II. ENVY
In the absence of light, shadows thrive.
-Threnodies 8:21
Kinloch Hold, Circle of Magi, 9:18 Dragon
They couldn't have been more than seven at the time.
Their lessons had only ended for the day less than half an hour ago, and the three friends still stood in the apprentice classrooms, arguing about what to do with their few hours of freedom before supper. Their enchanter had taken to regaling them with different tales and legends recently, and Sibyl and Jowan had clung immediately to the story of Dane and the Werewolf. It was their favorite by far, and they could easily spend an afternoon re-enacting the hero's famous exploits.
But Dorian was sick of it—they had played Dane and the Werewolf at least three times a week for what seemed like ages, and what was worse, he had been the werewolf every time.
"It's not fair," he said, an angry whine creeping into his voice as he crossed his arms. Sibyl and Jowan stood side-by-side in front of him, their postures equally stubborn. Jowan was holding a short, wooden toy sword. "I don't want to play Dane and the Werewolf anymore. I'm sick of being the stupid wolf."
"You have to be the wolf," Sibyl said reasonably. "Dane is a human and a boy. So obviously Jowan has to be Dane."
"That's still not fair, I don't want to be the werewolf!" Dorian insisted. "Why don't you be the werewolf for once?"
"Because she's a lady," Jowan answered, as if it was the plainest thing in the world. "I have to save her from you. Unless you wanna be the lady."
"Dane didn't save any ladies from werewolves! You don't even play the story right!" Dorian huffed.
"Fine, if you're going to be a baby about it then we can play something else," Sibyl sighed, rolling her eyes and exchanging a look with Jowan. "What do you want to play instead?"
"I want to play a game about just elves for once!"
"There aren't any games about just elves," Jowan argued. "We're not Dalish!"
"So what? I'm not a wolf!" Dorian shot back, wrinkling his nose in distaste. He looked to his feet for a moment, as if thinking very carefully about something, then looked up at his friends with a bright, hopeful smile. "We can… we can play Dalish Creators. I'll be Elgar'nan the All-Father—he's in charge. Sibyl, you can be Falon'Din and Jowan can be Dirthamen. They're twins, and best friends."
"Why do you get to be the All-Father?" Jowan asked.
"Because when we play Dane I always have to be the stupid werewolf!" Dorian snapped.
"Now you're not being fair," Sibyl said, with her usual tone that was rife with condescension. Dorian always suspected that their enchanter told Sibyl she was right far too often, and that was what had caused her to adopt that infuriatingly superior tenor. "What if I don't want to be Falon'Din? Jowan and I haven't read any of those Dalish books, we don't even know how to play Dalish Creators."
"So? I can just tell you. Fen'Harel is the evil Lord of Tricksters, and he betrayed us and locked us up in our realms so we couldn't save Arlathan when the Tevinter magisters came to enslave the elves. So we have to escape and wreak our vengeance on Fen'Harel… Elgar'nan is the God of Vengeance, too, you know," Dorian explained, sounding very satisfied with himself and his new game.
"Okay…" Jowan agreed, looking hesitantly to Sibyl. "That doesn't sound too bad. Who's gonna be Fen'Harel?"
"The Knight-Commander, of course," Dorian said proudly. "It even makes sense, since he keeps all the mages locked in the Tower!"
"No way!" Sibyl snapped, putting her hands on her hips and giving him her best severe, chastising frown. "We're not playing that. We can't wreak vengeance on the Knight-Commander, you're just trying to get us all in trouble again! Now go hide behind the bookcases and be the werewolf!"
"Either I get to be Elgar'nan or I'm not playing," Dorian said sharply, glaring at them both. "I told you I'm not playing Dane and the Werewolf anymore!"
"Ugh, if you're going to be so immature then you can't play with us!" Sibyl shouted at him. "You're always complaining anyway. You can just go find another elf to play your stupid knife-ear games with!"
As soon as she finished saying the words, she gasped and slapped her hands over her mouth. Jowan stood at her side, gaping in disbelief. Sibyl had never said any words that were even sort of bad before, let alone insulted someone—she'd especially never said mean things to Dorian. Their friend stared back at them both, his bottom lip quivering for just a moment as he blinked rapidly. Then he took a deep breath and steeled his expression, turning away from them.
"Dorian, I'm so sorry," Sibyl called after him, taking a step forwards. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean—"
"I don't want to talk to you," he said coldly. "Maybe you and Jowan can pretend that you marry Dane and his sodding werewolf if you love them so much."
"No, wait, please don't go! I'm sorry! We can't play it without you!" Sibyl yelled, and she didn't even flinch or think to scold him for saying a bad word like she usually did. But Dorian didn't look back as he stalked out of the room, leaving Jowan and Sibyl to sit down dejectedly next to each other.
"I can't believe you called him… a knife-ear," Jowan said, his voice hushed dramatically. "I've never heard you say anything like that before."
"I didn't mean to," Sibyl said, sounding on the verge of tears as she began tugging at the tassels on her robes fretfully. "I really really didn't."
Jowan nodded and looked down to study his hands with feigned interest. They sat in silence, both their faces set in distraught frowns, neither sure what to do now that Dorian had stormed out. They couldn't very well play Dane and the Werewolf without the werewolf. And they didn't much feel like playing anymore, anyway.
After a few moments had passed, an older woman in Senior Enchanter's robes stepped out from behind the bookshelves, her graying hair tied back in a bun. She saw the two apprentices sitting side-by-side in an uncharacteristic, penitent hush, and sat down delicately besides Sibyl.
"Sibyl, Jowan," she said kindly. "Is something wrong? Where's Dorian? Don't you three usually play together after lessons?"
Sibyl sniffed softly and continued tugging at her tassels, but Jowan looked up at the older mage uncertainly. "He left, Enchanter Wynne. Sibyl called him a knife-ears and he got mad."
Wynne tutted softly and touched Sibyl's shoulder. "I thought I heard some arguing over here. But that doesn't sound very much like you, Sibyl. What happened?"
"He was being a baby," Sibyl said, her voice shaky. "He wouldn't play Dane and the Werewolf. I was just angry. I didn't mean to call him a name, I promise. I said I was sorry, but he didn't listen."
"Everyone makes mistakes, child," Wynne said soothingly. "But you should think about why things ever got to that point, so you can learn from it and keep it from happening again. Now, why didn't Dorian want to play Dane and the Werewolf with you?"
"He said he didn't want to be the werewolf again," Sibyl said, taking slow breaths that still teetered on the edge of becoming sobs. "But that's stupid. He can't be Dane, he's an elf. And obviously he can't be the lady in distress either. I wasn't trying to be mean to him! It's just the way the game works! Isn't it?"
Wynne seemed to consider this for a moment, and ran a comforting hand through the young girl's hair, shushing her sniffles.
"Did you ever think that perhaps Dorian dislikes always being forced to play the villain?" Wynne asked, looking to Jowan as well. "Elves don't have very many legends of their own anymore, and sometimes that can make them feel… left out. Do you understand?"
Sibyl gave a watery laugh and shook her head. "No, you don't understand, Enchanter Wynne. Dorian doesn't ever feel bad about anything. He said himself that anyone can say whatever they like about him, but he doesn't care. And it's true. I've never seen him cry or anything."
"Many people try to hide their feelings when they're sad," Wynne explained. "Perhaps he is afraid of being made fun of, if he tells you how he truly feels. Part of being a good friend is showing him that you're not the sort of person who does that and supporting him. Do you think it would be okay to let him borrow the legend of Dane, sometimes? Even though he's an elf?"
"I suppose he would make a good Dane," Sibyl agreed, nodding solemnly. "I just never thought of it like that. I don't mind sharing Dane with the elves."
"And maybe we could play Dalish Creators if he wants to," Jowan added. "As long as we don't make the Knight-Commander Fen'Harel."
Wynne smiled encouragingly. "That sounds like a good plan, Jowan. So… he wanted to pretend the Knight-Commander was the Dalish trickster god?"
"He said it made sense because Fen'Harel was evil and trapped the Creators. He doesn't like the Knight-Commander much," Sibyl explained.
"I suppose he doesn't," Wynne sighed, shaking her head slightly. Dorian was already notorious among the enchanters who taught the younger children as something of a budding anti-authoritarian, but none of them had been successful in curbing those tendencies in him. "But do you think you'll be able to apologize to him now, and compromise? Sometimes it just helps to take a step back and think about things from the other person's perspective."
Both Jowan and Sibyl nodded in unison, and thanked the enchanter for her advice. With another kind smile, she shooed them off to go find their friend and patch things up. After he'd had some time to cool off, and hearing that he wouldn't have to be the werewolf anymore if he didn't want to, Dorian forgave them both fairly quickly.
The next day, while their age group had its turn in the library, Sibyl snuck away for a moment to find the Circle Tower's best book about the Dalish pantheon—the one that Dorian himself had spent months poring over not too long ago. She hid it underneath her robes and snuck it out of the library, even though that was forbidden, so she could hide it in the dormitories and read it under the covers after curfew. She spent weeks reading all of the stories and tales of the elven Creators, committing each of them to memory so the next time Dorian brought them up she could show him that she was ready and happy to play games about elves, too.
Enchanter Wynne was right, after all. There were things that upset Dorian, no matter what he said. He might shrug off most comments and teasing with a smile, but whenever something particularly hurtful happened to him he always got all closed up and quiet and steely-eyed.
She hated that closed up look. She really didn't want to be someone who made him feel that way.
But months later she had practically memorized the whole book, and he still hadn't brought up the Dalish Creators again. So the next time she, Dorian, and Jowan had free time after their lessons were over and they were deciding what to do, she brought it up herself.
"How about you be Elger'nan today," she said, grinning at him. "Jowan can be June, god of the craft, and I'll be Fen'Harel."
Dorian stiffened for a moment, but then looked back at her blankly—not upset, but not pleased either.
"Why?" he asked, a little more harshly than necessary. "I thought you wanted to be Aveline, the lady knight from Orlais today."
"It's okay," Sibyl said. "We can do that later. We never got to do Dalish Creators like you wanted."
"Well, forget the sodding Dalish Creators. It's was a stupid idea anyway," he said with a shrug. "They're not even real. So I guess Jowan gets to be the knight Kaleva and I'll be the Dalish who find baby Aveline, right?"
Frowning, Sibyl nodded, and that was what they did.
It just… didn't seem fair.
Kinloch Hold, Circle of Magi, 9:29 Dragon
It was late in the evening, and only a few hours remained before curfew when all apprentices were supposed to return to their dormitories. The classrooms on the first level were usually deserted by this time, with most apprentices relaxing in one of the common areas on the other levels, or in the library if they wished to continue their studies beyond their daily lessons. It was for that reason—the privacy—that Sibyl preferred to do much of her studying and reading at night, in the empty classrooms, surrounded by nothing but peaceful candlelight and quiet.
Tonight, both Dorian and Jowan had joined her. Their teachers had been making noises about their Harrowings getting closer, and reminded them that they needed to consider what they would do with their talents once they were made full mages of the Circle. Neither boy was particularly motivated to look into their prospects, but Sibyl had insisted they at least look through a few books with her. Jowan agreed because there was no reason not to, and Dorian agreed mostly because he knew he would be able to derail their focus easily enough. A number of outrageously salacious rumors about his extracurricular exploits with a templar had been circulating among the apprentices lately, and he had been uncharacteristically unforthcoming with details. For once, he had not played a part in either initiating or indulging the rumors, and he hoped that would get at least one of his friends interested in what they would normally pay no attention to.
So when Sibyl sat down at the main table between the two of them, laying a selection of enormous, ancient tomes out before them on the pretense of getting them to pick a specialization that might be of use to the Circle, Dorian placed an elbow delicately on one of the books and rested his cheek in his hand, smiling at her mischievously.
"So I've been sleeping with Templar Drass," he said conversationally.
"Funny. I also heard someone saying today that you serviced the Knight-Commander in his office," she answered impassively, turning through the pages of the tome in front of her until she came to the relevant section about various duties that Circle mages versed in the spirit school were allowed to perform.
"This is too much information already," Jowan said, grimacing in disgust as Dorian waggled his eyebrows at him suggestively.
Sibyl did her best to ignore them both. "Oh, look at this! If you learn all the mana alteration and anti-magic spells, you can be allowed to go out on some templar assignments in the field."
"Sounds exhilarating, being allowed to aid the Chantry in hunting down your fellow mages," Dorian answered dismissively. "But not nearly as exhilarating as servicing the Knight-Commander. What exactly did I do? Polish him up? Did he need to be sharpened like a dull blade? I wonder if we used any oil…"
Jowan reached over Sibyl to give him a sharp jab, and she swatted his hand away.
"Sorry, but I didn't want to stick around to hear all the gory details. I'd just eaten," she admitted, shooting him a smirk. Dorian didn't even bother to try and look offended. "How about this? Mages specializing in primal spells, like master herbalists, may be allowed out on their own recognizance to conduct research in the field… you've always been good at electrical spells, maybe you could—oh, but you have to have been made a Senior Enchanter first."
Dorian snorted. "I'm about as likely to become a Senior Enchanter as I am to ever be allowed under Greagoir's little purple skirt."
"Oh, come on," she said. "They'll make you one, someday. It's not as if Irving chooses them for their agreeable demeanors. Look at Uldred."
"I don't know," Jowan said. "I doubt Uldred spent his entire life as an apprentice trying to figure out the best time and place to set templars aflame."
"Bet he also never bedded a templar, either," Dorian added with a grin. "And I'm not talking about my supposed tryst with the Knight-Commander, here. Templar Drass, remember? I just told you two. Why don't you listen to me?"
Sibyl sighed and stopped turning pages long enough to give him a look of irritation.
"Every day, there are three more templars or enchanters you've supposedly slept with. Don't get me wrong, I know you would if you could, but even you don't get around quicker than a bad case of warts," she said flatly, and Jowan stifled a snigger.
"Cute. Don't forget, I'm also harder to get rid of than two visits to a healer," he said cheerfully. "But I'm being serious. Neither of you have heard about Drass, specifically, have you? I've been intentionally discreet."
"You're not capable of being discreet," Sibyl told him. "You're far too proud of yourself to keep secrets."
"Exactly, which is why I'm trying to tell you about it now! But letting the truth get past you two could end with me in a real spot of trouble, so you have to keep this quiet."
"Templar Drass is in the chapel every morning and night, praying like Andraste herself lit a holy fire under his arse," Jowan said skeptically. "You expect us to believe you seduced him?"
"Yes…" Dorian responded thoughtfully, the sarcasm creeping into his voice. "It's almost as if he's praying fervently for deliverance, isn't it? I wonder what terrible sins he has to atone for… do you think maybe he's screwing an apprentice? That would certainly explain it."
He grinned at them both, his eyes alight with a sort of extravagant glee. They had both heard this type of talk from him before, of course, but Sibyl especially had gotten sick of it quickly. He had gotten it into his head that he should seduce a templar ever since he had met that one older apprentice… this stick-thin, out-of-her-mind strawberry-blonde who had all these awful scars—blood magic scars, everyone knew, even if no one had been able to prove it.
It made her nauseous just to ponder what other sorts of things the bitch had gotten him to do, but at least until now his talk was always in the hypothetical—Sib, what would you say if I got myself a templar? Wouldn't that just be something? You think I could do it, Jowan?
It was no secret that some templars struggled with lust and their vows of chastity. And Dorian made a point of being indiscriminate with who he bedded—men, women, apprentices, the odd equally indiscriminate Harrowed mage; basically, anyone who didn't say no outright. It was one of those things she and Jowan tolerated about him, because he was their friend, and had been since before any of them could remember.
Well, she only tolerated it. Jowan didn't seem to care as long as he kept the details to himself.
But as unlikely as it seemed that Dorian would ever get the chance, she wouldn't put it past him to actually proposition a templar if he thought he saw an opportunity. And judging from the self-satisfied, expectant little grin on his face, he had.
"Maker's breath," she said finally. "I never thought you would actually manage it."
"Yeah… and Drass," Jowan said shortly after. "He's just always so somber. Like every day is his worst yet."
"Apparently it's a side-effect of sleeping with Dorian," Sibyl said before he had a chance to begin gloating about his conquest, trying to re-focus on flipping through her books. "Everyone he's been with is depressed. What about Spirit Healing, Jowan? That's useful."
"No, I'm terrible at healing spells," Jowan answered sadly. "Remember when I tried to heal your paper cut that one time? It didn't even stop bleeding."
"Then I'll look for something under entropy," Sibyl went on, now turning pages rapidly. "You're best at those."
Dorian made a soft, disgruntled noise; he was becoming restless because neither of them were taking his news seriously. He had been keeping this templar business entirely a secret ever since it had begun almost two months ago, and Jowan and Sibyl were his closest friends. They should have at least been mildly intrigued.
"Well, don't either of you rush to congratulate me or anything," he said, playing up his indignation over their indifference. "I've only performed one of the most unlikely tasks a mage could ever hope to accomplish. I have swayed an unswayable son of the Chantry from his vows to the Maker. They should make a medal for this sort of occasion, really."
"Yes, it's very obvious what he sees in you," Sibyl said wryly, but without looking up from the tome. "But really, what's the point? Why do this to him if he feels so guilty about it he spends most of his off hours in the chapel praying for forgiveness?"
"Why not?" Dorian asked, leaning back comfortably in his chair. "I can do it, so I might as well. And he should feel guilty, for a lot more than bungling that little vow of chastity. They have the right to watch over our every move, tell us what to do, kill us if they decide it's just. If I can lead one of them into breaking their vows, then I turn the tables back on them."
She sighed, readying herself to go through with him once again why the Circle of Magi was necessary and how it had protected him from a world that hated and feared mages. She couldn't say that she always relished the watchful eye of the templars, but she understood and appreciated its merits. Some of them were even kind and interesting people, if one bothered to get to know them instead of blindly resenting them without reservation. And she was definitely thankful for the First Enchanter, as well as the rest of the Circle, for the guidance they had shown her in her life.
Sometimes she suspected that Dorian tolerated her respect for the Circle in much the same way that she tolerated his more disreputable pastimes. And although he had been known to take her advice on some issues, she doubted that she would be able to deter him from a course of action he already seemed so very set on—not to mention pleased about.
"Why not target Carroll, then?" Jowan asked suddenly, thinking of the young, rusty haired templar who was a bit of a simpleton—rumor had it he had found an illegal supplier of lyrium and the stuff had addled his head. "If there's ever been a templar who could be easily led, it's him."
"Carroll's a dolt," Dorian answered, grimacing.
"No, he has a point," Sibyl agreed with a laugh, looking up from her book. If she wouldn't be able to talk him out of his madness, she might as well go along with it and see what overarching factors were at play. "Wouldn't that just make it easier for you?"
"I couldn't even imagine—don't want to imagine him in that way at all," Dorian continued, his lip still slightly curled in distaste at the thought. "Thanks for the mental image. He acts like he's about five."
"Oh, and Drass is just so sexy, is he? Is there something about middle age that turns you on?" Sibyl pressed on. The glow of the candles on the table illuminated her smile in the most devious way, and as withering as Dorian's own expression was, he had to give her credit. She learned that smile from him.
"Hey, he can't be more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight. And while we're on the subject, there's nothing wrong with an older man," Dorian answered lightly, trying to brush off her ribbing. "Really, there's even something about very alluring about Greagoir, isn't there, and apparently I've even already serviced him, so—"
Jowan coughed, as if he had choked on thin air. "Ugh—please, 'alluring' and 'Greagoir' don't even belong in the same sentence, let alone—"
Dorian cut him off easily, his grin impish.
"But alas, in truth he is as stoic as the stone this Tower is built on," he sighed dramatically, ignoring Jowan and gazing to the ceiling with an exaggerated air of infatuation. They all knew perfectly well that he had no designs on the Knight-Commander. "But really, Carroll I could just as easily convince to stray from his vows with a shiny object or a bag of sweets. Drass… there's a challenge there. He knows what we're doing. He's… conflicted, and yet… still he comes back to me."
Sibyl laughed and leaned towards him, catching him with an infuriatingly knowing smirk.
"Oh. So you just… want to be desired, then. You want someone to want and like you. That's… surprisingly sweet, in your own twisted way."
Dorian's mouth fell open and he was about to protest, vehemently, but the words wouldn't seem to come out. She watched him for a moment, amused, as he fumbled about, trying to counter her claim.
"No. I just… want to be in control of one of them for a change," he said defensively.
"I don't think that's it," she teased, with another cheeky giggle. "Maker, you have feelings for him, don't you? Why else keep it a secret from us for so long, hm?"
"I don't have feelings for him, and I certainly don't need him to like me," he answered with a cold evenness, and the laugh died in her throat. Even Jowan tensed at her side—that was his too-even tone, his "jerk who sleeps with the crazy blonde bitch" voice. "If I only wanted people to like me, I could just act like you, couldn't I, Sib? Innocent and sweet and pure… after all, you reel in more templars with that act than even I do."
She drew away from him sharply. The sides of his mouth twitched up as she did, but it wasn't exactly a true smile; there was nothing happy about it.
"Dorian," Jowan warned, anxious. "Just… calm down."
"I'm perfectly calm," he said smoothly, his voice like silk. It made her skin crawl. "I'm really curious though, Sib. Do tell us—how is Cullen? Have you been servicing your pet templar lately?"
"Dorian," Jowan repeated, looking nervously between his friends.
"Fuck you, Surana," Sibyl whispered harshly, her teeth clenched.
"If there are any feelings involved here… then you love me," he whispered back, leaning towards her, his eyes wide and sharp and blank.
She couldn't look at him. Instead, she bit down on her lower lip and tried to will herself to be angry. All she felt instead was a deep, sinking sensation that plunged from her chest into the pit of her belly, making her sick with nausea. She found no response for him, and mercifully he didn't say a word when she ducked her head, almost in shame, and stood up.
The scrape of her chair against the floor was deafening against the room's silence. Dorian watched passively—and Jowan in mild dismay—as she slammed the tome she had been looking through shut with a dull thud and tossed it carelessly into a nearby stack. She could feel his eyes on her as she turned brusquely to leave, following her even as she rounded the corner and slipped out of sight.
She imagined that Jowan would hiss at him that he'd been an arse, or tell him he shouldn't have brought Cullen up like that. It wasn't her fault Cullen was infatuated with her, and it didn't make her like him.
But it didn't matter what Jowan said. She thought she could still feel Dorian's gaze burning into her even as she fell into her bed and pulled the covers up over her head.
You love me.
"So why are you doing this?" the apprentice asked, reclining lazily on the bed, watching the templar as he carefully put on his plate armor. "I know I'm irresistible and everything, but even most of the other apprentices I sleep with move on after awhile."
The templar didn't answer as he snapped the pieces into place; first cuisses and greaves on his legs, then the thick purple robes and breastplate, followed by the pieces for his arms—pauldrons, vambraces, the apprentice could never remember all the names, no matter how many times he watched them come on and off—and finally the gauntlets. When he could delay no longer, the templar turned to look at the younger man, an elf, wearing his usual self-satisfied smirk and little else.
"Put your robes back on, will you? We'll be in enough trouble if someone finds us in here and you're not stark naked on my bed," he said.
"All the shame you templars deal with," the elf said with a dismissive laugh, but he sat up and grabbed his robes from the pile on the ground where they had been thrown earlier. "I don't understand it. Is there anything fun that you don't disapprove of? Isn't there anything you would rather be doing, other than guarding a bunch of degenerate mage-children, day in and day out?"
"What the templars do is important, mage, and you'd do well not to forget it," he snapped in response, turning away as the elf stood to put on his robes.
"Don't bother to get all righteous with me, Drass," the apprentice said dryly, and Drass winced at the sound. No matter what he did, he could never seem to avoid the other man's taunting. One would think that he would remember that this was how it always ended, and that he could then control himself. But the Knight-Commander was continually disappointed in him and his faltering devotion to his duties, so it should have come as no surprise that he would keep finding himself here, in this situation with this apprentice, time after time. Always he hoped that for once he would be spared the sort of vindictive pillow talk that only a mage could dream up for a templar—but the Maker would never leave him unpunished for his sins.
"I know there's a reason you keep coming back, why you keep breaking your vows," the apprentice said, his voice low.
"It's because I am weak. Mages like you are the reason we need templars, people with iron wills," Drass answered through gritted teeth, keeping his back to the elf. "Andraste preserve me."
The apprentice laughed, warmly, as if he had just been presented with a fine compliment by an old friend. He quickly stepped around the templar to stand in front of him, giving him only a brief glance before picking up a vial of lyrium from the nearby nightstand, a devious smile spreading across his face.
"It's a funny thing, isn't it?" he said slowly, turning the vial between his fingers and studying the blue liquid within. "The Chantry teaches templars to be strong, to be able to withstand all manner of unspeakable horrors at the hands of blood mages, and they reward you for all your hard work with sweet, glorious lyrium… except… wait, I forgot. What happens when a templar is cut off from his supply, again? I hear lyrium withdrawal is a truly dreadful sight to behold… let alone experience…"
"Templars need lyrium to hone our powers," Drass said coldly. "Power that we use to keep your kind in line. You know that."
"That's what they say," the apprentice agreed solemnly, his eyes flicking from the vial to meet with Drass's. The templar's first instinct was to look away, to protect himself from the gaze that had reeled him into situations he so often found himself unable to resist—but this time, he steeled his will and forced himself to meet the other man's eyes unwaveringly. "They say you need the lyrium, just like they tell me that I need templars to protect me from the world and the world from me. But you know the truth. We're both prisoners, here."
"I am proud to serve the Maker," Drass answered tersely, as if by rote.
"And I'm proud to lead his followers astray," the apprentice went on. "But I want to know why you are so eager to be taken."
Drass flinched. "If you think we are so similar, then perhaps you already know."
"Oh, I doubt we get the same satisfaction out of this… arrangement," the apprentice said, and Drass worked hard to ignore that coy smirk that always somehow managed to slip past his defenses. "You try far too hard to be noble to get any pleasure out of… destroying my innocence, or whatever—not that I had any to begin with. What is it that you want? What is that unobtainable thing that you are longing for… that the Chantry stole from you by keeping you here?"
When Drass only continued to stare at him, stoic and resolute in his full set of templar plate, the apprentice sighed and rolled his eyes.
"Come on. You already know what they took from me. You can tell me. I keep all your other dirty little secrets," he said shrewdly. "Maker, I am one."
The apprentice's eyes remained fixed on the templar as he spoke. His expression was entirely free of any inhibition or hesitance, and maybe even contained just a hint of sympathy and understanding; it was that mix of confidence that Drass could not help feeling drawn to. The elf was much shorter, entirely dwarfed by the larger man's looming figure, but he seemed the more powerful regardless, with the way the templar now regarded him, uncertain.
"I don't want to be alone," Drass finally admitted, his voice ragged. Suddenly, he seemed much less imposing despite all his armor.
"Then why should you be?" the apprentice asked, that smile and its familiar tinge of smugness blooming across his face once again. "How could you be alone when you're caught in a scandal like this?"
"I will always be alone, because of this!"
"I suppose I don't exist, then, and you're having this sordid little affair with yourself."
Drass didn't know if he still saw that tiny glimmer of sympathy in the apprentice's eyes, or simply wanted to. Either way, he was moving almost beyond his own control as he grabbed the elf, forcefully, and heard his sharp, surprised intake of breath. For a long moment, the templar glared at him fiercely, and the apprentice could only watch him—finally speechless, fully aware of how powerless he was in this position.
Then Drass dipped his head to the apprentice's level and their lips met, both rough and uncertain. His kiss was still clumsy and inexperienced, made awkward by their position and all of Drass's armor, but the apprentice leaned into it nonetheless, reaching up to twine his fingers into the templar's hair and urge him closer. He always seemed to enjoy this immeasurably more than kissing any of the other apprentices he'd been with, and the fact that these kisses always tasted like victory certainly helped.
Every vow broken, every secret revealed, every weakness exposed was another point in his favor, further proof that a mage could win the upper-hand. At least for this moment, with this templar, he could blur the borders between who was the captor and who was the confined.
The way the templar shook once he broke their kiss and pulled away, as if he had lost himself so completely, was downright dizzying. The apprentice's head buzzed, a delicious drunken spin, better than all the lyrium in the world. Better than all the sex he could have had in dark corners with any of his fellow apprentices, imprisoned just as he was. This was what the templars must feel—he was sure it was—as they stood over a defenseless mage caught by a demon in the Fade, in the moment just before they struck that final, killing blow.
Andraste's grace guide him and Holy Maker forgive him, but this was power. This was control.
He pulled back from Drass slowly, reveling in the intoxication of knowing he was winning. The smile on his face had subtly deepened into something far worse than smugness.
"But I suppose it's true, that you're alone, despite me being here. There's really no telling how long our little fling will last," he said idly and gazed up at the templar through long eyelashes. "You can still keep coming back, of course. But when I said most of the other people I've slept with moved on, I really meant that I got bored."
Drass snorted and took a few steps away as his shame began to rush back, a torturous flame that once kindled, he could never entirely extinguish.
"Do you truly think that this shameless, belligerent whore thing that you do is attractive, mage?" he growled.
The apprentice grinned, leaning back against the wall casually. "You seem to think so."
He should have expected this, of course. There was a reason this apprentice kept his secrets, and it wasn't out of companionship. It was more as if he was a new brand of demon, one that fed specifically on the darkness that preyed on the souls of templars, manipulating and toying with them until they finally broke and bent to his will. Drass's fists clenched instinctively, prickling with the impulse to Smite.
"I know you won't get bored with me, Surana," Drass said hoarsely, taking a deep breath and ducking his head as he turned away. He quickly slipped on his helmet in a fluid movement and was at the door with fingers wrapped around the handle before the other man could respond.
He had to remind him who was the templar and who was the mage here. Who was rightfully in control.
"Because I do already know what you get out of this," the templar continued, calling on all his willpower to keep his voice steady. "As long as you're a mage, you will never get bored of me or leave me. You will never report my misconduct to the Knight-Commander no matter how angry I make you—you need me so you can keep fooling yourself into thinking we haven't got you trapped in this Tower so tightly that you won't see the light of day up close for as long as you live."
The vial of lyrium connected with the door as soon as Drass slammed it shut behind him, glass shattering and skittering about the room, the thin blue liquid slowly spreading across the floor. Dorian let himself slide down the wall until he was sitting in a heap among broken glass, choking back bitter sobs of frustration.
Short update, both because 'Envy' was too long to post all in one go, and because I'm trying to keep ahead in the parts I have finished before I post the next bit, but school is interfering with my writing time (yikes.) The rest is forthcoming, though! Next update will be about what's going on with Cullen. And yes… if you've read the codex, then you can guess who Templar Drass is. Shh. ;)
