Author's Note: So this is a prequel story exploring Dorian and Rilienus. It ended up being the backstory for my longer series, "Clarence Adaar, Kleptomaniac Slut" which is Dorian/Iron Bull with a pervy Inquisitor and a blast from the past and it's all kinds of silly and smutty. That story is currently posted on AO3, as are a couple other multi-chaptered Dorian/Iron Bull fics. And this is where my cross-posting might stall for a while.
So I was going to cross-post everything and delete AO3, but it's turning out to be a HUGE pain just to bring the oneshots over, and I don't really have the time to do like a hundred chapters of All The Rest. So for now, this is it for the cross-posting. Any sweet readers who want to read more Dragon Age, I must direct you to AO3, where you can find me by the name "Sorted" and where the rest of the Dragon Age fics are.
Until we meet again in the next life! :)
At least the room isn't rocking anymore. Thank the Maker for that.
Dorian opened his eyes slowly; then shut them again almost at once. As I thought.
Repeatedly drugged or knocked out to keep him from escaping, thrown onto the most horrible ship ever built, and now—the crown jewel of this miserable week—back in his family's estate.
Dorian pulled the blankets over his head and determined not to dignify any of this by waking up.
He couldn't sleep forever, unfortunately, and drugs left one's throat agonizingly dry. Refreshments were left for him at the table where he'd been fed breakfast each morning as a child. Dorian condescended to drink, then ate—might as well—and then cleaned himself up, Oh fine, but then I'm going back to bed.
First, however, a few things caught his attention.
Some rather ornate but very solid bars on the windows were a new addition. With a sinking, cold feeling in his stomach, Dorian wandered over to them. The Fade tingled at his approach, and with a cautiously extended hand, he reached out. The tingle grew sharp as he encountered the wards, and Dorian drew back.
He did not jerk back, or hiss at the discomfort, or scowl. His posture slid into something perfectly straight and relaxed even as his face smoothed into a blank—and his grey eyes turned to steel.
"I see," he said quietly, to no one, but the faint hint of a sneer at the corner of his mouth would have alarmed any member of the Magisterium.
At that moment, someone chose to knock and then enter without waiting for an answer. Dorian's bearing remained loose as he turned slowly to the door—movements as smooth as water, or as a viper in the grass.
Father.
Halward Pavus entered, followed by a guard and a slave Dorian did not recognize or pay any attention to. "Dorian. I trust you are feeling better?"
"Trust." Dorian stepped forward a few regal paces. "An interesting word for you to choose."
A moment of pause, then his father sighed and moved forward without acknowledging the comment. "I see now is not the time for discussion, so I will be brief. We've had quite enough of your recent behavior, Dorian. We mourn the tragedy that has struck House Alexius as much as any—"
"Oh, I sincerely doubt that."
"—However. For all our sakes, we simply cannot tolerate any more of this shocking behavior. Your engagement to Livia Herathinos is set. You will not stir from this house until you choose to obey your parents in this matter."
Despite the continued posture of ease, Dorian's entire body had tensed. The viper coiling to strike.
"I refuse."
Another sigh, another sweep forward, ignoring him. "You will, of course, also be required to produce an heir. However, your mother and I do understand that these matters will likely prove more complicated than usual. You no doubt consider me tyrannical, but I assure you, it is not my wish, nor your mother's, to force you to endure unnecessary misery." He turned slightly and gestured, and the slave stepped forward—an elf, tan-skinned and black-haired. "We've bought this young man especially for you. You may avail yourself of him immediately. If he is not to your liking, we are prepared to purchase another. Our hope is that you will have found one that pleases you before your marriage takes place."
Dorian's stomach revolted, but he contained the swell of nausea. "A body slave." His voice was as expressionless as his face. "You bought me a body slave."
"There are no objections from House Herathinos—"
A massive gout of flame burst from Dorian's open hand and swept toward Halward Pavus, who threw up a nullification-warded barrier, causing the fire to evaporate before it could incinerate any of the small group—though the carpet scorched in a long black path between them.
Then the soldier moved around the barrier and threw something at Dorian that puffed into a noxious-smelling cloud around him. At once, he felt as though a sledgehammer had struck him between the eyes. The flames vanished abruptly, leaving only the stench of burned carpet and a mage collapsing onto it unconscious, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
Someone was wiping his brow.
Dorian drifted into the realization, followed a minute later by the added detail that the cloth was damp, but not too wet; cool, but not cold. The touch was gentle. It certainly felt nice.
As someone brushed his hair back from his brow, Dorian slowly blinked his eyes open. Things were blurry and his head throbbed, but none of that kept him from noticing his nurse.
Maker…
A truly beautiful young man was bending over him, looking into his eyes, and Dorian blinked and murmured, "What in the world was I doing?" Whatever it was, if it made incredibly handsome young men tend him this way, he should do it more often.
The response was soft—the voice, deep and beautiful. "You were attempting to incinerate your father, and then you were hit with magebane, Master Dorian."
Master.
Oh.
"Get out." His voice was flat and hard. The beauty blinked and pulled back, and yes, of course—now Dorian could see the long line of his pointed ear. "Out. Now."
"Forgive me, Master Dorian, but Magister Pavus commanded me to attend you—"
"Out!"
The man scrambled back, head bowing. "Yes, Master."
Dorian snarled at the suddenly empty room, "I will kill him."
Halward Pavus did not present himself for killing, however. Instead, the slave returned the next day, bowing deeply from the doorway. Dorian looked up from his desk, and the book he'd been scanning—a worthless volume, but compared to the rest of the small collection he'd been provided, it began to look almost publishable.
"Forgive me, Master Dorian, but Magister Pavus has commanded that I am not to leave your chambers today."
Dorian glared silently at the elf. It was not the poor slave's fault, he knew, but he was privately furious at him—for what he represented, for how Halward intended Dorian use him…and of course, for being so damned gorgeous. That was the cream to top the whole mess—of course his father would find someone stunning. Of course he'd make a point of picking a man Dorian would have found irresistible under normal circumstances. If he were human, and a peer, Dorian would already be in bed with him.
He was dark. Shorter than Dorian, and lean—naturally, he was an elf. But he was not as frail as most elves looked. His hands looked strong; his neck was corded and looked able to bear quite a bit of biting…
Stop that.
Dorian turned his eyes back to the stupid book and made no answer. The elf positioned himself by the door and waited in silence.
This, then, was Dorian's new life—locked in a room, shadowed by a slave he was supposed to take to bed as a consolation prize to make his upcoming marriage more palatable. Of course, Dorian had no intention of submitting to any of this. He wouldn't even talk to the slave. Maker knew he had that right, at the very least.
But first…
"What is your name?"
"Rilienus Canterius, Master."
That was it—a formality. Dorian had always tried to dignify his family's slaves by at least knowing their names. Now that he knew it, he silently returned to his book.
A day passed—the longest day of Dorian's life.
The slave never left his room. Dorian was relieved, at least, that he had not been ordered to keep Dorian in his sight at all times. He could still use his lavatory in private, and bathe himself.
The lavatory was not where his clothing was kept, however, and it had never been designed as a place to dress oneself. At first, spite made Dorian want to hide entirely from the body slave, but sense and pride won out. After all, he has no interest in my body. I'm the one who is meant to be interested in his.
So Dorian dressed and undressed as he normally would, in his chamber, pretending the elf was not there.
Rilienus watched quietly and did nothing.
Dorian paced the room slowly, reaching out with his magic to test the wards and barriers. They were…a significant problem. He could probably break them, with a concentrated attack on a single point, but it would consume all his mana so do so, and there was no lyrium and no hope of getting any, surely. In addition, the wards were laced with spellwork. It looked as though they were rigged to snap back at anyone who broke them, probably paralyzing him—incapacitating him in some manner, certainly, and Dorian was sure that by the time he'd recovered his father's people would have him thoroughly sedated again.
Rilienus watched his examination of the room, though without the benefit of magic, he probably had no idea what Dorian was doing.
So Dorian tried other tests.
He wrote out a list of things he required and handed it to his new slave with an abrupt, "Give this to my father." The errand was apparently permissible, because Rilienus left. He returned within a quarter hour, however. Handed back the list, and a tiny pouch.
"Magister Halward says you may have the cinnamon."
Dorian glared at the little satchel of spice. "Cinnamon." None of the books he'd asked for, not even the ones that were fairly innocent—simply books about subjects he might like to study, something to engage his mind a little. None of the plants or metals with any conceivable magical use. No alcohol at all, not even wine. And—most infuriating, somehow—not even a new supply of kohl for his eyes.
Rilienus had not withdrawn. He looked uncomfortable. "Well? What else did my dear father say?" Dorian demanded.
To the man's credit, he did not cower. He looked up briefly, then seemed to check himself. He kept his eyes from Dorian's face, but not downcast—straight ahead. "Magister Pavus wishes to remind you that you are not a guest in this house, Master Dorian. You are being punished."
The deep voice did not tremble, and Dorian took note, but only to the point of thinking—Not born a slave, then. Apart from that, he refused to wonder about the elf. None of it mattered. Dorian was not interested in him in any capacity at all.
Instead of reply, he went to his desk and incinerated his books—methodically, one by one. It was a petty thing to do, but they were so dreadful he felt their presence was more onerous than a lack of books entirely. And he had nothing breakable to throw, so fire devouring paper would have to do.
Rilienus watched, silent as ever.
The next day, Dorian woke feeling like death.
He made it as far as the basin—or something vaguely basin-like, at least—before emptying his stomach. His head throbbed. Strong, steadying hands raised him and guided him back to bed as Dorian moaned, "Oh Maker, I'm going to die."
"I will send for the doctor, Master Dorian."
Dorian shivered, burrowing into his bed, but his skin was soaked with a cold sweat. "Fuck the doctor, I need a drink."
He didn't know if there was an answer. He thought he registered another presence at some point. Voices talking about "habitual overindulgence" and feeding him foul-tasting tonics. Then quiet again, but someone still there.
"Alexius?" He tried to sit up. "I have to prepare the next phase of the experiment, the timing is crucial…"
But no, it was…
"Felix." Dorian shook, his heart racing. "Felix, help me, I have to get away. Felix I promise I'll take care of myself better from now on, I'm—" He groaned. "Oh Maker, I'm dying."
Someone was there, hands wiping his sweat, bathing his feet in hot water, the scent of salt and herbs.
"I beg your pardon, I haven't the slightest interest in qunari men," Dorian mumbled into his pillow, sleep rushing up to swallow him whole.
He thought he heard a little snort of laughter before he passed out.
When Dorian woke, he felt utterly drained. The pillow snagged when he moved his face against it—fine fabric caught on his significant stubble. His head ached dully; his throat was worse. Parched. Limbs protested any use, but Dorian paid them no mind and pushed himself up, thinking only of the lavatory and a pitcher of water.
His feet hit something uneven instead of the floor, and Dorian yelped in surprise—at the same moment that the something on the floor did.
He'd returned to bed—gracelessly—and needed a moment to straighten and look down at the floor he'd attempted to stand on. There was a bedroll with his painfully handsome body slave, sitting up and blinking and rubbing his eyes. "Master Dorian," the man hurried to stand. "Can I get you anything?"
"Water," he answered, without thinking.
"At once, Master." The elf stumbled a little, uncoordinated from waking so suddenly, but he brought the water without spilling. Dorian drained it and held the cup out for more.
"How long have I slept?"
"You were not always asleep, Master Dorian, but you fell ill five days ago and have been feverish and insensible ever since. The doctor has been here three times a day to make sure you did not slip into fits, or your heartbeat cease."
Scraping a hand through his utterly unkempt hair, Dorian stared at the slave. His hair, he noted, was not as greasy as five days without washing should have meant. Nor did he smell like five days worth of sweat—for all he didn't smell exactly pleasant, either. "And you were here the whole time, nursing me back to health?" The elf nodded. "My father's orders?"
The slave, Rilienus, again answered steadily. "Your father bought me to serve you and commanded me to attend you. You are my only duty, Master Dorian. I cared for you in your illness because it was either sit here and nurse you or sit here and watch you suffer."
Dorian had gained his feet, now that Rilienus was out of the way, and he'd moved toward the lavatory, longing to bathe. He paused, however, and turned to look back in mild surprise. "I should have thought watching the master suffer would be a favorite pastime for a slave."
Rilienus opened his mouth, then quickly shut it again. Hesitation—then, "No, Master." That was all.
Arching an eyebrow, Dorian decided not to challenge the answer. He went to bathe instead.
Washed, shaved, dressed in the best he had available, fed, and provided with another tonic to ease the lingering discomforts of his illness, Dorian felt much more like himself. The trouble was, there was—again—nothing to do.
Rilienus had returned to his post by the door, waiting silently.
How in the Maker's world am I going to get out of here?
He sighed, perhaps for the hundredth time, and glanced at his body slave. "Are you Antivan?" Dorian abruptly asked.
"No, Master. I was born in this very city."
Dorian tapped his foot. "But not born a slave."
"No, Master."
He studied the man. "How long have you been a slave?"
"A week."
Dorian blinked at that. "Indeed? And what was your occupation before?"
"I was a fisherman, Master."
Boats, Dorian thought, and suppressed a groan. Bloody ships on the bloody ocean. Ugh. Deterred from hearing any more about that, Dorian abruptly changed the subject. "Send for the tailor. I require new clothing."
If Father will allow that much…
He would, as it turned out. The tailor arrived and announced, "I am to take your measurements and ask if you've any preferences for your wedding clothing."
Dorian's voice was acid. "Am I permitted to also ask for a new set of robes, somewhat more befitting the season, or is it only to be wedding clothing?"
"I have been paid for multiple outfits, actually, my lord," the tailor answered. "Your father is planning several public functions leading up to your wedding, and you will need to be dressed well for each occasion."
It would benefit no one to harm a poor tailor, and his father was not present to offer a target for Dorian's wrath, so he put most of it away for another day and contented himself with the promise of better clothing.
And, in the process, if he found ways to make a few of the tailor's pins vanish—well, there were too many pins in use for the man to notice.
It was not easy—Dorian was stripped to his smallclothes for measurements and had nowhere to hide anything. He managed by slipping the pins carefully into his mouth, holding them out of the way against his teeth. The more he stole, the less he could speak, however, for every word required his mouth to move in increasingly dangerous ways. When the tailor left, Dorian merely nodded his dismissal silently. Then he studied Rilienus for a long moment before turning to his desk, emptying out a little case for writing implements, and beginning to spit out the pins and put them in the case.
Rilienus watched, silent.
When his mouth was safely empty, Dorian looked up. "Are you going to tell my father?"
Dark eyes watched him back, thoughts flickering in their depths. Finally, "I am your slave, Master. Unless your father directs otherwise, I am here to serve you."
"Hm." Dorian tapped the case. "Don't tell anyone about this, then. I command it."
"As you wish, Master."
Two days later, Rilienus was shirtless when he returned from a minor errand—more cinnamon for Dorian's food and miserably un-alcoholic drinks.
For a long moment after he looked up and saw the man, Dorian was frozen.
Elves in general were so slim they bordered on frail. Dorian had bedded elven whores, but generally not when anyone larger and sturdier was available. This elf…
Well. He was not bulky and he never could be, but he had an uncommon amount of muscle for an elf. Fisherman, Dorian's mind supplied, taking in the arms and chest—slim, yes, but very…well-defined. Rilienus was probably about as built as a lean elf could ever get.
His loose summer trousers sat low on his hips, too—probably a little too big for him. Dorian looked at all that smooth, brown, flat, hard…
And his mouth was watering, damn it.
He swallowed. "Why are you not wearing a shirt."
Rilienus answered without expression, "I had only the one, and Magister Pavus has taken it away. He says it is the hottest month, and I do not need it."
It was…true, in a way. Many slaves wore less at this time of year, though that was more the case for those working outside. House slaves were less likely to be so informal, but when there was no one visiting, no one to impress, it was entirely optional to dress one's slaves up when the heat was so oppressive.
All that hardly mattered, however. Dorian knew this was a tactic of his father's. Give in to the situation. Use the body slave. Once you do, it won't matter much if you do it again. Make a habit of it, and you'll begin to see how this could work. A wife would hardly interfere…
Wouldn't life be less dull and dragging? Isn't it better to put an end to this confinement?
Teeth grinding, Dorian stood sharply and crossed to his wardrobe. He dug through a drawer and pulled out one of his shirts—white, long-sleeved, thin linen. "Put this on." He threw it at Rilienus.
Rather than argue, the man simply caught the shirt and obeyed. Dorian felt a prickle of triumph…quickly dimmed a little by the sight of the good-looking young man swamped by his oversized shirt. Rilienus rolled the sleeves up to his elbows so that his hands were not lost in the fabric, and he buttoned it all the way to the top, but the collar was too wide for his neck and it hung loose around his tan throat. Dorian also cursed himself for not finding a darker fabric—Rilienus was tan enough that his outline was still visible through the thin white.
Letting him go completely shirtless might have been better.
Unfortunately, Dorian didn't have anything darker or likely to fit better. He tried to ignore the matter instead.
The illness had passed, but Dorian still craved the distraction of alcohol—that, or a good, long, brutal fuck, but he was desperately trying not to think about sex.
All the more reason to pine for his other cure for too much thought and worry—the numbing, care-obliterating bottle.
In the meantime, the cobbler came to measure Dorian for some new shoes. She was unassailable as far as bribes went, but she was also just a little distracted by Rilienus, Dorian noticed. She kept glancing over when her head was bent down to study his foot, and she didn't work terribly quickly.
Dorian's mind, on the other hand, worked fast.
As the cobbler was packing up, Dorian calmly and with regal disinterest commanded, "Rilienus, give me back my shirt."
The elf looked up, momentarily startled. The cobbler's hands froze on her bag, just for a heartbeat. Then Rilienus answered softly, "Yes, Master," and took the shirt off, brought it over, and handed it to Dorian.
It was warm, and Dorian tried to ignore that. The cobbler's distraction was not going to last long.
It lasted long enough, though.
He slipped his hand into her tool bag and out again, hiding his prize under the shirt. When the cobbler managed to snap herself out of her daze, she turned bright red, grabbed everything, and hurried out. Rilienus watched her, then turned his gaze back to Dorian, his eyebrows raised in question.
He was certainly new to this whole slavery thing. Questioning.
Dorian smiled blandly and tossed the shirt back, trying not to stare himself. Trying not to think about how much that elf's body needed to be licked…
He held up his prize—a little hand tool. "Awl in a day's work," he deadpanned.
Rilienus froze in the act of buttoning the shirt back up. His head ducked slightly, but not enough. Dorian caught the sudden flash of his smile, the muffled snort that sounded like a desperately restrained laugh.
Oh, Maker…
There was a distinct curl to Rilienus' lips—less pronounced usually, but when he smiled…
Kaffas. When he smiled.
Dorian had several weaknesses. Some made sense—big muscles, big cock. Some were silly—the hairline at the nape, clavicles.
Sensual, curling, beautiful lips.
Swallowing, Dorian moved to the window.
"The cobbler will return when she realizes her awl is missing," Rilienus commented.
"Quite so," Dorian answered breezily, carefully inspecting the window frame, approaching the barrier with caution. "But I hope to be done with it by then. If you will kindly not distract me."
Rilienus watched, silent.
The barrier encompassed the glass, the bars, and the wooden sash around the whole thing. It ended where the stone of the wall began. He couldn't puncture the wood, thanks to the barrier, and the stone would break a needle, for example.
Dorian found the thin seams of mortar and placed the awl as close to the wooden sash as he could. He tried to dig it in, to make holes as small and unnoticeable as possible, but it was difficult. He needed a hammer, but there was nothing heavy and sturdy in his room…
Suddenly, Rilienus was at his side. He had pulled off one of his boots and was holding it out, sole up.
Dorian frowned. "Why do you have iron soles on your boots?"
Rilienus glanced up at him, and that wretchedly beautiful lip curled again—just barely. "A precaution. There were a lot of fish hooks around. It's easy to lose a few, and dangerous to step on them."
I could kiss you.
He didn't. He grinned, grabbed the boot, and struck the awl with short, quick taps. A little hole appeared in the mortar, and Dorian moved to another spot. In five minutes, there were little holes all around the window frame and Rilienus had his boot back on. The awl, somewhat blunted, was "dropped" under the desk, but the cobbler didn't notice its condition when she returned because Rilienus had taken his shirt off again.
Halward Pavus made an appearance.
"Since this one doesn't appeal to you, I will be purchasing another, as promised. Please give me a list of your preferred qualities to assist with the purchase."
Dorian answered with fire.
His father backed out quickly. Rilienus followed, or perhaps Dorian's father pulled him along, away from the fire. Either way, Dorian was alone when the door shut—and he stopped throwing fire at it, as it had a repulsion glyph embedded in it—and he heard voices and snuck to the door to listen.
"If he has told you anything to indicate what he dislikes about you, tell me at once."
A short pause. Then, that smooth, deep voice answered, "I believe Master Dorian would prefer it if I were an eight-foot-tall qunari, Master Pavus."
There was a long beat of silence in which Dorian clapped his hands over his mouth to stifle a surprised shout of laughter. He could just picture his father's face as he struggled between shock and disbelief…and dismay and belief…and wondering if the slave was being sarcastic and deserved to be punished.
Finally: "I see."
Then footsteps fading away, and a knock shortly before Rilienus reappeared. Dorian was grinning, and he couldn't help it.
"I must say, I never tried to picture you as a qunari," he hummed, "but it would certainly be…interesting."
"Yes, Master Dorian. Having horns would be most interesting."
He laughed aloud, and Rilienus smiled, and Dorian wished rather desperately that they had met when Dorian was younger…before Rilienus became a slave.
Dorian continued to annoy his father with demands for various items, simply because he could, and because he had little else to do most of the time. His constant request was for something to drink, even if it were only wine. He maintained that he could hardly fall into a weeks-long stupor and put his health at risk as much as before if he only had access to one bottle.
His father maintained that there would be no alcohol, that it was part of his punishment, but if he cared to marry there would surely be every sort of drink available to him…
And Dorian, furious, burned those notes and spit on the ashes. "If he thinks I'm an addict who will throw my whole life at his feet for the sake of a drink, he can fuck a nug on the Senate floor while the Archon pisses in his ear," he growled.
Then one evening, Rilienus returned without a note of reply from his father. He stood stiffly and dipped his head. "I apologize, Master Dorian. I did not deliver your note to Magister Pavus. I anticipated his reply and took it upon myself to fulfill your request personally."
With that, he untucked the loose shirt and pulled a somewhat large flask from the waistband of his trousers. The copious folds of material had made the bulge of it all but invisible.
Dorian took the bottle. "Whiskey! Where did you get this?"
Rilienus met his eyes calmly. "I stole it from your family's stores."
With a glance at the label, he had no doubt. Dorian clapped a hand on the elf's shoulder. "You are a great hero, my young friend. And you will share this with me, yes?"
There was a moment, then—a tense one. The touch had been one of camaraderie. Brotherly. But Dorian wasn't sure it was entirely that, after a heartbeat of stillness. And Rilienus was close, shirt untucked, loose about him…
"As you command, Master."
They ended up on the settee, trading the bottle back and forth, draining it slowly. Sacrilege, to drink such a fine whiskey straight from the bottle. Delightful.
The light faded slowly, but summer evenings were long. It was not dark, yet, not even close. Dorian was so blessedly, blissfully relaxed, for the first time since his abduction.
"Is there anything else I can do for you, Master?"
He gazed at Rilienus. That shirt was much too thin—it lay over the contours of his body like gossamer. Oh yes. Grow old right this minute, get fat…
"Try not being a slave," he heard himself mumble.
Elves, as it turned out, had remarkable hearing. "I apologize, Master, but it is too late to prevent that. My family has already been paid."
Dorian looked up again, blinking. "Your family? Were you married?"
Rilienus' eyes widened a moment. "Ah, no. Forgive me. I meant my mother and my sister and her family. I had none of my own."
"Then you did sell yourself." Rilienus nodded. Dorian hummed. Not that it was any of his business…but then again, there was nothing to do but talk. And Halward Pavus would be most annoyed if he knew Dorian was alleviating his boredom by talking to the slave he was meant to be bedding.
"Why?"
Without hesitation, Rilienus answered, "My father was a fisherman. He was killed in a qunari raid five years ago. My brother-in-law and I have continued his small business, but he left some debts we were unable to clear. My mother was a seamstress, as my sister is now, but mother is aging and can no longer see well to work, and her hands shake. My youngest brother is now old enough to help my brother-in-law with the fishing business, and my sister's family could live on that and support my mother too, if only the debts were gone. But we could never get clear of the creditors with our little income. So I sold myself, and now they have paid off the creditors and can live comfortably and care for my mother."
Dorian nodded. Then, wryly, "I suppose you have bad luck in masters, then."
"No, my lord." Dorian looked up, frowning at Rilienus. "I sold myself to your father directly, aware of his plans for me. I chose this. Indeed, I brought a higher price this way than I would have as a kitchen slave."
Perturbed, and unsure what to say, Dorian eventually answered, "Sorry to disappoint, then."
"You do not disappoint, Master Dorian. I am sorry that I am not to your liking."
But you are. You are very much to my liking. He felt sick at himself for even thinking it. "I don't understand. If you chose this, did you want to be a noble's sex toy?"
Rilienus took the bottle from him and drank. Again, as every time before, Dorian failed to keep his eyes from lingering on the strong, tan throat as he swallowed. Then he handed the whiskey back. "I wanted to help my family. A body slave must be of a particular quality; they are rarer, and thus more costly. I was born with a pretty face, and hard labor gave me a body to match. It seemed a waste not to make the most of what few assets I had." He shrugged. "And I understand that it is always a possibility for any slave that their master will take them to bed. Best to know from the beginning that such was my purpose."
"Did you know the magister was buying you for his son?"
Another smile—only a flicker for a moment, but Dorian's heart skipped to see it. "Yes."
It was so hard to breathe… "And that did not bother you?"
Rilienus leaned back on the settee and stared at him. "No. Not to say that there is no censure for that among the soporati, but I think it is much less for us, without the burden of perfection on our shoulders." Another tiny smile. "I was more apprehensive about you being a human than a man."
"Truly?"
A nod. "I've slept with elven women and men in the past, but no others. I was unsure what a human would want from me."
"Nothing at all," Dorian declared, his voice lowered. Serious. Firm.
"Of course."
A long pause. Dorian drank, then drank again before handing the bottle over. "You had a lover, then?"
"Oh." Rilienus swallowed too quickly and coughed a little, passing the bottle to Dorian. "Ah, no. In the past, but not anymore."
Dorian hummed. "I never have, actually." He almost surprised himself with the admission. "I suppose…no, I couldn't call any of the men I've bedded lovers. Casual partners, nothing more. I couldn't even be certain I've had any man more than once—with the exception of those I paid for." He swirled the remaining liquor in the bottle, gazing at the way it glowed with the last of the sunset. "I've always wished…"
"You could certainly have me more than once."
Unable to draw breath, Dorian looked up, frozen. But it wasn't spoken seductively. Rilienus was simply watching him. Simply stating a fact.
"No." It came from deep within—far deeper than the pull toward Rilienus, the desire. "You are not free to deny me. Even a whore can choose not to take my money. Even a whore consents. I won't take a man who cannot refuse."
"You don't think this is different?" Dorian didn't know what to say, and Rilienus added, "You don't believe that I chose this, that I don't mind?"
"It isn't…really to do with you. Not this time. It's the lie my father wants me to live. He bought you to drag me into that."
Rilienus nodded, leaning slightly closer. "You know that your father wants you to accept the arranged marriage and the body slave as consolation, but I know something more." His eyes were searching. "I think you won't believe it."
Against his better judgement, Dorian set the bottle on the end table and leaned in a little himself. "Try me."
For a moment, Rilienus dropped his eyes, and Dorian was struck again by his beautiful face, his tempting mouth, the cut of his cheekbones…then he looked up again, with his fathomless dark eyes. "Your father wants you to be happy. He does want you to marry, but he bought me hoping that you would like me. He asked me things…things he didn't need to ask of a body slave meant simply to sate one's urges. I know he hoped I would come to love you, and that you would care for me in turn. He wanted to find you a lover who could truly make you happy, even with all the pressures you will face as a magister."
Again, a wash of sickness. Dorian could barely speak. His teeth were clenched tight. "I think, really, that might actually make it worse." Rilienus blinked at him, a little furrow between his eyes. "To trade in bodies is one thing. To imagine that he can buy and sell people's hearts is monstrous."
The confusion smoothed away; thoughtful eyes considered. "Yes…I suppose I see your point." What a remarkable man, for a simple fisherman. Rilienus smiled sadly. "I only told you because I thought you should know that your father did not mean to be malicious. It seems you like to interpret his motivations in the worst possible light."
"Or perhaps you try too hard to see the best in him," Dorian countered.
But Rilienus shook his head. "I've no reason to look for good in him where there is none. But I do try to give people the benefit of the doubt—just in case they deserve it." He smiled softly. "You did."
Dorian's heart clenched. They were close, now. How had they gotten so close? And when?
He longed to kiss this young man. He longed for his touch, his embrace. But he couldn't. Wouldn't. To lean in, to initiate even slightly—not when he was the master and Rilienus the slave. No matter what he said, or how true it was—and Dorian did believe him, Maker help him, he truly did—there was still that wall between them. One of them owned the other. He couldn't.
Perhaps, if Rilienus…
But a slave, taking such a liberty…
It was impossible from either of them.
Or it should have been.
Perhaps it was because Rilienus had not been born and raised a slave. Perhaps he forgot, in the moment, that he even was one. Perhaps he thought it worth the risk, or considered that the magister's son could object all he wanted, but the magister would not berate him for trying, in this situation.
Or perhaps he simply wanted it too much to care.
Rilienus leaned in. Crossed the gap between them. Touched their mouths together.
Dorian made a faint sound, a broken, needy thing, and returned the kiss with gentle pressure. His heart raced madly, his lips tingled, his skin burned—all through a soft, long kiss. Eyes closed. A brush of fingertips on his face. Loose linen under his hand. And his other hand finding Rilienus' other hand, fingers lacing together.
His hand shook. Rilienus' lips trembled against his.
I can't do this. I can't fall in love with you.
Even with a lover—and oh, how he wanted it; had he ever wanted anything more?—he could not live the lie.
He didn't have to push Rilienus away. The moment changed, and they parted. Brown eyes met grey. Dorian shook his head slightly. Rilienus closed his eyes, sighed, and nodded.
"Yes, Master."
Dorian sat at his desk with a candle and pulled the thread out of a pair of trousers. He cut it into pieces and dragged it through the melted wax, murmuring an enchantment, intensely focused on each little thread until it gave off a little red glow. Then he handed it to Rilienus, who sat beside him with a little pile of pins. Rilienus took each thread and wrapped it, carefully and evenly, around each pin. He secured it with a little dip back in the wax, and set it aside.
When Dorian had finished with the threads, he returned to the wrapped pins, adding another enchantment to bind the whole thing together—a tiny dart of destruction.
Once all the pins were wrapped in their spells, they moved to the window. Rilienus held the collection as Dorian took them, one by one, and settled them into the holes he'd drilled. Rilienus held the candle too, and Dorian took little dabs of hot wax to secure the pins in place. When it was done, he pulled the drapery over all, hiding their work.
Dorian tried not to look at the beautiful slave helping him. He still didn't trust himself. And he didn't want to wallow too much in his own longing. He wouldn't let anyone sabotage his plan—not even his own heart.
Their next task required quite a lot of Dorian's clothing. Fortunately, he had quite a lot of that. Starting with his trousers—for they had the longest pieces of fabric—they tore out the seams, then tied long pieces together. Then Rilienus took three trouser-ropes and braided them together tightly. Dorian held the top end of the rope; he didn't know how to braid, but a fisherman knew knots and ropes better than anyone.
They hid coiled lengths of the fruit of their labor. One was very long—Dorian's chambers were two levels above the street. They made extra ropes too, and hid each in a different place.
"I need a gemstone," Dorian said at last. "At least an inch long. Father took all my jewelry. I could use almost anything, but it must be a gemstone for the focus."
"I could try to steal one."
He glanced at Rilienus. The elf had never asked what he was doing, what his plan was or how it would work, and Dorian had not said a word. Still, Rilienus helped him, and surely he had an idea by now. "No. He'll know you aided me. I must find some other way."
Dorian tried to convince the tailor to put gems on his wedding clothing, which the man agreed to do, happily, but he watched those much more closely than he did his pins, and Dorian couldn't secure one.
He tried the same trick with the cobbler, and he didn't tell Rilienus to take his shirt off—the elf simply did it, and inched his trousers a little further down his hips, and stood by the fire until he began to glisten with sweat, his body enticingly on display. The cobbler was red in the face the entire time and dropped everything she touched, but she, too, kept a close count of the precious stones and did not leave until they had all been returned to the case she brought them in.
Dorian sighed, frustrated, and thanked Rilienus and offered him the use of his bath. Then Dorian left him to bathe and tried to claw his mind clear of the memory of the elf's body. It didn't work. No more ruses that torment me more than my target.
He would have to try something else.
Rilienus took a note to his father—a caustic complaint that Dorian would like to be allowed to wear his mother's ring again at some point. He returned with an urgent light in his eyes, although his gait, until the door was closed, was perfectly at ease. Then he hurried forward, asking for paper and tossing aside Halward Pavus' note.
"Another refusal," he quickly explained, then turned to a more important matter. "But you must see this."
He began to draw, with no great skill, but quickly.
"Your father was up on the catwalk of his study, getting a book from the shelves I think. He wasn't at his desk when I entered, but I stood near it as he came down to get your note. I saw these drawings there. I wouldn't have heeded them at first, but he was moving quickly to come down. I suspected, so I looked carefully, while pretending not to. As I thought, he covered it all from my eyes as soon as he came to the desk. I don't know what any of it means, but if he did not want me to see it, it can only be something he did not want you to see."
Dorian's skin had already gone cold. Rilienus' reproduction was partial, and imprecise, but it was hard to mistake a summoning circle for anything else. And that looked like a half-drawn binding…and those awkwardly formed Tevene letters…
Soul.
Desire.
Change.
Sacrifice.
"Rilienus." Dorian touched his hand and it stilled. Their eyes met. "Has my father acquired any new slaves? Since you?"
The elf answered at once. "No, none."
Dorian's mind ticked through their family's staff rapidly. Most noble houses had dispensable slaves and indispensable ones. Most slaves had to be carefully selected to prevent assassins within one's own household, but those who practiced blood magic always had a few extra about—slaves of no skill, with no access to anything. Simple labor, waiting to be put to another use. House Pavus did not keep such slaves. Every slave his family owned had earned a measure of trust and therefore value.
Except Rilienus.
What was more, if this ritual worked, Rilienus would no longer be necessary. He may have cost more than most dispensable slaves, but it would cost less to lose him than any other.
"Was there any indication of…day? Or time?"
A quick shake of his head. Then Rilienus leaned in. "What is it?"
It made him so sick to even say it… "A blood ritual." Dorian swallowed. "From the look of it, one designed to alter my mind. Make me…acceptable."
Dark chocolate eyes widened and stared at him, filled with pain. Grief for Dorian's sake, and oh, he didn't know the worst of it yet. Such a kind man… "A ritual like this requires a sacrifice." He made himself meet those eyes. "Probably you."
A blink. Surprise. "Me?" Then, quick thought. "Of course. Me." Rilienus winced. "It has a horrible sort of poetic irony, doesn't it?"
Dorian huffed a bitter laugh and reached for him. Clasped Rilienus' shoulders and drew him close. "I must escape tonight."
"I'll get you a stone, somehow."
"I told you, I cannot have them able to trace this to you—least of all now. You'd be doomed."
"No, I can…" He paused, sharp eyes flicking as he thought. "One of the guards posted outside your door wears a ring. It's large…but I don't know if it's quite large enough. And I don't know what the stone is, but he's very proud of it. I think he's bedding someone rich. It might be a ruby."
"I still can't let you risk yourself…"
"I won't, I'll tell him you want him in here and you can bash him on the head and take it. Then no one can say I knew what you were going to do."
Dorian blew out a slow breath. That should do it. "Very well, then. When it's dark."
So it went.
Dorian thanked the Maker he had height and strength; a guard in full armor was not easy to take down swiftly and silently, but he managed. Then he fetched the rope and Rilienus tied the man up while Dorian cast his spell on the ring. He placed it carefully on the window sill, perfectly aligned. Then he gathered the rope. He was already dressed in dark clothing, a few extra layers. He had no way to carry anything with him. He had no money. He had nothing.
"In the lavatory," he commanded, and Rilienus helped him drag the unconscious soldier there. Then, "I need to tie you up as well."
"Of course."
Rilienus submitted to the crude bindings. Dorian smiled mirthlessly. "This isn't the way I usually prefer to tie up handsome young men."
That barely-there smile at him again… "I would have guessed you were more likely to be the one tied up than the one doing the tying."
"Well."
What else could he say?
Come with me.
For a long moment, he stared into those gentle, deep eyes. Please, please come with me. Run away with me. Be free. Then, finally…
Finally what?
Dorian had nothing and nowhere to go. He didn't know how he would protect himself, much less Rilienus. And an escaped slave faced death if caught; Dorian only faced a return to this captivity.
He couldn't ask it.
With a choked voice, then: "You should be safe once I am gone. My family does not typically use blood magic. They may sell you off, but that should be the worst of it. If they keep you, you should be well-treated."
A nod. "I know. House Pavus has that reputation."
Another long look, a silence as he swallowed the request again. "Thank you for everything." I could have fallen so much in love with you.
"I was happy to help." Smiling again, precious and beautiful… "Now cast your spell, my lord. You have little time."
Dorian nodded, drew a deep breath, and turned. He remained in the lavatory, with the door nearly shut, protecting himself and his prisoners. He gave himself just enough room to see the stone so he could focus. It was just a fraction too small…but it was a fire agate, not a ruby. It would do.
Murmuring under his breath, he anchored the spell to the focus, then spread it out over the enchanted pins. As he cast the last of it and triggered the spell, he shut the door quickly.
His room exploded.
He whipped around one last time. Touched a beautiful face. "Be safe, Rilienus."
"Be safe, Dorian."
There was banging on the door to his chambers, shouting. Dorian covered his nose and mouth and burst out of the lavatory. The window was destroyed, but not entirely gone. With one swift, hard kick, Dorian knocked the bars and frame out. Then he tied the rope to the bedpost—classic, not cliché—and slipped out through the hole as the pounding turned to splintering wood as they began to break the door down.
Then he vanished into the night, and never looked back.