Chapter 5, In which Dorian and Vivienne consider the issue of class inequality

Little Wolf.

He couldn't focus on the book. If that went on any further, his plans to get through the muscle reconstruction tomes would be utterly ruined. He had a very limited amount of time before Lavellan came back and all hell broke loose again; how typical that trouble would find him in that exact point in time.

A slave.

Danarius had kept the secret of the blood ritual very closely. The shipments of lyrium to his house could suggest the scale of his endeavour, but that had been just that: raw material. Expensive, volatile raw material. A thousandfold more expensive than the slave it would be poured into. It had seemed ridiculous, then; Danarius was hardly the brightest mind of Minrathous, and he'd sunk a large portion of his fortune into the lyrium. His father had scoffed at how silly it would be to have it all sink into one half-starved little elven body. Always diversify your portfolio, Dorian, he'd say. This is the exact case of too big of a gamble.

It'd seemed almost an insult, then, when the experiment had actually worked. Father had been annoyed that such a laughable gamble would actually pay off; Alexius had been personally insulted that Danarius' heavy-handed approach would yield more fruit that the subtle complexities of time magic. For weeks on end, it would be a subject of endless scoffing, jokes, and derision; then they actually saw the elf, even more slender now as the eerie blue-white contours made him look barely even a skeleton, just a sketch of a creature. He was paraded around the Magisterium, with Danarius making sure every mage worth his salt could feel the intoxicating blend of lyrium and blood, the song of living magic; Dorian could still remember the shiver it had given him.

Then there would be jealousy. Lots and lots of jealousy. And, despite all their contempt for Danarius, awe.

Living magic.

Those eyes. Those cold, unkind eyes, boring right into him in the tavern. He had trouble connecting them back to the roughly-contoured little body paraded across the halls of the Magisterium.

His stomach clenched unpleasantly, and Dorian cursed out loud. It was late, and he needed to get through that chapter or else his plans of churning through the entire tome were done for. Kaffas, he needed to focus. Focus. Focus, you laughable idiot. This is not important.

Lavellan's face. Did you have slaves?

Explanations, justifications, arguments, reasoning. Excuses. A shouting match. Indignant, tightly wound face of the Inquisitor, his Dalish tattoos – vallaslin, Dorian, they're called vallaslin – crumpling on his forehead as his eyebrows had narrowed angrily. When you look at me, do you just see a thing?

Amatus, no. Amatus, I'm sorry. Amatus, I don't know. Amatus, I-

I-

He had not said that. He would never say that, because that would amount to a humiliating defeat. Instead, the argument escalated, because oh, Dorian could argue very well, and usually, he even derived some perverse pleasure from delivering witty punchlines and round, eloquent sentences destroying the opponent's stance, and winning, winning, winning. And he'd won, then, he'd backed Lavellan into a rhetorical corner knowing full well the extent of oratory training he'd had over the elven savage, pretty round words leading him to a straight victory. Slavery is a necessary evil. It is no worse that the poverty of the south.

He'd needed Lavellan to understand that his pretty round words meant close to nothing. He had not argued because he'd actually believed his argument; he'd argued because he hadn't wanted to lose.

Amatus-

That was the first night they'd spent apart in a long while.

For fuck's sake. Why was he thinking back to the one argument he did not want to remember? He closed the book on his lap and started pacing the room restlessly; his steps echoed in the dark void of the tower, accompanied only by the distant cawing of Leliana's crows above. In the darkness below, a faint light was flickering at the ground level. Solas' enchantments worked on the paintings even when the elf himself was not there.

Felix, dear. If you're in the Fade somewhere, get your stunning ass over here. I could really appreciate some company right about now. Dorian called into the Void, but it did not answer back; the story of his life, really.

There was no way he was going to be productive in a mood like this.

He tried to remember the slaves at his family home in Qarinus. The only thing he could recall was vague shadows; a nebulous presence of many heads and legs handing him food, taking his laundry, fetching stuff from upstairs. But maybe that was just because he'd been so young when he'd lived there. Minrathous would be different. It had been different.

There was… Legis, Dorian recalled, an odd triumph in remembering a slave's name. Alexius' property. He'd be a part of the laboratory, going along with the furniture; he could read, too, so he'd be capable of finding books they'd needed in Alexius' vast library. Come to think of it, he realised with an strange feeling of seeing an old memory anew, the library was always filled with slaves sorting, cleaning, and rearranging the collection. They had been there. He just hadn't paid attention.

When you look at me, do you just see a thing?

Now this – this was preposterous. Lavellan was not a thing. Lavellan had a keen, curious mind, a ragged Southern charm, a sweet accent over his every 'r', and a presence that commanded if not respect, then at least attention. Lavellan was strong, and brave, and bold, and kind. Lavellan was the Inquisitor. The shape of his ears had nothing to do with it.

And yet – and yet –

Little Wolf. The greatest prize of all.

Dorian cursed again, and once more for good measure. This was the exact sort of spiralling, escalating nonsense he did not need in his head. In less than a fortnight, Hawke and Fenris were going to be away, and Lavellan would be back; and then they'd have a very satisfying night in which all of Dorian's frustrations will be conveniently relieved at once, and after that, his mind was going to return to its steady, satisfyingly stable course. In the meantime, he would make do.

No-one would ever say Dorian Pavus was not good at finding distractions.

-/-

After three hours of tossing, turning, and more cussing into the pillow, Dorian concluded that he couldn't sleep.

Maker dammit.

-/-

Vivienne was not his favourite conversationalist on the best of days. When he was sleep-deprived and grouchy, however, any direct contact with her was nothing short of grating.

"Oh, dear, this simply will not do," she tsked at the elven servant as he brought in several glittery samples. Dorian felt his eyes linger on the face of the elf; he was a quiet, unassuming presence Dorian wouldn't have noticed a week before, with his olive skin suggesting a Dalish heritage, but his forehead damningly bare. Vivienne's voice cut into his reverie, swift and decisive: "Bring in more white, dear. You really ought to wear more white, Lord Pavus, someone of your complexion is lost in those murky green leathers the Inquisitor has us wear."

Dorian felt a headache coming. "Around Skyhold? I tend to avoid it, lest I get lost in the snow."

Vivienne acknowledged his wit with a regal nod. "Still, I cannot help but wonder why the uniforms of the Inquisition are chosen in such poor colouring. You are lucky indeed to pose for an Antivan, Master Pavus. As flashy as their fashion tends to be, it is still an order of magnitude above any… Dalish garments."

The ears of the elven servant twitched. Vivienne did not seem to notice; and Dorian knew very well that on any other day, neither would he. But the only difference that made was that his anger was now also against himself.

"Well, that would make them at least ten orders of magnitude above any Orlesian fashion, then," he said, his words clipped enough to communicate the depth of offense the witticism was not quite covering. Vivienne's eyes fixed on him, part surprise and part distaste.

"What a shame. And here I thought you knowledgeable enough in the intricacies of clothing choices."

"Ah, Madame, I was not making any point about clothing. Pardon me, I thought we were comparing the fashions of casual prejudice!"

Vivienne's eyes narrowed to slits. The elven slave scurried away, rolls of white fabric in his hands.

"How awfully presumptuous, coming from a Tevinter."

"But that's where my expertise comes from, Madame. Distaste for lower classes is our main export. Now, yours… would not be out of place in the halls of Minrathous."

Vivienne shuddered, as if slapped. She recovered immediately, a terrifying iron mask falling in place. "I will not be lectured on respect from a magister."

Magister! Dorian knew he was walking on very thin ice here, but for fuck's sake he was sleep-deprived and very angry at something in himself he didn't even understand, and the fact that he didn't know how deep that frozen lake would be did not stop him from stomping."Tell me, o Madame, does the Inquisitor know the contempt you hold for his people? Or do you just happen to conveniently hide it from him, knowing that an angry puppet is a less malleable one? After all, no-one expects that savage to be the true leader of the Inquisition, now, do they?"

"You deplorable Tevinter snake," hissed Vivienne. "Twisting your words and deeds, unaware that others may see them for poison they truly are. Get out of my sight."

"Ah, Madame." Dorian cocked his head. "But weren't we just conversing on the topic of Dalish fashion?" He stood up, gave a sweeping bow, and grinned maniacally, his head pounding with an unavoidable headache. "You are exceptionally good at your silly, frilly Orlesian Game, Madame, you have made but one little mistake." He stretched the grin on his face until it became painful. "You have assumed we were alike, you and I. That it is okay to share your little judgments and laugh them off as charming, yes? How charming they are!" Dorian dropped the grin suddenly, his entire face still in a cold expression. "Not. At. All."

They stared each other down for a long, tense moment.

"How interesting," said Vivienne in a chilling voice. "Quite a tirade. One could be excused to find a note of defensiveness in it."

"Your nose must be numbed enough to catch it," replied Dorian, equally cold. "As for me, I am simply overwhelmed by the stench."

With that, he turned back and gracefully walked out of the door, passing the elven servant on the way. Oh, what the hell.

"What's your name, lad?" he asked, false cheer in his voice. The elf stuttered.

"M-mallis, m-my lord-"

"Mallis! Delightful. Have a good day, Mallis. Apologies that your errands were in vain."

Grinning, Dorian marched off, leaving the elf speechless at the door.

-/-

Oh, he was going to regret this.

He was going to regret it very badly once Lavellan came back.

Dorian's forehead was flat on the desk. The headache would not go away, and the awareness of having royally pissed off the most powerful Southern mage in Skyhold was not helping. Splendid, Dorian. Now you've gone and made yourself two powerful enemies wanting to tear your heart out.

He groaned softly against the cold wood. Those days had been supposed to be over when he came south.

Josephine was going to demand his head. Or, even more chillingly, Leliana would decide that his usefulness as an ally had been decisively overridden by his innate ability to spurn other allies, and one night the ravens from the rookery would fly down and claw out his eyes. Regardless of the Inquisitor's personal preference, she'd said. He did not want to call her bluff.

Lavellan. He was going to be furious, with the amount of cautious care he had been deploying around Vivienne. A powerful ally, an outstanding diplomatic envoy, and a grave figure with impeccable credentials lending the rag-tag band of Inquisition a more serious and respectable aura… The Inquisition needed her. Or, worse still, the Inquisition could not afford to make Madame de Fer an enemy.

Dorian raised his forehead a couple of inches, then let his head fall back down. It hit the desk with a soft thump. Congratulations, Dorian. There was literally no worse option to have chosen.

The paradox was, it wasn't even about Vivienne. Oh, Dorian believed everything he had said just fine; the enchanter was a notorious snob and manipulator, and her contempt towards everything below a certain class was an open secret. The fact that she was harbouring prejudices against the Dalish was neither a surprise nor a rarity, and acceptable enough that Vivienne had been comfortable expressing it around Dorian – a Tevinter, yes, but still a good old nobleman. There were far more extreme shades of that prejudice, to the point where a minor derisive comment about culture and fashion should not even rattle anyone. Lavellan would surely not thank him for defending the Dalish honour over his fashion choices. And, loath as Dorian was to admit it, Vivienne was not a xenophobe; she was a passionate enough defender of the poor and downtrodden, even though she could crinkle her nose at their smell. Neither was she stupid enough to be radical in any position.

But the terribly uncomfortable truth of the matter was that he had been defensive. The elven servant – and the way he'd only just noticed the fact that it was always elves, even this far down south – had unsettled him more than he could understand. And the fact that he had never questioned it, and that he had never sought to understand, and that should Cassandra never have told him the story of Fenris and Hawke, he would have gone along with Vivienne's sophisticated disdain. This was the way of the noble classes. This was the norm.

He closed his eyes. Little Wolf. The greatest prize of all. Do you just see a thing? Lavellan. Fenris. Mallis the seamstress servant.

Slavery.

Living. Feeling. Beings. Things.

Unquestioned. Accepted. Conventional. .

Dorian wanted to scream.

He stood up and started pacing again, in an agitated, angry manner. He needed to sort his head out before Lavellan came back. There was no point in reopening that old argument just because he had become confused, least of all because of a story of his would-be killer. And whatever the mess in his thoughts, Dorian was still very much intent on not getting murdered.

He heard the footsteps approaching him from the back. He fixed his eyes firmly on the bookshelves. "Let us just get it over with, Josephine. No, I have no convincing excuse. No, I will not apologise to the damned Enchanter. Now, dear, would you kindly go away? I have a splitting headache."

"Uh-oh." The voice behind him was decidedly male. And dwarven. Dorian grimaced and turned to face Varric, the dwarf's expression somewhere between amusement and pity.

"Afternoon, Sparkler. Bad hair day?"

"Unless you have a keg of whisky on your person, Varric, do not open your mouth at me."

"Gotta say, your face looks a bit unfinished without that fancy squiggle on top of it. Kind of unsettling. It's like seeing someone wear glasses out of a sudden, y'know? Different face."

"Varric Eugene Tethras," said Dorian gravely. "If you do not want the earth under your feet to suddenly crawl with corpses, do kindly shut up."

"Impressive work with the Iron Harpy, there. That is as rattled as I have ever seen her. Care to share the secret with the rest of the class?"

Dorian groaned. "Headache. Bad. Silence. Needed. How simple must I make this for a Southerner to understand?"

Varric cocked his head. "No offence, Sparkler, but you always turn up the snotty when something's bothering you. Want a drink?"

Dorian paused the sulking and considered the offer. It was this sort of day. And with the crate of whisky still persistently gone from his hiding spot, there was very little on offer in terms of distractions. Which he badly needed. It was a patently terrible idea to just dwell inside his mind for the rest of the day.

"Wouldn't you know it, you do have a keg of whisky on your person. Do you hide it somewhere in your chest carpet?"

Varric flashed him a grin. "Only for personal uses. Nah, Sparkler, let's go down to Herald's. You look like you haven't had social time for a couple days."

"Hardly my fault!" Dorian snorted. "Since the tavern is now occupied by a killer machine thirsting for my blood. I'd rather stay right here and stew in my indignation than be vivisected, thank you."

"Fenris and Hawke have a meeting with the advisors," said Varric casually. "What I'm saying is, you need a drink, and it's all clear for the moment. Couple it with your Antivan charade just for good measure and you're good to go."

"A long meeting?" Dorian inquired distrustfully.

"The longest-ass kind. Strategy."

Dorian let out a long-suffering sign. "Very well. It's not as if this day could get any wo-"

He stopped himself short and very, very deliberately clamped his mouth shut. The fate did not need more tempting.

Varric's shit-eating grin was grating his nerves as they went downstairs.