fadewalk | Dorian (dorianpavus-fadewalk)

He'd barely arrived at Skyhold when he was taken.

Taran remembered it clearly. He'd met Dorian. He'd discovered he was the other man's Voice. He'd been ridiculously happy (despite knowing just how much trouble it all was going to land him in with Cassandra, Giselle, and the others later.) And then, just as he'd taken a step toward Dorian, concerned by the idea that Dorian had thought him dead, he was...somewhere else.

Somewhere not very nice at all.

Tevinter was a beautiful place, but for the Herald to suddenly appear there was dangerous, especially with so many Venatori around. He'd barely survived, taking sanctuary with a moderate-minded house who helped heal his injuries and agreed to contact the Inquisition.

Until he'd spotted Dorian's portrait in their gallery and made a surprised comment.

Until he'd realized they were Dorian's family.

Until the truth came out, along with the magical chains, and talk of blood magic and finding a way to release their son and...

He still had the ritual marks on his skin, blood welling from elaborate cuts when the table he was strapped to shuddered and he was suddenly laying on the grass staring up at a queasy-green sky--gasping and clawing at the fine silver chains that still draped his skin, stifling his veil magic.

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The world had been red and weeping.

Commander Cullen and Josephine Montilyet, as the remaining leaders of the Inquisition had been reluctant to accept his help at first. There had been very vigorous... questioning about how he knew the Herald, why he believed magic was to blame for his disappearance, and how Dorian had simply appeared form in the middle of the camp at Haven.

He'd been mad with panic at first, wild, lashing out, and he didn't blame the templar who had silenced him. Well, not much. And now he knew what that felt like, how miserable an experience it was. Having Taran taken away so suddenly, after so brief a reunion made him feel more than a little wroth.

Eventually they had listened, when he'd told them that Taran Trevelyan had been displaced, in space and also probably time, and that the growth of the breach, the demon army, all of it could be stopped if he could reach Alexius and try to undo whatever it was he'd done with their research to destabilize the very fabric of reality.

The monoliths of red lyrium had merely been scenery at that point.

The attack on the castle had been doomed to failure, but they were out of all options, and when Dorian had lost his staff, and all his hope had gone out like a flame, once more. He stumbled and fell to his knees not on the gritty dust of the tainted lyrium shards that were everywhere, but back into that strange castle he almost believed he had hallucinated...

Well. He staggered to his feet, ignoring the cuts and scorches all over his arms, and lurched forward toward the green yard in front of him, following the small, sure tug of his soul restored again.

Taran was climbing to his feet, kicking free of the last of the magical chains when he heard a footstep. His head jerked up, muscles going tense in preparation, but he relaxed immediately when he spotted Dorian.

"Thank the Maker," he said, quickly moving forward and catching Dorian's hands in his. He scanned him, brows knit in worry. "Are you all right?"

"Am I--" Dorian choked, looking at the marks all over Taran, down at the chains on ground, familiar and filthy. He jerked his eyes back up to Taran's face. "You are--"

He had to take a breath, because he was rapidly approaching hysterical, flippant shouting, and not only was that unattractive, it was also often very, very cruel. His hands clutched Taran's convulsively, and he let out the breath in a long sigh. "I'm better now."

He leaned forward to rest his forehead against Taran's. "What happened?" he asked, pretending to far more calm than he felt.

Taran pulled free one hand so he could wrap an arm around Dorian's shoulders, big palm resting between his shoulderblades.

Taran was still fairly young, but he was big, a warrior. Now more than ever, he was grateful for that as he pulled Dorian against him. It made him feel like he was protecting him. Sheltering him.

"I met your family," he said hesitantly. "I think you may have left out the part about Tevinter and blood magic and, ah, not being so pleased with me? Being your Voice?"

The embrace was a balm at first, but when Taran spoke Dorian flinched violently. "Oh," he whispered, voice hoarse and hollow.

He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes, I suppose I should have led with that. 'Hello, my darling, my family is full of power-hungry fools who think that a Voice is a tool to be used in some brutally debasing ways, and when I refused to identify mine because of the most ridiculous romantic notions, they were quite unhappy with me. Now, would you like to hold hands?'"

A muscle in Dorian's jaw worked, teeth gritted and he pulled back, trying to make himself push Taran away, but not wanting to. He only knew he felt foul.

"Well," Taran said slowly. "I do want to hold hands, so at least there's that."

Dorian's unwilling laugh was appalled and ragged. "You are impossible." He looked up at Taran, eyes hooded, worried. Where was the loathing? After seeing what Dorian's people did to their Voices, how could Taran want anything to do with him? He'd intended to tell him, but he'd never wanted him exposed to it.

"I should send you away, you know. If they know who you are now, there's... very little my father won't do to use that against us. You. And you're too important for the world to lose."

He'd seen that first hand, and the horror of it was still somewhere behind his eyes.

"No. Instead, we're not going to be parted," Taran promised earnestly. He bridged the small bit of distance between them, kissing Dorian's mouth so very softly. "We're going to figure out this Fade thing, and get back, and find each other, and be bonded, and be together, and defeat Corypheus and live ridiculously long and happy lives."

To punctuate that, Taran nuzzled closer, trying to help ease away the shadows he saw in Dorian's eyes.

"I think that sounds much better--don't you?"

"Better," Dorian agreed after a moment. "And insufferably inevitable when you say it."

He relaxed slowly, an inch at a time, the exhaustion from the battle heavy in his limbs. "And I suppose there isn't really any place to send you to just now." His hands slid around Taran's waist, gripping him tightly, trying not to shiver in fear at what he had nearly lost again.

"Not unless you want to try to banish me to the garden." He nuzzled again just below Dorian's jaw, soothing and sweet--slowly coaxing Dorian out of that grim darkness. "In which case I would just scale the walls to reach you anyway."

He brushed his lips down Dorian's neck. "How hurt are you?" he murmured.

The nuzzling worked in slow increments and the image Taran painted made Dorian laugh softly. "Like a princess in a tower in some ridiculous Orlesian ballad?" He hummed softly as Taran's lips traced lower on his neck.

"Hurt?" He winced, suddenly remember that Taran was still actively bleeding, and while Dorian might be one gigantic bruise, covered in scratches and rolled in the dirt, he was fine. "You're asking me? When you've got gouges in your skin from my father's filthy ritual?" His voice grew thin with rage before he fell silent for a moment, eyes closing

He brought a hand up to cup Taran's cheek. "Baths, healing potions, an elfroot ointment or two. We'll have you sorted."

"Baths...together?" he asked hopefully.

"I'm not sure I could let you out of my sight just now even if I was a better man than I am, amatus." Dorian canted his head toward the castle. "Come."

He turned to lead Taran toward the keep. It had to have proper baths. The place was enormous. He kept his fingers laced tightly with Taran's as he tried not to limp or wince.

"I have to admit," Taran admitted, trying very hard to keep his tone light. "I am sorely tempted to pick you up and carry you. How much would you squawk in protest if I did?"

"Rather a lot, I think." Dorian smoothed his mustache with his free hand as he mock-frowned. "Besides, you'd get blood all over my--" he glanced down at his robes, covered in gore and ash, "--blood."

His grey eyes flicked over Taran in worry, and then he paused. "Ah, just a moment." He dropped Taran's hand and scurried back to where the chains the lad had been bound with were still lying in a pile on the ground. His gorge rose, but he pulled off the ruined capelet from his shoulder and used it to gather them up without touching them, piling them into a bundle. He returned to Taran shortly, brow furrowed at the effort it was costing to mask his discomfort.

"Here," Taran said, reaching out. "Let me carry them." He figured, since he wasn't magical--and had no real concept of what they were other than "bad"--it would be easier for him to do it.

"No." Dorian shifted the bundle, that he'd been holding in front of him like a pair of soiled smalls, to the side away from Taran, still at arm's length. "You should never have been touched by my father's disgusting plots at all."

"It won't matter what he plots when we're bonded," Taran promised, hating to see how this was hurting Dorian. "We'll be together and he won't be able to sever us."

Right?

He...actually wasn't sure if that was true or not.

"You'd be amazed at the horrors that blood magic can achieve," Dorian said darkly, reaching his free hand toward Taran, unable to stop himself from wanting to catch his hand again. "And in the case of severing a bond it's one of the applications that the Southern Chantry will consider as well, like those barbaric phylacteries. Isn't that simply marvelous?"

Dorian being from Tevinter did make this a hell of a lot harder--but then, Taran thought as he twined their fingers together, it would have been difficult even if he hadn't been. The chantry wouldn't be pleased that the supposed Herald was the Voice of a mage.

"We'll muddle through," he decided, squeezing Dorian's fingers. "They need me, right?"

"Yes, they need you." Dorian needed him too. Like breathing it seemed. But the world needed him with an intensity that frightened Dorian.

He led them toward the keep, determined to get the traces of anything his fucking father had done to Taran off his skin as quickly as possible. He had a few potions and sundries in his kit, and given the shallowness of the wounds they would do, and hopefully not even scar.

Taran kept hold of Dorian's hand as they searched the keep. There were signs of occupation all around, but they didn't run into anyone, not even when they found a row of rooms, one of which appeared unused. There was a tub there, and Dorian could use an ice spell to create water.

At least, he was pretty sure Dorian could. He'd seen it done before, anyway.

"A bed," Taran said wistfully.

The tub wasn't big enough for two people, which was both a relief and a disappointment and Dorian wasn't going to waste any time wondering at his own rapidly dissipating control when it came to Taran. He tossed the bundle with the chains into the far corner of the room, and with a wave of his hand summoned a gentle array of magelights.

He'd long ago perfected the tone of the light that was most flattering, the intensity and the number, so that the lighting would either be useful or charming, relaxing or... Anyway. This meant the light was a warm, directionless glow that honeyed his skin and was astonishingly restful on the eyes after the hellish green outside.

Edited Date: 2015-09-06 06:55 pm (UTC)

Taran had always been delighted by magic, even as a small child. His uncle was an apostate who lived on their grounds--and eventually became the inspiration for helping the mages of Kirkwall's Circle to escape.

Now, here, he lifted his face to the soft glow, a smile blooming. "Maker it's beautiful," he said, reaching up as if to touch one before letting his hand drop. Then he looked at Dorian and that smile gentled. "You're beautiful."

"As if that was ever in doubt." Dorian's brow arched, his artful flirtation a bit at odds with the fact that he'd recently been on the front line of a battle in the war that was lost. He was looking absolutely a mess, actually he was sure. Still, it didn't hurt to have Taran not flinch away from displays of magic, especially after what was done to him.

He pushed that away, trying to control his panic at the very thought of losing him again, and in such a way... He tapped the edge of the tub with two fingers and it filled easily with ice, a little swirl of his fingers over it and a flame sigil appeared on the surface and began to melt it.

He brushed a hand down Taran's arm when he crossed the room, bustling around in the cupboards by the tub. Any room that had an ensuite in any reasonably appointed... ah yes. Soaps, towels, an herbal infusion or two, combs, scissors, a razor and mirror even. "Excellent! This place isn't staffed by complete barbarians it seems, despite the shocking lack of gilt on anything."