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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"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."

"Oh, absolutely shocking," Taran agreed with a crooked grin. He began unselfconsciously shucking what remained of his clothes, hooking his thumbs into the soft trousers they had dressed him in and pushing them down his hips.

He was remarkably well-formed. Strong, with skin bronzed by the sun and a scattering of golden freckles across his muscular shoulders. His stomach was tight and well-defined, a trail of golden-brown hair low on his belly.

"I hope you know how to cut your own hair. I'm pretty sure I'd butcher it and make you hate me forever."

"As if I'd let anyone else try to maintain perfection." He sounded breathless, which he was, because he couldn't stop staring at Taran and it was making it devilishly hard to breath. He swallowed and smoothed his mustache, and then turned away to dip his hand into the water to check the temperature, even though he knew it was perfect. He was a man who measured his comforts carefully, and much like his magelights, heating bath water was something he took very seriously.

"Speaking of perfection." Dorian turned his head, smile arch, letting his eyes linger on Taran again, the double meaning clear as he continued, "Your bath is ready, amatus."

Taran blushed hard. He was trying very hard not to seem the awkward virgin, but...

"I like that word," he said, clearing his throat and shucking out of his smalls, too. "Amatus. It's, it's nice." He moved closer, flush deepening, and carefully stepped into the water.

He was half-hard and pretty much dying inside with self-consciousness suddenly.

Dorian moved away from the tub as Taran drew near. If he touched him now, well, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself from kissing every inch of exposed skin. Particularly the last several inches that he was enough of a gentleman not to ogle as Taran finished stripping. He brought over soap and a cloth, one of the oils, as well as a health potion and an elfroot salve from his own kit.

Then he started disrobing too.

He was too tired to do it as artfully as he liked, as they perhaps both deserved, being bared to each other for the first time. But when he'd imagined being naked with his Voice for the first time there was rather a lot less blood, dirt, and bruising involved.

Taran took his part of the potion (after making sure there'd be enough for Dorian, too) and sank back into the water, watching him with wide-but-interested eyes.

He bit his bottom lip, not even trying to hide the frank appreciation he felt. Dorian was a beautiful man; he knew that.

Might have known it, but it was still heart-stopping to look up and find Taran watching him with those eyes. As if Dorian were something truly special. He flushed faintly, barely noticeable under the tan of his skin, the warmth of the magelights.

He smiled, far more warm and open than he intended, and he wasn't sure how his face even knew how to make that sort of expression. Maybe just looking at Taran had taught him.

He winced as he peeled his breeches down. There was the worst of the bruising, a big mottled, black splotch over his right hip where a monstrosity made of red lyrium and Templar armor had hit him with one of it's grotesque arms just as his barrier fell.

Taran made a low noise, caught in his throat, and immediately reached out. Dorian was just close enough that he could brush his fingertips around the bruise--not touching, but close. "Elfroot," he said immediately, looking up. "And then in the tub with you. It's big enough."

If they settled right, at least, it was.

Dorian's skin pebbled as Taran touched him and he had to fight not to chase it when his hand dropped away, nevermind the bruise that was bad enough he was probably lucky the blow hadn't broken something. He took his half of the healing potion and then picked up the elfroot and began slowly working it into the bruise.

"You want to cram me in there and be jabbed by my elbows and knees do you?" Dorian smirked faintly, trying to think of a real reason to refuse. But he wanted desperately to be clean, and desperately to touch Taran, remind himself they were both safe again... and had absolutely no idea how long that would last.

Taran sat back in the tub, leaning against the far back and spreading his thighs in welcome--making a space for Dorian to slide down, back-to-chest, between them. He was hard, fully aroused by just the sight of him, but he curled his hands around the rim of the tub as if to keep from reaching to touch him again.

"I'll be careful," he promised, voice dropped lower. "Um. In both ways. I know we can't-- Shouldn't--"

If they had sex, they'd complete a bond. They still needed to talk before that happened.

"I just would like to touch you an awful lot. And it is nice in here." Taran ended with a hopeful lift of his voice, then bit his lower lip--golden in the magelight, visibly turned on, welcoming. Temptation personified.