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When you got right down to it, Dorian was here for Tevinter's sake. He wanted to make his homeland better, he wanted to rid it of the radicals trying to drag it back to its height of corruption-most especially the Venatori- and he wanted to drag it into the wider world of Thedas. Which he could not do if the wider world of Thedas was concerned that the Tevinter Imperium was going to overtake them in a rampage of blood magic and slave orgies. Seeing as the Venatori weren't going to change that perception, it was really down to him.
The problem was that people immediately saw him as a vanguard of said rampage of blood magic and slave orgies. It was even deeper than he'd first thought, as Mother Giselle- kind, gentle Mother Giselle who risked her life to tend to refugees in the Hinterlands and willingly stepped between Templars and mages before their arguments come to blows- constantly reminded him. So, he really couldn't be taking any risks. He had to be as good as possible. He had to be the best possible example of what Tevinter could be.
So, when you really got right down to it, Dorian was not being paid for his services, and was really only not destitute by virtue of the way the Inquisition worked. Some blankets and soap and suchlike had come standard with his room, as did a pair of serviceable boots and a tolerably waterproof if not especially warm coat. Food was plentiful and readily available for free, even if getting things for meals he enjoyed was largely out of the question. The Inquisitor herself was in the habit of showing up with new equipment she'd forged herself for them all, which meant that his field kit was in excellent shape, and he had a somewhat reliable- if ultimately modest- source of income from selling his old gear. It was enough for emergency alcohol on days when, for example, his father had shown up trying to justify himself, or he'd physically entered the Fade, as well as a couple of other necessities.
The thing was, it was cold in Skyhold, and as the months dragged on, getting colder. He was already sleeping in his bedroll when he was in his rooms in Skyhold, and it was still too cold. He really needed better clothes- actual clothes, not armor- and maybe something to throw over the windows against a draft, and something enchanted to throw out a little heat.
Unfortunately, he did not have the funds for any of those things. He was freezing. He fell asleep in the Library, where the Tranquils kept the fires stoked all night long, as often as he could get away with. He considered taking the Bull up on his offer because he shared a tent with the man when they were in the field, he knew the qunari put off heat like a furnace, and he was pretty sure that he could get away with a few hours of sleep in the man's (almost certainly warmed than his own) rooms afterwards at least.
He didn't actually do that, because it would have been a huge mistake- one he'd already made on his way to Redcliffe with men he did not have to work with every day. But they still shared a tent when they were out with the Inquisitor, and he was starting to look forward to it, because somehow it was warmer in a canvas tent three quarters of the way full of the Bull than it was in his quarters in Skyhold.
When he got sick, it came quickly and severely. One moment he had a bit of a headache, laid down, and vaguely recognized that he should feel cold, but did not. The next few moments are a blur of fever and chills and no small amount of bodily fluids stretched out over a week. The next lucid moment comes when he woke to unfamiliar surrounds, only to realize that he was still in his quarters, they were just a lot fuller than he could really afford them to be.
He sat upright and took stock of the room, which he only recognized as his because the view from the window was the same. The window itself was framed with heavy drapes, there were tapestries on the walls and rugs on the floor, his bedroll had disappeared to be replaced by several woolen blankets, two quilts, and some kind of crocheted circus tent. There was a long, warm coat hanging off of his armoire- also, he now had an armoire, and a vanity table, and a writing desk, and a bookcase.
There was also an armchair in front of the fireplace- which was roaring, and had a neat stack of firewood placed next to it- and it was occupied. Sera was slumped over in the chair, draped in yet another blanket, and snoring faintly.
"Sera," he hissed. "Sera! Wake up!"
Sera let out a loud snort and started awake. "Figgin' wha-?" The rest of her sentence was swallowed by a yawn. "You ain't s'pose to be wake?" she added groggily.
"What is all this?" Dorian demanded.
"Stuff," Sera replied. "And you're sick. Go be asleep, that'll help, yeah?"
"It would help if I knew where this all came from."
"Dunno. Ask Josie, or Inky. Whatever, I'm just here if you need help with particulars. 'Coz I've got as much interest in your bits as you've got in mine, y'know?"
"You what?"
"If you're awake, though, can you piss on your own? Your bits are gross."
"What?"
"Pot's over there," she replied, waving vaguely behind Dorian. Then she hiked up her blanket and went back to sleep.
Dorian turned, found that the chamber pot was, at least, where he'd left it, and realized that he actually did have to go.
It wasn't long after that when he realized that standing upright was a lot more exhausting then he remembered it being, and fell back asleep.
When he next awoke, it was somewhere around midday, and Sera had been replaced by the Inquisitor.
"Stay in bed, you ridiculous man-child," she said before he finished sitting up. She marked her place in the book he was reading, and walked over to the bed.
"You're recovering more quickly than the healers thought you would," she told him.
"Recovering from what? I don't remember being injured," he said.
"You weren't," she said. "It's- we call it Elgar'numinen, which means something along the lines of ghost tears. It's a childhood disease, and despite the foreboding name, it's generally pretty mild. But it hits adults harder, and apparently adult humans even more so. It made the jump from elves to humans here recently. You had a particularly bad case, probably because you've been living out of your field kit and forgot to mention it to anyone."
She glared at him. He sat up a little straighter. "The Inquisition isn't a charity, I don't expect or-"
"You do understand we're paying people, right?"
"And when I joined it was made obvious that the Inquisition doesn't have the resources for it. This is- this is all really nice, and I'm sure that it's helping my recovery, but-"
"If you don't take is as gift, I'll just take the cost out of your back wages."
"Inquisitor-"
"You realize that when I say that we're paying people, I mean people like me and Cassandra and Leliana, who cannot in good conscious be anywhere else doing anything else."
"Well neither can I!"
"Good, we're agreed, you're being paid!"
"I am not- Inquisitor Lavellan, I am not here for my own sake. I don't require any special accommodations-"
"Then why are you fighting me about being paid like everyone else?"
"Because, as I said before, I am under the impression that funds are in limited supply-"
"Funds are always in limit supply. That's why there funds! Ask Josie if you don't believe me!"
"But-"
"That was the case in Haven. We had limited recognition and had to save resources whenever possible. This is Skyhold, we've come a long way since then, and you should have started drawing a wage the same time I did."
"I-" He closed his eyes, exhausted all over again.
"Do you need anything?" she asked.
"No! That was my point, as you might recall."
She sighed. "Just lay back down and rest up, alright? You aren't recovered just yet."
She was correct. No sooner had Dorian leaned back against the pillows then he'd fallen asleep again.
When he next woke up, the Bull had taken over.
"Hey, guess what?" he asked when Dorian had struggled upright once more. He was actually feeling better this time, but someone had tucked the blankets in a lot more tightly than they had any business of being tucked.
"What?" he replied.
"Varric finally managed to get his hands on some cocoa," the Bull replied. "I made you some."
He poured out a steaming mug from the kettle that was sitting next to the fire. Dorian stared at it. "Festis bei umo canavarum, I didn't ask for this! I didn't ask for any of this! I'm not a child to be looked after, I'm not some sheltered noble just recently arrived from his ivory tower, I don't need-"
"So, are you saying no to cocoa?" the Bull asked.
Dorian sighed. "No, I'm not an idiot, I am- a giant ass at accepting gifts apparently."
He held out his hand. The Bull handed over the mug.
"Thank you," he said, taking a small sip, savoring the taste. He hadn't had anything with cocoa in it in almost a year. "I merely dislike the idea of- being the Magister who takes more than his share of the Inquisition's resources. People already see me that way, I'd rather not lend any truth to the sentiment."
"If people already think that, why not embrace it and enjoy yourself a little?" the Bull asked.
"Because I don't want to enjoy myself, I want to change the way people think. And I can't do that if your going to do- this."
He gestured around the room with his free hand, which he was now noticing was even worse than he'd originally thought. There were books on the desk and the shelves- new copies of ones he had read and reread in the library, their spines uncracked. The coat on the armoire bared no small resemblance to the set of robes he'd been wearing when he joined the Inquisition in Redcliffe. The rugs were silver, blue, and lavender, the colors he favored, and the tapestry on the wall over the fireplace depicted a map of the Imperium.
"This is too much." He took another sip of cocoa, and studied the mug so he wouldn't have to see the Bull's face. It was enough that he could feel the other man studying him, as though he still had reports for the Ben-Hassrath to file about him.
"Well, like you said, you're an ass at accepting presents," the Bull said.
"Far be it to me to call into question your judgement on asses," Dorian replied.
"Also, heads up- you managed to impress Vivienne."
Dorian blinked a little at the change in subject. "How?"
"I'm not clear on the details, but I'd expect for her to stop by at some point and discuss the finer point of make-up on the fly when you're feeling better."
Dorian laughed a little. "As long as she can wait until I can actually get my face on, I'll allow it. If I tried now I'd just end up poking myself in the eye."
This was... doable. He'd find some way to pay them all back for this, and then no one could say he'd used anyone.
Not truthfully, at any rate. And when it came to lies- at least now he wouldn't be freezing when he had to hear them.
It took two days for Dorian to feel well enough for long enough to try and leave his room, and another three before he was left alone for long enough to do so unescorted. Vivienne still hadn't shown up, so he headed to her, noticing as he did so that he really was not the only one affected by the 'ghost tears' disease. The infirmary was more crowded than usual, the sounds of coughs and groans able to be heard from all the way across the courtyard, and we could tell that he was far from the only person walking around in Skyhold after recovering from a nasty illness.
Though he doubted any of the others had woken up to find that their room had suddenly grown furniture.
"You mean to tell me you've been making your own kohl this entire time?" Vivienne asked, once they'd dueled wits for long enough for her to ask him. She was trying not to sound impressed, and only mostly succeeding.
"It's not terribly difficult- certainly nothing on the alchemy you practice," he demurred. "Crush some almonds into past, coat some rope fibers in it, light it up, collect the soot, and mix it with some tincture of elfroot, or mint extract, depending upon whether you want to keep the light from your eyes, or merely draw attention to them."
"Fascinating," Vivienne cooed. "You must have become very handy in your self-imposed poverty."
"I was very self-sufficient," he corrected her.
"That makes it sound like you intended to build yourself a cabin in the Hinterlands and living apart from civilized society for the rest of your days, my dear."
"Maker forbid! Think of the bears."
"Dorian of House Pavus!" came the shout from downstairs. The Inquisitor had her mom voice out, but she wasn't truly angry. He could tell because he was 'Dorian of House Pavus' rather than 'Dorian Pavus, you increasingly complicated string of insults'.
"Yes?" he called back down over the balcony. The Inquisitor was standing in the center of the Throne Room, her arms crossed and her foot tapping impatiently against the stone. "Oh come on, I am more than well enough to walk around the inside of Skyhold. The healers have cleared me. The Bull has cleared me, and that man is an utterly terrifying mother hen. Who knew he had it in him?"
"Krem, apparently," she replied dryly, adding in response to his curious look. "He got sick around the same time as you- I was afraid the Bull would try to drop into a Reaver rage on the illness somehow. Come on, I have actual business to discuss."
"On my way," he replied cheerfully, happy to be able to do something. Specifically, to do something useful. It was one thing to have his quarters fully furnished when he was actually doing work for the Inquisition, and another thing to simply have it handed to him, with no clear idea what it had cost.
Lavellan lead him to the War Room, and over to where she had a desk, piled high with papers and such.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing to one of the chairs that were seemingly strewn around the room at random.
Dorian sat, not liking where this was going. Lavellan pulled a few papers from the middle of a pile on her desk, and placed them in front of him.
"This is your contract. Do not interrupt!" she hissed when he opened his mouth. He closed it again, and she continued "It's the standard contract for everyone who does extended periods of field work in my company. The Bull has signed this contract, Blackwall has signed this contract, Scout Harding has signed this contract. I expect you to do the same. Now this," she brandished another sheet of paper, this one pulled from the top of a completely different pile. "Is an additional contract, acknowledging your services to the Inquisition prior to this date- being the one on which you sign the first contract- and granting you your back pay, which has been calculated on the basis of the pay the first contract provides. It's very similar to the contracts Cassandra and I signed when we moved to Skyhold, the main difference being that we've taken out the money spent on furnishing your room from the sum. The amount is listed on this contract- if you like, Josephine has kept the receipts for you to go over. Now, what do you think?"
"I think that you've missed your calling as a lawyer."
Lavellan rolled her eyes. "I'll tell Keeper Istimaethoriel to suggest instituting a unified system of justice at the next Arlathvhen. I'm sure they'll run with that like it's a golden halla."
Dorian snorted.
Lavellan raised an eyebrow. "Are you have trouble finding a quill and ink?" she asked, pointing to the wide selection thereof to his left.
"No. I'm just considering my options," Dorian said.
Lavellan sighed, and leaned back against her desk. "Dorian, what do you think you'll accomplish by not being paid, exactly?"
"The Inquisition is a powerful organization- with the Divine dead, politics in Orlais being what they are and Fereldan still recovering from the Mage-Templar war- it might be the most powerful organization in all of southern Thedas. Someone clever could cozy right on up to the Inquisitor's Inner Circle, and use that power for his own comfort. That's what people will say. That's the least of what people will say."
"Well then, you better sign that contract, or we really will have given you all that stuff," she said.
Dorian glared down at the papers in bemusement, before sighing and reaching for a quill. "You have definitely missed your calling. Or perhaps not. Any word on who's up for the next Divine? There's probably still time to put your name in."
"You wound me, ser."
Dorian signed the contract under the Inquisitors watchful eyes. When he was finished, she dragged the chair from her desk and sat down across from him.
"I understand a little of what it's like, you know," she told him. "Wanting to change how Thedas views your people, and wanting to change how your people do things, and the struggle to strike a balance between defending your people and pushing for reform. It's not easy, what we do in the Inquisition, even without that always looming over us."
"You've already talked me into signing that contract," Dorian pointed out.
"You know that's not why I'm telling you this. And I know that there's a point at which you start feeling guilty. You aren't with your people, aren't helping your people through a difficult time, instead you're sitting on a throne half the continent away. Or you're thinking about your people when you should be paying attention to Josephine's etiquette lessons. So you try not to enjoy yourself too much- you can't enjoy yourself too much- because awful things are happening, and even when they're beyond your control you have done so much that it sounds like a lie to acknowledge it."
Bereft of a better response, Dorian nodded.
"It's a short leap from there to self-flagellation, and that's when things become counterproductive. You were very ill, Dorian, and you wouldn't have been so ill if you'd been taking care of yourself, or let one of us help you. Even if there were no sentiment involved, even if there weren't a lot of people here in Skyhold who care for you, you have to take care of yourself, because we depend on you. The work you do here is too valuable for the world to lose you like this."
"I-" Dorian began, and then shut his mouth. The Inquisitor rarely shared information that personal- not with him, at least, though he had his suspicions about Solas- and he was touched by it. And even if what she was saying about him- about his motivations- wasn't the whole of it, he appreciated the care behind the words. "Thank you. And, as I've said, I've already signed the contract, so there is no chance that I'll be doing anything less than spoiling myself."
"Good," Lavellan reached behind her, and fished out an envelope from her desk. "Here. This is all the banking details. Varric did a thing, and now you have savings and a line of credit with the Merchant's Guild."
"A thing?" He repeated incredulously.
"Yes, a thing," Lavellan said. "We start talking economics and my brain just pbbbbbbbbbts."
"Pbbbbbbbts," Dorian tried to parrot back to her, and failing because he was also trying not to laugh.
"Yes, it's the ancient elven word for 'please take care of yourself, you had us all very scared'."
"Well, that's very concise of your ancestors," Dorian said, tucking the envelope away.
"Go on, get out of here," Lavellan said, waving him out of the room.
She didn't need to tell him twice. "Don't mind if I do," he said, and left.