A/N: So I'm back! Finally! I know it's been ages. (School is hard! Writer's block is harder!) Hopefully I should be back with fairly regular updates now *crosses fingers*
I also had to make a few decisions about how far this fic would delve into area covered by the fic it prequels, Questions. Because it's relevant and sometimes unavoidable, and back when I wrote that fic I hadn't had this Surana fleshed out as a character much past a plot device to annoy Zevran with. So chances are, some things in coming chapters will be familiar. I'm curious as to if anyone has any opinions on how much more I should revisit events of that fic (great idea? Horrible idea?)—let me know if you do!
As always I'm eternally grateful for all reviews, constructive criticism, and input of all kinds so thanks again to reviewers! You guys are the best :)
Anyway, that's the state of the story. But enough tl;dr wall-of-text! Onto the latest installment, it's a long one:
IV. WHAT PRIDE WROUGHT
And as the black clouds came upon them,
They looked on what pride had wrought,
And despaired.
-Threnodies 7:10
Kinloch Hold, Circle of Magi, 9:30 Dragon
She knew that her simmering anger was only empowering him.
The longer she allowed herself to be affected by his disaffection, the more she played into his desires. He wanted her to be the one to feel the loss, the rejection, so he wouldn't have to.
It was obvious, really. He took joy in his power to control the people around him.
Her only choice was to pretend that she didn't care, either.
So maybe he had been wrong, and that particular plan to steal her away from Cullen had been misguided. That was… fine. There were other methods he could employ to gain the same end result.
Several other methods, in fact—some more entertaining than others, but at least one of them would still be effective. If he couldn't take Sibyl away from Cullen, he would just have to remove Cullen from the picture entirely.
Or better yet, convince Cullen to remove himself.
Luckily, he had spent the past nineteen-odd years perfecting the art of manipulating templars. If bedding Drass was a first testament to the depth of his skill, what he was about to do to Cullen was going to be his magnum opus, the most exhilarating gamble with the highest stakes yet: Sibyl Amell.
He couldn't wait.
Sibyl had been given a Harrowing date.
One morning at breakfast, she had been quietly reading one of her books while sipping a cup of tea, blissfully ignoring Dorian and Jowan as they argued over whether or not the flowers Jowan had collected from one of the Tower's herb gardens were a proper gift for a girl—Dorian was insisting it was tacky, while Jowan argued that they were pretty, and he had gotten them to show he liked her, and that should be all that mattered.
"You're going to give a girl something you picked on the side during lessons while Enchanter Ines was breathing down your neck? The romance—I can truly feel it—" Dorian sighed, shrugging, and stirred the bowl of porridge in front of him without really sparing it a glance. "There is a reason, my friend, that I am the one with the reputation and not you."
"Yeah, I suppose there is a reason for that," Jowan agreed darkly, with a slightly offended snort. "I don't think we're looking for the same kind of thing in a relationship. Or even the same kind of girl."
"Mm, but how do you think I do it?" Dorian asked. "You still have to say the right things at the right time, have an eye for gifts that aren't just generic, that she'll really like, and then—"
"Maker, I don't need Dorian Surana's Formula for Seducing Women, thanks!" Jowan shouted, his cheeks flushing, but he tossed the bouquet of collected flowers under the table and kicked them away in resignation nonetheless. Dorian shrugged at him again—his loss—and ate a spoonful of porridge.
Sibyl turned another page in her book, making no comment to either of them.
"Miss Amell?"
Their teacher had approached them from the section of the Great Hall where the enchanters ate. She was standing beside her now, looking down at her expectantly.
"Yes, Enchanter Deidre?"
"I just came to congratulate you. You needn't report to lessons this morning, because your Harrowing date has been set for three weeks from today! If you have any questions at all, or would like any guidance in your preparations, you can ask me anytime," Enchanter Deidre said, her smile bright. Sibyl paused, her hand frozen mid-reach for her cup of tea, and she gaped up at the enchanter in surprise. There had been talk of 'your upcoming Harrowing' to all of them for months now, but she still hadn't expected a date to be chosen quite so soon. No one else in her age group had been approached yet—she was the very first.
"Don't look so shocked, I know you'll do brilliantly, child," Deidre continued, beaming. "You always make us all so proud."
Across the table, Dorian made an unsubtle gagging noise, and smiled innocently back at Deidre when she turned to look at him. "Just as you make us proud in your own way, Dorian—so laugh it up," she said with a hint of amused satisfaction at the look of semi-shock the compliment put on his face. "I'll see you and Jowan both after breakfast."
"Wait, what, no Harrowing for me?" he pouted. "I guess I don't make you that proud. And I was so in the mood to face unspeakable horrors and possible death today. You never let me do anything fun."
She smiled at him, her tight-lipped smile of tolerance that she had learned over the years was the most effective tactic for diffusing his sarcasm. "Don't worry, your time too will come," she said, and bid them all goodbye before he had a chance to make any further remarks.
"Our Sib's going to be a Harrowed mage," he said wistfully, looking to Jowan. "Now what shall I do in class, with no one to compete with?"
"Perhaps your lessons," Sibyl suggested demurely, her eyes once again glued to her book.
"Never any fun," he repeated, returning to stirring his porridge with marked disinterest.
And, true to his suspicion, lessons began with a review.
And not only a review, but a review of the primal spells—with Sibyl as the first of their age group to get her Harrowing, Enchanter Deidre said that it was time for the rest of them to practice a few simple offensive spells, because you could never start preparing too early. She divvied her students into groups of three and assigned them to take turns practicing the flame blast spell.
Denri was the apprentice who she assigned to work with Dorian and Jowan, a tall and stocky human boy with copper-colored hair and a surly expression—though that last was most likely because he was being forced to leave his regular practice group of his two best friends, Daarci and Mand. Enchanter Deidre was hoping that with a new third party present, Dorian would still have at least one person who would object to any trouble he might try to make.
But Denri seemed disinclined to do much more than stare sullenly at Dorian, his arms crossed.
As much as his quip that he would have nothing to do without Sibyl to vie against was meant to be glib, Dorian quickly found it also held a grain of truth. Even though she had always griped to him that their lessons weren't meant to be competitions, his constant need to best her had always pushed them both to work harder than they ever would have pitted against the rest of their peers.
And whilst Sibyl might have found the way which Dorian tended to shoot flames across the practice area with bored nonchalance, as if it was his second nature, a little bit annoying and a good reason to put him in his place with a show of her own skill, Denri thought he was just being willfully arrogant.
Which, to be fair, he was.
Denri rolled his eyes as Dorian flicked his wrists casually, muttering the incantation under his breath, a perfectly controlled burst of flame flowing forth a few feet in front of him. Enchanter Deidre nodded to him with a quick smile of encouragement which he returned with a shrug, and waved Denri forward for his turn.
The other boy stepped forward with something of a grumble, still put out about being separated from his regular companions. Denri's flame blast was executed with precision, but his flames reached maybe a little bit shorter of a distance than Dorian's had.
"Great progress, Denri," the enchanter said, but he could see Dorian grinning smugly from behind her. "Just throw a little more power into it, and you'll be perfect."
She swept away to monitor the next group, and once she was out of earshot, Denri leant forward, giving Dorian a steely glare. "I could throw much more power into it than that, than you, if she'd let me."
"Of course." Dorian's grin had faded, but even when calm and impassive, the smugness hadn't entirely left his expression. Jowan looked uneasy, always the canary in the coal mine of Dorian's moods.
"You wouldn't believe it."
"You bet I wouldn't," Dorian said, with a quick exhale that might have been a laugh. Denri's expression hardened. He had been notorious while they were growing up for his quick temper, though he and Dorian had never had any real altercations before. And there was no reason to start now.
"Come on," Jowan began slowly, looking pleadingly to Denri instead of his friend. "You don't need to…"
A roar of flames erupted a few feet away, interrupting his thought.
"Maker's breath!" Enchanter Deidre's voice pierced the air of the room, and all three boys turned to look at the commotion. She was bent over at Mand's side, and Denri instinctively jerked forward to see what had happened to his friend, but Deidre threw out a hand to keep both him and Daarci back. Mand was on his knees, gripping his left forearm so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. Both of his hands were pink and peeling from burns, and there was blood running down to his elbows. "How did you cut yourself, boy?"
Mand, who until that moment had been breathing through clenched teeth, let out an ear-splitting scream in response, tears welling in the corners of his eyes.
"He just—I don't know how it happened, Enchanter," Daarci filled in breathlessly. "One second, he was saying the incantations, and the next—blood, and burns—I guess he wasn't being careful—"
"Don't tell me what's obvious, girl!" Deidre snapped, uncapping a bottled healing potion. She pressed it to Mand's lips and, gasping, he drank. The burns on his hands began to close up, though they wouldn't seem to heal completely, and he was still bleeding and whimpering.
At Jowan's side, Denri shook his head, and said under his breath, "He hates blood, you know? It's ironic."
Enchanter Deidre helped him to his feet, though he seemed unsteady and placed a good portion of his weight on his teacher for support. "Hush, child, we'll get you to Enchanter Wynne and she'll patch you up in no time. The rest of you, no more practicing until I get back. I don't need anyone accidentally severing a limb and bleeding out while I'm gone."
She led him steadily but slowly out of the classroom, Mand hissing and whimpering in pain as they went. Denri settled down into a seat at the table, Daarci at his side.
"It was a stupid mistake," she said to him. "He shouldn't have tried that."
"That's the sort of stupid show I'd expect from him," Denri agreed, cocking his head back towards Dorian. Jowan sighed hopelessly and hid his face in his hands.
"I don't see my hands bleeding profusely," Dorian pointed out pleasantly, studying them as if this was an intriguing observation. "Or maybe there's some new way of casting the spell you'd like to teach me, a far superior one that includes searing your own skin off."
Denri, Daarci, and even Jowan all glanced up at him at once. Denri broke out into a wide, lopsided smile, leaning towards him.
"Why are you being such a pain-in-the-arse today, I wonder?" Denri asked, just as pleasantly, but with the same sardonic glee. "Did you eat a few sour grapes at breakfast this morning? Since Sibyl's got her Harrowing date all set and ready, you feel like you have to prove you're still better than everyone else?"
Dorian fought the urge to glower, shrugging instead and flashing the boy a comfortable smile.
"Hardly. It's all a ploy. She's not a better mage, they're just trying to put me in my place. None of them want me to have the bragging rights of being the youngest apprentice to attempt the Harrowing, after all," he said matter-of-factly.
"Sure, is that what you tell yourself?" Denri taunted. "You know, I hear you and she had a little falling out recently. How are you handling that?"
"Swimmingly." Dorian stiffened, both his hands pressed firmly to his sides, palms down, his eyes cold. "Make no mistake: Her against me, I win. Every time."
"Oh, winning, is that what you called it last week when she tested mana drain on you and you still couldn't so much as light a candle after curfew?" The other apprentice laughed and shook his head. "Was that winning when she nearly knocked you over for kissing her in a crowded hallway? Or so I hear, anyway."
"I let her," he said through gritted teeth. "It proves nothing."
Denri raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't it?"
Dorian's hands balled into fists, but his face remained calmly blank. "Tempest. She can't cast anything even close to that advanced. None of you can," he said evenly. It was a challenge. "I could take my Harrowing right now and be back before lunch, if they let me."
Denri scoffed in response. "A third-tier spell? Please. And where in the Tower would you even have the space to practice a spell like that? Templars hardly even let you look out the window on a good day."
"He's right, you can't do Tempest," Daarci agreed, crossing her arms and regarding Dorian with an amused skepticism he had grown to expect over the years. He wasn't sure what it was—was it that he was an elf? Because he looked young, was a bit short, had a slight frame even for a mage? Or was he just that outrageous? Whatever it was, he was used to being met with that same patronizing gaze. "That's too advanced. Apprentices aren't even allowed to attempt it."
"We're allowed to read," Dorian said. "It's simple in theory. Well—maybe not for you. Give me half a chance, and I'll show you."
"You couldn't do it given five hundred chances," Denri shot back. "It takes months of training and practice to master. You're going to do it first try?"
"Yeah. Right now, I will," the elf said boldly. "There's plenty of room here if we push the table out of the way and you all stand back. We do that, you concede I'm the best, and I'll show you a Tempest."
"You're absolutely on," Denri laughed. "It can't be done. Knock yourself out, Surana."
Sure, Denri had a point that it took months to master the spell, but all he had to do was manage to cast it, and neither of them would know a well-crafted Tempest from Andraste's underclothes. He was reasonably confident he could do that much. The first time casting a new spell was always a bit rocky, but he was good, and he couldn't let Denri of all people question that.
He stepped forward, and leaned into the table, nudging it back a few inches, and then motioned for the rest of them to help him.
"This is probably your absolute worst idea yet," Jowan whispered to him. "Isn't Sibyl angry enough at you? Is this going to help, showing off like this?"
"I'm not showing off, I'm proving a point," Dorian answered, keeping his eyes on Denri. "And Sibyl always forgives me, anyway. Don't bring her into this. This has nothing to do with her."
"Sure, except for the whole 'I can prove I'm a better mage than Sibyl' thing," Jowan said. "I can't be caught like this again. We're not children, punishment isn't just lines and pot-scrubbing anymore."
"What are they going to do?" Dorian asked, turning to look at Jowan attentively, but with a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Lock me up?"
Jowan faltered for a moment, but shook his head. "I'd rather not have my Harrowing postponed indefinitely because of your idea of thrill-seeking," he said. "I have things to do, Dorian, there are reasons—"
"I'm sorry," the elf answered with a low snort of laughter. "Am I interfering with your things and reasons?"
"Yes, actually," Jowan snapped. "Some of us care about how our lives and futures turn out—"
"Then leave," Dorian said sharply. "Go tell our enchanter to come stop me. Why stay? I'm not forcing you."
"You're… you're my friend."
Jowan's tone of voice made his words sound more like a reluctant admission than an explanation. Dorian laughed again, the same low, derisive sound, and he turned back to look at his challenger. "Then let's get to clearing the area, shall we? Jowan can be lookout and give us a yell if anyone's coming."
Jowan sighed deeply. Mechanically, he helped Denri and Daarci to push the table back up against the far bookcases, leaving most of the alcove cleared. He was beginning to repeat in his head that he was really only present in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to dissuade his friend from his current plan of action. Maybe, if he stayed here for five more minutes, he would come up with the right way to convince him to stop. That would be his story if—when—Dorian got caught.
He trudged grimly towards the far exit to take his post as lookout.
"First thing," Dorian began, pacing twice in the now open, empty space of the classroom. "I need a high vantage point. A place I can keep an eye on my work from."
He made a quick pass over the room, briefly considering and rejecting a few ideas—climbing a bookshelf (too unstable), sitting on the table (too low)—until his eyes fell on the old statue of Magus Gorvish at the head of the room. Excitedly, he clambered towards it and, after a moment of grappling to get a good footing, managed to hoist himself up onto its shoulders.
"Always knew old Gorvish would be good for something one day," he said brightly, smiling down at Denri and Daarci and the others, who stood in a huddle beyond the first row of bookshelves, watching him raptly. Even Jowan peeked back into the classrooms as not to miss whatever was coming next.
"Well, get on with it, then," Denri called up to him. "Give us a Tempest."
"Don't you pay attention in lessons?" Dorian asked flippantly. "You can't rush good magic."
Denri and Daarci exchanged skeptical looks as the elf raised his hands above his head, his eyes falling closed as he began to intone the incantations. The spell was long, longer than anything they had attempted in regular lessons so far, and Dorian's voice was little more than a low drone as he spoke. None of them were quite sure how long the spell was meant to go on for, or at what point they should start heckling him and suspecting that he was just having them all on, sitting on Magus Gorvish's shoulders and spouting gibberish. None of them would quite put it past him.
"Nothing's happening," Daarci whispered. "He's lost it."
Just as it was beginning to become nothing more than a dull background noise, Dorian's voice stopped, his arms settling gracefully in his lap. There was a beat of silence, and his eyes flew open.
The room was empty. Nothing had happened.
Immediately, his eyebrows knitted together in not so much anger as disbelief.
"Real powerful spell you have there," Denri said, now with his own smugness. "Come on off it, Surana. None of us are supposed to be able to cast a spell like that yet. Don't be—"
Just as Dorian opened his mouth to shout back his response, the first crackles of lightning began to shoot up from the floor, and even he was surprised. His attention shifted immediately back to the spell, and he could feel it drawing from his mana, building power and intensity. He took a deep breath, feeding the spell, urging it to expand.
And expand it did. The lightning came quicker, and more frequently, larger jolts that combined to form a dazzling show of light and sparks. He knew, from his reading, that at this point a mage should be able to cut off the storm's drain on his powers, and even move on to other spells—there had been mages known for calling up blizzards and tempests and infernos all at once, wreaking havoc on battlefields from a great distance.
He thought he'd be lucky just to keep this one spell alive; intellectually, he imagined it couldn't be any different from casting another spell while maintaining an arcane shield, something he had done, but just the idea of having enough focus or willpower to maintain the tempest and do anything else seemed… unfathomable. That he was incapable of executing exactly what he had read seemed almost like an insult, and he instead fed more mana into the storm, just to prove that he could.
The tempest could only be described as raging, now, and the lightning had expanded into most of the open space, certain bolts reaching halfway up the tallest bookshelves. Sparks flew, and the stones of the ground turned black and charred as repeated bolts of lightning struck them. Purple, blue, and white shone and skittered through his vision, and truly, there was a beauty in it, a particular elegance, and he could feel it flowing out of him, part of him, only possible because of who he was. If he smiled, then, it was involuntary, and genuine, and free.
"Maker's balls," Denri muttered. "He actually did it."
Dorian chuckled to himself, for a moment his hunger for competition and control satisfied, even as he began to sweat from the effort of keeping the spell in check. He was going to have to rein it in soon, because he could feel his mana beginning to ebb away, his hold on the spell becoming more and more tenuous as time went on.
"Dorian!" Jowan yelled from the across the room, and briefly, Dorian noted that he really was horrible at giving a warning that might not be overheard by half the Tower. "Dorian, stop it, quick! She's coming back!"
He realized, now far too late, that the texts he had read hadn't really addressed making it stop. It was a spell meant for destruction, meant to be used in open fields against numerous enemies, not the close quarters of a Circle Tower library for show. If he stopped monitoring it, the spell would die eventually for lack of mana, but not nearly in time to keep Deidre from catching him, and besides, then it would also be, well, out of his control.
"Holy Andraste—!" Enchanter Deidre was at the door now, and she shoved past Jowan roughly, running towards where Dorian stood, but stopping short of the edge of the storm. "Control, Dorian! Control it! Everyone, get out—Jowan, don't you even think of running off—"
Sheepishly, Jowan hung back near the edge of the door, the other apprentices huddled behind him in the next room to watch the showdown unfold.
"Don't let it grow anymore, keep a hold on it!" she shouted.
His forehead was slick with sweat, his hair sticking to the sides of his face as he bit down hard on his lower lip in concentration. He could feel the energy flowing through him, the white hot crackle of lightning in his veins, connecting him to his magic. But his reserves were waning fast, already over-extended from the start, and he could feel the magic slipping away from him like water through a sieve.
"Surana!"
He gasped, faltering, trying desperately to pull the tendrils of energy in, but they had finally slipped completely out of his grasp and he could no longer direct the path of their destruction. His shoulders slumped forward and he braced himself on the statue's head, gasping for breath. Wild-eyed and frantic, he looked to his enchanter. "I—I can't—"
His magic had gotten away from him. This hadn't happened since he was a child, first learning to control his spells. Even then, he had always had strong control. Had she just distracted him? For a few moments there, he had felt so gloriously powerful, conducting the storm as if it was an extension of himself. And now, as the winds swept up stray books, the lightning singeing and igniting their fragile pages, it had descended so easily into untamed destruction.
"Foolish boy," she said, cursing. "You let it get away from you. Now you can only ride it out."
Enchanter Deidre began to cast spells to put out the few books that had caught flame after being struck by his lightning. The tendrils of electricity were still crackling enthusiastically, spreading fast towards him, attracted to the statue's height as unchecked lightning was wont to be. The electricity extended towards his position, each spindly bolt reaching out to him like the fingers of an otherworldly hand.
If he didn't move quickly, he would be caught in his own storm.
To his left, the door to the classrooms swung open, the hulking form a templar on the other side.
"Andraste," the templar breathed, dark eyes flashing as he took in the lightning storm wreaking havoc on the room beyond. "What have you done?"
Dorian didn't have the foresight to respond; any and all quips were caught in his throat, as he was too busy trying to sidle away from the approaching lightning. Unfortunately, there was really no good way to both keep holding onto Magus Gorvish and avoid the storm without falling off of the statue completely. The templar was hardly waiting for an answer, in any case, and he wasted no time in striding forward, almost into the thick of the electricity.
Waves of blue energy erupted from where the templar stood, rattling the bookcases and tearing through the storm. The flashes of lightning flickered and died as they came into contact with his energy, and the backdraft of the effect felt like strong wind, and, already unsteady in his grip on the statue, Dorian found himself toppling down.
He hit the cold, hard ground with a dull thud, stars erupting in his vision that reminded him suspiciously of angry, twisting, flashing fingers.
"Andraste's tits," he groaned, his eyes squeezed shut. His head was throbbing. "Did you have to Smite me?"
"Trust me, if I'd Smited you, you wouldn't be conscious right now." The voice was coming from directly above him and sounded oddly familiar. Slowly, he opened his eyes to see that the templar had knelt down by his side, and was looking down at him with concern. It was… Drass. It took almost as much willpower to keep his face blank as it had to cast the Tempest. "All I did was cleanse the area to counteract your spell. Maker's mercy, Dorian, you could have been killed. Do you understand now? Do you see that you need templars to protect you from yourself?"
Dorian stared back up at him defiantly. "I was fine. Are you going to punish me, ser?"
Drass sighed deeply, his mouth set in a grim line, eyes weary. But he said nothing, and only reached out to touch Dorian's head, gingerly, clumsy with the weight of his gauntlets. The apprentice flinched at the contact.
"I won't give him the chance," Enchanter Deidre snapped. She stalked up to the pair from across the room and grasped Dorian firmly by the arm, pulling him unceremoniously to his feet. "You're going straight to the First Enchanter's office. This is beyond unacceptable behavior!"
"Careful!" Drass said hastily, rising to his own feet. "He fell fairly hard, from high up—I'm sure he hit his head on the way down, he could be injured."
"Maybe it'll do him some good, getting his brains knocked around that skull of his," she said bitterly, dragging him forcefully along as Drass followed behind. Once they made it to the northern exit, they passed Jowan and she gave him a piercing glare. "You'd better come along, too, young man. I know a conspiracy when I see one."
Jowan sputtered in protest, but found himself unable to form any of the excuses he had been planning for this moment. He was always Dorian's right hand in the trouble they got into, even if it was only as lookout, and he often found himself dragged along once his friend was caught largely on principle. Anyway, someone had better follow Dorian to the First Enchanter's office and make sure he didn't say anything stupid, not that he had ever had much success in doing so before.
Dorian, with the enchanter still holding a death grip on his upper arm, caught Denri's gaze as they passed. "Was that enough of a Tempest for you?" he asked, his smile satisfied.
"Dorian, you could have died," Denri said.
He laughed. "Me? Never."
What he didn't mention was that judging from the way he felt right now, it would be much longer than after curfew tonight until he would see his mana fully regenerated, unless someone decided to give him a nicely sized lyrium potion. He fully considered it worth it for the looks of bewildered surprise, the almost uneasy reverence, in the other apprentices' eyes.
Enchanter Deidre gave him another sharp yank and they started up the long staircase to the second floor as she launched into one of her famous lectures. It was undoubtedly intentional that she was loud enough for all of his classmates below to hear.
"And you're proud of yourself, aren't you? You think you're pretty special, don't you? That is quite a tricky spell, you might have noticed from the way you utterly botched it," she began. "Do you think displays like this will get you Harrowed faster? Had someone actually needed you to cast a Tempest in a battle or a real-life situation, you would probably have wound up killing half your friends along with your enemies once you lost control. A talented mage who can't control himself is worse than worthless. So congratulations, Surana!"
"Well, thank you," he said, so cheerful it bordered on insubordinate. "I'll remember that for the next time I'm let out of the Tower to do something interesting, like fight in a battle, or participate in 'real life.' And you even called me talented, too!"
"Yes," she said irritably. "How fortunate for us all that you have talent."
When they disappeared around the bend of the next level's curved hallway, he was still laughing.
"A disaster!" Enchanter Deidre yelled, pacing back and forth beside the First Enchanter's desk. "What in the Maker's name did you think you were playing at, casting a spell like that in the classrooms? An un-Harrowed apprentice! You could've gotten yourself killed—gotten someone else killed!"
Dorian and Jowan stood side by side across from where the First Enchanter sat, and Drass stood at attention on the right side of the desk. Enchanter Deidre had continued her lecture once they reached the First Enchanter's office, embellishing it with a retelling of the incident for Irving's benefit. The old mage had sat and listened in silence as she scolded both Dorian for his foolishness and Jowan for enabling it.
"Thank you, Deidre," the First Enchanter said when she was finished. "I thank you and Templar Drass both for getting the situation under control so swiftly and bringing it to my attention. I can handle things from here."
Enchanter Deidre pursed her lips and nodded curtly. "Just be warned, young man," she said finally, her eyes on Dorian. "Maker knows I tried to teach you humility. If you don't get your attitude under control, one day you're going to dip your feet into something thinking you can't be beat, only to find out you've jumped into quicksand."
She turned brusquely to leave, the fabric of her robes flowing behind her in an angry wind. Templar Drass nodded to the First Enchanter, his eyes flitting quickly over Dorian with a nervousness that would have been easy to miss if Dorian had not been looking for it. He bowed his head slightly, giving the templar an almost brazenly coquettish smirk as he turned to exit. Drass ducked his own head, averting his eyes, and snapped the door shut firmly behind him.
"I get the feeling she's upset with me, don't you?" Dorian observed lightly, glancing back to the First Enchanter.
"Dorian, we're all rather deeply disappointed in you." Irving sighed, but contrary to his words, he didn't sound disapproving so much as exhausted. "In all my years as an enchanter, you are one of the most promising students I have known. You have always earned the highest of marks, and perhaps you have been allowed certain… liberties because of it."
Crossing his arms, the elf snorted softly. "Funny. I've always felt something like a prisoner, myself."
"I know that," Irving said, and he actually sounded genuinely regretful. In his presence, Dorian found it hard to maintain his airs of complete insolence and flippancy. For all that he was obviously in league with the Chantry, Irving had always been good to him. He wasn't like Knight-Commander Greagoir, whose predictably strict authoritarianism had always seemed to beg for Dorian to cross it. "Many young mages feel as you do: resentful, restless, rash. Don't think too ill of me for saying so, but it often comes with youth. In time, you will grow out of it. "
"You've got some time to wait, then," Dorian said. "Because I don't feel myself getting any less young-and-resentful any time soon."
"That's just the problem, I'm afraid," Irving went on. "I understand your position well. I wasn't always First Enchanter, you know. The problem is, the Knight-Commander is understandably upset by your behavior, and the way you… inspire others to follow along."
The First Enchanter's eyes fell on Jowan, who kept his own gaze set on his feet, properly ashamed.
"I cannot protect you forever, my boy. You two are no longer children sneaking out of bed past curfew. Things must change, or there will be consequences."
"First Enchanter, please," Jowan said, daring to glance up from the ground. "It's been so long since we've gotten in trouble like this. He didn't mean anything by it, he's just—frustrated lately, you know, things have been hard—"
Dorian turned to Jowan in surprise, his eyebrows raised. "I'm frustrated? Well, who would have guessed! Yeah, I'm frustrated to be stuck here."
"No," Jowan said firmly. "That's not it. You don't need to show off to prove you're good and you know it. You're just on edge because you think Sibyl likes Cullen more than you. Do you really think you would have let Denri provoke you into starting a Tempest in the classrooms otherwise? All you do these days is talk about is how much you hate Cullen—"
"There's nothing special about him!" Dorian argued. "Why shouldn't I hate him?"
"Because what's it to you? He's just another templar, you don't think any of them are special," Jowan said. "You're jealous, and you're obsessed."
"All right, all right," Irving interrupted, his eyes shut as he rubbed his temples in slow circles. Suddenly, the age lines in his face seemed far deeper. "I believe I am beginning to get the picture here. Dorian, you must understand—"
At that moment, there was a knock at the door and a tall elven mage poked her head into the room. Irving's shoulders seemed to droop in exasperation, but when he opened his eyes and nodded to the girl, his expression was warm. "First Enchanter, there's been a bit of a commotion and the Knight-Commander asked me to bring it to your attention. He would like you join him in the Great Hall for a moment."
"Is it urgent?" Irving asked tiredly, and the girl nodded, so he slowly pulled himself to his feet. "Dorian, Jowan, do not go anywhere—I'll return shortly and we will finish this discussion."
Once the First Enchanter had left and the door was shut, leaving them alone in the office, Dorian whirled around and advanced on Jowan without a moment for hesitation. He had a predatory sort of grin on his face, his eyes shining with an excited light that could only mean he'd had an idea—he didn't even seem slightly fazed by the trouble they were in. Jowan took a few cautious steps back, finding himself pressed up against Irving's desk, pinned in place by Dorian's hands on either side of his hips.
"Jealous," he repeated slowly, a spark of curiosity flashing in his eyes, his half-smirk. "So I kissed Sibyl and she pushed me away. It's true. Perhaps I miscalculated by doing that in a hallway at midday. You think that means I'm jealous of Cullen?"
Jowan swallowed and hung his head, both because he didn't want to meet the other boy's eyes and because he seemed to be hovering in rather close now. "I'm just saying it looks that way," he said hoarsely.
"Does it?" Dorian went on, tilting his head slightly as if in question. The other boy gasped as Dorian's hand shifted from the desk at his side to resting on Jowan's hip, lingering for a moment near his groin, before sliding up over his chest to trace a collarbone and up the side of his neck. "You seemed rather sure of it when you explained it to the First Enchanter."
"What are you doing?" Jowan asked, his breath becoming ragged.
"Just another little game, to prove another little… point," Dorian murmured, his smile still vaguely feline. His hand now traced Jowan's jaw line, his fingers running over the stubble there. There were only inches between them. "I've dreamt of this opportunity, you know—here, the First Enchanter's office! What luck we have."
His laugh was low in his throat as leaned in, closing the space between them and kissing Jowan hungrily. The human boy threw his hands back for support as Dorian pressed himself forward, forcing Jowan onto the First Enchanter's desk. For a good moment that seemed to stretch out for an impossibly long time, his brain seemed to simply freeze on him, completely blank with shock. There were a million things Dorian could have done once Irving had shut that door, and this was quite possibly the last one Jowan had expected.
It was a given: Dorian made moves on everyone else with complete impunity, even Sibyl. But never, ever him.
He should push Dorian away now, he thought, when the first corner of his mind flickered back to the reality of the way his friend's hands were deftly beginning to unlace the ties on his robes, the reality that somewhere along the way—how had this happened?—he had begun to kiss back, and Dorian's tongue was in his mouth, and Maker, he kissed the way he did everything else: full of confidence and passion and heat. Yes, he should definitely push Dorian away now, but instead of doing so, he hesitated—always hesitated when it came to what his oldest friend asked of him.
And just as quickly as it had begun, Dorian broke the kiss and pulled away, reacting to something outside of Jowan's quickly narrowing field of awareness.
"A kiss is just a kiss, whatever the reaction," he said, raising his eyebrows and giving his friend a coy smile. "It's best not to read anything into it, don't you think?"
Skillfully and calmly, as if he had had plenty of practice, he stepped well away from Jowan and smoothed out his robes and adjusted his collar, standing up straight and turning to look casually at the door. Almost a beat too late, Jowan managed to regain his own composure and remove himself from the First Enchanter's desk, hastily trying to return the papers and various knick-knacks they had displaced to their original spots before returning to Dorian's side. He hadn't managed to wipe away whatever look the experience had painted across his face, though, because when the door swung open and the First Enchanter stepped back in, he took a quick look at the two apprentices and let out another sigh.
He settled back down in his chair, folding his hands on his desk. "Dorian, dare I ask why you're grinning like the cat who ate the canary, and why Jowan looks… ah…"
"Like the canary?" Dorian offered unabashedly, and Irving shot him a stern look as Jowan returned to staring dumbstruck at his feet. "It's just that, well, you probably don't want to ask, ser."
Irving blinked, his composure unwavering as he processed the information. Slowly, he unfolded his hands and leaned back in his chair. Jowan at least had the good grace to look guilty.
"What am I going to do with you?" he asked softly, and he didn't even seem angry, but just… thoroughly weary. "I want to help you, Dorian. Mages of the Circle must help each other, it is vital that we stay together. Do you think, if I promised to help you, that you could do the same for me?"
"Help me?" Dorian asked, suddenly sobering. "Were you actually thinking of letting me leave?"
"You know mages leave the Tower sometimes," Irving said carefully. "Chantry business, working as healers… and I'm sure you've heard that several mages will be leaving before long to aid the King's armies against the darkspawn. There are ways, and I can help you, but only if you don't keep the Knight-Commander convinced that you're a proper menace."
"I would don a frilly gown and dance through the main hall singing like a bloody Orlesian bard if it got either of you to let me out of here," Dorian said.
"I think that's what he's afraid of," Jowan muttered.
Irving smiled kindly, relaxing, because it finally looked as if he had hit on the proper way to rein in Dorian Surana. It might have been something of a gamble, but it was better than losing a student to the Rite of Tranquility for nothing more than an, admittedly overstated, tendency towards impertinence. "Yes, in a way. I just need the both of you to settle down for awhile. Accept your punishment for this latest incident, and curb your rebelliousness until after your Harrowing. And then, perhaps, I will be able to do something for you."
Dorian suddenly looked as if his birthday had been declared a national Fereldan holiday. The way his face lit up at the prospect of actually, truly leaving the Tower made him look younger, boyish, the signs of the restless predator that had pushed Jowan against a desk only moments ago nearly erased. "Really? Do you promise me—I have your word—that I'll have my Harrowing and I'll get an assignment outside the Tower? At least for a little while?"
Irving sighed,again, but this time it sounded more like an old man humoring the exuberance of youth. "Yes, if you behave—no more lightning shows, no causing scenes—you will have your Harrowing the week after Miss Amell's has been scheduled, and I promise to convince the Knight-Commander to find something outside the Tower you can be assigned to, at least temporarily."
The grin that spread across Dorian's face was so carefree, so purely joyful in a way that Irving couldn't remember seeing since the boy had been a child, that for a moment he found himself feeling slightly guilty. It would take no small amount of arguing, and probably quite an earful or two of heated protestations, to convince Greagoir to let him outside of the Tower, especially so soon. He would see reason eventually, because truly, this deal was the most reliable way to get Dorian to behave. But what he dared not tell the young mage was that in all likelihood, he would be given some gruelingly tedious task that included a lot of strenuous travel, a lot of tedious, minor spellwork, and even more painfully stringent templar supervision.
There were mages that had been allowed out for independent work without supervision—Enchanter Wynne, and Ines, and others who had proven unfailingly loyal to both the Circle and the Chantry. Dorian Surana was not likely to be one of them anytime soon. But the less he knew of that, the better.
"Ser, you have my word that you'll hear nothing from me at all until my Harrowing—I'll be as quiet and unassuming as a Chanter! Jowan, too," Dorian said brightly, giving his friend a light slap on the arm. Jowan jumped about a foot in surprise at the contact. There was an unmistakable note of earnestness in Dorian's voice, which was an entirely unexpected development, but it gave the First Enchanter hope that he truly would live up to his word.
He nodded to Dorian, and smiled affectionately. "Good. I'll expect nothing less of you."
Irving dismissed them not long after, with only minor punishments that truly amounted to little more than a slap on the wrist—a week without grounds privileges for Jowan, and a restriction against performing any complex spells without his enchanter's supervision until after his Harrowing for Dorian. It wasn't much, but it was enough to appease the Knight-Commander that the issue had been dealt with and not simply rewarded. He was counting on Dorian to be as good as his word (and Jowan to follow his lead, as usual), with the tempting prize of future travel dangling before him. If he knew the apprentice—and Irving was very good at knowing all of the mages and apprentices he watched over—if that did not get the young elf to settle down, no amount of punishment ever would.
There was a particularly enthused spring in Dorian's step as he and Jowan left the First Enchanter's office and began their stroll down the hall. Jowan, in contrast, still had a look of vague bewilderment swimming over his features. The fact did not escape Dorian's notice.
"Well, that was eventful, wasn't it? Making out on the First Enchanter's desk—how many apprentices do you suppose can say they've done that?" he asked, casually wrapping an arm around Jowan's shoulders and giving him a friendly squeeze. "I really feel like I've accomplished something today."
Jowan swallowed the lump in his throat, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Sure, you get to celebrate. Maybe you didn't notice, but I wasn't assigned a Harrowing date. I'm going to be the only one left as an apprentice."
"That's nonsense, Jowan," Dorian insisted. "You'll be Harrowed yet, you'll see. And then, first chance we get, we'll make a run from whatever templars they send out with us as babysitters and get on the first ship to Minrathous."
Jowan frowned. "I—I'm not sure I really want—"
"Antiva City, then? Maybe Nevarra? There's really no place as good for a couple of escaped mages as Tevinter, you know," Dorian pressed on thoughtfully, his eyes glazing over as he formed a mental picture of their grand escape and future lives as free mages.
"No, I mean I'm not sure I want to leave." When Dorian stopped short and gave him a skeptical look, Jowan added hastily, "It's safer here, you know? Minrathous, I mean—you could get kidnapped by slavers. Then what would I do?"
"That would be a bit of a snag," he admitted. "But we can take on a few slavers, can't we? It's not like they just steal random elves off the street, right? You can be my human bodyguard."
"Yeah," Jowan agreed softly.
"Stop worrying, it'll be brilliant," Dorian assured him, his hand lowering suddenly from Jowan's shoulders to his waist, and tugged his friend closer. "And I'll need some way to entertain myself if I have to settle down until then. What sordid location do you think should be next, now that we've crossed off Irving's office? Should we invite Sibyl?"
"I'm going to the Chantry," Jowan announced abruptly, after a moment's hesitation, and he tried valiantly to extricate himself from Dorian's grip.
"Jowan, you dog!" Dorian grinned at the way Jowan winced in response, but mercifully released him. "Even I haven't dared to defile such a holy place. Though now that you mention it…"
"I'd like to go alone," Jowan said thickly. That tone went far beyond simply exasperated or embarrassed. Jowan actually seemed to be holding back a streak of distinctly irritated insistence, and it gave Dorian pause for once, if only because it was so out of character.
"Something the matter?"
"I have a bit on my mind," Jowan answered quickly. "We've gotten in enough trouble together and it's not even lunch. I have more than enough to apologize to Andraste for, don't you?"
"Oh, you slay me. Just like a Chantry sister, you are, scolding me for my evil deeds…" Dorian said dramatically, though the way he was studying Jowan now was rife with curiosity. Was he imagining things, or had Jowan just flinched? "And yet, all the while back there you didn't seem so unwilling to me," he added on for good measure, hovering in dangerously close again. He could easily accept that he had made Jowan uncomfortable—in some part of his mind, he had likely intended to. But Jowan was not one to take a leaf out of Drass's book and start praying diligently for Andraste to wash away his sins. There was a mystery there, something Jowan was hiding, and Dorian did enjoy a challenge.
"I have to go," was all Jowan could choke out, seeing that look Dorian had adopted, as if he was about to pounce again. Instead of giving the lion further opportunity to set upon its prey, Jowan turned and walked as quickly down the hall as he could without breaking out into a full on run, a terrified gazelle.
Dorian simply watched him go, shrugging to himself and content to abandon the chase, at least for now. There would be plenty of time to unpack Jowan's secrets later. He had bigger plans to iron out at the moment—he still had Cullen to deal with, after all, and Irving had raised the stakes yet again. Discretion was paramount now more than ever, lest he compromise his own freedom.
Not even Sibyl was worth that, not quite.
But somehow, he suspected that he would be able to manage. He always did. Smiling to himself, he turned on his heel and headed to the library, to think.
I just wanted to note again that I didn't make up the apprentices (Denri, Daarci, and Mand). If you read the codex, they too are actually from DAO! It's so much fun trying to imagine what minor, barely mentioned characters might have been up to in the background from what tiny information we get about them in the game, and I might bring them back for another cameo later on. Plus, it means I don't have to come up with my own Dragon Age-esque names for extras and worry that they're rubbish *g*