Chapter Text
The crisp, morning air made each breath strain. It was well worth it.
Dirthamen’s gaze lingered on Teren’s aravel. He sat too far away for those seated just outside the healer’s aravel to notice him. Flames flickered in a haze of warm smoke. The flames snapped and obscured part of his vision. Yet, he could still see them.
His family.
Valendrian was seated beside his son, surrounded by his grandchildren and granddaughter-in-law.
Warmth swelled in Dirthamen.
There was such joy to be found with his son this day.
A smile tugged at the corner of Dirthamen’s lips.
Yes, such joy.
“You could join them.” The soft sound of the furs moving came to Dirthamen.
“No, ma falon.” Dirthamen couldn’t pull his gaze from his son. “This is their time.”
Theon sighed. “Umph.” A few bones popped and Dirthamen looked at Theon out of the corner of his eye. Theon had stretched, looking comfortable in the heat of the fire. His brow furled. “It could be yours as well. You are a part of their family.”
Dirthamen’s gaze dropped to the bowl he held. He stirred the barely touched breakfast, watching the gruel shift.
No.
Dirthamen closed his eyes.
He had no right to count himself part of Valdrian’s family. Not after all the lies, not after—
“Perhaps, the most important part of it,” Theon pressed.
Important? All Dirthamen had done was raise Valendrian. If Dirthamen had been normal, if he had died at the age he was supposed, he wouldn’t have been here. Perhaps Valendrian could have been raised by his real parents and not abandoned. Perhaps…
“How did the meeting yesterday go?”
Dirthamen opened his eyes a slit. “Better than I had hoped.”
“The worst future was avoided then.” Theon nodded. “Good, good.”
If Dirthamen hadn’t been the Inquisitor… his daughter might have been, or she might have died. Both had been possible futures at the time. His decision had saved her the pain. It was worth it no matter how much he had hurt the others.
“Go,” Cole urged, his voice distant, only just close enough to discern.
His voice followed the heavy footsteps. The softer rustling of expensive robes sounded in time the footsteps.
“So,” Bull’s gruff voice trailed in the air just as uneasy as the morning breeze.
Theon grinned. “Come and join us for breakfast.” He gestured to the few furs laid out around the fire and the small pot nestled close to the flames.
“Don’t mind if we do!” Bull ushered a grumbling Dorian onto the fur next to Dirthamen.
Dirthamen closed his eyes.
The sound of the wooden ladle scraping against the warn pot followed. “Here, Kadan.” Bull grunted. He had seated himself on Dorian’s other side. Bull cleared his throat. “So, where are those,” – he gave an audible swallow – “those demons of yours?”
“Scouting,” Dirthamen stated.
“Scouting?” Bull shifted.
“They’re aiding the hunters,” Theon explained.
Bull grunted.
Dirthamen opened his eyes. His gaze moved to, once more, rest on his family. He couldn’t look at Dorian or Bull. Especially after everything he had done…
No, he didn’t deserve either family or friendship.
Yet, Theon seemed to disagree.
A matter Dirthamen was grateful for.
A small sigh escaped Theon. He shook his head. “Ma falon, care to join me going through your books again?”
Dirthamen didn’t move.
“What?” Dorian asked.
“Ah, yes, you might be unaware. We visited Dirthamen’s temple and recovered the books he had left us.” Theon chuckled. “Though, at the time, Keeper Hawen was quite unaware he was being led into the temple proper by Dirthamen himself.”
Dirthamen glanced at Theon to find his oldest friend smiling at him, eyes soft and glittering with amusement.
“Was it the same temple we visited? If so, I don’t recall there being any books there.” Dorian frowned.
“We didn’t enter the temple proper,” Dirthamen explained as his gaze returned to Valendrian.
“Hmm.” Bull rubbed his chin.
“All we did was complete the first step in opening the main stairway into it.”
“The first step? Stairway?”
“Yes, the temple was built to be hidden, its entrance far more than the rest of it. It was, after all, Dirthamen’s main temple.” Dirthamen gave a hollow laugh. “My apologies, I should have stated my temple.”
Silence greeted these words.
“I will join you, Theon. It will keep Teren happy at the very least.” It would be for the best, especially given Teren’s reaction from yesterday.
“Wasn’t Teren one of the friends you mentioned?” Bull asked.
“He was.” Dirthamen’s gaze dropped to his barely touched food.
Dorian cleared his throat.
A chill trickled down Dirthamen’s spin. Dirthamen looked towards the magister.
“Can we take a walk?” Dorian asked. His eyes locked on Dirthamen’s.
“Very well, Magister Pavus.” Dirthamen set down his bowl. He used his cane to pull himself to his feet.
Dorian stood.
The warmth of the fire faded as they moved away from the fire.
Dirthamen rasped, claws tearing as his lungs. Dorian’s pace was the one they had moved at while on foot, but even this was far too fast for Dirthamen to match. The distance grew between them as Dorian led Dirthamen away from the few people up and not assigned a task this early in the morning.
Dorian’s robes whipped out of sight behind an aravel.
Fenedhis.
No.
Dirthamen could and would match the magister’s pace. It would be one less reason for Dorian to hate him. One less…
Fire seared through his leg. His lungs tightened with each new attempt at a normal stride.
Dirthamen made it to the aravel and staggered. His cane dug into the hard ground. The night’s frost glittered in the early morning light, disturbed only by where Dorian had stepped.
Breaths rasped as Dirthamen tried to breathe.
Fenedhis lasa!
His body couldn’t even handle this much. No matter how hard he tried or what he did, without Fear and Deceit—
“They would never let you on the field of battle,” Fears voice echoed through Dirthamen’s mind.
It was true.
Still…
Dirthamen closed his eyes.
This wasn’t what he needed to focus on.
His fingers fumbled over the clasp of his bag.
Useless, utterly useless.
What was he expecting? In the end, the damage done to him was extensive. Dirthamen had barely survived the fire that had taken the rest of Andraste’s generals’ lives. It had even claimed Andraste herself in a manner of speaking.
He was the only one “lucky” enough to have survived.
Air trickled through tight airways.
The clasp slipped through his chilled fingers.
He couldn’t even do this much.
The soft sound of boots crunching against the morning frost whispered to Dirthamen.
His eyes opened a slit to see Dorian’s well-polished boots standing out against the frosted earth.
Dirthamen managed to get a good hold of the clasp and opened his bag. He pulled out one of the plants.
The tightness loosed as Dirthamen breathed in the juices of the plant.
“My apologies, Magister Pavus.” Dirthamen bowed his head, not looking at the magister. “It wasn’t my intention to keep you.”
“What’s wrong?” Dorian asked.
Was that concern?
No.
Dirthamen must have imagined it.
Dorian… Magister Pavus wasn’t his friend anymore. There was no need for the magister to be concerned for Dirthamen. The Inquisitor, yes. A liar such as Dirthamen didn’t deserve such kindness.
A liar?
That was a kind way to put it.
A monster would be far more accurate a description.
After all, Dirthamen had let happen, the fractures between the rest of his family, the wars, the near destruction of the then known world from the greed of the others, and the last war which had seen the fracture of the world into the physical and dream realms. Yes, there was nothing more Dirthamen deserved than the ire of the world.
“Nothing.” Dirthamen didn’t look at Magister Pavus. “You wished to talk, and I presume you had a destination in mind on where such a conversation should take place.” Dirthamen moved forward, careful of his pace this time around lest another attack happen.
Dorian followed. “Here is fine,” the magister stated once they were at the edge of the trees.
“Very well, Magister Pavus.”
“I know I’m important and handsome but stop calling me by title.”
Dirthamen bowed his head. “What is it you wished to discuss?”
There was no seeing the future when it came to Dorian. It was as if Falon were here given how blind Dirthamen was around the magister.
Both were so remarkably similar. The only difference was the magister was far braver than Falon could ever be. He had been true to himself despite the fact, at the time, it had meant losing the love of his father. They repaired their relationship. It didn’t take back the fact for a time the two men hadn’t been on speaking terms.
“Are you Mahvir?”
Dirthamen frowned and looked at the magister. Out of all the questions that could have been asked this was one that was. “Changing my appearance has never changed who I am,” Dirthamen stated. “I am still the same person you knew. I am still Mahvir as much as I am Shartan and Dirthamen.”
Silence greeted these words, broken only by a soft rustle of Dorian’s expensive robes.
“I didn’t change my personality or the decisions I would make simply because I never revealed my past,” Dirthamen continued. “I am as much Mahvir this day as I was the day I left Skyhold.”
Dorian smiled. “That’s more of a relief to hear than you know.” Dorian cleared his throat. “Shall we return?” He gestured in the direction of the camp and the fire they had left.
Dirthamen frowned.
“I would like to hear your plans for standing against Solas in detail,” Dorian continued. “After all, Bull and I are traveling with you to Val Royeaux.”
“It will be good to have your company, Dorian.”
“I know, none can stand being without me.”
“Agreed.” Dirthamen fell into step beside Dorian. His heart was lighter than it had been since the truth of his identity had come to light.