Chapter Text
“So what’s this I hear about you and Magister Bataris?”
“How–?” The yelp escapes from Dorian before he can stop it. The wine glass sloshes dangerously in his hand, and he spend a second making sure that he doesn’t make a mess of his very expensive rug. When it’s as full as he would like (or rather, as full as the glass will allow), he takes the stem between his fingers. “Kaffas. How did you learn that?”
“Oh, you know.” Adaar’s voice remains cheerfully upbeat. “I know people.”
“Yes, I’m certain that you’re best of friends with the Magisterium. Really, where? I can’t imagine it made the papers.” Of course matters from the Magisterium make the news on occasion, but there wasn’t even blood. Not one single spell cast, even. Just some menacing glares and sparkling fingers. “Amatus, if you have spies in the Magisterium and you haven’t told me, you—” The realization hits him like a gale-force wind. In frustration, he grunts: “Oh, Mae.”
He hears a tongue click on the other end of the line. “Mhm. Got her letter this morning.”
“I have to stop telling her things.”
“I’m sure she’d appreciate that. Her inside man refusing to tell her what’s going on inside.”
He sits down (loudly—it’s been a long day, his feet ache) and curls his legs up on the chair. The fire roars merrily in front of him. Fires always seem so much warmer in Tevinter, particularly when the nights are cold and sharp. Adaar thinks he’s mad for thinking so, but he can’t help it. Staying in a country like this? Loving a country like this? He is a little mad.
Dorian continues on as if Adaar hasn’t spoken. “You know, I didn’t even tell her. Just handed her a copy of the transcript from the scribe I’m bribing. She hasn’t broached the conversation with me at all.”
“Hasn’t she?”
“Well, there’s the usual bits about behaving better in front of the Magisterium, but that’s as common as the weather.”
(For as much as he complains about dear Maevaris, he is also hopelessly devoted to her. She knows this. Frankly, she would be more concerned if he were nicer. It has happened on so few occasions—most recently, during Maevaris’ forced removal from the Magisterium.)
“Oh, my word,” Dorian inhales sharply. “That’s why she told you, isn’t it? How underhanded. She wanted to see if you, my adored and adoring lover of ten years, could convince me to behave.”
“I…” Adaar seems at a loss for a second. On the other end of the sending crystal, he hears the clink of ice against glass. When they’re apart, Adaar seems more inclined to spirits than wine. Dorian prides himself that Adaar drinks to cope with the loss of him, but in truth, his Qunari constitution means that fine Tevinter wine is little more than sour grapes.
Either way, the loss is all the confirmation that Dorian needs. He makes a grunt of satisfaction in the back of his throat.
“Yeah, okay.” Adaaar sighs. “Yes, she might have asked if I could… talk to you about it.”
He takes on a cloyingly piteous tone. “Have things really deteriorated that far between us, Amatus? We only talk when you have a lecture to give me? I knew the embers would die eventually, but I’d hoped we would have a few more lively years.”
“You could at least admit that she has a point. You are the only contact that the Shadow Dragons have, and it wouldn’t take much for the others to decide they want you out as well—”
“He was talking about rainy-day slavery! No slaves permitted on holidays, but of course we’ll need them the rest of the year.” All traces of pomp is gone from Dorian’s voice, instead replaced by metallic venom. He isn’t quite sure who he’s upset at, just that he is. The wine threatens the rim of the glass. “If I cannot make my opinion known, on the most vital of topics, then what the hells am I here for, Adaar?”
A long pause on the other end of the crystal. Right, well. He’s ruined what was supposed to be a lovely evening in. They haven’t had a chance to talk as often, not with the Blight, the Antaam, the Venatori, and fucking elven gods making a move on Thedas. Dorian had to perform small miracles even to snatch a few precious hours tonight.
It’s a mark of his genuine devotion to Adaar that he regrets it, even a little.
“I agree with you, Dorian,” Adaar answers. “Seriously. All cards on the table, she sent me the portion of the transcript, and I think you held yourself back.”
Oh.
Oh, well. Dorian does a haughty sniff and takes a sip of his wine. “I’m glad someone thinks so.”
“That’s what I wrote Maevaris. I told her that I’ve never been able to convince you to do anything in your life, and I’m especially not going to start with this.”
“That’s—” He nearly chokes on his wine at the absurdity of the notion. “Patently,” he wheezes, “Untrue, amatus.”
Genuine bafflement colors Adaar’s voice. “Is it?”
“Of course it is. It’s only that—everything you’ve ever convinced me to do has ended up a fine idea. Whether that’s charging in headfirst to save the world, or…”
How funny it is. Even ten years after, it does not take Dorian much to recall that scared little man he was, back in the Inquisition. Hopelessly besotted with a man he was certain would want nothing from him—his body, at best. Dorian had stayed awake at nights, painful with yearning, and on more than one occasion, he’d wondered if he would be able to see this whole business through with it. To this day, Dorian thinks that if Adaar had shown interest in someone else, Dorian would have walked into the snow.
He gestures between himself and the crystal. His rings and bracelets catch the light of the fire while he does. “This,” he finishes softly.
“So what you’re saying is that I could convince you now.”
That makes him laugh, the heavy spell between them broken. Dorian can feel his muscles relax. “Not a chance,” he croons into the crystal. “Scarcely worry. I am aware of how precarious my position is in the Magisterium, and being in the Archon’s notice is never well. I only…” He huffs a sigh. In this light, the wine in his glass has taken on the distinct shine of blood.
“Amatus, if I don’t stand up for my beliefs in the Magisterium, if I am simply there like all the other magisters are there, what am I doing this for? Yes, we can argue that we are biding our time until then, gathering strength… but must we be so without hope while we do it?”
“Ah, that’s the Dorian I know and love,” Adaar answers with a fondness so deep that Dorian wants to march to southern Thedas.
“Impulsive and prone to navel-staring?”
“It’s a beautiful navel.”
“Oh, stop. Flirt.” He balances his head on one cheek. They talk so frequently of work these days. Funny how it happens to coincide with his work being his life. He doubts if Adaar’s armor and axe are more than a few feet from him, right now. Are his armies sleeping outside his door? Is there a battle map pinned to a wall? Again, they’re thrust into a battle that might very well define the world. The last time did not come without its scars.
“Also, darling, I take back any complaint or jab I may have made at you in the Inquisition about your political ability—”
“Oh, don’t,” Adaar dismisses. “I was terrible at it. I was the head of a mercenary group put at the same table with—”
“Not that I’m back in the political sphere, I think we could do with a few more heads of mercenary groups. Perhaps a few assassins at the table. Treviso has that bit right, I’m afraid.” No, he doesn’t really mean that. There’s plenty of backstabbing already without adding a few bird-themed assassins to the mix.
He does remember finding Adaar completely hopeless, once upon a time. Before a particular Orlesian ball—well, he cut a dashing figure, Dorian will never take any argument against that. He did recall hearing that Adaar had showed up at Josephine’s door the night before and had desperately asked for any guidance she could provide. Evidently, they were up the entire night. At least on Adaar’s end, the results showed in the morning: he had to expertly re-fashion Adaar’s hair on the carriage ride over. He’d seen Adaar less nervous before sieges.
The memory brings with it a touch of nostalgia. How he’d adore saving the world with Adaar once again. Now neither of them are, and they’re worlds apart.
“And now look at you,” Dorian croons. “Consulted alongside kings and queens. How is the fight against the blight going, amatus?”
Silence on the other end of the crystal. Dorian frowns at it.
“Don’t want to talk about it?”
“I’m sorry, Dorian,” Adaar stresses. “I just… I don’t know if I can right now. More than anything, I want to listen to your voice.”
His heart threatens to shatter for his beloved. He largely knows, of course. Not only are Adaar’s letters detailed enough, but that’s half the talk he overhears in the Magisterium and on the streets. While every true-blooded native of northern Thedas considers themself more important than someone from the south—if the south falls, the north will follow. The same threats that tear through Ferelden and Orlais will not stop at the border.
That is to say, he knows that things are not going well. Adaar struggles with gaining allies, even after everything. What’s more, he struggles against the giant, tidal wave of darkspawn and Venatori. They seem endless. They seem unstoppable.
They might be.
Dorian has nothing less than perfect faith in Adaar, but he’s no fool, either.
He takes a long drink of wine.
“Alright,” he answers after a moment. “But you must pipe up every now and then, Amatus. I should hate to think you’ve set me on a table somewhere and wandered off to your latest paramour. “
He knows Adaar must be grinning on the other end. “I’m a busy man, Dorian. You can’t blame me for multitasking.”
“You bastard. Why I tolerate your gross mistreatment, I shall never know,” he answers, a school-grin boy sprouting over his own face. No matter the weight of the day, no matter the gravity of the situation—he finds himself pulled towards his partner regardless.
Not only is Adaar the most stalwart and level-headed man he’s ever had the pleasure of knowing, he is also the man who knows Dorian best. Through-and-through. Even when Dorian is lying to himself. So often, he fantasizes about throwing it all away and joining Adaar in some countryside somewhere. Give the world up, let them sort it out.
Of course they can’t. Adaar changed him to be the sort of person who wouldn’t—or perhaps Adaar simply made him admit he is that kind of man. Adaar was destined for heroism out the womb, according to Dorian. He shan’t hear anything to the contrary.
In a world where Adaar asked him… would he? Dorian doesn’t know. He values Adaar’s opinion more than he would admit. It is so easy to magnify his own flaws and ignorances, particularly with the cruelties he’s performed in the past, and to consider Adaar an entirely perfect individual. That’s love for you, particularly love that does not often get a chance to meet.
No, Dorian doubts he would. There are simply too many people relying on him here. It’s the same reason that he does not join Adaar in southern Thedas, to fight off the darkspawn together. The Imperium needs him, specifically, and Dorian could not live with himself if he left.
Still. It is beautiful to think of their fictional cabin in the woods, far and away from any strife or conflict.
“Tell me how the rest of the Shadow Dragons are,” Adaar encourages. “Tell me how Tevinter is. Tell me anything, Dorian.”
Anything? Free license. He does know how to flatter.
Dorian considers the dregs of his wine glass. Unwillingly—this is the sort of thing he wishes Adaar were around for—he unfolds his legs and goes to refill it. Perhaps, by the end of their quiet date, he’ll have gone through an entire bottle. That sounds a pleasant way to end an evening.
“You would not believe,” he starts, like they’ve been chatting for hours. “How utterly apparent some of the other magisters are. One of them, practically shining red under his skin, asked the other day during session: ‘Venatori? What’s that?’ Like their followers haven’t been funding them for years. Andraste’s girdle, amatus, the deceptions I must put up with…”