Part Nineteen: The dragon wakes
The cage door swings open, but the poor wretch huddled inside doesn't emerge right away. His sunken eyes dart between the Inquisitor and the Qunari and back, and when the elf reaches for him, he shrinks back against the bars, cringing like a whipped dog.
"It's all right," the Inquisitor says gently, holding out his hand.
"We're here to help," Cole adds.
The man glances back over his shoulder at a bundle of tattered rags in the corner. His meagre belongings, Dorian assumes – until the bundle stirs, and he realizes with a pang that it's actually a person. What's left of one, at any rate, an elven woman so listless and emaciated that she scarcely seems to know what's going on. "Fasta vass," he hisses under his breath. His instinct is to turn away, but he forces himself to look. To see what his countrymen have done. This is what we are, he thinks, throwing a disgusted glance at the dead Venatori lying a few feet away. This is what you made us. If he could kill them all over again, he would. Shame and anger bring a scorching flush to his skin. No one notices; they're too busy helping the weakened slaves out of the cage. But Cole must sense the sudden surge of emotion, because he turns around and meets Dorian's eye, and now Dorian does look away.
The woman is unsteady on her feet. The Inquisitor asks her a question in elven, but she just looks at him blankly. She doesn't speak it. The language of her people is just one more thing they've taken from her. Dorian can see the heartbreak in his lover's eyes, and the rage. But his voice is composed as he says, "We'll escort them to camp. I'm not sure they'll make it on their own."
It's a long, grim walk. Nobody speaks, not until they arrive at camp and the Inquisitor has a quiet word with Harding, leaving the freed slaves in her care. Even after the four of them strike out again, the silence lingers – at least until Cole breaks it.
"Dorian, what's a slave?"
"Festis bei umo canavarumi." He can't talk about this. Not now.
"But you said I could ask questions."
"That's true. Just… go ask the Inquisitor this one."
He realizes what he's done as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but it's too late. The elf's stride falters, and he spins around, blue-green eyes glinting with fury. "Are you joking?"
Dorian feels sick. "I didn't mean—"
"You'd like me to explain slavery to Cole? Why me, I wonder?"
"Not for the reason you're thinking," Dorian says with a sigh. "It was a lazy answer. The equivalent of go ask your father. I was thinking of you as the man in charge, not—"
"Not an elf? Because I rather think it falls to the slaver rather than the slave to explain it, don't you?"
And there it is. Dorian knew that dragon would wake eventually. Now it has, and it's already drawn blood.
The slaver.
Cole glances between them, visibly distressed. "I'm hurting you, Dorian."
"No." Dorian's voice is frayed. "It's not you, Cole. Sometimes hurt just… is."
The elf presses his lips into a thin line and looks away.
"I'm not a slaver," Dorian says, struggling with every word. "And you are not a slave. I apologize for my insensitive remark." Turning to the spirit, he adds, "I will be happy to explain it to you at a later time, Cole."
He resumes walking, following the path that will lead them back to the dwarven tomb.
He spends the rest of the day going through the motions. They all do. Scarcely a word is exchanged between them. Cole is still upset by what he's sensing, and the Qunari is trying very hard to be invisible. As for Dorian and his amatus, they barely make eye contact. The elf pauses in front of a brazier; Dorian lights it with a flick of his wrist. An ancient vault opens; they sift through the contents in silence. At one point, they catch each other looking, and it's like trading a glance from opposite sides of a deep canyon. If there's a way across, neither of them can see it.
Back at camp, everyone cuts them a wide berth. Just as well. It gives Dorian a chance to say what's been on his mind for hours – or, perhaps more accurately, what's been on his mind from the start.
"When we first met, I told you that I hoped this wouldn't be an issue between us."
The elf looks up, his fine features brushed in the amber glow of the campfire. He waits for Dorian to continue.
"But that was always a fantasy. Something that painful can't just be swept aside. The best you can do is try to ignore it. If you're very lucky, perhaps you even forget it's there for a time. In which case you're practically guaranteed to trip over it, as I did today."
There's a stretch of silence. The elf's glance falls back to the flames. "I'm sorry I called you a slaver. It was…" He shakes his head. "I was raw, and I—"
"It's all right."
"It's not. It was awful..."
"But?"
He shakes his head again. "No but. I just don't understand how anyone could do that. Own another person. Buy them and sell them like sheep. And to turn a blind eye to it, pretend it's not happening…"
"I don't blame you. How could you understand? It's completely outside your frame of reference. I envy you that. When it's something you've grown up with… when it's all you've ever known… you don't question it."
"But how?" His eyes are practically pleading. He wants so badly for Dorian to say something that will make this better. "How can you not question it?"
Dorian sighs. "Come, amatus, surely you can relate? You're Dalish. The world you grew up in is completely different from where you are now. Surely there have been moments since you joined the Inquisition that have shaken your worldview? Made you realize that some things you simply accepted as normal and true are nothing of the kind?"
He considers that. "You have."
"Me?"
"Humans in general, I suppose, but especially you. You're nothing like what I was taught to expect of a Tevinter."
"I am better than they are," Dorian says in a fierce whisper, and he's not sure which of them he's trying harder to convince.
"Of course you are." He slides down the log and takes Dorian's face in his hands. "And not just them, Dorian. I think you might be the best of all of us."
Dorian's breath catches, and tears sting his eyes. "Now you're just being ridiculous."
"I'm not." He brushes his lips across Dorian's. "I'm really not. I'm so sorry, vhenan. My heart was broken, and I—"
"Hush. You had every right to be angry, including with me." He sighs, closing his eyes against the shimmer of tears that still threatens to break free. "But that's just the point. This thing isn't going to go away."
"What thing?"
"I will always be Tevinter, and you will always be Dalish. I can never fit into your world, and you can never fit in mine. I wouldn't want you to."
"So we'll make our own world."
Dorian gives a shaky laugh. "That's ambitious even for you, Inquisitor."
"Who says we have to live in the Imperium, or among the Dalish?"
"It doesn't matter. Wherever we go, whatever promises we make to one another, that dragon will always lie between us."
The elf draws back and gazes into Dorian's eyes. "Since when are you afraid of dragons?"
Another shaky laugh. "Maker, you're exasperating."
"Since when are you afraid of anything, Dorian Pavus?"
"I'm afraid of losing you," Dorian whispers.
The elf kisses him again. "Dragons can be slain," he says.
He's right, of course. Dragons can be slain, and an idea is already forming in Dorian's head about how to slay this one. Alas, if he takes up that sword, it will only force them further apart. Is that a sacrifice he's willing to make?
Since when are you afraid of anything, Dorian Pavus?
Not a question that needs answering tonight. For now, he drops his head onto his lover's shoulder and watches the flames. If he stares hard enough, perhaps he'll see his future.
