Chapter Text
Dorian Pavus didn’t believe in love.
For “Vints” like him – men who exclusively preferred the company of other men – romance only existed in fairy tales and books. A thing fabricated for silly, rich girls that only ended in disappointment and disillusionment once the marriage had been arranged. Certainly, not all Tevinter couplings were unhappy ones – he had only to think of the loving relationship between Gereon Alexius and his cherished wife. Yet it was still only an exception to the rule.
And, not only had it ended, it had ended spectacularly badly. It was her death that had driven Alexius beyond the brink of sanity. According to Felix – Gereon’s only son and Dorian’s best friend – his father would have done anything to see his mother again, even if it meant risking a rift in the very fabric of the world in order to travel back in time.
Such dangerous magic had caught the eye of the Venatori. Unable to resist their slick, oily promises to save his dying son, Alexius had used his amulet against not only the Herald and his men, but his protégé Dorian, as well. If it hadn’t been for Maxwell Trevelyan by his side in that disturbing future, Dorian would have surely gone mad.
Dorian had wondered if Trevelyan, able to smile at tragedy after traipsing unperturbed through the piles of corpses, and seeing his friends eaten by red lyrium in that gods-forsaken future, weren’t a little mad himself. In retrospect, Dorian believed that a more rational man would have broken down. Instead, Trevelyan’s unfathomable optimism that they would not only survive but also prevail against the impossible odds buoyed Dorian’s spirits enough to fight.
And fight they had.
Much to everyone’s surprise, they were victorious.
Safely ensconced back in their own time, Dorian had trusted the Herald enough to press Alexius’ amulet upon him. Solemn, Dorian had made his heartfelt suggestion. You should destroy this before it falls into the wrong hands.
Thoughtful, Trevelyan had turned it over in his own hands, as if seeing it for the very first time. We don’t know what the consequences would be, he finally said. Until we figure out a way to destroy it, we’ll keep it safe.
Dorian didn’t argue. As a fellow mage, Trevelyan was well aware of the machinations of magic. More importantly – though Dorian couldn’t have explained why – he trusted the Herald implicitly. This despite the fact that there was nothing particularly heroic about Trevelyan – in addition to his idiosyncratic behavior, he was a squat, somewhat dumpy middle-aged man, whose robes were ill-fitting and far from the height of fashion, and less than average when it came to looks. In fact, if Dorian had passed him on the street, he wouldn’t have looked at the man twice.
In fact, of all the men at Haven, Dorian was hard pressed to find one handsome enough to turn his head. He may not have been looking for love, but sex – well, that was entirely another thing altogether. He’d had quite enough of fucking toothless pig farmers for coin since he’d fled to the south, thank you very much. His next man of the night would have to fulfill a higher set of criteria. But, given his meager options, Dorian was convinced that he’d be sleeping alone for quite sometime.
Until he met Cullen Rutherford.
***
The first time he’d seen the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces was in Haven. Security in the small mountain town could be described as lax, at best, so, unimpeded, Dorian had just strode into the meeting in the War Room, bold as brass and all business. So focused on Trevelyan, the only familiar face from his meeting with the Inquisition at Redcliff, Dorian had scarcely spared much more than a glance at the other people in the room. Without much ado, he’d delivered his offer to help stop Alexius. Only when the Commander had gently insisted that it wasn’t too late to side with the Templars instead of the mages, did Dorian really notice him.
Fair-skinned, blond, muscular and tall, with shoulders made even broader by the somewhat ostentatious fur stole he wore, he was exactly Dorian’s type. Unfortunate that he was so antagonistic towards mages. Nor did it escape Dorian’s notice how distant the man was around the Herald, and when he spoke, it was with the cool tone that was often reserved for one’s subordinates.
We can’t, in good conscience, order you to do this, Cullen had said. Though – in Dorian’s opinion – it was rather obvious that the ex-Templar would have actually preferred having the power to boss the Herald around, to make the decision to abandon the mages to their fates, conscience or no.
Not the most auspicious beginning of their relationship.
As quickly as Cullen had come up on Dorian’s radar, he had fallen off again. At least until the whole dreadful business with Alexius was concluded, and Dorian followed the Inquisition back to Haven.
While surviving their traumatic ordeal together, Dorian and Trevelyan had bonded. Trevelyan had a sweet, almost too-trusting nature that made him easy to get along with, and it had been a long time since Dorian had been friends with another man, much less one who was a powerful mage like himself. Thus, Dorian willingly accepted Trevelyan’s invitation to join him on various missions, mostly in the Hinterlands, whenever Inquisition business took him away from Haven.
Back in Haven, however, life was dull. Even before the arrival of the Inquisition, Haven had been a sleepy little town, with not much excitement by the way of nightlife, beyond one small and not-very-well-stocked tavern, where Dorian spent most of his evenings and his meager remaining coin drinking cheap wine and trading insults with the lively elvhen girl, Sera, or the Iron Bull and his Chargers. During the days, he slept in late. Still, there were plenty of daylight afternoon hours left to fill, and very few books in the entire town worth reading. He’d even begun borrowing bad romances from Cassandra, with the promise not to tell anyone where he’d gotten them. In particular, the author of said books, one Varric Tethras, who had – according to the dwarf himself – also been conscripted against his will into the Inquisition, and only remained now because he wanted to “see how the story would end.”
Left with time on his hands, Dorian quickly developed a new hobby – going to the training yard just outside the gates to watch the Commander train his new recruits.
With a bad romance in one hand and a flask of watered-down wine in the other, Dorian could settle down in a sunny spot to read. Instead of paying much attention to the words on the pages, however, his gaze tended to stray. One moment, he’d consider the Commander’s profile with its strong nose and noble brow, the next he’d let his gaze drop to admire the broad shoulders and the torso encased in form-fitting and bright armor, and then drop again to linger on Cullen’s powerfully muscular thighs and well-formed arse.
The Commander’s looks? Cullen was a tall drink of water on a summer day in Minrathous.
And Dorian was very thirsty.
There was no easy way of telling, of course, which way Cullen’s tastes lay. During his time in the South, Dorian had picked up on all the cues that men who sought the company of other men used: a certain lisp when speaking, or the use of too many baubles and trinkets, or the telltale sign of a silver band worn around a middle finger, or a rather bright and flamboyant way of dressing. Cullen, however, had no lisp, nor did he wear jewelry. The only possible sign was that ostentatious fur stole he wore. That, and his hair – in Dorian’s experience, few straight men paid as much attention to the grooming of their locks as Cullen Rutherford did.
As the afternoons wore by, Dorian became aware that Cullen was not the only one under scrutiny from afar, because Cullen, in turn, was watching him. Every now and then, from across the field, their eyes would catch. And yet, to Dorian’s mild dismay, there was nothing warm in Cullen’s expression. Cullen’s gaze spoke volumes. It said: I am watching you, mage, for you are not to be trusted.
Still, this didn’t discourage Dorian from his forays into the training yard. Having little else to do, it was a way to pass the time. And by letting his imagination run wild, he was able to cultivate enough fantasies for use in his later alone time. Watching Cullen’s strong hands caress the pommel of his sword, Dorian pictured them on his body, a contrast of much paler skin against his own, imagining the feel of Cullen’s stubble scratching against his skin as the ex-Templar pinned him up against the rough stone walls of his bedroom. Perhaps, after listening to Cullen forcibly bark commands at his troops, Dorian may have manufactured a fantasy in which the man were Templar still, and Dorian his prey, using his lyrium-infused powers against him. Not that Dorian would ever willingly let someone tamp down his magic, but it made for a rather titillating distraction in his quiet, lonely nights.
As he sat one afternoon, pondering the possibilities of actually luring the Commander to his bed, a shadow fell across his book. Blinking up at the figure haloed by the early afternoon sun, it took Dorian a moment to recognize the somewhat shapeless and lumpy figure as Maxwell Trevelyan. Wearing a lop-sided smile, the one that made him look dim-witted, although the man was anything but.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Trevelyan admonished. He was holding his staff in one hand; with the other he fiddled with the cheap bone buttons on his mage robes. “Are you busy?”
Granted, he was busy watching Cullen. Strange how that act never grew old. With the wineskin he gestured over himself lounging on the steps, his neglected book open in his lap. “Does sprawling like a nug in the sun count?” he quipped. “Because if not, the answer is an outstanding no.” Peering up curiously, he asked, “Why?”
Trevelyan tilted his head. Sunlight splashed through his wild and unruly locks of dark hair. Not for the first time, Dorian told himself that one of these days, he was going to give the Herald a much-needed makeover, including a decent haircut.
“I’m gathering the mages,” he revealed as he scratched a dirty nail against his oak staff, the one topped with a pretty blue sphere encased in filaments of silver. “If you’re not doing anything, perhaps you’d care to come along?”
Dorian cast a glance at the field. As if drawn by magic, his gaze immediately landed upon Cullen. Unsurprisingly, the Commander was watching his exchange with the Herald. Dorian debated silently for a moment. As much as he enjoyed his time in the training yard, he had to admit to himself that he wasn’t actually getting anywhere with Cullen. Perhaps the Herald could offer a diversion, even if it was merely a hike through the woods around Haven, picking useful herbs and flowers – one of Trevelyan’s favorite pastimes when they weren’t on the road.
Vaguely interested, Dorian asked, “Come along where?”
With a stubby finger, Trevelyan indicated the rift in the sky. “Down there,” he said, wearing his crooked grin again. “We’re going to close the Breach.”
Dorian’s eyebrows shot up so far, he was certain they had disappeared into his very fine hairline. He blinked once, then twice, as the Herald’s words sank in. Gathering the mages... close the Breach... for a brief second only, he wondered what the Commander would think about Trevelyan’s using the mages they’d rescued from Redcliff in order to stop demon hordes from falling out of the motherfucking sky.
No doubt that the cold and distant Commander would not approve.
Snapping his book shut, Dorian rose to his feet. The wineskin tucked away at his belt, he then reached for his own staff, and gave Trevelyan his warmest smile. “Help you close the Breach?” he drawled. “Why, I wouldn’t miss it for all the wine in Thedas.”
***
Like lyrium from a broken flask, the celebrations spilled out of the tavern and into the streets.
Torches and bonfires burned merrily in all the squares and in the streets in every part of Haven. Tucked into corners, minstrels sang lively jigs, accompanied by small bands of musicians on lutes, hand drums, and fiddles, as children jingled bells, weaving between the legs of the dancing townsfolk. Around one of the larger bonfires near the tavern, Dorian perched upon the low wall, nursing his very own bottle of wine that Sera had somehow procured despite the crowd around the bar. Other than Sera, in his own little circle sat Varric, Iron Bull, and some of the Chargers.
Varric, who had always been a little mistrustful of him on his account of being a “Vint”, now eyed him with something resembling respect. Or perhaps the dwarf were merely drunk.
“I heard you played a pivotal role in closing the Breach, Sparkler,” Varric said, speaking loudly over the noise of revelry all around them. “It couldn’t have been an easy feat. Good job.”
It had been a difficult undertaking, and Dorian – under the electrifying presence of Trevelyan and his we-can-do-anything attitude – had nearly depleted every drop of his magical reserves in creating the vortex of power that Trevelyan had used to seal the rift. Except that Dorian, still fatigued from his efforts, was in no mood to boast. Instead, he became fixated on one thing: Varric’s use of Sparkler.
Testy, he gave the dwarf his best side-eye. “Varric. I want a new nickname.”
The hand that had been lifting a tankard of ale now stopped in mid-trajectory. With a sly smirk, Varric asked, “What’s wrong with ‘Sparkler’? Not colorful enough for you?”
Dorian huffed a sigh. “You must know me better now,” he insisted. “Or does the moniker you gave me five minutes after we met still apply?”
Varric rolled his shoulders in a half-shrug. “I have the eyes of a storyteller. It’s a gift.”
“So, I’m a bit of light you stick in a window sill to impress passersby? All flash, no heat?” Dorian asked. Then he paused, re-considering. “Hmm... that’s actually pretty clever.”
Mirth danced in the dwarf’s eyes. “See? Embrace your place in the universe, Sparkler.”
Sera yowled. “I wanna new nickname, too!” she demanded, cheeks high in color from the immense quantities of alcohol she’d already consumed. She’d drunk the Chargers under the table on more than one occasion, so Dorian was certain that Sera’s stomach had a hole in it. “Come on, Varric!”
“I’ll ask you the same question I asked Sparkler,” Varric said. “What’s wrong with Buttercup?”
Sera pulled a face as though she’d just sucked on something sour. “I ain’t no freaking flower! I want something... you know... strong.”
“Something strong?” Varric echoed.
“Yeah,” Sera said, straightening her spine as she pursed her bow-like lips. “Like arrows.”
“If you want a name that’s strong,” Bull rumbled, “then you should go with something with the word dragon.”
Ignoring the ensuing argument, Dorian pressed the lip of the bottle against his lips. As he did so, he lifted his gaze, letting it roam. All around the nearby square, the soldiers were dancing with the village girls. It seemed that everyone had joined in the celebrations of their closing the Breach. As feet shuffled up dust, skirts flew up in the air, and the music was mingled with masculine whoops and feminine raucous laughter. Everyone turning and spinning so that to watch them nearly made him dizzy.
Shifting his gaze again, he found a familiar face in the crowd. On the other side of the square, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, stood Cullen Rutherford. And, even though the crackling light of the bonfire before him made it difficult to see far, it was very obvious that Cullen was looking in Dorian’s direction, his expression somewhat inscrutable.
Watching him.
The nudge of an elbow drew Dorian’s attention back to the bonfire. Glancing over and up, up, up, he noticed Bull smirking teasingly down at him. With his impossibly large hand, he gestured at Dorian’s wine bottle, still half-full. “Try and keep up, Vint.”
Was Bull trying to get him drunk in order to later seduce him? Given some of Bull’s recent – and rather inappropriate – comments during their recent sojourns through the Hinterlands, a planned seduction was likely. However, the prospect of sex with a Qunari? Dorian would have been lying if he said he hadn’t been desperate enough to at least consider it. But, in truth, he had much prettier prey in mind.
Glancing back over, he felt a little thrill to note that Cullen was still watching him.
Dorian wondered: What is he waiting for?
On the other hand... What was he himself waiting for?
Turning back to Bull, he offered a conciliatory smile as he rose from his perch, bringing them eye-to-eye. “Actually, I did promise to share a drink with the Commander,” he said lightly, which was a lie. “So you’ll have to try to enjoy the remainder of the festivities without my scintillating presence.”
Bull merely grunted. Sera’s response was an equally eloquent, “Pfft!”
Varric chuckled. “I’m not sure how we’ll manage without you, Sparkler, but we’ll try.”
***
Dorian picked his way through the crowd. The gaiety of the townsfolk was almost infectious, and Dorian felt a lightness in his step that hadn’t been there before, washing away his earlier fatigue. Of course they had cause for celebration – after all, only hours ago, there had been a demon-filled hole in the sky, torn right through into the Fade. And the pride Dorian felt to have been part of its closure was no small matter.
Haven was no pinnacle of culture, nor even anything remotely resembling a teeming metropolis, not by any stretch of the imagination. But had he finally found a place where he could belong?
As he made his way towards his target, he was keenly aware of the Commander’s eyes tracking his every movement. Even now, among the revelry, the man stood stiffly at attention, hands folded before him, as if he expected a call to duty at any moment. Illuminated by moonlight, Dorian could see his face clearly, still wearing that inscrutable expression. Yet, as Dorian reached him, a friendly light warmed his eyes.
Please, please, please, let this man be gay.
“Enjoying the festivities, Commander?” Dorian drawled as he settled himself against the wall beside Cullen, and held out the wine bottle in offering.
Cullen paused for a careful moment before accepting the bottle. Lifting it, he pressed its lips to his own – the same place Dorian secretly thrilled to note, where Dorian’s lips had touched only moments before, creating a sort of ghost kiss. After taking a moderate swig, he then handed the bottle back to Dorian, as he wiped away the drops of wine that had dribbled down his chin. “To be honest,” he admitted, “parties aren’t really my thing.”
His fingers aching, Dorian resisted the urge to reach out and stroke the Commander’s fur. “Really?” he asked, his voice lightly teasing, “then what is your thing?”
Really, now, Dorian, he admonished himself. Flirting already? He must have been drunker than he thought.
Cullen lifted one eyebrow slightly at Dorian’s tone. Expression neutral, he answered. “Making sure that the Inquisition has sufficient forces to defend itself. Keeping everyone safe. To the best of my ability, at any rate, given our lack of resources.”
Dorian shifted. Through his clothes, he could feel the cold radiating from the stone against his back. “Tell me something,” he said. “What’s it like for you, exactly, being the Commander of the the Inquisition’s forces?”
There was another thoughtful pause. “I suppose it’s a lot like playing a game of chess,” he said. “The map is the board, while the troops are the pieces. Having a good strategy is essential.”
A hint of surprise bubbled up, and Dorian couldn’t stop himself from blurting out, “You play chess?”
Cullen’s lips quirked up – an extraordinary thing that, as it was the first time that Dorian had seen anything resembling a smile on the Commander’s face. “Yes, I learned when I was younger,” he admitted, “so I became quite good at it.”
Dorian took a sip of wine, then passed the bottle back with a wicked smile. “Shame we don’t have a set,” he drawled playfully, “so that you could prove your... prowess.”
Again the slight lift of eyebrow at Dorian’s not-very-subtle tone. He then cleared his throat. “It isn’t about proving anything,” he said. “Though it would be a pleasant diversion to play with you, if we manage to find a board.”
If the Commander wants to “play” with me... For a moment he wondered if Cullen were flirting back. Sadly, he didn’t think so.
“You know,” Dorian said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Herald found one in his travels. The man seems to have a knack for finding the oddest of treasures in the most random of places. Where others would only see a pile of rags, the Herald sees ‘shiny thing’. Why once, he pulled out a bottle of Mackay’s Epic Single Malt out of a pile of bones in a bear cave in the Emerald Graves. Surely, a chess board wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibilities.”
Wry amusement flashed across Cullen’s face. “It sounds like you enjoy your travels with the Herald.”
“Well, except for all the mud, the bandits, the undead hordes, demon-spawning rifts, and the rabid bears, I can’t really complain.”
Cullen chuckled softly.
It was like music to Dorian’s starved ears.
Dorian watched as Cullen drank again, admiring the way the apple in Cullen’s extended throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed. He had to resist the urge to lean over and lick it. Like chess, sex was also a diversion, and Dorian was well-versed in the game of seduction. And someone had to make the first move.
Dare I...?
The night was cool. Only now that he was away from the intense heat of the roaring bonfire had the cold begun to creep into his bones. He shivered.
Then an unexpected thing happened. Before he knew it, Cullen was reaching up to remove his fur stole. With a smooth gesture, he then lay the stole over Dorian’s shoulders, then tugged its edges closer together, wrapping Dorian up in it. For a moment, Dorian was frozen in surprise at the unexpected gesture. Then, reaching up, he wormed his fingers through the fur. It was softer than he had expected, and taking a deep breath he became aware that it smelled distinctly like Cullen – a delicious, almost intoxicating mix of elderflower and oakmoss.
Perhaps I don’t have to make the first move after all...
For a moment they stood, their gazes locked. By the moonlight, Dorian noted that the warmth had returned to Cullen’s honey-brown eyes. Dorian was about to lean closer to say something scandalous, but in that moment, Cullen’s eyes flicked away to something over Dorian’s shoulder in the distance.
In an instant, the warmth was gone, replaced by a determination hard as flint, and then Cullen was moving, his hand moving automatically to the pommel of his sword, as he shouted out into the darkness.
“Enemy approaching! To arms!”
***
Something pounded on the sealed gates, rattling the hinges. Against the encroaching army, they seemed flimsy as paper. Nestled in the mountains, surrounded by treacherous slopes on all sides, they were all trapped like rats in a hole.
Cullen’s call to arms had spread quick as wildfire through the town. They’d come rushing down to the gates. There, a reedy voice could be heard just beyond the weathered wood and rusty iron. I can’t come in unless you open!
And then Trevelyan – like a bloody fool! – dashed forward, demanding that the gate be opened. Unquestioningly, the nearest soldier obeyed.
Cullen, with sword drawn, followed at the Herald’s heels.
At the scene just outside the gate, Trevelyan drew up short.
A strange pale boy stood there in frayed leathers and a large, unfashionable hat that shadowed his eyes, red on his knives, surrounded by a sea of dead bodies in dark armor.
I’m Cole. I came to warn you. To help. People are coming to hurt you!
Death. So much death.
But that was only the beginning.
Spinning, his sword held aloft, Cullen roared into the crowd of mages and soldiers that had gathered. Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!
They surged forward.
Like cockroaches, the enemy Templars continued to swarm over them, knocking down everyone in their path.
Chaos reigned.
Like the other mages, Dorian hadn’t had time to recharge after their endeavors at the Breach. Yet, he stayed at the Herald’s side, reaching down deep within himself in order to pour out spell after spell as they fought their way towards the trebuchets. He didn’t even realize that he’d lost track of Cullen until the Herald had leaped upon the second of the trebuchets and began to frantically spin the heavy wheel, taking aim at the approaching army.
In the battle, Dorian glimpsed the Seeker, silver sword flashing as she pierced another breast plate. Farther back, Varric stood, crossbow in hand, rapidly firing into the throng, a look of grim determination on his face.
In their wake, a trail of bodies.
Death, so much death.
Behind them, Haven was engulfed in flames.
“The townspeople!” the Herald cried. “We must save them!”
***
Dorian struggled to keep up with the Herald as he ran through the streets of Haven, pounding down doors in an attempt to save the townspeople.
Blood, crimson in the moonlight over pristine white snow.
A soldier staring dead-eyed at the stars, his guts streaming across the pavement.
A little girl in a white dress, her throat slit.
The smell of burnt flesh heavy in the air.
A young woman, her skirts thrown up above her waist, bloodless limbs askew like a broken doll.
Death and more death.
Dorian pretended not to see as the Herald wiped away the tears that spilled freely from his eyes.
Up ahead, Roderick and the stranger called Cole stood at the door to Chantry, shouting at them to hurry, then sealing the door behind them.
Cullen trotted up. His perfect hair was out of place, and there was a smear of blood – and Dorian was relieved to realize that it was someone else’s, not Cullen’s – down one side of his face.
“Herald,” the Commander said, his tone grave. “There are no tactics to make this survivable.”
Dorian felt his heart sink as Cullen explained his plan. A feeling that was clearly reflected on his comrades’ faces.
Then a small ray of hope as the Chancellor spoke, his voice thin. “There is a path...”
Everyone listened as the Chancellor explained about the path. Then, with dismay, as Trevelyan and Cullen discussed what needed to be done – a distraction in the form of another avalanche, this one large enough to bury Haven.
Cullen placed a hand on Trevelyan’s shoulder. “Herald. Are you sure...?”
Silent, Trevelyan and Cullen just exchanged a glance. The answer was clear in Trevelyan’s red-rimmed eyes.
Cassandra protested. “Herald! If that dragon attacks... you cannot do this alone,” she said, her gaze bright and hot as fire, in a tone that brooked no argument. “I am going with you.”
In the shocked silence, Varric then stepped forward, expression grim again as he hefted Bianca in his hands. “Well, I’m no hero, but... what the hell. Count me in.”
Dorian had no burning desire to sacrifice himself in order to save an entire town. But he was willing to fight in order to save his friends – or, at least, the closest things to friends he’d had since he’d left Tevinter. And the friends he’d had in Tevinter? That was a term to be used loosely.
His staff clacked against the floor as he stepped forward. “What?” he snapped as all eyes turned to him. “And miss the chance to have minstrels sing of my glorious feats? Why, I wouldn’t dream of it!”
Trevelyan didn’t speak, but his eyes nearly brimmed over with gratitude.
Cullen’s gaze swept over them. Stopping, they lingered on Dorian for a moment. Then he turned back to the crowd that had gathered behind them.
“Inquisition!” Cullen snapped. “Follow Chancellor Roderick through the Chantry! Move!”
***
Trevelyan jerked the wheel one more time. Then he lifted his face to the sky. Panic flashed over his face as he whirled to face the others. “Run! Now!”
In the sky, the dragon wheeled. Pure terror turned Dorian’s spine to ice. For a moment he remained paralyzed by panic, and then Cassandra had latched onto his arm, tugging him along as she shouted near his ear. “Come on, mage! You heard him. Run!”
Then Dorian was half-running, half-tripping over his own feet. Blasts of fire exploded on the ground behind them, in the place they’d stood mere seconds before. To his right, he heard Varric cough. Turning his head, he expected to see Trevelyan following, and then was gripped once more by panic when all he saw was smoke.
“Wait!” he panted out. “The Herald!”
Cassandra tugged harder on his arm. “The Herald made his choice!” she shouted. “There’s nothing we can do to help him!”
Dorian dug in his heels. “We at least have to try!”
“We all knew this was a suicide mission, Sparkler,” Varric said. “We’ll be lucky if we manage to save our own skins!”
Dorian tossed another glance behind him. As he did so, the wind, having picked up, now rolled across the path, clearing away some of the smoke. In the clearing beyond, he saw Trevelyan, staff upraised, as he stood between the darkspawn magister and his dragon.
Maker help us all.
Twirling suddenly about, Trevelyan kicked the lever of the trebeuchet into action. Chain spun off the wheel as the war machine creaked to life. Wood groaned as the sling swung up, launching the boulder straight into the mountains. Even from here, Dorian could hear the impact of rock against rock, followed by the shush of the snow as it began to move, turning into a dull roar as it began to cascade straight towards them.
“Shit,” Varric swore. “We’re dead.”
Cassadra growled. “Dead if we don’t move now, dwarf!”
Cassandra gripped Dorian’s arm tighter. As she jerked him along, Varric pushed him from behind. Too stunned to resist, Dorian allowed himself to be led away, leaving Trevelyan to his doom.
What did it matter? They were all doomed. Even if the magister or his dragon didn’t kill them, they didn’t know how to find the secret path the chancellor had mentioned. By now, everyone else would have already escaped. Abandoned, they would die in the avalanche. If he hadn’t been so short of breath, Dorian would have said so.
They path cleared of enemies, the streets of Haven deserted, they ran unimpeded through the still-burning flames. Dorian didn’t dare to look behind him again, instead focused on their apparent goal: the Chantry at the top of the hill.
Rounding the corner, he saw the entrance ahead. To his astonishment, the doors were still open as if in welcome, and a lone man in armor stood there.
With a sweep of his arm, Cullen waved them inside. Speaking to all them with relief in his voice, though his gaze remained fixed on Dorian.
“Thank the Maker you’re safe,” he said.