Dorian spends the next week pouring over every text in the Skyhold library. The Inquisitor is somewhere near the Storm Coast with Sera, Vivienne, and Blackwall and without his company to pass the time he has done little else than read old tomes until his eyes sting and pass out in his bed late each night.
His sleep has been fitful and short lived, each night bringing its own hellish nightmares shocking him awake just as he begins to drift off.
A vast, hungry darkness stretching out across everything, pulling him down and swallowing him whole.
Black sand spilling around him, trapping him and consuming the air around him while Vax'ildan bleeds out in front of him, eyes wide with terror, words dripping from his lips. 'Why didn't you stop it?'
His father, towering over him, arms crossed and scowling. 'You are a Pavus, Dorian. There is no room for anything less than perfection.'
A dark emptiness so profound he wakes from his sleep, a cry of horror tearing from his mouth.
Each night the nightmare shifts into something worse than the night before. He replays that day over and over every time he closes his eyes, unable to escape the guilt and terror that gripped him and shook him to his core.
"I didn't see it coming…" Dorian says, almost in a whisper. Bull looks down at Dorian, keeping pace with the mage in case he needs a break. His pupils are wide, a look of shock overpowering the composed and aloof expression he normally maintains. His skin has palled slightly and sweat covers his brow, from the physical exhaustion of carrying the Inquisitor and the constant flow of magic seeping from his hands.
"None of us did, Dorian. You can't blame yourself." He offers in an attempt to console his friend.
"Vishante kaffas! I certainly can! He was right in front of me, Bull. And I just stood there like a fool." His voice breaks a bit near the end of his reply, and he coughs a bit to try to mask it.
With every step, Dorian becomes more aware of the blood seeping through his robes. It feels like a mockery, his failure pouring out and covering him. His heart drops as grief and panic set in. He tightens his grip on the Inquisitor and concentrates on his spell as he watches in real time as life leaves the elf.
His eyes begin to sting and his throat tightens as he fights back his tears. There is an ache in his chest, a tearing more intense than anything he has ever experienced. His chest begins to tighten and he feels like he might drown right here and now, falling victim to a feeling he has no name for.
He wakes with a start from this evening's particularly vivid experience. The numb feeling has settled into his entire body, the emptiness causing him to feel unsettled and prickly. A light sheen of sweat covers his chest and forehead. He holds out a hand and tries once more to summon a spark and is once again met with sickening nothingness.
"Vishante Kaffas." He mutters to himself. He has always been considered a master of the arcane - by himself and every tutor he has ever had - and spellcraft is almost second nature to him. There has never been a moment he couldn't feel the presence of the Fade. It has alway been omnipresent - softly wrapping around him like a blanket or a warm hug. Dorian shutters as a shiver runs up his spine. He feels empty…untethered…vacant.
He throws the covers back and stands, all thoughts of going back to sleep gone. He grabs one of his mage robes and steps outside into the cool night air. The moon is low in the sky, dawn still a few hours away. The cool mountain air quickly dries the sweat on his brow, and he ducks through the wooden door into the circular tower to find some relief.
The library is still and silent, the only noise is the occasional flapping of bird wings from the aviary above. Light poured into the center of the tower from below - Solas was awake and working on one of the frescos he had added to the walls of his chamber. Dorian stared down at Solas for a few moments, watching him work. Finally, he let out a soft sigh and descended down the stairs to Solas' room.
Solas glanced over his shoulder as Dorian descended the final few steps, giving a slight nod.
"Hello, Dorian." Solas greeted him.
"Solas." Dorian gave a slight bow. "I'm surprised you're up at this hour."
"I could say the same. What with all the talk of your precious beauty sleep?"
Dorian lets out a chuckle and runs a hand through his hair.
"Yes, well, I've found it rather difficult recently. But don't worry, I'm still more handsome than anyone else in this backwater country!" He quips, stalling. He doesn't love the idea of talking to Solas about his current…predicament. But with Vivienne off with Vax'ildan his options are limited and he isn't sure he can take much more on his own.
"Humility has always been one of your finer qualities." Solas remarks blandly. He sets his painting supplies on his desk and turns to face Dorian.
"Please, Solas, you and I both know that of my many considerable attributes, humility has never been among them."
Solas nods slightly in acknowledgement, placing his arms behind his back. He cocks his head to the side inquisitively.
"Need something?"
"Ah. Yes. Well." Dorian starts, fidgeting. "I was hoping to talk to you…about the Fade."
Solas removes his arms from behind his back and crosses them across his chest, shifting his weight.
"Of course. Did you have something specific in mind?"
"Do you have any experience with losing one's connection to the Fade? I've searched through every bloody book in this library, and turned up frustratingly little on the subject." He tries to make it sound as casual as possible, like he is merely discussing theory instead of desperately seeking answers.
"Are you referring to the Rite of Tranquility?" Solas asks.
"No, this would be something…different. Something more like a blocked connection, nothing forced through some barbaric ritual. Would something like that be possible? Losing connection to the Fade without being made tranquil?"
"It is an interesting theory." Solas hooks a finger under his chin. "Perhaps if one's connection with reality is manipulated or distorted somehow…"
"Interesting. Similar to how the Templars nullify magic by muting the pull of the Fade?" Dorian suggests.
"Precisely. If, say, something so extreme occurs to threaten or undermine one's understanding of reality, it may make it harder for the Fade to manipulate itself around that barrier. Thus, making it difficult, or perhaps even impossible, for a mage to draw upon that essence for casting. Theoretically."
Dorian stands for a moment, hands on hips, considering Solas' theory. Could that explain what is happening to him? Some sort of magical impotence brought on by some life-altering event? Had the attack on the Inquisitor truly affected him that much?
"Fascinating." Dorian responds after a moment. "Theoretically, then, how would one go about reversing the effects? If the connection is impeded psychologically, it stands to reason that the solution also lies on that path." Maker, he hated feeling this vulnerable and in front of Solas, no less.
"That stands to reason. Challenging the immutable nature of reality could allow the Fade to open itself up once more in theory."
Great. So all Dorian had to do was fundamentally reshape his reality and bam! - magic restored!
"Of course, any attempts to challenge reality so severely could also drive a person mad." Solas adds, almost as an afterthought. "It is, after all, untested."
"Thank you, Solas." Dorian says cheerfully after a few moments of deliberation. "Your choice of wardrobe may be depressing, but your conversations regarding magical theory are always enlightening." He gives a slight bow and begins to walk toward the door leading into the main hall of the castle.
"How have you been, since the attack on the Inquisitor?" Solas asks before Dorian reaches the door. Dorian stops in his tracks, back to Solas and shoulders tight.
"Pardon?" He calls over his shoulders.
"We haven't spoken much since that day. I understand that the measures you took were vital in saving the Inquisitor's life." His tone is flat and uninterested, but Dorian has played The Game long enough to see the verbal chess board being laid in front of him.
"Yes, well, I am an incredibly talented mage as you know." He says flippantly.
"Such extended manipulation of the Fade would exact a grueling price on the wielder. I am curious to know how you have been feeling since then, and if you've noticed any side effects."
Dorian can feel Solas' eye searing into his back.
"Why, Solas, I didn't know you cared!" Dorian calls out, feigning surprise. He turns back around and smiles at the elf. "How flattering."
"I am merely wondering if our conversation may be more than theoretical." Solas retorts. Dorian maintains his air of calm, but his insides begin to tighten. The arrogance radiating off of Solas was infuriating, but he would not give him the satisfaction of seeing him sweat.
"Come now, don't worry yourself on my behalf…you'll get wrinkles." He turns with a flourish and begins to head through the door. "Do feel free to watch me leave. I have it on good authority that I have a great ass."
He hears Solas sigh heavily as the door closes behind him. He feels a bit better, annoying the elf has always been one of his favorite pastimes. He has such a stick up his ass, Dorian likes to give it a little tug now and then.
The main hall is, unsurprisingly, quiet given the hour. Dorian takes a seat in one of the chairs by the fireplace Varric is so fond of and stares into the flames. The heat from the fire reaches his skin, but does nothing to warm the cold hollowness in his body that has become all too familiar.
He would never admit such a thing out loud, but Solas may be right about his connection to the Fade. But he has no conceivable idea of how to rectify the situation. He sits there, brooding, until the sun starts to creep its way over the horizon, pinks and oranges coloring the sky. The main hall begins to stir slightly as workers creep on tip-toes to start their work for the day.
"Early morning, Sparkler?" Varric's voice pulls Dorian out of the flames and back to Skyhold. He sits in a chair next to Dorian and hands him a mug. The smell of fresh coffee wafts into Dorian's nostrils and he takes it with a grimace.
"Unfortunately so." He takes a sip and lets the heat fill him, if only temporarily. "Although, why anyone would be awake at such an hour is beyond me."
"Such hours are usually reserved for self-reflection or wallowing in self-pity." Varric concurs, tipping his mug to Dorian. "Which just leaves the question of which one applies to you."
Dorian lets out a small chuckle and takes another sip. He stares down at his mug like he might find the answers he seeks in its contents.
"So wallowing, then?" Varric asks, prodding.
"It appears that way." Dorian says quietly. He lets out a sigh to drive the point home.
"Anything you wanna talk about?" Varric asks, raising an eyebrow.
Dorian thinks for a long time.
"Have you ever lost something, Varric?" He says finally breaking the silence. His eyes are fixed ahead at the flames.
"I get the sense you don't mean in a 'I lost the book I borrowed from you' sort of way?"
Dorian rolls his eyes and huffs.
"Yeah, I've lost things. Friends, loved ones, my home." There is a sadness in his tone that Dorian isn't used to hearing from the dwarf. "All spectacularly, I might add." He continues with a chuckle.
"How do you come back from it?" Dorian's words are so quiet it's a wonder Varric hears them. "How do you keep it from tearing you apart from the inside out?"
The sound of wood scraping on stone fills the air as Varric stands up from his chair and places a hand on Dorian's shoulder. Dorian doesn't fight it, but keeps his gaze forward.
"Talking to someone helps." Varric says softly. "I know it sounds kinda cheesy, but it's true." He adds with a chuckle. "I don't know how I would have survived some of the things that went down in Kirkwall if Hawke hadn't been there to talk me through it."
Dorian squirms a little in his chair. Much easier said than done. He thinks to himself. He has never been one to seek aid from others. He's never needed to for most things, and anything he did need to talk about he was forced to hide and repress.
"How are you doing, after that mess with the Inquisitor?" Varric asks after a few minutes. Dorian throws his hands up, coffee sloshing around inside his mug.
"Why does everyone keep asking me that!?" He says incredulously. He crosses his arms again in a huff.
"What happened out there sounded pretty intense the way I heard it. It's natural that something like that would stick with you." Varric's tone is soothing and free of judgement. He had a way of making people feel like they could tell him anything, Dorian thinks to himself, which is perhaps why he is able to get so much material for his novels.
"Kaffas." He mutters, slumping his shoulders, resting his head in one hand. "My magic it's…I don't know…blocked somehow?" He manages to get out with a sigh. "I haven't been able to feel the Fade since…" He waives a hand vaguely toward the infirmary. Varric nods in understanding.
"And you have no idea how to get it back?" Varric asks, finishing Dorian's thought.
"Well, it's not like this has ever happened to me before!" Dorian bites, a bit more defensive than he meant to be. Varric holds his hands up and snorts.
"Easy, Sparkler, it was just an observation."
"Sorry." Dorian says quickly. "It's just, not easy for me."
"I know, Dorian." Varric sits back down in his chair. "You know what I think? You've been spending too much time isolated from everyone. Especially these last few weeks. I think it's high time you let the rest of us remind you how invaluable you really are."
"I suppose sitting around listening to everyone listing my many admirable qualities doesn't sound like the worst use of my time." Dorian smirks.
"Tell you what, the Inquisitor and the gang are due back tomorrow. Let's grab a drink at Herald's Rest and play a few rounds of Wicked Grace. That should cheer you right up."
"Somehow, losing my money to you doesn't sound like the solution I was hoping for." Dorian jokes before turning to Varric with a serious expression. "But it does sound like a wonderful evening. I'll be there."
He finishes his coffee before standing and fussing with his robes a bit.
"I should go. I don't want people seeing us and thinking I'm approachable before noon." He gives Varric a wink and a quick, "Thank you," before turning and striding off to his room.