kaerwrites:

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.