Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cullen had a history with mages. Once upon a time, after imprisonment and torture, he let his pain and fear rule him. Let it turn him into a man he wasn’t proud to be. He spent the next decade trying to atone for his sins through self-flagellation and a move to the Inquisition. With a subsequent move into lyrium withdrawal. He supposed that fed back into the self-flagellation in a vicious cycle of ‘Oh sweet Maker, I hate myself’, but he preferred not to think on it too deeply. As long as he kept himself in check; kept striving to do better, to be better, then he’d be alright. It worked too. For a time. Until the sky ripped open and a cranky little dwarf with a glowing green hand showed up. Things went weird after that, and the carefully balanced action plan for his life went skittering down the mountainside.

Everyone was celebrating the successful closing of the breach; dancing, drinking, laughter filled the camp. That was when the screaming started. A soldier ran up to him. “Commander! An army approaches! They number in the hundreds, maybe thousands. Many more than us.” He pointed toward the gate as Cullen went running.

No no no. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He had to keep people safe. That was his duty. He’d just reached the gates when Han and the others did. “Cullen?” Cassandra asked, a note of worry in her otherwise strong demeanor. Han stared at him expectantly.

“One watchguard reporting. It’s a massive force, the bulk over the mountain.” Cullen said as he pointed at the gate, and the mountain pass beyond.

“Under what banner?” Josephine asked.

Cullen spared her a steady look. “None.”

She jerked back in shock. “None?”

The gates to the stronghold shuddered on their hinges and a red glow could be seen, the hissing whoosh of fireballs heard. And then a voice. “If someone could open this, I’d appreciate it!”
Cullen drew his sword as Han approached the gate, one of the guardsman pushing it open with caution. A man knelt, holding himself upright with a single white knuckled grip on his staff, as a ring of dead Venatori surrounded him. He trembled, trying to stand as everyone rushed toward him. “Ah! I’m here to warn you. Fashionably late, I’m afraid.” He stumbled, would have fallen over had Cullen not reached out to catch him. Ice cold leather, ice cold skin; a fitting physical feeling to match the situation. “Mite exhausted, don’t mind me. My name is Dorian Pavus, and I bring grave news from Redcliffe; an army of rebel mages, right behind me.”

Dorian went on to explain about the rebel mages joining the Elder One under a woman named Calpernia. Cullen shuddered at the idea. He knew what greatness the Templars were capable of, but he also knew just what mages were capable of when backed into a corner. His mind flashed back to Kinloch, to a cage of purple light where he sat trapped with the dead bodies of his fellows. Dorian gave him an assessing look as Han turned to him.

“Cullen! Give me a plan! Anything.” Han shouted, shaking him from his thoughts.

Everything fell apart after that. “For a Templar, you think like a blood mage!” Dorian’s words had hit a deeper nerve than the man could have thought. Yet when Cassandra whipped around with alarm on her face and Varric leveled a glare at Dorian, he backed off. They nixed a few ideas until the last standing trebuchet remained their only hope. The Herald himself lead the suicide run, spewing expletives and cursing the Maker as he went. Cullen helped herd everyone else through the pathway Chancellor Roderick pointed out, while the Herald and his team ran to the gates.

The newcomer, Dorian, was supporting the Chancellor as they lead the procession. Between checking in on everyone, Cullen kept glaring at the back of his head. It wasn’t Dorian’s status as a Tevene mage that had him on edge. He’d have been suspicious of anyone who showed up during their most dire hour. Especially with convenient knowledge of the enemy force marching across their front yard. The man’s attitude seemed flippant at best, and ruinous at worst. Cullen would not sit idly by and let anyone, no matter how eager to help, bring harm to his people.

~~~~~

Tucked behind a secret panel in a side room, a tunnel opened onto a narrow footpath. The occasional tree root would pop through the snow like a broken ankle just waiting to happen. Dorian dispatched a quick fireball on them, leaving only a small pile of ash. It was all he could do while focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Exhaustion filled his bones with heavy iron as he supported the weight of another man.

Another stumble left Dorian hissing in sympathy at the Chancellor's pained groan. He slowed them to a stop. “I should check on your wound, Chancellor.” He tried to reach for him, but a weak hand gripped his wrist and pointed onward down the path. Dorian pursed his lips and started them moving again. “I’m far from a healer, you know. Rejuvenating spells were never my area of expertise. To be honest, my specialization is necromancy. Yet I do have a few low level healing spells in my repertoire. If you’ll allow me?”

Roderick turned his head enough to give Dorian a sideways glance. “Any healing spell you were capable of casting would be best used on yourself, child. I see how tired you are. How tired we all are. And yet here you are carrying the both of us when you don’t even have the strength for yourself. Andraste has chosen her Herald and his disciples wisely. She has called out to the furthest reaches and brought together the people we most need to save this world. I only regret that I will not be able to experience it first hand.”

“Well that’s certainly the most optimistically pessimistic thing I’ve heard all day. Look, there’s a healer twenty people back. Just there, in that ratty blue leather monstrosity.” Dorian nodded back over his shoulder at a woman flitting from one injury to the next.

Roderick huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Lienelle is our only healer. She’s more used to delivering babies in the middle of the night than healing an old man run through on a sword. Besides, there is one of her and dozens more wounded. Let the ones who’ll survive this journey have use of her skills.”

“Ah yes, skills.” Dorian spat the word. “As long as they are good and wholesome skills, they are revered and respected. But let’s say I did specialize in healing spells. Could you imagine any of your flock coming to me for healing? A Tevene mage! After all those Venatori just tried to cut us down. I came to the Inquisition because I want to help. If anything I do will make even the smallest difference, change even a few minds, then it’ll have been a risk worth taking. Even if the south is too cold, and Fereldons so uncouth.”

“Oh, my son. The harder the journey, the sweeter the destination. The Maker has destined you for great things.” Roderick coughed out the words, flecks of blood on his lips.
Dorian shook his head and adjusted his grip on the man. “I must be more tired than I thought. Here I am seeking spiritual comfort from a man who is literally dying in my arms. While I do appreciate your sentiment, I still apologize for baring myself in the first place. Far bigger things to worry on at the moment, I’m afraid.”

They’d reached a wide, flat meadow on the edge of the path. Cullen started to slow people down in preparation of stopping to make camp for the night. One of the healer’s aids came and gently took Chancellor Roderick from his grasp. He refused to go until Dorian promised to visit him later. He acquiesced, unsure but willing. The Chancellor had certainly been kind enough to him during the journey. Dorian turned to head toward the back of the camp, picking his way between tents. Sparing a second to meet Cullen's gave, he turned to help someone light a fire and pull a rope tight on a sagging tent. No thanks were offered, but he didn’t stay long enough to hear them anyway.

Chapter Text

Dorian was kneeling at Roderick’s side, holding the man’s hand as he inched toward death. Despite their differences, they’d both worked toward the same goal in their own ways. They left death and destruction behind them, and would face plenty more. He found comfort in his ability to smooth anyone's journey to the Maker. They held a brief conversation before he became too far gone to speak, but Dorian carried on. He hoped that the murmured words brought him some sort of comfort. Cullen approached the tent as he was telling Roderick of his childhood. The good parts of it, anyway.

“May I have a moment of your time?” He ran a hand behind his neck, his gaze flickering to and fro.

Dorian narrowed his eyes. A nervous Commander of the Inquisition’s forces with lots of empty snow drifts around to hide a body in. He nodded slowly. “Of course. To what do I owe the honor, Commander?” 

“Not here. The Chancellor needs his rest.” Cullen gestured off to the side. Dorian followed with a sigh. 

“Leading me out into the snowy wilds, where no one can hear me scream. A fitting end to a life, I suppose.” Dorian followed a few steps behind, arms crossed over his chest.

“What? I.. No! I’m not going to hurt you. Maker’s breath, I’m trying to apologize! S’no time like the present. Such as it may be.” Cullen said.

“Snow time like… Was that a pun? Are you sure you haven’t lead me here in order to pun me to death? This is snow joking matter, you know.” Dorian raised an eyebrow.

Cullen closed his eyes. “Look, I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay. Things moved pretty quickly back at Haven. Now that we seem to have a moment to breathe, everyone is spending it glaring at you. People are… concerned, and wary of newcomers, but that does not give them right to treat you this way.”

“Concerned and wary? That’s certainly one way to put it. I’ve taken worse treatment before and I shall in the future. I’ve also given worse to those who endeavor to do me wrong with genuine ill will. Unless someone has plans to come at me with a dagger while I sleep, they’re quite safe from me.”

Cullen started to nod, stopped, and stared at Dorian. “Wait. What was that you said a second ago? Snow joking matter? And you accused me of puns!”

Dorian put a hand to his chest, mock offense written on his face. “You wound me! My humor and wit are as sharp as your sword. Sharper, even.” He paused, crossing his arms before dropping the humor in his voice. “Why are you so bothered over how people are treating me, anyway? They have reason to suspect me, Commander. A mage from Tevinter? After what happened in Haven, I’m only waiting to be told when to leave. Will it be once everyone is safe? Once you have a destination? Up until this point I served a purpose by helping Roderick walk, but now he is not long for this world. If you need me to go, I shall depart. I wish to stay and help, but I will not linger where I’m not welcome.”

“Where would you even go? Leaving now is a death sentence. I don’t even know where we’re going, but turning back is not an option and Maker knows what's ahead.” Cullen shrugged. 

Dorian gave him an assessing look. “Firstly, I’m appalled you think me incapable of taking care of myself even in the ass end of the Frostbacks. Secondly,  you are under no obligation to go out of your way for me. I’m here, offering my help, until such time it becomes deemed unnecessary. You needn’t bother yourself with olive branches and friendliness. I know my place, and I shan’t be forgetting it.” 

“It’s not obligation. You risked everything to give us as much forewarning as possible. Every single person in this camp is here because you made it possible. They may be good people, but they’re selling you short. Don’t follow their example.” Cullen reached out, clasping Dorian’s elbow. 

Dorian yanked his arm from Cullen’s grasp. “It’s not selling myself short, Commander. Merely experience. I’ve run into this time and again since leaving my homeland. Trust me when I say that anything I come across here is nothing compared to what I left behind in Tevinter. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going.”

Cullen watched as he stormed off through the shin deep snow and picked his way back to the medical tent. Even with his furred cloak, the wind carried a harsh bite as he curled his shoulders. A crunch of snow and harsh breathing behind him caught his attention. He leaped into action when he saw the man dropping to his knees. "Thank the Maker, it's him! It's the Herald!" Han was nearly frozen solid from his trek, his painful groans filling the air. Cassandra and the others had come running at his shouts, and she helped rush the Herald to the healers. Dorian kept his spot next to Roderick, letting the others fuss over Han without getting in the way.

Slurring worse than a drunkard, Han tried to pull the blankets off of himself. He took weak swings at anyone who got near him. “M’tired. Jus’ leave me alone. Wanna sleep.” Cullen attempted to wrestle Han back onto his cot while medical aids tugged at wet clothing. Dorian rolled his eyes and huffed, finally shoving into the fray.

“Here. Strong people, do try and hold him still. Medically trained people, get whatever you find necessary for treating exposure and Dwarven stubbornness.” Dorian rubbed his hands together, calling upon heat spells to dry clothing. After heating the blankets, Han settled down and fell into a quiet sleep. Cullen turned to him, mouth open to speak, but Dorian held up a hand and shook his head. He watched as Cullen shouldered out of the tent and headed straight to the makeshift war table. He kept an ear to the adviser’s conversation when it turned into shouting, but thought better of adding his voice to the maelstrom. It simply wasn’t his place, and they were a lot better armed than he was. Instead, he settled back on his haunches as he felt Roderick’s spirit slipping further away. Some might question his Necromancy as morbid and distasteful, but Dorian enjoyed the deep respect for life and death it awarded him. The Chancellor had spoken of the Herald and how he’d been wrong to be so hard on him. His belief was turning to Han truly being sent by the Maker to save them. He regretted that his was an ugly role in the story, but was grateful he knew of the path to help them in his own way. The man had been troublesome, but still deserved respect in his final moments. They all deserved that, and far too few of them would receive it before the end of this. Whatever this was.