Sparkler and the Wolf

1. Pursuit

He'd watched Dorian as he'd fled the library, head down, shoulders hunched, his feet taking him quickly across the ramparts and toward one of the abandoned towers surrounding Skyhold. But that had been two hours ago and he'd not seen the mage since.

What was he doing up there? Why had he fled the library? Was he all right? The last thought jarred him from his musings, his hand tightening on the tankard of ale he held.

When he'd first arrived at Skyhold, he'd been looking for a purpose, a cause beyond killing random slavers. Slashing his way across the Free Marches and Ferelden had become more dangerous with the added threat of Red Templars and Venatori. He'd almost died three times in twice as many days before he realized he might be better off with a bit of help.

Varric had been more than happy to see him, cautioning him about Dorian's presence but with the added caveat he was nothing like his countryman. Fenris had doubted that assessment with his trademark scowl and hadn't been completely wrong in his assumption. Though the Altus was everything a privileged mage from the Imperium appeared to be, he was different.

For one thing, he made no excuses for everything wrong with how the Imperium was run. Nor did he defend anyone who used blood magic or slaves in the quest for more power. But he was naive and blind to just how much slavery kept Tevinter locked in the past and it had led to more than one heated argument between them.

Despite that, Fenris had become fond of the mage. His sharp wit, devilish smile, handsome face and flair for the dramatic was addicting to watch. He enjoyed trading barbs with the Altus and their intense academic discussions in the Herald's Rest. He'd never felt so alive before he'd met the striking mage from Tevinter who'd left everything behind rather than become what he despised. Not even Hawke had affected him as much, and though affect him she had, this was different.

He'd first realized he felt something for the Altus when he'd accompanied the Inquisitor on one of her excursions into the Hissing Wastes. They'd been there to investigate and kill the Venatori who were looking for something to aid Corypheus.

Dorian was his usual self, wielding magic like a dancer or a performer, completely at ease with the magic flowing through him, killing his countrymen with a satisfied smirk. They'd taken down three waves of them when they were ambushed by Red Templars.

His markings had lit up painfully in their presence, the red lyrium in their bodies pulling at him and filling his mind with a maddening song. He managed to kill two of them before he was dwarfed by a Templar grown twenty feet tall, one arm now a massive claw made entirely of lyrium. The Templar had smashed it into the ground beside him, sending up razor sharp shards of lyrium which he couldn't get through. The song had intensified, his markings flaring so bright he couldn't see and he'd heard someone cry his name in fear.

He had no memory of what happened next, but when he could see again, the Templars were dead and everyone was breathing hard. Everyone except Dorian. He'd felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest and was filled with overwhelming concern when he saw both Vivienne and the Inquisitor hovering over the mage's limp form where he lay unconscious in the sand.

He'd never seen the mage injured before or known Dorian to ever be dishevelled, so he stared, shocked by his current state. His elegant shawl was torn and bloody, crumpled and twisted about his body. His hair was plastered to his head and stuck up every which way. His staff had been split in half and lay discarded several feet from his outstretched hand. But what had him up and moving to the mage's side, heart hammering in his chest, was that Dorian wasn't moving. He didn't even appear to be breathing and Fenris was terrified.

"What happened? Is Dorian all right?" He'd heard himself demand, eyes riveted to the mage's chest and sighing in relief when he saw it rise.

"He took a severe blow to the head." Vivienne answered, her voice sounding disappointed. "And he overtaxed his mana reserve leaving no way of defending himself."

"Dorian wouldn't do that." Fenris had argued. He'd never seen the Altus falter in battle and always before he'd maintained a steady barrier over everyone.

"He did this time." The Inquisitor had replied, meeting his eyes with a questioning look.

"Why?"

"I assume because he was protecting you. When you became trapped behind the lyrium wall he must have thrown his entire barrier over you. When the other Templar attacked him, he had no mana left to defend himself." Vivienne added, unable to hide her disappointment in her fellow mage.

"You're saying he hit the Templar with his staff?" He asked, incredulous, his mind having a field day of picturing that particular scenario.

"He did." The Inquisitor answered.

"Why would he do that?" Fenris wondered aloud before he could stop himself.

"If I had to guess, it's probably because he likes you Broody." Varric chuckled from behind him.

He'd glared at the dwarf and said no more as the Inquisitor arranged to have Dorian returned to camp to recover. He'd retrieved the mage's staff, not knowing why he did or if Dorian would even want it back. He didn't question what he was doing, nor had he looked closely at what any of it might mean.

Back at Skyhold, Dorian avoided him. After thanking him for retrieving his staff, he'd said no more on the incident and wouldn't meet his eyes when they spoke, his eyes shifting away as though afraid Fenris would see something in them he wouldn't like. But it had been two weeks since Dorian's fall and as much as he tried to ignore his feelings and his promise to let Dorian come to him, he couldn't do it anymore.

Downing the last of his ale, he got to his feet from his perch by the training field, catching a knowing look from the Iron Bull as he did. He scowled at the one-eyed oxman, hunching his shoulders as he stalked away to the sound of Bull's deep chuckle, his ears twitching and heat rising in his cheeks.