Homecoming
(3,876 words; Dorian/m!Lavellan; angst, post-Trespasser)
written for a Florence + The Machine prompt from @greypetrel : “Can you protect me from what I want? The lover who let me in, who left me so lost?”
read on AO3
On a summer night, the Pavus estate stands empty.
Not empty of visitors or of the presence of its owner - empty of everyone. There are no guards at the gates or in the garden; no cooks in the kitchen; no servants in the hallways. Its rooms are cold and unlit, illuminated only by moonlight breaking through the large windows and painting bright geometric shapes over surfaces and decorations.
In the study upstairs, one of those shapes falls directly over an armchair with a small wooden table by its side. On the table, a freshly opened bottle of wine; in the chair, the last remaining resident of the estate raises a glass to his lips, appreciating the fine vintage.
A staff rests balanced on his knees. An artisan dwarven clock with twelve handles ticks away on the wall beside him.
Magister Dorian Pavus drinks his wine, and waits for the man who is supposed to come kill him.
*
“All staff have been escorted off the premises, Magister.”
“Marvelous; thank you, Valeria.”
The captain of his guards regards him with a look that is familiar: respect, alertness - and the slightest hint of suspicion. She is saying, without speaking a single word aloud: you are behaving unusually, and I would like to know whether my job of keeping you alive is about to get harder.
“What are our orders?” she asks.
Unfortunately, she will not like the answer Dorian has for her.
“Go home,” he says. “Forget everything you’ve seen and heard here today.”
If she has an immediate reaction to his words, it doesn’t register on her face. Wait, no - it does, just very subtly; a slight tilt of her head to the side, a twitch of her brow.
She’s saying: excuse me?
“Magister, I beg your pardon, but I’ve been led to understand that someone will attempt to assassinate you tonight.”
Valeria is highly professional. A slight emphasis on the word “assassinate” is all she allows herself as an attempt to communicate extreme incredulity to her employer.
“Exactly - and I want you to be as far away as possible when it happens.” He sees the resistance brewing beneath her composed exterior and adds, quickly, before she has a chance to speak again: “This is an order.”
The resolve drains from her at once; an expression of defiance becomes one of defeat. She will not argue; this is above her station.
“Yes, Magister.”
Her tone, though subdued, is unbearably miserable; he can’t possibly end the conversation on this note.
“Oh, don’t look so grim; you don’t have to shop for a new employer quite yet,” Dorian says. “I can assure you that I have every intention to survive the night - and, when I do, I’d like to have your services still available to me. That last part will be tricky if you are dead; reanimated guards have fallen out of fashion, I’m told.”
Confusion, writ large across her face; the veneer of professionalism broken.
“This is about protecting me ?”
“This is about protecting all of you, if I can help it. You are very skilled, and I would trust you with my life - I do , in fact, trust you with my life, regularly - against any threat but this one. If you are here when he comes, you’ll be in his way, and you will die.”
Her brow furrows. He’s gotten through to her; there was enough gravity in his words to make her realize that his decision to send her away isn’t a foolish whim.
“And yet you will survive… him?”
“I certainly plan to. Now - ” Dorian raises an eyebrow - “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
Valeria nods shortly and hastily collects herself; their little moment of eye-to-eye sincerity has passed.
“Of course.” She hesitates. “...Have a good evening, Magister.”
The setting sun shines in bright oranges and reds on the back of her armor as she walks away.
*
In the moonlit garden of the estate, there are shadows.
Their presence is subtle and easily overlooked. Their footsteps make no sound; their clothes blend perfectly with the dark greens and grays of the night, hiding them behind pillars and in foliage, in solid blocks of shadow and in the mottled patterns of bright moonlight filtering through leaves.
There are twenty-seven of them, in total. Fifteen serve the Divine, and have traveled to Minrathous in secret from various corners of Thedas. The remaining twelve are Dalish, who have made the long, long trek from Wycome to one of the most dangerous places for their kind - just to be here tonight.
Some of them are on the outer side of the fence. None of them are inside the building. They are scattered across the perimeter, and, when the intruder comes, they will make no attempt to stop him.
They are not a wall keeping him out; they are the iron teeth of the bear trap, waiting to close on him once he has taken the bait.
*
The morning sun reflects off the crystal embedded in his transmitter amulet, each facet polished to perfection. He’d be able to spot his reflection in one of those quite easily, had he tried.
He doesn’t.
“Tonight, then,” Dorian says. “Are you sure?”
A small blue glow ignites inside of the crystal for a fraction of a moment, indicating that his message has been sent properly. Some seconds pass as the other party speaks their response, and then the amulet vibrates with the familiar voice of the Inquisition’s former spymaster - or, as she is more widely known these days, Divine Victoria.
As always, the sound of her speech comes with a pinprick of irritation in his chest. This is not what this amulet is for, and no, he has not gotten over that gripe after four years of it being used in this way.
Still, it would be foolish not to use it at all. The ability to instantly communicate between Minrathous and Val Royeaux has granted them an immense advantage in their hunt.
“As usual, we don’t have much evidence when it comes to his intentions - but what we do have shows that it is likely.”
Dorian allows himself a moment to process her words, taking his thumb off the back of the amulet so that it would not record and send the sound of him taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it, with only the slightest shudder at the end.
He always knew that this was a possibility; hoped for it, even, on some of the worst (and best) days.
He tries to parse his own feelings. Fear is certainly present, his self-preservation instinct kicking in (good - it’s still working). There is also anxiety - different from fear; the vague tremble of uncertainty rather than a call to action - and something like… excitement.
Hope, even?
No. Not hope. He’s made some good progress from the point of denying himself hope for anything at all, but hoping for the best in this particular scenario feels too daunting.
Excitement, however, is something he can definitely work with. He did always love a challenge.
The amulet vibrates in his palm again.
“Is everything alright?”
He puts his thumb back on the warm copper.
“Never mind the pause; I’m still here. Now, what are our plans for tonight?”
*
The Magister finishes his glass of wine and sets it aside. He looks at the bottle for a moment too long, but does not reach for it.
This was his first and last glass for tonight. It was certainly good, even though he could barely taste it after the first sip; his mind is elsewhere, try as he might to anchor himself in the present.
For a moment, he thinks that he hears footsteps echoing downstairs, but he dismisses the thought. The sentries will not enter the building - and it couldn’t have been him , either.
His hand, idle without the glass, moves to rest on the grip of his staff.
The Magister knows: when he shows up, no one will hear any footsteps.
*
The first of the Dalish arrive soon after Valeria leaves.
Two figures at his front gate; two elven women with scarves on their heads, their faces bare, carrying large baskets. Servants; no one would look twice.
Through the study window, Dorian sees the taller of the two set her basket down and stretch; as she does, her hands form the signal gesture that was described to him.
He activates the spell inscribed into the wrought iron, and the gates swing open of their own accord, letting the two women inside.
He comes downstairs just as the front door opens. The first thing to cross the threshold is is one the baskets, which look even more enormous up close; the women haul them in and set them down unceremoniously, the shorter of the two slamming the door shut behind her.
Both of them acknowledge him with a brief glance before beginning to furiously wipe their faces with their scarves, removing the thick layer of makeup that was necessary to hide their vallaslin.
“Would you like some water?” he asks.
The taller - and older - woman takes the scarf away from her face, meeting his eyes in earnest for the first time. Hers are brown and warm, just as he remembers; her hair, also a painfully familiar brown, has more grey streaks than it did the last time he’d seen her.
Four years and six months ago.
His last visit to Wycome before he left for Minrathous; the last time he has seen her son.
“Would you like some water” is not, by any means, an adequate greeting for the situation they’re in, but - even after years of imagining their next conversation - he doesn’t have anything better.
To his own surprise, Dorian realizes that a significant amount of his fear has nothing to do with the impending attempt on his life, and everything to do with meeting her again.
Adria Lavellan smiles - a small, humorous smile; just a quirk of her lips and a slight rise of her eyebrows - and nods.
“Yes, thank you. Both to drink and to wash up.”
Nothing about her tone or demeanor is hostile. She’s friendly, and the attitude she projects suggests that she is genuinely glad to see him again.
Something in his chest tightens and tightens until it hurts. He tries to say something in response, but finds his mind horrifyingly blank, and his tongue heavy.
He silently nods and walks away.
More elves arrive. Most of them come in pairs; some come in a group of three, or alone. All in the guise of servants.
Many of them carry baskets. Inside - armor, weapons and traps.
The sun disappears below the horizon, the sky painted twilight purple in its absence.
When he speaks to Adria again, she has donned a set of ironbark armor - her husband’s finest work, no doubt - and is in the process of stringing a longbow.
It’s strange to see her like this. Every time Dorian has met her in the past, she wore dresses and aprons and seemed to prefer the role of hearthkeeper; here, she is in charge of a party of eleven, armed to the teeth.
He starts by complimenting her armor. She thanks him with the same small smile; still unbelievably non-hostile. She compliments his house in turn.
Be it any other person, Dorian would have interpreted her attitude as cleverly disguised contempt - but this is Adria Lavellan ; he knows her, and he knows the son she raised, and she would not lie to him.
He wants to ask her a question.
How -
No, why -
Does she -
“I’m sorry that I couldn’t write to you,” Adria says all of a sudden. “If the Inquisition was still around, they could have gotten my letter to Minrathous - but without them, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
She’s throwing him a lifeline, giving him an easy topic for conversation - and, shamefully, he elects to take it.
There is, at least, a question he can ask here.
“…Why would you want to write to me?“
The words come out without his usual flair. Flat. Vulnerable.
Thank the Maker that no one else seems to be listening, for the moment.
She regards him kindly with her warm, brown eyes.
“I lost my parents and my first husband almost at the same time. I remember what it feels like; I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I’m glad that you held up well.”
“…Well. Yes.” Dorian clears his throat. “I try. I - “
This is the perfect place to say something clever, perhaps some witty remark about his father’s demise, but the words do not come. This woman’s presence is equal parts comforting and terrifying to him, and it causes his brain to stop working.
He must do something about this. Now . He absolutely cannot remain a bumbling fool around - around his - around Neilar’s mother.
Dorian takes a deep breath.
“Why are you so calm?” he asks. “Why - “ his voice quivers - “Why are you not furious with me?”
A slight frown appears on her face as she parses his words.
“Well,” she says after a moment’s pause, “Those are two questions, and I’ll answer both. Why am I so calm: I’m not. I’m worried, and scared, and angry, and many other things - but those feelings are for me, not for the world. Sharing them with the world right now won’t help me or my children. And for the second question, I’m not aware of anything I should be furious about.” She tilts her head to the side slightly and perks up her left ear, which is closest to him. “ Have you done something I should be angry about?”
…Yes? No? He has spent countless sleepless nights trying to answer this exact question, and he still has no idea.
Is he to blame for what happened? Should he have postponed his return to Tevinter? Should he have been more thorough with his questions when he spoke to her son through the amulet that is now being held by the Divine?
Should he have dragged him away from that bloody Well by force before he could ever drink?
“I don’t know,” Dorian says.
Adria’s gaze lingers on him for a moment, inspecting him.
Judging?
Then, she nods and turns her attention back to the bow.
“I don’t blame you for what happened,” she says. “Not any more than I blame him. Everything you two did, you did out of love, and it was right; now we must deal with the consequences. I don’t like those consequences, but I don’t think that you could have chosen to do anything differently. If you could, you would have been different people.”
It’s not forgiveness or absolution, but it is something much more precious: acceptance.
*
A creature walks through an empty hall.
Despite the dry summer night, beads of condensation shimmer on the edges of its form. Its movements make no sound, save for a faint dripping noise.
The creature has taken nineteen lives so far. Thirteen throats slit open, bodies found in pools of their own blood; three of them Dalish Keepers, one a First. One a Tevene Magister.
Six more bodies found drowned or strangled, floating face-down in a body of water or inexplicably buried in undisturbed soil. All six served what remained of the Inquisition; all six died on duty.
Thirteen assassinations. Six casualties.
In the Magister’s study, the temperature begins to drop.
*
He was right - there are no footsteps. In fact, there is nothing at all; not even an ominous whisper on the wind, a creaking door or the howling of wolves in the night to herald the intruder’s arrival.
The doorway is empty. Then, Dorian blinks, and it’s not empty anymore.
His only exit out of the study that isn’t a window is blocked by a wraith with glowing eyes the color of veilfire. The dark figure stands unmoving just past the threshold, every detail of it obscured by shadow.
Tonight is the night.
His entire body tenses as fight-or-flight kicks in; he forces himself to relax again, easing back into the chair. He remembers the investigations of previous murders; the target was never struck on sight. There will be a trigger, something that will set off the assault.
Outside, twenty-seven fighters are getting into position.
“You came, then,” Dorian says. His voice does not betray him, thank the Maker; it manages to produce the exact amount of sarcastic aloofness he had hoped for. “And all I needed to do was to get rid of my guards and staff and sit alone in the dark for a couple of hours. Who knew it was that easy?”
The figure steps forward, over the threshold and into the rectangle of moonlight streaming in from behind Dorian’s back. At once, it ceases to be a shadow and becomes a material presence.
A revenant.
His face is pale in the moonlight, the green vallaslin of Ghilan’nain appearing dark grey. Scratches and dirt on every visible part of his skin; grown-out, unkempt hair with leaves and twigs caught in it. Eyes glassy, pupils glowing veilfire green.
When he speaks, his voice is low and rasping, barely familiar - but familiar nonetheless.
A single word.
“Vhenan.”
Fuck. He can’t do this. This is too much - this is wrong - he can’t -
No. It’s too late now. Either he sees this through, or he dies.
“Amatus,” Dorian states dryly. “Long time no see. Next time you decide to become possessed and disappear forever, maybe leave a note? ‘Dear Dorian, just letting you know that I’ll be away for a while. The ancient spirits I let into my brain have finally claimed my soul and I’m going to spend four and a half years murdering people on their behalf. You were right about everything and I should have listened to you. Love, Neilar.’ ”
It feels good, at least. Sure, he’s just rambling to buy a few more minutes for the people outside - but, while he’s at it, he might as well get some things off his chest.
Now that he’s been forced to work through the fear and the guilt at an incredibly fast pace, all that’s left is anger; quite a hefty amount of it, with the name of this glassy-eyed idiot written on it in giant glowing letters.
“Or how about using the amulet? You know - the magical marvel I invented specifically for the purpose of talking to you? It didn’t cross your mind to maybe mention all the sleepwalking and speaking in tongues that was happening? No! It’s all I’m alright, Dorian , and things are fine, Dorian , and I have to spend a month wondering if the amulet is broken before Leliana calls to tell me that you’re gone - ”
A sharp edge against his throat, clutched in ironbark fingers. Appearing without the warning of sound or motion, like Neilar himself.
The others should be about ready by now, shouldn’t they?
Neilar speaks. Ancient elven.
Dorian understands every word; he’s been doing his homework on everything elven and ancient ever since the disappearance.
“The will of Mythal demands your demise.”
The blade presses deeper - fuck - no, not deep enough to end it.
It takes all of his willpower not to start casting. Not yet. This isn’t just about saving his own hide; this is about capturing him for good.
The signal. Any second now. Surely -
*
“...Hold on, just a second - he’s not peeking, right?” Dagna asks, adjusting buckles and leather straps.
“I can’t - he’s covering my eyes!” Neilar protests.
His eyelashes tickle the inside of Dorian’s palms, as if to prove the point.
“Well, good - keep covering them. It’s all wonky and misaligned and you’re not allowed to see it until it sits right.”
Dorian can relate to her fretting. This particular project was, in many ways, a work of passion, and the necessity to finish it as soon as possible only added to the frantic energy of everyone involved. His own part was relatively small; he chimed in at the design stage and provided some arcane support at the tail end of the process, drawing on his necromantic knowledge of animating limbs.
It looks good, though. It should also work well; they’d checked everything a thousand times over.
Dagna finishes the adjustments and leans back to inspect her work from afar. Satisfied, she nods:
“Alright, let him see it.”
He takes his hands away from Neilar’s eyes and steps aside, making sure that he can see Neilar’s expression as he looks at his new prosthetic.
The look in his eyes is blank, at first, processing what he’s looking at. Then - surprise, curiosity; he leans closer to the artificial arm, inspecting it for details.
“Try holding it up to your face instead,” Dagna suggests.
“But how do I - ”
“Don’t think about it too much! Just do it.”
The arm moves, rising up to eye level and turning, allowing Neilar to look at it from different angles.
Silverite-inlaid ironbark, the metallic parts lovingly engraved with images of vines and halla.
Dorian can see the exact moment when Neilar finds the writing hidden among the designs. His lips move silently as he reads the text.
The same quote in elven, dwarven and Tevene, snaking along the vines:
“Wounded and blinded, I will find my way home.”
A line adapted from the tale of Ghilan’nain, changed ever so slightly to make it into an oath; the same oath Neilar had taken, years ago, upon completing the trial to earn him a place among the clan’s scouts.
Despite the recent revelations from Solas, it seemed appropriate. Dorian doesn’t remember who was the first to float the idea for adding text, but the approving look he received from Taren - Neilar’s father - upon suggesting that particular quote has been firmly burned into his memory.
And yet… This is all fine and good, but the most important question is -
“It’s… perfect.” Neilar sounds almost puzzled, as if liking their gift is a surprise to him. “I didn’t know what it would look like, but now - I can’t imagine it looking any other way.”
Dorian feels something inside of him deflate with relief. Neilar keeps inspecting the prosthetic, turning it this way and that, then starts playing with it, testing how far the fingers can bend and how quickly he can shift from one gesture to another.
It’s not as good as the real thing, it’s a little slower; Dorian knows that for a fact.
Still, right now Neilar doesn’t seem to mind; after messing with the hand some more, he shifts his attention to Dagna and pulls her into a hug, thanking her. Then, it’s Dorian’s turn.
The hug is tight enough to make his ribs hurt.
For the first time in weeks, it feels as if everything will be alright, after all.
*
A sharp whistle cuts through the silence.
Neilar freezes, both ears perked up. Distracted.
At the sound of the signal, relief floods Dorian's system. He feels the corners of his mouth twist into a smile of their own accord.
“I still love you, for the record,” he says, “But letting you slit my throat is a little too much, don’t you think?”
With a snap of his fingers, the lightning glyph he’d drawn on the floor of the study hours ago detonates.
38 notes
·
View notes
Dorian with a Darling who does body painting and is determined😏 to make him their newest masterpiece..... although it might be a project best left for Darling's eyes only 🤭
Dorian’s fingers still over his phone at the work of art displayed on its screen. The painting is gorgeous, yes. He assumes the model must be rather attractive as well, but it’s obvious with your level of talent you could make anyone look ethereal. He’s not the least bit interested in the model, the canvas. He has to know more about the person behind the paintbrushes and air brushes, behind the camera. He has to know more about you.
( MDNI, No Age in Bio DNI )
CW: murder, smut, jealousy, praise kink, unprofessional work environment, technically Dorian is Darling’s employer;;; post-sex photography
Info: gn reader, no agab mentioned; switch/dom reader; switch/sub yandere
Dorian invited you to stay in his home to pursue your art more freely, but his bitterness at you bringing home “random tramps” to paint wears away at his nerves. He certainly doesn’t feel himself to be a prime candidate for artistic inspiration or photographs, but he can’t stand you spending so much time with other people. The curse of your line of work is that need for a living canvas; a need he cannot deny you, or else your art will enchant no longer.
He kills your models when you’re through with them. If you ever question why none return your calls to work with you again, you don’t mention it to him. You don’t talk much to him at all. It’s both comforting and frustrating. He wants to hear your thoughts, but he never knows what to say in response.
Imagine his surprise upon learning you want him to be your canvas— that you were even feeling a bit shy about asking him to sit for you.
“You’ve already done so much, I don’t want to trouble you more…”
“Nonsense! If anything—” Dorian seems to realize his tone is too passionate, too loud, and coughs self-consciously into his sleeve before continuing more quietly— “if anything, it would be an honor.”
~~~
Dorian is mostly bare, his last vestige of modesty a blanket covering his privates. He tries so hard not to squirm under your gaze as you evaluate the planes and curves of his body. He has to fight for that stillness even harder at the cold touch of paint on his skin, knowing that it’s you who’s adorning him like this, making him into art. Your art.
If you notice him trembling and breathing a little shallowly as cover his face, then arms, then chest in a base layer to protect his skin followed by swathes of deep blue paint, mercifully you don’t say so.
Dorian is beginning to relax, patting himself on the back for being so normal when he feels a swipe of primer across his hip and jolts away with a gasp, eyes shooting open.
You jolt back too, drawing your hands back to yourself, apologizing profusely.
Dorian swallows down the lump in his throat, willing his heart to stop sending so much damn blood down south. His ears are ringing. He clears his throat again, avoiding your eye. “I should be the one apologizing… you are only doing what we agreed to…”
He coughs again, hiding himself from you as best he can. “I-I’m afraid it’s just been… rather a long time since somebody has touched me… there…”
Oh. Here you were, so afraid to paint your handsome benefactor, and he was even more nervous than you!
Dorian cringes away at your laugh, beautiful though it is. He relaxes when you take his hand in yours, kissing the back of his knuckles.
“It’s okay to feel that way. It happens surprisingly often.”
Dorian frowns at the thought of other people in his spot. Did you hold their hands too? Kiss their skin, smudge the paint drying there? Dorian turns his head to kiss your hand in turn, watching the gentle laughter dry in your throat at his heated look. “And what do you usually do when that happens?”
“I…” you swallow harshly, looking away. “I usually leave the room so the model can compose themself…”
Dorian hums, kissing up your wrist and nipping at the skin when you answer. “And what if I don’t want you to leave? What if… I want you to stay?”
Your head spins with sudden heat as Dorian pulls you into a kiss, smearing blue paint all over your lips and nose. You’re out of breath long before he lets you go, sucking down air greedily and giggling a little at the absurdity of it all. Dorian pulls you even closer, guiding your hand to his cock.
You gently pull him out from under the blanket. He’s dripping already. You smear pre-cum with your thumb, licking your lips as Dorian shudders and tilts forward to rest his forehead against yours. His eyelids flutter with every stroke, soft whispers of your name leaving his lips like a prayer.
He’s beautiful like this, and you tell him so. Dorian whines. His gasps of your name only grow louder, his cock twitching harder as you continue to praise him— no matter how much he shakes his head in denial of your sweet words.
He cums hard, white splattering across his painted stomach. You coax him to lay back in a more comfortable position, petting his hair and reassuring him he did a good job for you, before taking out your camera and snapping some pictures to start a… private collection.
117 notes
·
View notes