsome face. Darva’s heart beat faster at the sight of that man - every single time - and things were serious between them now.

And just like that, the illness - this next disaster - was suddenly, vastly, unfair.

He’d come all this way - endured all of the shit life had thrown at him - nearly drowning in that river when he was young, his mother’s controlling paranoia, losing his father, his mother’s anger and grief then, how they were directed at him - drifting from place to place, finally returning home, only to leave for the Conclave and land in this nightmare - he’d endured all of that, found a man who shone a bright light into every one of those dark corners - was just starting to imagine a world where he could be happy, could have a home -

And now this.

Fuck.

He let Dorian and Vivienne leave the great hall without calling out to them. He stayed there in the shadows, so full of anger, of fear, that he could not move.

Darva went up to his quarters after that. He even had them bring his dinner up to him. He picked at it for a while. Then he laid out his collection of daggers and began polishing and inspecting them. It was good to do that. It was something small that he could control. And besides - they were bright, dangerous and strong. Qualities he would need in the time to come.

Dorian didn’t come looking for him, which was unusual, but his lover also knew that Darva was a man who occasionally needed his space. Who had been a solitary, watchful child, living isolated in a world-within-a-world, for many years. Darva missed him immediately, and soon that feeling bled over into a kind of self-pity that pinned him to the bed.

It wasn’t fair. His own body risen up in revolt against him, at a time when everyone needed and needed and needed things from him - expected and expected and expected things - when he was already barely qualified as it was -

How had his father done it? A hunter, a family man, a husband - how had he still gotten up every day and smiled, gone about what he needed to do? He could never ask him, could he? Like so many other things, he was going to have to figure this one out alone.

Or maybe it wouldn’t be alone. There was Dorian. Dorian with his agile mind, his voracious appetite for reading, his kindness. His knowledge of what it was like to live a life alone, a life apart. Dorian understood him in a way no one else did. He could rely on Dorian.

Then, tossing and turning in his bed, he thought of his mother. She had not been an asset to her husband or her son, in the end. Not with the way fear and grief twisted her up inside, as real and as violent as any illness. Not with the way they came spilling out of her mouth in accusation after accusation. Dorian was not like that. But there was no denying that there was a burden here. Something Darva himself could bear. He was sure of that. So that was his final decision, late that night. That he would bear this alone in the deep darkness of his mind, in the deep darkness of each night to come - however many of those he had left.

*

They were preparing to head out to Crestwood soon. There was that absolutely lovely, charming lake full of undead that needed dealing with, and then there would be a holiday in a lovely nearby castle that was also overrun with bandits.

“Seeing as how we are about to enjoy such luxuries,” Dorian said to him that next day. “How about we slum it for a bit? Spend some time just the two of us really roughing it, so we can properly appreciate the weeks to come.”

Darva was already smiling, already opening up from the inside out - a sweet feeling, a rush like when you knew you had the perfect hand of cards in Wicked Grace.

“Would a private dinner in one of the spare rooms suit your definition of roughing it? Perhaps some candles and wine to really seal the deal?”

Dorian sauntered closer, leaning against the wall, smiling, his chin tilted up. All confidence and ease and sultry enough to grab anyone’s attention.

“Dinner in a drafty tower with terrible company? My, my, Inquisitor. You do know how to spoil a man.”

Darva wanted to kiss him right then. But he just mirrored his posture instead.

“Well, tonight isn’t about spoiling anyone, is it? It’s about roughing it. Or have you lost track of your own joke?”

“I never lose track of anything that matters.”

It was true. Dorian played the dilettante but he had the focus of a bloodhound, a mind to exceed any of the scholars in the Inquisition’s employ. How Darva had ever caught his eye - had ever held it - was sometimes beyond him.

Dorian would turn that focus to his illness, if Darva let him in. The sickness would consume Darva’s body but it would consume Dorian’s mind. He was more sure than ever of the decision he’d made not to tell him.

“Darva?”

Dorian’s tone had shifted and so had his posture. Gone was the flirtatious smile, the cocked hip, the raised chin. Shit.

“My apologies. Just trying to dream up a menu that will suit your very particular tastes, Serah Pavus.” Darva took Dorian’s hand, raised it to his lips, brushed a kiss across the knuckles. Light and polite and perfect as you please, just the way Josephine had taught him.

“I see. I expect to be impressed then, amatus.”

Amatus.

That word sat heavy and new on Darva’s mind the rest of that day. Beloved. It was a word full of promise and meaning and if Darva had had doubts about living up to it before - and he had - they were doubled now. Whether he died at the hands of one of the Venatori or some goddamn dragon or Corypheus himself or because of his own failing body, he was going to die. Sooner than he should.

So maybe he ought to tell Dorian - let him get out now, before that word amatus acquired more and more and more meaning, more memories.

But Darva still went to the kitchens and asked for roast duck in a pan sauce, figs, their best red wine, fresh bread, and baked vegetables. Because his mind inevitably circled back to all the things about Dorian that he could not bear to lose - his biting humor, yes, his wit, his charm - but also the things that lay beneath all of that. The bruises they shared in common. The loneliness - the disappointed parents - the years of not fitting in, and the armor they’d built up to resist that. And the tenderness that they had now, finally, found with one another.

He couldn’t lose that. Not now. He was selfish that way.

Dorian met him in one of the spare rooms they’d redone to house visiting dignitaries. It had rich green curtains that Darva himself had chosen out of an array of swatches that Josephine presented him with. They were shot through with gold thread, and it made him think of the light on the trees in the forests where he’d grown up. All of the furniture in the room was made of a highly polished red wood that he couldn’t recall the name of now - something imported all the way from Seheron, if he remembered right. The sort of thing he might once have seen getting unloaded off of a pirate ship in Llomeryn.

The candles he’d chosen were simple, unscented. He knew Dorian would likely have chosen his own scent to wear at the pulsepoint of his neck and on each of his wrists, and he wanted to be able to smell that instead. To drink in every aspect of his lover. All joking aside, he might have almost preferred that they didn’t meet in such a rareified space, with its tapestries and stained glass window and fine furniture. The better to focus entirely on one another. It was the longing for a simpler life that had drawn Darva back to his clan, after all - and without that longing he would never have ended up at the Conclave. Would never have ended up here.

“Does this suit your tastes?” he asked Dorian with a sweeping gesture of his arm as he welcomed him in. Dorian tapped a finger against his chin, as if truly considering.

“Passable enough, I suppose. For the South. And anything is better than the muck you’re dragging me too.”

“Well, it isn’t the Fallow Mire this time.”

“You mean to tell me that Ferelden isn’t comprised entirely of muck? What a fascinating theory.”

Darva laughed. He hadn’t laughed since he got the news, he realized abruptly, and that meant he was laughing a little harder than he should have been, as if his body was giddy at the sudden release. It was like what used to happen when he would escape out from under his mother’s thumb and go to see his friends, how the first laugh that burst out of him would be too loud, too nervous. Too relieved.

Dorian had noticed, of course. His gold-brown eyes were narrowed slightly. But he was quick to smile.

“I am pleased I can be such a source of amusement for you. Shall we sit?”

Dorian continued to do his best to be a source of amusement as they ate the roasted duck and vegetables (which he pronounced passable as well) and the figs (which he couldn’t even make jokes about, being too busy actually moaning over how sweet they were). His hand was also never far from Darva. Sometimes it was on his knee beneath the table, sometimes on his wrist. Sometimes he traced idle patterns on the back of Darva’s hand, or on the palm. Sometimes he just laced their fingertips. When the food was gone, Dorian did that one more time.

“Hello,” he said, quietly, and just like that, Darva landed fully in the moment. There was no banter, no thought for past or future. Just the two of them, sitting in the candlelight, bodies warm with wine, palms touching. Darva tugged Dorian’s hand closer and kissed the back of it.

“Hello.”

“How have you been?” Dorian went on. This was how it was with them. Dancing for a while, working past the layers of scars, until they were vulnerable to one another. Until they could really talk.

But Darva couldn’t really talk about the thing most on his mind, could he? The fact that he ached all over, that he was exhausted. That it would only get worse from here, and there was no telling how fast or how slow that would happen. His father had known about his own illness for a good six months before it became noticeably worse, and even then the healers thought he might have another year left from that point.

“Same old,” Darva said. “Weight of the world and all that. Must be the middle of the week.”

The answer was too flippant. Dorian recognized the tone for what it was. A defense. A scar.

“I know that there is only so much I can do about that weight - but you know that I will take any part of it I can from you, right?”

There was a lump in Darva’s throat that he desperately wished would vanish. It was a childish lump. A needy one. Not the reaction of a grown man in charge of one of the largest military forces in Thedas, who had a magic in his hand that could heal the sky.

“I do. Maybe you should just buy me a new dagger instead. I’d love one with a handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl, you know.”

His own instinctive sarcasm betrayed him again. Dorian only looked more concerned.

“A dagger. Yes. If that’s what you need from me.”

Shit.

Darva held out his other hand - the marked one - for Dorian’s. Dorian accepted the gesture, brow still furrowed.

“I’m being an idiot. I’m sorry for that. I do need more from you than that. I’m just - not good at asking. And I have my own things to work through a bit, first.”

“You have seemed off today. Is that why?”

It was strange, being that seen. Being that known. Darva had passed most of his adult life drifting, never staying long enough to be really seen. Really known. And here Dorian was, not just aware of his subtle shifts in mood, but concerned for them.

“Yes. But I don’t want to burden you with it.”

“It’s not a burden if I’m asking, amatus.”

Darva had a dozen witty retorts, and two dozen more that weren’t quite as witty, but his mind circled back to a single thought over and over again. It is. You just don’t know it yet. And then he was imagining actually speaking the words out loud: I am sick. Wasting away from the inside out. I’m going to die. He imagined how Dorian’s face would change when he heard the news. How everything would change. And he hated the idea so violently that he wanted to stand and leave the room, leave the castle, slip out of his skin and into someone else’s entirely. It was all so terribly unfair - pinned between illness and death and Dorian, and all that their love promised.

“Like I said,” he went on finally. “I’m being an idiot. Can you give me another day or two to be an idiot about this?”

“Of course.”

Darva let go of Dorian’s hands then, but only so he could stand up from the table, walk around to the other side, take his lover’s face in both his hands, and bend down and kiss him on the lips. He felt Dorian’s gentle intake of breath ghost across his cheek - felt him part his lips in reply, welcoming Darva in - and everything was softness, connection, warmth from there. They cleared up from their dinner and walked around the battlements, hand in hand in the moonlight, not speaking anymore, just feeling.

Darva came to a different realization late that night. The way he felt about Dorian - the way he lay there, picturing his face, hearing his laugh, turning the images of his lover over and over and over in his mind - he had not felt this way about anyone ever before. It was different even than the way he’d felt about Sorrel, his first love - or about Livonah before that. And that meant he could not behave the way he had before. He couldn’t evade, hide, conceal. He had to be forthright. Honest.

He had to tell him that he was dying. Dorian would do with that information what he would. Darva had to show him the respect he deserved - had to give him that chance to decide what to do.

This realization was a more difficult one. It sat higher in his throat - choked off his breath, made it harder to breathe. But he knew it was the right one.

*

They set out the next morning for Crestwood, all thrilled to bits at the idea of the undead they’d be fighting, all joking loudly about it - with the exception of Cassandra of course, who simply let out one of her long-suffering sighs and rode on ahead to keep a lookout. Sera eventually joined her, declaring that she didn’t want to be stuck with the schmoopy-eyed lovebirds. With the two of them gone, Darva found himself fidgeting - tugging at loose threads on his saddle, fussing with his hair, trying to make sure all the dark curls were tucked away, disturbing some of them with his fussing, putting them back again. It didn’t take long for Dorian to start staring.

“Having another case of your wiggles, over there?” he asked, smiling. Darva felt heat rise into his face.

“I don’t have wiggles.” This was an opportunity, though - to speak about the root of his unease. Cassandra and Sera were far enough ahead after all. Courage, Darva. He cleared his throat. “I am, however, feeling rather fidgety. I - I do have something to tell you.”

Dorian nudged his horse closer. His brown eyes were already full of concern, dark-eyebrows knitted together with it.

“Tell me, then.”

There was nothing to do but jump.

“I’ve been feeling poorly. More poorly than usual. I went to the healers earlier this week and they confirmed it for me. I’m sick. The way my father was before he died.”

The words felt surreal in the midmorning light. Even this high in the mountains there was so much life - the evergreens were a vibrant emerald against the slate-colored slopes. Cardinals dove in and out of them, slashes of brilliant crimson against the white snow. Further still you could see down into Ferelden, its myriad shades of green, brown, and gold. And here Darva was talking about death - thinking about his own death, about how he felt pretty good today, all things considered. There wasn’t that swollen tenseness in the glands at his throat, and only half of his joints ached instead of all of them.

He was stalling, of course. Taking in the sights around him so he would not have to take in Dorian’s face. He relented eventually. He was not a coward after all. 

Dorian’s face had changed little. His lips were set in a harder, thinner line. There was something burning in his eyes.

“Your father - he was killed by Orlesians.”

“Yes. But…”

“But you’ve always hinted at something else, too.”

Darva’s mind circled back once again to how unfair all this was. How he’d found a man he loved more than breath and bone, who could finish his sentences, follow the bent of his thoughts, and how he would have to leave him so soon.

“He had a wasting illness,” Darva said finally, voice quiet. “It would have killed him in months if the Orlesians hadn’t gotten to him first. And now I have it.”

The thing he had always feared, spoken plain, in the daylight. Darva looked back out over the ridge, towards Ferelden in miniature below. His horse stopped suddenly, and Darva turned back. Dorian’s hands were on his horse’s bridle, drawing them both to a stop.

“Amatus - you are certain?”

“Yes. I suspected it even before I went to the healers.” Unease gathered at the base of Darva’s spine, making him shift in the saddle. He wanted to dismount and pace, as if that would discharge it. “It’s hard to say how long I have of course. For all we know the Anchor will get me before then. Or a dragon or a darkspawn or I’ll trip over a pressure plate in one of these ruins we keep finding ourselves in and -”

Dorian’s hand was on his now, squeezing so tightly that Darva forgot to think of anything else. Darva met his gaze again. The thing burning in his lover’s eyes was tears, he realized with a jolt of anxiety, with a wave of love that threatened to sweep him away.

“Amatus - what can I do?”

Darva’s mind flashed with hundreds of flippant replies. He buried them all.

“Nothing that you aren’t already doing. And that’s okay. If anything - I hesitated to tell you this because I didn’t want you to feel like it put any kind of burden on you. You didn’t sign up for this. You don’t have to suffer just because I’m suffering. If you’d - if you’d rather end things here -”

“Stop. That’s total nonsense.” Dorian’s voice wobbled. He looked away. “Kaffas. I can’t believe you told me this now. On a horse at the start of a full day’s ride.”

Of course. Of course Darva had chosen the wrong moment. The wrong words. The same way he always did. He was no good at this. Not good enough for Dorian.

“I’m sorry. I spent all last night drumming up the courage and when I saw my opportunity I just - went for it. I shouldn’t have burdened you with this when you didn’t have time to process -”

“No.” Dorian turned back to him, edged his horse even closer, so he could reach out and cup the back of Darva’s head, drawing them even closer. “That’s not it at all, you dense and beautiful man. It is because I want nothing more than to hold you right now, and Sera is already making obscene gestures at us from down the road.”

Dorian did look at him a little differently for the rest of that day. He did seem a little more solicitous than usual. It created a spark of worry within Darva. Wasn’t this what he didn’t want? To be treated like an invalid? To have things change between them?

Then, that night, when the others had gone to bed, when it was just them and the campfire and the great black expanse of the night, the hundreds and hundreds of stars pricking through, when Dorian was finally able to hold him - that spark of worry was extinguished utterly. Because he was in the arms of the man he loved. Who loved him back. Because Dorian was warm and solid and there, and he wasn’t going anywhere, as he kept murmuring over and over against Darva’s hair.

“I’m here no matter what, amatus. You won’t face a single moment of this alone. I swear it.”

Darva wrapped himself in those words - stronger than any medicine, warmer than any blanket - and together the two of them kept night and sickness and death at bay until the sun rose, and it was enough.

[peppermint-studign]

Glitter Isn't Gold

Rhiyadh Lavellan was once the golden boy of his clan. Now, living in exile in Ferelden, Rhiyadh has been struggling to come to terms with his mistakes. But after a chance encounter at a party, he is thrown into the path of Dorian Pavus, an aspiring model, and historian, with his own host of issues. Both men have been living in the shadows of their pasts for far too long. Can they learn to trust in each other to find their own happiness? Can they learn to trust in themselves to fight for their own happiness?

[anarchybutdragonage]

Halla Statuettes & Mabari Figurines chapter 66:

It's back baby... after exactly a year ;_; very sorry!