Have a melodramatic unprompted Trespasser drabble.
“Hold on just a little longer,” Dorian pled, as he held him through another shuddering, spasmic shock of pain. Noise could attract all sorts of trouble their way; Ryn had tried to keep quiet, at first. He’d drawn blood, biting down on his other hand, until finally it was unbearable, his screams ripping through his body, tearing his throat. “Just a little longer,” Dorian begged, and something mad and hysterical in Ryn wanted to laugh. Everything was always ‘just a little longer’ with the mage. Put things off long enough, and –
It haunted him, Dorian’s face when he pulled him aside earlier. He’d known his advisors would tell everyone, once they found out. In the whirlwind of activity since the discovery of that body, Ryn hadn’t had time to eat or rest. He’d hoped to avoid –
But Dorian had caught up to him, and pulled him into a sheltered alcove of the Winter Palace. Haggard, haunted – Ryn knew he had been told, just as he knew how they’d both spent their reunion pretending not to notice how bright the Fade-green pulse that spilled from his glove had grown.
Just a little longer.
“Let me see it, amatus,” Dorian had commanded. The sickly green hue made him look like a corpse. He was pale.
“Dorian,” Ryn began.
“Don’t argue with me. Please. Let me see it.”
How exhausted Ryn had felt in that moment! He was dying, and they both knew it – there was no avoiding it anymore, no more pretending there was a future to be planned for, that there was a use for the pointless ring lying cold in his luggage. It seemed so far away and silly, that Ryn had been angry at him this morning. What did it matter that Dorian was returning to Tevinter? There was clearly nothing left for him here.
The glove was difficult to tug off, catching on the thick wrapping beneath – the layers of gauze and elfroot Ryn used to help conceal the smell. It had been a long time since the herbs had stopped having any impact on the pain.
Ryn hadn’t had the chance to change the bindings since that morning, and even the outer layers were soiled now. He kept his eyes lowered as he unwrapped them, half waiting for some quip, a joke from Dorian about the stench. Rotting meat, seared under a desert sun. Death, that was what he smelled like, and with each layer he pulled away it grew stronger. Dorian covered his mouth with his sleeve, but he didn’t comment, didn’t joke, didn’t turn his eyes away.
The soiled bindings clung, wet, to his hand as he reached the end. The light was almost blinding, making it difficult to make out the particular gory details of his ruined hand, the burned and blackened flesh, craking, festering. Dorian carefully pulled Ryn’s sleeve back over his forearm as far as he could, his eyes tracking where the damage disappeared under the cloth.
“Oh, amatus,” Dorian breathed.
It was going to consume him, kill him. It was going to hurt.
Now, hours later, Ryn sobbed and screamed through wave after wave of pain he could not push down, could not ignore, and Dorian held him, pressed trembling lips to a sweat-soaked brow, and begged him, brokenly, for just a little longer.
It was quiet, when it finally passed. Ryn treasured the brief moment of reprieve after the eternity of torment. The Crossroads, eerie and still, seemed as if they should be trembling with the memory of his suffering.
Cassandra would not look at him. Varric had his back turned completely away. Dorian clung to him, shuddering, shadowed.
“You bastard,” he whispered into Ryn’s hair. “You bloody bastard.” His cheeks were wet.
Ryn forced himself to find his feet. He didn’t have a lot of time, and there was so much left to do.
“Let’s get moving,” he said, in as strong a voice as he could muster. As if he were fine, and the last several moments had not occurred. His voice was raw.
He had to keep going.
A little longer, then.