fadewalk | Dorian (dorianpavus-fadewalk)

As spells went, this one didn't seem so bad. Being teleported away seemed much nicer than being set on fire. Though considering his luck, he'd been teleported here just to be set on fire the good old-fashioned way.

"All right," Taran said, slowly standing. "Positive thoughts. This isn't going to end horribly or anything."

He checked his weapon and slipped the journal into his pouch after only a cursory glance through it. He planned to take a much closer look soon, but his number one priority was getting out of the jail. Assuming he could.

Was this Redcliffe? It seemed weirdly...open and expansive for Redcliffe.

Taran gave the door a little push, relieved when it opened right away. His footsteps sounded loud to his ears, echoing as he made his way out of the cell. He looked around him curiously, moving out toward a huge, gorgeous grand hall. It was absolutely massive in scope, statues lining the wall, ceilings arching high overhead, soft light streaming through stained glass.

He turned slowly, almost forgetting Alexius and the spell in his amazement. Maker, it was beautiful. "Wow," he murmured, not caring that he sounded like the backcountry (lordling) yokel he was. "Just...wow."

And then the door at the far end of the hall pushed open and Taran was whirling around, sword unsheathed and shield raised in a single fluid motion. He tensed, ready for whatever came through...then lowered his sword in frank astonishment at who...or what, considering...he saw.

"You," Tara sputtered. "I know you."

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"Desire demons have rather a lot to live up to if you expect this from them." Dorian's smile flashed wider briefly, showing his even white teeth. "But no, I'm not a demon. Not even a maleficarum." He bowed his head. "My name is Dorian. Of House Pavus. Lately of Minrathous."

Taran was... perfect. The sweetness to him that had infused his dreams, it was like pale orange blossom honey. Dorian couldn't look away, was actually literally terrified to. Whatever strange even had brought them here could tug them apart again and he would lose this precious gift.

Maker, he had drank far too much wine and was actually rather maudlin.

Taran laughed and fully sheathed his sword. If Cassandra were here, she would be glowering and grunting at him, but he tended to trust his instincts when it came to people. So far, it had only led him to good friends.

"I like you, dream man," he said, slinging his shield over his shoulder and crossing the stone floor to Dorian. A lot, he didn't add. He couldn't explain what it was about Dorian that made him want to be as close as possible. His heart kept trying to pound out of his chest, and he could feel his cheeks flushing, but he smiled readily, dimples flashing, and tried to play it off.

Wow. Closer now, and he could see the exact shade of Dorian's eyes, could smell leather and some kind of woodsy spice.

The flush deepened.

"Taran," he said, offering a sword-calloused hand. "Of the Trevelyans. House Trevelyan? No, probably not--we're mostly just country gentry. Of Ostwick. Wow, that doesn't sound half as impressive as you."

Watching him approach, the strength in his form, the easy way he moved, he smiled, he offered his hand, Dorian's heart ached. How had he lived his whole life without this?

He hesitated, looking into Taran's hand, trying to think of a plausible reason he should feel such wicked sucking fear at the idea of touching him. But he couldn't not, not when it was so freely offered. He settled his own hand, the half-gloves covering his palm, into Taran's. He had to swallow, drop his eyes, before he could raise them again and say with a glinting smile, "Well, you'll find very few things are as impressive as me, I hate to doom you to a long life of disappointment."

He needed to let go. He was going to drown in Taran's eyes and this faintest brush of his skin and Dorian felt suddenly unsettled and dizzy and more alive than he ever had.

He gave a little, breathless laugh, grip reflexively tightening. "Oh, okay, so," Taran said, as refreshingly honest as ever. "Not only are you incredibly attractive, but you're also charming. That hardly seems fair for the rest of us."

He impulsively brushed a thumb over the meat of Dorian's palm before letting go.

"If it turns out you're part of Alexius' plot to kill me, I'm going to be...well, dead, but also disappointed."

Dorian's hand was trailing out of Taran's as he smirked at the compliment, but at the mention of Alexius' name he jerked it back violently, grey eyes flashing wide and full of alarm. "Alexius! Why on earth would Gereon be trying to kill you?"

Swift and fluid as mercury his expression shifted to one of taut fury, but for the worry in his eyes. "Are you injured? Did he do anything to you?" He stepped closer, hands itching to reach for Taran to reassure himself he was well, but he kept them clenched in fists at his side. Taran was not his to take, not his possession or his pet and he had only just met him.

"You know him? No, I guess that makes sense," Taran added, more to himself. "I'm glad you're not in on it, though. Either that or you're a very good actor. But...no, you're not in on it."

He'd had a moment's flicker of doubt, but it was easily smoothed away. He just knew he could trust Dorian. He couldn't say how, he couldn't say why all of him was screaming at him to put his faith in this man, but he did.

"I'm all right. At least, I think I am. He had the mages under his thumb, and we needed them to seal the breach. It was obvious he wanted me, so we decided to play into his hands and try to one-up him. Which worked, for the record, until he pulled out this amulet and I got...sucked in? Something like that. And ended up here. Which...I'm not sure what here is. Is this the Fade? If this is the Fade, why is this not feeling the same as usual?"

He lifted a hand, green power flickering.

Dorian had been hearing whispers about the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisition, all of that rot while he'd been busy nursing the wound in his soul at having lost Taran. He'd ignored it, all of it, ignored the Breach and the rifts and tugged his hurt around him like a finely tailored cloak and slunk away.

Away from where Alexius and the Venatori were plotting, away from where the brave and the true were trying to help. He felt shame sting deep within him, and he'd been ever so certain he didn't feel shame anymore.

"I--" He faltered, staring at the mark on his hand, magic that should definitely not be there. He cleared his throat carefully, trying to order his thoughts, project the air of a confident, knowledgeable man. "That is most unusual to begin with. It has something to do with the Breach and the Rifts? Perhaps allows you to manipulate them, hmm?" He spoke more quickly as his mind caught up. "We are in the Fade, mostly. It isn't the pure, raw Fade, but it also doesn't feel like the domain of a spirit or demon. It seems too heavy for that, too settled." He tapped a thumb against the haft of his staff, pursing his lips just slightly. "The mark, Alexius' amulet, all of this, there must be a connection, perhaps even an explanation of how you ended up here instead of anywhere, or any-when else."

"That's exactly it," Taran said, stepping even closer. "I can close rifts with this. We're hoping that if we can get enough power behind it, I'll be able to close the breach itself. Alexius was a wrinkle in the plan, though."

He tilted his head, studying Dorian's face intently. "Do you think you can get us home, Dorian?"

Oh, Dorian was a bad man. Looking into Taran's eyes, he wanted to kiss him. Wanted to run fingers into his hair and tip his head down to his, found himself in fact lifting his face. But he couldn't, he would not, not until Taran understood.

He reached up, almost brushing the back of his knuckles along Taran's jaw, because he was not strong in the face of the trust that Taran had laid at his feet with that question. Instead Dorian changed the path of his hand to trace his own lower lip idly. "Oh yes," he breathed after a moment. "Given time, access to your mark, the plasticity of the Fade generally, and the fact that I am as brilliant as I am handsome, I have very little doubt we'll find our way home."

Edited Date: 2015-08-14 06:44 am (UTC)

"Great," Taran said with a laugh. "You can be brilliant and handsome, and I can be handy with a sword and a hand." He held up his hand at the pun, wiggling his fingers.

Taran? Was such a nerd.

"All right," he added, already restlessly moving--the way he always was. "What's first? Should we explore?"

This was something Dorian hadn't considered about meeting his soulmate: he might end up laughing at clumsy puns of all things. His chuckle was quickly smothered with a wry roll of his eyes and he tried to order thoughts that were distracted by the way he only wanted to track after Taran's movements. He needed to explain their connection, but if Taran wasn't more curious, would it be better if he let it lie for a bit? Until they were assured of their relative safety at least.

He sighed, shaking his head in irritation at his own indecision. "We may as well get the lay of the land, find out if anyone else has ever been here, perhaps figure out why among all the possibilities of the Fade we landed in this particular place. It seems very specific, does it not?" His eyes drifted around the great hall and snapped back to Taran.

Taran was curious about the draw he felt toward this man, but he was also three other very important things:

1. Fairly pragmatic, with a practicality that his brothers claimed made him more "Dog Lord" than Ostwick;

2. Increasingly used to incredibly strange things happening to him, with new bosom companions literally falling into his life at the drop of a hat;

3. Still young and inexperienced enough for his general hormonal what are these strange things I am feeling for this hot hot man? to overwhelm the bedrock, No, but really, this isn't just the usual desire to stumble haphazardly toward someone devastatingly attractive.

"Right, because why a castle?" he agreed. "It's not coming from my head."

"No, nor mine. The heraldry suggests your Southern Chantry, doesn't it?" Dorian turned in slow circle looking upward, and then nodded toward the great doors on the far end. "Let's take a look outside, shall we?" He strode that way, twirling his staff easily into place behind his back and then running his fingers over his hair, smoothing it into place. Not that it was terribly mussed. But sudden shifts in planes of existence could be unpredictable.

He threw open the doors at the far end, bowing for Taran to proceed him through, and let out a soft huff when he stepped out and looked up. "No... not the normal Fade at all."

"We aren't physically in the Fade either," Taran said, studying the sky. "I don't remember much of it, but this is not like what I do remember of being there."

Dorian looked down to watch Taran's profile, finding that sight far more arresting than the strange turbulent sky. He couldn't quite help the wistful smile that flickered onto his lips. Of course he'd been physically in the Fade before. Eldritch magics, the Herald of Andraste, thrown out of reality altogether by Alexius' assassination attempt!

"What a wonder you are."

Taran looked over, lips parted on a retort...then lost the words, eyes locking with Dorian's. A deep flush began to spread along his cheeks, up to make his ears go cherry red.

He bit his lower lip.

The intensity of Taran's flush caught Dorian out, and he found himself blushing as well, not as deeply, and his darker skin hid some of it, but it was definitely there. He had also taken a step closer without meaning to. Fasta vass, this was maddening.

He flashed what he hoped was an easy smile, eyebrows lifting. "What you hadn't noticed how simply extraordinary your story is? Magical glowing hand, physical trips to the Fade, the Maker's chosen? It's quite marvelous." He took a few steps down, trying to slow his racing heart. "And now, you've met me. You are lucky."

"Well. Mostly I've been focused on surviving and trying to get people to stop calling me the Herald," he admitted, tripping along behind Dorian as if they had been tied together with string. He fell into step next to him, watching him out of the corner of his eyes. "Who are you? Not that I don't feel lucky. I do. But-- Just--"

There was something about him.

"You'd think eventually I'd get used to extraordinary people dropping into my weird life."

"They must fall out of trees like apples if there's enough of them to get used to."

Dorian stopped on the first landing of the open staircase, turning to look back up at the central building, then flicking a gaze along the the walls and ramparts. "What do you know about mages? Have you learned anything from your Chantry and their appalling prisons masquerading as Circles?"

Was he really going to do this now? He didn't have the words. What if Taran had been poisoned against mages, the very idea of Voices, the way the Southern Chantry wished it? Or perhaps he'd heard the tales of Tevinter magisters and their collared pets, bound and bled?

"Sure," he said. "Though I don't believe much of what the Chantry told me, either about mages or, you know. The Maker. I actually learned more from the apostates. Ah," he added, rubbing the back of his neck. "That is. I used to be part of a line of safehouses for mages running from the Circle. The Starkhaven and Kirkwall Circles are particularly bad, so..."

He gave a vague gesture. His father had been completely in the dark. Taran and his sisters were the only ones who knew what the gardening shed was really used for.

"I heard quite a few stories there."

Dorian had only ever caught glimpses and glances at Taran's life. Only what he dreamed about, and it hadn't always made sense. But this slotted a few things into place for him, some of the dreams about that gardening shed for example.

It also melted what was left of his heart and jerked a tiny sigh out of him.

What a mess he was! No control at all and it was appalling. He was sighing like a lovelorn schoolboy, staring at Taran. A heroic smuggler of apostates. Maker save him.

"Did you ever come across anyone who was looking for someone particular? A name they knew, or a place they had to go? An apostate looking for the man of her dreams, as it were?" His mustache twitched as he smiled, forcing lightness into his question.

"Oh," Taran said, surprised. "Are you talking about Voices?"

That startled a laugh out of Dorian. "And you were just going to let me bumble around like a fool, weren't you?" He tutted, shaking his head slowly. "Yes, Voices."

"Not possible," Taran assured him with a wide, earnest smile.

Then--because he may have been sheltered and a bit naive, but he was nothing if not incredibly clever--the smile began to change, morph into understanding. He looked at Dorian with a new kind of light, shock clear in his features. "Oh," he said. "Are you implying... Am I your Voice?"

Dorian's right hand came up to rest over on his chest as he nodded slowly, eyes searching Taran's face carefully, for fear or wariness or... anything really.

"Yes, that is what I'm altogether clumsily trying to express." He quirked an eyebrow, gave a small smirk. "I did say you were lucky." Not the most appropriate time for humor, but he needed to put some sort of buffer there in case Taran recoiled.