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“Davrin, behind you!” Avon called out, but it was a mere second too late. He watched the other elven man take a shredding blow in the back from a serrated blade. The Venatori fighter responsible had appeared out of nowhere, while Davrin was already engaged with another. But worse yet, was the mage.
Avon watched in horror as a trail of blood lifted out from Davrin’s large wound, like a puppet string forming. Davrin’s sword and shield clattered to the ground, and he began groaning while gripping his head.
“Harding, handle the fighters!” Avon yelled while full-on sprinting towards the Venatori blood mage. The Venatori’s eyes widened and he looked about ready to lift a barrier with his other hand. Just in time, Avon planted his staff into the ground with a magical force strong enough to knock the blood mage off his feet. Avon used the momentum to flip his body into the air and land on top of the fallen opponent. He swiftly pulled out a small dagger and jabbed it into the Venatori’s throat, then did so a second and third time just to be sure.
Confident the blood mage was dead, Avon turned his head to see Harding had indeed dealt with the remaining fighters, who now laid still on the ground like pincushions full of arrows. But there was no time to feel relief yet – Davrin was in critical shape.
Avon rushed back to Davrin’s side, who was crumpled up on the ground with slight trembles. The Grey Wardens taught Avon some basic healing magic for normal wounds, but for the first time in his life, Avon was grateful for his more personal experiences with blood magic, that taught him how to treat something like this. First, he carefully as he could rolled Davrin over to access the open gash. Sure enough, it was still heavily bleeding as a result of the magic done to it. Avon took a deep breath, and used a small amount of magical pressure hold the blood back. Davrin moaned, then collapsed completely while Avon was then able to call on spirits to aid in the mending of flesh. Being in the Crossroads seemed to make that part a little easier, at least.
“Is he alright? Is he okay?” Harding asked, kneeling down next to Davrin’s fallen form. Assan too seemed worried, giving a soft, concerned screech.
“We need to get him back to the Lighthouse,” Avon said, already unsure of how they were going to accomplish that. Davrin was much larger than Avon, and almost twice Harding’s size.
As if on call, suddenly the Caretaker and their boat appeared on the edge of the platform the party stood on. Apparently their ferrying was not limited to the docks. “The seam is healed, and the soul remains,” they said cryptically, which Avon took as a sign that Davrin was going to be safe. He hoped.
…
A few hours later, and Davrin finally began to stir. Assan noticed it first, alerting Avon with a hopeful cackle. The griffon had curled himself up at the foot of Davrin’s bed, while Avon sat in the chair beside him.
Davrin opened his eyes and immediately tried to rise, only to grunt and slip back down.
“Careful,” Avon warned, “you were badly injured. What do you remember?”
“…You saving my ass,” Davrin huffed after a minute. His eyes were closed, but he had a beautiful, grateful smile. But then that smile dipped into a look of confusion. “But Rook…”
“I’m not a blood mage,” Avon quickly answered the unfinished question, knowing exactly where Davrin’s mind must have been going. “I just I know how blood magic works.”
“If you’re not a blood mage, how do you know that?”
Avon shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat. While it was true he and Davrin were growing close—arguably even closer than with the rest of the team—a fear of judgement remained. “You should try to eat something,” Avon said instead. “Bellara and Lucanis made spiced haddock chowder. I’ll go get some… and then we can talk.”
When Avon returned with the chowder and a bread roll, Davrin was seated up properly, waiting. Avon set the tray of food on the bed, and Davrin pulled it up into his lap and began eating without trouble; a good sign.
Avon awkwardly pushed his long black hair out of his face, and met Davrin’s eyes. Somehow those dark earthy pools were encouraging enough to start.
“I was born in Nessum. You ever been there?”
“Can’t say I have,” Davrin answered before taking another slurp of his meal.
“Not surprising; it’s somehow even more unwelcoming of elves than most elsewhere in Tevinter. But my master…” Avon couldn’t help but hiccup a bit at the word.
“Master?” Davrin prompted.
Avon nodded. “Magister Petrus Porenni. My former master… he had a thing about elven magic. An obsession, I mean. And he had a collection of elven mage slaves to test all his crazy theories on. I was one of them.” Avon then stood up, pulled off the top of his Grey Warden fatigues, and turned around to let Davrin get a good look at the scars that decorated his light brown skin. “He used a lot of blood magic on us. And he… he made us use it on each other, too.”
“So you are a blood mage.”
“Not anymore,” Avon insisted. “I never wanted it, I swear. And the moment I escaped with a few others, I promised myself I’d never do it again.” He turned around with a silent wince, expecting Davrin’s eyes to turn cold and distrusting. But instead, he saw nothing but compassion on his face. “You… don’t seem nearly as upset as I thought a monster-hunter would be.”
“You’re no monster, Rook,” Davrin shook his head. “You’re a Warden, and not the first I’ve met with a hard past. Or a complicated relationship with blood magic.”
Avon felt an immense wave of relief wash over him. “Thank you, Davrin. I mean it.”
“Hey, now. I should be thanking you.” Davrin gave such a charming grin that it made Avon’s heart flutter.
Avon instinctively moved forward to reach out for Davrin’s shoulder… when suddenly Assan decided Avon’s hand was better served for petting. Assan climbed over Davrin’s chowder, knocking the tray over and spilling it everywhere just to brush his forehead up against Avon’s hand.
“Assan!” Davrin groaned, his bedsheets now ruined.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” Avon insisted, while scratching between Assan’s ears. The griffon squawked, then began licking at the spilled chunks of chowder. “And I’ll bring you a new bowl.”