Summary: Dorian reevaluates his situation after witnessing the horror the Elder One intends to bring onto the world. The Herald is willing to take Dorian's word at face value. The Commander is decidedly not.
A/N: I initially intended for The Magister to be a one-shot, but here we are. Enjoy!
Dorian shoved his bleeding hand into his pocket along with the amulet as the swirling dark magic dissipated. His heart raced, blood thundering in his ears and his head aching so strongly he swore it was about to crack in two. He tried to focus on taking deep breaths, closing his eyes and willing the dizzying pain away. The sickness from the journey and the panic that came with it started to fade. It had been close, far too close, but they made it. When Dorian opened his eyes, he was met with Maxwell's absurdly bright blue ones.
The Herald was helping Dorian stand, a hand firmly grasping one arm, but the grip was painful, nails digging through Dorian's robes and into his flesh. The man's lips were trembling, pressed tightly together as he searched Dorian's eyes with an intensity that Dorian had yet to witness from the man. The Herald generally seemed a calm and quiet man, at least until now.
Now, Maxwell was furious.
"Herald!" Cassandra exclaimed, rushing to his side.
Maxwell kept his gaze fixed on Dorian, a vein jumping in his neck. Dorian did not dare say anything; he was unusually uncertain of what he could say.
"You've lost, Alexius," Maxwell finally said, releasing Dorian's arm as he turned to glare at Magister Alexius instead.
Dorian did not dare meet his friend's gaze. If Gereon appeared to be expecting help or seemed too friendly, Dorian was certain it was all over for him, too. But Gereon did not try to fight or plead, falling to his knees as he surrendered. "You've won."
Dorian waited for the blow to fall. Maxwell had the perfect excuse to be rid of Dorian, the exact accusation to connect him with the man being led out of the castle in chains.
But it didn't come.
It would come soon, surely. He had tried to keep what he was doing hidden, which had not been overly difficult considering how distracted Maxwell had been at the time. The Herald's anger sealed it, however — Maxwell had seen Magister Pavus use blood magic.
Dorian had not really had a choice. The amulet required two powerful mages, and there had been no time to bring Maxwell up to speed. The use of blood magic was simply a desperate attempt to get around that limitation — and it had miraculously worked. Of course, the fact that he had clearly known how to activate it was merely another point against Dorian, most likely.
But what else could he have done? He could not just die in that cursed future. And now that he had seen where Gereon's plan evidently led…well, his former position of it can't do any harm certainly seemed foolish. After all, what was the point of a Tevinter empire returning to its former glory if it led to the destruction of everything? Before it came to that point, the Elder One would need to be stopped.
Dorian kept away from the others that evening. He could try to run, but that would obliterate any opportunity to remain in the Inquisition. It was all fairly ironic, he supposed, considering his initial reasons for trying to infiltrate their ranks. Although he had already seen sparks of interest from Maxwell concerning Dorian's boasts of his homeland and the freedom and power it allowed mages, he suspected that it would not be enough to overlook his use of blood magic. His flirtations were clearly not working on the man either, not that Dorian was particularly surprised considering how obviously infatuated Maxwell was with their Antivan ambassador.
He would never admit to it, but when Maxwell came to sit beside his lonely campfire that night, Dorian entirely lacked a plan.
"I think we need to talk," the Herald said softly.
Dorian glanced at the fire Maxwell had abandoned. Cassandra was watching them intently, dark eyes flashing ominously in the firelight. Had Maxwell told her? What was it that she had threatened the first time they'd met, again — that she could set his blood aflame? "I assumed as much."
"I don't know how it is in Tevinter, but what you did — you can't."
Dorian closed his eyes. "It was all I could think of. We needed immense power, and —."
"Stop."
Dorian's mouth snapped shut, but Maxwell remained silent. Dorian glanced hesitantly to his right, trying to gauge just how fucked he was. Shockingly, while Maxwell still appeared angry, there was a hint of something softer in his expression.
Maxwell sighed and finally continued, "You don't have to explain yourself. I've heard enough stories." He shifted uncomfortably. "If you look for a reason, you will find one. That's the problem."
Dorian couldn't help but look at his hand. The jagged cut along the palm was already healing, but he wasn't focused on that at all. His mind had wandered far away, to the distant cellar where he had first drawn on the power. He flinched when Maxwell put a hand on his shoulder, struggling to leave the worst memory of his life.
"Look, I understand why you did it. The fact you already knew how…." Maxwell trailed off, sighing heavily and closing his eyes. "Whatever you were in Tevinter, whatever…magic you've used before…promise me you won't anymore."
Dorian met Maxwell's bright eyes again. It seemed that the anger had ebbed away, replaced fully by concern. It was difficult for Dorian to reign in his delight when he realized that the Herald was not planning to turn him in or kick him out of this little band of heretics — Maxwell wanted to fix him.
Trevelyan was truly a fool.
He determinedly kept his smile hesitant, small and trembling. "I'm not sure I can, Max."
The sympathy in those blue eyes assured Dorian that he was taking the correct approach to this new opportunity. "You can." Maxwell took his wounded hand between his own. "I know this is likely difficult to believe, but you don't need it."
Dorian held his gaze for almost too long, dropping his eyes in embarrassed defeat just before Maxwell could turn away nervously. "I…I wish I had as much faith." He waited for a beat, and then continued. "I will try. For my homeland, for myself. I will try."
"I suppose that's all I can ask." Maxwell's grip suddenly tightened, surprisingly painful due to the half-healed wound on Dorian's palm. "But this is your only warning, Dorian. All things considered, I cannot in good conscience ignore it if you continue to…indulge."
Dorian took a deep breath. "I understand. Thank you."
Maxwell's gaze dropped to their hands, and the Herald suddenly inhaled sharply and let go. "If you feel yourself slipping, you have friends here." He glanced toward Cassandra. "Probably just other mages in this case. Apostates, at least. No need to risk the Comm—the wrong person finding out." Maxwell blushed, though it was barely visible in the low light.
"You mean Commander Cullen?" Dorian asked quietly.
"Yeah," Maxwell breathed. "You probably already noticed he has a certain…."
"Fear of us?" Dorian finished with a small smile.
Maxwell looked startled. "No, I meant he-he despises magic; thinks mages are all cursed by the Maker and such. I'm amazed I was allowed to wake up after stumbling out of the Fade," he added. "Just best to give him a wide berth. Avoid any reason for him to…well…."
"Kill me?" Dorian finished lightly.
Maxwell winced. "Well, yes. He does seem to have a particular hatred for you."
Dorian smirked, turning his head quickly to try and hide it. "He is not used to mages being proud of who they are, I expect." Dorian leaned forward, gazing wistfully into the fire. "I am right, though."
"About?" Maxwell prompted, and Dorian's smile widened just a touch.
"The Commander doesn't hate us because he believes Chantry tales of Maker's curses or any of that."
"What does it matter why? We may be on the same side, but he is a threat," Maxwell hissed under his breath, starting to appear quite annoyed again.
"It does matter," Dorian corrected. "Like many, the Commander is afraid of our power — but because it is a gift, not a curse." Maxwell appeared dubious. "And you have the chance to prove that, Herald."
Maxwell chuckled anxiously. "I appreciate the sentiment, but let's focus on stopping the end of the world before we go trying to reshape it."
Dorian laughed quietly. "Indeed, Max. This is why you're in charge. You know what needs to be done."
Maxwell started heading toward a more crowded campfire, but hesitated as he looked back. He bit his lower lip, seeming truly torn before he finally returned to sit between Solas and Varric.
Dorian looked back into the campfire near his feet, doing his best not to grin too broadly. This southern venture may turn out to be advantageous after all.
Why this Chantry's only room for study was in the dungeons, Dorian did not understand. When Vivienne had given him directions, warning him that he was going to be sorely disappointed by how few books there were, Dorian had specifically not followed them and tried to find other ways to entertain himself instead.
He'd spent a few shivering hours outdoors, lingering near the blacksmith as he watched Commander Cullen training Inquisition recruits. He was pleased when his presence did not go unnoticed. Cullen cast frequent suspicious glances in his direction, almost getting struck by one of the men's shields during one particular moment of distraction. Dorian had even dreamed up a plan to truly irk the Commander — offering to help train those same recruits to defend from his magic — but Cassandra was unfortunately keeping a close eye on him, too, and Dorian was not certain it was worth the risk to interfere with the Commander's training.
He had then downed two bottles of wine in the tavern, spoken at length with that odd apostate elf, and helped Adan with a few potions before circling back to the Chantry. It seemed all that had eased his nerves about descending into the darkness below the Chantry's main hall.
Dorian determinedly did not look too closely at the prison cells at the other end of the hallway, focusing on the odd statues that lined the walls until he reached what could laughably be called a study.
He had barely entered the small room before he found himself thrown against the nearest wall, his temple striking a sconce that was fortunately unlit. Slightly dazed, Dorian reached to rub his head, hot pain radiating behind his eyes. "Careful, this face is too pretty to bruise," he muttered irritably.
"I'll do a lot more than that."
Dorian immediately snapped his fingers, lighting the nearby torch to reveal his attacker. "Commander," he greeted with a practiced smile just before a strong Silence crashed over him. It was a good thing he was already against the wall considering how his knees went weak and his body trembled uncontrollably.
Templar abilities were decidedly terrible to experience. He wasn't sure how often southern mages had to suffer them, but he hoped it was less than Dorian already had during his short time with the Inquisition. It felt like a part of himself had been torn away, like the world was suddenly silent, and his own insides churned as though they wanted to escape the confines of his skin.
"That was entirely uncalled for," Dorian complained, carefully bracing his arm against the wall.
Cullen grabbed him by one of the straps over the front of his leathers, his fist digging into Dorian's chest as he held him against the cold stone. "Why are you still here?" he growled. Dorian detected the scent of lyrium on the Commander's breath. He'd heard that was how southern templars got their abilities, but he was surprised to find it so potent. Surely consuming that much would do much better to kill a human than grant them power.
"The South is so charming and rustic," Dorian replied, making an effort to leer. It wasn't exactly difficult, not when the Commander was so ruggedly attractive. "I adore it to little pieces."
The Commander snarled at him. Fereldan dog. "You are not welcome."
"Max has been quite welcoming, I assure you," Dorian countered.
He tried to shift so he could straighten up from where he'd fallen against the wall, but Cullen held on tighter and pressed closer in response. For someone who clearly loathed mages, and especially Dorian, Cullen did not have a problem invading Dorian's personal space though the reverse had proven untrue. He was probably used to taking such liberties in the prisons so charitably called Circles down here.
Dorian knew better than to ask, but he did wonder if Cullen had partaken in some of the crimes he'd learned of from the rebel mages in Redcliffe. It would probably anger the Commander a bit too much if Dorian dared imply that he'd abused his authority in such a manner. Another time, perhaps, when they were not alone in the dungeons and Dorian was not stripped of his magic.
"The First Enchanter said there were some books on local history down here. She recommended I familiarize myself."
Cullen blinked with apparent confusion at Dorian's casual shift in topic, but he did not release him.
"As I intend to make myself useful, I thought a bit of light reading wouldn't do any harm." He tried to free himself from Cullen's grasp again and was quite annoyed to realize the man was fully capable of restraining him with one hand. What else could that hand do? Crush his throat, break his arm? Equally, perhaps smother wanton screams or effortlessly pin him to a bed? Now that was an intriguing idea.
Dorian didn't bother trying to hide where his thoughts had wandered as his gaze dropped to linger on Cullen's mouth. The man had a surprisingly attractive scar there, at least a few years old. It stretched beautifully when the man scowled — probably more so if he smiled, assuming the man was capable of that.
"There's no place for you here," Cullen snarled.
Dorian was pleased to see a faint flush creeping up the Commander's neck. "Maxwell and the others disagree. Now please, if you'll unhand me I'll get back to work."
Cullen did not. "What's your game, mage?"
"It's Magister," Dorian corrected irritably.
Cullen smirked. "Down here we've another name for that." Dorian had apparently been correct — the smirk was almost a smile and the scar really was attractive — but he did not like the hint of satisfaction that flashed over Cullen's expression. "Maleficar." Dorian didn't even blink. He was used to the accusation and had suspected it was coming, especially after he'd teased Cullen with the possibility of blood magic on their first meeting. "Or another word," Cullen said, lowering his voice. "Late."
Two times Dorian had spoken with Commander Cullen. Two times. And both times the man had pinned him to a wall, stripped away most of his magic, and threatened his life.
Dorian wasn't entirely sure if that should count as a victory or a failure; but either way, he was most intrigued.
As the trickle of magic returned, Dorian used it to delicately push Cullen away from him. Not by much, only enough to remind Cullen who he was talking to, essentially daring him to attack again. Cullen growled as he finally released him and took a step back. Dorian momentarily worried that Cullen would indeed use his templar magic, or possibly his sword, but thankfully Dorian was allowed to resume his connection with the Fade unhindered.
"I'll be watching you closely, mage." His eyes, golden like whiskey, burned with more fire than the nearby torch.
Dorian grinned and he could tell that irritated the Commander so much. "It would be a crime if you didn't." When he followed the comment with a wink, it proved too much for Cullen to handle as the man immediately stormed from the room.
Ah, yes. A victory, Dorian decided.