Despite the boy's dramatic arrival, Dorian would quickly prove to be a healthy and strong baby, quickly growing and thriving under the tender care of his parents and the nannies watching him.
As time would show, dramatic entries would become somewhat of a habit for him, especially as he reached adulthood.
The first time Dorian accidentally set a table-cloth on fire, the house of Pavus had thrown a large party in the honour of the boy, especially considering that the boy had been a mere two years of age.
It was an accident, of course, something the boy could not control and could not repeat on purpose, but it showed the power of the magic that was running through his veins.
It was everything his parents could hope for and showed great promise for the future.
As Dorian grew and turned older, his nannies would praise him for how bright he was, so ready to learn and eager to please.
He also had a love of books, absorbing the stories the nannies and his mother read to him when he went to bed; stories about far away lands, brave knights, powerful magisters, dragons and legends. He would learn them by heart, ask to have his favourites read to him over and over so he could look at the pictures, even chastise the reader if they skipped a part or didn't read it properly.
Soon he would learn to read on his own, to his mother and father's great pride as they watched their son sit by the fireplace, clad in black and golden robes, his nose in a book that was normally too advanced for a child his age.
Of course, with the newfound talent came the lessons and private tutors to further educate the boy's skills in reading and eventually writing and maths.
Magister Pavus handled Dorian's training with magic personally at first, but by the time the boy was six, a private tutor was hired to help educate him in being responsible with his abilities. And with the lessons came the expectations.
They were modest at first as Dorian was only six years of age when the lessons started to become serious.
Read a page a day loudly without stumbling over the words too much.
Copy a page of written text to work on his penmanship before he had to write a small text of his own without too many spelling errors, preferably none.
Papers with numbers of his tutors choosing that Dorian had to add or subtract correctly to get the correct amount.
Being able to summon fire and work on controlling it the best he could.
Dorian was rewarded, of course, for his successes, but the older he got, the fewer rewards he would get. The accomplishments became expectations, something he was supposed to know and be able to do. And those things were not rewarded because it was the way it was supposed to be.
Of course, if Dorian exceeded his parents and tutors expectations, he would be rewarded and Dorian quickly learned to work to do just that. Not because he wanted extra rewards, but because of his father and mother's proud smiles. He had everything he could ever want as it was; toys, books, nice clothes, but he was also a lonely child, his company mostly that of his tutors, his nannies or the family's servants or slaves. More often than not he would play by himself and actually spending time with his parents outside of meals was a rarity.
But this was how things worked and Dorian had known nothing but this lifestyle so he never questioned it. He merely appreciated it when he actually could spend time with his parents as well as see those proud smiles on their faces.
As rewards, his parents would take him on trips all over Thedas, letting him see the world. Nevarra, Orlais, Anderfels, Antiva, Free Marches. He had visited so many places, but he could barely remember any of them because what he remembered the best was the time spent with his parents.
As so Dorian would continue to work hard for his parents' approval, blossoming under the care of his tutors and nannies until he reached the age of nine.
By then, he was already well-versed in the social life of a Tevinter mage, having attended many a grand ball and social gathering. He was well spoken and polite when talked to, but mostly he was merely standing next to his mother and father in silence, watching as the adults talked and behaved.
Sometimes another child would be brought along and he would have someone his own age to talk to. It was nice, though at the same time it felt strange, like they were pretending to be older than they were. The children were also aware of their own social status and Dorian knew that his status were quite high. Or rather, that his family's status were high. He had been told so many a times during the few times he had tried to play with the children of slaves and servants, being told that it was "beneath him" to play with them.
It was at his ninth birthday that Dorian would start to learn just how his homelands worked and what was expected of him.
Being an only-child, his parents had done much to make sure that Dorian would grow up with an edge in life. Much was expected of him and while they loved their son dearly, it was shown in lessons of responsibility as well as nobility.
Before the gathering would start, Dorian was washed and cleaned before he was dressed in a set of new robes, made for this special occasion.
Black and gold, as was be the custom amongst the Tevinter nobility, but the cut was different than his other robes. The silken robes themselves were more like a jacket, closing over his chest, and then opening past the belt around his waist. A smaller cloak were wrapped around his shoulder, ending just over the elbow of his arm and attached to the throat, handing behind his head, was a hood. The robe was embroidered with golden patterns around the edges and the sleeves, though on the back of his robes were the Pavus symbol; two snakes entwined over a diamond.
Silken, black breeches, black, fingerless gloves and solid black-leather boots were added to complete the picture and when Dorian looked at himself in the mirror, he hardly recognized himself.
His hair, recently cut, was slicked back with water and oils, and the servants had added kohl around his eyes, making them look more intense.
A warm hand was put on his shoulder and Dorian didn't need to look up to know who the owner was. He could see his mother's reflection in the mirror and he watched as she kneeled down next to him, the hand still on his shoulder and the other stroking down his cheek.
She was as dressed up he was, though instead of robes she had opted for a black, frilly dress, which was decorated with beautiful golden patterns.
Her black hair was curled and put up, leaving the dark strands as a frame around the golden-brown and sharp face. She wasn't wearing a lot of make-up, preferring simple tricks to enhance her natural beauty, but her eyelashes were long and dark, her eyes framed with black kohl and her lips pained dark-red.
Her eyes were not on herself though. She was looking at Dorian.
"Look at you, my beautiful boy," she murmured, the dark-red lips tugged into a warm smile, the grey eyes looking at their reflection. "Nine years old already. How time flies."
Dorian merely nodded, swallowing hard as he let his eyes meet his mother's in the mirror. He tried to see what his mother was seeing, but all he could see was himself all glossed up.
Nine years old; he was still young, but he was also still growing, of course.
Still changing.
His face had lost most of its puppy-fat, leaving it narrower, sharper. Even with kohl, his eyes seemed big to him, almost too big for his head. Beautiful was a big word. He understood it, but he couldn't see it.
Boys weren't supposed to be beautiful, not according to the stories. They were supposed to be handsome, powerful.
Then again, he couldn't really see that either.
"Are there many people coming, mother," he asked instead, his voice still light.
"Of course," Lady Pavus replied, letting the tips of her fingers linger by the beauty mark by Dorian's eye. "You are growing fast, my little prince. It is not that long ago since you curled against me in bed, scared by the things you saw in the fade when you slept."
"Mother," Dorian said weakly, the bronze-cheeks reddening as his shoulders slumped some.
Lady Pavus merely chuckled, pressing a kiss to Dorian's cheek, leaving a dark-red smudge on his skin. Dorian grimaced some and reached up to wipe it away with the sleeve of his robes, only to have his hand slapped down.
"Don't you dirty out your new robes," his mother scolded before she snapped her fingers.
"Misha. Misha, come here with that cloth. Dip it in some water," she ordered at the elven girl behind them, busy with cleaning up after Dorian's bath.
A quick "Yes, my Lady," was the only answer from her before the girl came up next to them, offering Lady Pavus the cloth. The Lady took it gently from the girl's hands before giving her a dismissing nod, allowing her to go back to her previous duties.
"You must look your best today, Dorian," Lady Pavus said sharply, bringing the cloth to Dorian's cheek, rubbing it until the red lipstick mark had been replaced with reddening skin. "So no show-off with spells you haven't practiced. No water or ice-spells, it leaves such a mess. And no fire."
The look from his mother was enough to make Dorian shrink somewhat, his hands tugging nervously at his own sleeves. "Yes, mother. No fire."
He remember the last time he had tried to impress other kids his age with fire. ... They had certainly been impressed, alright; especially with how fast it spread and how much damage it had done to the outhouse.
The adults, not so much, though Magister Pavus had let out a chuckle and murmured something about "Boy-ish pranks."
Dorian mostly remembered the rapping his fingers had gotten from his tutors for his foolish belief that he could control a spell so large. "You may be talented, boy," the man had said in a hard voice, waving the stick in Dorian's face. "But you are no master of the arts yet. Until you are able to control and use that magic of yours, you are about as strong and useful as being a Laetans."
For someone who has been told that he was an Altus, this was an insult, a threat and a punishment, all wrapped in one, powerful word.
"My darling boy, there is no need for your lips to sag downwards now," Lady Pavus said, placing her fingers under Dorian's chin and tilted his head up.
"Just behave yourself. There will be boys and girls your age coming and they are all here to see how far you have come. And you will get the chance to show that off to everybody."
"Yes, mother."
"That's my darling boy," Lady Pavus murmured as she released Dorian's face and instead smoothed her own, black and golden dress down, marking sure her own appearance was perfect.
"Go downstairs when you hear the bell. It is almost time. And remember to behave."
Dorian merely nodded and watched in the mirror as his mother turned and left the room, leaving him alone with the elven servant.
It was almost time...
Dorian knew very well that it was just his birthday party. So why did it sound so much like he was going down to face something dangerous? When he tried to think about it, Dorian wasn't sure when birthday parties had gone from being fun to becoming a trial.
He would be much, much older when he realised that parties were like an arena were battles of wits sharper than swords, tongues of silver and the weight of words would count more than anything.
Thankfully, nine-year olds didn't need to learn about the Game just yet.
He didn't need to learn the weight of what he said, measure what was told to him, either by a whisper to the ear, behind his back or directly to his face.
Words could hurt, that much he knew, but he did not know that words could kill yet.
Dorian of house Pavus was turning nine years of age when he left his bedroom at the sound of the dinner-bell, walking down the grand stairs of the mansion to be greeted by honoured guests; adults he barely knew and their children, some of mentioned children he barely remembered.
The setting was familiar. He had attended many parties and soirées with his parents, held here at their estate and at other families' mansions and estates.
The children that had come to this party was as dressed up as he was, standing close to their parents as they watched him, offering their congratulations as they bowed or curtsied in front of him.
Presents were offered too, of course, right before the feast itself would start. Grand ones, but by tradition, Dorian did not open a single one himself. That was for the slaves to handle for him, as his hands were above it. Instead they were uncovered in front of him and presented with the name of the family who gifted it and Dorian would thank them after inspecting them.
They were grand present, worthy of the Scion of House Pavus; silken robes, jewels and rings, rare books of magic and, as was fitting, staffs for him to practice his given talent. One family had even gifted him a horse, a magnificent black steed that was waiting for him in the stables, but of course Dorian couldn't go up and touch it. That would have to wait.
He couldn't be walking around, risking smelling of horse after all, even if the animal stank more of perfume than he did.
The biggest presents that were given to him, however, were the gifts from his parents. He had gotten many presents from them already; jewels, clothes, books, but they had hidden what they believed were the bests to last.
Dorian Pavus, at only age nine, had been granted enrolment at the prestigious Circle of Magi in Carastes, a school that would surely make him the envy of many of his peers.
He was young, talented, and would attend school with students older than himself, but Lord Pavus was certain that his son would master it without problems.
For Dorian, he was only felt with a feeling of dread in his stomach, even as he clenched his lips together and forced a smile.
The second present from his mother and father was the introduction of a girl who Dorian had barely greeted when the party had started.
Livia Herathinos.
His betrothed since birth.
He wasn't sure exactly what betrothed meant, but when he was encouraged to walk over to her and take her hand, even kiss it and wish him welcome, the dread he felt in his stomach was accompanied by a wave of nausea.
While he wasn't sure what betrothed was, he did know what a girlfriend was and he did not want a girlfriend, and if Livia's expression was anything to go by, she did not want a boyfriend. At least not him.
After the presents have been handed out and the appropriate thanks had been given, it was time for the main feast.
Dorian, as was expected of him, was seated in the middle, at the centre of attention, Livia sitting to his right and his parents sitting on either side of them, trying his best to make small-talk. Rather, he answered when talked to and when his mother asked him rather stern, informative questions, would offer his own question to who-ever of the nobility the information was about.
It was also at the age of nine that Dorian had been allowed his first proper glass of wine, which was a strange delight to him, making him feel even more grown up. He had been given sips before from his father's wine-glass from time to time, but he had never had a glass of his own before. It tasted awful and it burned on the way down his throat, but he still drank it, sneakily killing the aftertaste with a goblet of cinnamon and apple cider.
Being the centre of attention, as much as he enjoyed it, it also exhausted him. It was hard, smiling pleasantly as he spoke, being attentive and showing interest, especially when the adults spoke of matters that were far above him. They spoke of his future, the path he was supposed to go, what he was to do and all he could do was smile and nod even though he didn't understand exactly what this path was or where it was leading him.
Thankfully, as soon as the dinner was over with, Dorian was free to leave the table to socialize where the other children had gathered. Of course, they couldn't play like, say, the servants children played: running around, screaming, playing tag or kicking a ball.
Oh, no. They were children of nobility, of status, and they could not be caught doing something like that. Instead, several board-games and cards had been put out for them to enjoy in a calmer and dignified fashion.
Not that Dorian minded. He actually liked board-games, especially chess. Unlike card-games that were mostly up to luck, chess was a game that was testing your own skills against someone else's.
Besides, engaging in chess or some other board game made it easier for him to avoid Livia.
Of course, their reaction to loss was not always as dignified and no matter how noble and proper they tried to be, they were children. And it wasn't like Dorian had meant to punch Magister Florianus' son for calling him a cheater, but when the boy had started pointing fingers and calling him a cheater, especially when Dorian had not cheated, had caused Dorian's temper to rise.
Then again, Dorian wasn't entirely innocent in the argument either. He probably didn't have to flaunt how good he was at chess at the start, or call the boy slow or laugh at the moves he made with his pieces.
Still, calling Dorian a cheater had been completely uncalled for, at least in the young mage's mind. He had asked the boy to stop first, asked him to take it back, but when the boy had flipped the board towards Dorian, he had responded in kind, calling him a "stinkin' liar" as his fist had flown towards the boy's rather large nose.
He had apologized to the crying boy, his mother's hand gripping painfully tight on his shoulder and while Magister Florianus had reassured them that everything was forgiven, despite the boy clinging to his mother's robes, tears mixing with the blood running down his nose. His son had been temperamental all day, the Magister had said, and would get a stern talking-to when they came home. He even complimented Dorian for the strength behind the punch, grinning slightly as he said he was just glad he hadn't set his son on fire.
Despite the Magisters calm reaction to it all, Dorian knew that his parents would not be as forgiving.
As soon as the party was over with and the guests had left, Dorian received a proper talking-to from both his mother and father. From the second they opened their mouths, Dorian looked down, not able to look at their disappointed faces as they told him how embarrassing it had been that he had lost his temper like that, that they had not raised their son to be like a "southern barbarian" by using his fists to resolve an argument.
During the talk, he didn't say anything, just keeping his eyes fixated on the floor, nodding his head weakly when he felt it was appropriate. He listened carefully to every word and when his father had told him to go to his room he had done so, not once looking up at them.
When Dorian entered his room, a servant had already lit several candles to brighten it up, but he was alone in there. Most likely part of his punishment, he guessed, as he closed the door behind him and walked over to the small washing basinet.
It was already filled with hot water, ready for him to use it to clean his face and when he looked at his face in the mirror, he could tell it was needed.
His hair was still slicked back, not a single strand of hair out of place, but he had apparently started crying at some point because black lines were running from his eyes, down his cheeks.
He hadn't even noticed it.
The sight made him grimace and he quickly scrubbed his face hard with the cloth left for him before undressing, tossing his robes angrily into a corner. He was almost tempted to set them on fire, after several minutes of just staring at the black garments, he settled for putting on his night-shirt and climbing into bed, just wanting to sleep and let the day finally be over with.
Dorian tried to swallow away the lump that had formed in his throat, trying to ignore the prickling behind his eyes as the thoughts he so desperately wanted to forget were popping into his mind.
His insides were hurting along with his head and he just felt bad. He had disappointed his parents on a day that were supposed to be special for him and them.
Dorian had turned nine years of age when he had gotten his first proper scolding from his parents; the disappointment on their faces would forever be an image that would haunt his mind.
As he grew older, he would become accustomed to that look.