Rating: M
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Pairing: Dorian Pavus/Male Hawke
Chapters: 18/18
Words: 227,792
Summary:
“You really need to work on—this,” Hawke says, circling a wide gesture about Dorian’s entire self.
“Beg pardon?” Dorian says. “The man who’s covered in blood from head to toe is going to criticize my aesthetic?”
At a breaking point with his expected path in life, a young Dorian Pavus embarks on a rebellious journey to escape his family’s disappointment by drinking his way across Thedas.
But when things go awry, Dorian finds himself stranded in the grimy streets of Kirkwall—a place where his magical talent, far from the advantage it’s always been, is suddenly a glaring liability.
Things are looking pretty bleak. Until Dorian runs into a charming apostate named Garrett Hawke.
You can read this on AO3 here!
I've spent the last three years pouring everything I adore about Dragon Age into this fic, and now it's finished! I hardly know what to do with myself.
Except to say: If you like Dorian Pavus, Dragon Age 2, and niche rarepairs, boy oh boy do I have a very specific fic for you.
I write a lot of Dorian-centric stuff, which has necessitated coming up with meanings for some of our more colourful Tevene phrases. Allow me to share my work for fun.
Disclaimer: I'm not actually educated in Latin. Do I know what I'm talking about? Not especially. But Tevene seems to be based on some vague semi-Latin at best, so I think I'm up to this task.
Fasta vass!
Known background: Both Fenris and Dorian say this phrase in-game. Fenris spits it out amidst a string of curses in a moment of anger; Dorian exclaims it in the Fade upon seeing a pride demon: "Fasta vass, that's a big one!"
Possible Latin root words:
As far as I can tell, "fasta" and "vass" aren't themselves Latin, but Tevene is hardly 1:1 accurate Latin anyway. In the absence of any other context, here are some similar Latin words that we can draw from:
fāstus - (1) arrogance, pride, haughtiness; scornful contempt or disdain of others; OR (2) prudery, primness
vas - likely vessel, as in e.g. "vase." Also potentially a duct releasing bodily fluid? You know, as in "vas deferens."
Definition:
Given that Dorian says the phrase specifically upon seeing a pride demon, it would seem like too much of a coincidence for "pride" not to be involved in the definition. So something like "proud vessel" is where I landed. But what's the implication of that?
I came up with two possible interpretations:
(1) Vessel could be some sort of funny vessel, like a chamber pot. (The bodily duct implication coming into play too...) Therefore, "proud piss-pot."
(2) A proud bodily vessel. Well, then: "Gigantic dick."
(Very mature, I know. Hey, these are the same people who gladly proclaim "you shit on my tongue.")
"Gigantic dick" is pretty funny to me, especially if you consider the prospect of Dorian spluttering that when he sees a massive demon. But then, "big dick, that's a big one!" is perhaps a bit too redundant for our eloquent boy. So when it came time to put one in the story I'm working on, I chose "proud piss-pot."
The full context for what this means:
I'll let Dorian and Hawke explain my rationale and its potential uses under the cut. Plus I'll add the version where I had Dorian define it as "gigantic dick" that I cut out of the fic, just for fun.
V1: "Proud piss-pot"
“The phrase comes from ancient Tevene. The implied meaning is essentially, ‘Blast! Something I thought was valuable and worthy of pride has turned out to be nothing more than a cheap vessel for urination.’”
“Or, to translate literally,” Dorian says, “it means ‘proud piss-pot.’”
“‘Proud piss-pot,’” Hawke repeats. “Your helpful nugget of wisdom was to sit there and exclaim ‘proud piss-pot.’”
“Mm. I’m afraid so.”
Hawke hangs in a look of bewilderment for one moment, then laughs aloud. “Brilliant! I take it all back. There is exactly one appropriate thing to say in this situation and you have indeed said it. Well done.”
“No need to make fun,” Dorian says. Though a corner of his mouth has turned upward.
“I’m not. It’s perfect. That’s precisely how I feel. I came home with what I thought was a stunning victory, only for my darling baby brother to piss all over it. Surprise! It was a piss-pot all along.” Hawke sits back, thoughtfully mussing the dark tufts of his unfamiliarly bushy beard. “Or… is my brother himself the piss-pot that I foolishly continue to adore and prize, regardless of his ongoing pissery? It works on so many levels.”
“There. You see? That’s the wonder of my people’s language.”
V2: "Gigantic dick"
“The phrase comes from ancient Tevene. It refers to… hm. How shall I put this. It’s a… ‘personal apparatus,’ so to speak, that is monstrously large in size.”
Hawke is silent for a moment. “Big dick.”
“If you must.”
“You’re telling me what you just did was sit there and exclaim ‘big dick.’”
“Not precisely,” Dorian says. “‘Monstrously large dick’ would be more accurate.”
Hawke hangs in his bewilderment for another moment, then laughs aloud. “Brilliant! I take it back. There is exactly one appropriate thing to say in this situation and you have just said it. Thank you kindly for the compliment! Or for the extremely apt summary of my brother’s behaviour. Either way.”
the kirkwall crew (+ dorian) discover the new feature on kirkwall's docks in act 3
After a fair few rounds of welcome-back drinks, the group stumbles out into the streets at Isabela’s insistence. “You’ve got to see it,” she keeps saying. “You’re not going to believe it. It’s so funny.”
“What exactly is it?” Dorian asks.
Isabela winks and puts a finger to her lips. “You’ll see! It’s this way, down by the docks.”
“Come on, Rivaini, give us a hint,” Varric says. “Did someone crash a sailboat into something?”
“Did a guard pass out at their post, and you drew on their face again?” Hawke asks.
“What?” Aveline says.
“…I meant… for the very first time ever?”
“Did you deface the market stall of that rude fishmonger you hate,” Dorian asks, “perhaps with some form of phallic imagery?”
“That is a great idea,” Isabela says. “But, no! You’ll never guess…”
Their group piles down the stairs, rounds a corner, and comes to a halt, their chatter and laughter dying away to silence. There in the lonely moonlight stands an imposing new statue in armour, holding up a sword hilt that blazes with a blade made of torch-flame.
“This is it?” Varric asks. “What’s funny about it?”
Isabela points at the statue’s foot. “Look. See that?”
They crowd in closer. Beneath the armoured boot of this statue is a surprisingly accurate rendition of the Arishok’s head.
Hawke jumps back with a gasp. “What on—?”
Dorian is already reading the plaque out loud to the group:
Hail to Our Champion
Who Saved Kirkwall from
The Qunari Scourge
In 9:34 Dragon
“No,” Hawke says. He is frozen mid-recoil, staring upward, aghast. “No!”
“Ta-da!” Isabela says. “You’re famous.”
“You’re shitting me!” Varric says. “That’s supposed to be Hawke?”
Fenris starts to chuckle. It’s restrained and low in his throat, but from his generally quiet self, it’s as shocking as a cackle. The sound fast catches on with the rest of the group, who break into disbelieving laughter as they circle about the statue to get a better look.
“Sword and armour!” Aveline laughs. “Have they ever seen you before?”
“Apparently not!” Hawke says. “They must have heard ‘Hawke,’ ‘Arishok,’ ‘sword,’ and connected the rest of the dots themselves…”
“They have also severed the incorrect person’s head,” Fenris mildly observes.
“Doubt they could afford to sculpt a whole dead Arishok, to be fair,” Varric says. “That’d take a lot of stone.”
“Oh, I wish they hadn’t put that helmet on you,” Merrill says. “I would have liked to have a statue that looks like my friend.”
“This sculptor is clearly a lazy coward,” Dorian says. “They must have known they weren’t capable of capturing Hawke’s handsomeness.”
Hawke can’t seem to peel his horrified gaze away from the statue’s anonymous face. “What a missed opportunity… Imagine if they stuck that torch-sword through my body. Now, that would have been a statue to remember.”
“Somehow I don’t think ‘our hero got impaled by a sword’ is the story they wanted this statue to tell,” Varric says. “It’s the idea of a Champion beating the Qunari, that’s what they want us to think about. Not our actual human friend here.” He pats Hawke on the arm. “So… hey. The statue’s not really of you, it's the idea of you. If that makes you feel better.”
“Not especially,” Hawke says. He folds his arms, tipping his head. “Come to think of it… This statue has absolutely nothing to tell you that I’m a mage.”
The group considers it again, now sobered into quiet. Hawke the faceless warrior towers above them, flaming sword victoriously raised.
“Well, you sure took the fun out of it fast,” Isabela says. “Don’t worry, though. I was prepared for this.”
“Oh, no,” Aveline says, as Isabela drops a satchel onto the ground and begins to unbuckle it. “What does that—?”
“You’re off duty, captain! Try to enjoy yourself this once,” Isabela says. She dumps a clatter of chalk pieces onto the cobblestones. “There! Everyone, grab one. Let’s fix this thing.”
They look at each other. Then Hawke laughs loudly, swooping down to seize the first piece of chalk. “Great idea! I have a few notes myself…”
Varric refuses Hawke’s offer to get on his shoulders and instead stoops down to target the plaque. The rest of them save Aveline clamber up onto the statue’s stone plinth, making their additions: Hawke goes for the face, drawing a silly expression across the stone helm, while Merrill draws flowers on the statue’s armour. Dorian draws a spellbook beneath the statue’s lowered arm, then clambers around both Merrill and Hawke to access the sword hilt and elegantly inscribe it with this label: MAGE’S STAFF.
The three of them help each other to dismount, briefly admire their work, then circle around to the back, where Isabela and Fenris are putting the finishing touches on their own additions.
“…Dicks,” Hawke says. “You drew dicks on my back. Of course you did.”
“Hey, he started it,” Isabela says, pointing at Fenris.
Fenris points at Dorian in turn. “No, he is the one who suggested ‘phallic imagery.’”
“…In a completely unrelated context!” Dorian says.
But Hawke is laughing heartily, and when Isabela and Fenris jump down he throws his arms about them both. “I love it,” he says. “Aveline, what about you? Don’t you want to add something?”
She is standing a few feet away, arms crossed. “I’m keeping an eye out for my guard. Which is already more help than you should expect from me.”
“Oh, come on, big girl, where’s your sense of fun?” Isabela says. She holds a piece of chalk forth. “It’s not even permanent, anyway, it’s chalk! Don’t be such a baby. Deface our friend.”
“Deface me, Aveline,” Hawke says. “Do it for our friendship.”
Aveline gingerly takes the chalk, sighing as she approaches the statue. “What can I even add on top of all this…”
“Just take your first impulse and do it,” Isabela says, elbowing her. “Go on!”
For a long moment, they stand there, pressing Aveline with their expectant gazes. At last, Aveline steps forth to the Arishok’s severed head, and draws a little line that dribbles down from one of his nostrils.
A brief silence. Then the group breaks into raucous applause.
Aveline rolls her eyes. “You’re all ridiculous,” she says, and tosses the chalk back to Isabela.
“Nice work, everybody,” Varric says, dusting off his hands. “That should correct the record for a bit. Until it rains, anyway…”
“And then we just do it again,” Isabela says. “New weekly routine?”
“Weekly?” Aveline says.
The group stands back to take one more look at the newly improved statue. Below their artistic additions, Varric has rewritten the plaque as follows:
Hail to Our Champion
GARRETT HAWKE, A FERELDAN REFUGEE & MAGE
Who Saved Kirkwall from
BOREDOM & INACCURATE STATUES, BUT ALSO
The Qunari Scourge
AND DRANK MORE PINTS AT THE HANGED MAN THAN ANYONE ELSE
In 9:34 Dragon
& BEYOND!
“Brilliant,” Dorian says, laying an arm across Hawke’s shoulders. “Now that’s a statue worthy of our Champion.”
(This all is from Bit of a Shithole, a "Dorian in Kirkwall during DA2" fic)
wip whenever: a hawke-romancing dorian on isabela's return to kirkwall in act 3
“...Isabela’s your friend, too, isn’t she?”
“She was,” Dorian says. “That was before she caused the man I love to be impaled by a preposterously large sword in front of my eyes.”
“Not intentionally,” Hawke says. “And not likely to repeat, hm? The only preposterously large thing I’m worried about Isabela sticking me with is her tab.” He reaches for Dorian’s hand, and, not being granted it, squeezes Dorian’s crossed arm instead. “Wouldn’t it feel better to hash this out with her, rather than keep it festering inside you?”
“What ‘festering’?” Dorian asks. “I am not actively stewing about this. She has simply lost my trust and I don’t wish to endure the sight of her.”
“If you found out tomorrow that this was your last chance to see her again, would you regret having missed it?”
Dorian pauses. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you don’t always have as much time with people as you think,” Hawke says. “And unresolved resentments are a heavy regret to carry around.”
“For you, maybe,” Dorian says. “You are a kind and charitable soul who enjoys fixing problems. I, however, am a professional bridge-burner who delights in the roaring of the flames.”
Hawke snorts, shakes his head. “‘Delights.’ Is that the emotion, really?”
“Well. Depends on the bridge, I suppose. Sometimes it’s more of a grim satisfaction.”
“And if you eventually need to cross that bridge?” Hawke asks.
“Why would I ever need to cross it? I have already deemed its destination useless.”
“Ah. And, since you’re always perfectly correct, your mind could never change on the matter.”
“Yes, precisely.”
Hawke grasps Dorian by the face, kissing his forehead—it’s long and affectionate and somehow repudiating in spite of these things. “I won’t make you come along if you don’t want to, my love,” Hawke says. “But if you’re staying angry on my account, you really don’t need to be.”
“Don’t I?” Dorian asks. “Someone needs to hold your grudges. As you’ve repeatedly proven yourself inadequate at the task, I suppose it must fall to me.”
drafting more "younger dorian wrangles with the experience of kirkwall" stuff, now in things-are-getting-real act 2 edition
Hawke says, “Before we do that, I’ve just got to pop down and speak to the Arishok.”
Dorian scoffs. “Right. And I’m meeting the Grand Cleric for tea.”
Hawke just looks at him, oddly devoid of the usual retort.
“…What?” Dorian asks. “Were you not joking?”
“I was not,” Hawke says. “Sorry. Hard to tell with me sometimes. I’m told it’s because I say everything in this particular tone of voice.”
Dorian splutters with disbelief. “You’re meeting with the Arishok? You! Casually!”
“Now, is it really so odd he’d want to spend time with me? I’m extremely fun to be around.”
“I was not given to understand that qunari prioritize the concept of fun.”
“That one was an actual joke,” Hawke says. “No, I got wrapped up in some silly matter involving the qunari and that made the Arishok aware of me. Now he’s begun to ask for me at times. It seems that me keeping him apprised of local happenings makes him slightly less likely to lose his temper and go on a rampage through Docktown—or that is the hope, at least.”
Dorian can hardly process this information; he is still trying to fathom the mere concept. “You deliver information to the qunari,” he repeats. “Hawke, do you not understand who you’re dealing with? Do you realize what they would do to you if they could?”
Hawke furrows his brow. “Make me join the Qun? I doubt that would work out well for anyone… and it's not in my plans. I’m just trying to keep a handle on the situation.”
“You are a mage! Those superstitious barbarians would chain you and sew your mouth shut if they found that out. And you treat with them as if they are rational!”
Hawke laughs easily, though there’s something cold in its rebuff. “Dorian. Try to remember that I didn’t grow up in Tevinter.”
“Yes, that is quite evident. If you had, you’d have seen what bloody invasions the qunari have waged up north. You’d know exactly the kind of violence those brutes would—”
“I meant,” Hawke cuts in, “when it comes to ‘treating with’ people who see me as a dangerous threat, I for one have never had the luxury of doing otherwise.”
This briefly derails Dorian’s tirade. He snaps his mouth shut.
Hawke continues, “As for ‘rational’—well! You’ve met the people around here. How much of an option do you expect that is?”
“It’s different,” Dorian says. “That is quite different.”
“Is it, though?” Hawke asks. “It’s all a matter of survival. Besides, there’s a risk to the whole city if things break down between the Arishok and the Viscount. If I can be a minor obstacle on the way to that seemingly inevitable disaster, then of course I will do it as long as possible. Isn’t that reality more important than any abstract principle?”
“Maker’s sake, Hawke, it is not abstract! The risk to yourself is all too real. The more visible you are, the more of a target you become—you taught me that yourself! And now you would wade into this position of incalculable danger for—for what? A city that would cage you and a people that would destroy you. What would possibly make any part of that your responsibility?”
Hawke shrugs. “Nothing, really. But I don’t see anyone else doing it.”
“Hawke,” Dorian says, now sounding slightly desperate. “You are beginning to worry me.”
Hawke laughs aloud. “Beginning to? Just now? You must not be very observant.”
“I am being serious,” Dorian says. “The number of burdens you have heaped on your plate these last weeks is beginning to border on absurdity. You cannot have them all. There are some things that one single man simply cannot fix.”
The facade briefly drops from Hawke and he gives Dorian one straight look. There is a naked pain in his face, an agonizing level of exhaustion, that nearly makes Dorian take a step back.
“I am well aware of that,” Hawke says.
Dorian struggles with his tongue for a moment. “That was—I only meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Hawke says. “But what choice do I have? I can fight the impossible odds or give up to languish in despair like everyone else. That’s not a choice. I’ve come much too far to give in to despair now. I won’t. There must be some way through all of this, or what in the Maker’s name was any of it for?”
“I understand that,” Dorian says. “Truly, I do. But does that justify taking such risks? Surely there must be some middle ground.”
Hawke laughs again, his voice once more sounding light and easy, though Dorian is still too harrowed by the fleeting glimpse beyond Hawke’s mask to accept any of this as sincere. “Of course there’s no middle ground! You should know that already. That’s a luxury no one has in a place as fucked as this.”
(this is a sure-to-be-edited WIP snippet from a future chapter of bit of a shithole, a "young dorian winds up in kirkwall during da2" fic)
"da2 companion dorian" possibilities continue to intrigue me
“Stop,” Dorian says. “I didn’t march uninvited into your home so that I could moan about my circumstances and dump all of my personal problems into your lap.”
Hawke glances over his shoulder toward the door. “You do know that’s what literally everyone else marches in here for, right?”
“That hardly makes it more appealing, Hawke.”
To that, Hawke chuckles, slightly uncertain though it is. “All right… then what can I do for you?”
“I just—simply—I would like to talk. Could we talk? Two friends, having a casual and lighthearted conversation? No drama or anguish peppered into the mix?”
“Why, certainly! I presume that must be a thing that friends do,” Hawke says. He plops into the chair across Dorian’s. “So, then… I, uh… How was your day?”
Dorian pauses. “Awful,” he says, and laughs aloud. “It was complete and utter shit, in all honesty.”
Hawke grins. “What do you know! Mine, too. Though I suppose that’s the standard response around these parts.”
“So it is. What was I thinking, trying to force normalcy in this of all places?”
“Honest mistake,” Hawke says. “But, yes… that’s probably hopeless. Normalcy doesn’t fare very well in Kirkwall these days.”
“No indeed. And yet somehow you seem perfectly comfortable here.”
“I’m not particularly skilled at normalcy either,” Hawke says. “Birds of a strange feather must flock to the appropriate nesting ground, or what have you…”
(this is a first-draft snippet from a future hawke estate conversation in my stupid da2 dorian fic, "bit of a shithole")
behold my beloved new child, catreus auratus hawke. "cat" to his parents. "rook" to everyone else. fake surname "mercar" for stealth.
(i.e., an attempt to craft a baby who somehow sprang from dorian and default male hawke. how does that work? magic. don't worry about it.)
i've only played the very start of da:tv..... twice, as it melted my old computer's insides on my first go........
so catreus is my second rook attempt, and he has enriched my experience in several ways:
after getting himself in trouble at home, "go stay with uncle varric until the heat on you dies down" makes a lot of sense for a baby hawke
my imagined "i get to hang out with uncle varric!" dynamic makes the opening part pretty cute :)
also "rook" really tracks as a varric nickname for a baby hawke, especially if his other dad saddled him with a pretentious tevinter name. you know varric's not saying all those syllables.
(ok look. listen. the chess piece explanation is a double meaning and/or just a clever varric obfuscation of the link to cat's famous dad. don't @ me.)
anyway i'm still very much processing how i feel about this game but i'm quite pleased with my son boy
