A well-known adage among humans and elves held that you never forgot your first love. Mages had a similar saying, at least in Tevinter: the first bloom is the truest. Meaning that the first form of magical talent to emerge in a child would forever be their truest, most instinctive branch of magic. For Dorian, that had always been fire. Though he called himself a necromancer now, he'd been a pyromancer first, and would always be so at heart. (The fact that both of these had the word romance tucked in there was purely a coincidence and had nothing whatever to do with Dorian's nature, the witticisms of a certain silver-haired elf notwithstanding.)
Fire wasn't as flashy as electricity, or as utilitarian as ice. It didn't make the skin crawl the way spirit energy could. But when it came to inspiring raw, primordial terror in one's enemies, you simply couldn't beat it. Every creature in the animal kingdom feared fire to their very bones, and in the hands of a skilled showman, it could make even the stoutest of warriors shit his smallclothes.
Dorian was a highly skilled showman.
He flourished his flaming arms as though he were winding up for a truly spectacular salvo, giving the enemy archers an extra heartbeat to contemplate the withering inferno that was about to melt the flesh from their bones. Faced with this horrific prospect, they instinctively loosed their arrows.
Which was a mistake, because only an inexperienced fool of a mage would follow through with a spell like that. As satisfying as it would be to set these cretins on fire, it would be the last spell he ever cast. Nothing in his arsenal was faster than a bowstring; there was simply no way he could neutralize six archers before they filled him full of arrows. What Dorian needed was time, and so he bought himself some: even as the archers let fly, he abandoned the immolate spell and threw up a barrier, letting the missiles bounce away with a crackle of energy. Then, having goaded the archers into wasting their shots, he used the precious seconds he'd bought to whip the staff down from his back and strike again, this time with ice, slowing their movements as they reached for their quivers.
By this point, his companions had recovered their wits, and a pair of arrows sizzled down from above, taking two of the enemy before they could get off another shot. The rest turned to face this new threat, and that gave Dorian time to cast again, calling up one of his personal favourites. Reaching out with both hands, he grasped the Veil and pulled, stretching it thin even as he beckoned with a thread of magic. Spirits of fear, irresistibly drawn to that gossamer thread, pressed up against the weakened Veil in all their horror, threatening to tear through with their wicked claws. Naked skulls pushed against the shimmer, jaws working soundlessly, empty eye sockets fixed on the enemy as the spirits jostled hungrily against one another. The archers took one look at this nightmarish scene and scattered, leaving themselves open to attack; two more fell to elven arrows from above.
It was all going rather well – until Dorian was hit with a Holy Smite so powerful that it blasted him right off the ledge. He landed flat on his back, the air leaving him in a whoosh as his head bounced off the stone. If it hadn't been for his helm cushioning the blow, he'd have blacked out; as it was, he lay there stunned, gasping like a fish on dry land, scarcely able to move let alone reach for his power. Above him, Sera and Ellana were taking cover as the surviving archers returned fire, leaving Dorian alone and utterly helpless.
A sword sang out of its scabbard, glinting in the lyrium glow of the cavern as an ex-templar Promiser strode up to Dorian with murder in his eyes. "Nothing in this world more satisfying than skewering a mage," he announced with a sneer. He wound up for the killing blow – only to jerk suddenly, mouth agape, sword tumbling from his grasp as he dropped to his knees. Behind him stood a ginger yak of a dwarf, his hand still on the shaft of the pickaxe he'd just buried in the back of the templar's skull.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Sparkles, but aren't you the one who's supposed to be saving my ass?" Varric grabbed Dorian's hand and hauled him to his feet before jerking his pickaxe free with a stomach-turning squelch.
"Not the most seamless rescue operation, I grant you."
"Still, you made quite a statement with that entrance."
"Do be sure to mention that to the Inquisitor when we see him. I'd hate for him to think he's the only one with a little flair." Dorian dusted off his robes, picked up his staff, and sent a casual arc of electricity through the swordsman rushing at Varric from behind. The man twitched and staggered for a few paces before Varric finished the job with a swing of his pickaxe.
"You're handy with that," Dorian observed.
"I've had plenty of practice."
By this point, things had become a tad disorderly. The miners were running around like ants with the nest kicked in, some of them fighting and some fleeing. The Promisers, meanwhile, didn't seem to know quite what to do with their charges, apparently torn between killing them and scolding them like naughty schoolchildren. Dorian paused to take in the remarkable sight of a dwarf riding a Promiser piggy-back, teeth clamping down on her ear while she shrieked and flailed. Ellana and Sera, meanwhile, had their hands full finishing off the enemy archers, one of whom was taking aim at Sera with a familiar piece of equipment.
"Excuse me a minute, would you?" Varric hefted his pickaxe, wound up, and sent it sailing end-over-end at the Promiser wielding Bianca. The pointy bit found his… well, bits… and Dorian couldn't help wincing, his own bits tucking up in sympathy as the man screamed and pitched to his knees, clutching pitifully at the piece of mining equipment buried in his groin.
"Hey!" Sera called out from above. "Didn't you say no maiming?"
"Made an exception for this one," Varric called back, stooping to retrieve his precious weapon. "Did you miss me, sweetheart?" he murmured. He gave the contraption a reverential kiss – and then shot a bolt between the eyes of the maimed Promiser.
A few more arrows and a well-placed ice trap was all it took to wrap things up, and Ellana and Sera climbed the rest of the way down, the latter blushing as a handful of grateful miners hugged her or patted her back.
"Where's Frosty?" Varric asked.
And here Dorian had just been starting to feel better about things. "Destroying Malkar's red lyrium supply, hopefully," he said with a sigh.
"Off heroing on his own again, huh?"
"I'm trying not to think about it."
"Cassandra and the rest are on the other side of that," Sera put in, gesturing with her bow. "With what's left of these Promiser arseholes."
Varric's eyebrows flew up. "Divine Victoria is down here? Sounds like we have a lot to catch up on. But first…" Turning to his fellow miners, he raised both hands for silence. "Listen up. My friends and I are off to finish this mess. If you're looking for a little payback, grab a pickaxe or whatever you can loot off these bodies. If you'd rather stay of out sight, you can help by tossing every bit of this mining equipment into the sea. Shovels, gaatlock – all of it."
"Let's hurry," Ellana said, gazing anxiously at the wall of rubble separating them from the others. "It's too quiet over there, and it'll take us a while to get back up the hill."
They set off at a run, half a dozen stout-hearted miners falling in behind. Ellana was right – it was awfully quiet on the far side of that rubble pile. That was either good news or very bad news indeed. Dorian tried to keep his mind off the latter by filling Varric in on the events of the past few days.
"I figured he was out there," Varric said when they got to the part about Seth's escapades. "I'd get this creepy feeling on the back of my neck, like I was being watched. Then about an hour later, some weird shit would happen. A darkspawn attack, or an explosion, or a guard going missing. It had Frosty written all over it, so I spread the word among the miners. Helped keep morale up, knowing the Inquisitor was out there."
What a novel idea. As for Dorian, his morale was very definitely not improved by knowing the Inquisitor was out there. On the contrary, it rather took the shine off what should have been a triumphant moment. They'd freed Varric and the other miners and put a stop to the excavations, at least for now. It should have been a huge victory, but all Dorian could think about was his amatus. What was he doing right now? Had he blown up the lyrium supply? Killed Malkar and the rest of his thugs? Or was he lying in a pool of his own blood somewhere?
Enough. Focus on what you can control.
They retraced their steps almost all the way to the entrance before doubling back, taking the smoother left-hand path this time. They'd barely started down before the sounds of battle drifted up from below, and when they reached the bottom, they found Cassandra, Cullen, and Rainier squaring off against what was left of the Promisers. Bodies littered the field – most of them darkspawn, plus a handful of guards and one of the Qunari Anointed. Two more Anointed remained, along with a handful of archers; Cassandra and the others faced them down warily, visibly exhausted.
Dorian started casting at a run, throwing a barrier over his allies and sending a wave of rejuvenating magic through their tired limbs. He started to follow it up with an attack spell, but one of the Anointed turned around and raised a glowing hand, dispelling the blizzard before it even began. Dorian cursed – and then cried out in pain as the lyrium infusing his helm flared white-hot. A high-pitched ringing pierced his skull, as though someone had struck a tuning fork right between his ears; he clutched his head with both hands as specks of colour danced in his vision, so vibrantly intense that he nearly vomited. He tore the helm free and threw it, thanking the Maker for his dragon-scale gloves even as the acrid stench of burnt hair filled his nose.
Fool. He'd forgotten that some Seekers could set lyrium aflame. If he'd downed a vial before engaging in battle, the blood in his veins would be boiling right now. The only reason he hadn't was that his mana had regenerated while they doubled back; it was nothing but blind luck that he was still alive. If these Anointed could all do the same…
Worse than anything we fought during the Inquisition, Rainier had said. Well, he wasn't wrong.
Dorian hauled himself up with his staff as Cassandra charged the distracted Anointed with her shield, knocking him off balance. But he regained his footing quickly, swinging out with his sword and forcing the Divine to leap back. He followed this with a blast of red lyrium energy so intense that Cassandra's shield glowed red as she hunkered behind it, the crystal spikes along his spine throbbing with light as he drew upon his power. Dorian tried to refresh Cassandra's barrier, but no sooner had he reached for the Veil than he was dispelled, this time by the Qunari Anointed.
"Kaffas," he hissed.
"You alright, Sparkles?" Varric had taken cover behind a rock, but he popped up long enough to loose a shot at one of the archers, even as the other man returned fire.
"Well enough," Dorian said, ducking behind a rock of his own. "Except that at this point, I'm largely decorative."
"Good thing you're as decorative as you are, then."
"Quite."
Think, damn you. But what could he do against a pair of lyrium-corrupted super templars?
Then again, perhaps he needn't do anything. The dwarven miners had leapt into the fray now, wielding their pickaxes and looted weapons, and Varric, Sera, and Ellana were steadily picking off what was left of the enemy archers. The Anointed might be powerful, but there were only two of them, and…
An arrow hissed past Dorian's ear, close enough that he felt the breeze of its passing. He turned to scold his companions for an errant shot – only for the words to die on his tongue as he looked up the slope to find a small army of Promisers. At their head stood the biggest man Dorian had ever seen, an Anointed armed with what looked suspiciously like a Sha-Brytol rapid-fire crossbow.
"Divine Victoria!" he thundered, and the battle slowed momentarily. "You reveal your true colours, pretender, aligning yourself with such as these." His gaze landed firmly on Dorian as he said that, which felt rather uncalled for.
"Krellis." Cassandra's voice dripped with contempt. "I should have guessed you would be here. You always were a boot-licking toad."
"I am chosen. We are chosen." He swept a massive arm to indicate the fifty or so Promisers at his back. "And you, Cassandra, will sink to the bottom of this fathomless sea, and no one will remember your name."
Having thus concluded his inspirational speech, Krellis raised his weapon and opened fire.
Dorian threw himself to the ground as red lyrium-tipped crossbow bolts flashed by, ringing off Cassandra's shield with such force that her boots skidded backward through the dirt. Ellana dove one way, Sera another, while Varric hunkered against his rock. Dorian tried to cast but was dispelled, and dispelled again, his cry of frustration echoing off the cold stone. Powerless, he could do nothing but watch as their doom hurtled down the slope. Pinned between the rubble and the oncoming tide of Promisers, they had nowhere to run. They were trapped and outnumbered seven to one, facing half a dozen of the incredibly powerful creatures calling themselves Anointed.
They were, in other words, quite thoroughly fucked.
Dorian turned back to his friends, his heart already aching with anticipated grief. Cullen wore the same grim look he'd worn at Haven, when he was certain their end was upon them. Rainier glowered darkly as he hammered away at his foe. Cassandra seemed oddly at peace, while Sera looked more pissed off than afraid. Varric's expression was lost to posterity, being entirely hidden beneath a thicket of ginger beard. As for Ellana Lavellan, she might have been her brother in that moment, so fierce and focused that it took Dorian's breath away.
They all fought still, though they must have known it was hopeless. Dorian found he could do no less, so he turned to face his enemy, gripping his staff like a polearm. It wasn't how he imagined meeting his Maker, but so long as Seth had taken out Malkar and his lyrium, that was all that mattered. Dorian had long ago accepted that he might die saving the world. Today, it seemed, was the day.
Unless of course it wasn't.
A war cry sounded from the top of the slope, so familiar that Dorian nearly sobbed in relief. The Iron Bull raised his maul high above his head and roared, and the Bull's Chargers answered, surging down the slope in a screaming frenzy. But that wasn't all. In the shadows behind them, Dorian could just make out a glittering figure raising her arm, and a wall of ice erupted from the ground in the midst of the oncoming Promisers, impaling some and trapping others where they would be easy prey for the Chargers. Vivienne stepped out of the shadows – and beside her Leliana, her bow thumping as she sent shaft after shaft down the slope into the backs of Krellis's men.
A manic laugh sounded behind Dorian. "Family reunion!" Sera cried, firing double-time now.
Vivienne tugged on the Veil again, readying for another attack, which was promptly dispelled by one of the Anointed. But Madame de Fer just smiled as mage after mage appeared out of the shadows at her side. The Grand Enchanter had brought half the Circle with her, apparently, and they were ready for a fight.
"Go on, darling," Vivienne mocked the corrupted Seeker. "See how many of us you can take at once. There are a dozen of us, you know."
Dorian's mouth curled into a nasty smile. "A dozen and one," he called, drawing the Veil around him in shimmering waves. "And this one is cranky."