Chapter Text
The slavers had taken Dorian while he slept. If he had been awake, with his staff in his hands, none of them would have lived.
‘Watch out, Septima. This one’s less pampered than he looks.’ Said the slaver as he forced Dorian to his knees before his commander. ‘Broke a couple of Naevus’ ribs. And Maxima is going to have a few more gaps in her teeth from now on.’
‘Oh dear.’ The leader pouted, all mock sympathy. ‘And Maxima is famous across Thedas for her radiant beauty.’ The middle-aged woman clutched Dorian’s jaw and forced his head upward to meet her gaze. His fists reflexively clenched in the binds that forced his arms behind his back. Septima’s dark eyes scrutinised Dorian’s face; at least, scrutinised the part that wasn’t obscured by the cloth gag. He dissected her just as carefully. She was tall, her excessive gauntness making her look taller. In the firelight, her shorn, silver hair looked like frost or shattered glass. Her crooked nose was skewed to the right, her eyes deep and sunken in their sockets. Dorian seared her face into his memory.
When the time came for retribution, Dorian wanted to remember who to come looking for.
‘This one is pretty, isn’t he?’ She purred, tapping one finger pensively against Dorian’s jaw. ‘He’ll certainly be worth the trouble once we get to Minrathous. What do you think, Varius? Five hundred gold? Five hundred and fifty?’
‘If his face was the end of the story, sure, but you don’t know the best of it.’ Varius the weaselly and weak-bearded smirked. Septima looked up and tilted her head.
‘Oh? Do you have a surprise for me?’ Her tongue poked the corner of her mouth. ‘Did Wintersend come early?’
Varius just laughed, turning and rummaging through the pile of Dorian’s belongings that he had confiscated. Dorian’s stomach clenched. The amulet. If they had found it, it was only a matter of time until they worked out that he was a member of House Pavus. If these slavers ransomed him back to his father...
‘Dorian, stop struggling!’ His father’s voice was entirely transmuted. Same tone, same inflections, but full of a strange mixture of desperation and malice. Dorian writhed and twisted in the grip of two slaves he’d known since he was a child. One was silently weeping.
‘Father, don’t do this.’ His own voice was ragged and pleading. ‘The resort of the weak mind. You’ve always said…’
Hayward moved towards his son, his right hand dripping in blood. It looked like a scarlet, liquid glove. ‘I’m doing this for you, Dorian. Remember that. I’m going this for you.’
Dorian felt a scream start to rip up into his throat as that bloody hand reached up, intent on smothering his sight…
From under Dorian’s clothes and sleeping kit, Varius pulled out Dorian’s staff. ‘Tadaa!’
Septima giggled like a naughty child. She looked back at Dorian and squeezed his face tighter. ‘A looker and a mage. Aren’t you just full of surprises?’
Dorian jerked his face out of her grip and snarled at her through his gag. The only show of rebellion he could make from his position. Septima just sneered down her broken nose at him.
‘Put him in the empty wagon. I don’t want the other slaves roughing him up. Damaged goods don’t sell well in Minrathous.’
Dorian was hauled to his feet, still glaring at the woman with all his might. Septima blew him a kiss.
‘Sleep well, pretty boy.’