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fandomweekly2019-11-21 02:40 pm
quicksilverfox3) wrote in fandomweekly2019-11-21 02:40 pm
Entry tags:
[#032] Weather the Storm
Theme Prompt: 032 - Storms
Title: Weather the Storm
Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Rating/Warnings: General Audience/Mentions of slavery & blood magic
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 993
Summary: An alternate take of Dorian's personal quest by holdinglines (have to travel to Tevinter on a diplomatic mission to gather information/allies and Dorian's father sets up a meeting while they are there)
“We can always turn around and go back.”
Dorian fought down the urge to flinch, swaying slightly to regain his balance on the deck of the slowly rolling ship. A storm was rolling on the edges of the horizon, sky darkening overhead. Adaar reached out and steadied him, large hands a burning pressure on his waist before the Qunari retreated back to his perch on the rails.
“I think Cassandra looks more nervous every time you do that,” Dorian answered instead, deliberately ignoring the statement. He couldn’t think about the other option, hiding in Skyhold, blankets pulled up over his head like a frightened child, worried about the demons lurking in the dark corners of his room and in the endless hollow beneath his bed.
He didn’t have to look at Adaar to see the confusion on his face, the way his eyes slowly travelled from Dorian to Cassandra, partially in the fresh air and partially inside the make-shift meeting room. Her hand moving to her sword was a remarkable deterrent to any of the joining ambassadors who got ideas.
The jewellery on his horns clinked together softly, the sound almost lost over the roaring of the waves and the screams of the seagulls swooping in amongst the oars, the distant roll of threatening thunder.
“I grew up on boats,” he said finally as if that was the matter of him potentially falling into the depths of the ocean, lost in the storm, closed. And to him, it was.
“But you didn’t answer my question Dorian.”
Dorian sighed, rubbing one hand along the scratchiness of his jaw, feeling the salt that had dried on his face fleck away. One hand wrapped around the railing, Dorian drew himself up and turned to face the Inquisitor.
Adaar grinned, sun glinting off his metal tooth, vitaar crinkling slightly as his face moved. Dorian could see the slight sheen on his face and bare shoulders where the skin had hardened. He knew the feeling of it beneath his fingers and beneath his mouth, strangely smooth for something that acted like metal when struck. His forehead was decorated with orange diamonds, matching the smaller versions coating his chin. Black was smeared beneath his eyes but Dorian could see the tiredness in him. He had been a mercenary long before he was Herald, the urge to run and to fight stronger than the urge to sit and speak. But he was willing to do it, for the good of others.
Fasta vas, the man was perfect. And he was Dorian’s.
“My father’s letter,” Dorian began, stomach twisting with a wave of sudden nerves, bile rising in his throat. He’d tried so hard to forget that night: the sharp coppery tang of blood in the air as the whisperings of the servants suddenly made sense; the despair that his father, his own father, had sunk to those depths of depravity, that he would never accept Dorian as he was; stone cold on his feet, heart loud in his ears as he ran, bag hastily slung across his back and staff in his hand, heading anywhere but there.
Adaar hummed, arms wrapping around Dorian in a hug, tight and warm, safe and shielded. He rested his chin on the top of Dorian’s head, rather than try to maneuver his horns safely on the rocking deck of the ship to duck his head into the crook of Dorian’s neck.
“Say the word and we’re gone,” Adaar promised, his voice rumbling through Dorian’s skull.
“As if Josephine would agree to that,” Dorian said, voice cracking even if he would deny it until his dying breath. He could hear the sailors moving around the deck, all carefully not paying attention to the duo. Dorian knew that this information would find its way into his father’s ears. The ship and the sailors, and the slaves far below, maybe have been commissioned by Maeveris, but Halward Pavus would find out about his precious heir in the arms of a Qunari, a male Qunari. Adaar may be the Inquisitor, but he was Qunari first and foremost.
“Josephine isn’t my kithshok. I’m not a imekari and she isn’t my Tama.”
Adaar leaned back slightly to raise Dorian’s chin up with his left hand. The mark crackled, magic hissing in Dorian’s veins like lightning.
“I’m Herald, might as well use it.”
Dorian laughed, breathlessly, feeling the tension slip out of his shoulders.
“I do want to ask a question,” Adaar said, lightly bumping his forehead to Dorian’s. He paused, eyes darting from side to side, before swiping his fingers across the skin, ensuring there was no transferral of vitaar.
“Go ahead. I’m an open book,” Dorian said, deadpan as Adaar chuckled.
“Maeveris, she bought these people?”
“She commissioned the sailors, the slaves are mostly from her household staff,” Dorian sighed. Everything had been so much simpler when he hadn’t questioned it, but now? His stomach twisted with guilt, with shame for his past actions, for words he had said that he knew now were wrong.
Adaar nodded, kissing Dorian’s forehead.
“Don’t be sad,” he said, as if it could be that simple, “It is a bad system, but you didn’t know any better. Now you do. One problem at a time, otherwise you will drown.”
“Wise words from your-”
Dorian broke off, lips pressing together as he thought for the word. His mind was filled with long dead languages that the single word escaped him. Adaar waited, patient and understanding.
“Arikith?” Dorian tried and was rewarded by Adaar’s face splitting into a huge grin, the man leaning down to gently brush his lips across Dorian’s.
“My Tama actually. I think you would have liked her.”
“Venhedis. Festis bei umo canavarum,” Dorian spat, face so hot it felt like he would burst into flames, but his heart swelled and he didn’t move away. Adaar laughed, squeezing Dorian tighter, safe and calm for now as the storm brewed on the horizon.
Title: Weather the Storm
Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Rating/Warnings: General Audience/Mentions of slavery & blood magic
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 993
Summary: An alternate take of Dorian's personal quest by holdinglines (have to travel to Tevinter on a diplomatic mission to gather information/allies and Dorian's father sets up a meeting while they are there)
“We can always turn around and go back.”
Dorian fought down the urge to flinch, swaying slightly to regain his balance on the deck of the slowly rolling ship. A storm was rolling on the edges of the horizon, sky darkening overhead. Adaar reached out and steadied him, large hands a burning pressure on his waist before the Qunari retreated back to his perch on the rails.
“I think Cassandra looks more nervous every time you do that,” Dorian answered instead, deliberately ignoring the statement. He couldn’t think about the other option, hiding in Skyhold, blankets pulled up over his head like a frightened child, worried about the demons lurking in the dark corners of his room and in the endless hollow beneath his bed.
He didn’t have to look at Adaar to see the confusion on his face, the way his eyes slowly travelled from Dorian to Cassandra, partially in the fresh air and partially inside the make-shift meeting room. Her hand moving to her sword was a remarkable deterrent to any of the joining ambassadors who got ideas.
The jewellery on his horns clinked together softly, the sound almost lost over the roaring of the waves and the screams of the seagulls swooping in amongst the oars, the distant roll of threatening thunder.
“I grew up on boats,” he said finally as if that was the matter of him potentially falling into the depths of the ocean, lost in the storm, closed. And to him, it was.
“But you didn’t answer my question Dorian.”
Dorian sighed, rubbing one hand along the scratchiness of his jaw, feeling the salt that had dried on his face fleck away. One hand wrapped around the railing, Dorian drew himself up and turned to face the Inquisitor.
Adaar grinned, sun glinting off his metal tooth, vitaar crinkling slightly as his face moved. Dorian could see the slight sheen on his face and bare shoulders where the skin had hardened. He knew the feeling of it beneath his fingers and beneath his mouth, strangely smooth for something that acted like metal when struck. His forehead was decorated with orange diamonds, matching the smaller versions coating his chin. Black was smeared beneath his eyes but Dorian could see the tiredness in him. He had been a mercenary long before he was Herald, the urge to run and to fight stronger than the urge to sit and speak. But he was willing to do it, for the good of others.
Fasta vas, the man was perfect. And he was Dorian’s.
“My father’s letter,” Dorian began, stomach twisting with a wave of sudden nerves, bile rising in his throat. He’d tried so hard to forget that night: the sharp coppery tang of blood in the air as the whisperings of the servants suddenly made sense; the despair that his father, his own father, had sunk to those depths of depravity, that he would never accept Dorian as he was; stone cold on his feet, heart loud in his ears as he ran, bag hastily slung across his back and staff in his hand, heading anywhere but there.
Adaar hummed, arms wrapping around Dorian in a hug, tight and warm, safe and shielded. He rested his chin on the top of Dorian’s head, rather than try to maneuver his horns safely on the rocking deck of the ship to duck his head into the crook of Dorian’s neck.
“Say the word and we’re gone,” Adaar promised, his voice rumbling through Dorian’s skull.
“As if Josephine would agree to that,” Dorian said, voice cracking even if he would deny it until his dying breath. He could hear the sailors moving around the deck, all carefully not paying attention to the duo. Dorian knew that this information would find its way into his father’s ears. The ship and the sailors, and the slaves far below, maybe have been commissioned by Maeveris, but Halward Pavus would find out about his precious heir in the arms of a Qunari, a male Qunari. Adaar may be the Inquisitor, but he was Qunari first and foremost.
“Josephine isn’t my kithshok. I’m not a imekari and she isn’t my Tama.”
Adaar leaned back slightly to raise Dorian’s chin up with his left hand. The mark crackled, magic hissing in Dorian’s veins like lightning.
“I’m Herald, might as well use it.”
Dorian laughed, breathlessly, feeling the tension slip out of his shoulders.
“I do want to ask a question,” Adaar said, lightly bumping his forehead to Dorian’s. He paused, eyes darting from side to side, before swiping his fingers across the skin, ensuring there was no transferral of vitaar.
“Go ahead. I’m an open book,” Dorian said, deadpan as Adaar chuckled.
“Maeveris, she bought these people?”
“She commissioned the sailors, the slaves are mostly from her household staff,” Dorian sighed. Everything had been so much simpler when he hadn’t questioned it, but now? His stomach twisted with guilt, with shame for his past actions, for words he had said that he knew now were wrong.
Adaar nodded, kissing Dorian’s forehead.
“Don’t be sad,” he said, as if it could be that simple, “It is a bad system, but you didn’t know any better. Now you do. One problem at a time, otherwise you will drown.”
“Wise words from your-”
Dorian broke off, lips pressing together as he thought for the word. His mind was filled with long dead languages that the single word escaped him. Adaar waited, patient and understanding.
“Arikith?” Dorian tried and was rewarded by Adaar’s face splitting into a huge grin, the man leaning down to gently brush his lips across Dorian’s.
“My Tama actually. I think you would have liked her.”
“Venhedis. Festis bei umo canavarum,” Dorian spat, face so hot it felt like he would burst into flames, but his heart swelled and he didn’t move away. Adaar laughed, squeezing Dorian tighter, safe and calm for now as the storm brewed on the horizon.