Dorian was starting to get the feeling that people were watching him.
With the Inquisitor, her Commander, and Bull all gone to the Hinterlands, Dorian had rather more time on his hands than usual and no one to play chess with. He found himself visiting parts of Skyhold that he did not normally frequent, and he noticed that he seemed to be the object of more attention than he would have expected. Soldiers turned their heads when he passed; some actually pointed. Even a few pilgrims seemed to stop to stare when they saw him. Dorian was not a fool—he knew that a Tevinter mage would be the subject of some curiosity in the South. But the stares and quiet whispers seemed excessive even by those standards, and he was certain that some of the attention was new.
Finally he cornered Varric, Skyhold's most attentive gossip-follower. "Is there some reason that everyone is looking at me as though I'd been caught doing something obscene on the floor of the chapel?" he demanded.
Normally Varric would have been delighted to share something that he knew and Dorian didn't. In this instance, the dwarf grimaced and was silent. "Tell me, Varric."
"You're not going to like this, Sparkler," he warned.
Varric was right. He didn't.
Dorian confined himself to the Inquisition's paltry library for several days after his conversation with Varric. He knew he was sulking but did not particularly care. It was absolutely, infuriatingly unfair that in Tevinter he was a pariah for preferring men, while in the South he was now a pariah for allegedly bedding the wrong woman. And that wasn't even the worst rumor! No, the worst was the one about blood magic. Or maybe the one about him secretly being an agent of the Magesterium sent to entice the Herald into pledging the Inquisition to Tevinter.
He should have expected this, he supposed. And the most obnoxious part about it was, part of him couldn't blame the Inquisition's people for looking at him with suspicion. Hadn't he come from Tevinter because of his disgust with all that was wrong in his homeland? Some of the South's ideas about Tevinter were ridiculous, of course, but there was more truth in the worst of the rumors than he would have liked.
Still, he'd sweat and bled and stomped up and down the most ghastly places in Thedas on behalf of the Inquisition. He'd helped, damn it. Some part of him, some silly, childish part, had hoped they might notice.
Almost out of spite, he waited in the courtyard for Cecily and her team when they were spotted returning from the Hinterlands. He noticed almost immediately that the skin on Bull's back was too smooth and puffed and new—he'd been healed, but the injury had been serious. Idiot man, Dorian thought, torn between annoyance and worry. The Commander, too, looked a bit paler than he should, and the careful way Cecily was watching him told Dorian that Cullen was not entirely well.
Behind them, a group of the Inquisition's soldiers bore a dragon's skull in a cart.
"Well. It looks like you had an exciting trip," Dorian said, keeping his tone light.
The Iron Bull laughed and gave him a grin that promised all sorts of very interesting things later. "Next time there's a dragon, you've got to come too," he said, clapping Dorian on the back. "There's nothing like it. Dragons!"
Cecily rolled her eyes fondly. "Prepare yourself. He's been like that ever since we set eyes on the creature."
Dorian smiled back at her—and immediately caught two Inquisition soldiers exchanging a knowing look. He cursed his stupid pride for making him come down here and greet everyone in full view of all Skyhold. "Inquisitor," he said formally, forcing the smile from his face. "When you have a moment, there's something you probably ought to know."
Her brows drew together at his serious tone. "Of course. Let me get rid of my gear. I'll meet you up in the library."
It was not long before Dorian heard soft footsteps ascending the stairs to the library—but when he turned, they did not belong to Cecily. It was Mother Giselle.
"May I claim a moment of your time?" the priestess asked, her soft Orlesian accent laced with steel.
"Revered Mother. What may I do for you?" he asked, dread filling him.
The priestess folded her hands in front of her and looked at him very seriously. "I am here to speak with you about the Inquisitor."
"What about her?" Dorian asked. As if I couldn't guess. He decided to feign confusion. "Is she all right?"
Giselle inclined her head. "Yes, of course. But I have come to you because that may not be the case for long, if you remain such a visible presence at her side."
A heavy lump settled in Dorian's chest. It was no different than he expected, and yet. And yet. "I see. What is your concern, exactly, Revered Mother?"
Mother Giselle began to speak, but before she could, a new voice cut in. "I would be interested in this as well."
Dorian turned. Cecily was climbing the stairs to the library. She had heard the entire exchange.
"Inquisitor." Mother Giselle struggled to speak for a moment. "I … This man is of Tevinter. The rumors alone …" she trailed off.
"Rumors. And what, exactly, do these rumors say?" Cecily asked, crossing her arms.
"I could not repeat such things to you, my lady Inquisitor," Mother Giselle said uncomfortably.
The Inquisitor turned to him. "Dorian, do you have any idea what this is about?"
"Oh, the usual nonsense," he said, feigning indifference—badly. "I'm teaching you blood magic, I'm here to turn the Inquisition into an arm of the Tevinter Chantry. Oh, also, we're intimate and I'm whispering all sorts of evil ideas into your ear as pillow talk. Nothing all that inventive, I'm afraid."
Mother Giselle looked a bit appalled at his phrasing, but said, "I am afraid those are the rumors, my Lady Inquisitor. You must understand how this man's presence at your side shakes the people's good opinion of you."
Cecily stood very still for a moment.
"Mother Giselle, I have deep respect for you, and I am certain you mean well," she said in her most detached voice, the one she used when pronouncing judgment from the Skyhold throne. "But you may tell those concerned that these rumors are groundless. Dorian is my friend. He has saved my life more than once. And therefore, I do not care what gossip people choose to spread about him, or about me. His presence at the Inquisition is not up for debate. He has done more for us than all of the rumor-mongers put together." By this point, the cool Inquisitor voice had given way to something much more heated. "I do not want to hear about this again."
Mother Giselle inclined her head stiffly. "I have offended. I apologize. If you feel the man is without ulterior motive, I suppose there is nothing further to be discussed. I must beg forgiveness of you both." And with that, she walked away.
Cecily gaped after her. Then she turned to Dorian, her face pale and eyes wide. Suddenly, two spots of color flared on her cheeks and she burst out, "If anyone ever says anything to you about this again you have my permission to set them on fire!" She began pacing furiously between Dorian and the bookshelves. "How dare they? How dare they spread such vile talk as if they know the first thing about you!"
Dorian tried to remember if he'd ever seen the Inquisitor lose her temper before. He didn't think so. The fact that she'd done so over him was … rather astonishing. "It's quite all right, Cecily," he said. Then he shook his head. "No, that's a lie. These rumors bother me as well. But I suppose it's inevitable that the dread Tevinter magister hovering around the Inquisitor will become the object of gossip."
"You're not a magister, you're an altus," Cecily corrected, managing a wobbling smile.
In spite of his dark mood, Dorian smiled back. "So you do listen to me! How sweet of you. As for the rumors that we're intimate, that's your own fault, really. If you and the Commander would just be a bit more indiscreet, well, no one who's met the man would doubt that he'd run me through if he thought I had evil plans for you."
"I rather think it's your fault for being so handsome," Cecily shot back. "They can't imagine how I could control myself around you."
Dorian threw his head back and laughed. "Indeed, I don't know how you manage," he said. "Come on. I'm going to get drunk. It's been that kind of a day. That kind of a week, really."
"What if you and The Iron Bull were less discreet? That might help," Cecily suggested jokingly, falling into step with him as he moved towards the stairs.
Dorian paused for a moment and caught her arm. "Cecily. I want you to know … I have precious few friends. But I count you among them. Perhaps first among them. And I will stand at your side against Corypheus, or my countrymen, or spurious rumors, for as long as you'll have me."
Cecily gave him a sisterly hug around the shoulders. "Thank you, Dorian. I will try not to take on anything worse than Corypheus."
"I would appreciate that. Oh, and try not to die. I would notice you were gone."
Zevran stood in the Skyhold courtyard and watched Morrigan for a long time, trying to decide whether or not he would approach her.
The years had been very good to the sorceress; her features had lost the roundness of youth, but were no less beautiful, and her yellow eyes were still captivating. Her expression was still cool, superior, amused at the pettiness of those around her, but there was a maturity about her now—not a girl assuming she knew more than everyone else, but a woman who did know more than most and was wise enough to realize it. She seemed both more and less frightening.
Morrigan seemed to sense his gaze; she turned, met his eyes, raised her brow—and did nothing. The choice, apparently, would have to be his.
Before he could lose his courage, he called out, "Lady Morrigan. A word, if I may?"
"I suppose I cannot stop you," she replied evenly. "I had wondered if you might wish to speak with me, despite our bargain."
"In fairness, my dear Morrigan, I did not seek you out. We simply happened to be in the same castle at the same time, for entirely different reasons." He smiled at her. "Terribly strange how these things happen."
"Do get to the point," Morrigan sighed. "I find the years have given me no greater tolerance for your prattle."
"Very well." Zevran took a breath. "I would like to meet the boy, if you will permit it. I shall tell him nothing of my—well, I shall tell him nothing, save that I knew his mother during the Blight."
For a moment he thought Morrigan would refuse, but after a pause she jerked her head in something like a nod and said, "Very well. Follow me."
She led him through Skyhold's audience chamber and down a hallway at the side, up to a small set of rooms that she apparently occupied. A young boy was seated at a desk in front of their window, his eyes focused outside, daydreaming, as a large book sat before him.
"Mother!" he said, quickly dropping his eyes and turning a page.
"You may abandon your book for now, little man," the Witch of the Wilds said with unexpected tenderness. "I have brought someone who wishes to meet you."
Kieran sighed with relief and pushed back from the desk, then moved to join them. He bore more than a passing resemblance to Morrigan, but Zevran could see that his ears were just a bit sharper than they might have been with two human parents.
"Kieran, this is … a friend of the Hero of Ferelden's," Morrigan said. "Someone I knew long ago, before you were born."
"My name is Zevran Arainai," Zev said, making the boy a little bow. "A pleasure, Kieran."
Kieran looked up at him, curious and unafraid—the kind of innocent expression that had been beaten out of Zev long before he'd reached Kieran's age. "You know my mother too?"
"I do indeed. We fought together during the Blight."
"Was it scary?" the boy asked. "Ancient things awoke during that Blight. I dream about them, sometimes."
Morrigan's eyes widened in alarm, but Zevran had expected this. Well, perhaps not references to dreams about ancient things, specifically, but the boy could hardly carry an Archdemon's soul and not have something mystical about him. "It was, at times," Zevran admitted. "But it was not always so terrible. Some of it was actually quite fascinating."
"I think those things would be interesting. I wish I could see them—here, for real, not in dreams," the boy sighed wistfully.
"I am certain you will see many interesting things in your life," Zevran said, trying to keep the knowing wryness from his voice. As if it could be helped, given your heritage. "Kieran. I wish you to know that, should you ever need help for any reason, Naia and I will be most glad to aid you. We may be difficult to find, sometimes, but Sister Leliana and Warden-Commander Howe will usually know how to contact us."
The boy seemed a bit puzzled at this, but all he said was, "Thank you."
Morrigan's yellow eyes glowed; Zevran thought she was unhappy, until she echoed, "Yes. Thank you. That is … most kind."
Naia was waiting for him in the garden.
"Well?" she asked anxiously, standing as he approached.
Zevran took her hands. "He is a strange child, as you said. But—but I am glad I have met him. Even with such a formidable mother, it cannot hurt for the boy to know that there are others who would help him, if he needed it."
He laughed a bit. "It is odd, is it not, that I sired a child in spite of the Taint, when there is so much worry over Alistair doing so?"
Their eyes met, widening in realization.
"Andraste's blood. I'm an idiot!" Naia said, clapping her hand to her forehead. "How could I not think to ask Morrigan?"
Ten minutes later, Naia was standing in front of the sorceress, explaining what she hoped to do. "You know more about the Taint, and the Blights, than most Wardens," she finished, hoping a little flattery might help. "Do you know anything that might help us replicate what happened to Fiona?"
Morrigan's yellow eyes glittered, amused; she had caught the clumsy flattery, but was not offended by it. "I do not know how to prevent the Calling, or cleanse the Taint itself," she began. "Perhaps I could if I were to study the Blight in greater detail, but with the knowledge I now possess—no. I know of nothing that would save your life, or Zevran's, or Alistair's. I am sorry."
It had been too much to hope for, Naia knew, but she didn't bother to pretend she hadn't hoped just a little. "What about your ritual?" she asked. "You were certain it would result in a child, even with a Warden father. Is there anything in it that could help Alistair with an heir?"
Morrigan frowned thoughtfully. "Most aspects of the ritual, of course, were designed to draw the Old God's soul. And the ritual I had would only have worked on a recently-made Warden. But … yes. I believe I may be able to help you." She arched an eyebrow at Naia. "If I tell you what I know, and write it down so that another mage could learn it, will this clear the debt between us? Or—might you forgive my debt, and instead count the knowledge as a gift from a friend?"
Naia looked down and chuckled. "You make a strange sort of friend, Morrigan." She raised her eyes and met Morrigan's gaze. "But—yes. I would consider it a gift, and myself your friend."
"Then I thank you." The Witch of the Wilds looked at Naia with something close to regret. "Perhaps this time I will be a better one."
