Chapter Text
Dorian
Night had fallen over the city of Minrathous, not that it was obvious from the streets themselves. Each alleyway had lanterns that erupted into light as soon as dusk began to fall; the summer heat was finally beginning to dissipate and the lull that enveloped all of northern Tevinter with it. In the autumn, citizens of the Empire milled about until late in the evening—sometimes well into the morning if the weather was fair—unwilling to miss a single moment of political intrigue. To a Magister, rest was for the dead; a wise politician would work late into the evening hours, forging alliances, strengthening bonds, earning respect through blackmail, bribery, or bullying if nobler methods failed.
The carriages of dark-robed Magisters and wealthy Alti crowded the cobblestones of the Imperial district and the sidewalks were filled with their slaves, moving quickly with their eyes downcast to avoid meeting those of a particularly sensitive mage. Dorian Pavus had the curtains on his own carriage thrown back and watched his countrymen scurry about.
The scene reminded him distinctly of his visit to Halamshiral, about two years prior, in the company of the Inquisitor. He’d thought—hoped, rather—that the southern humans had managed to find a more equitable coexistence with their elven neighbors than they had in his own country, but he’d largely been disappointed.
The elves might have freedom in the South, but it was scarcely more than a word. He saw the same idiosyncrasies in the alienages that were common among Tevinter slaves: flinching at approaching humans, making minimal eye contact, avoiding making loud noises, wearing dull colors and grim expressions. In some ways, the alienages were worse; slaves were valuable assets and were usually treated when they fell sick or injured. But, unlike bound elves, the elves in the cities could theoretically leave to seek their fortunes elsewhere. That they almost never did was a matter of economics and opportunity rather than legality, though still nearly as binding.
The ride to Maevaris Tilani’s estate was longer than he remembered and he was wishing he’d gone by horseback instead of spending what seemed like an eternity in the stuffy carriage. He’d finally developed the right callouses for long rides while serving the Inquisition and he’d come to rather enjoy the breeze, the freedom riding brought. He could have woven between the other carts, bypassing traffic, arriving half an hour earlier at least. Perhaps he could have prepared there, sending his robes from the tailor’s directly to Tilani’s.
He cast a quick spell, summoning a floating light that he suspended from the ceiling of the carriage, and began pulling papers from his oiled leather bag. There was a copy of a piece of legislation that half of the young Lucerni party seemed to think would pass in front of him. He sighed at the wording. It was supposed to provide funding for the education of Laetan children, most of whom currently were unable to read, but managed to insult nearly half of the Magisterium and the Imperial Chantry. The words ‘overly optimistic’ and ‘vastly inexperienced’ were drastic understatements when used to describe the current membership of his and Maevaris’ political coalition. They were largely young, bold, and frustrated mages, but what they lacked in sense, they made up for in zeal.
Dorian adored them, even as they drove him absolutely insane.
The evening’s event was to be his ‘unveiling’, as Mae kept calling it. In the eyes of the Senate, he was no longer the prodigal son of a wealthy, though cautious Magister, but a rebellious leader of a group of misfits who were finally replacing their parents among the ancient halls of power. They could do things in Tevinter. Relations with the south hadn’t been better since the Empire had governed over it all—largely thanks to Dorian’s involvement with the Inquisition’s inner circle. There were growing threats to unite behind, both from the Qunari to the north and the shadowy forces of Fen’Harel that seemed to be amassing in the Arlathan forest to the east.
If Tevinter were to ever be ripe for change, it was now, in this era, and Dorian found himself at the front of it.
It should have elated him. As a child, he had been groomed for leadership, pushed towards power. He’d thought he’d given it up, finally stepped away, when he ran from his father.
You are no son of mine , he had said, calling as Dorian mounted his horse and rode off into the unknown. You have no home here any longer.
He still wasn’t sure what to think of his father’s words at the mausoleum—he’d never even know if they were his father’s words or just a spirit passing along what Dorian needed to hear from him as part of the necromantic ritual—and somehow, even with Halward Pavus cremated and interred, Dorian felt more trapped than ever. His father, in his last words to him, had said that he was Tevinter’s best hope. Last hope or not, Halward Pavus had been assassinated and the same fate likely awaited Dorian. The weight of expectation hung heavy on his neck.
Not just ‘don’t die’ anymore, but ‘don’t die and also save your country from those who would burn it to the ground’.
Corypheus had been easy by comparison. There were vipers in the Magisterium, ready to manipulate him to do their bidding, or simply dispose of him as an upstart. He’d need to learn quickly which sets of fants were venomous and which were merely for show.
Eventually the carriage stopped at a massive wrought iron gate. His driver conversed with the guards lightly and one of them looked to peer through the open curtain. Satisfied, they waved him on.
Up a slight hill and around a massive circular driveway the carriage rambled, pulling towards the front of the house. Tilani was one of the most wealthy people in Tevinter, both from her own inheritance and that she gained from her husband’s accounts with the Merchant’s Guild. The drive was semi-circular and flanked by rose bushes, filling the air with the sweet floral fragrances. A great golden dragon bathed in the center of a massive fountain, falling water making its scales sparkle in the moonlight. The path was lit brightly with lanterns and candles, many floating in midair.
His footman opened the door to the carriage and Dorian stepped out into the night, the carpet rolled over the great marble staircase soft beneath his satin slippers.
Dorian’s tenure in the Magisterium was about to begin. He hoped that it wouldn’t end with the sunrise.