Chapter 4, In which a nerve is touched
Well.
He had not been expecting that.
In a way, he'd struck jackpot. Cassandra's knowledge about the affairs of the Champion seemed much deeper than anything he'd seen in the Tale of the Champion, brisk as his thumbing of the book was. It made sense, too, that Varric's fierce protectiveness of Hawke would omit many fragments of the story in his book; Cassandra's version from his interrogation was undoubtedly limited for the same reason, but it was in many ways a fuller, more realistic account of what had seemed to him just a general romantic drama. Instead of the sensationalised, highly dramatic plot of the Tale, it told a simpler, more cutting story of one extraordinary woman in a difficult, politically divided city.
It also made him profoundly uncomfortable.
He'd known the basics. Everyone knew the basics. Hawke was a Blight refugee turned Champion, an unexpected prodigy at everything from politics to all kinds of crazy magic, and she had been brought into the City of Chains on dragon's wings to bring down the Arishok. A lyrium warrior on the run took his refuge there, and fell in love with her; the rest, as the tavern in Skyhold could attest, was history. This much he felt comfortable finding out.
Except this was not all. As Cassandra spoke, her voice rising and falling in the rhythm of the story, Dorian could almost see the still images floating before his eyes like the spectres of the Fade: not a Champion, but a penniless refugee, arriving in a city that was sick of her kind. Not a proud lyrium warrior, the legendary hero of the Tale, but something far more unsettling in its familiarity: a sullen slave, paranoid and anxiety-ridden, illiterate and ruthless. My Little Wolf, Dorian remembered Danarius saying. The greatest prize of all.
Fenris' eyes in the tavern at the sound of Tevinter accent.
Not a romantic hero, but a runaway thing, a piece of possession. Not a tumultuous affair, but the exhausting, laborious climb towards trust and security, toward personhood. Not a sensationalist drama to ratchet up the tension; but two people, loving, but still helpless not to hurt each other.
Not a passionate love story, but a tale of breaking free.
Something prickled at Dorian's eyes. He suddenly wished he hadn't asked Cassandra about this. This story was… not intended for him.
But there were other things. Other, even more uncomfortable things, cutting too closely into Dorian's own memories of his adolescence. He had still been young, barely even an apprentice, but still old enough to know: a fuss in Minrathous as Danarius held his games, an uproar about the little slave who won them. An absolute explosion of gossip, Danarius' own position in the Magisterium skyrocketing, as that same young slave turned up to assume what was to be his regular spot at his master's side; the lyrium in his skin, bound to blood so closely, singing in a way that seemed just too perfect for a living thing. Dorian remembered Alexius' awe. His own awe. This, Alexius would say, is the triumph of magical development.
A triumph.
A triumph of magical development.
The price of the little slave going through the roof. Danarius, absolutely insufferable, always in the company of his Little Wolf, his harpy of an apprentice becoming increasingly harder to tolerate. A loud scandal when a laetus broke in to Danarius' mansion, trying to steal the manuscripts describing the Little Wolf's transformation, in an obvious attempt to rise to power by repeating the breakthrough; a bloody execution of said laetus. Even more gloating from Hadriana.
The fixture of the white-haired Seheron slave at Danarius' side, an object to be admired.
Dorian felt slightly nauseous. His immediate instinct was to stop thinking about it, stop wallowing in memories you cannot change, a carefully cultivated reaction that had become second nature since he'd left Tevinter. But this was different. This was…
He forced himself to remember, even as Cassandra's voice was filling in the blanks he had either not known, or not cared about during his adolescent days.
Blood magic. Torture. Excruciating pain. Amnesia. Life given up for the lyrium.
A slave. A thing. A prized possession. A triumph.
Little Wolf.
"What's his real name?" Dorian asked in a voice that sounded throttled even to his own ears. Cassandra eyed him up for a moment.
"Leto," she said softly. "But I am told he does not go by that name anymore. It is, as far as I understand it, just Fenris."
Dorian nodded stiffly. Just Fenris it is. He suddenly wished Lavellan was there, just to talk this over; but he rejected that thought after a moment of consideration. There was no point in talking to the Inquisitor about slavery. They touched on the topic once, and the shouting match that followed had yet to be equalled by any other spat; and the longer Dorian was in the south, the more he understood why. It was because of the stories like that of the Dalish; like that of Fenris.
He wished Felix was there. He'd understand.
"Care to share your thoughts, Dorian?" prompted Cassandra, her voice reaching him in the depths of his reverie. Dorian blinked, shutting off the uneasy, conflicted feelings, sending them to the back of his mind where they belonged.
"Excellent storytelling skills, my dear Lady Seeker. I was simply so enthralled by the story I lost my focus on the present. I'm imagining you could give the dwarf a run for his money, now."
Cassandra flushed slightly, visibly pleased with herself. Then her smile faded into something more thoughtful.
"I... must confess I don't feel completely at ease with Fenris around," she shared in an earnest voice, much to Dorian's surprise. "I'm feeling as if I had seen too much of his life, and things he himself would not share. And though it may not be a secret… I still find myself rather hesitant in sharing that story, understanding the depth and pain of it."
Dorian shook his head helplessly. "Then why did you tell all this to me?" He tried very hard not to make it sound accusatory, but some of it seeped into his tone anyway; Cassandra did not seem offended.
Instead, she looked him straight in the eye.
"You needed to understand," she said simply. Dorian shivered as the implications of that hit him.
"Cassandra-"
"I know of culture shock," she said, cutting him off. "Nevarran life is rather different from what I find here. A Tevinter's transition must be harder still."
Dorian just stared at her.
"You're… you are obviously trying to be a good man, Dorian, and the Inquisitor has put a great amount of trust in you. I find that Varric's tales often make the right choice clearer in my head. I would be glad if I could offer the same."
Dorian opened his mouth, then closed them again. Maker be damned, but he had underestimated the Seeker very, very sorely.
He found his voice after a moment. "I thank you, Lady Seeker. This had been… certainly enlightening."
"Good! I am glad. Now I would need to get back to my training, if you don't mind." Cassandra stood up and gave him a friendly, if a tad awkward, pat on the shoulder, then walked to the door. Her shield clattered against her armour quietly.
She turned back at the door. "And if you ever tell the dwarf I said anything nice about his stories, I will make your life extraordinarily difficult. This is not a challenge."
Dorian giggled. Some things never changed.
He, on the other hand…
-/-
He found it increasingly difficult to focus as Josephine was going over the catalogues of Antivan fashion. Instead of flipping pages, he was still going over the memories in his head, the casual snippets of conversation that seemed infinitely more sinister now, having the terrible benefit of hindsight.
A blood ritual! How barbaric. Danarius must have cannibalised the ancient texts. There is no way they could have been so blunt in the original formula. Alexius had been in a good mood that day, and so he'd gossiped away as Dorian had been practicing the glyphs.
He remembered his own voice. Well, if only he shared his little prize with us, we could learn so much more. Especially as we wouldn't even have to cut him open!
Alexius had laughed, then. They had fancied themselves the civilised face of Tevinter magic.
"Dorian?" Josephine prodded for the second time, and his gaze finally gravitated toward her. "You seem unusually placated today. I cannot help but feel unsettled at the silence."
"What can I say, my dear Lady Ambassador," Dorian said, flashing a charming smile. "If I am absent-minded today, you can blame it on your language classes. I was simply too enthralled by the Antivan pronunciation patterns to find in it me to fall asleep. Too much excitement, you see."
"Now that's better." Josephine nodded, halfway between amused and relieved. "So you don't object to Madame de Fer's involvement, I take it?"
"Hold on, Josie." Dorian blinked. "Could we perhaps rewind that conversation a bit? When did Vivienne came into view here?"
Josephine cast him a very effective long-suffering look. It almost succeeded in getting through. "I have three minor diplomatic crises at hand and one very unsettling room service incident to deal with today, Dorian. I would never deny you a helping hand, but I would appreciate it very much if you could value my time too."
"Well, let us not waste any more of it on half-hearted scolding, shall we?" said Dorian, a lazy smirk fixed back on his face. Josephine hid an impressive eyeroll behind her pad. "What are we expecting from the fearless Madame?"
"The clothes are not suitable," said Josephine, crinkling her noise. "We have, I think, uncovered the truth as to why the Antivan ambassador left them behind as he departed. Suffice to say, they offer… a rather distasteful evidence of debauchery. I'm glad for the blackmail material, but…"
"You don't yet despise me enough to make me wear them. I am flattered, Josie." Dorian flashed a charming grin, and Josephine hid behind the pad again; this time, he was sure, with a smile. "Your kindness is legendary, o Ambassador, especially faced with trials and tribulations. One could suggest it rather invites abuse." Prothetho.
Josie lowered the pad. Yes, she was smiling. But there was a twinkle in her eye that did not bode well. Maybe messing with the docile ambassador had not been his wisest decision.
"Oh, sweet Lord Pavus," said Josephine, her grin entirely too disconcerting. "I would not call your transfer to Vivienne a display of kindness."
Dorian's jaw went slack. "Wait. You are appointing Vivienne to oversee my clothing change? Josie. Do not."
"I will most certainly do. You wouldn't perhaps be surprised to learn that Vivienne has her own suppliers of fabric and jewellery, not to mention a private seamstress in Skyhold. Coupled with her diplomatic acumen and knowledge, it is only right that I should delegate this sensitive matter into her hands."
This was starting to feel like one of those games of Wicked Grace. "You are not entrusting my wardrobe to a woman whose choice of casual headgear is horns."
"Your penchant for exaggeration has been noted," said Josephine sweetly. "I have the utmost confidence in Madame de Fer's style."
"Her style is Orlesian," tried Dorian as the matter of last resort. "And her choices will be Orlesian. Surely you would offer a greater degree of authenticity?"
"Vivienne's worldly tastes are widely known and respected. You will be in good hands, Dorian." Josie smiled at him, the innocence of the smile utterly sincere and welcoming, and Dorian conceded his defeat.
"Well played, Lady Ambassador." The ordeal with Vivienne was gearing up to be excruciating, but at least it would offer a distraction. A pleasant one, too, if he can manage to scandalise the shrill mage with some well-placed comments about Tevinter.
Then again… dredging up old memories would perhaps not be the safest choice of sourcing his barbs, now. Now of all times.
Have you heard? Danarius lost his pet. Peals of laughter from Alexius. What is he going to masturbate to, now, with his greatest proof of power gone?
His stomach turned at the memory.
The gloating victory, carefully tucked away in Josephine's eyes, evaporated very quickly. Dorian only realised it had been there once it'd disappeared. "Are you alright, Dorian? You do not seem well."
He cleared his throat. "How kind of you, Josie. You do harbour some positive feelings towards my humble person after all. Do be careful not to fall madly in love with me, the Inquisitor is known to be rather possessive."
Josephine's cheeks pinked. "Your outrageousness really does know no bounds."
"Oh, the flattery. And no denial, too."
"Dorian!" Josephine scoffed, the pad going back up to hide the blush. "If you can believe that, I am genuinely concerned for you wellbeing today. But if this is your answer to any sincere worry…"
The smile faltered slightly on his lips. He fixed it there, and curved his eyebrows in what he hoped was a sincere enough I-am-touched expression. "My apologies, o sweet Ambassador. I do appreciate it. There's no cause for worry, though, I am perfectly fine." He let the eyebrows drop. "Well, chased by a bloodthirsty gladiator with flesh-phasing powers and forced into humiliation and hiding, but otherwise fine."
Josephine eyed him up. "Well, Vivienne will take this further. You can let me know once your clothing is fixed."
Dorian stood up and gave a graceful bow. "I will follow your advice, then. When shall the Iron Lady expect me?"
Josie smirked. In retrospect, Dorian thought, he really should have seen this one coming.
"Manyana."