Chapter Text
It had been a long, difficult journey but finally a respite was in sight, however imperfect a respite it was. Not that it was all bad. It was certainly better than what he left behind. Most days.
“Ten minutes until you’re needed on set, Monsieur Pavus.”
A young elvish woman poked her head in, her voice thickly laced with an Orlesian accent, and Dorian gave her a nod. “Yes, thank you. I’ll be along shortly.”
She left, satisfied with his response, and Dorian turned to look out the window of his trailer. An autumn chill had settled on the backlot of the Sun Gate Pictures on the outskirts of Val Royeaux, the bustle and luxury of the city center a mere twenty-minute metro ride away. He had arrived in Orlais more than six months ago but had yet to find the time to explore everything Val Royeaux had to offer as it deserved. Of course in the past six months he had also yet to find anyone who would willingly accompany him into town and there was something depressing about the thought of dining in a fine restaurant or spending too much money on luxury purchases by himself, even if he itched for it. Some actors might not want to go out in public without an entourage because they worried they might be swarmed; luckily that was one thing that Dorian didn't have to worry about.
He had been signed on with Sun Gate Pictures for their newest movie, Field of Bones, because he had made sure to be seen by and had spoken to the right people and had been in the right place at the right time. Honestly, the whole thing had felt a bit too much like a political foray for his liking but it had been necessary. Before that, in Minrathous, he had performed as a classical stage actor after finishing his schooling and finding no academic position waiting for him in the University. That had been a near seamless transition: he had studied both Arcane Magic and Theatre Arts, his two passions in life, and, when the University hadn’t wanted to hire him as a researcher or lecturer, his talent had him quickly snapped up by the Theatrum as one of their up-and-coming stars.
Dorian had adored stage acting. The drama, the sets, and pageantry, and the thrill of performing for a live audience knowing you only had one chance at perfection. He had quickly gained acclaim from some of the most respected critics in Tevinter and had become a public figure. But then pressures from his personal life had come crashing down around him within a few short years. His father had been pushing him to begin the grooming process to become a magister and follow his footsteps into politics. That meant leaving theatre behind and, worse yet, settling down into an ‘acceptable’ lifestyle by becoming the socialite he was raised to be and finding a wife. He refused to do either but hadn't realized how deep tensions truly ran between himself and his parents until his father had tried to force the changes. Dorian had fled Tevinter the next day. He would have left that night except he had needed the extra hours to frantically put his affairs in order before taking a very expensive last minute flight to Orlais where he knew there was both a thriving University and theatre scene.
Unfortunately, neither the University of Val Royeaux nor local acting companies had any desire to hire a “’Vint” when the market was already oversaturated with Orlesian talent. Therefore, when an advertisement popped up for a casting call at Sun Gate Pictures, Dorian hadn’t had the luxury of hesitating at the thought of moving from onstage acting to film. The day he showed up for his audition he had twenty crowns left to his name, barely enough for one more night in his run-down hotel. Luckily for him he had aced his audition. Field of Bones, an uninventive period piece, was looking for an actor to fill the role of the lead villain, a Tevinter magister intent on raising a demon horde. Dorian had been the only man actually from Tevinter to apply. Better yet, he was a mage and it sealed the deal when he informed them he was one of five mages in Tevinter who were officially practicing necromancy.
According to them, he would be saving them a significant amount of money in post-production by being able to raise his own dead.
Dorian held his tongue for once and didn’t mention that raising the dead had little to do with summoning demons.
So now he found himself in his third week of filming and a quick glance at the clock told him he had exactly six minutes to get to the set. He checked himself quickly in a mirror he had hung by the door for exactly such a purpose—he looked properly villainous, in part thanks to the skilled professionals in the costume and makeup departments—then strode out of his trailer with a flourish as he settled into his character. Evil magister intent on raising demon hordes and practicing blood magic with a look on his face that whispered ‘I sacrificed ten slaves before breakfast’. The script hadn’t provided much of a backstory to his character, Cassius, not that that was a surprise. ‘Cassius’ itself was not even an inventive name, translating nearly directly to ‘vain’ in Tevene, like the author had chosen a vice and flipped opened a Trade to Tevene dictionary to the appropriate page. But that was just as well; Dorian had created his own backstory and vanity was as relatable a starting point as he could have hoped for. Besides, he knew what a southern audience would want from a Tevinter. Vanity, yes, along with pride and a level of superiority that came from over a thousand years of careful breeding along with a near gleeful use of blood magic. The first few qualities were easy enough for Dorian to conjure up within himself but the last was always difficult. It took a good deal of self-control not to flinch with every line he spoke extoling the virtues of blood magic. But his character was supposed to be corrupted beyond hope and, when Dorian dug deep enough into the darkest parts of himself, that was a feeling he could conjure up as well and it made things easier in a way.
The movie was set back around 1950 TE, or in the Blessed Age by the southern Chantry calendar. The date was never explicitly stated but it was implied in the story that Orlais had control over Denerim and Tevinter was embroiled in a war with the Qunari in Seheron. The latter wasn’t necessarily a good time marker since skirmishes were still ongoing on that Maker-forsaken island. The robes he wore were a much better indication. The costume department had certainly done their homework; the hemlines of his long black robes fell perfectly with what would have been in fashion in Tevinter during the Blessed Age and as much as he loathed the way they hid his figure he would be the first to admit that they had been beautifully made. Luckily he had managed to convince them his mustache was period appropriate as well after pulling up a portrait of a distant ancestor who also had a knack for fashionable facial hair.
The skirts of his robes billowed wonderfully as he walked across the backlot to the sound stage and it helped to get him in the right frame of mind. Passers-by, members of their crew or one of the handful of other crews operating on the lot, stared as he walked by but he didn’t acknowledge them with so much as a glance. That, too, helped to get himself in character. Today they would begin filming on one of the action scenes between himself and the film’s hero, Ser Reynard, played by Gaspard de Chalons, a member of Orlesian film royalty and relative of actual Orlesian royalty. There had been rumor that a younger up-and-coming actor, Michel de Chevin had been up for the role but had failed to win it due to Gaspard’s star power. It was a shame. Dorian had seen Michel a few times and would have much preferred having the handsome young man on set. Not that Gaspard was terrible to look at but his personality spoiled it as did his atrocious smoking habit.
Dorian arrived on set with a minute to spare and a small smile worked its way onto his lips despite himself at the sight of the masterfully built set. Field of Bones might be a barely concealed piece of Orlesian propaganda dressed up as a potential blockbuster but the set design, like the costumes, was magnificent. If he didn’t know better he would have sworn he had stepped into a Blessed Age Tevinter fortress, save for the lack of a wall on one side where the film equipment had been set up.
Gaspard was already there, sitting in his chair off to the side and reviewing the script for today’s scene. There was a full suit of polished armor resting on a frame behind Gaspard and Dorian felt a small stab of jealousy at the sight of it.
“Dorian Pavus, darling.”
Dorian turned and found Madame Vivienne de Fer striding toward him in her high heels like she owned the place. Because she did. Vivienne was a producer with Sun Gate who had her manicured fingers in nearly every aspect of Field of Bones. She commanded attention as soon as she walked into a room but for the first time Dorian’s attention was drawn elsewhere. Specifically, to the hulking Qunari strolling behind her.
Dorian just barely remembered himself as Vivienne reached him and swept into a dramatic bow, using his robes to his advantage by sweeping them back with a dramatic flourish. “Madame de Fer, you look beautiful as always.” Despite himself, his eyes kept flickering up the Qunari behind her. Dorian thought he had a right to be cautious. Qunari and Tevinters had a long and bloody history and mutual distaste still burned bright between them.
The Qunari—and, Maker, was he missing an eye?—didn’t seem at all affected by it though and merely gave Dorian a slightly smug smile as Vivienne nodded then waved a hand in the Qunari’s direction. “Dorian, I wanted to personally introduce you to the newest members of our crew, given circumstances.” Dorian had never heard anyone condense a near millennia of war and hatred into such a simple word as ‘circumstances’ before but Vivienne handled it masterfully. “This is The Iron Bull,” it was a hard thing to keep in a scoff at the name, “and he and his company, the Chargers, will be coordinating all of the stunts for this production. I trust this will not cause any problems on set?”
Pressing a smooth smile onto his face he had perfected long before his acting career began, Dorian straightened and arched a brow. “Of course not, Madame. At least not on my end.”
Vivienne looked expectantly up at the Iron Bull who gave an easy shrug. His voice was as deep as Dorian expected it to be but it was surprisingly light in tone and nothing like he had ever heard any other Qunari speak. “Don’t worry, Ma’m. Me and my team just want to do our jobs, and we’ll do them well. Besides, I don’t expect that me and Mr. Pavus here will be working directly with each other too often.”
This time Dorian’s smile grew slightly smug and he lifted his chin as Vivienne spoke for him. “To the contrary, Dorian has insisted that he will perform all of his many stunts, which is why I bothered to introduce you at all.”
Something in the Iron Bull’s eyes sharpened and it only made Dorian all the smugger. He loved to defy expectations. He nodded once more to Vivienne before brushing passed Bull. “Thank you, Madame de Fer, for your consideration. The Iron Bull, I suppose we will meet again shortly. But if you will both excuse me, it appears I am being summoned.”
Across the room, the director, Ponchard de Lieux, gestured for him to come over. Dorian had learned to hate the vile little man but at the moment he provided the perfect excuse for an exit. He felt the Iron Bull’s eye on him as he moved past him but the Qunari didn’t say another word and Dorian didn’t look back despite the urge to do just that.
As it turned out Ponchard had only called him over to go over every inch of the set with him and where Dorian’s marks were. As if he had forgotten since the day before. But Vivienne was on site and Ponchard wanted to appear to be busy and what better way to be busy then to condescend the ‘Vint.
Dorian grit his teeth and buried his frustrations beneath a condescension of his own. He didn’t have to put up with it long though as soon the cameras were set and the gaffers, grips, and boom operators were each in their many places. Gaspard had risen from his chair and the costume designer had helped him into his armor. Dorian stayed on set and mentally ran through his lines as he eased himself as deep into his character as he could get. The prop master ran in and given Dorian an elaborately designed but cast plastic staff. It had a glass “crystal” at its head and Dorian lit it with a green wisp of veil fire, much to the man’s apparent unease. As Gaspard walked across the room to join him, Dorian closed his eyes and collected himself then let his expression harden into that of a blood mage willing to do anything for power. It was an expression he knew how to reproduce; he had seen it before.
When his eyes opened again, he was Cassius, or as much ‘Cassius’ as he would ever be, and watched with cold eyes as Gaspard took his position a few steps away from him. He had his helmet on but the face plate flipped up. There some murmurs from around the set as the crew prepared themselves and then Ponchard called for quiet. “Roll cameras!”
“Roll A-Three, Scene Seventeen, Take One!”
The loud snap of a clapboard echoed across the sound stage. Dorian waited three beats then drew himself up. “Ser Reynard, we finally meet.” He had thickened his accent further and sneered at the man. “I had been worried that you would have gotten yourself killed before we were able to speak face to face.”
“No thanks to you,” Gaspard growled back, his body language all pride and aggression. Dorian always had to admit, he was an accomplished actor. There was the sound of the sharp slide of metal on metal and Gaspard drew a longsword from a sheath on his back. Dorian narrowed his eyes on it and tightened his grip on his staff, the veil fire flaring inside it, but he didn’t flinch, holding himself all the straighter as Gaspard leveled the tip of his sword at his throat. Out of the corner of his eyes, Dorian saw a steady cam slide around to get a different angle but kept his gaze focused on Gaspard’s face as he flipped the faceplate on his helmet down. “This madness ends now!”
“I’m afraid not. There is still too much to do.”
“Cut! Get set for the next shot.”
Dorian released a breath and felt his shoulders relax as the crew scurried forward. He made sure not to move his feet as the cameras were moved around but nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned back around to find the Iron Bull standing at his side, a scowling young man behind him dressed in an exact copy of Gaspard’s armor. Huffing out a breath, Dorian rested his hand on his breast, his other gripping his staff. “How in the Maker’s name can someone like you move so silently? Someone ought to put a bell on you.”
“Nah, I’m not into bells.” Bull grinned, though Dorian saw his eye move towards the veil fire. “Ropes and handcuffs maybe, but that’s only usually after the second date."
Did he just…? Dorian’s brows furrowed in disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”
“Too much? Sorry. Go ahead, Krem.” The man behind him pulled on a helmet and Gaspard happily stepped back to allow the young man, Krem apparently, to take his place. “Dorian Pavus, meet Cremisius Aclassi, my lead stuntman.”
Dorian’s eyes brightened and he turned to Krem with renewed interest as the crew continued to adjust the cameras and mics. “Ah, a fellow Tevinter.”
He saw Krem’s grip tighten on his sword before the man offered a single-word acknowledgment. “Altus.”
“Ah.” The interest faded from Dorian’s eyes. It was like that, then.
The Iron Bull actually laughed and clapped Krem hard on the shoulders. “Take it easy on him, Krem. He pays his bills with that face of his, you don’t want to bruise it up.”
An acidic taste flooded Dorian’s mouth and he easily swung his staff around. “I can handle myself, thank you. Now, is this to be choreographed or ad libitum?”
“That depends on how good you are,” Krem responded, his voice muffled behind his helmet.
“Normally we’d like to have a few weeks of training leading up to a fight scene, especially if we’re involving actors,” Bull explained easily, “but they just flew us in and I was told this scene would only require a few blocks and parries. Plus, didn’t expect that you’d want to be involved. But we can either call for a break to work out a short routine or you and Krem can just take a couple of swings at each other and we can see how that looks. I’d only recommend that second part if you’ve been trained, by the way. "
And by the way he was looking at Dorian, he could tell that the Iron Bull doubted that he had. “Let’s go with the second option.”
The Bull blinked in surprise but instead of arguing grinned and slapped Krem on the shoulder one more time before making his way off the set. As he went, Dorian retook his position and nodded at Krem. “Would you like the honors of the first blow?”
“If that’s what you’d like.”
The terseness of his voice built the tension between them higher but Dorian used it to his advantage. As soon as the cameras began to roll he was ready for it as Krem lunged forward. Unlike the sword the prop department provided to Gaspard, which was made of metal, Krem’s longsword was made of a sturdy plastic like Dorian’s staff. The sound of clashing metal would be added in post production.
Krem swung at him but Dorian had his staff up quick enough to block it. He heard Krem huff out a small noise of surprise before he swung again from a different angle with all the ferocity of a man who actually wanted to kill him. This one was less easy to block, the plastic blade of the sword sliding across his staff, and then Krem flicked his wrist and Dorian was forced to jump back to avoid being ‘cut’. Remembering his role, he snapped his head up and smiled darkly at Krem before going on the offensive.
Whipping around in a circle, his robes flying up around his ankles, Dorian spun his staff then swung it down in an arc, a fake blade on the base of the staff flying straight for Krem. Forced back, Krem dove to the side as Dorian swung around again in another attack. Krem managed to block this one and then threw himself forward into a lunge that Dorian just barely managed to block. He used the force of their weapons clacking together to turn and side-step away from the other, Krem’s momentum carrying him a few steps in the opposite direction.
Dorian kept his staff out in front of him as he spun once more to face Krem with a haughty expression. Time to move this scene along as scripted. “Ser Reynard, this has been an…enlightening encounter. I must be going but I already look forward to our next meeting.” With that, he jerked his staff to slam it down against the faux stone floor, knowing that a massive burst of flame would be added in later. Krem actually jerked back at the movement and Dorian couldn’t help but let out a bright laugh as he heard Ponchard call “Cut!” from across the room.
He immediately relaxed his stance and smiled slyly as Krem tugged his helmet off, a light flush still on his cheeks. “I’m sorry, did I startle you?”
Krem scowled and glanced back over his shoulder to watch as the Iron Bull began to make his way back over to them before looking back at Dorian. “Andraste’s arse, I thought you were actually going use magic on me.”
“What, with this?” Dorian raised a brow and twirled his staff once more, feeling inordinately pleased with himself as the Iron Bull joined them with a grin on his scarred face. “I think not. It would hardly stand up to channeling an element without melting or shattering.” And necromancy was certainly out of the questions inside a sound studio. Glancing at the Iron Bull, Dorian raised his chin. It was hard to look down on someone when they were at least a full head taller than you but Dorian gave it his best effort. “As an advanced warning, there will be scenes in which I have been contracted to use magic so we may need to break beforehand and work out a short routine to make sure you and your crew are comfortable.”
Krem rolled his eyes as Dorian echoed the Iron Bull’s words back at him but the Bull’s smile only widened and a new sort of interest lit his eye. “You know what, ‘Vint? You’re alright. And, hell yeah, we’ll work out a routine beforehand. And maybe another routine for when the shoot’s over too.”
Again with this nonsense? Dorian flushed but before he could think of a witty retort, Krem knocked his fist against the Iron Bull’s arm. “Knock it off, Chief…”
“Yeah, yeah.” He brushed Krem’s fist off like it was a fly without shifting his attention from Dorian. “That was pretty damn good, big guy. Where did you learn moves like that?”
“In Tevinter, Altus are trained from in early age in a variety of near-useless skills and in Circles that includes classic dueling techniques,” Dorian answered easily, comfortable again with himself now that Krem had derailed Bull’s teasing. He heard Krem huff something out under his breath but didn’t spend the energy to try to interpret it, knowing it was not likely to be complementary. “Additionally, stage acting doesn’t typically allow the luxury of switching out with a stunt double so I picked up a few techniques from that as well.”
“Hmm. Well, I’m impressed.”
Before the Bull could compliment him more, at least that’s what Dorian could only assume he was about to do, their conversation was interrupted as Ponchard appeared at Dorian’s elbow. The weasely man looked positively gleeful and all at once Dorian was slightly disappointed that he and Krem had both managed themselves so well. “That was just what we needed, Dorian. I think that first take will do it. It seems you are finally beginning to earn your pay.”
He saw the Bull straightening up on his other side but Dorian ignored him for a moment in order to smile broadly at Ponchard, the expression feeling tight on his face. “So good to hear I measure up to the high quality always demanded on set. I would not want to cheat you out of a single penny of the generous amount of money I am being paid for this production.” Sincerity dripped from his words to the point where a man with a sharper mind would have found it to be an insult.
Ponchard clearly didn’t. “I am glad to hear it. Now, prepare yourself for the next scene.”
Dorian kept his smile on his face until Ponchard left at which point Dorian rolled his eyes. “That man…” Lifting his gaze he found both the Bull’s and Krem’s eyes on him and shame washed through him at the realization that they had witnessed him practically prostrating himself at Ponchard’s feet. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen…” He turned and neither of them tried to stop him as he walked away.