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A Little Bit of Help and a Whole Lot of Luck

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“Are you-”
“-Not here. In the Chantry one hour.”
“One hour.”


“Dorian!” Felix was across the room almost as soon as Dorian stepped out from behind the pillar.

“Yes, yes, it’s good to see me. Oof-”

“What are you doing here? We’re in Ferelden.”

“Are we? I hadn’t noticed. Ow, Stop that. Fine, I got your letter and decided to investigate.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s true.”

“Dorian, what happened?”

Dorian took a steadying breath, chewed on his tongue trying to figure out how he could actually say it. Too much of what had happened was bound. He’d only be able to give pieces, and those pieces alone would be hard to give voice to.

“So much pressure, so much sickness, it’s your thinking: Too much quickness.” A child’s rhyme, but a meaningful one. Dorian had once used it to describe his relation to his father and the expectations placed on him. Felix understood immediately. He went white.

“Outside smiling, inside screaming. Dorian, who was it?”

“Halward. Who else?”

“How did you get out? How did you get here?”

Dorian raised a brow, let the look speak for itself. Felix would figure it out.

“I’ll put it this way, I had to buy new boots on my way.”

His hand went to where his birthright would usually hang in proud view, a habitual gesture. It hurt all the more when his hand found nothing but his own leathers. Felix saw the motion.


His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

“Oh, stop that, you look like a fish. You’ll hurt yourself trying to fight it, anyway.”

Felix’s shackles were far less extensive than his own, but they were just as absolute.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“All the way here?”

“To Kirkwall, actually. I followed the coast.”

Once he had a mind to do anything other than fly as far away from his father as possible. Kirkwall was easy to recognise and had put him within reach of Fereldan where Felix’s letter had said he and Gereon had headed.

Felix swore colorfully, much to Dorian’s delight. He hauled him back in for another hug.

“Are you hurt?”

Dorian hesitated.

“Dorian. Where?”

“It’s not an injury, per say.”

He tugged open the collar of his leathers. The gold band was inconspicuous -- decorative looking. It was also instantly recognisable to anyone in the know. Felix sucked in a harsh breath.

“That’s why you left Tevinter.”

“I left Tevinter because of my father. I didn’t turn around an hour out because of it.”

Anyone saw him in a martingale, he’d be rounded up and returned to his father faster than he could blink. It was as good as a slave collar. At least the chain had broken off with the muzzle band. He hated the thought of having to accommodate that for the rest of his life. The martingale was almost comfortable, really. Just like any other necklace, not that Dorian had ever worn anything other than his birthright.

Felix hauled him into a third hug.

“Alright this is getting excessive.”

Dorian complained to hide the crack in his voice. He wasn’t alone. Felix jerked back as though a thought had hit him with near physical force.


He slipped the silver ring from his pointer finger.

“Felix, I can’t wear-”

He could, though, now.

“You can’t just-”

But Felix was shoving the focus into his hands. He shrugged out of his outermost layer, wrapped it over Dorian's shoulders.

“Felix, stop.”

“We both know you’re freezing, Dorian. My father won't notice one shawl missing.”

Then he unbuckled the strap across his chest.

“He will notice you missing your staff, Felix!”

“I don’t normally carry it, it’s fine.”

“Kaffas, I’m going to get you killed.”