Vivienne would not have come to Arethin at all, except that Dorian was worried for her.
“She won't listen to me,” he insisted. “She's making herself sick, fretting over Bastien, but she won't listen to anything I have to say on the subject.”
“Why not?” Arethin asked. “You're friends, are you not?'
“Yes, of course,” Dorian waved a hand. “But she...” he sighed. “She believes I am...over-sentimental. I believe she is too harsh. She will listen to you in this matter.”
So, on Dorian's insistence, Arethin went to see her.
“Dorian tells me that something is wrong,” she said.
Vivienne gave a tiny laugh. “Dorian,” her smile was fond. “He would never admit to it, but he fusses like a hen.”
“Is he right to do so?”
Vivienne was quiet for a long moment. “A personal matter,” she said. “But...”
“But?”
“You recall Bastien, the noble who gave my people shelter?”
“Of course.”
“He is...ill.”
“Oh,” Arethin blinked. “I'm sorry. Is it serious?”
Vivienne nodded, her expression forlorn. “Very ill, I'm afraid,” she said.
“Is there anything we can do?”
“I am trying to make a potion to heal him, but it requires the heart of a snowy wyvern.”
“There aren't many of those around,” Arethin said with a grimace.
“I know. I sent a group of hunters to the Exalted Plains to find one I knew was there, but they failed in their quest and were killed.”
“We do have some people in the Plains,” Arethin reminded her.
“I know. I simply do not wish to allocate Alliance or Dalish resources to my own personal needs.”
“I'm sure I can manage something,” Arethin said. “Bastien gave your people shelter. Without him, who knows what the Venatori would have done?”
Vivienne stared at her, then gave her a genuine smile. “It would be a great favor to me, my dear,” she said. “But you needn't go out of your way.”
The snowy wyvern resided in one of the areas of the Plains that most people tended to avoid. A strange ruin was located there, positively ancient Elvhenan architecture noted to be haunted. On top of the ghosts and Veil tears, it was flooded and filled with all sorts of dangerous creatures, the wyverns being just one kind.
The wyverns needed to be removed for any archaeological work to be done anyway, so really, Vivienne's request was not such a difficult one. Arethin sent several hunters that way, and they returned with the correct wyvern heart. When they returned to Skyhold, Arethin went to deliver the box.
Vivienne took it, her expression almost reverential. “My dear, you are a treasure,” she said. “I will begin work on the potion immediately.”
It was several days before Vivienne was finished.
“I must see Bastien,” she informed Arethin when it was done. “Dorian will come with me. We shall not be gone for long.”
“I will come with you,” Arethin said, considering both Vivienne and Dorian's words on the subject. “Someone must see you through the eluvian, after all.”
Vivienne gave a light sigh.
“I suppose you are right,” she said.
It took a bit of time to get to the estate, but not overmuch. Upon seeing Vivienne and Dorian, the residents let them in immediately.
Bastien was sequestered in his bedroom. At the door, a healer came to greet them.
“Madame, he is not well,” the healer murmured in Vivienne's ear.
“I know that,” Vivienne said, her voice chilly. “Why do you think I am here?”
The healer sighed and stood back. “Very well,” she said. “Perhaps it will do him good to see you.”
Dorian and Arethin followed Vivienne into the room.
Vivienne went to Bastien's side. “My love?” Vivienne murmured, stroking Bastien's sweaty forehead. “I am here.”
Bastien gave no sign that he had heard.
Vivienne held the cup to Bastien's lips, poured the liquid down his throat. After a moment or two, he opened his eyes.
“It will be alright, my love,” Bastien breathed.
Then he closed his eyes again, and was still.
“Bastien?” Vivienne cradled his head in her hands. “Bastien?”
The healer came back, coming to Bastien's side. She glanced at Vivienne and shook her head.
Vivienne stepped back, for a moment looking lost.
“I'm sorry, Vivienne,” Dorian put a hand on her shoulder.
Vivienne closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “Come,” she said. “Let us leave. There's nothing here anymore.”
“Of course,” Dorian said.
Vivienne was uncommonly forlorn following Bastien's death, retreating to her quarters and not coming out for several days. She made arrangements for his funeral, but other than that, had little interaction with anyone except for Dorian.
Arethin was not very close to her, so only felt the need to be generally sympathetic. Dorian was extremely worried, however, doing his best not to show it, but constantly going to check up on her.
“Honestly, darling,” Vivienne sighed after around the fifth time in as many days Dorian had come to hover about her. “One would think you expected me to vanish.”
“Why, Madame, if you vanished, you'd leave me all the work,” Dorian admonished. “I can't possibly let it happen.”
“Leave you with the work? You'd make a disaster of things. I couldn't possibly leave you to your own devices.”
Dorian smiled. “Pleased to hear it.”
Things were not quite settled with Dorian and Vivienne, however, even after that. The trip to Adamant had left Dorian with more questions that were difficult to answer, and even Vivienne and Cadash could not really help, so Dorian went to Arethin.
“Lavellan,”
“Dorian.”
“I keep—I have questions,” he said all in a rush. “Questions that the nightmare demon brought up, that I can't put aside.”
“Questions?” she raised her eyebrow. “What must be asked of me, that you cannot ask of another?”
“I'm...not very knowledgeable about southern elves,” Dorian said, glancing at the floor.
“Mm.” Arethin tilted her head back, uncertain what that had to do with anything, although she had a guess. “Most elves in the Imperium are slaves, are they not?”
“The majority. There are Liberati elves—freed elves, but for the most part...” Dorian trailed off. “I tell myself it could be worse. A slave at least is kept in shelter, of a sort.”
Arethin scowled. “I hope there's a 'but' at the end of that sentence.”
“'It could be worse' isn't a very good justification, I know.”
“It's not any kind of justification.”
Dorian sighed, and braced his hands on one of the bookshelves. “Thinking of my homeland is like trying to walk through hip-deep mud,” he said. “There are so many terrible things I—it's difficult to sort them all out. Especially if you've lived with them and aren't even sure what counts as terrible.”
Ah. Arethin understood, now.
“The demon mentioned that you had a fear of...decay. Temptation.” she said. “Is this a part of that?”
“Oh, one part,” Dorian sneered. “There are many parts to Tevinter.” he shook his head. “There must be something worth salvaging, but I hardly know where to begin.”
“Well, this question is thus an easy one. Slavery is wrong.” she folded her arms and she watched him, curious as to his reaction.
“I always thought that,” Dorian said. “I do think that. But my mind gets caught up in—there are degrees of slavery, I've found. Orlesians have their indentured servants, the Circles have—had—their Tranquil, the Liberati are trapped by poverty if not bound by a master...how do you even identify slavery if you can't see who holds the leash?”
Arethin tilted her head to the side.
Dorian began to pace. “If a man is freed from slavery to become a Liberati, you would think that would be a good thing. But what if that man is then mired in poverty, unable to find work or shelter for any number of reasons, whereas while in slavery he had both of those things, if not his freedom? Is that right? Whose fault is that? Which is better, to be free to starve and die, or to be able to live but not be free?”
“You've given this a great deal of thought,” Arethin said.
“I have to,” Dorian said. “When so many things you've been taught all your life are very clearly the wrong thing, it becomes necessary to think yourself out of the place they trapped you in.”
“Here's a simple answer for you,” Arethin told him. “Slavery is wrong. Poverty is wrong. Neither states are good.”
“That is obvious,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“But,” Arethin continued. “Slavery assumes that people are things, to be used and discarded. It crushes someone more thoroughly than being poor ever could. Slavery seeks to trap every last part of someone—their mind, their soul, their body. Everything. That is what makes it so terrible. There's your answer.” she paused. “And if it looks like slavery, it probably is slavery,” she added. “They're just calling it a different name.”
He looked at her, a curious expression in his face.
“I honestly hadn't thought you'd answer in such detail,” he said.
“Then why ask the question?”
“You seemed the best one to ask--well, the best one to ask who wouldn't object to the question. You have my thanks.”
She gave him a tiny smile. “You are welcome.”