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Chapter Text

Castien sits cross legged on the ground, eyes closed, breathing slowly. It is raining, and his shirt and breeches are soaked through to his skin. The trickle of water down his face is distracting, but he tries to ignore it, focusing instead on the sensation of the ground beneath him, the grass at his fingertips, the sounds of the rain beating the leaves of the trees around him. Eyes closed, breathing in and out, soft breaths, controlled breaths. He is supposed to be meditating on Ghilan'nain, protector of the Dalish hunters. And yet, the guidance of the gods feels further from him than ever before. He is scared. The vallaslin is a rite of passage. It is the proof that he is now a man, no longer a child. He must put aside childish thoughts, take the pain stoically, as an adult. And yet he still feels like a child, small and weak.

He has always been the smallest in his cohort. The other boys grew tall and strong as they learned the ways of the Dalish. He has always been a step behind, often mistaken as being much younger than his true age. And yet he hasn’t been babied. Far from it.

“Ma harel, da’len. Tell me the truth, and perhaps it won’t be too bad.”

“I didn’t, I swear! It wasn’t me!” But he can’t tell on the others, or they’ll throw him in the river again, and he can’t swim. He’ll drown, and they’ll all say good riddance.

“Do not lie.” The hand shoots out, backhands him across the face. His eyes sting with tears, but he has learnt that crying makes it so much worse. Crying infuriates the keeper. Crying equals more beatings, more pain. So he holds them back, though his cheek stings.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because what else can he say? It is always like this. The other children blame everything on him, and the keeper seems to relish having a scapegoat for the miseries of the clan. Born under a bad sign. That is Castien Lavellan. Raised by the clan keeper after both of his parents perished in a shemlen attack. He is a curse on the clan and he knows it.

He opens his eyes. It’s hard to see the position of the sun in the sky what with the heavy clouds and the pouring rain, but he knows that he has not been meditating long enough. This is part of the process, and he has to do it properly. He has to succeed at this, prove that he is ready. He wipes the rain from his face, and closes his eyes again. Tries to focus. Lays his hands flat on the ground, to connect with the earth. Breathes in and out, slowly, counting the breaths, one, two, one, two, over and over until his mind settles.

“You are a burden, Castien. Always underfoot. Always causing trouble. Who knew such a small boy could be so bad. Get in there, stay in there. I don’t want to see you.”

The hahren has had enough of him. He knows that this will be passed on to the keeper. He sits in the dark, not daring to move. He can hear the other children playing outside, laughing and shouting. It is only he who is too bad to be with them. He doesn’t know why, but he knows that as soon as the keeper hears of whatever it is he did today, whatever thing he did wrong, the punishment will come shortly after.

His arms are bruised. Layer upon layer of purple and blue and green. There’s a cut across his face from the latest slap, where the keeper’s nail ripped into his cheek. He’s tired, and sad, and this is all he knows.

The light is fading. He has been meditating for hours. It has to be enough. He is as pure and cleansed as he could ever hope to be. It has to be good enough. He gets to his feet, muscles complaining from the stiffness of hours sitting cross-legged. The rain has stopped, but his clothes are still wet. He needs to bathe and change into something clean for the ceremony tonight. He makes his way to the river, and the gods must be on his side because there is no one else there, and he can wash in peace.

The blades at his hips are like a security blanket. They belonged to his father, and now they belong to him. The blades are ornate, and sharp, and the handles are worn, because his father was a hunter, and used them often. He wears them strapped to his hips all the time, and the other children leave him alone when they see them. Many of them are also learning to use weapons, and he is still smaller than them, but he has an affinity with the daggers, and they can see that he is growing dangerous. He is fast, and he practices daily. One day, he will be strong enough to leave. He tells himself this over and over, and when he wakes from nightmares he reaches for the blades, his fingers fitting into the grooves in the handles, the smoothness of the wood soothing him back to sleep.

He is clean and dry now, and he can hear the chatter of the clan as they prepare for the ceremony. Thoughts flicker through his mind. So much could go wrong. The keeper could change his mind. Refuse to mark him. Leave him a child whilst the others become grown men and women. Or worse, he might cry out from the pain. He has seen it happen before. Elves unable to bear the pain of the vallaslin as it is cut into their faces, crying out, and ending the ceremony in their shame. To cry from the pain is proof that you are still a child, and not ready for the passage into adulthood. That would be the worst. He cannot let that happen. But he has plenty of experience of taking pain in silence. He will succeed at this, at least. He is ready. He knows that he is ready.

There are torches lit. The flames cast a flickering glow across the camp. The children have been put to bed, and the adult elves are gathered together, waiting. The keeper stands at the front of the small crowd, and the three other elves who are the same age as Castien stand waiting. Castien joins them, and they shuffle away from him, like he is poxed. It does not even bother him, he is so used to it.

One by one, they are called forward. One by one they sit before the keeper as he carves the vallaslin into their faces. Castien watches as they wince, but don’t cry. He watches as before him, they cross the boundary between childhood and adulthood. As each one finishes, there is smiling and cheering, and they are welcomed by the clan.

Finally, it is his turn.

He takes his seat before the keeper. He keeps his expression neutral. The keeper’s lips twist with disgust, but he commences with the ceremony, carving the marks representing Ghilan'nain into his face. The tattoo he has chosen curls across his forehead in loops and twists. It marks his chin as well. The keeper presses the blade in hard, as if to pull some kind of reaction from Castien, but Castien keeps his expression blank. The cuts are sharp, the pain shooting through his face, but he does not cry out. He does not even wince. He may be the smallest. He may be unwanted. He may be a curse on the clan. But he is not weak. He will never be weak again.

He cries that night, silent sobs with his face pressed against his bedding so that no one can see. The pain is almost unbearable, and the knowledge that despite now having the blood writing across his face he is still not accepted and loved by his clan is more painful still. When he finally sleeps, the nightmares come after him, only this time there are demons clawing his face, tearing the skin from his bones, and he wakes with a cry that he muffles in his bedding, sweat beading on his forehead. He reaches for his blades, grips the handles, but his heart still races, and he is sleepless until the dawn.

Chapter Text

Dorian wants to know everything, see everything, experience everything. His childish enthusiasm has yet to be crushed, his interests currently supported, as he reads too many books far beyond his comprehension level and asks so many questions that even his tutors grow weary. Tevinter has so much to offer one of his class, with his innate abilities. With his privilege and money, his family connections, he can play and learn and discover to his heart’s content.

And yet. And yet there is still something missing.

As a child, he doesn’t know what it is. He sees his parents, clearly not a love match, barely tolerate each other. His mother drinks during the day, and parties in the evenings, and sleeps in long in the mornings. He brings her his discoveries and questions, shows her his latest magic tricks, and she murmurs “Dorian, darling, mummy has a headache. Go away and play.” His father is so busy, with his position as a magister, that Dorian rarely sees him. He entertains himself, torments the servants, and dreams of something more, and yet he cannot put his finger on what, exactly, it is that he wants.

They send him away to a circle, to hone his magic. It is school, and Dorian chafes at the rules and restrictions. He is too smart for his own good, his teachers say. He makes friends and enemies, in the Tevinter way, and courts with popularity. He has the looks and the wits to make the other children follow him, do whatever he tells them to. It amuses him, and yet something is still missing. Always missing. There is an emptiness inside of him, something rotten in his soul. He knows from a young age that he is not a good person, cannot be a good person. This shouldn’t bother him; bad men don’t care that they are bad, after all. And yet. And yet. It is not enough.

He is hot headed. Flings around words and magic without a care of consequences. Fights with the other children, and then talks himself out of trouble. The older girls dress him up and play with his hair. The younger boys hang onto every word that drips from his mouth. His parents despair at the reports his schools send home. He bounces from circle to circle, always causing too much of a stir at each one, until eventually, there is nowhere left to go. Eventually, he discovers the pleasures of the flesh. Alcohol and sex are his two favourites. He can lose himself in both, and for a brief period he can ignore the emptiness clawing at him from inside.

Dress well, speak well, and you hide a multitude of sins. Dorian lives for the high life. “Hedonistic,” his father hurls at him when he is sent home from yet another school. “I want a son I can be proud of, Dorian. You could be so much more, if you only applied yourself.”

Dorian scowls, the expression marring his pretty face. “Is it not enough to be the top of the class? Am I not allowed to have any fun?”

His father sighs, and turns away. It always goes like this. “We will find you another school.”

Dorian retreats to his bedroom. It has not changed since he was a small child. He lies on the bed, fingers stroking the soft sheets, wishing he was anywhere but home.

They catch him with another boy. It was going to happen at some point. It is not as if Dorian hides his proclivities. He has never seen the need to. It is all just fun, after all, nothing serious. Until it isn’t. Until it means more. Until he realises that perhaps, that empty hole inside him can be filled after all. But in Tevinter, two men can never be more than just fun. That is drilled into him firmly, when they catch him on his knees, his mouth wrapped around another boy’s cock, and drag him by his ear to the school office. He is expelled, of course, but that isn’t the worst of it. The worst is that the other boy won’t speak to him.

“Leave me be, Pavus,” he says, as Dorian tries to talk to him in the hallway.

“My father is coming to collect me,” says Dorian. “I was hoping…” He trails off. The other boy is glaring at him.

“It’s over,” he says. “It was never anything in the first place. Just a bit of fun.”

“But-”

The boy spits at him.

Just a bit of fun. That is all that Dorian can have. He knows that now. He could have been so much, with his looks and power and money. He can still be so much. But the one thing he wants is out of his grasp. He is destined to be a magister in a loveless marriage, the spitting image of his father. He is destined for unhappiness.

He has a razor blade hidden beneath his mattress. He hid it there before he was sent away to the latest school. He hadn’t used it, but the knowledge of it had comforted him. Now he pulls it out, turns it over in his fingers. There is a comfort to the feel of the metal against his soft flesh. He cannot cut anywhere visible. Cannot mar his flawless skin. He is not a man, he is a specimen. The creation of his parents, to be the perfect mage, the perfect magister, all of his father’s hopes and dreams. There is something thrilling about secretly ruining all of that. He presses the blade against his hip, where only a lover would see the marks. Presses hard, until blood beads up in a straight line. It stings, and that pain cuts through to his rotten insides, and it helps, sweet Andraste, it helps.

He rations himself. One cut per day, never more. Often, less. Always on his hip, where it cannot be seen. And always controlled, a perfect straight line. When they heal, the silvery scars are aesthetically pleasing, and some nights he will lie naked and simply look at them. Sometimes he runs a finger along them, tracing the path of the razor blade. It is his secret, to keep with his other secrets, deep in the rotten core of his soul, and it is both a thrill and a sorrow to him.

He is sent away again, and this time it is all too much, and he runs away. He has his drink, and his blade, and his looks, and that is all he needs. For a while, he can lose himself, and so he does.

Chapter Text

Inquisitor Lavellan. It is more than he could ever have expected, raised the way he was. He is someone important. He has a purpose. They need him. All of Thedas needs him. He is Andraste’s chosen. Her herald. He still has the marks for Ghilan'nain gracing his skin. He still swears by the Dread Wolf. But he has never felt further from the old elven gods. He has been chosen by the Maker, by Andraste, by the Inquisition and by the people of Thedas. He will take down Corypheus, and save Thedas, and maybe, just maybe, his old keeper will look at him with something other than disgust in his eyes.

It is unsurprising that Dorian has gravitated towards the Inquisition. He has always stood for everything that Tevinter isn’t, so why not make that official, and join the enemy? Only, the Inquisition does not feel like an enemy. Even when he’s facing off against Alexius, burning those final bridges with his past, the Inquisition is what feels like home.

The two circle each other warily, trading insults and flirtations. Castien sees a self-absorbed Tevinter mage, one step away from a dreaded magister, always perfectly groomed and dressed, too clever, too magical, too perfect. Dorian sees a Dalish elf, a backwater rustic, with a tattooed face that’s slashed with scars, and those pointy ears that both intrigue and repel him. A man with power and yet little confidence. A man who holds himself as if he is waiting for the next blow to fall.

“Inquisitor,” says Dorian, looking up from his wine glass as Castien slides into the seat beside him. Skyhold’s tavern is busy, but the seat beside Dorian’s isn’t the only one available. “What a surprise to see you here. Taking a break from saving the world?”

Castien ignores him, holds up a hand to call over the bartender.

“Whiskey. Neat,” he says, and then drops his head to rest on his hand. He lets out a long, slow sigh.

“Long day?” Dorian asks.

Castien continues to ignore him. A glass is placed on the table in front of him, and he picks it up, turning it in his fingers and studying it carefully before downing it in one. “Keep them coming,” he says. His voice always takes Dorian by surprise. It’s deeper, gruffer than Dorian would expect from an elf, especially one so slight.

“Never mind. It’s your loss,” says Dorian, his tone light. “My conversation is fascinating, or so I’m told.”

Finally, Castien looks at him, and Dorian is taken aback by the emptiness in the man’s eyes.

“That bad?” he says, as Castien downs another whiskey.

“It’s fine,” says the Inquisitor. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”

“Yes, that’s clear from the amount of whiskey you’re imbibing.” Dorian shrugs one shoulder gracefully. “Not that it’s any of my business. Feel free to drink yourself into a stupor. That just so happens to be my plan for the night also.” He finishes his glass of wine. “Perhaps I should also be drinking whiskey. It’s clearly doing more for you than this wine is for me.”

Castien raises an eyebrow, and for a moment he looks attractive, the kind of man that Dorian would be interested in sucking off in a back alley.

“And yet you’re drinking that shit,” he says.

“Yes.” Dorian looks with distaste at his now empty glass. “A good wine is worth every penny. This, unfortunately, is a terrible wine. You should look into that, as the Inquisitor.”

“Because I have nothing better to do than provide you with wine.”

“Do you?”

“What?”

“Have anything better to do?”

Castien shrugs.

“I will be back with something more appealing to drink,” says Dorian, rising from his seat. “Don’t go anywhere. Or do. Don’t let me stop you from all your inquisiting.”

It is a very drunken Dorian who follows Castien back into the main halls of Skyhold later that evening. It is a very drunken Castien who, instead of returning to his own rooms, then follows Dorian to his.

“You seem to have taken a wrong turning, Inquisitor.”

“Call me Castien.” His words slur, and he stumbles against Dorian, who catches him in his arms. The elf feels slim, warm, pliable. It has been so long since Dorian has had a warm body in his bed. There are warning bells ringing, but the fog of the liquor dulls them, and Dorian finds himself leading the Inquisitor into his bedroom.

Castien grabs for him, clumsily. He tugs at buttons, trying to unfasten Dorian’s breeches.

“Elves,” mutters Dorian. “No finesse.” He catches Castien’s hand in his own. The elf’s fingers are long and slim, and there are callouses on his palms. Dorian’s own hands are much softer. Something about the callouses is arousing. Perhaps it is the idea that this man has done so much more manual labour than Dorian has. A bit of rough, to contrast against the decadence of Tevinter. Then again, Castien is the Inquisitor. There is also the heady attraction of power that reminds Dorian so much of home, and not in a good way.

Dorian takes off his own clothes. He is too cloudy from alcohol to make a show of it, although he knows that he looks good. He lays his clothing over the back of a chair. No need to ruin the velvet. Castien lets his clothing crumple to the floor at his feet.

“Were you raised in barn?” he asks. “Wait, you’re Dalish, so I guess that’s a yes.”

He expects Castien to respond with a quip of his own, but the elf says nothing, and Dorian thinks he spots a flicker of pain cross the man’s face. It is gone before Dorian can be sure, though.

“Well, this is awkward,” says Dorian.

Castien steps closer. They are both naked now, and despite the drunkenness, Dorian feels cold. He reaches for Castien, lets his hands skim over the elf’s skin. He is lighter than Dorian, tanned rather than brown. There are freckles across his face, and those ridiculous tattoos, green ink over his forehead and chin. Dorian knows very little about the Dalish, only that the tattoos mean something important to the elves. He raises a hand to Castien’s face, and the elf flinches away. Dorian drops his hand. He is unsure as to what he wanted to do, anyway. Was he reaching to caress? But he doesn’t do that. Doesn’t make sex into something soft. Perhaps he was going to touch the tattoos. Or perhaps it was the scars that intrigued him. The Inquisitor’s face is a mess of scarring. Two long scars on his right cheek, deep and angry. A slash through his right eyebrow. A long vertical scar that cuts from just below his left eye all the way down to his chin. A gash across his forehead, bisecting the tattoo. A criss cross of scars along his lips. A long, jagged scar that runs down his neck. Now that the man is naked, Dorian can see that it reaches right to his armpit. There’s a scar across his stomach that looks older than the others, and his legs are a mess of what Dorian can tell are burn marks, all across his thighs. They look too uniform to be caused by anything natural, and his hand strays to the thin silver lines at his hip, self-conscious all of a sudden.

Dorian does what he does best. He drops to his knees and takes Castien into his mouth. The elf’s prick hardens in his mouth. He pushes him roughly against the wall. The elf grunts but doesn’t resist. Dorian uses his own weight to hold him there, sucking him until the Inquisitor’s legs are trembling. He is too drunk to make it anything other than sloppy, but the Inquisitor does not seem to mind. His hands find Dorian’s hair, and Dorian lets him twist his fingers into it. There is spit in Dorian’s moustache and dribbling down his chin, and as the Inquisitor spends down his throat he feels dirtier than any back alley assignation has ever made him feel. He pulls off and leans back in order to look up at Castien.

Castien is not going to cry. There is a handsome man on his knees in front of him, swallowing his spend and looking up at him with dark brown eyes hooded with lust. He should feel amazing. And yet. And yet. The whiskey is fogging his head. He is not going to cry. He looks down at Dorian instead, face blank. What now? Dorian raises an eyebrow. Castien holds out a hand to help him up, and Dorian gets to his feet. What does one do after having one’s prick sucked? Castien does not know. It has never happened to him before. Should he return the favour? Get to his knees in front of the mage and take him in his mouth? He has done that before, but never by choice.

“We can end this here, if that’s what you prefer, oh Lord Inquisitor,” says Dorian, tone mocking.

“Do you never stop talking?” Castien leans forward. This is the right thing to do. He has seen it happen before. He goes to press a kiss against Dorian’s swollen lips.

Dorian turns his face away, and Castien’s lips brush his cheek instead.

“I don’t do that,” he says.

“Oh.” Castien drops to his knees. Just like old times. No softness for him. No care or caresses. Dorian is at half-mast. Castien is soft, and the whiskey in his stomach is churning, but he opens his mouth to take in Dorian’s prick, and then looks up at the man for confirmation, and waits.

Dorian is puzzled. Castien’s mouth on his cock is warm, wet, delicious, but the other man isn’t doing anything.

“If you don’t want this, don’t do it,” he says, common sense managing to fight through the fog in his head. “An unwilling partner is not exactly my idea of fun.”

Castien shakes his head, makes a desperate sound in his throat. Doesn’t back off.

Dorian takes his head in his hand, fingers winding into Castien’s tightly braided hair. He makes a tentative thrust into Castien’s mouth, and Castien responds with lips and tongue.

“So this is how you like it,” he says, and Castien makes a movement that might be a nod, face pressed up against Dorian’s body, the tip of Dorian’s cock pressing against the back of his throat.

Dorian fucks Castien’s face, hands tight in his hair, driving him down onto his prick, and Castien is back where he belongs. This is a position he knows well, and whilst it isn’t enjoyable, at least it is something he understands. Tears sting at his eyes, and he closes them so that he doesn’t have to look at Dorian, doesn’t have to see what he’s doing.

“You’re good at this,” Dorian murmurs, and tugs his hair, and Castien clenches his fists and works harder, wanting it to be over, and yet at the same time wanting it to last forever.

And then it ends, Dorian spending down his throat with a low groan, and sliding his cock from Castien’s mouth. Castien wants to curl up in a ball on the floor, wants the handles of his blades in his hands, wants to sleep. Instead, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and takes his clothes from the floor, dresses quickly, and leaves.

Dorian hasn’t cut himself in more than a decade. Not since Alexius scooped him out of a drunken stupor in a brothel and took him on as a student. Not since he finally felt like his life had a purpose. But tonight, tonight the call of the razor blade is strong. He no longer has a dedicated blade, but he has fresh ones he hasn’t yet used for personal grooming, stored with his hair products. It doesn’t take long to find one. He stands, still naked, in front of the mirror. He is still flawless. Still a perfect scion for House Pavus, on the outside at least. Rotten to the core, on the inside, but no one can see that.

He turns slightly, displaying the thin silver lines on his hip. The only outside evidence of the truth hidden within. He runs a finger along them, feeling the slight raise of skin. Reopen an old scar, or cut a new one? He remembers Castien’s face after he rebuffed the kiss, and the way the elf went to his knees, like he was obligated to. He presses the blade to the patch of clean skin beneath the last old scar. Remembers the way the man dressed in silence, avoiding eye contact. Remembers the way that he stumbled from the room, clearly still intoxicated. Dorian feels unpleasantly sober now. He cuts into his skin, and it is like he is nineteen again, not a man now in his thirties. He still bleeds the same.

Castien wanted to kiss him. He holds onto that thought. Castien wanted to kiss him. Dorian is still unsure as to why he did not let him, except that perhaps it would have hurt too much. Better to go without than to have a taste of what he is not permitted. The Inquisitor just needed a quick fuck. That was clear by the way that he left. Anyone would have done. Dorian was just the nearest, the most willing. The easiest. There is no way that the Inquisitor could care for him like that. There is no way that the Inquisitor could love a man as damaged inside as Dorian. Which is fine, because it is not like Dorian cares for him in that way either.

He makes a second cut against his skin, the sharp sting of the blade pulling him back from his thoughts, and then pulls a robe around himself and reaches for a bottle of wine. Drinking himself to oblivion will help. It always helps.

Castien stands on his balcony in his shirtsleeves and breeches. Barefoot, the stones ice cold against his skin. He grips the wall, fingers turning white from the pressure, and gazes out over the mountains. The heavy clouds threaten a snowstorm, but for now it is calm. He can still taste the Tevinter in his mouth. Can still hear his groan of release in his ears. He throws up over the side of balcony. Acid burns his throat, and he cries, loud sobs as his shoulders shake and his stomach churns.

He returns to Dorian’s rooms the following night, lets the mage fuck him into the mattress, hands gripping the sheets tightly, Dorian’s fingers leaving bruises on his hips. He does not try to kiss him again.

Night after night, he lets himself be fucked. He sucks Dorian’s prick, and does not ask for anything in return, although most times Dorian repays in kind without the need for discussion. He avoids looking in the other man’s eyes and leaves each night to do the walk of shame back to his own rooms, arse sore, heart aching. He does not have feelings for the man. He does not. This is fine.

Dorian asks to fight by his side.

“It’s getting awfully tedious here at Skyhold,” he says, as Castien’s brow furrows. “And I am rather adept at magic. You have seen me fight before. I can be useful to the Inquisition in more ways than one.”

Castien nods. “Alright.”

And so they fight, and fuck, and drink, and Dorian cuts into his skin, and Castien cries alone on his balcony.

Chapter Text

Castien hangs back as Dorian approaches his father. They have travelled to Redcliffe together, barely speaking, Dorian clearly anxious, silently working himself up into anger. Halward Pavus is not as imposing as Castien had imagined him to be. He is a small man, shrunken almost, Dorian’s anger taking him by surprise. They trade words, Halward’s pleading, Dorian’s harsh. Castien feels as if he is witnessing something that he shouldn’t be. Something too personal, too private, too painful.

“He tried to change me.”

Something inside of Castien breaks at those words. Then he is not the only one on this gods forsaken continent who cannot live up to his family’s expectations. He is not the only one who is damaged beyond repair.

When they return to Skyhold, Dorian faces Castien, that mocking expression back on his face.

“Maker knows what you must think of me now, Inquisitor.”

“You’re brave,” says Castien, the words falling out of his mouth before he can think through a response.

Dorian looks taken aback, speechless for once in his life. Castien dares to smile at him.

“I couldn’t have done that,” he says.

“What, face your father? He’s hardly a darkspawn magister, and you’ve faced down one of those.”

“Not my father, but…” Castien pauses, unsure of how to explain. “My keeper.”

“Keeper… I know frustratingly little about the ways of the Dalish,” says Dorian. “You will have to enlighten me.”

“Keeper of my clan. He…” But Castien cannot say more, and shakes his head. “Regardless, he is to me what your father is, was, to you. You are braver than I.”

“Braver than the Inquisitor. Now that is saying something.”

They find themselves in Dorian’s rooms again. Castien has yet to ask Dorian to his, and Dorian has not questioned this. The mage still feels tightly wound after speaking with his father. He wants a drink, but the elf sitting on the edge of his bed taking off his boots and breeches seems more pressing at this moment.

“Let me,” says Dorian, and kneels before him, between his thighs. They have fucked so many times, and yet Dorian does not feel as if he has had his fill of Castien’s body yet. He has barely begun to explore him, their trysts always beginning abruptly and ending in shame. But today… Today he wants to take his time, Castien’s desires for a rough fuck be damned. Just because he doesn’t want to be soft or romantic doesn’t mean all of the pleasure should be sucked out of the act.

He lays his hands on Castien’s thighs, lightly gripping. He feels the elf’s muscles stiffen beneath his fingers. Castien makes no move, though, and so Dorian runs his hands over Castien’s breeches. His cock is uncomfortably stiff beneath his own garments.

“Thank you,” he says, softly, keeping his gaze fixed on the Inquisitor’s legs rather than his face. “For coming with me.” He undoes Castien’s breeches, shifting layers of fabric to let the man’s prick spring free. For once, it is already hard, and Dorian wonders why Castien acts like he prefers things rough, when his body clearly reacts better to gentleness. He tastes Castien with the tip of his tongue, and the elf moans softly, fingers reaching for Dorian’s hair. But he doesn’t want to just suck Castien off in a hurry, so he pulls back, helps him out of his breeches, and then moves to undo the buttons of his shirt. He runs his fingers across Castien’s bare chest, just grazing one nipple, and Castien trembles beneath his touch. There is power right here, right now. He holds power over the Inquisitor like this. It should scare him. Hell, it does scare him. He looks up, finally looking Castien in the eye.

“Can we do things my way today?” he asks, and hates how needy that makes him sound. Dorian will take what’s given. Only what’s offered, nothing more, nothing less. And yet. And yet. Now he wants more.

Castien looks confused, and nervous. “We haven’t been doing things your way?” he asks, a tremble in his voice.

Dorian’s eyes widen. “Kaffas,” he mutters. “I… Maker’s breath, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know what else to say. This is the Inquisitor, and Dorian has, what, abused him? “You never said anything,” he says, accusingly. “You kept coming back.”

“Sorry,” says Castien, and his voice is small, broken. “I thought… I assumed…”

“What, that I am so desperate for a fuck that I don’t care at all about the wishes of my bedpartner?” snaps Dorian. “That is deeply insulting. I told you I didn’t want an unwilling partner, and you wanted us to continue!” He can feel the anger building. Is this what the Inquisitor has thought of him this whole time? Dorian may be rotten inside, but he is not a monster, not like this. All those times… The Inquisitor could have stopped it at any time. Is he afraid of Dorian, despite the power he holds?

“That you were the same as everyone else,” says Castien, so quietly that Dorian almost doesn’t catch the words.

Dorian lets out a string of curses. The pieces are coming together in his mind, and it hurts to realise how wrongly he has read the situation. He remembers Castien’s first and only attempt at kissing him, and the way he had said ‘oh’, before dropping to his knees and letting Dorian use him.

Castien stands up, pushing Dorian away. Tears are stinging at his eyes and he reaches blindly for his clothes. He has done something wrong. He always does something wrong. He has broken whatever thing that the two of them had. He should have been content to take what was given, and now he has insulted Dorian, and ruined it all. He is still so weak. And they named him Inquisitor? The whole world is just one long joke being played on him, and this… This has to be the punchline.

He feels Dorian’s hands around his waist, stopping him. The man is still fully clothed, and Castien naked, but now he can’t dress. He is trapped. He waits for the slap, or the kick, or perhaps the mage has some horrible magic curse up his sleeve. But none of that comes, and instead the arms around him tighten into an embrace. Dorian’s head is at his shoulder, his breath warm against his ear.

“I should have let you kiss me,” Dorian whispers. “How different this could have been.”

“I shouldn’t have tried.”

“I am sorry for hurting you.” Dorian’s fingers are stroking small circles at his waist, and Castien does not understand what is happening.

“I have to go,” says Castien, and pulls away to find his clothes. As he turns, he catches a glimpse of Dorian’s face, and the expression of sorrow etched across the man’s features stops him in his tracks.

“Please,” says Dorian, sitting down on the bed. “Let me make it up to you. It doesn’t always have to be rough. I thought that was what you wanted, what you needed. I apologise for that. Let me show you how much better it can be.”

Castien is torn, but he has a feeling that things can’t get that much worse from here, and that perhaps staying is the better option. He can always leave later. Walking away now feels like it would be the final nail in the coffin, and as much as he has been hurting these last few weeks, he does not want this to be the last time he is with Dorian.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll stay.”

Dorian strips himself out of his clothes silently. He can feel Castien’s gaze on him, those intense green eyes that seem to look right through him, all the way to the rot at his core. He takes Castien’s shoulders in his hands and lowers the elf gently down onto the bed. He climbs over him, straddling his legs with his own muscular thighs. Castien is trembling, and Dorian hates that he has done this to him. He doesn’t kiss, never kisses, and yet there is something about Castien’s face that is so kissable. Dorian trails a hand gently along Castien’s side, and Castien shivers at the touch. He brushes his hand over the elf’s chest, and up his neck, along the side of his face, all the way to the tip of his ear. He has wanted to touch Castien’s ears since he first met the man. First, out of pure curiosity. Would they feel different to a human’s ears? Now, there is a tenderness in his touch that frightens him. Turns out, elven ears feel very similar to human ears, only bigger. Castien’s lips are parted, and Dorian wonders what terrible accident caused the scars that run across them. He swallows, and then leans over, brushing his lips gently against Castien’s waiting mouth.

Kissing is everything Castien had imagined it to be, and more. Dorian’s lips are soft, gentle, his breath warm, and Castien wants more, so much more. He opens up to Dorian’s tongue, his eyes closing, his hands reaching, one to Dorian’s hair, the other to his waist.

Now that Dorian is letting himself kiss, he never wants to stop. This is the problem, he thinks. Now I want more. Now I care. But this isn’t about him. This is about making up for hurting Castien. So if he has to deal with memories of a kiss long after the Inquisitor tires of him, so be it. This is on him. But eventually, he does pull away, in order to kiss other parts of Castien’s body. He feels Castien’s fingers curl against him in response as he kisses his neck, those large, delicate ears, across his chest, down his stomach, to the hardness that is waiting for him. This is more like it, he thinks, his tongue and lips eliciting breathy pants from Castien’s mouth. He slicks them both with oil, his own cock now almost too hard to bear, and then presses a finger against Castien’s hole. He will make this good for him. He will make up for everything.

Castien flinches away.

“You don’t like that?” Dorian asks. He thinks about all of the times that he has had Castien on this bed, his cock buried deep inside him.

Castien shakes his head, then shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says.

Dorian wants to shout at him. Wants to shake some sense into him. All those times, and he still doesn’t know if he likes it? He feels Castien tense beneath him and swallows down the frustration.

“Then we won’t do that,” he says. “It’s not like it’s a requirement, regardless of what anyone else might have told you.”

Castien’s face flushes and he turns away. Dorian leans over him, wraps his hand around both his own prick and Castien’s, so that they are rubbing against each other, slick with oil and precome. He wants to kiss him again. He knew that this would happen. He wants to hold onto him and kiss him and never let him go. Instead, he buries his head in the Inquisitor’s shoulder and tugs them off together, their bodies sliding together in a stuttered rhythm until Castien cries out, and the feel of his spend slick across Dorian’s cock is enough to pull him over the edge as well.

Castien’s eyes are closed, a blissed out smile turning up the corners of those soft, damaged lips, and Dorian cannot help but compare this image to their previous experiences. It sends a tug of pain through his chest, a fishhook buried in his heart.

“I can feel your eyes on me,” says Castien, his own still closed. The smile on his face falters. “That was…” There is a catch in his voice. “That was good. Thank you.” He doesn’t move, but Dorian feels his body tense beneath him, as if he is waiting for something bad to happen. Perhaps he has been possessed by some demon of romance, not that he’s ever heard of such a thing, but it is the only way to explain what he does next. Dorian leans over Castien and presses his lips against the elf’s forehead. He can feel the slight raised texture of the tattoos, something he has never noticed before, and the heavy gash that cuts through them, bumpy against his lips. He lets himself linger there, breathing softly, and he feels goosebumps raise on Castien’s arms where his hands rest.

“I’m simply appreciating the view,” he says, rocking back up so that he is sitting astride Castien and able to take in the entirety of his upper body.

Castien’s eyes open. “You don’t have to make fun of me,” he says, quietly, the smile slipping from his face.

“I’m not.” Dorian huffs in frustration and reaches a hand to brush Castien’s cheek. “Look, I am as new to… whatever this is as you are. I don’t do romance, Inquisitor. Where I come from, two men don’t get to have anything like that.” Castien opens his mouth as if to respond, but Dorian ploughs on. “Not that I am saying we have anything like that, of course. I do not want to overstep, Inquisitor. But what we had before… I misread the situation. Horrifically misread it. I…” He swallows, the words sticking in his throat. Castien’s mouth is still open, eyes wide, and Dorian cannot tell what he is thinking. “I do not take more than I am offered. If I led you to believe otherwise, then I can only apologise. But what we had; I don’t want that.”

“I-”

“Let me finish. Please. I want… I don’t know what I want. But for now, I will take whatever you offer, so long as it is truly what you desire, Inquisitor.”

“Dorian. Please. Fen'Harel take you, stop calling me Inquisitor!”

Castien looks so put out that Dorian actually laughs, and there is a bubble of something light in his chest, squeezing out the pain.

“What do you want?” he asks. I don’t do this, he thinks, as he looks at Castien, looks at those green eyes and that damaged face and the way his hair is slipping from its braids. I don’t do this, and yet I want to. I really, really want to.

“You,” says Castien, and pulls him down into a kiss.

It is hours later, and Castien is curled up against Dorian’s side. His eyes feel heavy, but he cannot sleep. If he sleeps, perhaps he will wake up in his own rooms and this will all have been a dream. Dorian will be cold and rough again, and this time Castien will know what he is missing, and it will hurt all the more for that knowledge.

Dorian’s breathing is slow and measured, and Castien thinks that he is asleep. His arm is curved behind Castien’s neck, his hand resting gently on his bare shoulder, and Castien presses his face against Dorian’s neck, breathing in his scent.

“You’re still awake,” Dorian murmurs, and Castien jerks in surprise. Dorian’s grip tightens, holding him close, and Castien settles. His hands itch for his blades, but he settles for letting his fingers cautiously roam Dorian’s skin, traversing the curve of muscle, the dip of his hip. So smooth, flawless, until his fingers feel raised lines, uniform and yet out of place. Dorian’s hand encloses his, pulls him away from his discovery, presses his hand against his mouth and kisses his fingers, the heel of his palm, the delicate inside of his wrists, until he has almost forgotten what he has found.

“Wait,” he says, lifting himself up on his arm so that he can look at Dorian’s face.

Dorian’s face goes blank, the way it always does when he is controlling his emotions.

“Never mind.” He feels Dorian relax beside him. The dawn is creeping in at the window, and perhaps people will talk when they see him leaving Dorian’s rooms in the morning, but right now, Castien does not want to break the fragile bubble of happiness he has found.

Chapter Text

Dorian is four years old, and sitting up well past his bedtime, waiting on his father to come home. He kicked his nurse and turned on the crocodile tears, until she gave up and retired to the nursery with her book to wait until he decided to ‘behave like a reasonable child’. So now he’s sitting at the top of the marble staircase, the stone cold beneath his pyjamas. The room below is lit, but the top of the stairs are in darkness, and he can hear the sounds of laughter coming from the drawing room, where his mother and her friends are drinking sherry and having grown up conversations.

Dorian is fascinated by grown up conversations. The unfamiliar names, the long words, the hushed voices when the topic turns to scandal. He understands none of it, but it entrances him far more than any bedtime fairy tale would. On any other night he would have his ear pressed against the crack in the door, listening intently. Perhaps he would even push the door open and toddle into the room, to the coos of his mother’s friends, and she would indulge him, scoop him up into her lap, and he would be wrapped in the scent of her perfume and the sherry on her breath, and he would drift off to sleep in her arms, lulled by the flickering lights and the chattering voices. But tonight he knows that his father is returning home, so he sits and shivers as he waits.

It will be worth it.

Finally, he hears the front door open. The sound of a footman taking his father’s hat and coat. The steady step of his father’s shoes across the stone floors. And then his father, silhouetted against the light spilling from the gas lamps.

“Dorian.” His father’s tone is disapproving, but it thrills Dorian just to hear his name on the man’s lips. This is what he has been waiting for. “Where is your nurse? Your mother?” Then he sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. “Come on. Bedtime.”

Lying between the sheets, the only light coming from the open door and the moon shining through a crack in the curtains, Dorian is content. His father sits on the bed beside him, his weight a steady, reassuring presence, and he slips into sleep as his father’s fingers gently stroke his hair.

“What am I going to do with you, Dorian?” he hears, as sleep takes him.

Dorian is seven years old. He has learnt how to read, and pores over every book he can find in the house. He steals the key to his father’s study, slips inside whilst his father is berating a maid for the transgression, and finds books that he doesn’t understand, but takes anyway, because forbidden is exciting. There is a flicker of guilt when that maid is let go, but it doesn’t stop him. If they won’t give him what he wants, then he will take it.

“Dorian, stop that.”

“Dorian, go away.”

“Dorian, do you not have something better to do?”

“Dorian, I am busy.”

Thanks to the servants and his governess and the constant ebb and flow of his mother’s guests, Dorian is never alone, and yet he feels so desperately lonely. How long has it been since his father sat beside him and stroked his hair until he fell asleep? How long has it been since his mother took him on her lap and rocked him? He cannot remember.

Dorian is nine years old. He stands on the doorstep, the handle of a case clutched tightly in one hand, as if it is the only anchor he has left to hold on to. He is going away to a circle, because he needs to learn how to control his magic. The magic that he had been so excited to show his parents, expecting them to be as proud and excited about it as he was. Instead, it was taken as expected. Of course he is a mage. No offspring of Halward Pavus and Aquinea Thalrassian could be any less than that.

He does not want to go.

He still feels so young, so small.

But he is a Pavus, and now he is a mage, and his father is looking at him with something dangerously close to pride as he hustles him towards the carriage that will take him away from Qarinus and towards his new life. The first step on the journey that will end in Dorian becoming Archon and finally satisfying his family. It is a path lined with politics and marriage and children and respectability and even at nine years old Dorian already knows that it is not what he wants.

He has no choice, though.

Dorian is nineteen years old. He stands defiantly in front of his father. He is taller than him now, a full-grown man, and perhaps if he can hold onto that fact, his father won’t be able to make him feel like a child again.

Ten years of disappointments. Ten years of causing trouble, of bringing shame on House Pavus. Ten years of yearning for freedom, aching to be allowed to be the man he knows he could be, if only he weren’t shackled with so many heavy expectations.

“I won’t go, and you can’t make me.” He hates that he sounds like a petulant child. Hates that his father’s face is hard, set in his decision. Hates that despite being of age, there is no negotiation here.

“You are going, and that is final. Try to have some restraint whilst you are there. The Order of Argent are strict. Learning to follow their rules, to have some… composure and dignity… will do you good. Do not let me down again, Dorian.”

And there it is. That it truly does not matter how clever he is. How talented. How well dressed. How well he speaks. He does not conform in the most important ways, and therefore he is nothing but a problem to be solved. A disappointment.

He lasts three months. Three months of rules and restrictions and the solidifying of his beliefs that whilst the Maker exists, must exist, the rules of the Chantry are utter bullshit and solely designed to give power to certain people at the expense of others. Much like the politics of Tevinter. He is disillusioned with everything and everyone. All the vague worries and concerns he has about his country and his family firm up into something that becomes very difficult to ignore.

But Dorian is very good at ignoring difficult things.

Three months, and he runs away. Minrathous is a massive city filled with busy people. It is an easy place to get lost in, and an easy place to lose yourself. Dorian loses himself. The school cannot find him. His father cannot find him. He is free. And so he fucks and drinks and lives, really lives, for what feels like the first time in his life.

Dorian is still nineteen years old, in a drunken stupor in an elven brothel, spinning from one willing body to the next, surrounded by people and yet so, so lonely, when Magister Gereon Alexius finds him, and sees something in him that so far no one else has. Something worth nourishing. Something that can grow.

Dorian becomes refined. Tutored personally by Alexius, befriended by his son, displayed at social functions and allowed to partake in debates in the Circle, he is able to push away the feeling that Tevinter is as rotten inside as he is. It is like the rot is being burned out by the glamour and excitement of his new life. By the way that Alexius looks at him, pride in his eyes, when he masters a particularly difficult concept. By the pure friendship offered by Felix, who brings him treats in secret during late night study sessions. By the way that he now fits seamlessly back into upper class Tevinter life, as if he had never tried to break free. By the fact that even his father seems impressed by his dedication to his goal of becoming a senior enchanter.

But it is not enough. It is never enough for his father. The letters start coming, asking, pleading, commanding him to return home to marry the girl they picked out for him before he was born. Dorian refuses, but the old hurts are crawling back into his heart. He can never be good enough, not with his nature. He cannot do this.

And then it all falls apart. Slowly at first, with the death of Alexius’ wife, and Felix’s illness. And then all at once, when he suddenly realises that the magic that Alexius is working with is something that Dorian cannot accept. And so he leaves again. He is getting good at leaving things behind.

Dorian loses himself again, only this time, it’s classier than elven brothels. He ingratiates himself within the houses of rich families, lives off their good will, seduces their sons in a way that is entirely about the pleasures of the flesh, his heart locked tightly behind bars, until the scandal is too much and he moves on to the next.

He never expects the kidnap, practically snatched from a man’s bed and forcibly returned to Qarinus by boat, cementing his distaste for sea journeys. Then again, he muses, head hanging over the side of the ship as he attempts to keep his breakfast where it belongs, all of this melodrama is rather fitting. Of course, his father would abduct him rather than let him live his life in freedom. Of course, the future of House Pavus is much more important than Dorian’s happiness. It always fucking has been.

Dorian is twenty-seven years old and lying on the bed in his childhood bedroom, wondering why he still feels like a child. Dorian is twenty-seven years old when he realises that his choice is between marrying a woman with whom he can never be happy, can never make happy, and living a life like his own parents, loveless and grey, or leaving it all behind. And yet it is not even that which pushes him to finally leave for good. It is the discovery that, if he stays, he will no longer have a choice. That despite years of teaching Dorian that blood magic is wrong, an abomination, something never to be done, despite years of being one of the ‘good’ magisters, his father is planning a blood magic ritual. A blood magic ritual that he will perform on his only son, to strip him of everything that makes him him. To turn him into the man that he was always expected to be. That, or destroy his brain entirely. That that risk does not matter to Halward Pavus might be what hurts the most.

There is no big blow out. No final argument. No shouting on the stairs. Dorian does not get to storm out in a flurry of colour and drama, as much as he would like to. No, he quietly packs the few possessions that he cares enough about to take with him, leaves a note on the pillow that states he will not hesitate to kill anyone who tries to kidnap him again (he feels angry enough that right now he could follow through on that threat), and bribes a maid with the last of his coin to let him by without alerting the rest of the household.

His father is rotten to the core, because Tevinter is rotten to the core. And Dorian is rotten as well, the damage too deep to cut out, but that does not mean he has to accept it. He wants to do better, be better, and so he finally leaves it all behind.

Dorian is thirty years old when he joins the Inquisition, heart still barred in his chest, holding himself together with sheer willpower.

Chapter Text

The clothes maketh the man. The hours that Dorian puts into careful grooming and immaculate dress are not solely the domain of vanity, although it is a little of that as well. Dorian has always thought the masks worn in Orlais rather ridiculous, and annoying, because when you cannot see someone’s face you cannot read their secrets, but he does understand their purpose, because his outfits are like masks of his own.

The Inquisitor, on the other hand, would wear a tunic and boots and leave it at that, if his advisors would let him. Dorian despairs when he appears in the library in an outfit that looks more suitable for a halla herder than the leader of a major political force.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow, lips pursed.

Castien glances down. “They’re clothes,” he says. He looks tired, dark shadows beneath his eyes.

“I preferred your winter ball outfit,” says Dorian. “It was austere, but at least it didn’t have holes in it.”

“I think I should get to choose what I wear in my own castle,” says Castien, and the confidence in his voice sends a little shiver of something down Dorian’s spine, directly to his prick.

“Yes, it is your castle, isn’t it, oh Lord Inquisitor.” Dorian stands up from his chair, drops his book carelessly onto a side table. “But surely you should look the part.” It still annoys Castien when Dorian calls him Inquisitor, and Dorian knows that. He likes the push and pull, riling Castien up until his forgets his insecurities.

Castien growls, an honest to Maker growl, and steps forward, trapping Dorian between his body and a bookshelf.

Dorian loves to see him like this. Loves to see the fear and insecurity drop away. Loves to see Castien for who he is, or at least, who he should be, if the world had not tried so hard to tear him down.

He loves it so much that it scares him.

Castien presses him into the bookshelf. He can feel the shapes of the books behind him, their sharp edges and pointed corners a painful connection to reality.

“Perhaps we should go somewhere more private,” Dorian says, as Castien nips at his neck. But he leans back, offers up more of himself rather than pushing the other man away.

Castien murmurs something that sounds like a negative.

“As exciting as fucking in the library sounds,” Dorian says drily, “there are enough rumours flying around Skyhold without us adding fuel to the fire. I’m sure the majority of your people already believe that I am… corrupting you.”

Castien pulls back, and Dorian feels the absence of him like a wave of icy water. He does not reach for him, though. They may be on better terms than before, allowing each other little pieces of tenderness, but his heart pounds against his chest every time he lets himself feel vulnerable and he just… can’t.

“Rumours?”

“Evil Tevinter Magister, remember,” says Dorian. Why is Castien no longer touching him? How can he get him to touch him without explicitly asking for it? Why is everything with the Inquisitor so much harder than the casual encounters he has had in the past?

“I thought you said you weren’t a magister.”

“I’m not. But you southerners see Tevinter and think magister. I can’t help that you’re all-”

Castien’s hand is across Dorian’s mouth, and he stumbles on the words, trailing off.

“Don’t finish that sentence,” says Castien, his tone harsh, but there is a sparkle in his eye.

“Not my fault that it’s true,” Dorian mumbles against Castien’s palm.

Castien glares at him, but Dorian can’t help but smile, his lips curling against Castien’s skin. The touch may not be particularly tender, but it is touch nonetheless, and he leans into it.

When did you become so sentimental, you fool of a man, he thinks.

“Somewhere private, then,” says Castien, dropping his hand. He walks away, and Dorian follows, feeling too much like a lost puppy. And yet he cannot bring himself to care right now.

Castien leads him to his rooms. Dorian is startled, but he does not question it. Castien’s rooms are spacious, but not ostentatious. In fact, the furniture is plain, the walls stark. It is as if the elf has not done anything to make this place his own. Unless this is how the Dalish like to live. Dorian doesn’t know. He wishes that he did, but he also does not want to ask. The one saving grace of the place is the massive floor to ceiling window that opens onto the balcony.

Dorian lets out a low whistle. “You really do have a room with a view,” he says, striding over to the balcony. “Incredible. Do you not fear the wind blowing a little too strongly and blowing you away?”

“I’m not weak.”

“I didn’t say you were. But you have to admit, you are rather small.” It is the truth. All elves seem to be willowy, tall with long, slender limbs. Castien has the slender limbs, the sparse frame, but he lacks the height. He is at least five inches shorter than Dorian, having to rise up on his toes when they kiss. Dorian has never mentioned it before, but he finds it rather endearing. That Castien can command armies and make nobles tremble before him, and yet Dorian can rest his chin on the top of his head when they embrace.

“I’m not weak,” Castien repeats, and Dorian realises that he has hit a sore spot. The best thing to do would be to leave it alone.

Dorian is not very good at leaving things alone.

“Why does it matter? Physically, you hardly need to be the Iron Bull. You’re a rogue, leaping from the shadows. It’s all dexterity, not strength.”

“I am not weak.”

Castien is pushing Dorian up against the balcony wall. Dorian can feel the wind rushing past his ears. Makers breath, it’s windy today. He can feel the wall at his back, and imagines Castien pushing harder, and him tumbling over, and down, down, down onto the rocks below. What a way to go. His head is spinning and he has not even looked over the edge yet.

“Alright, stop, you’re not weak,” he says. “I yield to your superior strength. Now let me away from this edge before I tumble to my death. I do not have a head for heights.”

Castien looks chagrined, steps back.

“Sorry,” he says, and he looks small again, the confidence dropping away from him. Dorian hates that yet again he has done this to the man. Hates that everything he says is the wrong thing. Hates that he even cares that he’s saying the wrong things. Hates that he just wants to make Castien smile through those scarred lips.

Castien sits down on the edge of his bed. He has Dorian in his rooms for the first time, but it is not going the way that he wanted it to. He feels small again. Every day, he builds up an armour around himself, and every day the smallest thing breaks it down. He will never be free from his past. He will always be that abused, unwanted child.

“We have privacy now,” says Dorian. The bed dips as he sits down beside him.

“That we do,” says Castien, softly. He does not look at Dorian, instead keeping his eyes fixed on his lap, on his clasped hands.

“And I do believe that your usually busy schedule is clear for the foreseeable future.”

“How do you-”

“I asked Josephine. You would have thought I was asking her for military secrets, the time it took for her to tell me, but I got it out of her eventually.”

“You sort of were,” says Castien, smiling. He wonders if Josephine has figured out his relationship with Dorian yet. He wonders if anybody has figured it out. And then he wonders whether it counts as a relationship. Their sex may have been gentler since that night, months ago, when they had worked out their miscommunications, but they have not had another heart to heart like that. Castien does not know what they are, what they are doing. He is simply along for the ride, the same way that he is along for the ride as Herald of Andraste, as Inquisitor. Things happen to him, and he accepts them, because it is easier to accept than to fight.

“I needed to know if I would see you,” Dorian says, and Castien’s heart stutters. “I needed to know what to wear, after all.” Oh. Clothes. Not… Well, what else would it be?

“Why? You dress in finery every day, whether you see me or not.”

“I dress in different finery. It all depends on the occasion.”

“There is no occasion. What’s so special about what you’re wearing today?” Castien finally looks at him. His stern profile, his perfectly groomed hair, the quirk of his lip as he tries not to smile too widely. The clothing that looks, to Castien’s inexpert eye, exactly the same as he wears every day. Perhaps it is a different colour?

“Why, they are clothes that are easy to remove, of course,” says Dorian, with a smirk.

He is right about that, and before long both he and Castien are naked, Dorian’s clothes folded neatly, Castien’s puddled on the floor as usual. Castien lies on his back on his bed, Dorian straddled over him, pressing kisses to his chest.

It feels incredibly decadent to be lying in bed during the daytime, and Dorian seems to be in no hurry to progress from heavy petting to actual sex. Castien lets his hands roam Dorian’s back, and the firm muscles of his broad shoulders. His skin is smooth, silky, perfect beneath Castien’s fingertips. He closes his eyes as Dorian kisses and licks and nibbles at places that have no reason to feel so good, and yet they do. His teeth scrape across a nipple and Castien cannot help but let out a whimper.

And then Dorian’s mouth is pressed against his forehead, kissing the scar that cuts across his tattoo. Castien’s eyes snap open. Dorian pulls back, looks Castien in the eye.

“What happened?”

Castien does not know if this is something that he wants to talk about, and yet he has never seen Dorian look so earnest before, and he does not want to break this moment. Dorian’s eyes are a deep brown, and Castien feels like he could get lost in them. This is too much, too intense. He closes his eyes, but he can still feel his lover’s gaze fixed on him.

Lover.

Castien swallows. “Someone tried to destroy my tattoo,” he says. He can see it happening behind his closed eyes. Can remember the looks of hatred, the sight of one of his own blades in another’s hand, the sharp bite of the metal against skin, the wetness of the blood, the jeers in his ears that faded away like his head was under the water.

He feels Dorian tense above him.

“They what?”

He opens his eyes. Dorian is staring at him with a look of… horror on his face? Castien flushes. No. He should not be talking about this. Should not be sharing this with the man he is sleeping with. It is too raw, too painful, and talking about it is far too much like cutting open his chest and baring his heart for Dorian to take.

“Kaffas,” mutters Dorian, and presses his lips against Castien’s forehead again. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Just people,” says Castien. He can remember their faces perfectly. It is hard to forget the people amongst whom you grew up. It is hard to forget the faces that glared at you, spat at you, swore at you for years. Impossible, even.

“I know that humans and elves do not exactly get along, but some things are beyond the pale,” mutters Dorian.

“This was no shemlen.” The words pour from Castien’s mouth before he can hold them back, a flood of bitterness. “This was my family. They have always had the power to hurt me the most.”

He feels Dorian’s hands tighten on his upper arms.

“I can understand that,” he says, and Castien remembers standing in the Gull and Lantern as Dorian faces his father, and, by the Gods, he believes him. “Are the rest from…?”

Castien shakes his head. “The ones on my cheeks and eyebrow are from the explosion at the conclave.”

“They said you came out of that unscathed.” Dorian touches a fingertip to one of the deep grooves in Castien’s face.

“They said a lot of things. Unscathed sounds better. And I came out of it a lot better off than everyone else who was there.” So many bodies. Castien shudders. He still has no memory of the actual explosion, just a vague feeling of things being very, very wrong, and collapsing on the ground as Inquisition soldiers rushed towards him, everything hurting, but especially the strange new mark on his hand.

Dorian traces the curve of the scar, his expression thoughtful. “Why were you even there?” he asks. “I never thought to ask before, but you’re no mage, and you’re certainly not a templar. What was a Dalish elf doing at the temple of Sacred Ashes?”

“I volunteered. Seemed a good way to get away from the clan, at least for a short while. The keeper wanted someone to spy.” The words feel dirty in his mouth. He is the Inquisitor because he was nothing but a spy, sneaking around people far more powerful than himself. He is the Inquisitor because somehow, he survived something that so many mages and templars, and even the Divine herself, could not. He must be chosen by the Maker, because otherwise it makes no sense at all.

Dorian’s fingers are caressing his cheek, stroking the scar tissue and the undamaged skin beside it. They drift lower, along his jawline, tender and yet somehow demanding at the same time, and Castien tilts his head, presses up into Dorian’s touch. And then Dorian’s fingers are brushing his lips, and Castien knows what question is coming next, and he does not want to answer it.

“No,” he says, before Dorian can say anything.

“No?”

“I can’t.”

Dorian kisses him with closed lips, gently pressing against the scars.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

And something in the way he says that, no trace of his usual sarcasm, no underlying mockery, not even pity in his eyes, just understanding, makes Castien want to tell him.

“I was a kid,” he says. He wants to close his eyes. Perhaps it would be easier to tell this story without seeing Dorian’s reaction. But if he closes his eyes, he will see them too clearly. So he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on Dorian’s lips, the curl of his moustache, the way his mouth twists with sadness, and he tells Dorian about the other elves, and the way that they held him down, and hurt him, and cut him across the mouth, just because they could. Just because he was smaller, and weaker. Just because they knew that the keeper wouldn’t care.

Dorian swears, a long stream of curses in Tevene that Castien cannot translate and yet understands perfectly.

“It’s in the past,” says Castien, because he wants to wipe the horror from Dorian’s expression. He wishes that he hadn’t said anything. Or had made up a convincing lie. Rather than baring open his soul. Is Dorian’s horror in sympathy with him, or is it that he is realising how fundamentally broken Castien is?

“If we ever see any of your clan whilst on our travels,” says Dorian, voice cold and steady, “do point them out to me. I will enjoy murdering them.”

Castien lets out a surprised bark of a laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Except… I don’t know. This entire conversation is ridiculous.” He strains his neck up to reach Dorian’s face, kisses him with frantic urgency. His hands tug on Dorian’s hair, and Dorian cradles his face gently in response.

Dorian wants to kick something. Throw something. Break something. He wants to murder every single person, human or elf, who has ever laid even a finger on the Inquisitor. He wants to… he wants to protect him. Andraste help him, what is wrong with him?

Castien’s body is writhing against his, skin to skin, and it would be a perfect time to lose himself in pleasures of the flesh, put this entire horrible, painful conversation behind them. But Dorian is too curious for his own good, and there are still scars on Castien’s body that are unaccounted for. What other horror stories is the elf hiding behind those green eyes?

He drags his mouth down the long scar that curves along the whole left side of his face, eye to chin. Castien shivers, but does not push him away. He tries to picture Castien walking out of the fade, the way the story is told, the Herald of Andraste with his glowing mark. And then he tries to picture it the way that Castien tells it. The idea of him stumbling out, face bleeding from the explosion, collapsing to the ground, should ruin the image of him as a hero. And yet it does the opposite. Dorian imagines him in this moment of weakness, as Inquisition soldiers sweep in to arrest him, the anchor burning away on his hand, and feels a sudden surge of pride.

“Foolish man,” he whispers against Castien’s skin, and kisses his neck. “I am a foolish man.”

“What was that?” Castien’s voice catches on the words as Dorian kisses and licks at the sensitive skin on his neck.

“Nothing important,” says Dorian. And then, because he cannot help himself, he runs his fingers along the long, jagged scar that runs down Castien’s neck. “What about this one?”

Castien sighs. “Are you not bored of this game yet?” he asks, but there is no real irritation in his voice. “That one is boring. I fell out of a tree. Caught myself on a branch on the way down.”

Dorian likes to think of himself as composed, and dignified, but he cannot help but snort with laughter.

“A tree?” he manages to say, once he has calmed down. He pushes himself up on his elbows so that he can look at Castien’s face. The elf does not seem to be messing with him.

“Yes, a tree.”

“Do elves climb trees often?”

“I climbed trees often.” Castien sighs. “I like to be high up. Makes me feel safe.”

“I can see why you like this room then.”

“Yes, it suits me.”

Dorian kisses his chest, and for a while there is no talking, just Castien’s soft whimpers as Dorian explores with his mouth. Castien has very little body hair. Dorian figures that it must be an elven thing, since he has never seen an elf with a beard, and the other male elf he knows reasonably well is Solas, who does not even have hair on his head. It is not that Castien has nothing, but what there is, is sparse, thin, soft. His stomach is hard, slightly concave, and the barely there trail down to his groin is bisected by yet another scar.

“Before you ask, hunting accident,” Castien says, his hands resting gently in Dorian’s hair. “Boring, I know.”

“Nothing about you is boring,” Dorian breathes, and then he wonders where that came from. This slow exploration does not feel like it is purely physical. Dorian’s heart aches. He wants to hold Castien, breathe him in. He wants to be inside him, or be taken by him, so that he is as close as physically possible. He wants to fall asleep beside him and wake up in his arms. He wants… He wants… He can feel the ice around his heart melting, and if he is not careful then the fires that Castien has lit are going to burn him.

His lips find the crease at Castien’s groin, and he kisses along it, to the softness of the inside of his thighs. He tastes his skin, and his sweat, and the pattern his tongue traces elicits a moan and a tightening of the fingers in his hair. He presses kisses to the burn marks littering Castien’s thighs.

“Your turn first,” says Castien, before he can voice the question, and then there is a gentle hand at Dorian’s hip, fingers tracing the silver lines.

“Old,” he says. “Unimportant.”

But Castien is sitting up, pushing and pulling until they are both seated, Dorian astride him. For a moment Dorian is distracted by the insistent press of Castien’s prick against his own, but then Castien’s fingers are back at his hip.

“Some of these are barely healed, Dorian.”

“Old and new, then. Still unimportant.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Dorian swallows, avoids Castien’s gaze. Now that the questions are directed his way, he regrets playing this game at all. But then, would he give up everything he has learnt about the Inquisitor just to protect his own secrets?

Castien’s fingers run along the scars, the feeling both weirdly foreign and familiar at the same time. There are no open wounds, because Dorian has been happier recently, something that he realises with a suddenness that surprises him.

“When you are raised to be flawless, for the sole purpose of furthering the political machinations of your family, making yourself a little less perfect feels like taking back control,” he says, softly. “This was something opposite to my father’s wishes, not that he has any idea of course. And it has the added benefit of making visible the rot inside.”

“You are not rotten inside,” says Castien. His hand finds Dorian’s, and his fingers curl protectively around him. “You are hurting, but you are not rotten.”

“There is nothing inside me,” says Dorian, and it is the first time that he has verbalised these feelings. “Nothing left that isn’t tainted.”

“Nonsense. You are damaged, not destroyed.” Castien pauses. “I would know,” he adds.

Dorian wants to say something meaningful. Something equal to the absolution that Castien is offering. Instead, what falls out of his mouth is “Fuck me. Please.”

Castien is gentle, so gentle. At times almost too gentle, and Dorian pushes back, snarling and begging for more. It is not the act that makes it special. Dorian has taken this position many times before. After all, when you are a pretty teenager trying to get by on the streets of Minrathous, looking for someone to pay for your next meal, you give people what they want. What makes this special, different, is the way that Castien is taking such care with him. The way he tastes Dorian’s skin, and strokes his sides, and whispers to him in Elvhen. He pushes inside, and Dorian grips his shoulders, and they come together in a tangle of limbs and sweat and tears.

It is too late, Dorian realises. He cannot hold his heart back from this man. He is handing it to Castien on a platter, and he can only hope that the Inquisitor will not break him.

Castien buries his head into the crook of Dorian’s shoulder, thrusts inside him, and comes undone with tears in his eyes.

Chapter Text

Castien sits on his throne. This was uncomfortable at first; sitting in judgement, handing down sentences on those who have wronged the Inquisition. He did not feel fit for the job. How could he, a nobody, hold lives and deaths in his hands? Why could Cassandra, with her firm sense of right and wrong, her sheer bloody mindedness, her stern looks, not lead the Inquisition that she herself had formed? Castien would have fitted much better as a spy for Leliana, or even as one of Cullen’s soldiers. Instead, they put a sword in his hand, sat him on a throne, and made him leader.

Now, though, he is beginning to feel comfortable. There is something about the way that people look up at him, as he sits there, arms folded, waiting for them to explain themselves. Something that makes him feel powerful. Strong. He feels ten feet tall. He could crush them all, if he chose to. That he doesn’t is simply evidence of his benevolence as a leader, rather than any sign of weakness.

He imagines his soldiers dragging the keeper before him. He would sit on his throne, face stern, as the keeper is forced to his knees on the ground below him. He would listen to the keeper babble, stumbling over words as he tried to explain himself, and then he would pause, let him suffer, let him think that perhaps, perhaps there is a chance of mercy. And then he would smile, and sentence him to death. He wants to see the look in his eyes as he is dragged away to the gallows. Wants to see him break down and crumble.

The man prostrate before him is not the keeper. The keeper would never allow himself to be captured by the Inquisition, and anyway, Castien has no good reason to send soldiers to clan Lavellan. No, right now the man he is judging is the Mayor of Crestwood. Inquisition soldiers finally tracked him down and dragged him to Skyhold, and here he is, a man who flooded his own town and drowned his own people. Castien tries to care, but he cannot bring himself to. It feels so far away from anything important. Does it matter what happens to this man? Nothing he does will bring back his people, and Castien wonders what the point was for bothering to hunt him down. He glances at Josephine, who just raises an eyebrow at him.

It is his decision. Always his decision.

Something bitter sits in his heart. He has the power to make this man suffer. Has the power to rip everything from him.

“Gregory Dedrick, for the murder of the people of Old Crestwood, I sentence you to death. Get him out of my sight.”

The man lets out a cry as he is dragged away, and Castien turns, catches Dorian’s eye.

There is a downward curve to Dorian’s mouth, a crease in his forehead that is not usually there. Castien looks away. Who is Dorian to judge him?

Dorian says nothing. It is not his place to step in here. He cannot look as if he is influencing the Inquisitor’s decisions, not with his background. Not when people already believe that he is already abusing the Inquisitor’s power.

He wishes that he was simply using the Inquisitor’s power. That he was sleeping with him for the favours and the gifts, rather than because when he is not at Castien’s side, he feels a hollowed-out version of himself. Because when Castien looks at him, he feels the rot receding.

But this… This is a moment when he should be able to step in. Because the elf Dorian met all of those months ago in the chantry at Redcliffe would never have sent a penitent man to his death. Would never have delivered those words with such cruel coldness. Would have at least had the decency to look ashamed when he caught Dorian’s eye.

Dorian turns on his heel and leaves the hall, heading for the library. He cannot watch any more of this. He does not like the version of Castien who sits on that throne, and yet he has no right to claim any version of the man. Has no right, because Dorian will simply be a stepping stone to greater things. There is no future where the leader of the Inquisition loves a Tevinter mage. There is no political advantage to court someone in exile, no benefit to bestowing affection on Dorian. They fell together out of convenience, and once Castien realises that the arrangement is no longer convenient, he will send Dorian away. And Dorian will go, because he will not ask for more than he is offered.

Amongst the books, he feels calmer. Not happier, but at least less like he wants to take a knife to his skin. He finds a half full decanter of wine and pours himself a glass, settles in his chair and pulls a stack of books towards himself, choosing to lose himself in his research rather than think any longer about the Inquisitor.

Castien’s face will not leave his mind’s eye.

Finally, his duties are done and Castien is free. He heads to his rooms where he immediately changes out of his formal dress and into something more comfortable. Dorian would hate it, he thinks, and then he remembers the way that Dorian looked at him in the main hall.

He stands on the balcony, gazing out over the mountains. What else could he have done? Castien resolutely refuses to think of how good it felt to wield that power. How strong he felt. No, his decision was for the good of the Inquisition, and for the people of Crestwood. People should be punished for their crimes. Take an innocent life and yours is forfeit in return. It is only fair.

Torture someone, abuse them for years, and that is what you deserve in return.

He does not want Dorian to frown at him. He wants to see the man’s smiles, the softening in his eyes and the crinkles around his mouth when he laughs. He wants to hold his hand, and lay his head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. He wants to be held, and to hold in return.

He wants Dorian to love him, like he loves Dorian.

“You had so many other options.” Dorian’s voice is low, angry. They are standing in the courtyard, below the stairs. There are other people around, but no one near enough to overhear.

“It was my decision,” says Castien. He folds his arms across his chest to hide his shaking hands. “He deserved it.”

“You are better than that. I know that you are better than that.”

“He killed people!”

“So have we.”

Castien scowls. “That is different. He murdered people in cold blood. He flooded their home. We are at war.”

“He was at war,” says Dorian. “Or have you forgotten the blight?”

“So you’re saying that he shouldn’t have been punished?”

“Andraste’s arse, I’m saying that he did not deserve to be executed!”

A couple of people are looking their way, whispering to each other. Castien steps closer to Dorian, lowers his voice.

“I didn’t see you stepping up to help me with the decision,” he says.

Dorian laughs, bitterly. “Yes, that would have looked wonderful, wouldn’t it? The Tevinter mage advising the Inquisitor on matters of life and death. That wouldn’t have made people believe that I am abusing my position at all.”

“If you don’t want to help me, then you cannot judge my decisions.”

“If you cannot be reasonable, then I see no reason to continue this conversation.”

Castien watches Dorian stride away, and his chest aches.

He finds him in the library, staring intently at the shelves.

“Dorian,” he says, tentatively.

Dorian ignores him, pulls a book down from the shelf.

“Dorian.”

Dorian opens the book, skims a page, and then drops it to the table beside him.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Castien says. “Please talk to me.”

Dorian turns to look at him, and where Castien is expecting to see anger, he just sees sadness.

“I know we don’t see eye to eye on everything, Inquisitor, but I truly believed that you wanted to do good.”

“I do,” says Castien, a little desperately. “I just… I don’t know how.”

“Show mercy. Let people change.” Dorian laughs, but there is no happiness in it. “I have changed. Surely others will be able to as well.”

“You were never bad.”

“You did not know me.” Dorian steps forward, catches Castien’s chin in his hand. “You know me as a man trying to make amends. To be a better person. To fix the flaws of his homeland.”

“I cannot imagine you any other way,” says Castien, and Dorian smiles sadly at him.

“You showed me how to stand for something. Gave me a cause to fight for, a purpose to my meaningless existence. When you are done with me, I will carry that with me.”

The hand on his face is distracting, and Castien wants to reach up and kiss him, but then he realises exactly what Dorian has just said.

“What do you mean, when I am done with you?” he asks, and there is a pit in his stomach as he looks into Dorian’s eyes.

“Don’t play coy with me, Inquisitor. I have already told you I will not stay where I am not welcome.” He brushes his lips over Castien’s forehead, such a tender gesture that makes Castien shiver.

“I don’t want this to end,” says Castien.

“Not now, but you will.”

“Stop it, Dorian! Stop telling me what I will or won’t do when you don’t know. You don’t know how I feel, or what I want!”

“What do you want?” Dorian’s voice cracks as he says the words, and Castien pushes him down into the chair, climbs onto his lap like an overgrown child.

“You,” he says, and kisses him. “You, always you, only you.” He kisses him again, and Dorian’s arms snake around him, holding him close, and suddenly his kisses taste like salt, and he realises that he is crying. “I know I do not deserve you. I know that you cannot love me. But I love you.” As he says the words, he knows that they are the truest thing he has ever said. “I love you, Dorian. I’m sorry.”

Dorian is silent, and Castien keeps his eyes averted, not wanting to break the spell, not wanting to see Dorian’s disgust and rejection.

“The things you say, amatus,” says Dorian, voice breaking on the last word, a foreign word that Castien does not recognise. And then Dorian’s fingers are on his face, lifting his chin so that he is looking directly at him. Dorian’s cheeks are wet, but Castien cannot tell who the tears belong to.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“You love me.”

“I love you.”

Dorian smiles. “That was the last thing I ever expected to hear from you.”

Castien is not sure what to think. Dorian has not thrown him off his lap, has not pushed him away, but he has not said the words in return. Castien has offered him his heart, and now it is sitting between them, exposed. He cannot take the words back now, even if he wanted to. This is either the end of everything, or the start of something new, and the silence stretches out long between them.

“I’m sorry,” he says again when the silence is too much for him to bear. “Have I ruined everything?”

“I have been dreaming of you saying those words to me, but I told myself it could never happen. That I was just… a port in a storm for you. But Castien, amatus, I have loved you for longer than I dare to admit.”

It does not matter that they are in the library, where anyone could walk in at any time. Dorian pulls Castien close to him, and Castien buries himself in the other man. There is nothing left except hands on skin, mouth against mouth, hearts beating in sync.

Chapter Text

They fight with a flash of blades and lightning, razing a path through Thedas, bringing Venatori to their knees. They burn with passion and fury, Castien’s anchor forcing closed the holes in the fade, Dorian always behind him backing him up.

At Adamant, they fight like soldiers, back-to-back, cutting through wardens and demons alike, and when they tumble into the fade, they face the horrors together, side by side.

When Castien arrives back at Skyhold after a particularly rough fight, he turns to Dorian, his clothes blood stained, his expression pained.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

And Dorian takes him in his arms, kisses every scar and wound, pulls the ties from his hair and strips him of clothes and defences.

“You are proving every day that you can do this.”

It does not matter what people whisper about them, the elven Inquisitor and his Tevinter lover. None of that matters when Dorian takes Castien in his arms, takes him apart piece by piece, and is taken apart in return. None of that matters when they fit together so perfectly, bodies in sync whether they are fighting or fucking.

Dorian is at Castien’s side as he takes down Corypheus, and Castien falls into Dorian’s arms once the threat to Thedas is finally over. When they can finally breathe, and a future suddenly feels like an actual possibility.

“I was so sure that at least one of us was not going to make it,” says Dorian, once they are finally alone again. “I was so sure that this story could not possibly have a happy ending.”

Castien pushes him up against the wall, hands roaming, searching for a gap in his clothing, anywhere he can reach skin. He kisses Dorian frantically, making up for every moment that he thought that one of them was going to die. He kisses him as if he does not quite believe that everything is over, that they have all the time in the world now.

“Too many clothes,” he says, in a pause for breath.

“I concur,” says Dorian, and together they undress. There is something almost religious about the care that Dorian takes unbuckling and unbuttoning and slowly removing each item from Castien’s body. There is something beautiful about the moment that they finally stand there, nothing between them except space, and then even that is gone, and they are in each other’s arms.

They don’t make it to the bed, instead tumbling to the floor, and Dorian holds Castien’s wrists above his head, a gentle bracket of his fingers, as he kisses and licks and nips his way down his body, Castien squirming beneath him, breathy moans escaping his mouth.

“I want you,” says Castien.

“You are beautiful,” Dorian breathes in response.

“I need you.”

“You have me.”

All Castien feels, all those hard, twisted emotions, are softened by the sensations, by Dorian’s hands and mouth and gentle whispers. The strange mix of relief and pride that comes from defeating Corypheus, and the fear of the unknown future, and the worry that he will no longer be needed, will no longer be special, it all calms as his hands roam Dorian’s skin. And when they finally come together, Castien inside Dorian, it is like everything has been washed away.

“What will you do now?” Castien asks. He stands at the balcony wall, hands on the cold stone, Dorian behind him, head resting on his shoulder.

There is a long pause.

“I think,” Dorian says slowly, carefully. “I think that I have not yet given the Inquisition everything I can. And I think that I have at least one good reason to stay here, at least for a while.”

Castien takes in a sharp breath.

“You’re staying? What about Tevinter?”

Dorian’s hands tighten on Castien’s hips. “Tevinter does not have you.”

“What will the Inquisition even do next?” Castien asks, almost to himself. “Does Thedas even need us anymore?”

“I wouldn’t have thought you have to worry about that,” says Dorian with a chuckle. “I highly doubt that your advisors will let you rest on your laurels, even though you have saved the entire world.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“When am I ever not?”

Castien twists in Dorian’s arms, reaches up to kiss him.

“Take me back to bed,” he says, hands gripping tightly to Dorian’s shoulders.

Despite the Inquisition’s success, or perhaps because of it, the Inquisitor is now busier than ever. Dorian misses him. Misses him when he must attend important meeting after important meeting. Misses him when he is pulled away by nobles at the parties he is now invited to. Misses him when he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, exhausted from his day, leaving Dorian to lie there beside him, wondering if perhaps he would feel less lonely in his own bed, in his own quarters. The Inquisitor is busier than ever, the Inquisition a political power in hot demand as the continent recovers from the war. Dorian, on the other hand, is bored and lonely.

He sits in the library, in the same armchair he always sits in, a book open on a side table, a letter held loosely in one hand. With his other hand he reaches for his wine glass. He needs to be a lot more intoxicated than he already is to deal with a letter from his father.

He had recognised the handwriting at a glance, doing a double take at the slanted cursive. His first urge had been to throw it immediately into a fire, watch the flames flicker and burn, the edges curling and smouldering. But he is no longer a petulant child trying to run from his responsibilities, and he resists the urge, instead retreating to the library with a drink.

He runs his finger under the flap of the envelope, breaking the seal. His father’s seal, so recognisable despite the fact that he has not looked upon it in years.

“You have no hold over me,” he says to himself, as he holds the folded paper in his hands, the coarseness of the parchment rough against his fingertips. “I am not at your beck and call.” He is just going to read it, nothing more. He has made it abundantly clear to his father that he is not going to return to Tevinter and marry for his family’s sake. His father should know better than to ask that of him again, especially since their conversation all of those months ago in Redcliffe. And yet Dorian cannot help but feel a flicker of fear as he unfolds the letter.

He reads it in silence, eyes skimming over the handwritten lines. And then he reads it once more.

The words take him by surprise. No anger, or begging, or threats. No ultimatums. Just a request for a little of Dorian’s time, now that the Inquisition has been successful. Because Tevinter could use a mage like Dorian.

This is not the first time that Dorian has considered returning to Tevinter. He cannot deny that he misses his home, despite its flaws. But this is the first time that those considerations have felt real.

He is still sitting in the library when Castien arrives, the bottle of wine now empty.

“Dorian, are you alright?”

“Define ‘alright’,” Dorian says, and realises with a faint spark of shame that his words are slightly slurred.

Castien rests a hand on his shoulder. “What’s got you in this state?” He eyes the letter in Dorian’s hand, and Dorian clenches his fist, the paper crumpling in his grip. “Who’s that from?”

Dorian hurriedly pushes it into a pocket. “No one of any note.” He reaches for Castien, pulls him clumsily down into his lap. “Now, tell me all about your day, dearest. It is so terribly boring here at Skyhold and I’ve been dying to hear the latest noble gossip.”

Castien raises an eyebrow. “It was a war table meeting.”

“I thought you were at some ridiculous Ferelden soiree today. Some backwater castle filled with nobles barely a step above peasants, scrambling over each other to touch your cloak. I was rather hoping that you would come home and tell me something scandalous.”

“That was last week,” says Castien, with a laugh. “And they weren’t all that bad. But you’re changing the subject.”

“I am attempting to change the subject, yes. And the polite thing to do, Inquisitor, is let me.”

“Since when am I polite?”

Dorian sighs. “Tell me about the war meeting, please.” He does not want to talk about the letter. He does not know what to say. It is not as if it is even the content of the letter that is affecting him. No, it is simply that he has realised that he must return to Tevinter, and sooner rather than later. He has run from his country for far too long. Hasn’t Castien showed him that small, broken people can do great things? It is time for Dorian to return, and do some good for once in his pitiful life. His hands find Castien’s waist, encircle him, and he holds him tightly to himself. Castien lets out a soft sigh, rests his head against Dorian’s chest.

“We received word from Orzammar; the Deep Roads have been experiencing unusual earthquakes since the battle of Haven.”

“That long? Why have they waited so long to ask for help?” Dorian rests his chin on the top of Castien’s head, breathes in his scent, so reminiscent of a forest.

Castien shrugs. “Does it matter? They have asked for our help, and since it seems to be related to Corypheus, is it not our responsibility to offer any aid we can?”

“Of course,” says Dorian. “It is not as if you have anything better to do than run around underground.” He shudders. “Will there be spiders? I bet there will be spiders.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” says Castien. “According to Scout Harding there is a Deep Roads entrance not too far from one of our Storm Coast camps. One of the Orzammar dwarves will meet us there.” Dorian hears him take in a breath, and he knows what is coming next. Even worse, he knows how he has to respond. “Will you come with me?” Castien asks.

“I can’t,” says Dorian, softly.

Castien turns to look at him, confusion plastered across his face. “What do you mean?”

Dorian does not want to do this now. He does not want to do this at all. He prefers to leave without discussion, without goodbyes. But to do that to Castien would be undeniably cruel, and he owes the Inquisitor so much more than casual cruelty.

“I have realised something, amatus,” he says, doing his best to look Castien in the eye, to hold his gaze. “From watching you, my love.”

“What?” Castien asks, and Dorian can hear the suspicion in his voice. He tightens his arms around his lover, steels himself for what he must say next.

“I have watched you save the world,” he says. “You are a great man. And I need to at least attempt to do the same, in Tevinter.”

“You’re going back?”

“I’m going back.”

“I could come with you,” Castien says, and Dorian’s heart breaks at the desperation in his voice. He presses a kiss against Castien’s forehead.

“This is something I must do on my own,” he says. And that is partly true; with the Inquisitor at his side, he wouldn’t be doing things for himself. He would be relying on the Inquisitor’s influence and power, and it would not mean as much. But also, the last place he wants to take his Dalish lover is the Imperium. There is too much about Tevinter that shames him, and to have Castien see it first hand… No, he must go alone.

“But-”

Dorian cuts him off with a kiss.

“You have things to do here,” he says. “Saving the Deep Roads, for a start.”

“You’re leaving me.”

“No,” says Dorian, kissing his forehead. “Never.” He kisses his cheeks, tastes the salt from Castien’s tears. “This isn’t the end. It cannot be. But I must do this.”

Castien just buries his head in Dorian’s shoulder and cries.

Castien departs for the Deep Roads the next day. Dorian does not see him again until they both attend the Exalted Council at the Winter Palace. They write to each other, but letters are a poor substitute for a lover in the flesh. Loneliness is a constant companion for both of them, despite being busy with their duties.

“I have missed you so much,” says Castien, as they embrace in the courtyard outside the Winter Palace. He seems bigger, somehow. Stronger. Certainly, he is carrying himself better. He no longer looks as if he is waiting for the next blow to fall.

“And I you,” says Dorian, but his heart hurts, because he already knows that he is not staying. That Tevinter is now where he belongs. That at some point, he has to tell Castien that he is going to be a magister, to take his murdered father’s place. It is too much, and so for now he just holds Castien, breathes in the scent that is so utterly familiar, and pretends that this moment is all that matters.

Chapter Text

The Exalted Council is a disaster. Castien disbands the Inquisition, and loses his arm.

“I told you they wouldn’t thank you,” says Dorian, as they leave the palace.

“Yes, well.” Castien runs his hand through his hair. His braids have fallen loose and his hair keeps getting in his eyes, but tying it back up one handed is way beyond his capabilities right now. He will have to learn at some point, but it all feels slightly unreal still, like he will wake up from this nightmare with two arms, and Solas still a friend, and the Inquisition still together.

“What are you going to do now?” Dorian asks.

“Track down Solas,” says Castien. “Stop him from destroying the world. Same old, same old.” He laughs, but the sound is bitter. “And yourself?”

Dorian wants to reach out and take his hand, but the nearest hand is the missing one, so he can’t.

“Find the man who murdered my father and murder him back. But I will lend my aid in tracking down Solas as well. I can multitask.”

“You are still returning to Tevinter?”

“Yes,” says Dorian. He swallows. The gap between them feels insurmountable. What they had, what they had built so carefully together, was so frail that the time apart and the disastrous previous day has smashed it into pieces, like a broken Eluvian. “But I meant what I said before.”

“In the Deep Roads?”

Dorian nods. It had been a short conversation, in between fighting the qunari, but he is pleased that Castien remembers it.

“I pulled some strings with Josephine. Found us a place to stay. We can take some time, maybe a week, maybe longer, just the two of us.”

“I’d like that,” says Castien, and Dorian closes the gap between them, wraps his arm around his lover’s shoulder.

“Me too,” he says.

The hotel that Josephine has found for them is fancy. Even Dorian cannot complain, although that then means that he complains about the lack of things to complain about. It makes Castien laugh, and he feels light again for the first time since Solas’ betrayal. The city outside is supposedly nice, filled with sights to see, cafes to eat at, shops to browse, but neither Castien nor Dorian have any desire to leave their hotel room. Dorian’s body is the only sight Castien wants to see. He has to get his fill, before Dorian leaves him again.

That is a sobering thought.

He lies on the enormous bed, semi clothed, and stares up at the canopy above. Dorian is in adjoining washroom, where hot water has been brought up for them by a maid. Castien needs to wash as well, but he has been putting it off, not wanting the hassle of having to do things one handed. It is hard enough dressing and undressing, and he still has not learnt how to tie his hair one handed. He wonders if he will ever be able to wear it intricately braided again. He wonders how many of the activities that he took for granted will be beyond his capabilities now.

The anchor hurt terribly, but at least the pain was real. Now he gets a phantom pain where the missing limb was, and it is even worse, because there is nothing he can do about it.

“The water won’t stay hot forever,” Dorian calls, and Castien grunts, and rolls over on the bed, burying his face in the pillow. Their week is almost to an end, and Castien can feel every minute, every second, slipping out of his grasp. “Castien,” says Dorian, and his voice sounds a lot closer. Castien lifts his head, sees Dorian standing beside him. “Come on.”

He lets Dorian lead him through to the washroom. His shirt is already off, and he begins to unlace his breeches, a slow job one handed. Dorian reaches for him.

“Let me help.”

“I can do it myself,” says Castien, swatting Dorian’s hand away.

“I know that, but I enjoy undressing you.” Dorian snakes one hand around Castien’s bare chest, the other reaching for the front of his breeches. “I’m not helping you out of charity, Castien. This is solely for my own pleasure.”

Castien lets him, then, closing his eyes as Dorian’s hands pull down his breeches and slide inside his drawers, caressing him. He lifts up his own hand, reaches back so that he can touch Dorian’s face, his fingers stroking his cheek. His finger presses at the corner of Dorian’s lips, which part, and it slips inside. He lets out a soft groan as Dorian sucks on his finger, traces the nail bed with his tongue. He is growing hard in Dorian’s hand.

“I thought we were meant to be washing,” he manages to say. Dorian gives him a squeeze, and he lets out a sharp gasp. His finger slides out of Dorian’s mouth.

“We are,” says Dorian, removing his hand from Castien’s drawers.

“Tease.”

Castien won’t let Dorian wash him. He has to learn how to do things for himself, and anyway, he is not an invalid. It takes longer than it would have if he had had help, but Castien does not care. Anyway, he can see Dorian’s eyes roaming his body, can see the affect his nakedness has on the man, so perhaps making him wait for it is a good thing.

Back in the bedroom, they lie on the bed together, Castien’s back nestled against Dorian’s chest, Dorian’s arms around him. He can feel the shape of Dorian’s cock pressing against the curve of his arse, can hear Dorian’s breathing in his ear, can feel his heart beating. He feels so real, so warm, so alive. He smells of soap and spices, and Castien breathes deeply, wanting to memorise the smell so that he will never forget it.

Dorian kisses his shoulders, his neck, lifts his arm and kisses all along that as well, down to his hand, and then each individual finger. The arm that had the anchor, the one which is no longer whole, is pressed against the mattress, and Castien is glad that Dorian cannot reach it.

“You seem troubled this evening,” says Dorian, finally.

Castien throws caution to the wind. If not now, then when? “I keep thinking about you leaving,” he says. “I know that you don’t want me with you in Tevinter, but I missed you so much last time, and I don’t know how I am going to bear it again.”

“That reminds me!” Dorian sounds excited, and he lets go of Castien, jumping up from the bed. “I have a present for you.”

Castien sits up. Dorian’s sudden absence has left him cold, and he shivers. Dorian is rummaging through his luggage.

“What are you doing?”

“I know it’s in here somewhere… Where is the blasted thing?”

Castien lets himself admire Dorian’s backside as he bends over the bag. There are no fresh wounds at Dorian’s hip, all the scars well healed. Castien feels relieved that Dorian is coping well, despite everything with Tevinter and his father and the fact that they will be parting again soon. But he also feels a little hurt, a little ashamed. He still feels so small and weak, still that broken little boy. Dorian is whole, everything he was supposed to be, powering through despite setbacks, a great mage on his way to becoming a great magister, ready to force his country onto a better path. Castien has failed, and his body bears the results of that failure.

Did he make the right choice when he disbanded the Inquisition? Has he just made it all that harder for them to find and stop Solas? Was his decision made out of logic, or was it nothing more than a trauma response?

Did he do the right thing?

Has he ever made the right choices?

Dorian is beside him again, holding something behind his back. His eyes are bright and there is a soft smile on his face.

“Here,” he says, and hands the item to Castien.

“What is this?” Castien turns it over in his hands. “A rock?”

“A sending crystal. For when you miss my voice and my wit. It just doesn’t come across the same way in letters.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I love it.” Castien flings his arms around Dorian’s neck, and Dorian chuckles.

“Does that help?” he asks, his tone serious. “I know that this is not what you want, amatus. And if there were any other way-”

“You would still do it this way, because you’re irritating like that,” says Castien, but there is no malice in his tone. “You need to do what you need to do. I know.”

“Just as you did.”

“Did I?” Now there is the bitterness. Castien pulls out of Dorian’s grasp, hugs his knees up to his chest. He feels terribly exposed in his nakedness, his damaged body on display like this, telling the stories of his inner pain.

“Don’t do this,” says Dorian, resting a hand on his back. His fingers draw slow circles against Castien’s skin, and Castien shivers at the touch. “You know exactly what you’ve done, and why.” He rests his head atop Castien’s, slides an arm around him, holding him close. “When I saw you again, at the Winter Palace, you looked good. Strong. You were finally holding your head up high. What went wrong?”

“You know,” says Castien, waving his stump.

“Oh, that,” says Dorian. “You know that doesn’t change anything, don’t you? Solas’ parting gift is nothing more than another battle scar. And, call me selfish if you like, but I prefer you alive without an arm than the alternative.”

“I can’t do anything anymore! I’m useless. I have to relearn how to do everything one handed. I fight with two blades, Dorian. How am I supposed to fight now? And the way people look at me! I hate it. I hate everything about this. I was broken before. Now I’m… now I’m nothing.”

“You are not broken. The world keeps knocking you down, but you are stronger than that. You have proved that a thousand times over. So get back up, relearn how to fight, fuck the people who stare, and carry on.”

“Fuck the people who stare?”

Dorian nips him playfully on the shoulder. “I make a hideously twee motivational speech and that is what you take away from it? For shame, Inquisitor.”

“Not the Inquisitor. Not anymore.”

“Perhaps not officially, but people are not going to forget you. Or let you go so easily. You still have work to do.”

Castien sighs. “Are you ever wrong about anything, Dorian?”

“Rarely.”

“I want them to forget me. I want this to finally be over.”

“Unfortunately, we rarely get what we want.” Dorian pulls Castien down so that the two of them are lying side by side.

“What do you want?” Castien nuzzles his face into Dorian’s neck, breathes in his scent, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin there.

“Kaffas, the things you do to me,” says Dorian, his voice strained. “I think it is entirely obvious what I want I want, amatus.”

Castien pulls away from Dorian’s neck just long enough to glance down his body, where Dorian’s prick is standing to attention. He laughs, and for a moment, just a moment, the future seems less daunting. If there are moments like this in his future, even if they are few and far between, then perhaps he can muddle through. Figure things out. He presses his lips back to Dorian’s neck, sliding a leg across his lover so that their pricks bump together. Dorian lets out a hiss at the contact, and wraps his arm around Castien, holding him tightly.

“I love you,” Castien murmurs against his skin, and he hears Dorian whisper the words back to him as he rocks his hips against him.

Dorian holds Castien afterwards. The elf is sleeping soundly, which is a relief, because Dorian is not sure that Castien has slept properly since the beginning of the Exalted Council. He looks so peaceful when he sleeps, his brow smooth and unmarred by worry lines. Dorian traces the tendrils of his tattoo gently with the tip of his finger, and presses a soft kiss against his lips. Castien murmurs something unintelligible, but does not wake. Dorian watches him, not wanting to sleep himself, not wanting the moment to end. He feels content, which is a rare feeling for him, and one that he would like to experience more often. He is already planning his next trip away from Tevinter. Perhaps he can surprise Castien? Perhaps they could spend another few days secluded from the world, like they have this week? There are so many options, and whilst Dorian knows that realistically his job as a magister will tie him to Tevinter, he also knows that the moments that they do manage to seize together will be all the more sweeter for the parting. There is a future for him, and it holds happiness, and it holds Castien, and Dorian thanks the Maker that they are both alive to live it.