DA FIC SWAP

———

Maybe “patch of rock and sand” was too dismissive; just because it’s small on a map of Thedas doesn’t mean it’s something that be traversed quickly with something akin to a light jog. That being said, Dorian is entirely too old for beach assaults. Assaults of any kind, really.

Nevertheless, the air crackles and sparks as he flings arcing lightning into the scattered forces on the shore, wading through the small breakers and onto the pebbled shore. In front of him, Felicius has leaped into the fray, a whirling force of finesse and carnage, equally. The sight fills him with equal parts pride and panic, a panic that Dorian quashes down with a spin of his staff, blasting a charging elf into the air. He uses the momentum to spin his staff yet again and slams the blade into the ground, blue light flaring as he feels the familiar buzz of barrier magic envelop him and Felicius, just in time to deflect a dagger thrusted towards them. The assailant is quickly struck down as the pair push forward.

“I thought they were supposed to be the leftover forces!” Felicius shouts over the din, leaping forward into a roll, ducking under a greatsword and behind its’ owner, thrusting their shortsword through their chest.

“They are, they’re just more than we might’ve expected! Just keep moving up!” Dorian calls back, casting a collection of glyphs on the beach before him. There were a more than he expected. A lot more. They were dispatching them quickly enough, but they’re weren’t even supposed to encounter anything like this. Their window of time to corner Solas was shrinking with each second spent skirmishing on the beach.

But, that was probably why they were fighting so fiercely. Solas certainly likes his followers devoted.

Dorian smirks to himself as the glyphs explode into crackling purple light, frying the unlucky trio who decided to accost him, readying himself to re-animate the bodies as they fall. They’ve made progress up the coast, definitely. Was it enough? Felicius cuts down another with a shout, harsh red-orange light flaring from their hand as as they turn and lash out, forearm engulfed by aclawed limb of vicious light, ripping and tearing into the poor bastards chest.

Not that Dorian has enough time to fully admire the Reavers’ carnage; the last of the poor fools caught in the glyphs falls back as the bolt flung from his staff hits them square in the chest. The nercromatic magic is already coiling into and reanimating the dying flesh as they hit the ground, three of their slain comrades already risen, rushing back into the fray, swinging and clawing at the remaining fighters. It takes their foes by surprise, the sudden flanking by their dead allies.

Felicius shouts something, a thanks, perhaps. Dorian can’t tell, over the pounding blood in his ears, the sudden weight in all of his limbs. He wasn’t out of practice, Maker forbid, but he’d forgotten how draining that particular spell was.  

“Kaffas,” he curses under his breath. He really is getting too old for this

———

Dorian had almost forgotten how fun it was to poke fun at Solas.

The battle on the beach was short and brutal, but it still cost the duo precious time; there was no way that those inland didn’t hear the commotion, so they made a furious pace for the centre of the small island, miraculously avoiding anymore fights.

If he was being truthful, Dorian didn’t actually believe the reports about a weakened, potentially injured Solas. It just didn’t seem possible after two decades of endless searching and frustratingly fruitless chases.

But as Felicius broke into a clearing, skidding to a sudden halt, and as Dorian falls in beside them, trying to hard how hard he’s breathing, a grin breaking across his face.

There he is. The bald bastard himself, turned away from a very broken eluvian at the sound of their approach, looking very much the worse for wear. The pelt was tossed to the side, torn and bloodied, and the Sentinel armour was definitely scuffed and dented, dried blood clinging to the golden metal like rust.

Dorian doesn’t bother reading the expression on his face as he realises who (and who hasn’t) come to confront him; why would he bother when they’re about seven different incredibly witty things he just has to say before the inevitable fight.

“So I’m curious, did someone break that mirror for you, or did you manage that all on your own? No wait, don’t tell me! One of your own tripped in the Crossroads, and you plan to blame it on the Dalish. Am I close?”

Solas’ scowl deepens, and then again when Felicius laughs under their breath. Dorian won’t lie and say he’s not nervous, but the fact that Solas truly is injured fills him with a second wind.

“Not remotely, Magister Pavus,” the god replies, eyes flicking to his child before back to him,”I know better than to take ‘one of my own’ into situations they aren’t ready for.”

Well now, that’s just crossing a line, isn’t it. Felicius grumbles beside him, settling in a combat ready stance. There’s a curious look in Solas’ eyes, as if he’s asking if he’s asking Dorian if they, if he, really wants to do this.

No, he really doesn’t.

But then again, he absolutely does.