"Loyalty to a petrified opinion never yet broke a chain or freed a human soul"

Mark Twain

Dorian remembers being young. He remembers being small for his age and wearing fine linen robes that did not quite yet fit him. He remembers spending his mornings exploring the gardens and his afternoons spent with his nose buried his books. He remembers his mother as a hard woman with soft hands whose eyes never betrayed any emotions. He remembers his father as a thoughtful man who smiled and laughed and told him how proud he was of him.

Dorian remembers being happy, at least most of the time.

But what Dorian remembers most vividly is waking up in the night with a scream, clutching at his chest and crying as he felt his skin burning over his heart.

He remembers his mother running in, and he did not think about why she might be awake and wandering the halls in the middle of the night. He lets her undo his pajamas to search for the source of his pain, and her fingers hesitate over a swirling golden sun that has risen like a scar upon his skin.

His mother speaks softly, softer than he has ever heard her speak, softer than she will ever speak again. She tells him about soul marks and their history, of why they are symbols of an archaic need to find a soul mate when good breeding should take precedent. Dorian sees something weary in her eyes, as if she's been rehearsing these words in her head for a long time, as if it's something she's resigned herself to believing.

"Your soul mark is yours and yours alone," he remembers his mother telling him, "It is something very private that you won't have to worry about it. Love isn't real."

It is sad, Dorian thinks, that he had trusted his mother. It is even more sad that it was one of the kindest things she had said to him before she passed.

Soul marks are not a point of conversation in Tevinter, especially not in the upper echelons of society. Soul marks are hidden beneath lavish clothes and expensive make-up. Some truly desperate individuals endeavor to use magic to remove the mark, although the results are rather painful and largely inconclusive. Soul marks are a nuisance that represent nothing more than weakness. If someone bears their soul mark, it means they are willing to find their soul mate, whom could be no one more than a lowly Soporati.

Vere Cundiaam. It is an old Tevene phrase that is spat in disgust at the thought of a soul mark. Shame of my heart.

Dorian does not think about his soul mark for a long time. He sees it in the reflection of his mirror when he gets dressed in the morning, shimmering in the sun that shines through his windows. His fingers ghost over the mark when he bathes in the evening, feeling how it rises from his skin and hums with a magical warmth. The soul mark is something that lives on the periphery of Dorian's life. It does not bother him in anyway. It does not affect his studies as a mage, and he knows that it will not affect his future in any way. He is an Altus, after all, and fine breeding is expected of him. His soul mark will not change that.

It isn't until Dorian finds himself in bed with other men that he starts thinking about his soul mark again.

To lie in bed and have sex with another requires the stripping of clothes. Dorian would be blind not to notice the way the eyes of his lover's flick nervously over his chest; he would be a fool not to realize that they avoid touching him there if it can be helped. These men do not want to see Dorian's soul mark, because it reminds them that he is more than just stress relief, but a man who could bear the same mark as the one they have spent so long hiding.

One night, Dorian quietly slips out of bed, making sure not to wake the bearded man lying next to him. The bearded man had his soul mark on the inside of his wrist, a small black swirling thing that is reminiscent of a dragon. Dorian hadn't dared to look at it until after the man had fallen asleep, and even then he didn't dare to get to close enough to truly study it .

As Dorian padded across the floor of the bedroom and towards the adjoining bathroom, he conjured up a faint ball of light in his hands to illuminate his path. It wouldn't do to trip and hurt himself, and he didn't want his host to kick him out prematurely. Dorian wasn't fond of the idea of stumbling back home in the middle of the night and having to explain to his father the state of his (un)dress.

In the bathroom, Dorian stepped up to the mirror and held one hand out to hold the light while the other settled on his chest prodded gently at his soul mark. It was rare for a soul mark to take on any kind of color, but gold was particularly unique. Dorian had read somewhere in an old text that golden soul marks were a sign of true devotion, of a love that ran deeply in the hearts of those who bore it. It all sounded like wishful thinking at best, and foolish fancy at worst.

But Dorian couldn't help but imagine the person who bore the same mark that had emblazoned itself on his chest. He imagined a Soparati nervously pulling on a glove to cover the sun on the back of his hand, an Elvhen servant hastily caking the mark with flour and paste to appease his masters, an Altus who grew a beard to hide the mark on his jaw.

The bearded man had been wishful thinking on Dorian's part. He would admit that.

Yet as desperately as Dorian tried to forget his mark, as much as he wanted to appease his father and marry whatever unfortunate woman that became his betrothed, Dorian was drawn back to secret trysts with uncaring men and the damn golden sun that shone on his chest.

A man of devotion and of deep seated love. Dorian couldn't see himself as that kind of man. He hoped that his soul mate might be.

There were many things about the south that shocked Dorian. Yes, it was cold and damp nearly all of the time, and yes the average people were poor and crude, but what bothered Dorian most were the ways that people bore their soul marks openly and shamelessly.

Dorian had walked past a young woman with the mark of a black thorny vine curled on her cheek, and she never flinched or appeared nervous when someone looked at it or made a remark. Another man Dorian had seen had had a portion of his shirt cut out so that the mark of a blue flame could be seen by any curious onlookers. It seemed that everywhere Dorian looked there was a soul mark on display. People even spoke openly of soul marks, of their colors and their meanings and the latest gossip on who was looking for their soulmate what child had just received their mark. Dorian couldn't decide if he found it charming or pitiful, that these people believed that true love could really exist in this world, especially one now threatened by the darkspawn.

And yet at night in rooms he rents in taverns and inns along the road, Dorian's gaze is drawn back to blazing sun on his chest.

He isn't sure when it happens, but Dorian stops hating his soul mark. He does not talk about it, nor does he offer to show it to nosy civilians, but he stops seeing it as the hateful curse he's always known it as. By the time Dorian encounters the Inquisition, he is wearing a tunic that bears his left shoulder and allows the tips of the golden tendrils of the sun to peek out. He is far from flaunting his mark about and searching for his soul mate, but it is the first time that Dorian has felt comfortable in his own skin in a very long time. Dorian is wary to call this feeling happiness, but he is most certainly content with the life he now leads.

In the Inquisition, Dorian has the pleasure of being left to his own devices to perform his own research. This becomes particularly true once the Inquisition relocates itself to Skyhold. Dorian has an entire library at his fingertips, and while the selection is somewhat lacking, there are men and women who value his contributions to the fight against Corypheus. They are willing to track down any texts that the library doesn't have and that Dorian deems necessary to his research; they are willing to indulge his eccentricities as a Tevinter mage, insofar as it doesn't clash too harshly with southern sensibilities. Dorian is a free man in charge of his own free time, and despite the threat of death and devastation looming over the world, everything is just peachy.

Of course, that's when everything goes sideways.

It had all started insignificantly enough. Dorian had been looking for a particularly old text, a collection of poems about the darkspawn. He wasn't sure what the book would have on Corypheus, but he was rather interested in what sort of context the poems might provide on past Blights compared to the situation at hand. When he had learned that the text happened to be in Cullen's possession, Dorian had decided to make the trip to the Commander's office himself. It would get him out of the dusty library at the very least.

Cullen and Dorian had managed, somehow, to become something more than acquaintances and slightly less than friends. Companions, perhaps, if one was being charitable with the definition. Cullen appreciated Dorian's knowledge and power as a mage, albeit with a healthy amount of wariness. Dorian enjoyed Cullen's honesty in sharing his opinion, although he was a bit critical of the man's leanings towards steadfast belief in authority. Both men, however, enjoyed their weekly chess matches immensely. They were equally matched in strategy, with Cullen favoring defensive tactics while Dorian favored a (cheating) offensive. It was common ground for the both of them, and it was an arrangement that allowed them both to disconnect from their responsibilities within the Inquisition.

But Dorian was hesitant to call it friendship. Cullen was a reserved individual, and Dorian hardly ever saw the man outside of his office or the training yard. Cullen often only exchanged brief hellos with Dorian in the hallways if they passed, and he usually sent a messenger over to confirm the day for their chess matches. It was all rather formalized, and it felt more like a symbiotic relationship than a true friendship in any sense of the word. True friendship may have been rare and fleeting in Tevinter, but Dorian knew that it had to be more than what Cullen was offering.

Although Dorian was fairly sure that Cullen was not aware that he was offering more than his companionable kindness, but his good looks as well.

It was easy to admire the Commander for his looks, with his blond hair and doleful eyes and that rugged looking scar on his upper lip. Dorian was used to seeing more well-groomed and meticulous men, but there was something else about Cullen. Perhaps it was the sincerity in his voice, kindness in his smile, or the weariness in his eyes that came from worrying too much about others and not enough about himself.

Dorian always had a soft heart for a good-looking man with an air of tenderness about him. But the for the Inquisition's dear Commander? That was just foolishness.

This was the state that Dorian found himself in, not quite friends with Cullen but interested in something dangerously more, when he made his way to the Commander's office. Dorian had sent a messenger ahead with a note to let Cullen know that he would be stopping by, and he had simply responded with the time that Dorian should arrive. It was simple enough, but it reminded Dorian of secretive arrangements with men for much more dubious interactions.

Foolishness. Utter foolishness.

Dorian pushed such thoughts out of his mind and brought his hand up instead to knock on the wooden door to Cullen's office. He would maintain an air of professionalism about all of this. It hadn't been an issue yet, and it certainly wouldn't become one now. When he heard Cullen call for him to come in, Dorian put on a teasing smirk as he swept into the room with one arm outstretched and the other holding open the door.

"The highlight of your afternoon has arrived," Dorian said, but he could see the overwhelmed look in Cullen's eyes and the tired lines that were etched into his forehead.

"Ah, Dorian," Cullen said rising up from his seat at his desk, his voice not betraying the exhaustion he must surely feel, "Good. I was hoping you would be arriving soon. I apologize for the state of my office. Things are...busy."

Busy was an understatement. The Inquisition had recruited a veritable army of mages from Redcliffe just before the Inquisition had relocated to Skyhold, and it was Cullen's duty to train these mages and to handle any animosity dealt towards them. And that was on top of his other duties of commanding the rest of the Inquisition's armies and acting as advisor to the Inquisitor herself.

"I can forgive a bit of untidiness just to have a moment of your time," Dorian mused, shutting the door behind him and watching as Cullen allowed himself a brief moment to relax. He could see the muscles in Cullen's face relax, but a line of tension still lingered in his shoulders.

"You're too kind," Cullen replied, meeting Dorian's gaze fleetingly before walking towards the bookcase behind his desk, "But you're not just here for small talk. What was the book you wanted again?"

Dorian hummed and walked towards Cullen's desk, watching the blond man scan the bookshelves for a moment, "Are you always so straight to business?" Dorian asked, "Not even a nonsensical line of conversation or some food and wine to offer me? How rude."

Cullen turned towards Dorian with a book in hand, but his eyes were owlish and his brow scrunched in concern as he spoke, "I certainly didn't mean to be rude. I do apologize if I am," he turned fully then and held the book out to Dorian, "I've never been good with courtly pleasantries, but someone like yourself is practically born with such charisma."

"Oh, you flatter me, Commander," Dorian replied, offering a winning smile and calming the flutter in his heart as he grabbed the book from Cullen's hand, "With looks like yours, you hardly have to be pleasant to win the hearts of a noble court."

Dorian watched as the slightest of flushes crept onto Cullen's cheeks, but the man smiled and laughed off Dorian's comment quickly enough, "Perhaps you could offer me lesson in charming foreign dignitaries. I will need the skill soon enough in Halamshiral."

Flirting was a familiar game to Dorian. It was a style of conversation that came easily to him, but flirting with Cullen was something terrifyingly close to his true emotions. When it came to fight or flight, Dorian had always been a fighter on the battlefield. Yet when it came to moments like this, with men he couldn't have, it was easier to get out before it got messy.

"I suppose I'll leave you to the rest of your daily drudgery," Dorian said, holding the small leather bound book carefully in one hand and gesturing towards the door with the other, "Too much responsibility is not good for my youthful charming looks."

Cullen laughed then, something genuine and soft that caught Dorian off-guard, "Yes well, we can't all drink fine wine and read books all day, can we?"

"It's a burden I bear," Dorian mused, watching as Cullen moved towards the door to hold it open for Dorian to leave. It was courteous, a fine display of politeness that Dorian wondered if Cullen had learned from his parents or from the Templars.

As Cullen approached, Dorian noticed that the man was not wearing the hideous fur monster around his neck. Dorian didn't care how warm it might be, it was a travesty to behold. Without it now, Cullen looks smaller, yet there was a broadness to his shoulders that couldn't be seen beneath the fur. Dorian's eyes roamed now, studying the strong lines of Cullen's jaw and the strength in his neck before his gaze fell on a mark on the back of Cullen's neck. A soul mark.

A swirling golden sun.

Dorian could feel his heartbeat in the back of his throat and his fingertips thrum with nervous energy. He knew that mark that swirled across his own chest and mocked him in his own reflection, but now it was staring back at him from Cullen's neck.

"Are you free at noon tomorrow for chess?"

The question pulled Dorian back to reality, but panic was still pounding in his chest. Dorian, however, had learned to stop fear from showing in his features long ago, and he offered Cullen a smile and a calm voice of confidence, "I was actually hoping to drink wine and read books, but I suppose I can make some time to beat you in a few games."

"I suppose we'll have to see," Cullen replied with a smile, "Farewell, Dorian."

With that, Dorian walked out of Cullen's office and kept walking even as the door shut behind him. He walked past Varric without a word and he brushed past Solas on the stairs and didn't stop until he was safely ensconced in his private corner of Skyhold, surrounded by familiar books and able to be alone with his own thoughts.

Cullen Rutherford was his soul mate. The man who commands armies, advises the Inquisitor, and is a former Chantry templar, was his soul mate.

Sideways was an understatement. Everything in Dorian's life was absolutely upside down.