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Birthrights	By : Rikkila13 Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 1888 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
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Chapter 2
Fitzwilliam followed Dorian into the small Redcliffe tavern. It was quiet. Then Dorian spoke.
“Uh oh. No one’s here. This doesn’t bode well.”
Fitzwilliam was ready to say something along the lines of ‘well, let’s get an ale then’ when another voice filled the room.
“Dorian,” it said.
Dorian turned to face the stair. “Father,” he replied flatly. There was awkward silence for a moment, then Dorian said, “So the whole story about a family retainer was, what, a smoke screen?”
“Then you were told,” Magister Pavus addressed Fitzwilliam. “I apologize, Inquisitor, I never meant for you to be involved.”
“Of course not,” Dorian interrupted. “Magister Pavus couldn’t come to Skyhold and be seen with the dread Inquisitor! What would people think? What exactly is this, father? Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?” He spat the final word so vehemently that Fitzwilliam thought he might have mispronounced it.
Magister Pavus sighed, “This is how it has always been…”
Fitzwilliam had had enough. “Considering you lied to get him here, Dorian has every right to be furious.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Dorian said, turning to look at him. He paused then said, “But maybe you should.”
The words obviously upset the Magister who cut in. “Dorian you don’t need to…”
“I prefer the company of men,” Dorian spat out before his father could finish. “My father disapproves.”
Fitzwilliam wasn’t sure what he was hearing. Because let’s face it, the last year had been proof enough that “The Herald of Andraste” wasn’t that lucky. “I….’ll need you to explain that,” he said. Bumbling fool, you sound like an idiot.
“Did I stutter?” Dorian asked, clearly still angry, maybe even defensive. Surely he didn’t think this would change Fitzwilliam’s opinion of him. “Men. And the company thereof. As in sex. Surely you’ve heard of it.”
“I’ve more than heard of it, actually,” Fitzwilliam admitted.
“Noooo, the Herald of Andraste? I’m shocked and scandalized,” Dorian scoffed.
“Such sarcasm,” Fitzwilliam said more confidently than he felt.
“You’re not exactly subtle, oh Lord Inquisitor,” Dorian said. His voice softened. He smiled a bit.
“I should have known that’s was what this was about,” Magister Pavus sighed.
Dorian turned like a whip. “No,” he growled. “You don’t get to make those assumptions. You know nothing about the Inquisitor.”
“This is not what I wanted,” Magister Pavus said sadly.
“I’m never what you wanted, father,” Dorian spat. “Or had you forgotten?”
“So,” Fitzwilliam intervened, “That’s a … concern in Tevinter, then?”
Dorian scoffed. “Only if you’re trying to live up to an impossible standard. Every Tevinter family is intermarrying to distill the perfect mage. Perfect body. Perfect mind. The perfect leader. It means every perceived flaw, every aberration, is deviant and shameful.” He turned back to his father. “It must be hidden.” His voice was full of indignation. Mocking. As if he had heard the words before. Magister Pavus had no words. He merely hung his head.
“That’s what this is about?” Fitzwilliam asked, incredulously. “Who you sleep with?”
“That’s not all it’s about,” Dorian replied over his shoulder.
“Dorian, please,” Magister Pavus interrupted. “If you’ll only listen to me…”
“Why?” Dorian asked, approaching his father. “So you can spout more convenient lies? He taught me to hate blood magic. ‘The resort of the weak mind’. Those are his words.” Dorian took a few steps back, perhaps trying to calm down. To Fitzwilliam the mage was already a storm. “But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life?” He turned around then, and Fitzwilliam saw his face, the anguish there, before he wheeled on his father. “You tried to… change me.”
“I only wanted what was best for you,” The Magister said.
It was the wrong thing to say. Dorian snapped. “You wanted the best for you! For your fucking legacy.” His voice broke a little. “Anything for that.” He sounded more like a lost little boy than the powerful mage he was. He turned and walked to a nearby table. His back to Fitzwilliam. Fitz walked over beside him.
He stood there for a moment, silent. Dorian leaned against the table looking at the floor. “Don’t leave it like this, Dorian,” Fitzwilliam pleaded. Dorian looked up. His eyes were watery, his expression pained. “You’ll never forgive yourself,” he told the mage. Dorian looked at him, then at the floor again. After a long moment he nodded. Then the mage stood, straightened his coat, and strode over to meet his father.
“Tell me why you came,” Dorian demanded.
“If I knew I would drive you to the inquisition,” The Magister began, but Dorian cut him off angrily.
“You didn’t! I joined the inquisition because it’s the right thing to do. Once I had a father who would have known that,” he finished sadly and turned, walking toward the door. Fitzwilliam turned to follow but the pair stopped when Magister Pavus spoke.
“Once I had a son who trusted me, a trust I betrayed. I only wanted to talk to him. To hear his voice again. To ask him to forgive me.”
Dorian looked at Fitzwilliam, eyes full of hurt, fear, and a question. ‘Should I stay’, they said.
Fitzwilliam nodded. Dorian hesitated, but turned and walked toward his father.
The Inquisitor went the opposite direction – to the bar. He poured himself an ale, left generous payment on the counter, and waited in the far corner where he couldn’t hear well.
VVV
Dorian leaned against the frame of his favorite window, contemplating the meeting with his father. Fitzwilliam had been called to business as soon as they arrived, and Dorian had been unable to speak of it on their ride back. He had joked and made banter, but he dismissed any attempt to steer the conversation toward the Magister Pavus. It was all too much. The words, they were not what he had longed to hear, but they we not what he had feared either. And now… well now he was ready to talk, just a little. If only The Herald would grace him with his presence.
It wasn’t long until footsteps caused his head to turn slightly, enough to see who approached from the corner of his eye. It seemed the Maker had been listening after all – Fitzwilliam walked up behind him. He was watching Dorian look out that window. I suppose I must say something.
“He said we’re alike,” the mage sighed. “Too much pride. Once I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now I’m not certain.” Even to his own ears Dorian sounded like he was floundering. “I don’t know if I can forgive him.”
“He tried to change you?” Fitzwilliam asked bluntly. Dorian smiled just a bit at the way he said it. The Inquisitor could be dreadfully clever, even keep up with Dorian most of the time. But when it was serious? Well, the man did not bother with cleverness then.
“Out of desperation. I wouldn’t put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory and private locked away.” He shrugged. “Selfish, I suppose – not wanting to spend my entire life screaming on the inside. He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me… ‘acceptable’,” he snarled. “I found out. I left.” He looked out the window.
“Can blood magic actually do that?” The Inquisitor asked innocently.
“Maybe,” Dorian answered honestly. “It could have also left me a drooling vegetable. It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal. Part of me has always hoped he didn’t want to go through with it. If he had,” Dorian paused under the weight of that idea. “I can’t even imagine the person I would be now. I… I don’t think I’d like that Dorian.”
“Are you alright?” Fitzwilliam asked. His usually confident voice was tinged with… concern, perhaps.
“No,” Dorian answered taking one last look out the window. “Not really.” He turned, facing Fitzwilliam properly. The Herald of Andraste. “Thank you,” he said finally, as sincerely as he could muster. “For bringing me out there. It wasn’t what I expected but… it’s something.” It was something. Dorian had behaved like the hurt child his father had created. He’d been rude to Fitz, who obviously cared only for Dorian’s well-being. Maker, what must the man think of him now? Dorian shrugged inwardly, why not ask. It had already been a day of asking hard questions. What was one more? “Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display.” Dorian smiled softly. A bit forced, perhaps a bit insecure, but it would have to do.
“I don’t think less of you,” Fitzwilliam said with that little half-smile of amusement. “More if possible.”
Dorian felt his face crumple, unable to hide the emotion that coursed through him with those simple words. His eyes became watery, his smile uninhibited. It wasn’t a large smile, but it also hid nothing. He felt hope, forbidden hope, flutter to the forefront. And for a moment he could be nothing but himself. “The things you say.”
“I mean it,” Fitzwilliam replied quickly. For a moment Dorian thought he might be drunk again.
Dorian paused for a moment, he needed to reign himself in, he needed to explain. “My father never understood,” he said. He paused for a moment, but the mask would not come. Fitzwilliam would see Dorian Pavus, scars, fears, and all. Unfiltered. “Living a lie, it festers inside you like poison. You have to fight for what’s in your heart.”
“I agree,” Fitzwilliam said and Dorian smiled. He noticed too late that the man was walking forward, that he, Dorian the bold, was moving away, by reflex, until his back hit the window. The Inquisitor, Fitzwilliam Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste pressed close to him, resting his forehead against the mage’s, and kissed him. It was soft, and slow, and it… lingered. Dorian felt like a boy of sixteen. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. One briefly went to Fitzwilliam’s hair, the other to his shoulder. Then both rested on the Inquisitor’s shoulders holding him close.
When the kiss ended they stayed close. Dorian felt… giddy. “I see you like to play with fire, Inquisitor,” he drawled, a smile stretching his face so far it hurt. Fitzwilliam said nothing, merely smiled. “At any rate, time to drink myself into a stupor. It’s been that sort of day. Join me, sometime, if you have a mind.”
Dorian walked past the Inquisitor, fingers gently tracing his lips, smiling. He could still feel Fitzwilliam’s kiss there. He headed to the tavern, replaying the whole event. “Maker help me,” he muttered, grinning like a fool.
VVV
Perhaps it had been a bit early in the day to drink.
Dorian had been sitting in a dark, but warm corner, for over an hour. None of his companions were around yet. Which was fine by him. After several glasses of wine, which he could basically only drink when alone because Maker knew if he ordered a round for Sera it would end up on his head, he had come to the conclusion that he needed some time to think about where things were going with the Inquisitor. Well, realistically, going. Dreams, he had learnt long ago, were lovely and all, but best put aside. There was no “and they lived happily to the end of their days” as the Ferelden folk tales said. Luckily for him, Dorian had grown up on the Tevinter myths – all blood, sex, tricksters and “if you survived you’re happy enough”. No, Dorian needed to decide what he could expect, realistically from this.
His feelings so far, while intense, were not irreversible. But his father had been right. Someday Dorian would be head of House Pavus. And then what? Perhaps Fitzwilliam would be willing to join their houses in a strictly legal manner. That was possible. The men could be seen as close friends, confidants. In Tevinter it was not unusual for men of great houses to… have liaisons. They would have to keep up public appearances, however. Marry the girl. Have the heir. Pass on the birthright. Even the thought of it made him grit his teeth.
Maker above. He sighed inwardly as he gulped his wine. Am I ever getting ahead of myself. That’s when this is all over, if we want to stay together after that. If we even get together. Still, he needed to have a reasonable goal so he could work backward from that. Perhaps Fitzwilliam just wanted something… fun. Dorian could do fun. As long as he reigned in his feelings soon. It was unwise to let them go as far as he had. Of course, he could hardly be blamed for that! He’d hardly noticed until it was too late. But no, he could go back. He could be reasonable. As long as the man was not too tempting.
He chuckled into his glass and sipped again. Moderation. That was key. In love as with wine. Love. The word burned in his mind. He often fooled himself into thinking what he meant by love was support. A friend who could be relied upon. It was not the love that spouses shared. He could not expect that. But it would be enough. If he had that, and passion, he would be lucky. Luckier, indeed than he had ever dared dream.
“And then I crushed his skull!” Iron Bull plowed through the tavern door. Well, he had to stoop and twist to get his horns through, but there was no mistaking him. He was followed by Varric and Sera. They looked like they had just returned from some mission or another. Had Fitzwilliam gone out? Dorian thought he’d been in the war room. The Inquisitor rarely went on missions without taking the mage. He felt slighted.
But the trio had spotted him. He plastered on a smile, waving them over, and then motioned to the tavern keeper. He’d long ago established a series of gestures with the man for the beverages he wanted. It was essential to not having to interact with too many people in the tavern. Telling the keeper to bring enough for the table whole was as simple as a flick of the wrist. I wonder what the Elves think of us calling barmen ‘keepers’, he wondered randomly. The keeper nodded and drinks arrived with the rest of the party. Ales, on Dorian.
Taking a drink Iron Bull laughed, “Good, I needed some water. Later, mage, I will buy you a drink to put chest on your chest!”
Dorian smiled devilishly at the Qunari. “Why bother with the drink. There’s bound to be a more efficient method of getting a chest on my chest.” He winked. Iron Bull stared. Sure, Dorian had had a few wines. And sure, he knew that the Qunari were more… enlightened about sex than most. But he also knew Iron Bull could pick him up by his head with a single hand. And that Dorian and he had never really… gotten along. Okay, they bickered. Dorian did not like him. The man did, after all, belong to a nation which had been slaughtering Dorian’s compatriots for hundreds of years. Perhaps Dorian’s less than cutting remark had merely shocked him into uncharacteristic silence. Or he was about to crush him. His reaction would be telling, one way or the other.
A loud laugh split the room and Bull thumped his tankard on the table. Maker’s breath, it left a ring in the wood.
“So…” Dorian began. This was, after all, new territory. And he was going to navigate it while well-wined. “They’re the chargers and you’re the Bull. That’s clever.”
Iron Bull called for another drink. “Worked that out on your own did you?” He smiled a little. “You have to keep the name simple so the nobles get it. They pay us to fight. Not to entertain at tea.”
Dorian laughed then, and drank the dreadful ale. “That,” he said, mused, “I’d like to see.”
VVV
It turned out, after hours of war room meetings, Fitzwilliam did have a mind to join Dorian at the tavern. He wasn’t sure if the man was still there, but a drink was in order. Something brewed, down to earth. The mulled wines in the castle were all very fine, but Fitzwilliam needed something …
“Strong and dirty!” He heard as he entered the tavern.
“Good lord, Sera,” Dorian was saying. He sat at table in the corner with Sera and Varric and an astonishing number of empty mugs.
Fitzwilliam sat in the empty seat between Dorian and Varric. “What’s this then?” He asked. Dorian did not turn to great him. He merely looked into his mug as if the bottom was eluding him. In fact, he hadn’t looked right at Fitzwilliam since he entered.
“Dear Sera,” Dorian said, “was explaining what she likes about Iron Bull. She has, however, conveniently waited until Bull went to chat up...” Dorian looked about the room then gestured, “Ah, that strapping gentleman.”
“Ew,” Sera slurred. “Don say ‘dear’ an’at! Sound like that fancy-pants sorceress!”
Fitzwilliam was sure he saw Dorian smirk into his mug. “Whatever you say, dear. Your wish is my command.”
Sera scowled, “I’ma let that go, Sparkler, because you bought this round.”
“I bought all the rounds!” Dorian protested, smiling. “And only Varric can call me Sparkler.” He winked at the Dwarf.
Varric nodded gruffly, then stood. “C’mon Sera,” he said, “I know a spot of trouble we can get into with the court.” The girl giggled gleefully and they scurried away.
“Just the two of us now,” Fitzwilliam ventured. Dorian upended his mug and drank until it was empty. Fitz chuckled and reached up, flicking foam off the mage’s illustrious mustache.
“Hardly, we’re in a room full of people,” Dorian said. His eyes were glazed. “Drunk people.”
“Of which you appear to be one,” Fitzwilliam joked. The Inquisitor poked about the tankards on the table until he found one full of a dark ale. He took a long, slow, pull that emptied it half way. Then he let out a long belch. “Maker above, I needed that,” he declared.
“Bet that’s not all you need, “Dorian slurred. Undoubtedly, the mage thought it was quiet, but it was very near a yell.
“Dorain!” Fitzwilliam reprimanded.
“What?” The mage asked. “I’m just thinking aloud.”
“Well think, a-quiet,” The Inquisitor joked. Dorian rolled his eyes. “Can we go talk?” Fitzwilliam asked tentatively.
“I am, as you say down south, ‘all-ears’!” Dorian declared, attempting to take another swig from his empty mug. The man stood, wobbled and laughed. Fitzwilliam pulled him back into the chair.
“Alone,” he whispered.
“Oh… ‘I need to speak with you’. Okay.” Dorian chuckled.
The two stood and walked from the tavern toward the Hall and Fitzwilliam’s quarters.
“I know what this is,” Dorian whispered as they walked. “You don’t have to worry.”
“What are you…” Fitzwilliam began.
“No, no, it’s okay. You don’t have to spare my feelings, Amatus, I’m no stranger to this.” Dorian slurred as they entered Fitzwilliam’s quarters – through the servant’s stair. If the lords and ladies of the court saw this display!
“Amatus? What does that, I don’t know what that means…” he turned around to find Dorian flopped on his bed.
“I am ready for you, Inquisitor!” He shouted, laughing.
“Good lord, Dorian, keep it down!” Fitzwilliam closed his door and rushed to the bed. “How much did you have to drink? You sounded perfectly coherent with Sera.”
“My mug was full of something Bull brought over,” the mage confessed looking up from his place on his back.
“Maker, and you finished it just like that?” Fitzwilliam was legitimately alarmed.
“I’ll be fiiiiiiine,” Dorian laughed. Fitzwilliam pulled the mage until he was sitting up, then knelt on his haunches before him. A precarious position, were the mage to sick.
“You had better be,” he said looking up into Dorian’s eyes.
“Why?” Dorian asked, coy.
“Because one kiss does not fulfill my desire to kiss you, Doe,” Fitzwilliam said honestly. Well perhaps a shade less than honestly. There was more to it than that.
Dorian’s face became soft, no longer playful, his smile was genuine. It shone. “You called me that before,” he said wonderingly.
“What?” Fitzwilliam asked. “Doe?” The mage nodded softly. “It’s just an… endearment.”
Dorian smiled wider, tears pooling in his eyes. “Just like that,” he said with amazement. “So simple. As if it is nothing to…”
“To what? Show affection for a lush of a mage?” Fitzwilliam joked, reaching up and touching Dorian’s cheek.
The mage closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “Yes, as if it is nothing to be affectionate. It’s just natural for you, isn’t it?”
Fitzwilliam considered this for a moment. “You are sure to make fun of me, Dorian, but yes. Being with you is the most natural thing in the world.”
Dorian’s tears fell, landing in hot splashes on Fitzwilliam’s knee. “My father,” he said sadly, “he still does not understand.” And then it was all coming out in a rush. “He took back his angry words. I thought he’d disowned me when I left. Considering the ‘Get out! You are no son of mine!’ remark it seemed a reasonable assumption. But… I am still his heir. I will still be expected to take over when he is gone. I… I told him to find someone new. There’s a precedent for adopting a worthy heir. But he said I was his son. But I will be expected to marry, Fitz. Have heirs of my own. Live the lie. And if I have to do that I…” he stood abruptly, breaking contact. Fitzwilliam fell backward and had to catch himself on his hands.
The Inquisitor stood quickly and grabbed Dorian, made him look at him. The mage wanted to bolt, he knew. He would not let him. “Say it, Dorian.”
“If I have to do that, I can’t do this,” his whispered and then choked back a sob.
Fitzwilliam pulled him into a close embrace. Dorian struggled weakly, his heart was not in it. Fitzwilliam smoothed the hair against the back of the mage’s head. Comfort. Reassurance. These were the things he tried to convey via touch. Finally, the mage settled and Fitzwilliam pulled back to look at him. “Those are worries for future Dorian, you fool.” He brushed the mage’s hair lightly. “And whatever those choices may be you don’t have to make them alone.”
Dorian looked at him, sudden clarity in his eyes. “Why?”
“I’ve heard it said for every price and every penance, it’s better to have fallen in love than never to have fallen at all,” Fitzwilliam whispered.
“I want to mock your cliché, Inquisitor, but I rather think you mean it.” Dorian smiled softly.
“You won’t remember in the morning anyway,” Fitzwilliam laughed and kissed him sweetly.
“Oh yes, I will,” Dorian insisted.
Fitzwilliam laughed and pulled him to rest beside him in the bed. “I doubt that.”
“You’ll see, your grace,” Dorian said with a smile. “I am a mage who can hold his drink!”
“Well then,” Fitzwilliam chuckled. “You hold your drink. I shall hold you.”
When they awoke in the morning, wrapped around one another, fully clothed, on top of the still-made bed Dorian had Things to say. He made many a snarky remark about Fitzwilliam taking him to bed.
But the Inquisitor had been right – he did not remember the kiss. He did not remember Fitzwilliam’s words.
Not even the cliché.
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Birthrights