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There are no lights in the dungeon except the slit of distant, flickering torchlight somewhere in some distant corridor.
Weakly propping himself up, Mahanon hears the chains draped around him rattle from the movement. He blinks, his thoughts sluggishly returning to him.
This is the clearest his mind has been for a very long time, it feels.
Although his limbs still feel like lead and his entire body feels mangled, without whatever it is they inject into him, he can finally think again.
As he sits there and regains himself, it occurs to him then that the clarity may not be a mercy. Being aware of his situation and his helplessness won’t save him, but at the very least he can send one final prayer to Falon’Din.
He blinks again and suddenly, he’s in a large, dimly lit room with an audience. Refusing to shrink back as the room fills with gasps and countless eyes bore into him, he’s dragged across the floor in shackles by another slave and pulled to his knees by the collar wrapped around his neck.
There’s a quiet chanting coming from the robed slave next to him as his buyer and captor entertains the crowd with proclamations he can’t understand. But even without words, he knows he’s meant to die here for the entertainment of those present.
The knife cuts deep into his arms and he watches as blood pours out of the wounds, spilling onto his legs and the floor. His captor starts chanting but the one holding his chains has already finished. With a subtle wave, the blood pouring from him whips up through the air like blades and still, there are gasps but not screams.
Even when his tormenter is picked up and clearly fighting for his life, the audience merely sounds alarmed but intrigued—and pleased for the entertainment.
In the chaos, a flailing rivulet of blood slices through the chain attached to his collar and every fibre of his being tells him to run. Knocking the mage next to him away, Mahanon bolts for the closest window and kicks a small table through the glass before throwing himself out.
Landing clumsily in the pile of shards, he grabs a large piece of glass and runs. Adrenaline courses through him, pumping his legs that are already protesting from disuse. As he runs, he tries to apply pressure to his wrist with his free hand but the blood is making everything slick and with every moment, he can feel his strength ebbing away with his blood.
Weaving through back alleys, he doesn’t know how far he gets before his legs finally give out and he crashes to the ground. He looks down at his wrists and they seem to be bleeding even harder now, his blood pooling beneath him.
That’s not right.
Panic seizes him as he desperately tries to staunch the bleeding but it won’t stop and the blood threatens to engulf him and send him back to that horrible place where every creak whispered of his death and—
Mahanon wakes with a gasp, his heart pounding in his ears and sweat running down his face.
It’s dark.
Too dark.
Fear courses through him as he fumbles his way outside. He can feel needles and knives drawing closer, nearly piercing his skin as he runs out of the camp and into the woods.
Panting, he wonders if he’s finally run far away enough to escape but looks up into the treelines and
Wood splintering as the ogre hits the carriage. There are so many darkspawn and he’s just one elf with so many arrows.
Felix is still in the carriage.
“Mahanon!”
“Wait, stay in the carriage!” he shouts back, eyes darting from one enemy to the next, trying to figure out the best way for them to escape.
“Non, it’s Ellana! You’re safe! We’re in the Free Marches. You’re home and you’re safe.”
He furrows his brows as he feels a barrier surround him. That’s not right. Felix couldn’t do that and his cousin can’t be here.
Blinking, the broken carriage and darkspawn disappear and he’s left standing there alone, hands shaking and heart still racing.
Ellana takes a wary step closer to him. “Non? Cousin? You’re safe here. Nothing’s going to hurt you while I’m here.”
Chest still heaving, Mahanon looks around, confused. Then he sees the familiar outline of their camp in the distance. Shoulders sagging in relief and defeat, he turns to his cousin, eyes cast down. He inhales shakily. “...Ell…not again. I’m sorry.”
Well prepared from practice, she rushes forward and wraps a wool blanket around him before brushing the hair out of his face. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
He should tell her he’s alright and that she can go back to sleep without worry. But even as he thinks this, her touch grounds him to the present and right now, the only thing he can focus on is holding the tears back. Resting his head on her shoulder, he quietly confesses, “I don’t know what to do anymore. Half the time I don’t know if I’m asleep or awake or if I’m even really here. I’m so tired, Ell. I just want this to stop.”
“I know, Non. I know this is hard but you made it back to us. You’re here. You’re home,” she tells him, gently leading him out of the woods. “And I know it’s hard to believe but this will pass. One day, those memories will stay memories.”
This is hardly the first time they’ve gone through this routine. It’s been over a month since he found his way back to camp and his mind can’t seem to accept that there are no longer slavers and darkspawn hounding his every step, creating visions to validate his fears instead.
His poor cousin’s taken the brunt of it, having to ward his tent in case he wakes in a panic and runs off like he did tonight. She’s never complained but he can see it wearing on her.
Ellana brings them to a small, familiar clearing outside of their camp and sits him down on their usual log, knowing he wouldn’t want to be seen by anyone else like this.
The fresh air and open space brings him back to himself further. He curls up and tells her, “You shouldn’t have to do this. You shouldn’t have to take care of me. Why couldn’t you just leave me there? I would’ve come out of it eventually!”
It comes out far more accusatory than he intended but the guilt only seems to fuel his anger more.
“I would’ve been fine! It’s not like I can’t fucking take care of myself! I found my way back, didn’t I? I survived! I shouldn’t even be having these dreams so just leave me alone!”
Taking a seat next to him, Ellana merely waits for his anger to fizzle out before saying, “You don’t get to decide what haunts you or doesn’t, Non. And you’ve been through so much.” She places a hand lightly on his back and rubs it soothingly. “I want to be here for you and I know you’d do the same for me. It’s no great strain on me to cast a barrier for you. I’m an excellent mage, after all.”
Through some harrowing trial and error, they found the fastest way to pull him back to the present was with a barrier. The jarring feeling of protection that he knew he didn’t have in the worst moments of his life always seems to bring him back, for better or worse. More than once, it ended with him snapping at his Keeper and his First because why couldn’t they have been there when he needed that barrier the most?
The stricken look on their faces was more than enough to make him break down in tearful apologies.
The spike of irritation quickly gives way to the usual numbing exhaustion once more. He runs his fingers over his wrist under the blanket, the feeling of calloused skin on raised scars grounding him. “I’m sorry for snapping again. I keep—I can’t…I’m really sorry, Ell.”
“Apology accepted. Now, let me sort out your hair. You’ve got leaves stuck in it again.” Ellana sighs quietly before fussing with his hair. “I didn’t think your hair could grow so long but it looks good if you want to keep it this way. I’m sure the little ones will enjoy braiding it—if they can untangle it.”
“I…had something for it.” Leaning heavily against her, Mahanon thinks of the enchanted comb he traded away. If he’d been better and more alert to Linea’s condition while they travelled, he would still have that comb now.
Then, as if piling onto those thoughts, his mind whispers to him how silly it is to miss a comb when it would’ve been so much easier—so much better if the slavers finished the job in the first place.
Sensing his spiral downwards in the way he tenses and curls in on himself, his cousin gives his hair a hard tug. “Mahanon, stop it. You’re doing it again. Those thoughts aren’t true and they aren’t helpful. Your friend would’ve died if it wasn’t for you and what would’ve happened to Linea?”
He shrugs, fingers digging into his forearm in a desperate attempt to stay present. “Someone else would’ve saved her.”
“But it wasn’t someone else. You saved her. You saved our little ones. You saved that human benefactor of yours,” she bites back, though it comes out more of a plea. “Non, you may not be able to see it right now, so you’ll have to trust your First when I tell you: we’re all better off with you around.”
Mahanon feels tears prick at his eyes. He hears her words but finds himself unable to believe them. “Even so, I don’t want to do this anymore, Ell.”
“Don’t say that,” she whispers. “Sylaise enaste, Mahanon. One day, you’ll find yourself warm and safe and content, and you’ll look back and be glad you didn’t give up.”
He desperately latches onto that vision she painted for him, holding onto that crumb of hope so graciously extended to him. “...do you promise?”
“Yes, I promise.” She regards him sympathetically and guides his head down onto her lap. Gently covering his eyes, he feels calm, soothing magic course through him as she continues braiding his hair. “I know you’re tired, Non. You can rest here. I promise I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep the nightmares away.”
--
Swaying, swaying.
How many days has it been since he last had water?
In the darkness of the ship’s hull, he doesn’t know how many people are crammed in here with him but he can smell blood, sweat, sickness, and rot mixed in with the brine. He doesn’t know how many are still alive.
The door opened only once since the ship left the docks. Evidently, one of the slavers lost a bet and was forced to feed them and to dispose of some of the deceased lest they lose the rest of the hull.
Considered a hazard, he’s kept in a small cage and further chained to the bars. Every movement causes the chains to rattle and the sound grates on his ears. Even then, it’s not as bad as the sound of children crying, knowing there’s nothing he can do for any of them.
Then he sees his hand and its unnatural glow.
A dream then.
But even knowing this, he can’t seem to wake himself and the cries around him don’t cease. Brows furrowing, he tries to pull away from the dream but the chains don’t loosen their grasp on him.
The boat continues to sway violently in the Amaranthine Ocean.
“Amatus, wake up.”
There’s a wonderfully cool hand carding through his hair and the familiar feeling of a protective barrier wrapping around him.
Mahanon leans into the touch and opens his eyes to find himself in bed, exhausted but fully alert. Heart still pounding in his ears, he whispers, “Dorian? I’m sorry, did I wake you?”
Dorian makes a drowsy noise and pulls him closer until their legs are tangled. “Mahanon, you know I’m always happy to fish you out of a nightmare. …was it Tevinter?” he mutters into his hair.
He shakes his head. “The ship to Tevinter.”
The man places a soft kiss on his ear. “Well, you’re safe here with me and you’re not going anywhere.”
“Thank you.” Smiling quietly, he snuggles closer, savouring the warmth and comfort.
A pause. “You seem to have these nightmares every couple of nights. Don’t tell me it used to be worse?”
Mahanon purses his lips and thumbs his wrist. “It used to be every night and I’d…remember things during the day as well.”
Dorian inhales deeply and reaches down to lace their fingers together. “Maker’s breath, how did you get any rest? That must’ve been exhausting for you.”
“And for Ell. She worked hard to keep me from myself,” he says, remembering how many times he returned to himself with her by his side. “I’ve been told sometimes I’d suddenly stop like my spirit fled—so much so that the little ones used to call me Mahanon who Goes Away. “
The mage looks down sleepily and frowns. “But that’s not right, is it?”
He blinks. “What do you mean?”
“If we’re striving for accuracy, rather than Mahanon who Goes Away, I think it would be more appropriate to call you Mahanon who Returns. You always find your way back, don’t you? It’s the one thing I know I can count on.”
Mahanon inhales sharply and glances up, heart full and eyes misty. Thankful for the cover of darkness, he leans up for a kiss and says quietly, “The things you say sometimes, vhenan.”
Returning the kiss with a smile, Dorian adjusts their position and closes his eyes again. “Yes, I’m a terrible, terrible man. Now, go back to sleep if you can, Amatus. I’m right here. No one, dream or otherwise, is going to take you away from me.”
Following suit, Mahanon leans closer into the warmth of his lover and thinks of that promise Ellana once made him.
And he’s glad.