Archive of Our Own

Fourth of Guardian, 9:31 Dragon. Vyrantium.

It started as a perfectly respectable dinner party, all of the city's noble elite gathered to view Magister Maecenas' collection of Qunari antiquities and make polite conversation. Dorian hadn't even wanted to attend; he had three volumes of texts to get through before his next lesson with Alexius, and the thought of having to mingle with his parents' peers and act fascinated by their boring anecdotes all evening did not appeal in the slightest. But both his mother and father were away, and to have no representative of House Pavus make an appearance would have been taken as a grave insult. Even Dorian understood the repercussions of such an incident, with the ignominy of Gideon Pavus' politics still lingering in many minds.

Still, Dorian made a point to arrive fashionably late. It wouldn't do to appear too eager, and he used the extra time to put on his best face -- both figuratively and literally. His eyes were lined with kohl, a fine shimmer of gold applied to the lids, and he took special care in styling his hair. He doubted very much there would be anyone worth catching the notice of at a stuffy old salon; at nineteen, it was likely he'd be the youngest guest by an average of two or three decades. But Dorian took pride in his looks, and it never hurt to be prepared. He may not be the only son attending in his parents' stead, after all.

He wasn't, as it turned out, but of the four others, three were not remotely attractive and the last had arrived arm-in-arm with his fiancée. Dorian resigned himself to a long and boring evening, and made a beeline for the drinks as soon as possible. If he was going to endure Lord Cassius' recounting of his trip to Nevarra for the twelfth time, he would not do it sober.

By the time Magister Maecenas stood at the head of the assembly to address her guests, Dorian was already halfway through his second brandy. He nodded and clapped along with everyone else as she made her speech, something about the glory of the Imperium, the usual drivel about magic serving man by ruling over them (how convenient), and a lengthy retelling of how the antiquities on display had been "liberated" from the savage barbarians to the north. Savage barbarians with a culture and history rich enough to create antiquities worth having, apparently, but nobody seemed to notice the contradiction. Dorian was busying himself counting the number of wigs in the audience (four, perhaps five) when, much to his surprise, things suddenly got interesting.

"These priceless artifacts will remain on exhibit for the rest of the evening, and I encourage all my esteemed guests to peruse them at their leisure," Maecenas said. She paused, a slow smile spreading on her face with obvious relish before continuing, "Yet they are not the only things from the north on display tonight."

She signalled two elven slaves at the end of the room with a flick of her hand, and they each turned to grab hold of one of the heavy double doors they had been standing in front of. The doors swung open with dramatic slowness, and a collective gasp went through the crowd as they revealed--

"A qunari, wounded in a skirmish and abandoned to his fate by his own kin," Maecenas said, raising her voice above the flurry of whispers. "There is no loyalty or brotherhood among these beasts, and it is only thanks to the mercy of our brave Tevinter soldiers -- the very ones he had been trying to kill -- that he is alive today."

Dorian gaped along with the rest of the crowd, too shocked to school his features. He had seen qunari before, of course; there were scores of them working the mines of Minrathous, and Maecenas certainly wasn't the first magister in Vyrantium to have one as a slave. But Dorian had never seen one up close, nor one quite so astonishingly large. The qunari towered head and shoulders above all of them, his great horns matching the breadth of his shoulders and taking the joke out of "ox-man" entirely. He had been groomed for the occasion, his grey skin oiled and gleaming in the candlelight, emphasizing his unbelievable musculature. His horns had been polished, too, giving them the glittering look of obsidian. He was dressed in simple linen trousers, a heavy iron collar around his thick neck, matching cuffs at his wrists and ankles. He wore nothing else. No chains, and not a stitch of clothing to cover the naked expanse of his torso.

Dorian drained the rest of his brandy in one swallow.

"Is it safe?" one of the nobles cried.

"I assure you, he is quite safe," Maecenas said, not even bothering to hide the glee in her voice. She had played her hand well, and her little party was sure to be talked about for months to come. "He has been a slave in my household this past fortnight, and demonstrated himself to be both docile and obedient. It is true what they say, my Lords and Ladies: these brutes are already slaves under their heretical Qun. It takes very little persuasion to have them bow their heads to a new master."

A speech like that was the perfect set-up for a demonstration, and Maecenas did not disappoint. She beckoned the qunari forward with one finger and a simple, "Come." Instantly, the qunari walked towards her, and the guests parted to form a path before him as everyone hurried to back away from his approach. Dorian remained standing at the edge of the crowd, his fascination overruling his fear. The qunari passed him by, close enough to touch, close enough for Dorian to see the unsettlingly blank expression on his face.

Soon he was standing before Maecenas, eyes lowered in submission despite the fact that she was barely half his height. She pointed to the ground and he went to his knees without hesitation, hands clasped behind his back, the irons around his ankles clattering against the marble floor. Maecenas casually wrapped her ringed fingers around one horn tip to angle his face upward, her lips twitching with amusement at the renewed surge of whispers this caused.

"Tell these good men and women how you came to be my slave," she ordered.

"I am... I was Sten. Soldier," the qunari said, haltingly. His voice was a deep growl as he stumbled over the common tongue. Dorian remembered reading somewhere that the qunari do not like to speak unless they have mastered a language, as it shamed them otherwise. Maecenas had either done her research, or had no idea this little show served to humiliate her new pet in more ways than one. Laboriously, the qunari continued, "I fight your men. Tevinter. They hurt me bad. I fall, cannot fight. My men lose fight. They leave me. Your men find me, use magic so I am not hurt."

"You owe your life to us, yes?" Maecenas prompted.

"Yes."

"And are you grateful, slave?"

"Yes."

"How does a slave show gratitude in Tevinter?"

Silently, the qunari folded himself in half in one fluid motion, his hands still held at the small of his back. Despite his huge bulk, his movements were graceful and precise as he pressed his lips to the top of Maecenas' foot. His horns grazed the floor on either side of where Maecenas stood, and somehow Dorian found it in himself to think, That'll scuff the marble.

A murmur of appreciation ran through the crowd, broken by a few titters of laughter and jeers. Dorian did not laugh. The qunari were a proud people, all his readings had told him, and their soldiers sooner willing to part with their head than their sword. This one had the look of a formidable soldier, the sheer size of him enough to intimate as much. But whatever fighting spirit he might have had before was gone now, and in just two short weeks. Dorian didn't want to know what it took to crush the will out of someone so obviously born and bred for battle.

"Well done, slave," Maecenas cooed, with palpable enjoyment. How she ever got to be a magister with a face that loudly proclaimed every smug thought in her head, Dorian could only guess. Luckily for her, whatever Maecenas lacked in subtlety, she made up for with theatrics and a knack for taking risks that paid off. Like this one. Addressing the crowd once more, she went on, "In a moment, we shall move into the dining hall. I hope you all enjoy tonight's menu..."

The qunari remained kneeling before her as she reeled off the various courses to be served out that night. Maecenas left him hunched on the floor like that, moving to the head of the crowd to lead them into the next room. Dorian hung back as long as he dared, using the excuse of fetching another drink to dawdle. Soon, the last of the stragglers had exited the room and he was the only guest still remaining in the parlour. Nobody seemed to notice he hadn't left with the others, including the slaves.

One of the elves had remained behind, and Dorian watched as she darted forward to help the qunari stand. But the qunari shrugged off her hand and rose to his feet with no difficulty. To Dorian's surprise, the elf did not flinch, nor did she seem at all alarmed to stand so close to the qunari. Perhaps she had witnessed whatever methods Maecenas had used to break him, or perhaps her own senses had been dulled past the point of caring. Regardless, it was strange to see the two of them side-by-side, both passive and expressionless, yet apparently at ease in each other's company.

The qunari noticed Dorian first. He had been speaking to the elf, too softly to hear, but stopped mid-sentence when he caught sight of him. For a split second, they held each other's gaze, and there was nothing lifeless or empty in those sharp eyes. Dorian felt a hot prickle of nerves sweep down his spine, and he half-reached for his staff before remembering he didn't have it. The qunari dropped his eyes in the next breath, bowing his head, and the elf quickly followed suit. Dorian chided himself for being so easily unsettled, reacting just like the foolish, sheltered nobles and imagining danger in anything unknown.

They were standing at opposite ends of the room, and for a moment, Dorian was struck with the overwhelming urge to approach the qunari. He could, if he truly desired it. He was Maecenas' honoured guest, he had every right to address her slaves. And even if the qunari wished Dorian harm, he was a slave in his master's home, next to a room full of mages. There was nothing he could do, if he should object to Dorian taking a closer look.

Dorian let himself linger long enough to give the qunari one last, sweeping glance. Then he picked up his third brandy of the evening and hurried out of the room.

Dinner was stretched out across ten needlessly extravagant courses, but had the saving grace of being served in a non-traditional fashion. The dining hall had been cleared of tables, with the antiquities on display throughout the great room. Slaves weaved in and out of the crowd, offering up trays laden with food served in bite-sized portions while the guests were left free to mingle and converse at their leisure. It was rather gauche, having everyone standing or seated at random, with no thought for rank or precedence. But the arrangement suited Dorian perfectly, as it made it easier for him to excuse himself from conversations or avoid them entirely.

The qunari was not among the slaves serving up food, but Dorian had hardly expected him to be. How Maecenas planned to make use of him, Dorian could only guess. A bodyguard, perhaps. Or simply just a body slave.

Dorian took a hasty sip of his drink -- he had switched to champagne somewhere around the fourth course -- and swore silently to himself. The thought ought to repulse him, and it did. His family had never kept body slaves, and Dorian had been raised to view it as the disgusting practice it was. Besides which, if Maecenas was keeping the qunari for that purpose, it was unscrupulous, even for her. She was married, but not happily (was anyone, in Tevinter?), and the couple were without children. If rumours should spread that her husband had been replaced by a beast of burden, Maecenas would hardly withstand the scandal.

But, a dark voice whispered, and it sounded just like the Desire demon Dorian had met in the Fade, you don't find the idea entirely distasteful, do you?

Dorian closed his eyes. The moment when the qunari had walked by him resurfaced in his mind, slowed down enough for Dorian to remember every second of how it had felt to be so near him. Dorian's feet had been rooted to the spot, even as his hands ached to reach out and touch. So much bare skin, glossy with the fragrant oil Maecenas had used on him, and had she done that herself? Dorian imagined rubbing his slick palms over every inch of that body, feeling the muscles tense and relax beneath his hands...

"Messere?" a soft voice ventured.

Dorian started, sloshing a bit of champagne over his hand, and turned to see one of the slaves holding out a tray. "No, thank you," he said, surreptitiously wiping his hand on his robes and looking around to make sure nobody had seen him. Luckily, everyone in the party was preoccupied, eating and drinking and gossiping to their heart's content. Hardly anyone seemed to be paying much mind to the priceless artifacts meant to serve as the highlight of the evening.

Dorian pressed the back of one hand to his flushed cheek, feeling heat from the alcohol and his own traitorous thoughts. Maker, he had to get a hold of himself. He looked around the dining hall again, making sure his absence would not be noticed. He couldn't leave the party without paying his respects to Maecenas, of course, but nobody should take offense to him stepping out for some fresh air.

He downed the rest of his champagne in one swallow and handed off the empty flute to another passing slave, then slipped out of the room and into the blessedly cool, empty hallway. If memory served, there was a balcony nearby that overlooked the gardens. Somewhere in... that direction, perhaps?

Ten minutes later, Dorian was thoroughly lost and feeling increasingly annoyed about it.

The mansion wasn't that big, surely. Dorian cursed under his breath as he found himself opening a door into yet another drawing room. He paused long enough to scoff at the mismatched furniture before spinning on his heel to retrace his steps. His head throbbed weakly in protest, a portent of things to come. Dorian closed his eyes for a moment, willing the headache away. Three snifters of brandy and a glass of champagne was hardly overdoing it, but Dorian hadn't accounted for the food being served out in little morsels.

"Well, it's not a real party if you aren't regretting it the next morning," Dorian mused. He chuckled, then realized what he was doing and stopped at once, opening his eyes to confirm that nobody had heard him talking to himself.

After a while, Dorian stopped trying to find his way and resigned himself to remaining lost, wandering aimlessly and peering into rooms at random. This was his new home now, he supposed, here in the endless hallways of Magister Maecenas' tastelessly decorated mansion. And, alright, Dorian admitted a childish part of him was offended that nobody had noticed his absence and sent out a search party by now. He'd give them another ten minutes, Dorian decided, and then he'll start setting things on fire. Starting with those drapes.

"Doing you a favour, really," Dorian murmured to himself, wincing at the garish things. Maroon tassels against navy and silver stripes? Honestly.

He had found himself in a small study, an enormous desk made of lacquered black wood set as the centrepiece of the room. The walls were lined with books, and a quick glance at a few rows was enough for Dorian to confirm most of them were hardly worth the paper they were printed on. Outdated, poorly researched and, to add insult to injury, shelved without any conceivable method of organization. He tamped down the urge to rearrange them, imagining how that conversation would go down. (Oh, yes, Magister Maecenas threw a lovely party. I spent the evening alphabetizing her books.)

Just as he was about to leave the room to make one last attempt at finding his way back, Dorian heard footsteps in the hallway. Someone was coming, and Dorian immediately felt the panicked impulse to hide. It's not that he was doing anything wrong, and he certainly hadn't intended to get hopelessly lost, but he recognized how it might look if someone should find him poking around in Maecenas' private study. The footsteps got closer, and Dorian held his breath, willing whoever it was to keep walking by.

No such luck.

They stopped just outside the door, and while Dorian frantically scanned the room for likely hiding places -- those curtains might do the job, but Dorian would literally have to be caught dead in them -- a second set of footsteps joined the first. The door to the study was open just a crack, and through it, Dorian could clearly hear their whispered conversation.

"Shanedan, Hissrad," a woman said.

"Shanedan," a man replied, his voice deep and rumbling. Familiar. "Did you find it?"

"Neither of us saw any sign of it in the dining hall," the woman said. "If she has it, she's not displaying it."

The man let out a low growl of frustration, but recovered quickly. "If she knew its value, she wouldn't," he reasoned. "It's possible she has it locked away somewhere else."

"You think that basra vashedan saarebas would keep quiet about something like this?" the woman hissed. "It's a miracle she waited two weeks before showing you off as her new pet."

A sharp intake of breath. Then:

"I'm sorry, Hissrad. What she did to you--"

"It's alright," the man said. "Asit tal-eb. In a few weeks, we'll be laughing about this over drinks."

Dorian was now having trouble hearing them over the sound of his own pounding heart. The man -- Hissrad -- was none other than Maecenas' qunari. And the woman was no doubt the elven slave Dorian had seen with him earlier. Only neither of them were slaves, by the sound of it, but Qunari spies. What was it they called themselves? Dorian had read about them, Ben-something...

"We're getting you out of here long before then," the woman said, cutting across Dorian's thoughts.

"Since when were you the one giving orders?" Hissrad asked, but he sounded amused, not angry.

"I mean it!" the woman snapped. "This place is poison. It sickens me to walk amongst these 'Vints, to bow and scrape to those dathrasi, to see how they treat you--!"

"Parshaara," Hissrad said firmly. "We won't stay much longer. Remember what we're here for."

There was a rustling sound, a soft sigh. Then she replied, subdued, "We'll keep Maecenas distracted tonight, but you should head back to the dining hall soon. There's not much we can do if she decides to summon you again."

"I'll be quick. You're sure it's this room?"

"The other agent noticed it earlier today. The shelves are too shallow to account for the width of this wall."

Dorian glanced at the shelves in question, his breath caught in his throat. Maker, he's going to come in here.

"If it's here, I'll find it," Hissrad promised. "Panahedan."

"Nehraa Koslun, anaan esaam Qun."

Before the woman's footsteps had even begun to fade, the door to the study was pushed open. Dorian had no time to react, let alone find a place to hide. Providence had put him on the right side of the door: it swung towards him, shielding him from Hissrad's view. Dorian held his breath and pressed himself flat against the wall, and for a few seconds, they stood on either side of the door.

He wasn't going to stay hidden for long, and Dorian's mind raced to consider his next move. He could run. If he timed it right, he might even be able to slip behind the qunari's back and escape without notice. Or he could fight. Dorian had the element of surprise, and a blow against the qunari's unarmed back could easily finish him.

Hissrad entered the room and let go of the door. If he was to flee, it was now or never.

Dorian did not move.

The heavy door swung shut with a click. For a moment, the qunari stood but a few strides away, completely unaware that he wasn't alone, his back bared and vulnerable. Time ground to a halt and Dorian saw the future unfold before him:

He would reach deep inside himself, gather every ounce of mana contained within and pour it all into a single spell. He would stretch out his hand and send forth a torrent of flame that would consume the qunari from the inside out, blood boiling until the vessels burst, skin shrivelling like paper set to a candle. Hissrad would be nothing more than a charred corpse, his anguished screams echoing across the mansion and drawing the attention of all the other mages. They would run into the room and Dorian would tell them, victorious, He was a Qunari spy, good thing I overheard him plotting with the elf -- that one, seize her, and there's another, who else have you purchased recently, Lady Maecenas?

Dorian kept his hands at his sides, and the moment passed. He saw the instant the qunari became aware of Dorian's presence, the muscles of his back going tense and still, horns tilting slightly to one side as he angled an ear over his shoulder. Could he hear Dorian's breathing in the smothering silence? Could he smell him?

"Your accent has improved remarkably in the last few hours," Dorian heard himself say.

Slowly, Hissrad turned to face him. He was no longer the impassive, docile qunari slave, his face plenty expressive as he stared at Dorian with open incredulity. He regarded Dorian for a long moment, then shook his head, huffing in disbelief.

"I'm a quick learner," he said. He adopted the same casual tone as Dorian, shifting his weight idly onto one foot.

"So it would appear," Dorian replied. Maker, what was he doing? Willingly letting himself get trapped in a room with a qunari, and a spy at that... For one hysterical moment, he wanted to laugh. The whole thing was so unbelievably, unforgivably reckless.

"You are a very stupid mage," Hissrad said calmly, echoing Dorian's thoughts. "Or a very drunk one."

Dorian was neither of those things, yet he could not resist the opening. "I can't be both?" he drawled.

"I'm sure you could manage," Hissrad said. He was eyeing Dorian warily, studying him. "What are you doing here?"

"Isn't that my question? You're the slave poking around his master's house," Dorian pointed out.

"We both know I am no slave, mage."

"Yes, I suppose we do, Hissrad," Dorian said. The air felt colder at his words, both of them drawing themselves up to stand straighter. No more pretending.

Hissrad let out a deep, measured breath. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough to know I hold your life in my hands."

"You know nothing, mage," Hissrad said, "except how to put yourself in even more danger. If you know enough to threaten me, it only means I cannot let you leave this room alive."

"You are assuming you could stop me," Dorian said sharply, and the air around him rippled with sudden heat.

Hissrad did not step back -- he didn't even have the courtesy to flinch. He narrowed his eyes instead, lowering his head slightly, great horns tipped forward in an unspoken threat. Dorian grit his jaw and hoped the qunari could not sense his fear. He was far from helpless, true, but he was not delusional about his chances in a fight. For one thing--

"You have no staff," Hissrad observed, once again seeming to read Dorian's mind.

"I do not need a staff to be dangerous," Dorian said. And perhaps he was very stupid after all, because he went on, "I thought you brutes knew that. Isn't that why you chain and collar your mages? How does it feel, qunari, to get a taste of what that's like?"

Hissrad growled, low in his throat, and Dorian flinched where the qunari had not. Cursing silently, Dorian stood his ground, tipping his chin up in challenge. He did not want to fight -- Maker's breath, he never wanted to be here at all -- but Dorian would not run from this.

"I have no chains to hinder me," Hissrad said, holding his hands up to drive home the point. The iron cuffs were inscribed with runes, too small for Dorian to read from where he stood, but he could guess what they were for. Maecenas would not have let her qunari pet roam free if she didn't have a foolproof method of bringing him to heel. Unfortunately, Dorian had no way of knowing what spell she used.

"Are we to stand here and make empty threats at each other?" Dorian scoffed. When all else failed, he could always fall back on bravado. Putting on an act was what he was best at, after all; say the words with enough conviction, and he could almost believe himself.

"You think that was an empty threat?" Hissrad let out a humourless laugh, folding his arms across his chest. "Consider this a promise, then: If you plan to sabotage my mission, you will not live to see another fancy party."

"Maker, no, not my beloved parties!" Dorian exclaimed. He spoke with exaggerated sarcasm, voice raised slightly to compensate for the fear that shot through his spine. "You go too far, savage."

"Do you have some kind of death wish?" Hissrad demanded. He sounded impatient for the first time, almost exasperated, and Dorian counted it a victory. "I could break you in half, you do understand that, don't you?"

"Again, you assume you could lay hands on me if I didn't allow it," Dorian said, bristling.

"You would allow it, then," Hissrad retorted.

There was a heavy pause as they both considered their words. Hissrad uncrossed his arms and rubbed his palms against his thighs absently. Dorian did not realize he was staring until he looked up again, a fraction of a second too late. Hissrad was watching him -- watching Dorian watching his hands.

"You would allow it," Hissrad repeated, the words spoken softer, slower. There was an unspoken question lying just beneath the surface, and Dorian knew he should be terrified at the implications of it.

Dorian swallowed, and Hissrad's eyes darted down to follow the bob of his throat.

"You presume much," Dorian said at last. Heat unfurled from the pit of his stomach, spreading through his body to warm his skin and quicken his pulse.

"But I'm not wrong." There was no question hiding in the statement, this time.

"I certainly wouldn't let you break me in half," Dorian demurred.

"To be honest, I don't particularly want to," Hissrad said, a smile curling one corner of his mouth. He had the look of someone used to smiling, but was trying hard to break the habit. "Seems like a waste."

"Was that an attempt at flattery? Your people have a long way to go." This was madness. This wasn't happening. Dorian wasn't-- he couldn't possibly be flirting with this qunari, not really. He had slipped into the Fade without noticing somehow, there was no other explanation for it.

The memory of the Desire demon resurfaced once more, as vivid as the day they had met at Dorian's Harrowing. That had been nearly three years ago, back when Dorian was still trying to deny the truth. But the demon had known what shape to take to tempt him, and it was not soft curves and full breasts, but hard muscle in a body that towered over him. Large hands and broad shoulders and horns--

It's not fair, Dorian thought wildly. I've already turned you down, you're not supposed to tempt me here.

"Qunari don't flatter," Hissrad said, and the image of the demon faded away. "Waste of time."

"You're awfully concerned about wasting things," Dorian said, "but you're still speaking in circles."

"I thought I was being direct, but fine," Hissrad shrugged. "You want me to fuck you, don't you?"

Dorian's breath caught in his throat, his body seized by opposing instincts. Hissrad was huge and powerful and deadly, and he was staring at Dorian with single-minded focus. Waiting for a response to a question Dorian had goaded him into asking, only Dorian found he could not answer.

How long had Dorian known this about himself? On the rare occasions he allowed himself to wonder, Dorian invariably came to the same conclusion: always. Deep down, he had always known he liked men the way men weren't supposed to. It was only in the last two years he had actually done anything about it, but in those handful of instances -- brief and furtive encounters all -- not once had Dorian been invited to speak of it so openly. To ask for it. Like it wasn't something to be ashamed of.

"Shit, you can't even say it, can you?" Hissrad murmured. "You 'Vints are surprisingly prudish about some things."

"And you Qunari are so well known for being tolerant!" Dorian snapped. A comfort, he supposed, to discover he could take offense even in a situation like this. "Does it matter, in any case? You will not-- We cannot--"

HIssrad waited patiently for Dorian to finish sputtering, unaffected. Dorian cut himself off with a curse, wishing he had stopped talking while he was ahead. It was a wish he made quite often, in retrospect.

"Here's what I think," Hissrad said. He spoke like he was telling a secret, low and quiet. "You could have raised the alarm the moment you heard me and my agent talking. You could have run when I came into the room. You could have killed me -- or tried to, anyway -- when my back was turned."

He paused, giving Dorian the chance to deny any of it, but Dorian said nothing. He was aware that he should want to protest, that he should be horrified and frightened at the turn this had taken, but Dorian felt nothing but an almost unbearable sense of anticipation.

"I noticed you earlier, you know," Hissrad continued, that smile tugging at his mouth again.

"I bet you say that to all the Tevinter mages you meet at parties," Dorian said absently.

That got a laugh. It was a brief, stilted thing, and seemed to take them both by surprise. Two weeks living as a slave, a spy surrounded by enemies; when was the last time Hissrad had been allowed to laugh? Dorian didn't know why he should care, so he told himself he didn't.

"When Maecenas was showing me off to all her friends, I saw you, out of the corner of my eye," Hissrad said. "You were the only one who didn't back away when I walked into the crowd. But you were too busy staring at the rest of me to notice me noticing."

"Everyone was staring at you," Dorian said.

"Not like you were." Hissrad raised a brow, inviting Dorian to dispute this.

Dorian did not.

"Then after, when they all left, you stayed behind," Hissrad went on. "Why was that, boy?"

"I am not a boy," Dorian hissed.

Hissrad hummed, noncommittal, and somehow that was the final straw. Dorian was too incensed to realize what he was doing before he found himself moving forward, closing the distance between them. He didn't stop to think about the colossal risk he was taking -- why start now, when he had come this far -- and stepped into the qunari's reach, chin tipping ever higher to meet Hissrad's eyes.

"If you want so badly to hear me say it," Dorian said, as viciously as he knew how, "you will not condescend to me."

It was hard to judge a qunari's age, but up close, Hissrad's face was surprisingly youthful. Unmarred but for a few nicks and scars, his eyes bright and keen. Maecenas had kept him immaculately clean-shaven, the faintest shadow of stubble just starting to come in. If Dorian had to guess, he'd say Hissrad was in his mid to late twenties. Older, certainly, but not old enough for Dorian to tolerate boy. He would not tolerate that from anyone.

"And what is it you think I want to hear?" Hissrad murmured.

With less than half a stride to separate them, it was impossible for Dorian to miss the way Hissrad's nostrils flared, as if scenting the air. Dorian thought he could feel the heat from Hissrad's body, too, but that may just as well have been himself. Every inch of Dorian's skin thrummed with the potential to ignite; one stray touch, and he could spark like pyrophite.

Maker, he wanted to be touched.

"That I want you to..." Dorian started, but that was as far as his nerve carried him. He felt his cheeks flush hot, a heady mix of embarrassment and arousal at the thought of all the ways he could finish that sentence.

Hissrad studied Dorian's face for a long, long moment, and with growing certainty Dorian was sure he could read every unspoken word, every shameful desire stamped clear across it. He would see and recognize them for the weakness they were, how could he not, they were enemies, and Dorian was a fool for thinking they could ever--

Quietly, Hissrad asked, "Do you?"

Dorian did not realize he had been swaying towards Hissrad until he found himself tipping over, feet shuffling half a step as he regained his balance. His hand had darted out instinctively to catch himself, and for a startling moment Dorian's palm was pressed to the warm skin of Hissrad's chest. Dorian snatched it back immediately, as if the touch had burned, his spine going rigid as he drew himself up stiffly.

"If I did," Dorian said, and faltered at the soft growl this drew from Hissrad. He fought to keep steady on his feet and tried again, in a rush: "If I did, what will you do about it?"

In a perfect world, Dorian would have delivered the line with a sultry grin, hip cocked and fingers beckoning. Not with his voice shaking and his hands clutched to his chest, every muscle taut with tension. And certainly not to a qunari, a spy posing as a slave in a house full of nobles. As it was, Dorian had to be content with having gotten the words out at all.

Hissrad did not laugh at the fumbled attempt at seduction. (Years from now, Dorian will remember this detail with vivid clarity.) Instead, he raised his hands with deliberate slowness and placed them on Dorian's hips. Dorian didn't dare look down, but he could feel the heavy weight of those hands, nearly large enough to circle his waist entirely, scant inches all that kept Hissrad's fingers from overlapping. Dorian could not suppress as shiver, and Hissrad squeezed once, fleetingly, in response. Dorian drew in a sharp breath; it didn't hurt, but it was a reminder, whether or not it was knowingly given. I could break you.

Dorian braced himself for the onslaught that was sure to come.

Hissrad leaned in and kissed him.

It was not rough or hard or claiming. Just Hissrad's mouth pressed against his, simple and brief. Too brief for Dorian to react, his eyes still wide open and staring when Hissrad pulled back to look at him, brow raised in silent question.

Nobody has ever kissed me before, Dorian thought, but didn't say. His handful of trysts had covered much, but not this.

"Don't waste my time," Dorian said instead. If he was doing this -- and he was doing this, Maker help him -- there wasn't going to be any holding back.

"Venak hol," Hissrad snorted, exasperated. The words meant nothing to Dorian but their sentiment was clear. "Though I suppose you're right. We don't have much time."

One of Hissrad's hands reached down to palm Dorian's dick easily over his robes, long, thick fingers curling up between Dorian's legs and rubbing at the most secret, sensitive parts of him. The shock of it was what saved Dorian; he would have shouted, if he had the breath to make a sound. Instead, he was reduced to clutching at Hissrad's arms and gasping. He couldn't remember ever getting this hard this quickly before in his life, his cock stiff and aching as if he'd been on the edge for hours, rather than seconds.

"Oh, but this isn't going to take long, is it?" Hissrad said. There was a note of amusement in his voice that set Dorian's cheeks aflame with embarrassment. It should have hindered his arousal, but it only heightened it. "Don't worry, little mage. I'll give you what you want."

Dorian opened his mouth to protest little -- just as bad, if not worse than 'boy' -- but before he could say a word, Hissrad was kissing him again. This time, it was every bit the onslaught Dorian had expected earlier. Hissrad bore down on him, one hand reaching up to cup the back of Dorian's head, the other pressed to Dorian's lower back, holding him in place. Whatever coherent thought Dorian might have had was gone in a flash, reduced to sensation alone. Dorian's eyes had slid shut of their own accord, his body going lax as he leaned back and let Hissrad carry the weight in his arms. Dorian didn't even feel self-conscious of his kissing; if Hissrad found him lacking, he gave no indication of it. His tongue was hot and alien in Dorian's mouth, and when Dorian moaned softly at the feel of it, Hissrad let out a low, rumbling sound like a purr.

"You are very pretty," Hissrad said, almost conversationally. "I'm sure you know that."

"I've been... told," Dorian managed.

"If we had the time, I'd undress you completely. You 'Vints and your fancy robes," Hissrad plucked at one of the many straps adorning Dorian's, "it'd be like unwrapping a present."

"Take care of the packaging," Dorian warned. "I have to look respectable when I leave this room."

"It's a wonder that you're thinking that far ahead," Hissrad said.

The words are innocuous, but there's something in his tone that sends a jolt of fear through Dorian. In the next instant, Hissrad had scooped him up and deposited him atop the desk. Dorian was laid out on his back, his arms an untidy sprawl, one elbow catching at a small stack of books and sending them toppling to the floor. Hissrad kneed apart Dorian's thighs and stepped between them, leaning in to rest his hands on either side of Dorian, bracketing him.

"It's a wonder," Hissrad repeated, his voice a low murmur, "when you're so desperate for my hands on you that you've trapped yourself in a room with a qunari."

Dorian had enough presence of mind to know he could not respond to that. Whatever witty rejoinder he might have been able to think up, he had no bravado left to deliver convincingly. Instead, he called upon every ounce of willpower he had to keep still and silent.

Hissrad dipped his head until his lips skimmed the soft skin of Dorian's neck, sucking in a deep breath. "I can smell you, you know," he said. "You're dripping wet under your robes, you want it that bad."

Dorian's cock jerked as if in response, straining against damp silk. He grit his teeth, determined not to make a sound. He had practice in staying quiet, at least.

"Show me," Hissrad said. A command, but softened by being delivered in a whisper. Hissrad's ran one hand down Dorian's arm, petting him absently. "If you want to look respectable, you'll have to undress yourself. Show me."

Pride would normally have caused Dorian balk at the order, even if only for show. But there was no point in fighting this, not when neither of them had the time to spare, not when they both knew whatever protests he made would be hollow. Dorian swallowed thickly and reached down to undo clasps and buckles, letting his robes fall open on either side of him like outstretched wings. He unlaced the placket of the leather pants he wore beneath, lifting his hips off the table to drag them down as far as he could reach. They ended up bunched around his thighs, and Dorian sighed in relief as the pressure eased off his erection. Hissrad made a low noise in response, and Dorian closed his eyes, suddenly unable to bear the sight of him overhead, to feel the weight of his gaze.

"No," Hissrad growled, and pinched Dorian's side. Dorian yelped and opened his eyes to glare at Hissrad, who nodded once, firm. "You keep your eyes open. You keep them on me."

"I don't... It's too much," Dorian admitted, resisting the urge to squirm.

"I won't let you hide from me," Hissrad said. He paused, then amended, "I can't."

Dorian wasn't sure what he meant by that, but nodded anyway. "Alright," he breathed. "I'll try."

"Good boy," Hissrad murmured.

The careless way in which the praise was given somehow made it hit all the harder. Dorian choked back a whimper and blinked rapidly, keeping his eyes on Hissrad as directed. He didn't know why it mattered, but he didn't need to know. It was what Hissrad wanted, and Dorian found that this was reason enough for him to do as he was told.

"Are you done?" Hissrad asked. It was apparently a rhetorical question, because he did not wait for Dorian to answer before laying a hand over Dorian's still-clothed cock. His palm was warm and huge, covering the entirety of Dorian's erection easily. Hissrad grinned at the hiccuping noises Dorian made as he slowly dragged his hand along its length. The silk of his underwear clung to Dorian's skin where precome had seeped into the fabric, just enough friction to madden, but not nearly enough for him to get anywhere.

"We don't have time," Dorian grit out, and he told himself it wasn't pleading if it was true. "Stop teasing."

"As you wish," Hissrad said easily.

With two swift, brutal yanks, Dorian was bared from the waist down, pants and underwear pulled down to his boots. Hissrad paused to consider his handiwork, then set his hands to rucking up the shirt Dorian was still wearing. The finely woven material creased if one so much as breathed on it wrong, but Hissrad worked too quickly for Dorian to think of a protest that wouldn't sound laughably vain. Before Dorian's thoughts had caught up, Hissrad had pulled his shirt up and over his head, leaving it gathered in a tangle at the back of his neck and across his shoulders. Dorian was now naked all down his front, from throat to knees -- yet somehow still fully clothed, pants and shirt wound about his limbs like makeshift restraints, robes hanging loose off his shoulders and pooled beneath him.

Dorian felt not unlike the expensive artifacts on display in Maecenas' dining hall, framed and exposed and regarded with an almost detached appreciation. He jumped at the first touch of Hissrad's hands against his bare skin, and Hissrad shushed him, running a palm down his side in a soothing gesture. He left his hand curved around Dorian's hip, thumb brushing idly at a patch of skin just alongside the flushed length of Dorian's dick.

"Now isn't that a sight," Hissrad said. "There's not a mark on you anywhere. I've never seen anyone so perfect." With his other hand, he lightly dragged his blunt claws down Dorian's chest. He was barely pressing down, more a tickle than a scratch, but the implication was enough to make Dorian shiver.

Are you going to mark me? Dorian didn't dare to ask. He couldn't know it then, but the question wasn't even something he fully understood just yet.

"My turn, I think," Hissrad said at last. The meaning wasn't clear until he pulled away from Dorian to reach down and tug at the waistband of his trousers.

Dorian sat up at once, propping himself up on his elbows to get a clear view of Hissrad pulling out his cock. He didn't remember to feel embarrassed at his eagerness until he heard himself moan softly at the sight of it. Maker.

Hissrad was stroking himself to full hardness, fingers wrapped tight around the thick girth, hand working with ruthless efficiency. Dorian bit down on his lower lip, swallowing another moan as he watched Hissrad make himself ready. It didn't take long. When his erection stood hard and straining, Hissrad slowed his movements, hand sliding along the seemingly endless length of him, languid and unabashed. On each downstroke, the foreskin pulled back to reveal the prominent head, startlingly red against the dark grey of his skin. Dorian imagined trying to fit his mouth around the crown, imagined the ache in his jaw and the taste of it on his tongue. His own dick twitched against his belly.

"Fuck," Hissrad said. He reached down to swipe his fingertips through the precome pooling at Dorian's navel, then used the same hand to resume stroking his cock. Until the shaft gleamed wet with Dorian's wanting, and Hissrad was leaning in to whisper, "If we had hours, I'd see just how wet I can make you. I'd open you up with your own slick and fuck you 'til you came on my cock."

"Please," Dorian gasped, and he had never before begged for anything in his life. He snapped his mouth shut with a click of his teeth, feeling a spike of humiliation as the words gathered on his tongue, on the verge of spilling forth. Please, please, please.

He felt another pinch, this time on his thigh, and Hissrad's face slowly came into focus above him. Dorian hadn't even realized he had laid back down on the table with his eyes squeezed shut. For a moment, Dorian feared some kind of punishment for failing to do as he was told. But Hissrad was rubbing his fingers over the spot he had just pinched, leaning in to press a kiss to Dorian's forehead.

"Oh, they are cruel in your Imperium, to neglect you," Hissrad said, his breath cooling the sweat on Dorian's brow. "Face like this, ass like this--" Hissrad's hand slid under Dorian, lifting his hips off the table, "--you should never be left wanting. Someone should be taking care of you."

How could something sound so dirty and so tender at the same time? Dorian acted without thought, arching his back as he let his thighs fall open, eyes never wavering from Hissrad's avid expression. Dorian wanted to touch himself so badly his teeth ached, but somehow it felt better to wait. To keep his hands at his sides and offer himself up like a lavish gift.

Hissrad muttered words under his breath, foreign and strange to Dorian's ears. Before he could start to wonder at their meaning, Hissrad said, "Cross your legs."

Dorian couldn't guess the reason for such a request, but he complied, hooking one ankle over the other, the silverite buckles of his boots clinking. Hissrad gathered up both of his legs in one hand, holding them up and off to the side. Dorian's mouth fell open in wordless shock as he felt Hissrad step up to the very edge of the desk, where his ass was being tilted up and held in place, and-- oh. Oh.

"Did you want this cock so badly, mage," Hissrad growled, and Dorian could feel every searing inch of it pressed up against him, "that you would risk your life to have it?"

If Hissrad wanted an answer, Dorian was in no state to give it. Not with the heavy weight of Hissrad's balls pushed against his ass, the hot length of his dick cradled in the seam where Dorian's thighs were pressed together. Hissrad rocked his hips slowly, not exerting any force just yet, letting his cock slide along the backs of Dorian's thighs, letting Dorian feel how hard he was.

It wasn't until Hissrad went still that Dorian heard himself, chanting in barely a whisper: "Yes, yes, yes."

"Foolish, reckless-- saar," Hissrad snarled, and spat into his free hand, stroking himself roughly before guiding his cock between Dorian's legs. Dorian clenched his thighs instinctively and Hissrad groaned, hips bucking. "That's right, make it good and tight for me."

Hissrad was huge and hard and relentless, his cock pushing between Dorian's clamped thighs -- and through, the swollen head nudging right up against Dorian's balls. The first few thrusts were rough, with no oil to ease the way, but soon enough Dorian's thighs were soaked with spit and precome and Hissrad was pumping into him at a steady, brutal pace.

Dorian made Hissrad fight for it, tensing his legs against each driving push, half instinct and half a wild need to feel the thick length branded onto the most tender parts of him. He felt rubbed raw, imagined the soft skin of his inner thighs aching and hot to the touch for days to come, his calves dotted with bruises matching the shape of Hissrad's fingers. The thought made Dorian whine helplessly, the noise punched out of him in fits and starts as Hissrad fucked into him.

Each thrust rattled through Dorian, and he would have been sliding up the desk without Hissrad holding him firmly in place, his legs scooped up in one hand, the other laid heavily on one shoulder. Dorian tipped his head to one side and pressed his cheek to Hissrad's wrist, moved by a yearning that seemed suddenly fathomless. He didn't know what he wanted, only that he wanted more. Without thinking, he reached down to touch Hissrad's cock, his fingertips catching on the wide head as it pushed through his thighs.

Hissrad made a low noise and leaned over him, close enough to whisper in Dorian's ear, "Do you want to hold it, mage? Do you want to feel me spend in your hands?"

"Yes," Dorian breathed, and bit down on the please that nearly followed.

It only took a few seconds for Hissrad to pull off Dorian's pants and underclothes, a few stitches tearing as they were yanked over his boots. Dorian would be horrified about that later, but just then, every moment Hissrad wasn't touching him was unbearable. He sighed with real relief when Hissrad stepped up to the table again, his breath hitching as his legs were spread wide and wrapped around Hissrad's waist.

Dorian gripped with his knees as Hissrad bent over him, folding him nearly in half. Hissrad seemed even bigger like this, his back bowed in a great arch over Dorian, one broad hand spread across Dorian's lower back, lifting him up easily to hold him at just the right angle. With his other hand, Hissrad pressed his cock down flat against Dorian's belly, laying it across Dorian's own erection and rubbing both with his palm. Dorian writhed fruitlessly, pinned between Hissrad's hands, jaw clenched against a torrent of curses and pleas.

"You're close," Hissrad observed, and relented, taking his hand away to rest it against the table. "Good. We're running out of time. Finish me off, mage, and if you do a good job, I'll return the favour."

Even through the haze of desperate arousal, a part of Dorian bristled at the tone and implied challenge. He narrowed his eyes at Hissrad, who only grinned in answer, and it was enough to spur Dorian past any lingering trepidation.

He reached with both hands and wrapped them around Hissrad's cock, unable to hold back a soft moan at the incredible heat and heft of it, the way it filled his palms. It was too thick to circle with one hand, and putting one fist on top of the other still left the glistening head exposed. Dorian rubbed his fingers along the dripping slit, flashing Hissrad a little grin of his own at the growl this drew. But Dorian was too impatient to tease, lingering only long enough to spread the slick all along Hissrad's length before wrapping his hands tight around it. He interlocked his fingers and stroked with both hands, thumbs tracing the path of a thick vein along the underside, flicking across the crown.

Hissrad growled again, a deep, rolling sound like distant thunder, and snatched at Dorian's hands, holding them still. "Like this, keep them here," he managed to grit out, then started rutting into their joined hands, fucking into Dorian's tight grip. It only took a few frantic, pounding thrusts before Hissrad went rigid, his cock swelling and jerking in Dorian's hands as he reached his peak. Dorian gasped as Hissrad spent himself in great, heaving arcs, come streaking Dorian's chest and belly, splashing against his throat. Hissrad worked their still-joined hands over his dick, milking out the last few spurts, finishing at last with a full body shudder that trembled through Dorian.

Slowly, Hissrad released Dorian's hands, hissing when Dorian gave his spent cock one last stroke before letting go. Hissrad lowered Dorian's hips back to the table and straightened up, looking down at the sprawled heap he'd made of Dorian as he tugged his trousers back on. Dorian felt increasingly self-conscious as he lay there, drenched and still achingly hard, watching as Hissrad dressed himself.

For one awful moment, he was sure it would end like this: the qunari leaving him here like a discarded plaything, used and ruined and soaked in come. On the heels of that unpleasant thought came the sinking realization that this would only be if he was lucky. What if Hissrad decided to kill him after all, just to be safe?

Just as Dorian was starting to gather the willpower to cast a spell, Hissrad laid a warm hand on Dorian's chest, heedless of the mess."It seems I owe you a favour," he said, and brought the hand up to his lips to lick his own spend off it.

Dorian very nearly sobbed, a mixture of relief and shock and lust hitting him like a kick to the chest, leaving him winded. Before he could really process what was happening, Hissrad picked up both of Dorian's hands and methodically sucked each finger clean. Then he bent low and set to cleaning up the rest of him. Hissrad's tongue was hot even against his flushed skin, working in broad, sweeping licks to get the worst of it. He started at Dorian's belly and moved his way up, efficient and thorough, ending with a sucking kiss to the hollow of Dorian's throat to clear the pool of come that had gathered there.

Hissrad nosed his way up Dorian's neck and along his cheek, then hesitated, his damp mouth hovering just over Dorian's. Dorian waited, expecting to be kissed -- wanting to be kissed -- but the moment passed and Hissrad leaned away. Dorian steadfastly ignored the tiny pang of disappointment; it was one thing wanting to be fucked by a qunari, and another thing entirely to want to be kissed by one.

"Might have missed a couple spots," Hissrad said with a lazy smile, "but I think you could pass for respectable. If I'm careful."

Before Dorian could ask what he meant by that, Hissrad took hold of Dorian's wrists and pulled him into a sitting position. The sudden shift had Dorian's head spinning, a fact that wasn't helped by the sight of the giant qunari dropping to his knees before him. Perched on the edge of the table, Dorian could only gape as Hissrad hooked Dorian's legs over his shoulders, then placed Dorian's hands on his horns.

"Hold on to me," Hissrad said, needlessly. Dorian wouldn't be able to sit upright without something to grab onto right now.

He had just a second to take in the feel of Hissrad's horns beneath his palms: surprisingly smooth despite the uneven texture, like roughly hewn wood with a coat of polish, and cool to the touch. Then he felt Hissrad's warm breath between his legs and could think of nothing else. Dorian waited, his grip white-knuckled around Hissrad's horns, not sure what to expect.

It certainly wasn't for Hissrad to let out a low groan and press his face to Dorian's crotch, mindlessly rubbing his nose into the warm skin and breathing deep. He stayed like that for a moment, as if to drink in the scent of Dorian where it was strongest, before finally lifting his head to meet Dorian's eyes. He held them even as he wrapped his hands around Dorian's thighs and squeezed, heightening the lingering throb. Even as he closed his mouth over Dorian's straining dick, taking nearly the entire length of it in one swallow.

Somehow, despite everything leading up to exactly this, it still managed to shock Dorian. His whole body jerked off the table, hips bucking into the wet warmth of Hissrad's mouth. Hissrad did not flinch, throat flexing to take in the thrust. Dorian stared, open-mouthed in wonder; how could Hissrad submit to this, with no trace of distaste or shame? More than that, to moan like he was starving for it, eyes going heavy-lidded as his mouth watered around Dorian's cock.

"I-- I won't last long," Dorian gasped, by way of warning.

In response, Hissrad's cheeks hollowed as he pulled off in one long, steady suck. He laughed softly at the shiver it drew, lips brushing against the wet head of Dorian's cock. "That's the idea. Now stop holding back and fuck my mouth 'til you finish. I bet you're lovely when you come."

With that, Hissrad wrapped his lips around the base of Dorian's dick, his broad tongue curling around the underside, guiding it down his throat. A silent reiteration: Fuck my mouth. Dorian hadn't realized just how much he had been holding himself back until Hissrad gave him permission to let go. He barely stifled his cries as he thrust into Hissrad's slack mouth, his position offering inadequate leverage but made up by how easily Hissrad allowed himself to be moved by his horns. Dorian's fingernails dug into hard horn as he pushed and pulled Hissrad off him, his eyes fixated on the wet seam of Hissrad's lips around his cock, the loose, sloppy glide of his mouth.

If Dorian had any thought left to spare, he might have been embarrassed by how quickly he reached his end. He cried out as his orgasm took him, the sound cut off suddenly by one of Hissrad's huge hands clapping over his mouth. Dorian wailed into Hissrad's palm, letting go of the horns to hold onto Hissrad's wrist, pressing the hand to his face. Dorian's movements had lost all coordination, hips rutting mindlessly up into Hissrad's mouth as he came and came and came. Hissrad took everything Dorian had to give, nose buried in the coarse hair at the base of Dorian's cock, throat rolling around his length with each swallow.

Dorian sagged, boneless, when it was done, still clinging to Hissrad's wrist with both hands, his cheeks streaked with tears he could not recall shedding. Hissrad lifted his head slowly, as if reluctant to let go. He gave Dorian's spent cock one last, parting lick before straightening up. Even on his knees, Hissrad's head was nearly level with Dorian's. His lips were slightly red and swollen, still wet from being used, and Dorian moaned helplessly into Hissrad's hand at the sight.

"All right?" Hissrad asked quietly. He sounded breathless and, upon later reflection, unsure.

Dorian nodded as best as he could.

"I'm going to take my hand back now," Hissrad said.

Dorian nodded again.

"You have to let go first," Hissrad reminded him gently.

With an effort, Dorian peeled his fingers away and dropped his hands onto his lap. He didn't know what to do with them. He didn't know what to do with any part of himself, just then. To his great relief, Hissrad did not take his hand away, only moved it to cup Dorian's face. He stroked Dorian's cheek with his thumb, said nothing about the tears. Dorian resisted the urge to lean into the touch, mustering up a weak smile for Hissrad as they stared at each other for a few moments, the full realization of what they had just done settling over them.

"Here is what you are going to do," Hissrad said, and Dorian could have wept with gratitude. The calm certainty of Hissrad's voice took away the crushing weight of responsibility; all Dorian had to do was listen. "I'm going to help you get dressed. I'm going to walk out of here, and you will stay behind and count to one hundred. Then you will leave this room and go back to the party. Can you repeat what I just said?"

Obediently, Dorian recited, "You will help me get dressed. You will leave this room. I will stay behind and count to one hundred." He hesitated, remembering how he had found himself in here in the first place. It felt like an age ago. "I don't know my way back to the party. I... I got lost."

"Turn left, keep straight to the end of the hallway, turn right, and then take the fourth left," Hissrad said. "Say it back to me."

Dorian repeated the directions three times before Hissrad was satisfied.

"Alright. Let's make you respectable," Hissrad said at last, and guided Dorian to his feet.

Dorian is fairly certain he could have dressed himself perfectly well on his own, but for some reason, he felt no desire to deter Hissrad from helping him. Perhaps it was knowing this was the last chance Dorian would have to feel Hissrad's hands on him, or maybe it was the simple pleasure of being looked after. Not that Hissrad was fussing over him -- he was efficient and methodical, making quick work of all Dorian's straps and buckles, and his touch did not linger. But it was soothing in a way Dorian couldn't describe, to feel Hissrad put back together what he had taken apart.

"There you go," Hissrad said after a short while. He smoothed out a wrinkle at Dorian's shoulder, then left his hand there. "Good as new. Though we're lucky I'm the only qunari here. There's no hiding that smell."

Dorian flushed all over, sputtering, "Who's fault is that?"

Hissrad smiled, looking rather smug, and turned his hand to cup the side of Dorian's neck. "Mostly mine, I'll admit," he said easily. "You're going to carry my scent for days."

Dorian felt all the air leave his lungs at that casual remark, laden with implications he did not wish to consider, for fear of wanting them. He drew in a trembling breath. "Void take you," he muttered. "You cannot say such things to me."

He had meant it as a feeble protest, a mild complaint. But Hissrad's entire demeanour changed, the smile slipping off his face, his hand quietly drawn back to hang by his side. Dorian felt cold and unsteady without Hissrad's touch, was on the verge of apology, of taking it all back, just to feel the warm weight of that hand on his shoulder again, when Hissrad spoke.

"For both our sakes, you will forget everything you heard while in this room," Hissrad said. His voice was hard and unforgiving, his expression once again wholly blank. "You will forget my name, and everything else you think you know. If you're smart, you will forget me entirely."

Dorian felt as if he had taken a step, only to find the ground had fallen away. Unsettled and irritated, he forced himself to scoff, "In our brief encounter, have you known me to do anything smart?" If the qunari was to go back to playing his role, then Dorian could do the same.

"Now would be a good time to start," Hissrad said flatly.

Before Dorian could think of a retort, the qunari turned on his heel and left, closing the door behind him. Just like that. He did not pause to look over his shoulder, he did not hesitate, he did not say a word in farewell.

Dorian fought the urge to set something on fire. He was furious without understanding why, exactly; beneath the anger was a hurt he did not care to examine, and would continue to steadfastly ignore for years to come. Hissing the worst curses he knew under his breath, he strode up to the door, more than ready to leave the wretched room and close this sordid chapter of his life.

His hand was on the handle of the door when he paused, remembering.

There was nothing at all binding him here -- nothing but his word to do as Hissrad had ordered.

Dorian swore violently at the empty room.

Then he dropped his hand and started counting to one hundred.

The party was winding down by the time Dorian found himself back in the dining hall a few minutes later. A cluster of people had already gathered around Maecenas, waiting their turn to bid farewell. Dorian slipped in among them, settling back into his familiar role. He tucked a strand of loose hair in place, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. By the time he faced Maecenas, he thought he could almost pretend the past hour of his life had never happened. So long as he ignored the lingering ache between his thighs.

"Dorian!" Maecenas clasped both of his hands in hers, voice raised in theatric concern. "They told me you had already left the party, but I could hardly believe the scion of House Pavus would sneak away like a thief in the night! How glad I am to see you've stayed with us."

Dorian gave her his most charming smile and bowed low over her hands, raising them to his lips to brush a kiss over their jeweled knuckles. "My dear Lady Maecenas, how could I ever bear to part from your company without paying my respects? I do apologize for my unforgivably long absence. I'm afraid I indulged a little too much in your hospitality and needed a breath of fresh air to collect myself. My fault entirely, for underestimating the fine quality of your Antivan brandy and downing it like common ale."

Maecenas laughed, patting his hand fondly with supreme condescension. "Oh, we were all young once, dear boy, believe it or not. You will learn your limits in time, and until then, you should enjoy yourself! Especially while your parents are out of town." She winked conspiratorially.

Dorian played along, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked up at her through his lashes, smiling shyly as if grateful to have found understanding from such a lofty source. Privately, he thought to himself that Maecenas' brandy was about as Antivan as the leather sandals they sold for a copper down by the docks.

"I trust the evening wasn't too boring for you?" she asked.

Dorian's smile did not waver. "Not in the slightest, my Lady. You have curated an astonishing collection of artifacts, and word of your exhibition is sure to travel to Minrathous."

"Alas, I fear I revealed the most exciting display too soon. Hardly anyone seemed to notice the priceless tomes and treasures after I brought out the brute." She sniffed haughtily, but could barely restrain her pleased grin at the memory of that dramatic unveiling.

"That they shall speak of you with the reverence and awe owed to your accomplishments is what matters, my Lady," Dorian said sweetly.

As if she couldn't help herself, Maecenas giggled, leaning in to whisper, "It was quite a sight, wasn't it? You can't imagine what it's like, having a powerful qunari like that kneel before you."

Through sheer force of will, Dorian did not think about Hissrad knelt between his legs, moaning while Dorian fucked his face.

"You have collared a fine specimen," Dorian said, and it was a wonder he didn't choke on his own poisonous words. Desperately, he thinks: Tell her. It is your duty to tell her the truth.

It would be easy, and even if it weren't, it was the right thing to do. He owed the qunari nothing, and whatever accusations he made regarding Dorian could easily be dismissed as lies. What credibility would a Qunari spy have against an Altus mage, especially one who uncovered such treachery against his beloved homeland?

"I hope to have him trained up well enough to serve my guests by Summerday," Maecenas said blithely. "I'm planning to throw a garden party then. You will come, won't you?"

"I would not miss it for the world," Dorian said easily. He bowed again, taking his leave. "Thank you for the memorable evening, Lady Maecenas."

He made his way through the parlour, the great front doors of the house held open for the leaving guests. And there at the end of the atrium, flanked on either side by several attendants, was Hissrad. Chains had been attached to the irons at his wrists and neck, more for dramatic effect than anything else, Dorian was certain. Maecenas must have placed him there as a final reminder to her parting guests.

Dorian drew in a steadying breath and schooled his features. If the qunari could leave him without a second glance, surely Dorian could do the same. He strode towards the door, his eyes trained straight ahead.

You are never going to see him again.

The belated realization nearly pulled him up short. It shouldn't have mattered, and Dorian would spend the next decade telling himself it didn't. But in that moment, the thought was enough to slow his steps, to make him glance to the side.

Their eyes met. Hissrad had already been watching him.

Dorian did not dare give a word or gesture, not with Maecenas' guests milling about them. He let himself hesitate long enough to stare at Hissrad like the other dumbstruck nobles. Holding Hissrad's gaze for a moment -- another -- too long, already far too long, before Dorian willed himself to look away. To put one foot in front of the other, and again, each step a reminder. Forget. Forget. Forget.

If he said it often enough, Dorian reasoned, eventually it would stick.

Five days later, the bruises left by Hissrad's hands had only just begun to fade when he heard the news. A fellow apprentice at the Circle Tower relayed the details to his captive audience: Magister Maecenas had vanished.

She had been traveling to Vol Dorma to have a relic appraised when her caravan was attacked. Rumour had it that it was the work of assassins, hired by a rival household. Whoever it had been had left no evidence behind. The caravan had been stripped clean, and everyone who had been traveling with Maecenas -- husband, nephew, and slaves -- had disappeared along with her.

"Didn't she have a qunari bodyguard?" one of the other students asked. "Dorian, you saw the beast, didn't you? You were at her party last weekend."

Dorian was spared the burden of replying by the first apprentice resuming his tale. "Yes, she had been traveling with the ox, too. I'm sure the assassins put him to slaughter," he said, with relish.

"Not much of a bodyguard, then," the other student scoffed.

The disappearance of Magister Maecenas grew into something of a local legend over the years, and Dorian would hear countless variations of it over time. The details changed with each retelling, but the relevant facts always stayed the same: attacked on the road to Vol Dorma, robbed of an unknown relic, vanished without a trace. There were any number of possible explanations, and Dorian would eventually hear them all. Most agreed, however, that it was exactly as it appeared: a rival household taking out their competition and eliminating all evidence of their crime.

But that story simply didn't fit with what Dorian alone knew, so he chose to believe a different tale. One in which Hissrad and his fellow spies arranged the whole affair, and escaped back to their homeland safe and sound with their reclaimed artifact.

Whether or not this was simply wishful thinking on his part, Dorian could never be certain.

Until the day he found himself standing on a snowy mountainside beneath a torn sky, and met Hissrad for the second time.

end.