Chapter 16: The Magician

Maker's shriveled testicles, but it was cold here. Dorian didn't know how anyone could manage to survive it, let alone enjoy living in a place like this. When he'd managed to acquire a tent and bedroll, the merchant had outright laughed at him when he asked if it would be enough to keep him warm. "This is warm," the man said, clapping Dorian on the shoulder so hard his knees almost buckled. It was a good thing he was an excellent primal mage and could keep a fire going, regardless of how much kindling he had available. Still, it drained his mana quite a bit and he was pretty certain that lyrium was in high demand, short supply, and great suspicion for those who tried to get their hands on it.

The ground was lumpy, the trees made him sneeze, and the air was dry and harsh. He had no clue what he was doing, either with the whole camping business or just being in Ferelden in general. They called this the Hinterlands, and not without good reason. Even Kirkwall had been more civilized than this, and that was saying something. Dorian was hungry and lost; all that was missing was an asshole templar, and he would have thought he was twenty again, just waiting to be hauled back to Tevinter.

Dorian had never thought he would ever be out of his element, but ironically enough being a lone mage in the midst of a mage rebellion did it.

He was here in the thick of things; he was completely out of his league and had no idea what to do next. How could this have possibly been a good idea? He did not belong here, nor did he belong in Tevinter. It was dismal to think of his prospects: the son of a powerful Magister living as a refugee in Ferelden of all places! The only consolation he could find was that his father would be shitting himself when he found out that Dorian preferred exile in the south to his privileged Tevinter life.

It could have been far worse, though. Dorian actually found some things about Ferelden interesting. The Blight and its aftermath had thinned the Veil throughout the countryside. Dorian was alone, but never lonely so long as he could access the Fade and the spirits within. Often, in his youth, he'd found the spirits more enjoyable company than people were. And now that he was alone he found he was able to focus on the Fade much more calmly.

Interestingly enough, now that he was far from Tevinter and had been for some time, the desire demons did not plague him in the same way. He still guarded himself and never walked the Fade unwarily, but his focus was much better. It was nice to know that, even though he'd been a magical prodigy, he still had things to learn.

Dorian had survived in Ferelden a fortnight when things changed.

He was sleeping as well as he could with rocks digging into his back when it felt like an explosion without light or sound had gone off in his head. He sat up, cold sweat trickling down his spine and his heart thumping. There was a roar in his ears and his mana undulated through his body and mind without any sense of control.

It was scarier than his father bearing down upon him.

Dorian had never had any issue with losing control. Even when he'd manifested his magic he'd been able to direct and control the mana without any conscious effort. It was like breathing, natural and easy.

This must be what drowning was like, then.

He took deep breaths and reached out to gather his power, imagining the mana tendrils winding into a ball that he could stuff down into the recesses of his mind. He closed his eyes and the Fade was there, a swirling vortex of green and purple and black. Each beat of his heart pulsed a new sensation: fear. Anger. Sorrow. Greed. Envy. Desire. Compassion. Hope. Despair. So many things he could not feel all at once.

The Fade had gone mad.

He found none of his usual comfort in the spirits of that realm. He built up his mental shields and conjured a small fire in his cupped palms to warm himself. Even that was difficult to control, and he nearly burned his tent down with him in it. He hadn't had trouble controlling flames since he was… well, since ever. Primal magic was his primary school and he'd mastered it as a child.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

Dorian crawled out of his tent. He could hear screams and clashing metal not terribly far off. It was still night and still dark, but a glow to the northwest drew his attention. The sky was bright acid green above the Frostbacks. Clouds swirled in a vortex over the mountainside. Dorian had been all over Thedas by now, and had walked the paths of the Fade for most of his life and he'd never seen anything like this.

The din around his tiny campsite grew louder: voices mingled with hysterical shrieks and the rumble of footsteps. Dorian stood and tried to look casual as the first of the crowd came into view. Many were mages; he could tell from the angry undulating currents of mana all around him as they drew closer. Most had never been trained to control their mana in a crisis; they simply hoped for the best. He was grateful for his Tevinter training. They seemed to be feeding off of each others' panic, while Dorian was able to remain calm.

"Excuse me," he called pleasantly. No one looked at him. "Pardon me? The sky seems to be ready to swallow a mountain to the north, anyone know what happened?" he asked. He truly did not expect an answer at this point, and he could hardly suppress his irritation at the panic. He stared up at the green sky and blocked out the shrieking of the Fade in his mind.

"The Maker is coming for us!" someone screamed, running past with tears streaming down her face.

"Andraste bless me, Andraste guide me. Bride of the Maker, look on me with favor," another cried as he paused next to Dorian and stared up into the sky with frightened eyes. "Pray with me," he suddenly said, grabbing Dorian by the arm.

He was another mage, and his hands burned through Dorian's sleeve. He was panicked and uncontrolled, and he was leeching off of Dorian's mana as his own emotions burned his up.

Dorian didn't think, simply hit the man with a mind blast spell that knocked him backward. "I'll thank you to unhand me," he said, brushing off his sleeve. He pushed it up and looked at his arm. There was a faint mark where his hand had been, which was disconcerting. It reminded Dorian of the lyrium burns he'd received from the chains so long ago. The other man was writhing on the ground, clutching his head and crying for Andraste.

Dorian had no idea what had happened, but he figured it would probably be a good idea to move his camp. He had no desire to wake up to more mad mages with their hands on him, sucking out his energy and leaving him defenseless.

The green light illuminated the road as Dorian began to trek toward Redcliffe village, where the bulk of the rebel mages were gathering under Grand Enchanter Fiona. He had a strange feeling as he looked to the sky, feeling the pull of the Fade and the chaos just across the Veil, that this was what he'd been waiting for.

It was a mystery, and Dorian had always loved a good intrigue, especially when magic was involved. You could take the man out of Tevinter, but you would never take the Tevinter out of the man. He didn't know what it was, or how it had happened. He didn't know yet what it meant for Ferelden or Orlais; or even for Tevinter, so far away. But it meant something.

Author's Note: To be continued in Fumbling Toward Who We Are, a story of an uncertain Inquisitor and a certain Tevinter mage who's just realizing why he's meant to be in the midst of the craziness! So many thanks are in order for this story. As always Karebear, for the RP sessions, the venting, the idea bouncing, the encouragement... FenZev for pushing me to keep writing MOAR DORIAN!... mille libri for taking so much time to thoughtfully review, and for the shoutout on her story... theycallmepeter for the many deeply thought out reviews that got me thinking... Yvaine Star, deagh, Melysande, and Apollo Wings for the regular reviews... those who favorited and followed... any future readers and reviewers. I wanted to give Dorian a voice, and everyone helped so much with that, so I thank you all!