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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter 12
The dodecahedron is broken and had Dorian agonising over whether to reveal to Rick his true identity. As the two share more intimate moments, his decision may be one that will pull them apart.
[ From the beginning ]
He wished he could disappear completely. To have every thread of his consciousness absorbed, consumed, obliterated the instant his broken body was taken over.
Because that life was never his to begin with.
Every day, he drifted, formless and void, clinging to the edges of Shiro’s soul. Like a reluctant passenger held captive.
It was his hand that touched Keith’s shoulder. It was his smile Keith returned. It was, by sheer technicality, his voice that said hello, and yet he could only watch on from the fringes, hapless.
They talked about the fight at the facility again, under the dim lights of the lion’s cockpit. It’s so easy to absolve yourself from the sin of another, wasn’t it?
“It wasn’t me.” He felt the rumble as Shiro spoke. “That thing that hurt you wasn’t me.”
Keith understood, because he always did. “I know.”
But he didn’t know. And he would never know. He would never know how much it still horrified him to remember the rushing heat of the energy blade, the smell of sizzling flesh, the anguished plea in Keith’s eyes.
I’m so sorry, he wanted to say when Shiro’s fingers brushed against that scarred cheek, I wasn’t strong enough to resist her control. I am so sorry.
And he’d never know he loved him, too.
Interloper Chapter 11
As he had done so many times before, Dorian mentally connected the freckles that spilled across those wide shoulders. He’d once told Trevelyan that this was a much more enjoyable puzzle than any of the astrariums, and he could always find his name in the constellation on his skin. It was, naturally, further proof that Trevelyan was meant to be his.
Read on AO3
The Magnet Series
I know it’s going somewhere good when I get shy writing it.
Smut comes easily for me. It’s primeval, instinctive, the melding of bodies as skin turns to liquid.
Romance, though. That first touch. That first glance. That first fluttering in the stomach when you know something has changed. The world has shifted, with them in the centre now.
The odd heat in your chest you can no longer ignore - it grows warmer as you play back in your head every interaction you’ve ever had, over and over again. Until your heart feels so full that it might burst at the seams.
This I get shy writing, because to love is to put your vulnerability on display.
A Letter from a Chambermaid:
Dear Sofia,
When I first accepted the job at the Comte’s manor two years ago, I did not think it’d turn out to be quite so laborious. I admit I took the posting in part due to my curiosity—we’d all heard about the heroics of the Herald of Andraste—what kind of man is he? Is he as tall, as handsome, and as brave as the tales say he is?
He is, indeed, tall and handsome, terribly polite and kind to the servants. But countless times I would glimpse loneliness in his eyes: when he breakfasts alone, poking at the delicately cut food that he may eat with only one hand, or when he sits for hours at the north-facing window, his book forgotten in his lap.
All those things changed when the Tevinter Magister came back into his life early this year. Estranged lovers they were—rumour has it they had broken off their courtship after the Exalted Council. But it is clear as day they have since rekindled their romance, what with Lord Dorian visiting Kirkwall every several months.
He brings with him laughter and joy, and laundry—piles and piles of laundry. Whenever he visits, the Comte’s sheets are changed twice a day, sometimes thrice. And the twosome bathe just as often, needing more water refills in a week than we normally do in a month! I really ought to ask for a raise soon.
So, my poor hands are dry and weary, and none of the ointments I buy at the markets are doing the trick. Will you send me the recipe of the lotion Gran used to make out of ram’s milk? I reckon I could make some extra coin selling the cream to the other servants here, too.
With Love, Your sister,
Annabelle
Last night, I mentioned offhandedly to @dinah-myles that Luther smells of sandalwood because of the soap he uses, and they told me it’s their favourite scent and that in Spain, it is considered a good luck charm.
Which brought me great delight because I imagined that it is Josie who buys the soaps and sundries for the Inquisitor, and Antiva being sort of fantasy Spain, it isn’t too great a leap to say perhaps she thought he could use the extra luck in the seemingly impossible battle against Corypheus.
Isn’t it wonderful when you discover something new that adds more layers to your story, however unintentional it was?
Interloper Chapter 10 Teaser
Rick tilted his head up and squinted against the glare of the sun. “We only have a few hours before the sun sets so we have to be quick.”
Unstrapping the greatsword from his back, he called out to his companions, most of whom were already halfway up the knoll ahead. “Dorian and I need to make a slight detour. We’ll see you back at the Lodge!”
They merely waved acknowledgement without turning around.
After hiding the sword in a low bush, Rick turned his back to Dorian and bent at the knees. “All right. Hop on.”
Dorian blinked at him, incredulous. “You must be joking.”
“It’ll be faster if I carry you.”
“I can still walk.”
“You can limp, you mean.”
“I’m heavier than I look.”
“Thank you for the warning, but I’m sure I’ll manage just fine,” Rick said, glancing over his shoulder. His terse tone and stern countenance were belied by the twinkle in those watchful brown eyes. “Dorian, the longer you dawdle, the more daylight we lose. Let’s go.”
Dorian wracked his brain for alternatives and found none. He must retrieve the dodecahedron as quickly as possible, lest it fall into enemy hands.
Breathing a heavy sigh of resignation, he grabbed hold of Rick’s broad shoulders. “Fine. Try not to drop me. I do bruise quite easily.”
Rick huffed a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He hoisted Dorian up with effortless ease, large hands tucked under his thighs.
“Ready?”
A little tentatively, Dorian looped his arms around Rick’s neck. “Yes.”
“Hold on tight.” Rick bounced him up, tightening his grip on his legs and began heading towards the reverse side of the hill.
The scent of Rick’s damp skin inundated him, earthy and darkly sweet, bringing forth memories of tangled sheets and sweat-slick bodies. Dorian swallowed hard at the images flooding his head. Pressed against Rick’s back as he was, there would be no hiding. Now that would make for an awkward conversation.
So he did complex arithmetic mentally, then envisioned crying infants, smelly privies, giant spiders—whatever that would help quell the growing excitement.
It worked. Somewhat.
One of the things I had to work out early on, during the writing of Magnet, was how far Halward went with the blood magic ritual.
I’d always envisioned that Halward had planned the ruse, lured Dorian to the spot and actually began the ritual, but didn’t get to finish it.
Because Dorian’s exact words were: “You tried to change me”. Tried. Not ‘wanted to’ or ‘meant to’, but tried.
So imagine my surprise, when David Gaider said he thought Dorian found out about the ritual beforehand and ran away before it even took place.
It works, too, I suppose, but I feel like the hurt and betrayal Dorian showed at the tavern seemed to run a lot deeper than ‘my father planned to do a terrible thing to me’. There was an underlying current of horror and shock that it wasn’t merely a plan or threat--that Halward did actually go through with it, to alter his own son with magic he professed to despise.
I played around with a few ideas as to what might have happened. Perhaps Aquinea caught wind of it and barged in to stop this madness? Or Halward relented halfway when he saw his son in excruciating pain? Maybe Dorian managed to break one of the five sacrificial blood bowls, rendering the ritual useless?
I never really settled on one. But as someone who has a very complicated relationship with their parents, I, too, can empathise with how hate can often be tangled with love. Sometimes, as you tear pieces of them out of you, you risk also ripping bits of who you are.
