Moon Garden Extravaganza

Pose reference taken from this image of Sakuntala by Camille Claudel.

Ronan is dying - Dorian knows this. From the anchor, or the Dread Wolf, or whatever blasted magic that not even Dorian can understand. That much pain, that much raw magic coursing through him whenever the mark discharges . . . Dorian always knew the man would break his bloody heart. He just never suspected it would be like this, not without one final word of goodbye. 

“Any ideas, Sparkler?” Varric asks, as if Dorian holds all the answers. Which, to be fair, he usually does. 

The Iron Bull is examining the other side of the Eluvian as if there is anything back there that could fix it. As if he could even understand what to do in order to fix it. But he is trying, Dorian tells himself, more than standing here rubbing his hand over the mirror like it’ll grant him a wish. So. Think. How do you fix this?

“Dorian?” 

“This isn’t exactly my area of expertise, Varric,” Dorian snaps, then winces at the unintended harshness of his own tone, “I can’t just force it to open for us.”

“Where’s Merrill when you need her . . ?”

Dorian has no time for Varric and his connections. He closes his eyes for a brief moment to centre himself: he needs to regain control of his racing thoughts before he can investigate the magical workings of the portal. A lapse in concentration might trigger a trap; Dorian doubts these mechanisms were made to be tinkered with, not by humans at any rate. He calls The Iron Bull away from the Eluvian just in case. 

“Gonna magic us through?” The Iron Bull asks. 

“It’s not — no, I’m not going to ‘magic us through.’ Give me a moment to see if I can, I don’t know, to see if I can switch it back on.”

Dorian kneels at the foot of the mirror in front of a small contraption that hums with magical energy. The fact that it is still powered is a good sign. He activates the lyrium in his body, trying to match the frequency of the object before him. He knows he succeeds when he feels an icy chill run down the base of his neck all the way down his spine. Dorian shivers as the ancient, alien magic comes into contact with his own. He stays down there for several moments. He can feel Bull and Varric’s burning curiosity behind him, but they know better than to interrupt a mage when they’re working. 

Dorian works the magic as best he can. He can feel its currents and can even see the tendrils of power in the corner of his eye and as a glow inside his head. Finally, after plucking away at the strands like a musician playing a harp, he finds it. The Eluvian is working just fine but there is something blocking the flow magic to the portal’s entrance. The longer he investigates, the more it feels akin to a kink in a water hose, as if someone were deliberately blocking the flow. Or maybe the device just finally gave out after coming into contact with the anchor’s power. The Eluvians are ancient, who knows what causes them to suddenly stop working? Dorian certainly doesn’t, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to fix this problem either - not without copious amounts of lyrium and/or blood magic, and at least a dozen ancient elvhen scholars. 

The Eluvian lights up again.

“Hey, nice work Dorian.” Bull says. 

He stands up, “That wasn’t me,” but he’s not about to let this opportunity pass him by. Before anyone can utter another word Dorian steps through the portal, and is immediately beset upon by the giant blade of an attacking qunari.

Or, he would have been, if his would-be attacker were not made entirely out of stone. Before Dorian can ponder the scene in front of him, a great force shoves him to the side and out from beneath the blade. The Iron Bull has also crossed through the Eluvian, and his survival instincts far surpass those of his mage companion. Dorian trips but manages to right himself on another statue crouched beside the mirror. It’s warm - different from the warmth of sun-heated stone. 

A dull thunk and a scattering of stones makes Dorian look up, and he sees that Varric has also made it through the portal. And that even his instincts were sharp enough to loose a crossbow bolt into the face of yet another qunari statue before he could process their unmoving states. 

Dorian is just going to . . . pretend that he wasn’t the only one who would have died if those qunari were actually breathing. 

But they need to find Ronan. The ability to turn people into stone isn’t something that his mark can do, not unless something has changed within the last few minutes. Although, perhaps it has, with it being so unstable at the moment. Dorian just hopes Ronan has not been petrified as well. He’s not among the surrounding statues, which is a good sign at least. 

“Never seen anything like this before,” The Iron Bull rumbles as he stretches out a hand to help Dorian up, who is still leaning against the crouched qunari, “Something we should be concerned about?”

It is really nice that Bull and Varric are willing to turn to him when they have questions about magic, “I have no fucking idea. Let’s just keep moving.”

Another Eluvian shines in the sunlight ahead, past the petrified qunari, beyond the path winding between two giant halla statues and up the steps to what appears to be a plateau. They pass dozens of qunari along the way, all of them frozen in battle. Some powerful magic was at play here; ancient, unknowable magic.

And then he sees Ronan. He’s not petrified but he is unmoving, laying face-down on the rubble.

Dorian runs up the last few steps, nearly tripping on the uneven ground. He feels sick, small, useless. Ronan died here, alone, all while Dorian struggled to open one bloody door.

He kneels at Ronan’s side, fingers trembling as he turns him over. The Inquisitor is pale and clammy, dirty face clean only where tears had washed away the grit. Dorian almost recoils at the sight of Ronan’s left arm: the anchor is somehow gone which means that it’s not exploding periodically anymore, but the damage that has been done to it is astronomical. Blood still weeps from wounds that striate from wrist to shoulder, and Dorian can even see the white of bone from where the skin sloughed off the Inquisitor’s forearm. The area on Ronan’s palm where the anchor used to be is black and puckered outward as if someone had reached in and physically wrenched the mark free from within the flesh. Ronan’s fingers are the worst, though, as they hang in shredded ribbons on the cold ground. His ring finger is completely missing, possibly blown off from one of the earlier anchor discharges.

Dorian kneels and cradles Ronan’s head with his hands, placing his lover upon his lap. And then Ronan gasps for air. It’s shallow, quiet, barely even an intake of breath, but it happened. Ronan is still alive. 

“Ronan, love, I’m here,” Dorian’s voice quavers, “So don’t fucking die now, all right? You had your chance to die in romantic mystery, but you can’t do that anymore now that we’ve found you.”

He takes Ronan’s good hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the knuckles. The Inquisitor is completely limp under his touch. Dorian wishes, not for the first time today, that he had studied spirit healing instead of necromancy.

Dorian’s moment is interrupted by the sound of gagging behind him, “Oh shit, his hand did not look like that before he went through the Eluvian,” Varric. 

The Iron Bull kneels at Dorian’s side, “Viddasala has also been petrified. I don’t think there are any Qunari left here, and we don’t know if whatever petrified them is coming back through that Eluvian. We gotta go; no helping the Inquisitor if the three of us also turn to stone.”

"Help me get him up, then, I can’t . . .”

In one swift action, The Iron Bull slips his hands underneath Ronan and lifts him into his arms. The Inquisitor looks as small as a child, hanging limp in the big man’s embrace.

Ronan is dying - Dorian knows this. From the anchor, or the Dread Wolf, or whatever blasted magic that not even Dorian can understand. That much pain, that much raw magic coursing through him whenever the mark discharges . . . Dorian always knew the man would break his bloody heart. He just never suspected it would be like this, not without one final word of goodbye. 

“Any ideas, Sparkler?” Varric asks, as if Dorian holds all the answers. Which, to be fair, he usually does. 

The Iron Bull is examining the other side of the Eluvian as if there is anything back there that could fix it. As if he could even understand what to do in order to fix it. But he is trying, Dorian tells himself, more than standing here rubbing his hand over the mirror like it’ll grant him a wish. So. Think. How do you fix this?

“Dorian?” 

“This isn’t exactly my area of expertise, Varric,” Dorian snaps, then winces at the unintended harshness of his own tone, “I can’t just force it to open for us.”

“Where’s Merrill when you need her . . ?”

Dorian has no time for Varric and his connections. He closes his eyes for a brief moment to centre himself: he needs to regain control of his racing thoughts before he can investigate the magical workings of the portal. A lapse in concentration might trigger a trap; Dorian doubts these mechanisms were made to be tinkered with, not by humans at any rate. He calls The Iron Bull away from the Eluvian just in case. 

“Gonna magic us through?” The Iron Bull asks. 

“It’s not — no, I’m not going to ‘magic us through.’ Give me a moment to see if I can, I don’t know, to see if I can switch it back on.”

Dorian kneels at the foot of the mirror in front of a small contraption that hums with magical energy. The fact that it is still powered is a good sign. He activates the lyrium in his body, trying to match the frequency of the object before him. He knows he succeeds when he feels an icy chill run down the base of his neck all the way down his spine. Dorian shivers as the ancient, alien magic comes into contact with his own. He stays down there for several moments. He can feel Bull and Varric’s burning curiosity behind him, but they know better than to interrupt a mage when they’re working. 

Dorian works the magic as best he can. He can feel its currents and can even see the tendrils of power in the corner of his eye and as a glow inside his head. Finally, after plucking away at the strands like a musician playing a harp, he finds it. The Eluvian is working just fine but there is something blocking the flow magic to the portal’s entrance. The longer he investigates, the more it feels akin to a kink in a water hose, as if someone were deliberately blocking the flow. Or maybe the device just finally gave out after coming into contact with the anchor’s power. The Eluvians are ancient, who knows what causes them to suddenly stop working? Dorian certainly doesn’t, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to fix this problem either - not without copious amounts of lyrium and/or blood magic, and at least a dozen ancient elvhen scholars. 

The Eluvian lights up again.

“Hey, nice work Dorian.” Bull says. 

He stands up, “That wasn’t me,” but he’s not about to let this opportunity pass him by. Before anyone can utter another word Dorian steps through the portal, and is immediately beset upon by the giant blade of an attacking qunari.

Or, he would have been, if his would-be attacker were not made entirely out of stone. Before Dorian can ponder the scene in front of him, a great force shoves him to the side and out from beneath the blade. The Iron Bull has also crossed through the Eluvian, and his survival instincts far surpass those of his mage companion. Dorian trips but manages to right himself on another statue crouched beside the mirror. It’s warm - different from the warmth of sun-heated stone. 

A dull thunk and a scattering of stones makes Dorian look up, and he sees that Varric has also made it through the portal. And that even his instincts were sharp enough to loose a crossbow bolt into the face of yet another qunari statue before he could process their unmoving states. 

Dorian is just going to . . . pretend that he wasn’t the only one who would have died if those qunari were actually breathing. 

But they need to find Ronan. The ability to turn people into stone isn’t something that his mark can do, not unless something has changed within the last few minutes. Although, perhaps it has, with it being so unstable at the moment. Dorian just hopes Ronan has not been petrified as well. He’s not among the surrounding statues, which is a good sign at least. 

“Never seen anything like this before,” The Iron Bull rumbles as he stretches out a hand to help Dorian up, who is still leaning against the crouched qunari, “Something we should be concerned about?”

It is really nice that Bull and Varric are willing to turn to him when they have questions about magic, “I have no fucking idea. Let’s just keep moving.”

Another Eluvian shines in the sunlight ahead, past the petrified qunari, beyond the path winding between two giant halla statues and up the steps to what appears to be a plateau. They pass dozens of qunari along the way, all of them frozen in battle. Some powerful magic was at play here; ancient, unknowable magic.

And then he sees Ronan. He’s not petrified but he is unmoving, laying face-down on the rubble.

Dorian runs up the last few steps, nearly tripping on the uneven ground. He feels sick, small, useless. Ronan died here, alone, all while Dorian struggled to open one bloody door.

He kneels at Ronan’s side, fingers trembling as he turns him over. The Inquisitor is pale and clammy, dirty face clean only where tears had washed away the grit. Dorian almost recoils at the sight of Ronan’s left arm: the anchor is somehow gone which means that it’s not exploding periodically anymore, but the damage that has been done to it is astronomical. Blood still weeps from wounds that striate from wrist to shoulder, and Dorian can even see the white of bone from where the skin sloughed off the Inquisitor’s forearm. The area on Ronan’s palm where the anchor used to be is black and puckered outward as if someone had reached in and physically wrenched the mark free from within the flesh. Ronan’s fingers are the worst, though, as they hang in shredded ribbons on the cold ground. His ring finger is completely missing, possibly blown off from one of the earlier anchor discharges.

Dorian kneels and cradles Ronan’s head with his hands, placing his lover upon his lap. And then Ronan gasps for air. It’s shallow, quiet, barely even an intake of breath, but it happened. Ronan is still alive. 

“Ronan, love, I’m here,” Dorian’s voice quavers, “So don’t fucking die now, all right? You had your chance to die in romantic mystery, but you can’t do that anymore now that we’ve found you.”

He takes Ronan’s good hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the knuckles. The Inquisitor is completely limp under his touch. Dorian wishes, not for the first time today, that he had studied spirit healing instead of necromancy.

Dorian’s moment is interrupted by the sound of gagging behind him, “Oh shit, his hand did not look like that before he went through the Eluvian,” Varric. 

The Iron Bull kneels at Dorian’s side, “Viddasala has also been petrified. I don’t think there are any Qunari left here, and we don’t know if whatever petrified them is coming back through that Eluvian. We gotta go; no helping the Inquisitor if the three of us also turn to stone.”

"Help me get him up, then, I can’t . . .”

In one swift action, The Iron Bull slips his hands underneath Ronan and lifts him into his arms. The Inquisitor looks as small as a child, hanging limp in the big man’s embrace.