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Chapter Text

Dorian had heard whispers during his travels, of course. One could hardly go five paces in the Hinterlands without hearing the tales of the rising Herald, a heathen Dalish elf who walked through the Fade and had gone through the countryside, helping and killing and closing rifts left and right. Dorian still wasn’t quite sure if that was true—it was magic beyond sense if it was—but the peasants were both impressed and frightened by their new hero.

Dorian was too visibly foreign to get more than suspicious looks in most of the pubs he stopped in, but sometimes he would stand on the edge of a crowd and catch a story. The Herald was an elf, they said, quick and fierce and daring; he had two curved daggers that shone like starlight and crackled with lightning; his hair was as red as blood, his eyes green as emeralds; he’d fought ten thousand demons and won; he was blessed by Andraste herself to be her champion in the end times, destined to save them all from ruin—the usual nonsense. It was difficult to parse fact from fiction, but if half the things the people whispered were true, Dorian was a little impressed.

Still, as Dorian waited in the Redcliffe chantry, he paced, anxious and wary. He’d gotten word that the Herald and his little party had arrived and were meeting with Alexius. Felix should be sending them his way any minute. Dorian had his speech all lined up and ready to go, but if the Herald was an elf he might hear ‘Tevinter’ and refuse to listen to anything else Dorian had to say. It was really most vexing, to be constantly written off because of one’s homeland. Dorian couldn’t blame the people here for it, of course, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating. And if the Herald refused to listen to him, they were all doomed.

Dorian startled as green light filled the chantry.  Oh Maker, not— he thought, but yes, it was a rift, the first he’d gotten close to since he entered this god-forsaken land. Dorian readied himself, staff in one hand. He’d passed by the outskirts of enough of them to know he’d be drowning in demons until the thing was closed.

The doors opened as the first demons began to pour out. Dorian spared a look and a quip for the group gathered—Maker, was that a Qunari?—but his attention was too diverted by the demons to get a proper look. Unknown magic flowed around him, swords were flashing, and he could hear orders being shouted by someone with a hoarse, strong voice. He focused on his own casting and, one by one, the demons were vanquished.

As the last disappeared, Dorian whirled on the voice he’d been half-listening to and watched, rapt, as the elf who’d been shouting orders lifted his hand. A beam of green light erupted from it, burning brighter and brighter until it stopped in an abrupt snap of crackling energy that made all the hairs on the back of Dorian’s neck stand up. The elf shook his hand, snarling down at it.

“Bloody thing,” he muttered, then looked over at Dorian. His eyes weren’t quite as green as emeralds, but it was a close thing—they were startlingly bright, huge and tipped up at the corners like a cat’s. “And who the hell are you?”

Dorian bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t laugh. Not the best first impression to make.

“That’s fascinating,” he said instead, gesturing to the elf’s hand. “How do you do it?” When the elf shrugged, rolling his eyes, Dorian allowed himself to crow. “You don’t even know, do you?”

He froze as one of the knives in the elf’s hand was suddenly pointing at his throat. He summoned the last of his magic, but it was slow to come after all the fighting. The blade pressed deep into the hollow of his throat and Dorian didn’t dare swallow.

The elf frowned at him, examining him closely. Dorian stared back, taking in the cat-like eyes, the sharp face, the deep scar at the corner of his mouth that pulled it up into a permanent smirk. His thick auburn hair was pulled back a ponytail, shaved to a fine red fuzz underneath. A pretty picture, Dorian admitted privately. If they had met in a tavern, Dorian might have tried to make a night with him. But he had to be the Herald, and so Dorian forced down any spark of libido and met his hard green gaze head-on.

“I was supposed to meet Felix,” the Herald said, less question and more demand.

“No,” Dorian said, talking softly so as to not disturb the weapon on him. “You were supposed to meet me. Felix got delayed, but he’ll be along shortly.”

“And why,” the Herald said, though he finally lowered his knife, “are we meeting you?”

Dorian explained the situation as quickly as he could, using small words. The Herald didn’t have any problem following, though he did curse when Dorian brought up the time magic. He and the Seeker—Cassandra Pentaghast, unless Dorian was gravely mistaken—exchanged looks.

“Still think we should leave the mages to their fate, seeker?” the Herald asked in a syrupy-sweet tone.

Pentaghast glowered. “I never thought we should,” she said. “Only that this bed is of their own making. Cullen will not be pleased.”

“Cullen can go hang,” the Herald muttered. “All right, pretty,” he said, turning back to Dorian. Dorian’s eyebrows rose and he thought he heard the great, hulking Qunari snort. “Say I believe this whole crock of shit you’re throwing at the wall. What can we do about it?”

“Alexius is the key,” Dorian said, deciding to ignore the Herald’s suspicious tone. “Stopping him is the priority.”

“I must insist we return to Haven with this news,” Pentaghast said. “Alexius will not let us into the castle so easily, not after your little display, Lavellan.”

“Display?” Dorian asked.

The Herald—Lavellan—made a show of examining his drawn knives. “He may have made a remark about my elvish heritage. One of my knives may have come perilously close to cutting off an important piece of his body. We’ll never know.”

Dorian snorted before he could stop himself and froze, appalled. But the Herald glanced at him and grinned. It shouldn’t have been attractive, not with that scar pulling at his lip, but it exposed a dimple in his other cheek and crinkled his bright eyes. Dorian found himself unaccountably tongue-tied for the first time since he was thirteen and tried seducing his magic tutor. How uncouth.

Luckily, Felix arrived and put a stop to anything Dorian might have said or done. He managed to get a hold of himself enough to leave on a dramatic one-liner and found a neat little hiding spot in the back of the chantry, listening in as the Herald’s group readied to depart. Best to get an idea of what they thought of him and if they were really going to try and help.

“You should be careful, boss,” the Qunari said, buckling his huge ax to his back. “It’s always the pretty ones you’ve got to look out for.”

The Herald snorted as he wiped his knives clean of demon gunk. Dorian swiped at his throat, but it was clean, thank the Maker. “Just because I want to ride him doesn’t mean I’m going to tell him all my secrets,” he said.

Dorian’s entire body seized up. The Qunari laughed. The other elf, the one who had watched quietly during their talk without speaking, lips pursed and face inscrutable, coughed into his hand.

“It would not be wise to be involved with him, Lavellan,” he said.

He widened his stance and leaned against his staff as if preparing for battle. Dorian didn’t understand until he glanced back at Lavellan, who stared at the elf with narrow, predatory eyes.

“Because he’s a ‘vint?” he asked in a soft voice. “You think I care about that shit, Solas?”

Solas was silent for a long moment. “He may not be trustworthy,” he said, finally.

Dorian had heard that before. Hell, even his own country he was looked at askance by certain parties. But he waited, a little curious about what the Herald would do. If they wanted to bring Alexius to his senses, they needed to work together. Trust wasn’t necessary, but it would be helpful not to be second-guessed at every turn, especially since he was the only one who really knew anything about Alexius’ magic.

Sure, sure, a little voice whispered in the back of his head. That’s definitely the reason you want to know if the pretty elf trusts you. Totally believable, Dorian.

Dorian told it to shut up.

“You know how many villagers have told me that about you, Solas?” Lavellan asked. Then he snorted. “Hell, how many thought that about me until they found out this thing in my hand is their one last hope? If it weren’t for that I’d still be in a prison cell, on trial for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Had the Herald been a prisoner? Dorian hadn’t known that.

“Lavellan—” Pentaghast tried, but the Herald snarled at her, a move so primal it almost made him look bestial. Dorian shivered.

“Don’t pretend, Cass,” he said. “You looked at me and all you saw were the tattoos, the scar, the ears.” His voice was bitter. "Dalish. Does anything matter next to that?”

“I have already admitted my haste, Herald,” Pentaghast said, uncomfortable but staunch. “I judged you too quickly. It was a mistake.”

The Herald’s rage drained out of him like water, leaving something tired behind.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, rubbing roughly at his nose. “The point is, half of my inner circle shouldn’t be trusted, Solas. I’m hardly going to stop this ‘vint from being helpful just because he comes from a country of snakes.” He grinned. “Besides, he’s nice to look at, isn’t he?”

“I am sure I would not know,” Solas said stiffly.

The Herald reached over and hooked an arm over Solas’ shoulders, reeling him in as he started to make his way out of the Chantry.

“Oh, Solas!” he crooned. “You need to loosen up! If you’re sure men aren’t your style, I’m sure there’s a pretty girl or two in Haven who’d be willing to overlook the bald thing.”

“The bald thing?”

“You’re lucky you’ve got a sexy body,” Lavellan told him, grinning and mischievous. “Plus some people find that magic thing hot.”

“Like you, boss?” the Qunari asked, dry, following behind them with the Seeker.

Dorian was very invested in Lavellan’s answer, but the door shut behind them before he could hear it. He stepped out of his hiding place, arms folded over his chest. No, that hadn’t been what he’d expected. Not at all.

Naturally, he followed them.

Haven wasn’t exactly a secret, but Dorian had never traveled on his own before and his sense of direction wasn’t that great in Feraldan, where everything was covered in trees and mud. Following the Herald’s party was just easier and he was worried that if he wasn’t there to intervene, the Herald might actually leave Redcliffe to its fate.

He spent the day a few hours behind them. They were moving quickly and quietly, but they stopped often throughout the Hinterlands, usually as the Herald was pulled off to assist in one situation or another. Dorian was surprised by how often he put up with it. He watched from a distance as the Herald negotiated and cajoled and fetched. He even spent part of his afternoon hunting down a stray druffalo, coaxing it back to its field under Dorian’s disbelieving eye. What kind of divine prophet was he?

When they settled for the night in a clearing, shaking out packs and readying food, Dorian picked a spot nearby that he felt offered sufficient camouflage. He ate some of the dried meat from his pack and unrolled his own sad sleeping sack. He was just about to settle in when he felt the poke of a knife against his lower back, perfectly positioned to slide through his ribs and stab his kidney. He stilled.

“You’re following us,” Lavellan said. “Why?”

Dorian was no master tracker, but he wasn’t a rank amateur anymore. How had the Herald spotted him? He was sure he’d been careful!

“What can I say?” Dorian said, affecting nonchalance even as he began to sweat. “I’ve been made pretty promises before, Herald. If you couldn’t follow through, I figured I’d nag until someone came back with me to Redcliffe. It’s a lost art form, nagging.”

The knife disappeared as suddenly as it appeared. In its absence, Dorian whirled, hands crackling with fire. The Herald dodged with annoying ease, sliding his dagger back into his place on his shoulder.

“I guess I can’t blame you for wanting assurance,” he said and Dorian’s flames flickered out. “Next time just tell me. All this sneaking around is just stupid.”

Dorian blinked. “You’re really fine with me tagging along?”

The Herald rolled his eyes. “You said it yourself, you’re the only one who knows anything about these fools. Am I a newborn baby, to kick good information out the front door? Of course I want you to come along, you great sodding idiot, and I’ll want you to come along when we storm Redcliffe too.”

When not if. “You’ve decided to help, then?”

Lavellan’s face went abruptly icy. Dorian froze, uncertain, but he realized that anger wasn’t meant for him. For the first time, he felt a little sorry for Alexius.

“I decided to help when I found out he was kicking out Tranquil,” the Herald said. “You just made it easier to make my case to the others by bringing up the time magic shit. They may not care about mages but they care if you’re developing weapons like that.” He snorted.

“Why do you care about mages?” Dorian asked, a little curious.

He decided not to mention his own discomfort around the Tranquil. It was hard to look at them, to listen to them talk. He wasn’t surprised Alexius had started kicking them out. He was a little surprised that Lavellan cared enough about them to go against Alexius on their behalf. From what he’d observed so far in Fereldan, the Tranquil were regarded as nuisances at best and easy targets at worst.

“Why shouldn’t I?” the Herald asked. “If anything, we’re brothers in arms. Templars are just as likely to kill an elf as they are a mage. We’re just as bound by the rules of the shems as the mages are by the templars; we just have a bigger cage to roam around in. What is as despised, as suspiciously regarded, as outcast as a mage? An elf.”

“And yet you’re willing to work with me,” Dorian said, beginning to gather his belongings. He had very little; the sleeping sack, some provisions, all enough to fit in one solid pack.

Lavellan cast him a glance. His eyes really were a startling shade of green, almost the exact shade of the Fade rifts and the strange mark on his hand.

“You’re upper-crust ‘vint all right,” he said. “Tell me, how many elvhen slaves does your family have?”

Well. Dorian wasn’t about to be judged like that, even if it was coming from the supposed Herald of Andraste.

“Not as many as some,” he said, adopting his most dismissive attitude, the one he knew drove his father and his enemies mad. “Five, six. They come and go.”

“And you’re all right with that?”

“We don’t mistreat them.”

The Herald laughed, but there was no joy in it. “Ah. That’s what the shems tell themselves when they lock us in alienages, I guess.”

“And what would you know of it?” Dorian asked, bristling. “You’re Dalish, aren’t you? Don’t you wander about, free as you please?”

“Free?” the Herald scoffed. “We play-pretend at freedom we don’t have, ‘vint. My best friend was killed by a templar when we were young because he thought she had magic. Another was shot by shem poachers for sport. A clan just south of mine was slaughtered because there were rumors they were practicing blood magic. My younger brother had a finger cut off because a shem boy accused him of stealing and nobody thought to question it—what else does an elf do but steal and lie? My sister—” he cut off with a snarl, waving a hand. “We are animals to them, nothing better than savages to be corralled or controlled. Freedom? No elf has known that word for hundreds of years.”

Dorian clutched his belongings. He had arguments, good ones even—elves may be slaves in Tevinter, but at least they wouldn’t go starving and hungry like they did in Fereldan, at least there were places they could be treated with respect and dignity. But he couldn’t force them out under the Herald’s wintry gaze. The stories he’d heard of the wild elves of the South always made them sound idyllic. The Herald painted a very different picture and it was difficult to reconcile with what Dorian had grown up knowing.

The Herald took a step forward. Up close, his scar was deeper than Dorian had originally thought. The fresh wound, he suspected, had cut Lavellan's face to the bone.

“Give someone a roof and some food and they’ll be grateful,” the Herald said. “But if you think your slaves are really any better off than those sad fools in the alienages, you’re deluding yourself. Any dog will lick a hand that feeds it. It doesn’t make the poor fool any less collared.”

For a long moment, they stared at each other. Dorian wasn’t quite sure what he was waiting for, why he felt the need to hold his breath. The Herald had already held a knife to him twice and let him go, so he didn’t think he was going to get attacked. But there was something dangerous in the Herald’s eyes, something predatory that made Dorian instinctively freeze. This elf wasn’t like the ones he’d known back home, who all turned tame over time, by force or choice. No, this elf wasn’t like them at all.

Lavellan was a wild thing.

“Come,” the Herald said at last, relaxing a little. “You might as well sleep with us if you’re going to be following us. Our fire’s better too.”

He turned on his heel and stomped away. Dorian followed quickly, his mind still spinning.

Dorian could hear the yelling down the hall. A flustered guard tried to stop him as he made his way to the War Room, but he ignored the poor fool’s protests. The Herald had been holed up in there with his so-called advisors for over an hour and Dorian was done pacing outside waiting for an answer.

“—just abandon them to their fate, Cullen!”

“I’m not saying we should! But you have to recognize that we simply don’t have the manpower to take a castle like Redcliffe’s. The mages’ fate is out of our hands!”

“I won’t fucking leave them!”

“Lavellan—”

Dorian burst into the room. All of them turned to stare at him as the guard stammered apologies over his shoulder. Lavellan’s skin was pale enough that his flush was highly visible and his eyes glittered. When he was angry, the scar on his lip pulled his mouth into a snarl. Dorian only recognized Pentaghast out of the rest of the group, but he could figure out the others&—Cullen, the ex-templar commander, Josephine the Antivan ambassador, and Leliana the shadowy spy-master. Leliana was the only one who didn’t look surprised to see him.

“Who is this?” Cullen demanded.

Under normal circumstances, Dorian would be happy to give him a leer; he was exactly the kind of man Dorian went after. But pleasure would have to wait, unfortunately. He had a goal to reach.

“Dorian of house Pavus recently arrived from Minrathous,” he said and watched with grim satisfaction as Cullen tensed. “I was under the impression that the Inquisition was looking to find allies to fix that great, gaping hole in the sky. Conveniently, you have an army of mages willing to take the plunge. And yet you’re willing to abandon them now that they need your assistance in return?” He clicked his tongue. “Not very sporting.”

Cullen flushed. “Of course we want to assist,” he said stiffly. “It’s simply not possible. The resources alone would decimate us.”

“Not to mention we are considered an Orlesian force,” Josephine cut in, tapping her quill against her writing desk. “If we’re seen attacking a Fereldan stronghold, especially one as renowned as Redcliffe, it could be seen as an act of warfare! At a time like this, when Orlais is teetering on civil war? It cannot be done.”

Lavellan bared his teeth, hands curling into fists. “I won’t leave them,” he said. “I don’t need your permission to go anywhere. Alexius invited me! All I have to do is kill the bastard and we’re done, right?”

Josephine sighed and Cullen put a hand over his face. Only Leliana looked amused, sequestered in a corner with her arms crossed over her chest.

“It is more complicated than that, Herald,” Josephine said, with such honest despair that Dorian figured she’d tried and failed to explain diplomacy to Lavellan before. “You cannot simply assassinate a foreign dignitary, even one who has…” She shot a glance at Dorian, "overstepped his bounds as Alexius has.”

“Gone fucking mad, you mean,” Lavellan said. Josephine glanced at Dorian again, more panicked, but Dorian agreed too much to be offended. Alexius had gone mad. “Listen, I don’t think you’re hearing me: I don’t care if you say no. I’m going.”

“And if you die?” Cullen asked, slamming his hands down on the solid oak table that separated them, jostling the tiny golden pins on the stretched out on their map. “Alexius is hardly unprotected. He could kill you. Without you, this entire venture has been for nothing. We’ll have no way to close the Rift, no way to combat the tears in the Fade, and no hope! You’re willing to risk all that for—”

Silence. Lavellan’s smile was cruel, a weapon pointed directly at Cullen’s throat.

“For what?” he asked in a voice as sweet as flossed candy. “For a few mages, Commander?” He clicked his tongue as Dorian had. “Once a templar, always a templar?”

Cullen’s face went so abruptly furious that Dorian almost wondered if he really would attack Lavellan. But he reigned himself in; the fury disappeared under a stone mask. Dorian had heard rumors of Kirkwall. It was impossible not to, even in Tevinter. But he wondered what Cullen had actually gone through, that he could pull something like that up so quickly. Perhaps, in this case, the stories were actually tamer than the reality.

“I want them safe as much as you do, Kai,” Cullen said quietly. “But you can’t just storm in and hope for the best. You have to remember that you’re not acting on your own anymore.”

“Like it or not, you are the face of this movement,” Josephine said. “The driving force behind it. Without you, we are lost.”

Lavellan snarled, pacing around in a tight circle like a wild animal caged. “You were the ones who dragged me into this,” he said, pointing an accusing finger. “You pointed me at the rifts and said go! I went along with it because I didn’t want to be yanked away in chains and sentenced to death! I didn’t ask for this!”

“And yet, it has fallen to you.”

Dorian startled and Lavellan stilled, head swinging around. He’d forgotten Pentaghast was in the room, she’d been so quiet. She moved from her corner to Lavellan’s other shoulder, standing side-by-side with him.

“Regardless, the Herald is right,” she said to the others, face a forbidding mask. “We cannot leave the mages as they are. We must find a way to help them.”

Dorian was pressed close enough to Lavellan that he felt it when he relaxed a little. He looked over but Lavellan’s face revealed nothing other than his frustration.

“Cassandra—” Cullen tried, clearly out of patience.

“I’m not asking for you to storm any fucking strongholds!” Lavellan cut in. “But there must be another way. An ally we can use, a distraction. A convenient fucking secret passage!”

A long silence. Then, Leliana smiled and stepped forward.

“Well,” she said. “If we’re talking convenient secret passages…”

"Well, that went swimmingly, don’t you agree?” Dorian asked as they left the Chantry.

Cullen had been more amiable once they had a plan with a modicum of success, though he had still muttered about going to negotiate with the templars instead. Josephine had been happier too, once they found a plan that didn’t involve storming a respected Fereldan castle with the full might of their army. However, despite his success, Lavellan was still agitated. Dorian had once seen a great cat in Minrathous, its fur the color of fire. It had been in a cage on display for passers-by and it had paced in tight, furious circles, tail whipping, ears flat against its head. Lavellan’s restlessness was the same, the furious movement of a wild animal entrapped. Dorian found to his own surprise that he didn’t like it.

“You really don’t want to be here,” Dorian said before he realized what he was doing. He bit his tongue. Until they fulfilled their goal, Lavellan was his ally, and a tentative one at that—he could hardly afford to alienate the man.

Lavellan laughed. It was a harsh sound, barely recognizable.

“I know the stories they spread down in the Hinterlands,” he said. “How I came to my divine duty with open arms, joyful and devout. Fucking idiots. They put me in chains. Cassandra put a sword to my throat. Help the Inquisition or let the Chantry have me as their scapegoat. It wasn’t much of a choice.

Dorian had a hard time believing someone as upright as Cassandra Pentaghast would go along with that. But the explosion at the conclave had shaken free a whole country’s worth of values.

“You seem free enough,” he said, gesturing to the open gate of Haven right in front of them. “If you really hate it that much, can’t you leave?”

“And go where?” Lavellan demanded. “Leliana would find me. And even if she didn’t, I couldn’t go back to my clan, not after becoming—” He said something in hoarse elvhen.

Dorian blinked. The elves in Tevinter had never spoken their own language in his hearing. It was a strange tongue, flexible and soft-edged.

“What?” Dorian asked.

Lavellan snorted. “I don’t know how to translate it,” he said, shrugging irritably.

“Oath-breaker.”

They both turned. The elf apostate, the one Dorian had met in the Chantry, stared back at them. He had a curiously still face. Dorian resisted the urge to start poking at him until it cracked.

“That is the most direct translation,” Solas said. To Lavellan, he added, “I’m surprised your knowledge of the People’s language runs so deep. It is admirable.” He paused. “Your accent is a little off, though.”

“I think the ancestors will forgive me,” Lavellan said. Something about Solas’ presence helped; he relaxed a little as they walked through Haven together. “I gave them my word I would help them,” he told Dorian. “Forced or not, no self-respecting elf goes back on that. I won’t become trash who breaks promises.”

Dorian was beginning to see why Lavellan, who was coarse and blunt and entirely unlikeable, commanded a burgeoning army, why the soldiers in Haven bowed their heads as he marched past. Such honor in someone so volatile was rare—Dorian was intrigued by the contradiction. He glanced at Solas, who seemed unmoved.

“Regardless, I appreciate all you’re doing to help the mages,” Dorian said. A little sucking up couldn’t hurt, though Lavellan tossed him a look that said he knew what Dorian was up to. “I’ll be coming with you, of course, but our party to Redcliffe Castle must be small.”

“We want intimidation and manpower,” Lavellan said thoughtfully. “And if Alexius is part of a cult, he might have some idea of what went on at the Temple." He made a low, considering sound, then nodded. "Solas and Bull, then.”

“Seeker Pentaghast won’t like it,” Solas said, without any indication of his own feelings on being assigned to the group.

“She can talk when she gets several feet taller and grows horns,” Lavellan said, tossing his head. “No one intimidates like Bull and he’ll keep a sharp eye.” He glanced at Solas and his eyes crinkled up just the slightest at the corners. It was distracting and Dorian didn't like it. Not one bit. “Unless you’d prefer to stay back, Solas? I could always bring Vivienne, I suppose…”

Solas straightened, the most emotional Dorian had ever seen him. “No need,” he said rapidly. “I would be delighted to come with and offer my assistance, Herald.”

Lavellan laughed. “She isn’t that bad, you know,” he said. “A little stuck-up, but she means well. And she’s fucking insane out in the field, I didn’t even know you could do half the shit she does with lightning.”

“I take it this is another one of your allies?” Dorian asked.

“Madame de Fer,” Lavellan said. “She’s the First Enchanter of the Orlesian mages. I picked her up when we went to Val Royeaux a while back, though I really think it was more her that did the picking up.”

“You’ve collected quite a menagerie,” Dorian observed. They turned past the apothecary, back toward the chantry, having circled the entire town. Herald was indeed a small place and Dorian wondered how they'd accommodate what was sure to be extraordinary growth. “Varric Tethras and that qunari fellow, and I assume that strange elvhen girl in the tavern is yours as well. You taking all us outcasts and beggars under your holy wing, Herald?”

Lavellan snorted. “I believe in using every resource available to me,” he said. “I may be stuck here, but we’re going to stop the apocalypse my way and my way means taking any hand that's offered.” A courier came running up and Lavellan frowned, tracking him closely. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to be nosy for a bit.”

Dorian snorted, watching as he jogged off after the man. When he turned, he found to his alarm that Solas was watching him. Under pressure, Dorian’s first instinct was to peacock—he adopted his most charming smile and fluttered his fingers.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked. “That atrocious outfit, perchance? Lonely herdsman living like a hermit in the woods isn’t exactly chic, you know.”

Solas didn’t look even remotely annoyed. “The magister we hunt is a friend of yours.”

Dorian didn’t straighten from his relaxed posture. “He was for many years. What of it?”

“It is unlikely this confrontation will end without bloodshed.”

“Well, no,” Dorian said. “That would rather defeat the purpose of a dramatic meeting in the castle, wouldn’t it?” Solas’ brow crinkled ever so slightly. “Alexius is no longer the man I knew and respected,” he said since he would clearly have to spell it out for the elf. “That man would never abuse his power like this. Whoever Alexius has become, I don’t know him and I don’t care for him. I don't care for violence, but if it's the only language Alexius will speak now, so be it.”

“Hm,” Solas said.

Dorian had no idea where the Herald found these people. Between Sera’s attempt to shove a pie in his face the moment he showed it in the tavern and the Bull’s long stares he was beginning to think a prerequisite for joining the Herald’s inner circle was being stark raving mad.

“I should go pack,” Dorian said when it was clear Solas had nothing else to offer the conversation. “Difficult to decide what to wear to something like this. It’ll take me ages to figure out which robe says ‘you used to be my beloved mentor but now you’ve gone mad and power hungry so I’ve decided to take up arms against you.’ It’s a lot for one outfit to say, you understand.”

“Something red, perhaps,” Solas offered and Dorian almost tripped over his own feet.

When he looked back the blasted elf was smirking.

They set out the next day, a small force in tow. Lavellan was dressed in the dark, comfortable leathers he’d been wearing when Dorian had met him. They were a different style than what Dorian was familiar with—a thick ruff around the collar, some sort of silver-blue metal protecting the legs and arms, tough leather across the chest. Definitely not standard Fereldan fare, which meant that they must be customary for the Dalish. Only Lavellan’s feet remained bare.

“How can you be barefoot in weather like this?” Dorian asked as they rode through the Hinterlands.

Lavellan flashed him an amused smile from his red elk. The beast was majestic, but its bleat whenever Lavellan dug his heels in to get greater speed made Dorian's ears throb.

“I’ve only worn shoes by force," Lavellan explained. At his side, on a great charger, Bull snorted. "My Keeper wanted me to be more civilized, but I trained as a Ranger. You ever try sneaking up on a bear wearing those big clompy boots?” He gestured disdainfully at Dorian's footwear. 

“But the cold…?”

Lavellan shrugged. “I don’t notice it.”

Dorian didn’t know how—the chill had settled into his bones and even though they were out of Haven and down in the considerably warmer lowlands, he still hadn’t quite shaken it off. He was dressed far warmer than the weather accorded. Yet Lavellan's indifference to the cold seemed the norm. Bull was continuing his trend of going shirtless and even Solas was dressed only in his light, ragged robes.

Lavellan didn’t stop as often this trip, taking the direct route to Redcliffe Village and the castle beyond. They replenished their supplies and let the horses rest in the camps leading up to it, Lavellan taking reports and giving orders. Dorian watched and thought that even though Lavellan might hate his role in the budding Inquisition, he was clearly quite good at it.

“Natural leader, that one,” Bull rumbled once as Dorian watched Lavellan point to places on a map where he’d found supplies abandoned by the rebel mages. “Fifty gold pieces says he gets some sort of title before this is over.”

Dorian glanced over at him. “Herald isn’t enough?”

Bull snorted. “It’s pretty," he acknowledged. "And useless. No, he’s gonna have some real power before this over, make no mistake. People sit up and listen when he talks. Poor kid doesn’t even realize.”

Dorian’s didn’t disagree. The Inquisition forces all saluted whenever Lavellan passed and seemed to regard even his most casual request as law. When Lavellan asked for some herbs to mix a few more potent potions before they made the final leg to the castle, Dorian watched, a little disbelieving, as no fewer than six soldiers silently battled for the right to retrieve them. Lavellan was clueless and Dorian didn’t know why that was endearing. Power should be used wisely, but it was somehow reassuring that Lavellan didn’t seem to know the weight his words held to the people around him.

The road to Redcliffe was almost peaceful. Lavellan told Dorian about the obstacles they'd faced their first trip there; the strange rifts and the bandits who were too well outfitted. Dorian was relieved that they had an easy time of it but also suspicious. Alexius knew they were coming and he'd be a fool if he didn't suspect Lavellan's intentions. 

Redcliffe was also quiet when they arrived, almost a ghost town. It was unnerving when the place had been full of life and chatter the last time Dorian had been there. Now, people were holed up in their houses—Dorian saw more than one curtain flutter as they made their way through the village.

“Wait,” Lavellan said as they approached the docks.

Dorian watched as he leaped down from his horse and stopped to talk with a red-headed teenager.

“Who’s that?” he asked the Bull.

Bull grunted. “Arl’s kid. Got possessed once and it made him all nutty. Boss talked to him last time we were here too. He’s got a soft spot for kids.”

Dorian nodded. The child seemed upset about something but Lavellan just patted him on the shoulder once before returning.

“There’s something I need to check out before we go,” he said. “That house there?” He pointed. “It was locked last time, but I brought my tools with me.”

Dorian cast a look at the road to the castle. “You really want us to stop so you can break into someone’s house?”

“It’s important,” Lavellan said, eyes narrowing. “Connor says there’s something in there.”

He strode off without another word. Bull cast Dorian an amused glance as they slide off their horses to follow but Solas seemed as concerned as Dorian was with their dwindling time. Still, none of them spoke up as Lavellan knelt in front of the door of the house, which looked as nondescript and normal as the houses around it. He made quick work of the lock, sliding his tools in one of the many pockets on the belt around his waist.

Inside, the place was deserted and, to Dorian’s discomfort, full of skulls. It was a mess, as if someone had left in a hurry, and there were sheaves of paper drifting around the floor, stirred by the breeze. Lavellan bent and picked a page up, scanning it. His face whitened and his eyes flashed.

“Boss?” the Bull asked, taking a step forward. He had to bend his head to fit through the door. “What is it?”

Lavellan snarled and shoved the paper at him. As the Bull looked down at it, he stomped to a corner of the room and just stood there, breathing. The Bull let out a low whistle.

“Well,” he said. “At least that explains those fucking creepy skull things.”

Solas made a sound and Bull handed the paper to him. His mouth tightened as he read which, from Dorian's understanding, meant there was something truly dreadful written there.

“What is it?” Dorian demanded, looking between them.

“Your friend’s been experimenting on the Tranquil,” Bull said as Solas silently handed Dorian the paper. “Using their skulls to find these… I dunno. Shards, I guess? All over Thedas.”

"The shards unlock something in the desert," Solas said. "We have made preliminary inquiries, but all we really know is that whatever they are, the Venatori want them." He cast a long glance at Lavellan's still form in the corner. "And they need the skulls to find them."

Dorian wrenched the desire to be sick back as he read the paper in his hand. He didn’t understand it. Alexius was many things, but cruel had never been one of them. Ruthless, absolutely, but only up to a point. Dorian thought about the Tranquil he’d met and swallowed. They were defenseless as lambs, utterly incapable of any sort of self-defense. They’d probably come to their deaths with open arms. To kill them, to experiment on them, to use their bodies in such a way...

“I won’t show mercy to him,” Lavellan said, whirling back on them with enough force that Dorian flinched. He still looked wild around the edges. “If you want that, you need to leave right now.”

Dorian looked at him. “I don’t want that,” he said.

Lavellan grinned, narrow and wicked, and Dorian spared a moment of pity for his old mentor, who would have zero idea of the storm that was coming his way.

“Good,” he said. “Let’s go fuck up this asshole, shall we?”

Dorian didn’t come in with the main party on Lavellan’s orders. (“He’ll know something is up if you’re with us,” he’d said as they parted ways. “Might as well keep the surprise while we can.”) But he snuck in ahead of the Inquisition soldiers, sticking to the shadows as Lavellan and his two companions approached Alexius’ throne. He had to admit, Lavellan had made a good decision in his choice of companions—Solas’ even face and the Bull’s… everything made Alexius’ little foot soldiers nervous.

“So, Alexius,” Lavellan said. “Shall we have a little chat about time magic?”

Bull grinned as Alexius swung to question Felix and Dorian stifled a laugh. Lavellan was something else. Most people might be a little nervous in the presence of an evil Tevinter magister who’d mastered time magic, but Lavellan looked as calm and bored as he had over last night’s meal.

“Felix, what have you done?” Alexius asked.

He was trying to keep face but Dorian knew him well enough to recognize the tremor underneath. Felix shook his head as Lavellan explained how his trap had failed.

"You walk in here with your stolen mark and yet you don't understand," Alexius snarled, leaping to his feet. "You think you're in control? You're nothing but a mistake."

Lavellan's back straightened. "If you know so much," he said, "enlighten me. Tell me what the mark is for." 

"It belongs to your betters," Alexius said, crossing his arms. "You wouldn't even begin to understand its purpose."

Felix leaped forward, but Dorian had heard enough. Alexius was at his coldest and most ruthless, a state Dorian had only seen him adopt once or twice in the ten years they'd known each other. He would not be reasoned with or talked down. Whatever it was tying to the Venatori, it was made of steel. The only way forward was to back him into a corner and take him under their control. 

"Do you know what you sound like?" Felix demanded.

Well. Dorian had always loved a dramatic entrance.

"He sounds exactly like the villainous cliche everyone expects us to be," he said, stepping out of the shadows. 

Alexius' surprise was gratifying, but his lack of fear was worrying. Dorian was egotistic, but he was very aware of his abilities: was he exceedingly competent and Alexius knew it well, having taught him much of what he knew. They were an evenly matched pair. Alexius, with the born paranoia of a Tevinter mage scrabbling for his place, should realize that he was outmatched. But he was all confidence and condescension. Something wasn't right.

"The Elder One has a power you would not believe," Alexius said. "He will raise the Imperium from its old ashes."

Lavellan rolled his eyes. "'Blah, blah,'" he said, mimicking Alexius' accent and deeper voice. Dorian heard Bull stifle a laugh. "'My cult is better than yours.' I've heard it all before, you realize."

"It's a chance for the Imperium to really one-up that whole 'starting the Blight' thing," Dorian drawled, reveling in Alexius' murderous glare. 

He caught Lavellan's eye as Alexius expounded on the virtues of the Elder One and they shared a speaking look. But Dorian could hear soft movement behind them and, though he didn't dare look, he realized Leliana's people must be in the process of dispatching Alexius' forces. So he kept Alexius talking—might as well kill two birds with one stone and get information out of him while they distracted him. He felt Lavellan tense when Alexius brought up saving Felix's life but Lavellan's face was smooth as still water when Dorian looked over. One day, Dorian would really have to ask how he did that—his face never really reflected any of his tension though Dorian could feel it because of how close they were standing. 

Then, the moment came. "Seize them, Venatori!" Alexius called out. "The Elder One demands this man's life!"

But there were only the dying gasps of Alexius' men. Alexius looked around, stunned, as Inquisition soldiers took the place of the fallen Venatori. Lavellan crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his chin back.

"Your men are dead, Alexius," he said. "This business of yours is over. Come with us now and we may yet be able to save your son."

Dorian blinked and Felix glanced over at them in surprise. Only Alexius remained unmoved, staring at his fallen soldiers with hatred shining in his eyes.

"You are a mistake," Alexius said, reaching into his robes. Dorian frowned. "You should never have existed!"

Dorian raised his staff just as Alexius revealed a green amulet crackling with time magic. Dorian shouted, trying to shove Lavellan out of the way, but the room went green with time magic and then everything was dark.

Chapter Text

“Dorian! Wake up you stupid shemlan!” A string of angry elvhen. “You better not be dead!”

 “‘M not,” Dorian said, coming to. His head felt heavy, as if he’d spent the night drinking. “Where are we?”

His eyes adjusted, but the room was so dark he could barely make out Lavellan. It stank of unwashed bodies and filthy water, and Dorian recognized it as the Redcliffe dungeons. He’d come up through here with the Inquisition soldiers. But how had they gotten there? The last thing he remembered was Alexius’ pendant and the sickly green magic—Dorian frowned. That had been time magic, he was sure of it. Could they possibly be…?

Noises echoed down the hall and a door swung open before either of them could speak, revealing two guards who swore to the Elder One and rushed forward to attack them. Dorian was weak-kneed and blurry, but he tried to get to his feet and help. He needn’t have bothered. Lavellan, already standing and alert, simply reached back for his knives and dove into a blur of motion, twirling and dancing, dodging and swiping until the two guards were dead on the floor. He barely even looked winded. Dorian knew gaping was unattractive, but he couldn’t help it. Aside from their hurried meeting, he’d never seen Lavellan in action up close and it was startling how deadly he was.

Once the guards were dispatched, Lavellan knelt in the grimy water to rummage through their belongings. It was difficult to see his face in the dim light, but Dorian got the impression that he was frowning.

“Where are we?” Lavellan asked. He shook his head and glanced up at Dorian. “No. When are we?”

Dorian raised his eyebrows. “Very astute,” he said, trying to shake the grimy water out of his armor. “Well. This is Redcliffe castle, so we know we can’t have gone that far forward. And did you notice? Those guards—”

“—swore by the blood of the Elder One,” Lavellan said. “Alexius’ great master.” He sighed and stood, a glint of metal in his hand. The keys for the dungeons, no dount. Excellent. “All right. Do you know how to get us back?”

Dorian wished he could say yes. “At best,” he said, “I have an idea.”

“I’m going to need more than an idea, Dorian.”

Dorian offered a smile he hoped was more charming than grim. “I’m working on it.”

They climbed up, past more and more horrific things. Red lyrium growing out of the walls, making Dorian’s head hurt, and even worse--prisoners who’d gone mad, raving to no one. With every step, Dorian was more certain that they needed to go back to their own time and fast and his mind filled with calculations as Lavellan sniffed around, opening locked doors and poking his nose in all sorts of dark and dusty places. He needed Alexius’ amulet, that he knew for certain. He’d spent years with Alexius developing the theories for time magic, so he was reasonably sure that he could twist whatever Alexius had done back. It was simply a matter of getting to him.

Aside from the stray prisoners, the castle was unnervingly deserted for a potential stronghold. They only ran up against a few guards, once again dispatched handily by Lavellan. Dorian barely had to fire off a spell.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Dorian asked, after watching Lavellan throw one of his knives into a guard’s throat, drawing it back with some sort of wire.

“Picked it up here and there,” Lavellan said with faux airiness, wiping the blade off with a rusty cloth from one of his various pockets.

Dorian took the hint.

Their way forward was cut off by a drawbridge, so they went sideways instead and found, to both of their horror, that the castle wasn’t as deserted as they’d thought.

“A hundred bottles of beer on the wall, a hundred bottles of beer…”

Lavellan straightened and began to run. Dorian hurried after him. He recognized the voice too.

Bull looked more like an animal than he ever had in the brief time Dorian had known him, red-eyed and haggard. He didn’t turn weepy or mystified by their sudden appearance, but instead demanded that they charge forward the moment he was set free from his cell. The sole concession he made to sentiment was a hard pat on Lavellan’s shoulder, nearly knocking him to the ground.

“Solas is here too,” Bull said as they made their way deeper into the bowels of the dungeons. “They rounded up most of us after Haven fell.”

Lavellan’s voice was tightly controlled. “Who’s left?”

Bull didn’t hesitate. “Leliana. The Seeker disappeared but Varric says she’s still alive. Sera made it out. Holed up in Denerim with what’s left of her little band.”

Lavellan was silent for a long moment and when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse. “And the others?”

“They decimated Haven after you two disappeared,” Bull said. “Anyone who made it out alive got picked off in the past year. Pretty sure the only reason we’re here is to be torture toys for the shitheads with magic.”

Dorian glanced at Lavellan and then wished he hadn’t. The leashed fury in his face was hard to look at, mixed in with what Dorian thought was something like guilt. Lavellan reigned it in quickly, face smoothing out though his eyes remained hard.

“We need to find Solas,” he said finally. “And anyone else, if they’re here.”

“Yeah,” Bull said. “We need the numbers.”

They found Solas in another room, also sequestered in by himself. Much like Bull, he looked feral and strange from the effects of the red lyrium, though he was more noticeably surprised by their sudden appearance. It was the most expression Dorian had ever seen him wear. When Lavellan unlocked his cell, Solas reached forward and pressed his fingers to Lavellan’s cheek. Lavellan closed his eyes.

“I’m glad you are alive, da'len,” Solas said. “Your death would have been an unimaginable waste.”

That was cold, Dorian thought, but Lavellan smiled and muttered something in elvhen that made Solas incline his head.

“Fiona is here,” he said as they readied for the next leg. “Nearby. She is dying.”

They hurried. Fiona was trapped far from the others, slowly growing into a wall of red lyrium. From her, they learned the details Bull and Solas had been reluctant to hand out—that it had been a year, that Lavellan’s death had snowballed the end of the world, that Alexius had Leliana somewhere above.

“Fiona,” Lavellan said after letting her talk. “Say the word and I set you free.”

Dorian almost asked, for he did not see anyway that Fiona could be released from her imprisonment, but then he realized that wasn’t what Lavellan was offering.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, but Lavellan’s cold stare surprised him into shutting up.

Dorian looked to the others for help—they couldn’t do this to Fiona, who had already been through so much!—but though Solas had a faint crease to his brow, he didn’t speak up. Bull only shook his head when Dorian met his eyes. When he looked back, Lavallan raised his eyebrows, inviting Dorian to say his piece, but Dorian wisely kept his mouth shut. After waiting a moment, Lavellan turned back to Fiona expectantly.

To Dorian’s surprise, Fiona smiled. “No, my child,” she said. “Death will come for me in its own time. There is no need to put blood on your hands.”

Lavellan laughed, bitter and dark. “The blood is there already, lady mage. What’s a little more?”

“The more there is, the deeper the stain sets,” Fiona said. “Go. Unravel the knot that demon has made of our world and I will be at peace.” Her eyes were very red. “Promise me something, Herald of Andraste. When you go back, do not punish the others for my mistakes.”

“Fiona,” Lavellan said, gentler than Dorian had ever heard him, “what makes you think I’ll even punish you?”

Fiona pressed her face to the wall and they left her like that. Dorian felt sick at the thought of it, but they had to press in, go deeper and deeper. Alexius was here, he had to be, but all they found as they wandered through the castle were guards and executioners torturing innocents. They were too late to save one prisoner, though Lavellan slew her captor so forcefully his head almost came off of his neck. Bull and Dorian exchanged glances, but they remained silent as Lavellan took her body to a corner and laid her out, following as he marched grimly into the deeper bowels of the castle. Empty rooms full of disturbing letters and torture implements, nobody in sight until—

“You will break!”

“I will die first.”

Lavellan kicked the door down. Over his shoulder, Dorian watched the guard turn with surprise, knife still in hand. Leliana looked at them all and Dorian recoiled at her wasted features. What had happened to her in the year they’d been missing?

“Or you will,” Leliana said and trapped the guard’s neck between her thighs, breaking it with a single twist of her body.

Lavellan hurried in and started to undo her manacles.

“You’re alive,” Leliana said and the soft rasp to her voice made Dorian want to turn away.

Lavellan finished freeing her and put a hand on her shoulder. “I never died in the first place,” he said. “Alexius fucked up.”

“That shall be his final mistake,” Leliana said. “Do you have weapons?”

Lavellan reached back and withdrew a knife, flipping it through his hands with the skill of a performer. A smile flashed over Leliana’s face, disappearing just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Good,” she said and moved past them to a chest in the back of the room. “The magister is in his chambers. We must hurry.”

Dorian had often thought Leliana unflappable, but this was stretching the limit. “You aren’t curious how we got here?” he asked incredulously.

“No.”

But Dorian couldn’t stop himself. “Alexius sent us into the future,” he babbled. She turned back to face them, great bow across her shoulder, and he forced himself not to flinch at her face. “This—his victory, his Elder One—it was never meant to happen.”

“We can stop him, Leliana,” Lavellan said. “We can make sure you never have to go through this, if we can go back to the present.”

“And mages always wonder why people fear them,” Leliana said. “No one should have this power.”

Dorian bristled. “It’s dangerous,” he said. “But nothing we did before the Breach—“

Leliana snarled. “Stop talking,” she said. “This is all pretend to you, some future you hope will never exist. But I suffered. The whole world suffered. Hundreds, thousands dead. It was real and no pretty words can change that.”

Dorian recoiled from the sheer hatred in her gaze. He had nothing to say to her, no words of comfort. It was true, what she said. This world wasn’t real to him, no matter horrific it was or how many friends he found here. There was a soft, reassuring touch to the small of his back and Dorian looked to see Lavellan regarding him, stone-faced but soft-eyed. When Dorian met his gaze, he shook his head slightly and turned to Leliana.

“No,” he said. “We can only change it if we go back.”

Leliana stared at him for a long moment, then inclined her head. “We must go,” she said and they went.

They climbed up and up until at last they came into the courtyard. Dorian couldn’t spare time to be relieved at fresh air, too horrified by the Breach above their heads.

“It’s… everywhere,” he said.

He glanced back at Lavellan, who looked grim. “We need to hurry,” he said.

There were rifts in the courtyard that spewed a dizzying amount of demons. Dorian lost himself in the fight, glad to finally have something simple to do: kill that demon and the next and the next and wait for the crackle of energy that meant the Herald had closed the gap in the Veil. They moved through the courtyard and into the castle that way, finding nothing but demons and more demons, guards with red lyrium in their eyes, and deserted rooms.

Then they found the door.

“Alexius must be in there,” Dorian said, running his hands over it as the others crowded behind him, peering over his shoulder. “If we can unlock it, we have him.”

“How do we unlock it?”

Dorian cast a look over his shoulder. Lavellan had been quiet on their trek through the castle, almost uncannily so. With every new horror they faced, he seemed to withdraw more into himself. His fury and guilt had cooled into something hard and unreadable.

“I could try to explain it to you, but it would take far too long,” Dorian said in his loftiest voice.

Lavellan’s eyebrow twitched. “Give me the idiot’s guide,” he said in a dry voice.

“There’s a placement here for some kind of key,” Dorian said, losing the attitude. He was pleased at eliciting a reaction, no matter how small. “I don’t know what it’s made of, but I can tell you that it’s in pieces—at least three and probably five. If I know Alexius, he’s spread them about.”

Lavellan pulled something from one of the many pouches hidden on his person. “Would it be something like this?”

He offered the shard of red lyrium to Dorian, who took it gingerly. Only constant and prolonged exposure poisoned, but Dorian was wary of even touching the stuff. Still, he turned the shard over, examining it closely. It hummed like a tuning fork when it came near the door and there were tiny runes inscribed on its surface, old Imperium magics that Dorian knew Alexius was well-versed in.

“Yes,” he said at last, handing the shard back to Lavellan. “That’s a piece. Wherever did you find it?”

Lavellan pointed over his shoulder at the ruins of the battle they’d just waged, which had taken thirty minutes, half their potions supply, and a good chunk of Dorian’s favorite armor. The ground was littered with demon gunk and the bodies of dead guards.

“One of the guards had it,” Lavellan said.

Lavellan was oddly fastidious about picking loot of the bodies of their fallen foes. Other than picking up bits and pieces of materials they could certainly use if they ever got the hell out of this castle, Dorian had never seen much use for it until now.

“Excellent,” he said. “If a guard had one piece, it stands to reason the rest are stashed on others. Shall we continue forward?”

They did. The castle was ruined and overlaid with red lyrium, but it was easy enough to maneuver through. It was much more populated up here, riddled with guards and mages. They found several more shards going forward and fought so much that by the time they returned to the main hall Dorian was bleeding from several places and running dangerously low on magic.

“Stop,” the Bull said. He had more wounds than the rest of them, having drawn the brunt of the damage on himself in every confrontation. He heaved his ax off his back and leaned it against a wall, collapsing. “We need rest. Fifteen minutes.”

Everyone looked to Lavallan, who nodded. He was covered in blood too—after Bull, he had drawn most of their enemies, often leaping into the thick parts of the fray, whirling through enemies like a dancer.

Dorian sat on the stairs and just breathed. As his stamina recovered, he felt his magic begin to even out again and soon he didn’t feel like he’d been run over by a herd of bulls. When he looked up, he was surprised to find Lavellan had taken a seat at his side, close enough that their elbows would brush if Dorian shifted. Lavellan was colder than Dorian expected. He was cleaning his wicked pair of curved knives with a rusty rag, clearing them of blood, grime, and demon muck until they began to shine again.

“Did you make them yourself?” Dorian asked.

Lavellan considered him. Even in the dim hall, his bright eyes gleamed, cat-like. Dorian waited, holding his breath.

“When I was young,” Lavellan said eventually and Dorian let the breath out. “Cassandra confiscated them at first, but they gave them back after I proved I wasn’t a murdering scumbag. It’s part of our coming of age rites.” Dorian straightened. “We make weapons out of material we gather ourselves. We also get these.” He gestured to the tattoos on his face.

Dorian asked partly to distract himself, partly to see how much Lavellan would tell him. “What are the tattoos? Or is it a hideous faux-pas to ask?”

Lavellan snorted. “No. The patterns are usually god-marks. We get them to honor specific gods.”

“Which one is yours?”

Lavellan stiffened. “You wouldn’t know them,” he said and bent back toward the knives.

Dorian resisted the urge to sigh. Prying anything personal out of Lavellan was like pulling teeth. For such a public figure, he was mysteriously close-mouthed about himself. Lavellan finished cleaning his knives and leaped to his feet, limber and light as a deer. Dorian watched as he stretched and scolded himself. It was not the time or the place to notice that though Lavellan was his height, he was half Dorian’s width, with narrow shoulders and hips and a body made for infeasible flexibility. His libido, of course, didn’t give a damn that they were stuck in a horrific future or that they were all probably going to die soon and perked right up at the sight of Lavellan’s body strung out in a luxurious stretch.

When he found the strength to tear his eyes away, he noticed the Bull watching and judging him. When Dorian met his gaze, he waggled his eyebrows. Dorian huffed and turned away. It was also unfair that such a great, hulking brute should be so perceptive.

“We need one more shard,” Lavellan said, settling his knives back in their familiar positions at his shoulders. “I remember seeing a door up this way, we should check through there.”

Dorian heaved himself to his feet. He felt more human after the brief rest, though his magic levels were still dangerously low. Still, he and the others followed Lavellan without complaint, even as they stumbled into yet another room filled to the brim with guards and mages. This fight was no more difficult than the others had been, though there was a close call with a glyph caught the Bull and Lavellan in its crossfire, blasting them with fire. Solas healed them up as Dorian searched through the guards’ belongings.

“Did you find it?” Lavellan called out, straining to see even as Solas held him in place, trying to heal a nasty burn along his hand.

Solas said something sharp to him in elvhen and Lavellan settled, though his eyes still tracked Dorian’s movements through the room. When Dorian held up the glowing shard, his shoulders relaxed.

“Is it the final piece?” he asked.

“Yes,” Dorian said, relieved himself. “The key is complete.”

The moment Solas leaned back, healing finished, Lavellan sprang to his feet. He looked wild and haggard, covered in blood with pieces of his armor missing, but there was a fire back in his eyes.

“We need to stock up,” Lavellan said. “I thought I saw a stash of potions in one of the rooms off the main hall—”

“We will need a plan,” Leliana said.

They all paused, looking at her. She stood in a corner of the room, arms folded over her chest. Dorian found it difficult to look at her wasted face—it was a dreadful reminder of their failure and what was at stake if they failed again here.

“I thought I was giving us one,” Lavellan said, a bit of danger creeping into his voice. Dorian winced.

“About Alexius,” Leliana said, in much the same kind of tone. “And what you will do when you go back to the time that was.

Dorian appreciated Leliana’s confidence, as he didn’t entirely have it himself. Reversing Alexius’ little spell would take everything Dorian had. There was no guarantee that it would work and he would send them back to the right moment instead of further back into the past. But Leliana spoke as if it were already a foregone conclusion. Perhaps she was factoring in the Herald—impossible things seemed to happen to him all the time.

“You’ve already told me what this Elder One plans to do,” Lavellan said impatiently. “The fall of Orlais, the chaos that follows. Demon army, blah, blah. Did I miss anything?”

“You joke,” Leliana said.

“I breathe,” Lavellan said, shrugging.

“Don’t, Kai,” Leliana snarled, unfolding her arms and leaning forward. “He has killed my friends, our people. Will you show him mercy? Will you let his crimes go unanswered?”

Lavellan’s went still, eyes luminous in the half-light of the room. “He helped wreck the world,” he said, voice strained and harsh. “He killed people who are under my care, people who relied on me to protect them. He murdered innocents in the name of his own selfishness.” Lavellan bared his teeth, sudden and feral. “I’ll gut the bastard with my own two hands.”

For a long moment, Leliana and Lavellan stared at each other. Dorian had no idea what passed between them, but eventually Leliana inclined her head and Lavellan relaxed. The tension gone, they made their way back to the main hall in silence. Dorian found it difficult to look away from the straight lines of Lavellan’s back, his bright hair.

“You do not usually relish bloodshed,” Dorian heard Solas murmur to Lavellan.

“Violence is a powerful tool,” Lavellan said, in a tone that suggested it was something he’d heard many times. “It should only be used when necessary to make it more effective.”

Solas was silent for a long moment. “While not a teaching I can agree with,” he said at last, “I see the reasoning behind it.”

“From you,” Lavellan said with irony, “that’s high praise.”

They found the supply cache where Lavellan remembered it and stocked up on their health potions. Dorian also took the time to scour for some lyrium to boost his magic levels and offered some to Solas as well, who took it with a nod. Dorian lingered as Solas downed one.

“Yes?” Solas asked.

“You think he’ll really kill Alexius?”

Dorian didn’t know how to feel about it. What he’d told Solas and Lavellan before was true—Alexius was no longer a man he trusted or recognized. But he couldn’t deny that there was a part of him that pitied Alexius, who had become desperate and ruthless in his search to save Felix but who had been a kind father-figure to Dorian at a time when he needed one the most. Alexius had taught him the deeper secrets of magic and had never treated him differently after he found out about Dorian’s preferences. The shadow of that man had to still exist in this current Alexius, even if pulling him out again would be impossible.

“I think his self-control is greater than his fury,” Solas said. “But he has proven difficult to predict before. Will you try to stop him?”

Dorian remembered Lavellan’s bitter laugh at Fiona’s cell. Violence was a tool, he said, but that didn’t mean Lavellan liked it or wanted to use it. Blood was a difficult stain to get out.

“I would,” Dorian said. “But for his sake, not for Alexius’.”

Solas inclined his head. “We shall see when the time comes,” he said. “Interference might not be necessary.”

Dorian wasn’t certain. Solas was right that Lavellan was unpredictable, but he’d also seen the way Lavellan reacted to Solas and Bull and Leliana, the way he’d writhed in fury about the Tranquil. Lavellan, for all that he seemed to strain against the leash of the Inquisition, cared about the people in it and Alexius had hurt them. Murdered them.

Would the Herald be merciful? Or vengeful?

Impossibe to tell.

They opened the door and found horror behind it. Alexius, a broken puppet of a man, so different from both the mentor Dorian had known and the prideful maniac who had sent them to the future. And Felix… Dorian had felt the bile in his throat at the sight of his oldest friend, brain-dead and blank-eyed, little better than a walking corpse. Alexius had saved him, but at what cost? What was left of Felix in that automaton?

“It’s over,” Lavellan said, and Alexius barely seemed to hear him, though Lavellan’s fury was clear.

“I always knew you’d come back,” Alexius said, almost to himself. “Not when, of course. But I knew. And here you are.”

Dorian took a step forward. “We need to fix this, Alexius,” he said. “Surely you can see that?”

Alexius darted a look at Felix and turned away. “The Elder One is too powerful,” he said. “You are weak. No, you cannot do anything to stop him. Not now.”

Then, out of the shadows—Leliana, with a knife. Her ravaged face was pulled into a snarl, turning her almost inhuman. Dorian flinched back, surprised by her sudden movement, but Lavellan only let out a tiny, hissed breath and when Dorian looked over there was regret on his face, not confusion.

“Help us or he dies,” she hissed and Dorian turned back to her, wincing as her blade pressed hard enough to Felix’s skin that he started to bleed.

Still, Felix didn’t react and that, more than anything, convinced Dorian that Felix was no longer in that body. The Felix he knew would have had some sort of dry response for Leliana, a quip or a joke. He wouldn’t let her threaten him with his head lolling back, dead eyes drifting to the ceiling, utterly unconnected to what was happening to him.

“Leliana,” Lavellan cut in, voice sharp. “Let him go. He’s an innocent in all of this.”

Dorian turned back just in time to see Lavellan regarding Felix with some odd emotion. Pity? Compassion? Dorian couldn't read it properly and it was gone before he could analyze it.

Leliana bared his teeth. “No one is innocent,” she said and slit Felix’s throat.

He’s not in there, Dorian reminded himself. But the grief rose, fruitless as it was. Felix had always been his better half, kinder and more given to compassion than Dorian ever was. To see him reduced to a dead-brained madman and slain as easily as a calf for its meat…

“My son!” Alexius cried and then Dorian didn’t have time to grieve anymore.

Dorian had come to Alexius because of his reputation as a mage and his knowledge of magic, so he’d always known Alexius was powerful. But that knowledge meant nothing in the face of fighting Alexius head-on. Under the onslaught of his attacks, Dorian barely had time to breathe. Lavellan shouted orders as they were barraged—Solas was on the defense, spitting shield after shield, while Bull heaved forward, heavy axe swinging left and right. Dorian and Leliana focused on hitting as many demons as they could as Alexius opened Fade rifts and Lavellan…

Lavellan focused on Alexius.

If he hadn’t been watching it, Dorian wouldn’t have believed it, but Lavellan was facing Alexius on something of an even ground. Solas’ shields protected him from the worst of Alexius’ magics and when he got in close enough, Lavellan’s knives did deadly damage. But it was more than that. He, like Alexius, was fighting for revenge, but it seemed to stoke a hotter fire in Lavellan, push him to hit harder and deeper until, at last, he stood over Alexius’ bowed body, panting in fierce, desperate victory.

The aftermath of the battle was oddly quiet. Dorian’s magic still hummed in agitation after being used so much and he could hear the beat of his own heart in his ears. Lavellan stood over Alexius with his head bowed. At some point in the battle, his thick hair had unraveled from its braids, falling in a bright waterfall down his neck and back. It was longer than Dorian had thought, past Lavellan’s shoulders.

“Magister Alexius,” Lavellan said in a hoarse rasp. “For your crimes, you deserve death.”

Alexius looked up at Lavellan. All of his rage, his hatred, seemed to have been bled out of him. He looked as Felix had; an empty shell of a man. Dorian felt the faintest echo of pity: whatever man Alexius had been, the man Dorian had looked up to and the man Dorian had come to despise, he wasn’t there anymore. All that was left was his ghost.

“Just do it,” Alexius said. “With Felix gone, nothing matters.”

Dorian watched Lavellan with the others. He wanted to step forward, to make some dramatic speech about how taking a life stained you, how Lavellan couldn’t let the horror of his situation change who he was. But he remembered Lavellan’s dark laughter at Fiona, Lavellan’s hard eyes during their trip through the castle, and stopped himself. The weight of killing was a lesson he felt Lavellan had already learned. Dorian wouldn’t be telling him anything he didn’t already know.

Lavellan raised his knife. Dorian wanted to turn away as it lowered, but he forced himself to watch. It wasn’t for Alexius, who deserved nothing more from him. He watched for Lavellan, who didn’t deserve Dorian’s closed eyes and aversion.

Lavellan didn’t waste time or energy: one clean cut to the throat and Alexius slumped over. Lavellan stood over his corpse for a long moment, his back to them. Dorian’s heart thrummed in his throat. Leliana stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder.

“You did it,” she said and the faith was so strong in her voice that Dorian almost wanted to flinch back. “Kai. You did it.”

Lavellan shrugged her hand off. His shoulders were hard with tension and there was a fine tremble running through the knife in his hand. Leliana took the hint and stepped away. Still, Lavellan didn’t look at them. Didn’t speak.

“Boss,” the Bull said and his voice was gentle.

Lavellan knelt. Without a word, he rifled through Alexius’ robe and produced his amulet. When he handed it to Dorian, his eyes were so icy that Dorian didn’t dare say anything, instead focusing on the magic. It was what he’d expected—an amplifier to hone Alexius’ time magic, the model they’d worked on in theory in Tevinter turned reality. He’d never seen it before, but he could figure it out, given enough time.

“Give me an hour and I can set it right,” he said.

With the amulet in is hands it was easier to judge what needed to be done. It was less complicated than he’d feared, but still complex enough that he would need to be careful so he didn’t send them too far back. An hour would be just enough time—

“Are you mad?” Leliana demanded, stepping forward. “You must go now.”

“Now?” Dorian asked, incredulous. “Are you mad?”

“He knows you have arrived,” Leliana said to Lavellan. He didn’t look at her. It was only his carefully cocked head that convinced Dorian was paying any attention to the conversation. “He will know that Alexius has fallen. If you do not go now, all hope is lost.”

“Leliana—“

“We will hold them off,” Leliana said. “To give you as much time as possible. But you must hurry.”

Lavellan frowned at her, but turned to Dorian, speaking for the first time since Alexius’ death in a low, rough voice. “Can you do it?”

Dorian laughed without humor. “Reverse incredibly complex arcane magic I’ve only known about in theory before in fifteen minutes or less? Sweetheart, have you met me?”

Lavellan stared. Then, to Dorian’s surprise, he smiled, slow and sure as the rising sun, so bright that Dorian almost took a step back. That smile should be illegal, he thought dazedly. It was a deadly weapon.

“All right, then,” Lavellan said sunnily, as if they’d just spent their day on a picnic instead of in a horrific future battling demons. “Let’s get the fuck out of here, shall we?”

“We’ll hold them off, boss,” the Bull said.

The grim determination in his face made Dorian feel a little sick. If there was an army coming, as Leliana had implied—backed up by the steady increase of noise gathering outside the huge wooden doors—Bull and Solas wouldn’t be enough to hold them back. It was a suicide mission and they all knew it. But Bull looked intent and proud, shoulders back and head held high. He nodded once to Dorian and to the Herald before moving to turn. Before he could, Lavellan reached up and grabbed his shoulder, reeling him in until they stood more or less eye to eye.

“Boss!” Bull snapped. “Don’t—“

“Go in honor,” Lavellan said, nearly a whisper though the hall was still quiet enough that the sound carried. “Die in glorious battle, the Iron Bull. I will bring home stories of your valor and they will sing songs of your deeds until the end of time. You will never be forgotten.”

Bull was silent for a long time. “Well,” he said at last, gruff but not enough to hide his surprised pleasure. “If I had to die for someone, I guess it might as well be for you.” Lavellan let go of his horns. For a long moment, the Bull hovered over him. “Be careful, boss,” he said at last and turned away.

Solas stepped forward. He and Lavellan had a soft, short conversation in elvhen before Solas stepped away again, taking his place at the Bull’s side. They marched out of the wide doors together without looking back. Lavellan watched them go and Dorian noticed that his hands were curled into such tight fists the knuckles had gone bloodless. He reached out touched the back of one before he could stop himself. Lavellan didn’t look at him but the fist loosened, just a tad.

“Hurry,” Leliana said and readied her bow. “You have as much time as I have arrows.”

Dorian worked as fast as he could, sweat gathering at his brow as he heard the sounds of battle outside. He’d just fixed a tricky bit that he thought would secure the right time for them to come back through when the doors of the castle swung open with a bang. He looked up in time to see Bull and Solas’ bodies tossed aside, red eyes blank and lifeless. Dorian ignored the pang and bent back to his work, moving even faster. There was something coming, something deadlier and greater than the demons filling the hall, held back only by Leliana’s diligence and sure aim. Dorian heard her yelling the Chant as she spent arrow after arrow, so he knew the moment she fell when the hall grew silent. Lavellan tensed and Dorian reached for him, grabbing his elbow as he activated the amulet, praying that it would work as it should.

His last view of that horrible future was Leliana having her throat slit by a demon. But her eyes were fixed on Dorian and Lavellan, and in them Dorian saw desperate hope.

Then everything went black.

They came through at precisely the right moment, but Dorian didn’t have time to be smug—the moment his feet touched ground, Lavellan threw himself at Alexius in a full-on physical brawl, the kind that Dorian doubted Alexius had participated in since he was a boy. Lavellan was slighter than Alexius, but he had him on the ground in moments, pummeling him.

“—killed my people you fucked up magister bastard—“ 

“Lavellan,” Dorian tried. Solas was frowning but the Bull looked like he was having the time of his life. Dorian noticed Leliana’s agents exchanging wide-eyed looks.

“—show you what you can do with your time magic and your demon army you—“

“Kai!” Dorian shouted and Lavellan froze.

“Don’t call me that,” he said, but he rose to his feet, panting.

His knuckles were badly bruised and Alexius was a bloody heap on the ground. Felix, still standing, whistled.

“Don’t want to get on your bad side, Herald,” he said. He stepped forward and squatted down. “End this, Father,” he said more softly. “This madness must stop.”

“I can’t, Felix,” Alexius said, garbled and tearful. “You’ll die.”

Felix was silent for a long moment.

“Everybody dies,” he said.

The doors to the castle banged open and Dorian flinched. He half expected to turn and see the demon army again, the fallen bodies of their companions trampled beneath their feet. But no, Bull and Solas were alive and not infected with poisonous red lyrium, and there was Fiona beside them, not trapped in a wall and waiting to die. Dorian let out a long breath and forced the events of the past day into the back of his mind. He’d unpack it later, when he was alone to have a proper panic attack. Right now, there were more pressing matters to attend to.

Like the arrival of the King of Fereldan.

King Alistair was notorious—the Grey Warden who’d helped stop a Blight and married the Hero of Fereldan. Stories about him and the Hero’s companions had spread wide in the ten years since their adventures, some so wild that it was difficult to believe they were true. (The Hero hadn’t really stopped a werewolf curse and had a golem as a companion, had she?) Dorian had never seen a portrait of Alistair, but he looked as Dorian had imagined he might—swarthy and handsome, bulky with muscle despite years as a king, a sword strapped to his side. He was accompanied by a mass of Fereldan guards.

“First Enchanter Fiona,” he said, apparently oblivious to the other people in the room. “I remember giving you leave of Redcliffe, not saying you could throw out everyone who wasn’t a mage!” He caught sight of the rest of them and frowned. “Ah,” he said, taking in their uniforms. “The Inquisition, is it? And what’s this mess?”

Lavellan stepped forward and explained while Inquisition soliders bundled Alexius away, presumably to be brought to Haven for safekeeping. More likely to make sure Lavellan didn’t damage him too badly before he could be brought to judgement. Dorian listened and watched the King’s reactions. He didn’t have a poker face to speak of, which seemed a huge weakness in a king, so Dorian could clearly see that while he might be sympathetic to their cause, King Alistair was too furious to allow the mages to stay. And, of course, as soon as Lavellan was done, he said as much.

“They were stupid,” Lavellan agreed, crossing his arms and adopting the obsintate look that Dorian was beginning to become increasingly familiar with. “But desperation breeds stupidity. If they weren’t hunted like dogs, maybe they wouldn’t be so eager to eat out of the first kind hand that opens to them.”

Fiona stared and Dorian sighed. Definitely no diplomatic instincts in this one, though King Alistair only nodded thoughtfully, expression calming.

“Regardless, they cannot stay here,” he said. “They drove the arl out of his castle, people out of their homes. It can’t stand.”

“No,” Lavellan said, relaxing a little. “I suppose they’ll just have to come with me then.”

“Come with you?” Fiona asked. “For what purpose?”

“That hole in the sky?” Lavellan said, turning to her with a raised eyebrow. “You remember that, don’t you? Big thing, green light, end of the world?”

Fiona frowned. “Are we to be your slaves then? In service to the Inquisition?”

“You were prepared to wear the leash of a magister,” Lavellan said without rancor.

Fiona straightened. “Yes,” she said. “But as you said, desperation brings stupidity. I won’t make the same mistake twice, even if you do seem to be our only option, Herald.”

Lavellan examined her, then smiled. “Well, then I suppose it’s good news I intend to take you on as full allies, isn’t it?”

“Might not be a good idea,” Dorian heard the Bull murmur, though Solas looked approving.

“And why not?” Dorian asked as Fiona and Lavellan bent their heads together and began to discuss terms.

The Bull grunted. “These mages are tricky,” he said, watching them as well. “Can’t trust them. Safer to have them conscripted, at least for now.”

“We’re not Qunari,” Dorian snapped. “We don’t put mages in chains.”

The Bull didn’t look offended. He only cast a weather eye in Dorian’s direction. “That’s not what I mean. You really think the boss would pull that shit?” Before Dorian could respond, he continued. “The thing is, not everyone in the rebellion is going to be with us. Some of them might be spies and I don’t think they’ll be as honest about it as me. Plus, we still don’t know who pulled that shit at the Conclave. We can’t watch all of them all the time. Until we know we can trust them, we should conscript them.”

“Trusting them might be the first step to getting them to trust us,” Dorian said and the Bull grunted again, this time more consideringly.

As they had talked, Lavellan had moved to have a quiet conversation with King Alistair. Dorian leaned in and managed to catch the last of it.

“—cannot tell you, messere. And trust me, if I knew where my wife was, I wouldn’t hide it.”

Lavellan looked disappointed. “Of course. Well, if you hear from her, let me know. There’s something odd going on with the Wardens and she’d be helpful.”

Dorian bit the inside of his cheek. Lavellan talked to King Alistair much the same way he talked to his scouts. The King seemed to notice too, but he was smiling so he probably didn’t take offense. When they got back, Dorian might have to speak with Josephine—if things kept up the way they were, Lavellan was going to have to interact with nobility at some point and Dorian woud prefer it if he didn’t mortally offend someone and get himself assassinated.

“She’d be happy to help,” the King said. “Nothing M hates more than someone messing with the Wardens.”

“M?”

“Ah. She has an old Cousland name, damn well unpronouncable. I messed it up so many times she took pity on me and just let me call her M. Morrigan and Leliana could always get it right. And Zevran, of course.”

Lavellan brightened. “Zevran? You mean Zevran Arainai?”

“Oh?” the King said, smiling. “He your favorite, then? Everyone’s got a favorite. It’s never me,” he added mournfully. “M is obviously first, but Morrigan’s almost always a close second. Have no idea why, of course.”

“No offense,” Lavellan said, “but hearing that there was an elf helping the Hero of Fereldan pretty much meant none of the rest of you were in the running.”

King Alistair had a deep belly-laugh, the kind that encouraged everyone to smile along. Dorian began to understand how he’d managed to hold his throne with minimal uprisings.

“If I see him again, I’ll send him your way,” he promised. “Zev always loved a fan.”

He departed with little fanfare, taking his guards with him. The moment he did, the Herald slumped down, resting his head against his knees. Dorian approached him, frowning.

“Lavellan? Are you all right?”

“Am I all right?” Lavellan asked, voice muffled and nearly hystetical. Dorian exchanged looks with Solas and the Bull. “I just battled my way through a nightmare reality in the future and I come back to meet Alistair fucking Theirin. The King of Fereldan! A living legend!”

Dorian patted Lavellan gingerly on the back. “There, there.”

Lavellan snorted, but when he looked up he sounded more like himself. “You fucking such at comforting people, Pavus.”

“Well, I have other skills,” Dorian said. “Reversing ancient magics on the fly, for one.”

Dorian leaned back, but Lavellan straightened up and caught his hand. Dorian froze, uncertain under Lavellan’s bright, strong green gaze. He was looking at Dorian like they were the only two people in the room and Dorian’s traitorous heart began to beat faster, damn the useless thing.

“Thank you, Dorian,” Lavellan said. “I don’t know what I would have done without you there.”

Dorian knew he was flushing. “Yes, well,” he said, pulling his hand back. “Try not to get us stuck in any more desperately horrible futures, would you? There’s only so many times a man can go through that kind of nonsense.”

Lavellan’s smiles really out to be outlawed. “I make no promises.”

“Okay,” the Bull said. “The flirting is cute and all but can we get back to this horrible future thing? What the fuck happened to you?”

“…and then we came back,” Lavellan finished at last. He leaned back against a pillar in the Haven chantry, crossing his arms over his chest. His long hair was hastily tied back and there were deep purple bruises under his eyes. His skin was pale enough that Dorian swore he could see veins. Dorian had the oddest urge to herd the Herald to his paltry hut and pile blankets over him.

“Celene assassinated!” Leliana said with less horror and more interest. “And a demon army? Most intriguing. 

“We need to know more about this Elder One,” Lavellan said, tapping a finger against his arm. “We know his plans, but who is he? What does he want?”

“Why did he tear a giant gaping hole in the sky would be a good place to start,” Dorian offered.

Lavellan smiled at him. “Yes, exactly. In the meantime, we might as well fuck up his plans. Someone’s sending letters like mad to this Empress lady, right?”

“I will see to it,” Josephine promised.

“I’m more interested in the mages we’ve taken in,” Cullen said in a low, dangerous tone. Like the Herald, he leaned against a pillar but there was something intent about the tilt of his body. His eyes were hard. “You promised them they’d be full allies? What in the Maker’s name were you thinking?”

Lavellan’s face took on a still, dangerous quality that made Dorian take an instinctive step back. He’d fought with Lavellan enough now to recognize the face he made going into battle and if those knives were coming out, Dorian didn’t want to get in the way.

“Well,” Lavellan said softly. “I suppose I was thinking that we needed their help.”

Cullen scowled. “So you offered them—“

“And,” Lavellan added, much louder, holding Cullen’s gaze, “I suppose I was also thinking that they’re fucking human beings who deserve my respect and help regardless of what they can do with a staff.”

Dorian had several filthy jokes about the things he could do with a staff, but somehow he felt now wasn’t the time to share them. The air was charged with tension as Lavellan and Cullen watched each other, wary and intent as two circling predators.

“And what of the templars?” Cullen asked at last, more softly. “Do they not deserve your respect and help as well, Herald?”

Lavellan snarled and all of them flinched. “I would leave every templar to burn if I could,” he said. He looked at their faces and visibly calmed down. “But I won’t,” he said “I’m not scum like they are.” Cullen opened his mouth, likely to protest, but Lavellan waved a hand. “We’ll discuss the templar situation later, Cullen, but you don’t need to worry – I haven’t forgotten about them. Now is there anything else or can I finally get in my fucking bed and try to pretend I never went to that damned conclave?”

“We should rescind this offer,” Cullen said and Lavellan groaned.

“By the Dread fucking Wolf—“

Cassandra stepped forward. “While I do not not agree with the Herald’s decision, I respect it,” she told Cullen. “We were not there and a decision had to be made – the important thing is that he made it.”

“Besides, we can hardly go back on our word now,” Josephine added. “No, I agree with Cassandra—regardless of our feelings on the mages, this is a positive outcome. We have the force we need to try and close the Breach once and for all.”

Cullen looked between them and sighed, the tension he carried in his shoulders finally relaxing. “I don’t like it,” he said, as if he hadn’t made that abundantly clear. “But I suppose you have a point.”

“Thank the gods,” Lavellan muttered. “I’m going to go and sleep the sleep of the half-dead. Don’t wake me unless the world’s going to end—again.”

Dorian followed Lavellan out. “One last thing before you collapse,” he said.

“As pretty as you are, I don’t think I could stay awake long enough,” Lavellan said.

Normally Dorian would have laughed and made a clever innuendo. But Lavellan continued his trend of making Dorian act like a tongue-tied teenager and he just flushed. The only upside was that it made Lavellan smile at him. Dorian regretted that what he wanted to talk about was gong to wipe that smile away, but he didn’t want to leave it to fester. He steeled himself.

“It’s about Alexius.”

Lavellan’s smile dropped. “Oh?” he asked. “I hear they set him up somewhere nearby. Cullen wouldn’t tell me where.”

Despite his lack of taste and regrettable averson to magic, Cullen was a smart man. “I’m not going to ask for mercy,” Dorian said. “This is about the Alexius from the future.”

“The dead one, sure.”

Dorian wondered how Lavellan managed to sound so flip and still project an underlying sense of rage. It was probably the smile that did it, baring all of his teeth in a feral parody of the warmth he’d shown only moments before. Dorian thought this had perhaps been a bad idea—maybe if he’d waited, the wound would be less raw. Because he saw now that killing Alexius had left some kind of wound in Lavellan, though he had no idea how deep it was or how long it would remain open.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said. “He was my friend once. I want to understand.”

“What is there to understand?” Lavellan asked with a shrug that was trying too hard to be cavalier. “He lost his mind, I killed him. Simple. Hell, you were there to see it all happen. What's confusing you?”

“He wanted to die,” Dorian said. Lavellan looked at him and kept looking, so Dorian plowed forward. “The moment Felix was gone, Alexius wanted to die. Maybe even before. And you gave that to him.” It was only as he said it out loud that he realized what Lavellan had done. “You gave him mercy.”

“No,” Lavellan said with such a sharp motion of his hand that Dorian flinched back instinctively. He regretted it when he saw how it made Lavellan pause. “Don’t try to make what I did kind, Dorian. I killed him because I wanted to.”

Dorian remembered Fiona’s cell. “Yes,” he said. “But that’s not the only reason, is it?”

He held Lavellan’s gaze. Lavellan didn’t look away. They were still in the Chantry, hovering in the entryway where the only light were the dim torches. In the dark, Lavellan’s pupils were huge. Dorian felt as if the very air between them was charged and his skin began to break out in goosebumps 

Then Lavellan smiled and it was the gentle amusement from before, not his feral rage. Dorian didn’t realized he’d tensed until his body relaxed.

“Have you decided yet?”

On their ride back, Lavellan had asked if he’d like to stay, join the Inquisition. (“We don’t pay you and you’ll have to share quarters. Also it’s cold as hell in Haven. Oh! And we’re heathen outcasts doomed to never know the Maker’s pillowy bosom.”) Dorian had said he’d think about it more to see if it would be able to make Lavellan sweat than because he needed to. He’d decided to stay with the Inquisition pretty much the moment he met the Herald.

“Well,” Dorian said, “Since I’m probably never going to see the Maker’s pillowy bosom anyway, what with being an evil Tevinter mage, I guess I’ll stay,” Dorian said. “Unless you’ve some objection?”

Lavellan snorted. “Without you I’d still be stuck in that hell,” he said. “You can have the Inquisition if you want it, Dorian.”

Dorian felt very warm. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Sounds mighty boring, leading a rebellious force bent on stopping the end of the world. Besides,” he added with an exaggerated shudder, “paperwork.”

Lavellan shuddered along with him, “You have no idea.” He eyed Dorian and smiled again. “If you’re sure you can stand the cold, of course you’re welcome to stay,” he said. “There’s no one I’d rather be stranded in time with.”

“Yes, let’s not do that again.”

“Agreed.”

And so, Dorian officially joined the Inquisition. He was given a hut of his very own near the apocathary and a whole host of nasty looks whenever he attempted to go anywhere. It seemed no one else had gotten the memo that Dorian had saved their Herald’s life—to these people, he was still Tevinter scum, the worst kind of mage. Dorian pretended to be immune to it, but it still stung to get suspicious looks and turned up noses.

Still, not everyone treated him badly. Solas was congenial if distant and Madame de Fer would deign to talk magical theory if he ran into her in the Chantry, though they never seemed to agree much. He had also made the decision early on to befriend Varric Tethras, which had proven a more profitable choice than Dorian had originally thought: thanks to his place as Haven’s pariah, Dorian never got the good stuff, but Varric was a goldmine of gossip and was always willing to dish out in exchange for a round of Wicked Grace.

And, of course, there was Lavellan, who often stopped near Dorian’s hut to talk. Or, in Lavellan’s case, ask a series of interrogative questions about life in Tevinter, each more aggressive than the last. Dorian wasn’t sure what inspired the Herald’s thorough curiosity, which he had witnessed being used against others in Haven, but it was certainly effective: Dorian wound up telling Lavellan everything he knew and then some about the way Tevinter worked.

(“He’d make a good interrogator,” the Bull told him over drinks Dorian’s second day in the Inquisition, after the Herald had dazed him with question after question about Tevinter’s Chantry structure. “Kind of puts you in a hyponsis with all the questions, then pops out the important ones when you’re too dumb to stop yourself from answering. Classic.”)

Of course, despite prying out Dorian’s complicated familial relationships and his backstory with Alexius and Felix, the Herald hadn’t been very forthcoming with details about his own life. Dorian had asked around—well, mostly he had asked Varric and the Bull—and nobody really knew much about Lavellan. He was from a clan in the Free Marches, a talented rogue who’d come to the Conclave to learn about the proceedings. (“Spy,” the Bull told him dryly. “Learn is always a polite word for spy.”) He was younger than Dorian had expected, barely out of his twenties.

But Lavellan never spoke of his life before the Inquisition in anything more than bits and pieces, mentions dropped here and there like breadcrumbs for lost travellers. Most of what Dorian knew was what he had picked up for himself: that he had siblings back home, he had crafted his knives that he carried with him always, he hated templars and sympathized with mages, he spoke elvhen almost as fluently as Solas. Dorian tucked these pieces away in the back of his mind for safekeeping, adding them to the puzzle that was their Herald. Some day, he might even get enough to understand the full picture.

But Lavellan was good company—his combination of wicked humor and perceptive intelligence made for interesting conversation, and Dorian didn’t deny that he was pretty to look at. There was also the added bonus of the Herald treating him much the same as any other person and not acting like Dorian would murder them all in their sleep.

So in the week following their harrowing adventure to Redcliffe, Dorian spent quite a bit of time with the Herald, often seeking him out if Lavellan didn’t come his way. He tried to be nonchalant about it—rumors spread in small towns like this and the last thing Lavellan needed was someone making noise about him taking up with a Tevinter mage. Often he would pretend to wander down to the gates, though he had a feeling that taking the long way round so he passed by Lavellan’s cabin meant he wasn’t really fooling anyone.

Most of the time, Lavellan was in his hut, working on something or other—the endless paperwork that his advisors seemed to have for him or concocting some bit of armor or weapon. His little house was a veritable workshop, full of bits and pieces of crafting materials. When Dorian had asked him about it, Lavellan had just shrugged and called it a bad habit.

But Lavellan’s hut was dark and empty as Dorian passed it and Dorian frowned. As they waited for the final arrival of their mages, there was little to do in Haven. Lavellan had been called down to the Hinterlands once or twice, mostly on business. He’d come back yesterday with a somewhat intimidating bearded man in tow, who Varric had told him was Blackwall, a Gray Warden. But he shouldn’t have been sent out again, especially so soon. Where had he gone?

“Hey, Sparkler!” Dorian turned and Varric beckoned him over. “If you’re looking for Spitfire, he should be back soon.”

“Back?”

Varric laughed. “Oh yeah. You might not have noticed, but our esteemed Herald gets restless. A while back, Curly and the others decided he needed to have an outlet or we’d probably wake up to find him halfway back to his clan. So they assigned him some of the soldiers’ hunting duties.”

Dorian frowned. “Hunting duties? Isn’t that…?”

“A bit lowly for Andraste’s chosen?” Varric asked with an ironic eyebrow raise. “You know, the Seeker said the same thing. But Ruffles made a good point about how it made him seem humble and down-to-earth and, more importantly, Spitfire told everyone in vicinity that if he didn’t get a chance to go out and kill some beasties he’d start taking out his frustration on some less convenient targets.”

Dorian knew Lavellan was handy with a knife and he’d seen the handy way he dealt with the various animals they had to face in the Hinterlands, but it was still difficult to picture him as a hunter. He turned the idea over in his mind—Lavellan amidst the trees, stalking some animal on near silent footsteps, his face intent and focused…

“You know, we should play cards sometime, Sparkler,” Varric said. “For an evil Tevinter mage you’re kind of an open book.”

Dorian drew himself up, ready to let out an indignant spiel about how he was damn good at concealing his emotions and he had several wins at Wicked Grace in the tavern to prove it, when he caught sight of something red out of the corner of his eye and turned. And promptly forgot entirely about Varric.

Lavellan came through the gate of Haven, calm and easy as ever, with a massive elk strung over his shoulders. His bare shoulders. Dorian stared, mouth agape in what he knew was a most unbecoming and unattractive way—but he could hardly be blamed, could he, with so much skin on display? He’d never seen Lavellan stripped down before and it was difficult to tear his eyes away—for someone so lithe, he was surprisingly muscular. Perhaps because he spent his spare time lugging giant animals about like it was nothing?

Lavellan was also streaked in blood and his heavily braided hair had started to come undone, spiraling over his shoulder and falling in his face. It should have been unattractive—Dorian had very specific tastes and they usually ran toward elegance and tidiness—but all it did was make him see a bit feral, as if he were some wild thing that had stepped out of the woods. Dorian wanted to lick the blood off of him.

“Yeah,” Varric said, sounding amused. “Like I said. Open book.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dorian said weakly.

“Dorian! Varric!” Lavellan said as he approached. He didn’t even sound winded. “Look what I found!”

“You know, I had a cat like you once, Spitfire,” Varric said, crossing his arms. “It used to love showing off dead things too. Brought me little mouse corpses all the damn time.”

Lavellan made a face at him. “Come on, Varric, you’re telling me you aren’t excited to have something other than rabbit tonight? It’ll be a feast!”

“I’ll be excited when it’s a lot less furry and roasting on a spit,” Varric said. He shot Dorian a wicked look. “But Sparkler here’s plenty excited about it, I think.”

Dorian was going to murder that dwarf. But Lavellan turned his gleaming eyes his way, so all Dorian could do was nod like a fool.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s… quite impressive.”

Oh Maker, he was turning into Cullen. He heard Varric snort and vowed to find some painful retribution. Perhaps he could bribe the people in the tavern to withhold Varric’s ale for a time?

“It was a lucky hit,” Lavellan said, shrugging. The movement the entire body of the elk ripple.

Dorian snorted. Lavellan was brash and forward and yet so oddly coy about certain things.

“Oh, a lucky hit,” he said. “You mean the one where you use your deadly precision and fatnastic strength to bring down a beast three times your size and twice your speed like it’s nothing? That kind of lucky hit?”

He almost wanted to take the words back—too harsh as always, too sarcastic. One lover had told him that he was never even sure if Dorian liked him since he was always making fun. But Dorian had a hard time softening the caustic edge of his tongue or stopping it from wagging.

He half expected Lavellan to snap back—time had shown he had a caustic edge of his own—but to Dorian’s surprise, Lavellan flushed. It was highly visible on his pale skin and since he was shirtless, Dorian had the sincere pleasure of watching it spread down his cheeks to his chest. Dorian’s tongue suddenly felt two sizes too big for his mouth. They stared at each other.

“Oh by the Maker’s hairy asshole,” he heard Varric mutter. “Kai, shouldn’t you be getting that to the butcher?”

“What?” Lavellan asked, his eyes still on Dorian.

“Unless you just want to eat it raw, fur and all. Or maybe you want to show us what you can do with a knife. Impress a few people.”

The sidelong glance he sent toward Dorian implied who exactly those people would be. Dorian wouldn’t have minded watching Lavellan dice up his elk—there was something charmingly rustic and definitely a little hot about watching a man cut up the dinner he’d killed himself. But to Dorian’s disappointment, Lavellan shook his head and recovered his wits. The glorious flush faded and Lavellan straightened.

“No, I should go up,” he said. “I want to have the food ready before sundown.”

“Oh?” Dorian asked. “What happens at sundown?”

Lavellan grinned, scar twisting his expression into something feline and devious. “We stop the end of the world.”

They set out to close the Breach that night, with such little fanfare it was like they weren’t about to do the impossible. The rebel mages were quiet and focused on the trek up to the temple, though many of them gasped in horror at the scorched remains they found there. Dorian himself had trouble looking at them—their burnt bodies were horrifying. It was difficult to believe that the Herald, keeping pace at Dorian’s side with focused, bright eyes, had walked out of this massacre with nary a scratch. No wonder eveyone had thought he did it.

The valley was a shocking sight, but Dorian helped Solas position the mages. They’d spent a long time discussing with Madame de Fer the best possible configurations for this kind of magical relay—and since they all came from wildly different schools of magic, they all had very conflicting ideas on the “best” configuration. They had settled, after much debate, on a compromise that used Dorian’s Tevinter mathematics with Vivienne’s Orlesian geometry and Solas’ elven incantations. Dorian hoped it would strengthen the magic and not leave it hopelessly confused.

Dorian took up his position on the overlook, watching as Solas and Cassandra conferred with the Herald. His hair was very bright in the gloom of the temple and Dorian was surprised by how much the sight of it comforted him.

The Rift pulsed and Dorian straightened. The entire clearing was awash with green light and he shivered. He’d seen it from Haven, of course, but he hadn’t realized how massive it was. All of the other rifts they’d closed across Fereldan seemed tiny in comparison. For a moment, he felt a stab of doubt—even with their power and their planning and the mark on the Herald’s hand, could they really do it?

And then he looked down and caught sight of Lavellan, straight-backed and focused and his doubt fell away.

It was strange—Dorian had never put much stock in heroes. He liked adventure stories and he’d gobbled up the histories as much as any other boy with imagination, but he’d never worshipped the heroes of old. Even the more recent ones from the South, the Champion and the Hero of Fereldan, he’d hardly bothered with. Most of the people he read about were men and women like any other person—they’d had the luck of circumstance or talent to see them through, but they were hardly infallible or incapable of making disastorous mistakes.

But Lavellan had walked through the Fade unscathed, had survived a blast that had killed hundreds, had, with Dorian’s help, escaped a nightmare future. He had turned a heretic band into a budgeoning army and, if all went well here today, he would undoubtedly seal the gaping hole in the sky. He had torn down every obstacle standing in his way and Dorian had, despite himself, begun to believe in Lavellan. After everything Dorian had seen him do and survive, it was getting harder and harder to see anything that could stop him. So if Lavellan felt the situation was under control, Dorian wasn’t going to argue with him: he had a feeling even if it wasn’t, Lavellan would bring it in hand rather quickly.

Cassandra and the rest hadn’t known how lucky they were, when they decided to make him Herald instead of prisoner.

Solas yelled for the mages to ready themselves as Lavellan held up his hand. Green light crackled in the air and all the hair on Dorian’s body stood up as a hum filled the clearing, louder and louder until his ears were ringing from the force of it. Magic built until it was almost a tangible weight and Dorian saw more than one soldier stumble. And then, suddenly, it was gone, blasted away by a boom of green light. Dorian blinked spots from his eyes as the light receded and his heart stopped.

Lavellan had fallen.

Dorian took an abortive step forward, his heart in his throat. But Lavellan, he saw with a wash of relief, had only stumbled—even as he watched, Lavellan was shaking off the help of Cassandra and Solas to stand again. His hand still crackled faintly with green light, but the sky above their heads was calm. A ragged cheer rose up from the watching crowd, growing and growing until it filled the clearing. Lavellan lifted his head to look at them and Dorian found, inexplicably, that he was cheering as well.

They had done it.

“There are still rifts reported across Fereldan and Orlais,” Leliana reported, arms crossed over her chest as they stood in the Chantry hall. “But the sky is calm.”

Dorian knew that she knew he was there, lingering in the shadows, but beyond a quick look, she hadn’t given him away to the others yet. The Chantry was empty aside from their group and Dorian could hear the celebration that was picking up steam outside.

“You’re sure?” Lavellan demanded.

“As sure as we can be,” Cullen said, leaning against a pillar.

“Solas confirms it,” Cassandra said. “And I suppose if anyone can be considered an expert, it would be him. The Breach is closed.”

A long silence held as the others watched for Lavellan’s reaction. Dorian held his breath.

Lavellan laughed. Dorian drew the breath in, startled. He’d heard Lavellan laugh before, but not like this, never like this—clear and bright as a bell, a hunting bird’s call, it was joyous enough that Dorian’s chest ached. He had chosen a place to watch where he could see Lavellan’s face and the pure delight there was plain. Dorian had never realized how unhappy Lavellan was until he saw that lifted away. He was beautiful.

“It’s over,” Lavellan said with a sort of dazed disbelief. “It’s over.”

Lavellan was distracted by his sheer delight, but Dorian saw the looks the others exchanged, part warning and disbelief. Cassandra looked pained, Leliana stony. Dorian remembered Lavellan’s restlessness, the longing in his face as he talked about leaving and swallowed. Without the Breach to hold him here, Lavellan wasn’t going to stay. Dorian felt a little less uplifted by Lavellan’s obvious joy. He couldn’t explain it to himself, but he didn’t want Lavellan to disappear into the wilds of the Free Marches, never to be heard from again. Even if that was what Lavellan clearly yearned for.

From the looks the advisors were exchanging, he doubted they wanted Lavellan to do that either. He wondered if they would bring it up now, but Leliana only sighed, shaking her head a little.

“There are festivities outside,” she said. “You should join them.” Her face softened. “You are the reason for them, after all.”

The others agreed and dispersed, leaving the Herald alone in the hall. Dorian stepped forward and Lavellan turned toward him. That joy still lingered in his face, turning his lips up and brightening his eyes. Dorian found it difficult to catch his breath all of the sudden, no matter his own mixed feelings on Lavellan’s possible departure.

“You heard all of that, huh?” Lavellan asked. He sounded amused.

“If you wanted to keep it secret, you shouldn’t have talked about it where anyone could walk by,” Dorian said primly.

Lavellan laughed—again, that joyous and clear sound. Dorian shivered.

“I don’t want to keep it secret,” he said. “It’s over! It’s over!”

Lavellan began to run. Dorian followed him, confused. They stopped at the door of the Chantry, meeting Varric and Solas there. They turned as Lavellan approached.

“Herald,” Solas said.

Lavellan laughed again and Dorian watched as Solas’ forehead crinkled just a little and Varric’s eyes widened. Lavellan reached forward and took Solas’ face in his hands, kissing him on both cheeks with loud, messy smacks. Varric’s jaw dropped and Dorian stifled a laugh at the look on Solas’ face.

“It’s over!” Lavellan said, jubilant.

“What—“ Varric started.

Lavellan hollered, turned and, to Dorian’s surprise, threw himself into a series of jumps, somersaulting and tumbling and cartwheeling his way down Haven’s main road. The three of them stared at him, dumbstuck, until Varric laughed.

“Holy shit,” he said. “Hawke would be so jealous right now.”

Dorian wasn’t sure how long Lavellan would have continued his sudden flare of acrobatics if he hadn’t run into the Iron Bull coming up the hill from outside the gates. Bull stopped and stared as Lavellan did a tight tucked flip and landed on his feet. For a moment, they stared at each other. Dorian hadn’t realized before how much smaller Lavellan was than Bull, but seeing them like this, their height difference was almost comical.

“Boss…?” Bull said, eyebrows rising.

Lavellan grinned, all teeth. Then, with a mighty spring, he heaved himself up, hooking his knee over Bull’s neck and pulling himself up to sit on Bull’s wide shoulders. With another deft maneuver, he climbed higher still, until he was standing tall, feet braced on either side of Bull’s neck, arms crossed over his chest, looking smug.

Lavellan had pulled it off so quickly that no one--not Bull or those who had stopped to watch Lavellan’s gymnastic display--could react until Lavellan had planted himself. Belatedly, Bull’s hands came up and grasped Lavellan’s ankles, keeping him steady.

“...Any reason you’re using me as a foot stool, boss?” he asked, wry.

“You can see fucking everything like this!” Lavellan said. “It’s amazing! A marvel!”

The Bull sighed. Dorian took a step forward, but the Bull was already pulling Lavellan by his ankles. Dorian gasped, a little afraid for Lavellan and the Bull both, but the Bull had enough arm strength and Lavellan had enough dexterity that they managed to avoid any major injuries as the Bull pulled Lavellan from his shoulders and lifted him to dangle, ankle first, from one enormous hand. Lavellan, uncaring of his sudden flip, grinned and crossed his arms.

“Bet you I can get free,” he said.

“I bet you can,” the Bull said. “You know I had a cat once like you, boss. Thought it could do whatever the fuck it wanted just because it could.”

“You’re the second person this week to compare me to a cat,” Lavellan said. “Want to see something really cat-like?”

Lavellan twisted and, too fast for the eye to follow, sprang from Bull’s grip. Bull cursed, trying to grab him again, and Dorian hurried forward, thinking absurdly that he could catch Lavellan before he broke open his fool skull, but to both of their surprise, Lavellan landed perfectly unharmed on his feet. Dorian stared. Like a cat, indeed.

“So?” Lavellan asked Bull. “Where’s my treat, huh?”

The Bull reached out and scratched under Lavellan’s chin. Varric nearly bent double laughing from Lavellan’s indignant expression and even Solas cracked a smile.

“Good kitty,” Bull said, smirking.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Lavellan said, knocking his hand away. “See if I help you score with the redhead in the tavern, asshole.”

“Oh boss, there’s no need to get your fur in a twist,” the Bull crooned and Lavellan snarled at him and stomped off. Bull shook his head. “Never seen a damn thing like that,” he told them. “He might actually be part cat.”

Dorian thought of some of the moves he’d seen Lavellan pull. “It wouldn’t be entirely out of the question,” he admitted.

The Bull eyed him and leered. “Bet he’s pretty flexible, huh?”

Dorian’s face heated but he sneered through it. “Do you ever think of anything besides sex?”

Bull gave the question serious consideration. “Food,” he said. “Dragons.”

“By the Maker,” Dorian said and followed Lavellan’s example in stomping off.

The celebration raged as dusk fell over Haven. Dorian had been enjoying the fringe benefits: people were too drunk and happy to be nasty or wary of him and he was enjoying his drink in peace. He watched the people carousing around him and felt, for the first time in weeks, content. 

Someone dropped by his side. Lavellan knocked a shoulder into his. His casual affection was a shock to Dorian’s system and he shivered a little.

“Cold?” Lavellan asked.

“No,” Dorian said. “Varric’s been plying me with ale. A reward for my service, he says.”

“Varric likes to spoil people,” Lavellan said with warmth. “Especially his friends.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, watching the party. Dorian wondered a little that Lavellan wasn’t down there among them. He’d never really held himself apart from the people—Dorian had watched him scavenge and clean and repair just like his soldiers.

“This is their night,” Lavellan said, answering his unspoken question. Dorian wondered if Varric had been right about him being an open book or if Lavellan was just unusually perceptive. “I don’t want to ruin it.”

“How would you ruin it?”

“Nobody wants to party with Andraste’s chosen watching,” Lavellan said. Under the self-deprecation, there was real pain. “It doesn’t matter that I’m not a herald of anything, that I’m just a ranger from a clan in the Free Marches: to them, I’m a divine prophet, not an elf. Not a person.”

“Lavellan, I don’t think anyone could spend two minutes with you and still think you’re Andraste’s chosen.”

Lavellan’s bark of laughter was loud. “You haven’t met everyone yet,” he said once he recovered. “Some of them are more stubborn than you would believe.”

Dorian thought of Cassandra. “Oh, I believe you,” he said. He hesitated. He wanted to know and he didn’t want to know at the same time. “Will you leave now?”

Lavellan didn’t answer for so long that Dorian wondered if he’d actually said the words out loud.

“I want to,” Lavellan said at last and Dorian’s heart dropped. Ridiculous. “I never wanted to go spy on the Conclave, you know. Fen'nas conned me into doing it. Said it would help our clan, be a boon to our people, blah, blah. It was just boring.” He snorted. “Until it wasn’t.” He leaned back and tilted his head up. “I miss the sea, Dorian. I miss the smell of pine and the deep woods and knowing that I can take as long as I want in them. That there isn’t something urgent needing my attention, some crisis that can only be held up by hands. I want to go home. I want to go back to being the ranger from the Free Marches.”

“You can’t,” Dorian said. When Lavellan said nothing, didn’t even look at him, Dorian sighed. “You can go back to your clan, no doubt. You can even try to slip on that old life. But it won’t fit right, Lavellan. I’m telling you from experience.”

“Oh?”

“I tried to live an ill-fitting life for years,” Dorian said. “There’s only so long you can pretend before it gets too uncomfortable to bear.”

“Why are you so sure that’s the life that won’t fit me right? Why isn’t it this one?”

Dorian almost laughed, though he knew it wouldn’t be the right response. Lavellan fussed and gnashed his teeth, but the simple truth was he was more well-suited for this position than anyone could have dreamed. He knew nothing about politics and even less about diplomacy, he was harsh and glib and stand-offish, and yet he led without trembling, made decisions when everyone around him faltered. Lavellan disliked his role, Dorian had no doubt of that, but there was no denying that he was right person for it.

“It’s not this one,” he said at last, aware of Lavellan’s eyes on him, as he always was. “Trust me on that, Herald.”

Lavellan made a face. “Don’t call me that. Cassandra does it all the time and it drives me up the wall.”

“Cassandra believes it.”

“Do you?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I know I have a healthy ego, but it’s not really up to me to determine if the Maker exists or not.”

“Not that. Do you believe Andraste chose me?”

Dorian considered him. “I believe we were lucky no matter what chose you, Lavellan.”

It was difficult to tell in the dark, but Dorian was fairly sure that Lavellan was blushing. At least he hadn’t completely lost his touch, though there was a time that Dorian would have followed up a line like that with far more aggressive flirting.

He looked down at the crowd below them, in need of distraction. “They’ll party all night, I wager.”

Later, Dorian would be able to laugh about the prophecy of his timing. In the moment, he was too busy being bowled over by the sound of horns and sudden shouting. The dancing died down as people milled around in confusion and Lavellan shot to his feet. Cullen came running.

“An army,” he said as he came skidding to a halt at Lavellan’s side. “There’s an army at our doorstep.

Chapter Text

Lavellan didn’t waste time. He took off running, Dorian and Cullen hot on his heels, for the gate. Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana met them there, all panting. Dorian heard the distant sound of drums, the heavy thump of marching. How had they gotten so close without anyone noticing?

“One watch-guard reporting,” Cullen said as they caught their breath. “A massive force, the bulk over the mountain.” 

“What banner do they fly?” Josephine asked, pen already poised to take the name down.

“None.”

“None?”

“The fuck does that matter?” Lavellan snapped, stalking past them. “I’m going to make a wild guess that they aren’t here to hold hands and skip through a field with us, so let’s move on to the more important question: how do we hand them their asses?”

“Herald we must asertain—“

An explosion rocked the gate and stopped Josephine mid-word. Dorian flinched back, but Lavellan stayed steady on his feet, eyes fixed on the door. He had a knife in one hand, grip tight on the curved hilt.

“I can’t come in unless you open,” someone said from outside.

Their voice was young, plaintative. Lavellan made a considering noise and strode forward. Cassandra and Cullen both started after him, but he threw open the gate doors before they could reach him, revealing a heap of corpses scattered outside their door. One more man was in the process of being cut down as Lavellan stepped out. 

The body dropped to reveal a boy in a wide-brimmed hat. He stepped forward as they rushed out and lifted his head. Dorian recoiled. The boy was hardly remarkable—plain and pale, young. But something about him made Dorian tense. He was wrong. Dorian didn’t know how, but everything in him wanted to pull away.

“I’m Cole,” the boy said. His wide, pale eyes were fixed on Lavellan with preternatural calm. “I came to warn you.”

Lavellan didn’t share Dorian’s wariness. He stepped forward and caught the boy’s chin, holding him still. For a long moment, he turned the boy’s face this way and that, examining him. Cole endured it patiently, making no move to continue using the bloody knife in his limp hand to slice open Lavellan’s guts. Lavellan made a soft sound, something irritated or intrigued, and let go of Cole’s face.

“I’ve never met you,” he said. “Want to give me a hint about why the hell you’d come out here to warn me?”

“To help,” Cole said. “People are coming to hurt you.”

“Yeah,” Lavellan said, glancing over Cole’s shoulder at the lights moving on the mountain opposite theirs. “I already figured that part out, kid.”

“The templars are coming to kill you,” Cole said, voice lowering. “I don’t want them to.”

Dorian shivered. Cole was about as threatening as a wet kitten, but that didn’t stop the gnawing feeling that there was something deadly wrong about him. Dorian itched to reach for his staff, but Lavellan didn’t seem concerned, his stance loose and relaxed. Dorian would trust his judgment of the boy, no matter how wrong he seemed—Lavellan hadn’t been wrong so far.

“Templars?” Cullen asked, stepping forward, waving his sword. Cole flinched and Lavellan gave Cullen an unimpressed stare, stepping between him and the boy. With Lavellan as a barrier, Cole relaxed again. “Is this the response to our alliance with the mages? Attacking blindly?”

“Yes,” Lavellan drawled. “Because that’s so incredibly out of character for them.”

Cullen glared at him. “I know your feelings about the Order,” he said. “But this is beyond unusual. Individual templars may stray, but an army of them? They can’t be sanctioned by the Chantry! It would be madness!”

“The red templars belong to the Elder One,” Cole interrupted before Lavellan could snipe back. “You know him and he knows you. You took his mages.”

“They aren’t his anything,” Lavellan snapped, facing the boy. “They’re people, not possessions.”

“He doesn’t care,” Cole said. “You took them. He’s very angry.” He turned and pointed into the distant darkness, where the lights were congregating on the mountainside. “Look. There."

It was difficult to see, but Dorian could make out a figure there, among the dozens of torches. Lavellan doubtless saw more, with his keen sight, for he drew in a sharp breath. The figure was huge and unnatural—too tall to be human and so gaunt it looked almost skeletal. Dorian shivered. He knew what Cole was going to say before he said it.

“That’s him. The Elder One.”

“The trebuchets can hold them off,” Cullen said as they convened an emergency meeting at the gate. Dorian held back, trying to listen without looking like he was. “We’ll bring the mountain down on top of them, stop their advance before they get close. There’s a reason we chose Haven. It may not be a fortress, but if we can control the battlefield we can stop their approach.”

Lavellan leaned against the gate, arms crossed over his chest, green eyes cool and considering. He’d listened carefully as each of his advisors laid out the difficulties facing them and their possible solutions. Josephine had outlined how aid from their noble allies would come too late, though they could possibly use their connections to find a new base to retreat to; Leliana had briefed them on the reports her scouts continued to bring in about the movements of the enemy troops, beginning an analysis of potential weaknesses to exploit. Lavellan had listened to it all in silence. He’d retreated into the mode Dorian had seen him use in the future that could have been, a hard iciness that revealed little of what was going on beneath the surface. 

“We need a better plan,” he said after Cullen finished. “The way things are right now, they’ll slaughter us.”

He thought for a long moment as all of his advisors watched. Dorian was struck, not for the first time, by how often Lavellan’s choices were looked for, how often the others didn't just bend to his orders, but actively asked for them. He remembered Bull saying something not too long ago about Lavellan’s natural leadership—it had never been clearer than in this moment when three competent people with their own strong opinions and strategies waited with baited breath for Lavellan’s decision before moving forward. It was humbling. But Dorian also saw, very clearly, how the Inquisition had faltered without Lavellan there to guide the helm in that dark future.

At last, Lavellan nodded to himself and straightened. Dorian wondered if he noticed how the others straightened with him, poised to execute his orders the moment they were said. Considering it was Lavellan, probably not.

“Okay,” he said. “Cullen, send the soldiers out to load up the trebuchets as quickly as possible. Leliana, have your people do whatever they can to delay the troops coming up the mountain. We need time, and lots of it. But don’t let them attack directly—they’ll get their asses kicked. Guerilla warfare only, got it?” Leliana nodded, folding her arms over her chest. “Josephine, anyone who can’t fight needs to be put somewhere safe and fortifiable until this is over. If the enemy gets in, those gates won’t hold them off. Begin an evacuation of Haven. Tell the townspeople to leave the shit they don't need behind. Weapons are a priority, not knickknacks.”

Josephine had started to write the moment Lavellan began talking—as he paused to look at her, she finished with a little flourish and inclined her head.

“Where shall we bring them, Your Worship?” she asked.

Lavellan made a face at the title. “The templars are blocking our only path out of Haven. We need to stash them here somewhere.” He thought for a moment. “Send them to the Chantry. It’s our best bet.”

“Most fortifiable,” Cullen agreed, nodding. "Good choice."

It was odd. Only a week ago—Maker, ten minutes ago!—Cullen and Lavellan had been at each other’s throats over their difference of opinion on mages and templars, but now they worked together so smoothly it was if they were long-time companions.

“Thanks,” Lavellan said. He surveyed them all. “Look, Leliana’s scouts have red templars at our doorsteps in under an hour.” He smirked, scar pulling his lip to give it a savage edge. “Let’s give them a welcome they won’t forget, yeah?"

Josephine and Leliana nodded, echoing his smile, and hurried off in opposite directions immediately, running at top speed. Cullen lingered, inspecting Lavellan. Lavellan met his gaze squarely.

“Yes, Commander?”

“What will you do?” Cullen asked.

“What I do best,” Lavellan said, straight shoulders slumping. “Get into trouble.”

It set Dorian’s teeth on edge to see that weariness in Lavellan again. He’d stepped back into his role without complaint or hesitation, but the bright smiles and unfettered joy of the afternoon had shuttered enough to almost disappear completely. Now that he knew what had been missing, it was nearly unbearable to watch Lavellan like this, slumped and miserable. Cullen clapped a hand on Lavellan’s shoulder, face softening.

“We’ll keep them safe,” he said. “Just do the same for yourself.”

Without another word, he hurried down the path outside, presumably to oversee troop movement. Dorian expected Lavellan to leave as well, but he turned and looked directly at Dorian's hiding spot, arching his eyebrows. Dorian shrugged, stepping out of his place in the near shadows without a hint of shame. They really should stop holding these presumably secret meetings in the open.

“I’ll be on the front lines,” Lavellan said, not bothering with a reprimand or even a stern look for the eavesdropping. “Want to come with?”

“To the battlefield full of what appears to be crazed templars imbued with red lyrium and a strange being that may or may not be a god leading the way?”

Lavellan offered him a grin full of teeth. “Yeah,” he said. “Sounds like fun, right?”

“For a given value of fun.”

Dorian’s protests meant nothing, though he was sure Lavellan didn’t know that. The thought of sending out Lavellan into that fray without being able to watch over him made Dorian feel almost physically ill. When this was over, if they were all still alive, Dorian would spare time to worry about why that was. For now, he simply accepted that the only way he was leaving Lavellan alone was if he asked Dorian to stay behind. And even then he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it.

Damn his soft heart.

“I’ll come,” he said. To keep his pride, he added, “But I’ll complain the whole time.”

“Not what men usually say to me,” Lavellan murmured and Dorian choked on a laugh.

Instead of joining the troops immediately, they made their way back through Haven. Lavellan stopped to have a short conversation with Bull and a longer one with Solas, who both nodded and sped away, apparently given their own orders. They swung by the tavern to speak with Sera, who raced away laughing, and Dorian watched at a respectable distance as Lavellan had brief chats with Vivienne and a bearded man who had to be Blackwall. Dorian was reminded a little of a school teacher counting heads after a trip outside. Lavellan swung back to the gates after he was done. Dorian was unsurprised to find Cassandra and Varric waited for them. Varric’s unusual bow was already out and strung over his shoulders as they approached.

“Just when I thought things calmed down around here,” he said. “You know Spitfire, I used to think Hawke was the only person who attracted this much trouble.”

“Well, it’s no army of Qunari,” Lavellan said, affecting modesty as he led them outside into the dark and cold. Soldiers tramped around them, shouting orders and making preparations.

“Yet. You never expect the army of Qunari.”

“We must focus,” Cassandra said. As usual, her expression was closed off and grim. Dorian didn’t think she ever smiled. “The soldiers and mages are falling into position as we speak.”

A scout came running out of the tree line, skidding to a halt in front of Lavellan. “They’re coming up through the forest,” he told Lavellan, panting. “Small groups. All templars, but like none I’ve ever seen.”

“They’ve been corrupted by red lyrium,” Leliana said from behind their group. She had her bow as well and it gave Dorian a strange mix of déjà vu and nausea to see it. He’d already seen Leliana die once—he didn’t want to see it again. “I’m afraid Cullen was right to be worried about Therinfal Redoubt.” She nodded to Lavellan. “My scouts have collected as much information as possible from the ones they’ve killed.”

“We’ll worry about where they came from and what they are later,” Lavellan said, unsheathing his knives. “For now, let’s make it through the night, yeah?”

They readied themselves. The trebuchets were not in position yet and it was clear that they would need to hold off the initial invasion long enough to set them in place. Dorian cleared his head and reached for his magic, body warming.

The first red templars crested the hill.

Cassandra was already gone, screaming a war cry that attracted the templars to her like flies to a corpse. They swarmed her and she beat them off with her lion-gilted shield. An arrow whistled past her and then another—Dorian glanced over to see Varric concentrating, Bianca braced against his shoulder, and fired his own volley of fireballs. More templars came running and Dorian gritted his teeth, reaching deeper for his magic.

Lavellan slid in at Cassandra’s side and she turned, putting them back to back. Their fighting styles could not have been more dissimilar—Cassandra was powerful and forceful, strokes bold and forthright, while Lavellan moved like the water, effortless as a dance, uncatchable as smoke. But they formed a complete circle of deadliness: no templar could get close enough to touch them.

Dorian knew the others were fighting as well—he could hear soldiers yelling, screaming, the harsh grate of metal on metal; he could feel the blasts of wild, unrefined Southern magic. When he had a chance, he sent backup their way, but there was hardly a moment to breathe until the onslaught was over.

“Not bad, Sparkler,” Varric told him once the last templar fell. He slung Bianca back over his shoulders and grinned up at Dorian. “Never seen you in combat before. You’ve got style.”

“I’d prefer to be called fabulously impressive, but I’ll take the compliment,” Dorian said.

He leaned on his staff, watching as soldiers began going over the bodies, picking out bits and pieces from their pockets and pulling the corpses away from the trebuchets. A templar had managed to knick his thigh before Dorian blasted him with a fireball and that leg was beginning to buckle under his weight. Lavellan and Cassandra rejoined them. Cassandra was ruffled but unwinded and Lavellan wore a fox’s grin, turned menacing by his scar. He flipped his knives in an impressive display of dexterity, twirling them so quickly and effortlessly that they were just flashes of red and silver in his hands.

Varric whistled. “Showy,” he said with approval. “I know you didn’t learn that chasing bears in the woods.”

“Ostwick,” Lavellan said, throwing the knives up and catching them at their hilts before sliding them smoothly into their sheaths. “My clan didn’t always live in the woods, you know.”

A soldier in dented, bloody armor approached. She took off her helmet, shaking out thick hair matted with even more blood and revealing an impressive black eye. As Lavellan turned toward her she gave him a smart salute, helmet under her arm. Lavellan grimaced but said nothing to stop her.

“The trebuchet’s in position, Herald,” she said.

“Fire,” Lavellan said with relish. “Bastards ruined my favorite armor.”

The guard blinked, but turned to give the order. The trebuchet went into motion, shooting formidable boulders into the far mountain. They heard yelling and screams as the hit triggered an avalanche, taking down swathes of the enemy. A cheer rose up in their group. Lavellan straightened and winced.

Dorian frowned, looking him over more closely. It was more difficult to see in the dark, but the torches were bright enough to make out the slash through the leather that protected Lavellan’s ribs. The comment about his armor made sense now. Dorian frowned at the cut. There was definitely dried blood surrounding it. Dorian reached out, but Lavellan slapped his hand away before he could touch.

“It’s fine,” he told Dorian, taking a step away to ensure that Dorian couldn’t examine him. “Barely even knicked me.”

Dorian wanted to believe him, but he’d seen Lavellan in fights too many times by now. Lavellan fought with a ferocity that outstripped the natural limits of his body—he battled through injuries and hits that would take down other men with a single-minded focus. He always seemed to regard any injury that wasn’t life-threatening as inconsequential. Dorian wished obliquely for Solas, who was the only person Dorian had seen Lavellan submit to for healing, even if it he struggled half the time and leaped away the moment Solas was done.

Someone came running up the dark path, yelling. They all tensed, but it was only another scout.

“There’s something wrong,” she gasped. She was covered in blood too and her thin scout’s armor was torn in several places. “The other trebuchet, it’s not moving at all!”

Lavellan rolled his shoulders. “Better take a look,” he said. He turned to the soldier from earlier. She was probably the leader of this little band though none of them wore anything to set them apart as far as Dorian could tell. “More will be coming. Can you hold this down until we return?”

The soldier snapped off another salute, back straightening, chest puffing out. “Yes, Your Worship.”

Lavellan looked at her and smiled. “Give ‘em hell, Reeves.”

The soldier was covered in muck and grime and blood, probably exhausted from the fight, but she suddenly looked electrified and awake. She bowed deeply. Lavellan rubbed at his neck but he said nothing about it, turning away. He didn’t see Reeves straighten and watch him go, or the way she murmured his name like a prayer.

Dorian and the others hurried after him into the darkness and cold, passing more soldiers and scouts lying in wait for any approach by the enemy. The other trebuchet wasn’t far, barely half a mile, and they covered the distance quickly.

“You know that kid, Spitfire?” Varric asked as they ran.

He seemed oddly comfortable talking while running, but given what Dorian had read about Kirkwall and the exploits of Hawke’s companions, maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised by that.

“A little. Cullen thinks she has promise. I watch the recruits sometimes when I’m with the blacksmith.”

“You spend a lot of time there.”

Lavellan shrugged. “I like making things.”

“Quiet,” Cassandra said. “The enemy may be close.”

Varric made a face but fell silent without further protest. They turned a bend and the trebuchet came into sight. It was unmanned and clearly in some sort of disrepair. Varric and Lavellan stooped to inspect it and exchanged glances, speaking entirely through raised eyebrows. Lavellan huffed and shuffled back to let Varric take a closer look.

“There’s just something wrong with the mechanism,” Varric called over his shoulder as he stooped lower to look. “It’s twisted.” He leaned back. “It’s too far in for me to reach it.”

“Here, I’ll—“ Lavellan reached over Varric, deep into the mechanism, and Dorian heard something creak. “Let’s try it now.”

They didn’t get a chance—more figures loomed out of the darkness and this time they were actually red templars. Dorian raised a wall of fire automatically, giving them precious seconds to get their bearings before the new wave was on them. Lavellan yelled out something hoarse and elvhen as he sprang into action, twisting his body until he became a blur of knives and hair. Cassandra was right behind him, pummeling a red templar in the face with the hilt of her sword and swinging her shield up to decapitate another in a single fluid motion.

“Sometimes I forget how terrifying they are,” Varric muttered to Dorian as he readied an arrow.

The group this time was smaller and weaker, easily dealt with. Dorian wiped sweat from his forehead as Lavellan made his way back to the trebuchet after the enemy had been cleared out, collecting a thrown knife enroute. It took some time and some words that Dorian knew were swears even though Lavellan said them in elvhen, but eventually the trebuchet was facing the right way, ready to be put to use.

Lavellan grinned as he fired it into the mountainside. The rumble of an avalanche was clear and even in the darkness, they saw another swath of the enemy come down. A ragged cheer rose up on their side of the mountain and Dorian thought they might just make it through the night intact.

Then the shriek, excruciating and shrill. Dorian cringed, but Lavellan’s head came up, vigilant as a bloodhound. They heard movement in the sky, the heavy beating of giant wings, before a dragon crested the mountain, sweeping over their heads like a dark storm. It shrieked again and Dorian’s ears rang. He exchanged a horrified look with Varric.

“Fuck,” Varric said. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He reached over and tugged hard on Lavellan’s arm. “Lavellan! That’s a fucking dragon!”

Lavellan shot him a look. “I noticed, Varric!” He shook his head, turning back to track the dragon’s movement through the sky. “It’s going to land.” They waited, tense and breathless until Lavellan let out a hissed breath. “Back to Haven. Now!”

They took off running. Streams of soldiers joined their exodus to Haven’s gate, yelling and screaming. Just before they reached it, Lavellan took a sharp right. Dorian didn't realize why until they came upon Harritt trying to beat his own door down. The blacksmith’s house was going up in flames.

“Damn thing,” Harritt said, shaking out his hands. “Kai, please, there’s something I need—“

Lavellan didn’t hesitate. He lifted a foot and smashed it into the burning wood, breaking the door to pieces in a wave of sparks. Harritt spared him a thankful nod and ducked into the house. Lavellan waited until he emerged with something wrapped in cloth before they continued their journey to the gate. Dorian risked a glance back and wished he hadn’t—red templars were beginning to crest the hill they’d vacated.

“Go, go, go!” Lavellan roared and Dorian ducked his head as he ran through the gate with the last of the guards.

For a moment, he thought Lavellan would do something monumentally stupid like stay behind—but no, there he was, ducking in with Cullen, throwing the heavy doors closed behind them. They had precious little time. Wooden doors wouldn’t keep that lot out for longer than a few moments, but every moment counted.

“Get everyone who’s left outside to the Chantry,” Lavellan told Cullen, wiping some blood off his cheek with an irritated snarl. “It’s the only place here that will hold them off.”

Cullen seemed shaken. “Lavellan, they have—“

“Just do it!”

Cullen regained his composure and hurried off, yelling. Lavellan took two short breaths. During battle part of his intricate braids had come undone, unraveling over his shoulder in a spill of dark red. It took Lavellan less than a minute to shake his hair out and pull it back in a bun high off of his neck. He looked imposing with his hair gathered tight off his face, exposing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the vulnerable curve of his neck. His eyes seemed bigger, brighter in the dim light.

“We’re the last defense,” he told them, mouth a stern, hard line. “There are still people out here. Our job is to get everyone in that fucking building or die trying, understand?”

Varric saluted. “Got it, boss.”

“Understood,” Cassandra said, nodding.

“I, for one, would prefer not to die,” Dorian said. “Let’s try to skip that part, yes?”

Lavellan’s mouth twitched. “I’ll see what I can do, Pavus.” A heavy thump against the gate made it groan. “Let’s go.”

They swept into a wave of fire and screaming. Red templars had managed to invade before the gate closed and were trying to butcher their way through those unlucky enough to be caught outside of the Chantry’s sanctuary. Cassandra and Varric leaped to someone’s assistance just as Dorian heard a scream for help the opposite way. He and Lavellan exchanged glances then took off running.

One of the houses was in flames. Someone inside was yelling for help. Dorian thought he vaguely recognized the voice, but he hadn’t really been with the Inquisition long enough to meet everyone. Lavellan took a second to examine the door and shook his head.

“Blocked,” he said. “We’ll have to find another way in.”

“Another way in?” Dorian asked.

Lavellan did a sweep of the house and he pointed to the roof. “There.”

Dorian looked from Lavellan to the roof and back again. There was a hole in the roof, but it was surrounded by flames—not to mention dozens of feet from the ground.

“And how would you propose we get up there?” he asked. “Climb up the side?”

Another yell from the house. Lavellan gave Dorian a look and then huffed, rubbing his hands together and shaking his body loose. Dorian stared.

“You’re not seriously going to scale the building,” he said.

He’d do Lavellan do many impressive things, but there was no way—

“Of course not,” Lavellan said, giving Dorian a frankly unnecessarily disdainful side-eye. “I’m going to climb that ladder, like a normal person.”

He pointed. Dorian hadn’t noticed the abandoned guard outpost, but he had to admit it wasn’t a terrible plan. Lavellan rolled his shoulders back, gave his body one last shake, and started pulling himself up the rungs.

“Dorian,” he called down over his shoulder. “If I die, you’d better tell everyone I was fighting hundreds of red templars.”

“Try not to die,” Dorian said, watching his ascent. “I’ve been told I’ve a terrible poker face.”

Lavellan laughed, wry. “Better stay alive to protect my image then,” he said and pulled himself up on the wooden walkway.

Dorian watched, heart in his throat. At the end of the walkway was a narrow wooden beam that connected to the burning house’s crumbling roof. Lavellan stepped onto it as calmly as he might have walked across a wide street. Dorian could barely watch as he marched across it, one foot in front of the other, nimble and confident as a cat. Then, to Dorian’s shock and at the expense of his health, Lavellan had the gall to simply jump through the hole in the roof into the burning house below without hesitation.

“Kaffas,” Dorian swore and moved forward.

The door was blocked, as Lavellan had said, impossible to budge and hot to the touch. Dorian bit the inside of his cheek hard, waiting. Lavellan was capable and competent—surely he’d be able to get himself free? Surely he had some kind of plan beyond jumping into the burning building? This was hardly the kind of end the Herald of Andraste deserved.

No movement. Aside from the crackling of flames, the house was quiet. Even the earlier yelling had stopped.

Dorian swore again and sent a sweeping column of ice at the door. His strength had always been fire magic, so the spell was too weak to actually conjure any ice, but it cooled the wood enough that he could touch it without burning his hand. He took a step forward, prepared to try and smash it open, blockage be damned, when the door exploded outward, sending sparks and wood flying. Dorian ducked just in time.

Lavellan stumbled out, holding another villager under his arm. They were both covered in soot and coughing. Dorian recognized the man who ran Haven’s single shop, though it was difficult under all the grime on him. Lavellan got him steady and took him by the shoulders.

“Can you make it to the Chantry on your own?” he asked, looking directly into the man’s eyes. “I’ve got to see if there’s anyone else out here.”

The man coughed. “Yes, Your Worship,” he said and took off running when Lavellan released him.

Lavellan watched until he faded into the darkness, then turned back to Dorian. “The ice thing was you?”

“Yes.”

Lavellan clapped him hard on the shoulder. “Not bad. I couldn't touch those boxes blocking the door until you did that.”

Dorian resented the way he wanted to glow from that praise. He was used to being independent and confident to the point of arrogance—sure, there had been a time when he was very young where he had yearned so desperately for his father’s approval he would have said or done anything to get it, but that time had long since passed. Dorian made his way through the world not needing approval or praise from anyone and he liked it that way.

But Lavellan’s praise made something warm travel through his chest. Dorian stamped it down as they made their way back to the center of Haven, on the lookout for rogue templars. It was just nice to be appreciated after weeks of being regarded as an evil Tevinter out for blood. That was all. That was all. 

Varric and Cassandra rejoined them near the gate, reporting that they had rescued Lysette from a templar attack and sent her ahead to the Chantry as well. They had also cleared out a group of red templars who, as far as they could see, was the last of the enemy to have made it inside before the gate was closed.

“Good work,” Lavellan said and Dorian was relieved to see that his words made both Cassandra and Varric straighten. At least it wasn’t just him. “Let’s sweep the town one last time—there might be others trapped out here.”

The town was mostly deserted, but they ran a few other townspeople wailing for help—the barkeep from the tavern, who Lavellan helped narrowly avoid a falling beam, the potions master and a woman Dorian vaguely thought did research with animal parts who were both helped to their feet and escorted away moments before the house they had collapsed by exploded. And Threnn as well, whose fate fighting a surprise group of templars near the Chantry might not have been good if Lavellan hadn’t intervened.

The Chantry was a beacon of light in the darkness and Dorian very badly wanted to go inside and pretend all of this wasn’t happening. But he waited as Lavellan scoped out the area, checking for any final townspeople. They all heard the gate creak and moan, the war cries of the templars gathering outside their gate. The enemy was upon them. Dorian’s heart climbed to his throat.

“Go,” Lavellan said at last and herded them inside, closing the doors behind him just as they heard the gate give another mighty creak. They had moments before Haven was overrun at best.

Inside, the Chantry was full to the bursting. Many of the townspeople were kneeling in prayer, while others tried their best to help those wounded in the attack. As Lavellan entered, heads went up, following his progress with hungry devotion. They looked at Lavellan as if he was their last, final hope, the key to their salvation. Dorian bristled, but Lavellan didn’t seem to notice, too focused on finding his way to Cullen. Dorian, Varric, and Cassandra followed close behind.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian noticed the boy Cole dragging in a pale, bleeding Chancellor Roderick. The man looked ready to pass out at any moment as they limped by.

“He tried to stop a templar,” Cole told them, settling him against a nearby wall. “The blade deep. He’ll die soon.”

“What a charming boy,” Roderick said faintly.

Cullen was nearby. He turned as they approached, solemn and hard-mouthed.

“We can’t hold them off like this forever,” Lavellan said, stopping in front of him and crossing his arms.

“No,” Cullen agreed. “We can’t. Our position now is not good. Whatever time you earned us, that… that thing destroyed it.”

They exchanged a long speaking look. Lavellan’s mouth thinned and Cullen rubbed at his eyes.

“He’ll kill everyone in Haven,” Cullen said, beginning to pace. “We can’t hold them off.”

“He doesn’t care about the villagers,” Cole told them from where he squatted next to Roderick. “He only wants the Herald.”

Silence reigned. Cullen looked startled, then grim. Cassandra made a soft, pained noise. Lavellan’s face showed nothing at all. Dorian looked between them all, incredulous, and stepped forward.

“You can’t seriously be thinking about—“

Lavellan said something in elvhen, cutting him off. When he noticed their odd looks, he snorted and rubbed a hand over the fuzz on his skull.

“What is, is,” he translated. “Fen’nas always tried to beat that into me growing up, but I don’t think I ever understood it until coming here. She would be proud.”

Varric, at least, looked as horrified as Dorian felt. “Kid, you can’t give yourself to that thing. It’ll kill you!”

Lavellan closed his eyes as if he were in pain. “If it wants me, it'll leave the rest of you alone."

Dorian hissed out a breath. What kind of self-sacrificing idiot was he?

“It won’t,” Cole said, stopping them all. Lavellan opened his eyes again, focusing on the boy. “He wants to kill you--no one else matters--but he’ll crush everyone else too.” Cole paused. “I don’t like him."

Lavellan’s laugh could barely be called that, a rough sound on the edge of hysteria. He reached over and patted Cole’s hat.

“I don’t like him either, kid,” he said.

“Herald,” Cullen said. His voice was full of forced calm. “There are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. All we can do is turn the remaining trebuchet and cause one last slide.”

Lavellan was silent for a long moment.

“And bury Haven?" he asked, incredulous. "We wouldn't survive that, Cullen."

"We won't survive either way." Cullen inclined his head. “We’re dying, but we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.”

Dorian couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That’s not acceptable,” he said. “I didn’t join up just to get rocks dropped on my head!”

“And what should we do, Master Pavus?” Cullen said, whirling on him. Dorian flinched back from the sheer fury on Cullen’s face. “Let that thing kill us?”

“Dying is typically the last resort, not first!” Dorian fired back, his own rage beginning to build. There were dozens of people here and Cullen was willing to sacrifice them all just to get the enemy too? “For a templar, you think like a blood mage!”

Cullen started toward him, but Lavellan shoved himself between them. His face was still but his eyes blazed.

“These people put their trust in me,” he snapped. “I don’t want it. I’ve never wanted it. But I’ll be damned if I repay it by murdering them. There has to be another way.”

Cullen’s hands clenched into fists. “Kai—“

“Give me another way, Cullen,” Lavellan said, fury fading to pain. “They may have made me a herald, but I won’t be their judge and jury too. Not if we can save them instead.”

Cullen’s frustration was palpable. “This is the only—“

“Chancellor Roderick can help,” Cole interrupted. “He wants to say it before he dies.”

They all turned to Roderick, who looked like he was getting weaker by the second. He struggled to sit up under their attention and coughed.

“There is a path,” Roderick said, mostly to Lavellan. “You wouldn’t know it unless you made the summer pilgrimage as I have.” He stood up, tilting until Cole ducked under his arm, keeping him upright. “The people can escape. She must have shown me. Andraste must have shown me so I could tell you.”

Lavellan stepped forward and grasped Roderick’s elbow, helping Cole keep him upright.

“What are you on about, Roderick?”

“So many died at the Conclave,” Roderick said. “I may be the only one left who remembers. A path through the mountains, a way out.” He laughed, almost to himself. “If this small memory can help save these people, perhaps it was no mere accident. Perhaps you are no accident.”

Lavellan snarled at him. “Don’t put me on a pedestal now, old man. I’m the same as I’ve always been.”

Dorian flinched back, startled by his honest and sudden fury, but Roderick wasn’t discouraged at all. He looked at Lavellan like he had just solved a long and complicated puzzle.

“Yes,” Roderick said. “The person we needed, exactly when we needed him.”

For a long moment they stared at each other. Lavellan was the first to look away, releasing his grip on Roderick and turning back to Cullen, a clear dismissal.

“An avalanche might bring down that army, but rocks won’t kill a fucking archdemon,” he said.

“It will buy us time,” Cullen said thoughtfully. He seemed calmer now that they had a plan. “Enough to make our way further into the mountains, at least. Can you do it?”

“Make a big old distraction for you to run away?” Lavellan asked, raising his eyebrows. “Of course. Distractions are half of my skillset, you know.”

Cullen nodded, satisfied. “I’ll begin the evacuation then. But what of your escape?”

Another long silence. Dorian looked at Lavellan, but he was staring steadily at Cullen, whose expression turned grim once more. Dorian didn’t know why until he realized; if Lavellan were to stay behind to set off the trebuchet, he’d be caught in the blast of the avalanche, if he wasn’t killed by the Elder One and his pet dragon first. There was no way he would make it out in time. No, Dorian thought, his own heart dropping. No, no, no.

“Perhaps you will surprise it,” Cullen said at last, so weary that Dorian knew he didn’t believe it himself. “Find a way.”

“Cullen,” Lavellan said, kind but firm. “I don’t believe in false promises. We both know that I won’t be leaving Haven tonight.”

“Herald—“

“You brought me in to be your savior,” Lavellan said and the condemnation, the helpless rage was gone, replaced entirely by practicality. “How did Leliana put it? A beacon in the darkness. I have yelled and fought and tried to scratch my way out of it, but it looks like I was doomed the moment I shook Cassandra’s hand.” Lavellan shook his head and repeated softly, “What is, is." He looked at Cullen with steady, unflinching eyes. "The least you can do is make sure I don’t die in vain, Commander.”

Cullen’s hands clenched and released. He cleared his throat. Without another word, he turned abruptly and gave a series of terse orders to the nearby soldiers, who all looked over his shoulder at Lavellan for confirmation. When Lavellan nodded, the Chantry became a flurry of movement as civilians and the wounded were herded away first. Cole turned to lead Roderick away, but he resisted.

“Herald,” he rasped out. Lavellan tensed. “If you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this… I pray for you.”

“You waste your prayers, old man,” Lavellan said without looking at him. “If your Maker hears them, he’s not going to bother with a heathen like me.” He paused and Dorian wondered if he would leave it there. “If you want to help me, pray to my gods, Roderick,” he said at last. “The gods of the forest and the halla, of mysteries and knowledge.” He bared his teeth. “Of darkness and the hunt. I need them more than ever tonight.”

Roderick coughed out a laugh. “You truly are a heathen,” he said. “And yet, the fact that you are our savior is clearer than ever. The Maker has a sense of humor.” He inclined his head. “Perhaps I will pray to your gods as well, Herald. We need all the help we can get tonight.”

Lavellan watched as Cole led Roderick away and shook his head. “Funny little man,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Dorian looked at Cassandra and Varric. Cassandra shook her head and Varric made a tiny gesture to Dorian, frowning. Dorian looked from them to the Herald and sighed, stepping forward as soldiers rushed past them.

“Are you sure about this?” he murmured. Lavellan didn’t turn his head, watching the soldiers as they loaded several weak patients onto stretchers. “Herald. Lavellan. If you bring down an avalanche, you’ll…”

Dorian couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, the idea too horrible to even think about. He remembered Lavellan this afternoon—Maker, had it just been this afternoon?—tumbling and freewheeling with joy, alight and untouchable. This hard-eyed man in front of him couldn’t be more different and Dorian’s soft heart ached. Lavellan had given up much to see this through, to give the world a fighting chance. He should be able to go back to the forest and the sea, to walk without worry once more. 

“When I was twelve, my mother died,” Lavellan said. His voice was soft, far-away. “A fever. I spent weeks looking after her, trying to keep her from wasting away. I couldn’t stop it, of course. She lost pieces of herself at a time until, in the end, she wasn’t the woman who’d raised me and loved me. She was just a ghost, clinging to life.”

He turned. His eyes were shards of green glass, opaque and sharp-edged. The stillness in his face was harder to bear than any anger or misery. He looked as if he had died already. Dorian wanted to reach out and touch him, offer some comfort, meager as it may be, but somewhere in his animal hindbrain, he sensed that touching Lavellan now would be a mistake as surely as a mouse knew to flee from a hawk. He withdrew instead, staying silent.

“I vowed if I could ever choose it, I would die cleanly,” Lavellan said. “Quickly. Cullen was right—not everyone gets a choice. I might as well make the most of mine.”

He watched them, unreadable and untouchable. Dorian’s heart felt tender, as if it might burst if anyone dared applied more pressure.

“Kid…” Varric said, so gently that Dorian almost closed his eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”

Lavellan offered him an empty, humorless smile. “I didn’t think you’d mind much, Tethras,” he said. “Didn’t you tell me once there’s nothing better for a story than a tragic death?”

Varric’s eyes narrowed. “Kid—“

“Don’t,” Lavellan said. “Unless you want to tell me there’s someone else who can do it?” Varric opened his mouth, closed it again. Lavellan shook his head. “That’s what I thought. This is my burden to carry. You three should go.”

Dorian’s mouth dropped. “Go?” he asked, incredulous.

“Yeah. I’m a big boy, I can turn a trebuchet by myself.”

“The gates have fallen,” Cassandra said. She didn’t sound concerned, but her eyes tracked Lavellan’s every movement. “The village is likely being overrun with red templars as we speak. You will not get far on your own."

“Much as I hate to agree with Cassandra, she’s got a point,” Varric said. “You’re good, but there’s no way you can make your way through that hoarde by yourself.” He paused and added, more softly, “Let us help you.”

Lavellan’s smirk was flashy, empty. “You really think I need you guys around? I can handle a few templars.”

Dorian squared his shoulders. “You don’t really expect us to run off and leave you alone, do you?”

“You shouldn’t—“

“Like hell I shouldn’t!”

Dorian’s shout attracted startled looks and earned him a long stare from Lavellan as his casual expression finally cracked. Dorian shifted uneasily under his eyes. He didn’t want to die, of course, and this entire adventure was definitely a suicide mission. But Dorian imagined leaving, tramping up the mountain with the rest of the villagers, and panic threatened to overwhelm him. Last time Lavellan had been stuck in impossible circumstances, Dorian had been there to help him escape certain death. He knew it was irrational, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that if he stayed, if he was with Lavellan, watching and helping, then maybe…

“I’d put it a little more eloquently, but I’ve got to agree with Sparkler here.”

Dorian glanced down at Varric. Behind him, Cassandra crossed her arms over her chest with an impressive glower.

“I insist on coming as well,” she said. “You do stupid things when I am not watching you.”

“I never do stupid things,” Lavellan said, comeback more reflex than anything. He glanced between the three of them with a wrinkled brow. “You know this is doomed, right? All we’re doing is buying time for the others to get out.”

“Than there is nothing doomed about it,” Cassandra said firmly.

Lavellan flinched and shook his head. “I can’t stop you,” he said at last, obviously unhappy about it. “You’re sure?”

They chorused a yes as Cullen came striding back. He cast long looks at them, but addressed Lavellan directly, shoulders very straight.

“The soldiers are preparing the last of the trebuchets,” he said. “We’ll send a signal when everyone has been safely evacuated—you must hold them off until then.” Lavellan nodded. Cullen reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. “Kai,” he said, voice tight. “If we are to make it—if you are to make it… Let that thing hear you.”

Lavellan’s grin was bloodthirsty and keen, full of teeth. “Oh,” he said. “They’ll all hear me.”

Haven was overrun with red templars when they left the Chantry, as Cassandra had predicted. They were exhausting enemies—a combination of devastating attacks and impressive defense made them formidable and difficult to kill. By the time they made it to the final trebuchet, all four of them were battered and sorely in need of an extended rest.

Cassandra had taken the brunt of the damage. Her golden armor was badly dented and she had a long bloody gash down her cheek where a templar had barely missed her eye. Lavellan wasn’t much better—his face was covered in blood, though most of it wasn’t his, and he limped badly from a wound in his thigh fastened off with a hasty tourniquet. Despite that, they led Varric and Dorian at a full run into the clearing where the final trebuchet was stationed.

The trebuchet wasn’t properly aligned when they arrived—it had been abandoned mid-process during the evacuation, still facing the mountain that was now empty of enemy templars. Lavellan stepped forward to turn it just as another group of templars came running down a nearby hill. Varric groaned.

“How many of these guys are there?” he muttered as he readied another arrow.

“Keep them away from the Herald,” Cassandra warned. “Firing that trebuchet is the top priority.”

They nodded and threw themselves into battle. Without Lavellan helping it was significantly more difficult, but they managed. Cassandra, in the thick of things as always, took a blow to the shoulder that made her gasp in pain. Dorian looked over and winced—clearly dislocated, even through the armor. Cassandra merely snarled and switched her sword to her other arm, abandoning her shield. Dorian had honestly never met a more terrifying person.

Varric had run out of arrows at some point and resorted to the knives he kept tucked on his person and a variety of smoke bombs. He wasn’t as proficient with them as Lavellan, but someone had clearly taught him some special tricks. Dorian, on the other hand, was getting dangerously low on magic with very few tricks left up his sleeve. He tried to blast a fireball but he was left with only a puff of smoke just as a templar bore down upon him, sword raised, red eyes glinting. Dorian braced his staff, ready to try and defend against the blow when someone hollered at his left and tackled the templar into the snow.

Lavellan slit the templar’s throat quickly and rolled back to his feet, springing up. His knee buckled and ruined the overall grace of the movement, but he smirked as he turned to Dorian.

“Trebuchet’s in position,” he said, pointing. “Let’s clear these bastards out.”

Dorian glanced back. The trebuchet only needed the final turn to unlock it and send an avalanche hurtling toward Haven. He swallowed—if they ran very fast, they might escape the majority of the disaster, but it was likely all of them would be caught in the blast. He put the thought to the back of his mind as a huge red templar came rumbling down the hill. They had to survive this battle first. 

They cleared out the rest of the templars and their menacing leader more easily with Lavellan back in the fray, but it still took a harrowing ten minutes to get rid of them all. Haven was eerily quiet when the battle was over, empty of everyone except the four of them. They came back together near the trebuchet. As they watched, Lavellan tucked his knives away, breathing heavily. During the fight his tourniquet had unraveled and his thigh was soaked with blood. 

“Go,” Lavellan said.

They stared at him. “I’m sorry?” Dorian asked, hand tightening around his staff until the wood creaked.

Lavellan snarled at them, wild-eyed. “Go, you idiots! We don't need three people to set this thing off and you can make it to the others before I trigger it. I let you come this far, but you’re not staying for this.”

Dorian hissed through gritted teeth. “You can’t seriously expect us to abandon you here!”

“Yeah, I can! You did your part, you got me here! But there’s no point in all of us dying when only one of us has to! This Elder One guy is my responsibility, Haven is my responsibility, so this is my job.”

“Herald—“ Cassandra tried.

“Kid—“

“I said,” Lavellan said in the tone that made scouts and soldiers jerk to attention, “get your asses to safety right the fuck now.” When none of them moved, he snarled again and rubbed a hand hard over his face, unheeding of the still-wet blood on it. After a moment, he released a long, shaky breath and said, without looking at them, “I’ve been responsible for too many people’s deaths already. I won’t be responsible for yours too.”

Cassandra stepped back as if surprised. Varric opened his mouth, but Dorian beat him to it.

“You’re not responsible for us,” he snapped. “Besides, what happened to having agency over our death? I’m choosing. Better to die here than be sacrificed to a demon army in the future.”

Lavellan flinched and pulled his hands away from his face at last. He’d unintentionally spread the blood on his face around, covering his cheekbones and forehead with it—among so much red, his eyes were huge and brilliant.

“That won’t happen.”

“Won’t it?” Dorian asked. “Last time you disappeared, he won and took over the world. Who says this will be different?”

“The Breach is closed,” Lavellan nearly hissed. “He can’t do that to us again.” He shook his head, glancing between them and the trebuchet. “Dorian, you have to go.”

Lavellan would never beg, but that tone was a plea in itself. Dorian ignored it. He hadn’t come out here and drained himself of magic just to turn back and leave Lavellan to die. He wouldn't let this become the suicide mission everyone thought it was. He wouldn’t do it and he had to make Lavellan understand why it was impossible to abandon him here, why they had to figure something else out.

“He opened the Breach once,” he said, hoping logic might work. “He might again.” Lavellan didn’t look convinced and Dorian let out a short, irritated breath. “Kai—“

A screech overhead broke Dorian off. They all looked up to see the dragon circling overhead, preparing to land right on top of them. Lavellan yelled and they all scrambled back for cover, running back toward Haven.

It wasn’t until they were safely among the buildings and the templar corpses that Dorian realized Lavellan wasn’t with them. He turned and blanched when he saw that the dragon had landed in the clearing with the trebuchet, its great bulk blocking off the paths they had taken to get there. It was difficult to see in the darkness, but Dorian could make out enough from their vantage point—a figure too tall and gaunt to be human, Lavellan’s bright hair catching the firelight. The Elder One had their Herald. Fear took Dorian by the throat, making it difficult to breathe.

“We have to go back,” he said, eyes fixed on Lavellan’s distant figure. He was moving toward the Elder One step by step. It was impossible to hear more than the distant rumble of that thing’s voice at this distance, but it was clearly talking to Lavellan. What were they saying? Dorian started to move forward, heading back to the clearing. “It’ll kill him.”

Cassandra stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He struggled against her hold furiously, but she was stronger than him and had no qualms about using it to her advantage. When he glanced back, her face was cold and still. At her side, Varric's grip on Bianca was so tight his knuckles were white, his mouth a hard, unhappy line.

“We cannot help him,” Cassandra said. She wasn’t even looking at Dorian. All of her attention was focused on the clearing and Lavellan’s distant figure. “The dragon is blocking the only way in.”

Dorian shook his head. “There must be some other entrance! We have to try!”

“No,” Cassandra said and looked away from the confrontation unfolding in front them at last, meeting Dorian’s gaze. He couldn’t read her expression at all. “If we stay here, we will be caught by the avalanche or by the Elder One. We must go now. The Herald would not want us to die here.”

Cassandra tugged him away. Dorian tried to throw an elbow back, to wriggle free, but even with a dislocated shoulder and a myriad of other injuries, Cassandra was stronger than him.

“I won’t just leave him--!” he howled, eyes fixed on Lavellan as he approached the Elder One, shoulders up and head thrown back. “Cassandra!”

“We have to go,” Cassandra said mercilessly. “I am sorry.”

His head exploded with pain. The world went black.

Dorian woke with the cold in his bones. He stared at the dark brown tent stretching over his head for a long moment, brain scrambling to put the pieces together before he shot up. His head ached and the world spun, but he put out a hand and dragged himself to his feet. The ground below the tent was crunchy with snow and cold enough that he could feel it through the canvas. 

Someone had removed his shoes and outer armor, but it was piled by the tent’s entryway. Dorian grabbed it and threw everything on haphazardly, taking his staff as he stormed outside. He immediately wished for another cloak or three—the cold was absolute and biting.

Dorian paused to take stock. He was surrounded by tents and stretchers. This must be a scout’s outpost of some kind—there was no way anyone had assembled those tents in this weather. A huge, bright fire roared in the middle of the campsite and the remaining residents of Haven milled about, wearing heavy cloaks and furs, whispering amongst themselves. Dorian let out a long breath. They’d made it up the mountain pass, then. They must be high up in the Frostbacks—even Haven didn’t get this cold, and they were surrounded by snowy peaks. Dorian tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders and searched for a familiar face, anyone who might be able to update him.

He caught sight of red hair and his heart leaped into his throat—but no, it was only Leliana, foreboding as usual in her dark hood, deep in conversation with Cullen, Varric, and Josephine. Dorian’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Cassandra with them, one arm bound in a sling and plaster on her cheek. He marched over, ready to give her a piece of his mind for knocking him out and dragging him up here like a sack of potatoes.

“—have to send someone to get his body.”

Dorian stilled. There was only one person Leliana could be talking about.

“We do not know he is dead,” Cassandra said.

“He’s survived a lot, but thinking he made it through that avalanche seems too hopeful, Seeker.” Varric’s voice was worn. “It’d be a miracle if he did.”

“Who better for a miracle?” Cassandra demanded. “He survived a blast that killed hundreds, did he not?”

“Maybe that was already one miracle too many.”

Dorian stepped forward. He couldn’t feel his body and he didn’t think it was because of the cold. He’d managed to hold on to a tiny sliver of hope—that Lavellan had escaped after all while he was unconscious, that he was safe with them. With that extinguished, it was difficult to feel anything. All he could think about was that last glimpse he’d had of Lavellan; his hair bright in the firelight, straight-backed as he advanced on a god from legend. 

Casandra looked over as he approached and her eyes widened. Dorian’s indifference vanished in the face of overwhelming fury. Before he could stop to remind himself why it was an absolutely terrible idea, he’d already moved forward, swinging to punch Cassandra in the face.

He didn’t connect, of course. Even with only one useable arm, Cassandra was ten times the physical fighter he was—she caught his blow and swiveled, trapping him neatly with his arm behind his back.

“Have you gone mad?” she snapped.

“You knocked me out,” Dorian said. His arm was beginning to ache from the pressure. “How dare you—“

“You were emotional,” Cassandra said. “If I hadn’t knocked you out, you’d be dead right now.”

Dorian’s laugh was a little hysterical. “Now, in a year? What does it matter?”

Cassandra released him and stepped back. “You said that in Haven too. What do you mean?”

“What I mean,” Dorian spat, rubbing at his sore shoulder, “is that I saw a future without the Herald, remember? Demon army, world in chaos, everyone on our side dead or infected! What I mean is that you may have saved my life now, but if Lavellan really is… gone, we’re all doomed.”

Leliana and Cassandra traded looks. Cullen’s mouth firmed.

“I admit the Herald was a worthy partner,” he said. “A leader, even. But no one person is so essential.”

“Oh?” Varric asked. He was looking at Dorian thoughtfully. “You really still think that after meeting Hawke? What about the Hero of Fereldan?” Varric shook his head. “There’s a reason we’ve got heroes, Curly. If all the world’s a game, they’re the wild cards. Heroes tip the hand one way or the other.”

Cullen and Leliana were the two to look at each other this time. “Without the Hero of Fereldan, the world would have been doomed,” Leliana confirmed. “I can’t imagine how bad it would have been if she had died at Ostagar.”

“This isn’t like that. We can survive without Lavellan,” Cullen said, straightening. “It won’t be easy, especially since we don’t have any way to shut the rifts that are still open, but we have to move forward. If we simply give up, we are doomed for certain.”

Dorian scoffed. “If you truly believe that, you are a fool,” he spat and stormed off.

He found a log near the fire and slumped down on it, burying his head in his hands. He should have stayed. He should have fought Cassandra off and found a way into that damned clearing. He took his eyes off of Lavellan for one second, for one second and—

“You’re Dorian, aren’t you?”

Dorian looked up. The Warden stared down at him, impassive and impressive in his breadth of fur and armor. His craggy face was heavily bearded and unreadable.

“Not to be rude,” Dorian rasped. “But I’m in no state for introductions at the present time, Master Warden.”

The Warden snorted. “No,” he agreed. “You look like shit.”

Dorian barked out a laugh despite himself. “Yes,” he said. “I imagine I do.”

He’d hardly spared a moment to think about what his armor must look like, his hair or mustache. It had been a long time since he’d cared so little about his own appearance.

The Warden sat down next to him. “Blackwall,” he said. “Never got around to introducing myself to Lavellan’s herd.”

“You knew me already.”

“Lavellan talked about you,” Blackwall said and something of the wound that left in Dorian’s chest must have made its way to his face because Blackwall’s expression flickered. “It’s true, then? What the villagers are saying?”

“Having only woken up moments ago, I have no idea what they could be saying,” Dorian deflected.

Blackwall didn’t pay him the courtesy of pretense, not even for a moment. “He’s dead.”

Dorian flinched and huddled deeper under his blanket. Even sitting near the fire it was impossible to feel warm.

“Yes,” he said. “He is.”

Blackwall was silent for a long time. Dorian couldn’t bear to look at him, to look at anyone. His body was still sore from battle, but it was more than that—it was as if he ached in his very bones. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep and pretend this horrible day had never happened; to make believe he could wake up back in his dingy little cottage in Haven and make his way down to chat with Lavellan about the mysterious workings of Tevinter or whatever Lavellan was tinkering with that day or—

“He was a good man,” Blackwall said and Dorian wrenched himself from his longings so sharply he was almost disoriented. “He tried to hide it with all that—“ He waved a hand. “You know. But when he found me, I was helping farmers try to fight off raiders and robbers. Lavellan joined us without a question. He cracked wise, but he opened his doors to me without a fight.” Blackwall paused and said, his voice rough, “A good man.”

Dorian gritted his teeth. “Don’t,” he said.

It infuriated him to speak of Lavellan so suddenly in the past tense, to have moved in one moment from a world with Lavellan in it to one without him. Lavellan would become a ghost, a martyr, a note in the history books. People would whisper his name, but they would forget his jokes and ferocity and smile. Dorian let out a long breath, rage flickering out. Lavellan was gone, he thought. He would never laugh or tramp around the woods half-naked hunting elk or be thoughtlessly kind to someone who desperately needed it again. Dorian’s stomach curled in on itself and he couldn’t bear to look at Blackwall, to look at anyone.

“Please go away,” he said.

Blackwall was silent for a long moment. “All right,” he said. There was a brief, gentle touch to Dorian’s shoulder. “It may be no comfort. But his death saved us all.”

In death, sacrifice, Dorian thought but managed to bite his tongue before the bitter words left his mouth. What comfort was there in death made meaningful? Lavellan was still gone, would still never laugh with Dorian again or talk to him or smile at him.

Blackwall waited for a moment as if expecting a response. When he got none, he sighed and trudged away in the snow.

Even though Dorian didn’t desire company, with Blackwall gone it was impossible to avoid his thoughts. He kept coming back to his last moments with Lavellan again and again, a child with a missing tooth touching the sore spot out of some kind of masochistic curiosity. Their argument, Lavellan’s bright eyes flashing. Lavellan throwing himself between a blade and Dorian, springing to his feet with a grin. Lavellan’s grim, icy face in the Chantry—and, bringing on a deeper pain, his breathless joy just a day ago. Dorian gritted his teeth, overwhelmed. The grief seemed too big for his body, too intense.

“I barely knew him,” he said out loud.

Only—Maker, had it only been a few weeks? Less than, even. But they had survived hell together and Lavellan was—well. Dorian could make all kinds of twee analogies, but the sad fact was that they fit only too well. Lavellan was a flame in the darkness, a brilliant sun to revolve around. He drew people in and Dorian had been drawn as surely as anyone else. And now, his sun extinguished, he floundered in the darkness and cold.

Dorian didn’t know how long he sat by the fire, engrossed in his thoughts and grief. He didn’t realize time was passing until something heavy and warm was draped over his shoulders. He looked up just as the Iron Bull dropped down at his side with a heavy thud.

“It’s fucking freezing up here,” he said. “You need to be more careful, ‘vint.”

Dorian said nothing, pulling the second blanket Bull had given him more tightly around his shoulders. He hadn’t really been feeling the cold, but now that Bull mentioned it he was aware that he was shivering and probably had been for a long time. The fire was warm against his face but his body wasn’t getting the heat it needed. The blanket helped, but Dorian didn’t tell Bull that. He didn’t want to talk.

Bull seemed to understand, because he sat in silence at Dorian’s side for a long time, long enough that Dorian felt marginally less resentful of his presence.

“You don’t have to watch me,” Dorian said finally, relenting. “I’m not at risk of doing something stupid.”

Bull cast a considering glance at him out of the corner of his eye. “Never thought you would,” he said. “But I know you liked the boss.” Dorian’s chest throbbed, such a physical ache that he rubbed his ribcage to try to soothe it. “Hell, I did too. It’s a fucking shame, losing someone like that.”

Dorian couldn’t speak. Bull glanced at him, glanced away.

“I’ve lived in this part of the world for a while now,” he said with his eyes fixed on the distant, snowy peaks surrounding them. “I got real used to being the only person in my corner. Aside from the Chargers, of course. But nobody else gave two shits about a qunari and his herd of mercenary misfits. We looked out for each other.” Bull snorted. “Then that kid came along. You know what he said to me when we first met?" Bull lightened his voice, affecting a spot-on accent that made goosebumps break out along Dorian's arms. "'You're fucking amazing. I'll pay you whatever you want, just come work with me.'" The Bull snorted and continued in his normal voice, "I was all set to offer him a deal, put everything on the table, and he snapped us up before I could get a word in edgewise. And then he never gave us any side-long looks or dumbass questions about our intentions or methods, paid us triple what we asked, came to our card games to get to know us and never once gave my men grief or pity..."

Dorian’s heart was so heavy.

“It shouldn’t have been him, that’s what I’m trying to say,” Bull said. “It’s a fucking shame.” He looked up at the sky, studded with stars. “That Elder One comes at us again, I’ll rip his fucking nuts off. If he’s got nuts.”

“I'm helping,” Dorian said, though his throat felt too clogged to say more.

“Pavus, I want you to be there holding the bastard down. I’d say you could help with the nut-ripping, but it takes a lot more strength than you’d think—“ Bull paused and frowned, looking around. “Shit. Something’s happening.”

It took a moment for Dorian to see it—there were a lot of covert glances and whispering, people huddling into groups with their heads bent together. His heart sank. Had the enemy found them? But no, he would expect a bigger outcry if they knew the Elder One had come up the mountain after them. Dorian frowned. And that wasn’t terror in their faces, but a fragile, dawning hope of some kind.

“Stay here,” Bull said, patting Dorian’s shoulder roughly enough that he nearly pitched forward. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

Dorian watched as he stood and padded away, disappearing disconcertingly easy for a beast with meters over everyone else and great big horns besides. Dorian waited, watching the fire and trying to catch a bit of what the townspeople and soldiers were muttering about. None of them dared come close to him, though, so he only caught bits and pieces, never enough to get a complete picture. In the ten minutes it took Bull to return, the anticipation and worry was almost enough to suffocate Dorian's indifference and grief. 

Bull didn't so much return as suddenly appear at Dorian's side, making Dorian jump. One look at his face made Dorian bite down on his shocked exclamation. Normally it was difficult to read Bull's strange, craggy face, but right now he was an open book: something had happened and it was big. He tugged Dorian to his feet.

“Come on,” he said.

“What happened?” Dorian asked, stumbling after him as he tried to keep the blankets around his shoulders. “You look like you’ve seen some sort of ghost.”

Bull barked out a laugh and moved faster without answering. Dorian frowned but allowed himself to be pulled along without protest. He wasn’t really paying attention to where they were going, so he was surprised when Bull came to a stop in front of Leliana. She was near a back entrance to the camp, arms crossed over her chest, gaze fixed on the darkness beyond. She turned as they approached and her expression flickered.

“Sometimes I think I should recruit you,” she told Bull.

Bull grinned at her. “You can’t afford me, Red,” he said, then leered. “Unless you want a good time in the sheets?”

Dorian rolled his eyes, but Leliana smiled. “You couldn’t handle me,” she said. “Have you told him?”

“Thought he’d pass out.”

They were talking about him like he wasn’t there. “Told me what?” Dorian asked, incensed.

They exchanged a look. “I assigned scouts to patrol the area,” Leliana said. “Keep an eye out, make sure no one followed us. They just came in to report a figure approaching.” Dorian’s heart sank. Maker, were they going to have to deal with another ambush? “Solitary, probably injured from the way he’s moving but coming up the mountain at a steady pace.” She hesitated, watching him closely. “They said they saw a green glow around his hand.”

Dorian’s vision tunneled and he honestly worried for one moment that he would faint. A broad, sturdy hand caught his elbow.

“Easy, Dorian,” Bull said, keeping him steady on his feet.

“It can’t be him,” Dorian said. His heart hammered against his ribcage, ready to take flight. “That avalanche—no one could have survived it. It can’t be him.”

“He’s survived impossible things before,” Leliana said. “I sent Cullen and Cassandra out with the scouts to investigate. If it’s not him, we still need to figure out who he is.”

Dorian’s mouth was so dry it was difficult to swallow. “When will they be back?”

“Any minute.”

The wait was agonizing. Dorian huddled into his blankets and tried to ignore the squirm of hope in his belly. That kind of disaster wasn’t survivable, no matter that Lavellan regularly survived the impossible. Even if Lavellan somehow evaded the avalanche, he would have had to march through the snow and cold to reach them and he had no idea where he was going. The scouts could have imagined that green glow or it could be caused by something else entirely—a magical light or a lantern. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t.

Shouting in the distance made Dorian's head snap up. Leliana straightened as figures rose out of the darkness—three scouts, Cassandra, and Cullen. Cullen had a body slung over her shoulder and Dorian’s entire body went light and dizzy as he recognized the wound in the thigh, the armor, the bare, cracked feet, the green glow emitting from the limp palm. Bull had to reach out to steady him again as he swayed but Dorian barely noticed.

It was Lavellan. Unconscious and dirty, but alive, gloriously alive.

"I'll be fucked," Dorian heard Bull murmur, but he could hardly spare him any attention as Cassandra and Cullen approached.

“He collapsed as soon as we approached,” Cassandra said to Leliana. “Hypothermia at least, if not frostbite." Despite the grim prognosis, her face was full of light and relief. Dorian could relate. "Get the healers. Solas would be best.”

Cullen was about to rush off, but Leliana stopped him. “He’ll be swarmed if they see him,” she said, glancing over at the camp. No one had yet noticed their arrival, but it wouldn't be long until someone did. “Put him in your tent. Be discrete.”

“They should know he’s alive,” Cullen said, frowning.

“Give him a chance to wake up first, Commander,” Leliana said. Her eyes softened as they moved to Cullen's burden. "He deserves that much, at least."

Cullen sighed and nodded, striding off, careful to keep away from the milling villagers in the center of camp. Dorian followed without hesitation and, aside from an uncertain glance his way, Cullen didn't say anything or try to stop him. He even waited to let Dorian in first when they reached his tent. The inside was dark and warm, with two cots side-by-side. Cullen's effects had been put tidily away, with only a sheath of papers spread across a haphazardly put together desk in one corner to mark that anyone was staying in this tent at all. Dorian sat down on a cot as Cullen deposited Lavellan on the other with little trouble. As Cullen straightened, Dorian caught sight of Lavellan's face for the first time. He was paler than normal, a blue tint to his lips and cheeks, face still streaked with blood, a heavy bruise on his left cheek. But his eyes flickered underneath his eyelids and his chest rose and fell. Alive.

“I’m going to find Solas,” Cullen said, piling blankets onto Lavellan. “Maybe another healer too, just to be safe.” He hesitated for long enough that Dorian tore his eyes away from Lavellan’s prone form to look at him. “Will you stay and watch him?”

Dorian wanted to bluster and deflect, to pretend that he wasn’t relieved to be asked to stay. He couldn’t muster up the energy.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll stay.”

Cullen nodded and, with one last look at Lavellan, ducked out of the tent.

In the quiet of his absence, Dorian let loose a long, uneven breath. The relief and joy was almost too much for his body to handle, overwhelming as the grief had been. This entire day had been a rollercoaster of emotions and Dorian’s body was wrung out. He scrubbed hard at his face and tried to force himself to be calm. He had only just begun to approach it when a groan drew his attention back to Lavellan. Dorian shot to his feet, scrabbling to the other cot and reaching out just as Lavellan shifted, face drawn in pain. Dorian took Lavellan's hand in his without thought as Lavellan's eyes fluttered and opened. For a long moment, Lavellan stared up at him, eyes hazy and unfocused. His hand tightened around Dorian's and his brow wrinkled. 

“Dorian?” Lavellan rasped out. “Am I dead?"

Dorian choked out a laugh, overwhelmed by relief. Before he could think better of it, he brought Lavellan’s hand up to brush a kiss on his cold knuckles. 

“Not yet," he said. "Though I'm flattered you took one look at me and thought you'd entered the afterlife."

Lavellan's face flickered with the suggestion of a smile. "You know," he said tiredly. "Pleasures of the Maker's bosom and all that." 

Dorian flushed. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked. Time to deflect.

Lavellan's smile disappeared. "Yes," he said. "You're okay, aren't you? I tried—In Haven, I waited before using the trebuchet, to make sure…”

Maker, how was he even real. Dorian tightened his grip on Lavellan's hand, partly to reassure Lavellan and partly to reassure himself. He still couldn't believe that Lavellan had brought that avalanche down on himself, had had the spine to set off the trebuchet that meant almost certain death. And even under attack by something as terrifying and monstrous as this Elder One, he had the presence of mind to try and stall, to try to give them time to get away...

Dorian was in so far over his head.

“We’re fine,” Dorian said.

“The others?”

“We all made it." The pinched look on Lavellan's face didn't go away so Dorian squeezed his hand again. "We’re safe, Kai.”

Lavellan murmured something in elvhen. Dorian sighed, kissing his knuckles again. He only realized he was doing it when he met Lavellan’s eyes and found them fixed on his face, unblinking and intent. Dorian's stomach swooped. For a long, pregnant moment, they stared at each other. Dorian hardly dared breathe, couldn't move his mouth away from the soft, cold skin of Lavellan's hand. 

He heard the tent flap open and dropped Lavellan’s hand like it had burned him.

"I've brought Solas," Cullen said as he ducked inside. "Oh! Oh, he's awake!"

Dorian could feel Lavellan's eyes on him as he backed away toward the tent flap, ready to make his exit. Solas slipped inside after Cullen, an actual expression on his face for once. Dorian couldn't read it that well, but he figured it passed for Solas' version of relief. 

"You always surprise me, da'len," Solas said as he stepped forward. 

Dorian didn't hear Lavellan's response, though he caught a glimpse of the soft, fond smile he turned on Solas as he ducked out of the tent and into the cold night air. Dorian made a hasty retreat back to his own tent, only stopping to catch his breath when he was safely inside and alone. He dropped onto his cot and put his head in his hands.

Lavellan was alive. Dorian wanted to bask in that, to roll around like a kitten with a piece of string in his deep, mindless happiness, but he couldn’t. Because this was going to be a problem. It was one thing to find Lavellan good-looking or be impressed by his daring in battle or quick tongue. Dorian had been impressed by charming, good-looking men before. But the way his heart had wrenched itself from his body at the thought of Lavellan’s death, its trembling joy to find him alive… That was another thing entirely.

Dorian couldn’t bear to look that feeling fully in the eye, to give it a name. Instead, he took a deep, shuddering breath and resolved to ignore it for as long as he could. They barely knew each other. Dorian had no idea if Lavellan was even interested in men beyond some harmless flirting. Lavellan was a Herald and a leader and Dorian was a Tevinter in enemy territory. There was a myriad of reasons for Dorian to ignore it. He needed to focus on what was important, keep his head above water, keep the world from ending. Next to that, Lavellan and Dorian's feelings for him were secondary, unimportant.

Simple as that.

Chapter Text

Dorian didn’t know how long he’d been in his tent, wrapped in his own thoughts, when he heard distant shouting. He frowned, getting to his feet and collecting his blankets, popping his head outside. Villagers and Inquisition soldiers alike huddled together, whispering furiously. Dorian’s frown deepened and he set aside the problem of Lavellan for the time being as he stepped outside to investigate. The shouting grew louder. To Dorian’s dismay, he thought he recognized Cullen’s voice and maybe Cassandra’s. What in the name of the Maker was happening?

Chapter Text

When they brought Hawke’s news to the advisors only Leliana seemed thoughtful instead of upset.

“Loghain has resurfaced, then?” she said. “I have not seen him in years. How fortuitous.”

Cassandra stared at her. “That is all you have to say?” she asked, incredulous. “The dwarf lied to us! He has known where Hawke was all along!”

Leliana stared back at her, eyebrows rising high enough to disappear under her deep hood.

“That is hardly a surprise, is it?” she asked. “I have always thought so.”

“You have what?”

“Varric is not the issue.” Cullen’s hasty attempt to intervene wasn’t subtle, but it did shift Cassandra’s attention to him instead of Leliana. “It’s this mystery with the Wardens we need to focus on.” He gave Lavellan a look. “Do you really think meeting with Loghain is a good idea?”

“Is there any reason he shouldn’t?” Josephine asked. “If there is corruption among the Wardens, we need to know.”

Cullen winced. “Well.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s Loghain Mac Tir. He turned Fereldan into a wasteland and turned on King Cailan and…” He shrugged. “It’s been ten years but it’s kind of hard to forget that kind of thing. What if this meeting is a trap?”

“A trap? For what purpose?” Josephine asked. “He is not the King-Regent of Fereldan any longer. There is nothing about the Inquisitor that would interest him. Politically speaking, of course.”

“During the Blight—”

“He did many despicable things,” Leliana said. “But he fought with us in the end.”

“Because Cousland forced him to,” Cullen reminded her. “It was that or death, wasn’t it?”

Leliana’s mouth pursed. “He is not who he was,” she said. “She changed him just like she changed all of us.”

Dorian blinked at her, disconcerted. The Hero of Fereldan’s story was well-known even in Tevinter, but it was so easy to forget that their Leliana was the same one who had fought with the Hero ten years ago, who had known her and all her infamous companions intimately. Dorian thought Leliana probably encouraged everyone to forget on purpose, though he had no idea why. He knew he’d be telling people all about working with Lavellan until he was old and gray—if they lived that long.

“I have to go meet him. All this hand-wringing is pointless.”

The advisors exchanged glances and Dorian’s eyebrows went up. Lavellan had never exactly been warm to them—Cassandra was probably the one he was friendliest with and they clashed so often Dorian still wasn’t sure if they were really friends—but there was a depth of ice in his voice that went beyond simple indifference.

Lavellan’s face was even and still, his eyes hard. Dorian knew why and he had a feeling the advisors did too: Lavellan hadn’t forgiven them for forcing him to be Inquisitor. He wanted them to know that but he couldn’t exactly ignore them, not if he didn’t want to get swamped with even more work. So he was letting them know in the only way he knew how—by abandoning even his previous indifference for biting antipathy. They had to work together, Lavellan’s chilly expression said, but he didn’t have to like them.

Cullen, to his credit, looked a little shame-faced and Josephine bit her lip. Cassandra simply crossed her arms and glowered back at Lavellan. Dorian had a feeling they’d be having some kind of shouting match later.

“I can send out some scouts to investigate this area Hawke speaks of,” Leliana said. If Dorian wasn’t sure she noticed everything, he wouldn’t have thought she was even aware of Lavellan’s anger. She was all professionalism. “Crestwood isn’t too far. Give them some time to set up a camp and see what the area is like before you leave. Loghain isn’t going anywhere.”

“I’ll give them a week,” Lavellan allowed. He focused on Leliana. “Any more news on our ugly friend?”

More looks, this time toward Dorian. He ignored them and crossed his arms over his chest. If they wanted him to leave, they could ask him. He was as invested in Corypheus’ downfall as any of them and the sooner they realized that he wasn’t going to turn around and betray them, the better. Besides, he had a feeling Lavellan wasn’t as indifferent as he looked being around the people who had shoehorned him into being Inquisitor. Dorian didn’t feel right swanning off and leaving Lavellan on his own with them. It was the entire reason he’d come with in the first place when Lavellan had announced with a little grimace of distaste that he would need to tell his advisors about Hawke’s information.

“I’ve had reports of movement in the south,” Leliana said. “The scouts I sent to the remains of Haven haven’t recovered a body so we are assuming that Corypheus still lives. Once I have something more concrete I will let you know immediately.”

“Corypheus is our priority,” Lavellan said. There was something odd and intent about his face. Dorian frowned. “We have to find him.”

Leliana inclined her head. “Yes, Inquisitor.”

“And Orlais?” Lavellan turned to Josephine. “Did we warn this Celene lady?”

“Empress Celene,” Josephine said. She was too well-mannered to grimace, but her mouth did curl downward. “I sent her a letter of warning but she has not heeded it.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Lavellan muttered.

Josephine ignored him. “However, the Empress is holding a Masquerade at the Winter Palace in a month’s time to cement negotiations with her cousin.”

“Her cousin?”

Josephine straightened, adopting a lecturing voice. “Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, the Empress’ cousin. He seeks the crown for himself.” At Lavellan’s blank look, she sighed. “Orlais has been teetering on the brink of full-out civil war for months under their power struggle. The ball is meant to formalize negotiations for peace, though no one truly believes it will happen. Regardless, it is undeniably the best opportunity for an assassination attempt and therefore we must attend.”

“A ball, huh?” Lavellan looked down at himself and his mouth curled into a tired, sardonic smirk. “And me without a thing to wear.”

“Oh, I can fix that, Inquisitor,” Josephine said, perking up.

Lavellan’s smirk disappeared. “Wait. You want me to actually go?”

“Of course.” Josephine frowned at him, nonplussed. “Invitations will take some time to procure until we have a little more sway with our noble allies, but I have no doubt that I can get some before the ball. As our leader, you shall be there to represent the Inquisition and make connections with Orlesian nobility.” At Leliana’s delicate cough, she added, “And keep an eye out for assassins, of course!”

“You want me to go to—to—”

“Halamshiral.”

“Halamshiral and actually talk to nobles?” Josephine nodded. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Josephine blinked. “Well—!”

“If I spend two minutes in that place, it’s going to end in a bloodbath.”

“That’s exactly what we’re hoping to prevent, Inquisitor.”

“Then you shouldn’t send me.”

“Inquisitor—”

Lavellan turned to Dorian. “What do you think?”

Dorian blinked, taken aback. He noticed the advisors exchanging looks out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, I think a great deal about a great many things,” Dorian said. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

“Loghain? Halam—damn it, how do you pronounce it?”

“Halamshiral,” Dorian said. Lavellan made a face. “Why do you want to know what I think?”

Lavellan opened his mouth, closed it again. He darted a look at the advisors and shrugged.

“Just curious,” he said.

That wasn’t the reason, but Dorian didn’t think he’d have any luck in prying out more under the advisors’ watchful eyes. So he sighed in a theatrical manner.

“Well, I’ll give you my advice if you’re so desperate,” he said. “But it’s quite valuable stuff, you know. I charge five gold pieces a word.”

Lavellan’s mouth quirked. “I think we’re good for that.”

Dorian shrugged. “They’re right. Without Empress Celene, Orlais will be vulnerable. Orlais stands against Tevinter. Undermine it and it will be that much easier for my countrymen to invade—and you know what will happen if they do. You’ve seen it. As for Loghain… I’m afraid I don’t know enough about the man to make the call, but I trust Varric and Varric trusts Hawke, so I don’t think he means us any harm. And even if he does, I have every faith we can best one Warden, no matter how decorated or infamous he may be.”

Lavellan held his gaze for a long moment. Dorian had no idea what was happening in that head of his, but eventually he grimaced and looked away.

“I want to help.” There was a definite concession in his voice. Dorian resisted the urge to preen under the surprised and suspicious looks sent his way by the advisors. “I just don’t think putting me in a room full of snotty racist nobles is the best way to do that. They’re going to take one look at the heathen Dalish elf and run away screaming.”

“You underestimate your charm,” Dorian murmured.

To his satisfaction, Lavellan flushed. “It’ll be a shitshow. I’m just going to make things worse.”

“Well…” Josephine tapped her quill against the corner of her mouth, eyeing Lavellan thoughtfully. “If you’re so worried about it, perhaps we can provide some tutelage.”

Lavellan’s open-mouthed horror made Dorian bite the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t laugh. Had he looked like that when he was six and his parents had informed him of the etiquette lessons he would start taking? No doubt. Poor Lavellan. Dorian, at least, had had some expectation from growing up in a noble household of what those lessons would entail; Lavellan was completely clueless.

“Tutelage?” Lavellan’s horror turned to outrage. “You mean lessons? I’m not some stripling who needs to learn how to hold a knife!”

“When it comes to matters of diplomacy, you most certainly are,” Josephine said. She began to write on her pad. “It won’t be anything intensive, not for just one event. Just instruction on some of the more well-known noble lines, which course to eat first and dancing lessons, of course—”

“By the Dread Wolf,” Lavellan said, aghast. “Dancing lessons? Why don’t you just sacrifice me to Corypheus right now?”

Josephine was too well-mannered to roll her eyes, but Dorian got the impression she wanted to.

“Dancing will be required, Inquisitor. Even if you try to abstain someone is sure to ask you, given your status. And it will hardly be that terrible.” Josephine smiled at him, softening a little. “I can’t imagine you’re completely graceless considering the way you fight on the field.”

A neat compliment, but Lavellan hardly seemed to hear it. “There’s no way I’m getting out of this, am I?” he asked, almost to himself.

“I’m afraid not,” Josephine said. She looked down at her pad and nodded briskly to herself. “I will continue to contact the Orlesian ambassadors, but if we want to keep Corypheus from killing Empress Celene we must do it ourselves. I will work on obtaining invitations to the Masquerade. And arrange the Inquisitor’s lessons. Madame de Fer would make an excellent tutor, don’t you think?”

Lavellan groaned quietly, but he didn’t protest. Josephine offered him a quick smile.

“As for the Wardens—if you feel that we can trust Loghain, of course we’ll abide by your word,” Cullen said. “Just be careful.” His eyes were dark. “Loghain has a reputation for a reason.”

A few more pleasantries and they dispersed, scattering to their own duties. Dorian remained with Lavellan. The moment the advisors left, Lavellan slumped, rubbing hard at his face. He looked tired, Dorian thought. The deep bags under his eyes hadn’t improved even though they’d finally stopped living in tents and found some semi-decent beds. Dorian had seen the crew lugging that monstrosity up to Lavellan’s elite quarters a few days ago; the only way Lavellan wasn’t getting a good night’s sleep on that thing was if he wasn’t sleeping at all. Dorian wondered if he was still having nightmares and if he’d say so if Dorian asked.

“Another thing to go on the to-do list, then,” Lavellan said. “Stupid thing just keeps getting longer and longer.” He offered Dorian a tired smile. “You know, you’re not half-bad at the advisor thing. Maybe we should make it official.”

Dorian shuddered. “And spend my days debating the finer points of Orlesian politics with Josephine or trying not to fix Cullen’s atrocious hair every time I see him? No thank you.”

Lavellan smiled at him. “Maybe I can retain your services privately then,” he said.

Dorian’s body heated up. He’d heard lines like that before from men in taverns or at parties, who all wanted what Dorian had to offer but couldn’t say so in polite company. This was Lavellan, he reminded himself. He flirted with Solas. It was his way of being friendly.

“I have expensive fees,” Dorian said, mouth a little dry.

“Well. I am Inquisitor now.” Lavellan’s expression soured a little. “What was that you said about exploiting it?”

“In that case, I’m changing my demands,” Dorian said. “I want someone to follow me around and feed me grapes and remind me of how magnificent I am.”

Lavellan’s eyebrows rose but that tight expression dropped from his face. “Got anyone in mind?”

Dorian pretended to think it over. “I’ll get back to you with a list,” he said.

“I can’t wait to see it,” Lavellan said. He looked back at the door the advisors had gone through and made a face. “I was joking before about the outfit, but Josephine’s definitely going to make me wear something stupid to that ball thing, isn’t she?”

Dorian smiled. “Perhaps it can get mysteriously torn on the ride to the palace?”

Lavellan smiled back. “Good idea.” He clapped a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “Thanks again for the advice. I probably should go back and talk to Hawke again about seeing Loghain. Find him a room.” His expression turned a little dreamy. “Maybe ask him some questions.”

Dorian was not going to be jealous of the Champion of Kirkwall. Sure, Hawke had defended an entire city and made himself an infamous legend, but did he have Dorian’s flair and sense of style? Absolutely not. Lavellan turned to leave. Dorian caught his arm before he could, allowing himself a moment to relish the firm muscle beneath his palm.

“I mean it, you know,” he said when Lavellan turned inquiring eyes his way. “You can always ask me for help, Lavellan. Any time.”

Lavellan smiled at him and Dorian’s entire body suffused with warmth. He forced himself to let go of Lavellan’s arm before he did something monumentally stupid.

“I know, Dorian,” Lavellan said. “Thanks.”

The Inquisition’s new requisitions outfit was much nicer than what they’d had back in Haven, which had basically amounted to one table in the middle of the town. In Skyhold requisitions had its own building, the table strewn with bits and pieces of crafting materials and half-made objects. Dorian had just finished going over the schematic for an amulet he needed made when he heard something clatter overhead. He frowned, looking up, and the requisitions officer winced.

“I saw Seeker Pentaghast drag Varric up there,” he whispered to Dorian. “Do you think the Inquisitor will be mad at me if she kills him?”

Another clatter. “I’m sure Lavellan will know exactly who to blame,” he assured the officer. “Will you be able to make that amulet for me?”

The officer saluted. He was a young, nervous thing. No wonder Cassandra had been able to bully her way past him. Dorian glanced up again and sighed. He felt somewhat responsible. Varric had told him that it was Dorian’s advice that had changed his mind about Hawke—and if Varric hadn’t done that, Cassandra wouldn’t be up there trying to murder him. Dorian didn’t particularly want to get on Cassandra’s bad side, but…

“I had better go and see what the fuss is about,” he said to the requisitions officer.

The boy’s eyes widened. “It’s your funeral, sir,” he said.

Dorian grimaced but turned and climbed the stairs. As he approached the final steps, the muffled shouting became clear.

“—knew where Hawke was all along!”

Dorian turned the corner to find Cassandra shoving Varric into a table. He stared when Varric didn’t start groveling or crying for his mommy or any other completely natural response to Cassandra in a frothing rage. Instead, the dwarf stood his ground, snarling back at her.

“You’re damned right I did!”

“You conniving little shit!”

Cassandra took a swing at him. Varric ducked with ease, scrambling to the other side of the room. Dorian entered the room without taking the trouble to disguise himself, but neither of them noticed him.

“You kidnapped me! You interrogated me! Did you really expect me to tell you the truth?”

Cassandra lunged forward. Dorian moved to intervene, shoving himself between them with more courage than he really felt. Varric was a damn madman, he decided. Standing up to Cassandra in this mood was absolutely nerve-wracking. Dorian promised himself a nice long evening in the tavern to keep from running away as Cassandra met his eyes with a furious snarl.

“Why don’t we all just calm down a little,” Dorian said in his most soothing voice. At least living among magisters had taught him a thing or two about de-escalation even though Dorian had no natural talent for it. He was more of an instigator than a diplomat. “This kind of carrying-on isn’t good for the skin. You’ve got enough frown wrinkles already, Seeker.”

“You’re taking his side?” Cassandra asked.

“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” Dorian said. “I would just prefer there not to be a murder. Bloodstains are so difficult to get out of the wood, you  know.”

That seemed to reach her. Cassandra took a deep, visible breath and turned her attention to Dorian.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “We needed someone to lead the Inquisition. We searched for the Hero of Fereldan first but she had disappeared, and when we looked for Hawke he was gone too. Leliana and I thought it had to be connected, but no.” Her eyes sought Varric again over Dorian’s shoulder, poisonous and accusing. “It was just him. He kept Hawke from us.”

“The Inquisition has a leader,” Varric said. Poor man had surprisingly low self-preservation. Perhaps from all his years in Kirkwall? “Spitfire’s doing a better job than Hawke ever could and you know that!”

Cassandra’s rage surged back. “If we had found him in time Hawke would have been at the Conclave!”

“So what?”

Cassandra slammed a fist down on the nearest table. “If anyone could have saved the Most Holy—!”

Silence. Dorian glanced back and met Varric’s eyes. He didn’t look defensive anymore, just tired.

“Let’s keep our perspective, hm?” Dorian said. “We can lay responsibility for the Conclave at the feet of one person and it’s not Varric. You know that, Cassandra.”

She didn’t seem to hear him. “Varric is a liar.” There was more than just anger in her voice. Dorian wondered. They never seemed to get along whenever they traveled together, but something in Cassandra must have considered Varric an ally at least, for her to be so hurt by his deception. “A snake. We needed Hawke after the Conclave and still he kept him secret.”

“I told you now, didn’t I?” Varric asked. “Against my better judgment.”

Cassandra waved a hand. “It does not excuse you,” she said. “I know now whose side you’re on Varric. And it’s not the Inquisition’s.”

Dorian stared at her. “Cassandra—“

“You’re damn right it’s not.”

Things were getting rapidly out of hand. Did Lavellan always feel like this when he tried to mediate? No wonder he always looked tired. If Dorian kept this up, he might start to get bags. Or even worse—wrinkles.

“Varric—”

“You see!” Cassandra cried. “He admits he is a traitor!”

“I’m not a damn traitor!” Varric shouted back, eyes narrowing. “You’re the fool if you really think the Inquisition matters more to me than my best friend. Hawke bled and fought for my loyalty. What has the Inquisition done for me?Kidnapped me! Imprisoned me!” He scoffed. “You’re doing good work here, Seeker, but Hawke’s always going to come first for me. He’s earned that—you haven’t.”

“How can we trust you, then?” Cassandra demanded. “Must I go to the Inquisitor and have him ask you to leave?”

“You really think Spitfire would do that after all that shit you pulled on him?” Varric asked. Cassandra paled. “Oh yeah, I recognize a farce when I see one. I’ll eat one of my own books if he had any say in that stunt you pulled making him Inquisitor and I’ll eat another one if he’s anything but pissed about it. You really want to go and ask him for a favor after that?”

“He will recognize the danger in your split loyalties—”

“He doesn’t give a damn about my loyalty to the Inquisition,” Varric said. “That’s what I like about the kid: he cares about results. And he knows if I’m here, Corypheus is dead that much faster. And you know it too, Seeker.”

Cassandra yelled and kicked at another table. It was too heavy to knock over, but it skidded back several feet. Dorian was wondering if it was perhaps time to make himself scarce—the major threat of murder seemed much lower now and he really didn’t want to wind up punched—but Cassandra whirled on him before he could move.

“And you, mage?” she demanded. “You think he should stay?”

“I think the only reason Varric’s loyalties should matter is if he’s loyal to Corypheus,” Dorian said, startled into the truth. When Cassandra glowered at him, he sighed. “Hawke’s here now, Cassandra. That should be what matters.”

“I trusted him,” Cassandra said. Varric flinched. “He told me a lie and I swallowed it like a fool. And because of my gullibility, hundreds of people are dead.”

“Not because of you, Seeker,” Varric said more gently. “Or me. Because of that monster.”

Cassandra turned away from them. “I cannot think about what could have been,” she said. “Not with what’s at stake now. You are right about that at least. So go, Varric. Just… go.”

Varric stared at her turned back and looked at Dorian. Dorian shook his head and Varric turned to the stairs. As he was heading down, he paused.

“I know you think Hawke would have helped,” he said. “But you know what I think? If Hawke had been at that temple he would have died too.” He waited but Cassandra didn’t even turn around. Varric shook his head. “You people have done enough to him,” he said and left.

Dorian waited. Cassandra didn’t seem to remember that he was there; she simply stood with her back to him, breathing deeply. But as he turned to leave, her voice stopped him.

“Do you think he is right about the Inquisitor?” When Dorian turned back, Cassandra was facing him, her face unreadable. “That he holds a grudge against us?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Dorian said. “Why ever would he hold a grudge against the people who cornered him in a position he didn’t want and didn’t feel ready for?” Cassandra flinched. “You can’t seriously be surprised that he’s angry with you.”

Cassandra was silent for a long moment. “No,” she said. “I suppose not.” She shook her head. "We need him. I don’t think any of us realized how much until after Haven. Trying to figure out what to do, where to go, without him was…” She sighed. “Well. You saw. And then he came back to us alive. A miracle. When we knew he wanted to leave again it was a simple choice.” She inclined her head. “Perhaps it should not have been.”

“I know this may be difficult for you to remember, but he’s not a puppet,” Dorian said. He struggled to keep his voice even. “He’s given up a lot for the Inquisition and he deserves better than what you people did to him. You know that.” He waited until he was sure the impact of his words hit Cassandra. “And you know Varric saw everything that’s happening to Lavellan happen to Hawke for seven years. He just wanted to protect him from more of that.”

“And what of the people at the Conclave?” Cassandra’s back straightened. “Who protected them?”

“Hawke couldn’t have,” Dorian said. “Even Lavellan couldn’t. They’re not gods, Cassandra. There’s only so much they can do.”

“You wouldn’t think Hawke was a mortal man from that book of Varric’s,” Cassandra said.

“Well,” Dorian said, “I can bring you up to the battlements to meet him in person if you’d like. No one can think he’s a god after hearing those awful jokes of his.”

She didn’t laugh, but her lips quirked. “I will think on what you have said.” Dorian nodded, relieved that their conversation hadn’t ended in bloodshed, and turned to retreat. “Dorian.” He stopped. “You are a better man than I expected. I will not forget again.”

Dorian couldn’t look at her. He knew his face would reveal so much. So he forced a laugh.

“Don’t go falling in love with me, Seeker,” he said. “You’re a handsome woman but you’re not really my type.”

She harrumphed in disgust. “Oh, go away,” she said.

Dorian went. As he passed the awed requisitions officer, he winked and hoped that disguised the warmth climbing up his face.

Herald’s Rest was a popular place in the evening, stuffed with Inquisition soldiers and civilians alike who wanted to relax and drink ale. Dorian had never been too fond of taverns—often sweaty, smelly places packed with men who did little for the eye—but he found he didn’t mind this one so much when he could keep an eye on Lavellan. He didn’t dare sit with him—too much temptation to use the excuse of the crowd to press up against his side which would spark gossip Dorian and Lavellan couldn’t afford—but he’d chosen his table on the second floor because it gave him a clear, discreet view of Lavellan’s down below, where he sat with Bull and the Chargers.

Lavellan looked a little better in the tavern. The high set of his shoulders as he bustled throughout Skyhold relaxed when he sat with Bull, listening to his stories and sipping from a tankard. He didn’t talk much or smile, Dorian thought with a stab of worry. The longer he spent as the Inquisitor, the grimmer he seemed to become. And even in the warm light of the tavern his color was wan. Dorian wondered if he was still plagued by nightmares. He certainly didn’t look like he was sleeping enough and Dorian had seen him cross that damn courtyard at all hours of the day and night.

He was drawn from his thoughts as someone settled at his elbow. Dorian had been sitting alone, though the tavern was full to bursting; outside of Lavellan’s inner circle no one in the Inquisition liked or trusted him much and he’d been ignoring the suspicious eyes on his back for much of the evening. He turned and blinked at his unexpected visitor. Fenris blinked back, unreadable and gruff.

“Can I help you?” Dorian asked.

“You are from Minrathous,” he said.

Fenris had mostly kept to himself since his and Hawke’s arrival, though Dorian had seen Hawke consulting with Lavellan in the courtyard or playing Wicked Grace with Varric. Varric said Fenris had always been like that, even back with their close-knit circle of friends in Kirkwall. Dorian had thought that meant Fenris was shy but there was nothing nervous about the flat, hostile stare he was leveling on Dorian now. Dorian braced himself for a fight even as he adopted his most charming smile.

“Born and raised.” He raised his glass in a salute. “And you? That accent is Tevinter.”

“I was born in Tevinter as well,” Fenris said. “I knew your family.”

Dorian’s fingers tightened around his glass even as he kept his shoulders carefully relaxed.

“Oh, really? How marvelous. I should say something trite about what a small world this is, I think.”

“Your father attended one of my former master’s dinner parties once,” Fenris said. “I remember him. I served him the wrong kind of wine and he complained to Danarius about it. I was beaten for that.” His eyes were like that sword of his, Dorian thought. Sharp enough to cut. “You look much like him.”

Dorian flinched hard enough to send his glass tumbling off the table. It hit the ground and shattered, sending ale everywhere. Someone shouted and Dorian flinched again, hurriedly scraping the glass under the table so no one would step on it. He couldn’t look at Fenris.

“I am nothing like him,” Dorian said.

He didn’t recognize his own voice, hoarse and rough.

“That remains to be seen,” Fenris said.

Dorian forced himself to meet Fenris’ gaze. It was almost more difficult to look in his eyes because of their color; they were nearly the same shade as Lavellan’s and it hurt to see them so hard and distant. Would Lavellan also look at him like that when he knew Dorian’s little secret the way so many of Dorian’s other friends had? It was difficult to imagine warm, compassionate Lavellan caring but Dorian had been burned by assuming kind people’s acceptance before.

“You don’t know me,” he said.

Fenris tipped his head. “I know your kind.”

“My kind?”

“Magisters.”

Dorian bristled. “I’m not a magister.”

“Close enough.”

“You’re from Tevinter. You should know it’s not close enough.” Dorian shook his head. “I’m not the enemy, Fenris. I’m here to help.”

“That is what I find so hard to believe. An altus, turn on his own kind?”

Dorian could feel the crunch of glass under his boots. Damn this elf.

“They spun us plenty of stories, you know,” he said. “About the South and their lies. How the Chantry’s tales of magisters starting the Blight were just that: tales. But here we are. One of those very magisters, a darkspawn.”

“So?”

Dorian cut him a hard, sideways look. “The Imperium is a land of lies built upon secrets built upon falsehoods. I knew what I was told couldn’t be the whole truth but I hoped there was a kernel of it in there somewhere. Now I know. It was us all along. We destroyed the world.” Dorian shook his head and looked down at his hands. Years of being told he was the pride of the long line of Pavus, that he had the blood of kings and magisters, that he should be proud of being Tevinter. All he could summon up now was a sick shame. “You’re asking why I turned on Tevinter, aren’t you? That’s why. Corypheus, the Venatori… they will ruin the world in Tevinter’s name. I won’t stand by and let that happen.”

He couldn’t look at Fenris. He focused on Bull’s table instead, taking comfort in Lavellan’s bright hair. Someone must have told a joke; the entire table erupted into laughter, including Lavellan. Dorian wished he was close enough to hear it. Maybe it would wash away the dirt he could feel piling up under his skin, making it feel too small for his body. He drank in Lavellan’s crinkled eyes and dimples instead, committing them to memory, and felt a little cleaner at the sight of him.

“You watch him a great deal.”

Dorian jerked. His heart thundered in his chest. Why wouldn’t this elf just leave him alone?

He forced himself to laugh. “Who, Bull?” he asked. “I won’t lie, he is impressive. But those pants—”

“Not him. The Inquisitor.”

Damn, damn, damn. “I don’t know what you mean,” Dorian said. “He’s our fearless leader, of course I watch him.”

“You’re always with him,” Fenris said. “Hawke says he listens to you.”

Dorian didn’t like the look on Fenris’ face. “We’re friends. Is that not allowed in Kirkwall or something?”

“Not with an altus from Tevinter.”

Dorian resisted the urge to stomp his foot. “And what do you think my nefarious plan is, hm?” he asked. “Work my way into the good graces of the Inquisitor to—what?”

“I do not know,” Fenris said. “I have no head for cowardly subterfuge. But I know that no magister tells the truth when a lie will do. You have some secret purpose here. I will find it out.”

“My purpose,” Dorian said, “is to put an end to Corypheus and the Venatori. You can believe me or not, but that’s my only goal.”

Fenris rose to his feet. “I will be watching you, mage,” he said.

Dorian watched as he stomped away and tried to control his breathing, keep his face even. Sometimes he hated this place. Even if he understood why the people here watched him like a viper about to strike, he resented it. He’d done nothing but help them, nothing but save them, and to have everything he’d done to prove himself undermined simply because of where he was born or because he had magic was—

“Oh, I know that look.”

Dorian jumped hard enough that he slammed his knee into the underside of the table. Swearing under his breath, he looked up just as Varric slid into Fenris’ abandoned seat. He had two tankards with him, one he slid over to Dorian.

“Broody got to you, didn’t he?” he asked. “I told Hawke to keep him on a leash but he just said that was more Broody’s thing than his. So. What’d he say?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Dorian said. “He just accused me of having some plan to undermine the entire Inquisition for the benefit of Corypheus and, of course, Mother Tevinter.” He tipped his glass to Varric. “He has a frighteningly high estimation of my abilities. I’m almost flattered.”

“Broody has a bit of a blind spot when it comes to anything Tevinter,” Varric said. “And he’s not really warm and fuzzy to anyone else regardless. Don’t take it too personal, Sparkler.”

“Oh, I never take anything personally,” Dorian said.

Varric eyed him. Dorian kept up his pleasant smile and relaxed shoulders and hoped it hid the mess that rolled under the surface. Varric’s knowing look said it probably didn’t, but he was kinder than he let on—he let the subject drop.

“So I just came back from my formal reprimand,” Varric said.

Dorian’s eyebrows rose and some of his own misery retreated. “Cassandra actually followed through on that threat, then?” He glanced down. Dalish was talking to Lavellan, one arm over his shoulder. “Who exactly reprimanded you since our dear leader is so obviously occupied?”

Varric rolled his eyes. “Ruffles.”

Dorian had to stifle a laugh. “Ah.”

“I don’t know if a reprimand is the right word for it,” Varric said. “She spent nearly thirty minutes circling around the entire thing with a long talk about the importance of cooperation in these trying times and then asked me to please not do it again.” He took a long gulp of his ale. “I almost want to do it again to see what it’d be like with Curly. Or the Nightingale.” He shuddered. “Maybe not her, actually.”

“It should make Cassandra calm down a little,” Dorian said.

Varric was silent for a long moment. Dorian looked over and frowned when he realized Varric’s attention was fixed on the first floor. He followed his line of sight to find Hawke and Fenris at a corner table. Hawke was talking about something, gesturing wildly, as Fenris listened. Dorian looked back at Varric.

“I wasn’t trying to keep secrets, you know,” Varric said, still watching Hawke. “When the Seeker dragged me in, I  had no idea why she was asking about Hawke. He’d just been through a hell of a time fixing Blondie’s mess and trying to stop an Exalted March…” He sighed. “I was just trying to keep him out of another mess.”

Dorian’s gaze drifted back to Lavellan. “I believe you, Varric.”

“You know, I told the Seeker Hawke’s entire story? Beginning to end.” Varric snorted. “I think part of me was hoping she’d hear all the shit Hawke got up to and realize he wasn’t the man for whatever job she wanted him for.” He shook his head. “He wouldn’t have lasted five seconds as Inquisitor. I’m impressed he hasn’t blown Skyhold up yet.”

Dorian glanced at him with surprise. “You really think so?” he asked.

“I’d die for Hawke,” Varric said without any drama or fervency. Simple fact. “I trust him with my back and my life. When there’s something big and scary around, he’s the first one I’d want to deal with it. But the Inquisition would have gone to pieces in one week if he was leading it and that’s a stone cold fact. He’s not cut out for this kind of bullshit.”

“Neither is Lavellan,” Dorian said.

“Spitfire’s a natural,” Varric said. “He hates it but he’s damn good at it. He’s…” Varric shrugged. “Responsible. He cares.”

Dorian thought of all those little errands Lavellan would run that had nothing to do with the Inquisition, finding lost druffalos and bringing potions to sick mothers. Remembering certain soldiers’ potential. Protective fury when his people were killed in that hypothetical future.

“And Hawke doesn’t?”

“Oh, he does,” Varric said. He sounded sad. “More than you’d think, listening to him. But Hawke’s always been a little reckless. He didn’t always think through the collateral damage.” Varric shrugged. “Not that you really can in Kirkwall. Look, it’s like when there was that talk about making Hawke viscount. We were all horrified. Hawke can handle demons and insane templars and hordes of qunari any day but he’s not the kind of hero to rally troops and lead armies. Lavellan’s a better fit.” Varric looked down at Lavellan’s table. “Too good of a fit, really.”

“He is terribly, terribly fit,” Dorian agreed and bit his tongue. Too much ale, he thought.

Varric gave him a sly, sidelong glance. “You ever going to say that to his face, Sparkler?”

“Say what?” Dorian asked with faux-innocence. “How fit he is for being Inquisitor? I’ve already told him that.”

Varric groaned. “You know, I’ve written a lot of stories with characters just as dumb as the two of you,” he said. “I’m realizing now it’s way more fun to write them than experience them in real life.”

“Oh, that’s true of most things,” Dorian said. “For instance, I’ve read about several positions that do not live up to expectation.”

Varric grinned and allowed Dorian to change the subject. “Well come on, Sparkler, don’t leave me hanging. Actual, wait a minute, I want to grab something to write with. You never know when inspiration will strike.”

Dorian settled into his seat. “Well, there was a time when a cucumber was involved that did not go as planned…”

The letter arrived two weeks after they’d settled into Skyhold. One of the couriers left it under Dorian’s door. Dorian saw the seals that marked it from Tevinter and assumed it was from his father even though he’d been remarkably silent on Dorian’s exodus so far. Perhaps now that Dorian had settled down enough to be found that had changed. He opened it with trepidation that slowly turned to horror as he read the simple note.

Felix was dead.

Dorian sat down on his bed, hands shaking so badly that it was difficult to keep his hold on the letter. He read it again and again, trying to make more sense of it. Felix had succumbed to the taint that had ruined his health for the better part of a year after addressing the Magisterium on the Inquisition’s behalf, just as he had promised he would after the horrors of Redcliffe. Dorian’s throat tightened. That was Felix through and through—dependable to the last. Dorian had never doubted he would storm back into Tevinter and take them by the throat, forcing them to see the threat the Venatori were. The tightness turned to a vice and Dorian found it difficult to breathe.

He put his head between his knees and gasped. When he’d been younger, one of the elves who’d looked after him had told him to do that whenever he felt dizzy or panicked. It had helped more times than Dorian could count and it helped now—his heart-rate slowed and the ache in his throat dimmed enough for him to gulp in several breaths. He straightened when he felt less like he was going to pass out.

He glanced at the letter and away. He remembered Felix from that nightmare future, gone brain-dead from the taint, killed like a pig for slaughter. He shivered. At least he hadn’t died like that. At least Dorian had managed to see him again before he’d gone, no matter the dire circumstances, to give him one last hug. He pressed the heel of his hand into his eyes and stood, tucking the letter into his shirt. It was heavier than it should have been, impossible to ignore.

Dorian thought about it all morning as he went through his usual routine of routing through the library. He was in a kind of daze, going through the motions. He read two chapters of his book without really reading them, having to start and re-read whole pages that he’d missed. By mid-afternoon, he acknowledged that he was being utterly useless and drew the letter out again. He didn’t read it. He just held it in his hand, feeling its weight. Felix, dead. He thought of the snacks he’d snuck Dorian, the jokes they’d shared, his kindness and generosity. Maker. Felix had deserved to live to a ripe old age and die surrounded by people who loved him. Not cut off in his prime, wasting away from sickness. No wonder Alexius had gone mad trying to save him.

His stomach turned over. Had anyone told Alexius?

“Dorian?”

He turned so fast he almost dropped the letter. Lavellan looked at him, at it, and back again, brow crinkling.

“What’s wrong?”

Lavellan stepped further into the nook Dorian had claimed as his own, frowning. He was dressed in his armor instead of his usual dark clothing. He’d spent a lot of time in the Hinterlands since they’d arrived at Skyhold. Dorian tried to distract himself by worrying about Lavellan’s increasingly pale pallor or the dark circles that never seemed to disappear from beneath his eyes, but it didn’t really help.

“I got a letter this morning,” Dorian said. “Regarding Felix. He went to the Magisterium. Stood on the Senate floor and told them of you. A glowing testimonial by all accounts.” He managed a battered laugh. “Felix always was as good as his word.”

“Was?”

Dorian braced himself, but the words still hurt coming out. “He’s dead. The Blight caught up with him.”

He looked over. Lavellan eyes were steady, a frown pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you all right?”

Dorian sighed. “He was ill,” he said. “He was living on borrowed time anyway.”

Lavellan gave him a long, even look. “That’s bullshit,” he said. “Knowing it’s coming doesn’t it make it easier when someone you love dies. Trust me.”

Lavellan’s mother, Dorian remembered. Of course he’d know.

“Felix used to sneak me treats from the kitchen when I was working late in his father’s study,” Dorian said. His eyes stung. “‘Don’t get into trouble on my behalf,’ I’d tell him. ‘I like trouble,’ he’d say.” Dorian could hear the exact intonation still. “He was the best to have at parties. He’d always have all these dry comments he’d say under his breath to try to get me to laugh. He said I never laughed enough at those things.” He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye. “Tevinter could use more men like him. Mages who put the good of others above themselves. Maker, it isn’t fair.”

Lavellan’s long fingers closed around Dorian’s elbow in a firm grip, pulling his hand away from his face. Dorian couldn’t read his expression, but there was something soft in his eyes.

“You make him sound like a better person than you,” Lavellan said.

Dorian huffed. “A better person than me?” he asked. “What a mad thing to say.”

Lavellan raised his eyebrows, but the soft expression deepened. As the silence stretched, Dorian rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” he said. “A better person clearly. But not more handsome.”

“No, of course not,” Lavellan said. “Will you be all right?”

Dorian thought about it. “Does it get easier?”

“You think about it less,” Lavellan said. “You learn to move forward. But it doesn’t really go away.”

Dorian let out a long breath. “Thank you,” he said.

Lavellan let go of Dorian’s elbow. Dorian missed the warmth of his hand immediately.

“I know what it’s like,” he said. “All you can do is honor his memory as best you can.”

“Is that what you did with your mother?”

Lavellan’s laugh was bitter. “My mother would be horrified by me,” he said. “But that doesn’t matter.” Dorian wanted to disagree but he had a feeling Lavellan wasn’t about to share more. “Listen, I was going to ask if you were up for a trip, but if I’d understand if you want to wait for next time—”

“Where are we going?” Dorian asked. “I could use a distraction.”

“How do you feel about the Storm Coast?”

The Storm Coast was wet, bleak, and dreary. Dorian hated it immediately; he couldn’t get the usual curl to his mustache, his fire magic never did well in hard rain, and nothing irritated him more than squelching mud in his boots. Harding met them at the forward camp as soon as they arrived. Her usual good cheer wasn’t dampened at all by the weather.

“Welcome to the Storm Coast,” she said. As usual, her focus was on Lavellan. “I’m glad you’re here. We’ve had some trouble with bandits—” Her eyes wandered for a moment and she straightened. “Oh! Master Hawke!”

Hawke wriggled his fingers at her. “Hi!”

Harding blushed. Lavellan looked delighted. Dorian had seen him try to flirt with Harding more than once, only to get dry rebuffs every time. He was probably happy to finally have something to tease her about. She recovered quickly, nodding her head and returning her attention back to Lavellan as she outlined the rest of the problems they’d been having; no progress on the reports of Wardens in the area, bandits down the coast, and a missing group of scouts sent to negotiate with the bandit leader.

Dorian glanced over at Hawke and Fenris, who listened as intently as everyone else. He still wasn’t sure why they were there. Hawke had been waiting at Skyhold’s gate for them as they were making their departure, leaning on his pole-staff and grinning. He’d spun some story about being bored and needing an outlet for all of his pent-up bloodlust, but Dorian wondered if there wasn’t some other motivation to coming out into the field with Lavellan. He meant it when he said he trusted Hawke, but trust didn’t mean Dorian was blind. Hawke was a hero in his own right and he doubtless had his own agenda. He played the witless fool well but Dorian wasn’t deceived; no one who took a city like Kirkwall in hand as Hawke had could truly be so empty-headed.

Hawke noticed him watching and winked. Dorian winked back and Hawke guffawed, though Fenris gave him a dirty look. Still feeling a little stung from their confrontation in the tavern, Dorian winked at him too. Fenris’ scowl of disgust was almost enough to make him cheerful as they set out into the wild, windy wilderness of the forests of Storm Coast.

The cheerfulness didn’t last long. They moved further inward and began to encounter the Storm Coast’s delightful mountainous paths that were steep and, thanks to the rain, so slippery that it was nearly impossible to go up them without sliding back down. Only Lavellan had no trouble, leaping up the paths with the surety of a mountain ram. By the time they actually made it to the forest, Dorian was covered in mud from sliding so much and wishing he had just decided to stay in Skyhold.

As they made their way into the forest near the forward camp, Dorian realized that Lavellan’s mood had lightened. His shoulders were loose under the protection of the trees and he moved with the easy grace that he’d lost sometime after Haven. He seemed oddly comfortable in the wet and muck. He’d coated his armor is some kind of alchemical slick to keep it dry but his hair was plastered to his skull and his feet were muddy to the ankles. And yet, he was perhaps the happiest he’d been since he’d done backflips from the Chantry all those weeks ago, whistling under his breath as he stopped to examine a print in the mud. Dorian didn’t understand it.

It didn’t take them long to find the way the scouts had went. Lavellan lead them on a straight path right to the cliffs where they found a group of bandits dressed in heavy blue armor camped by two crumbling houses. None of the group had noticed them yet, but to Dorian’s surprise they didn’t take advantage of it—Lavellan simply charged forward with a hard yell, taking down one of the bandits with a cut to the knee. Blackwall and Fenris followed him into the thick of the fray as more bandits came out of the woods.

Dorian did his best to assist, but his magic had more trouble than he’d anticipated. Dorian had grown up in a desert land—he’d never needed to tailor his spells for wet weather and he found it more difficult than he’d anticipated, even after months of being in a significantly wetter Fereldan. He’d always been scolded for being so specialized by his teachers, though he’d never cared much before—why be mediocre at many things when you could be excellent at a chosen few?—but now he was wondering if they hadn’t had a point. His lightning magic was so much weaker than his fire that it took him twice as long to finish off his enemies. Embarrassing, really.

Though it did give him a chance to witness the famous Hawke in action. As his bandit finally keeled over from too many lightning strikes to the heart, Dorian turned in time to see Hawke swing his pole-staff over his head and use it to send one of his own enemies flying. As it connected with the bandit’s chest, it sizzled with lightning magic, making the bandit seize even as he was pushed back several feet. He hit the ground dead.

Hawke was already turning, staff swinging in a low arc to catch the knees of the bandit trying to sneak up on him. The moment the staff touched him, the bandit’s body turned to ice, cracking into pieces as he hit the ground hard. With a sharp movement, Hawke thrust back with the pole-staff, stabbing the last of the bandits in the gut with the staff blade—fire spread out from the wound until the body was alight.

The entire fight couldn’t have lasted more than a minute.

Dorian whistled. He’d never seen a mage fight like that before. In Tevinter, where magical variety was prized, physical fights were always looked down on—what mattered was the strength of the magic, not the body. Even in duels mages kept their distance. But Hawke had managed to turn his magic into a melee weapon somehow, using it not as its own force but an extension of his staff. It was startlingly effective. Dorian almost wanted to take notes.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Dorian asked as they put their weapons away.

Hawke glanced at him. “My father was an apostate,” he said.

“He taught you how to fight like that?”

Hawke laughed. “Well. He taught me the basics. Kirkwall taught me to fight like that.”

Dorian had heard the stories, but still. “Was it really so bad?”

“I lived there for seven years and we had a qunari invasion, three all-city fights, more assassination attempts than I could keep count of, about seven hundred abominations, an attempt at the Rite of Annulment, a serial killer, and we started a war.” Hawke shrugged. “So it was all right, really.”

Dorian wanted to ask about several of those things—the war specifically, since he knew the mage Anders was Hawke’s friend—but Fenris had come up behind Hawke and was tugging him away, saying something about wanting to search the houses even as he gave Dorian a hard stare. If he could get Hawke alone later, maybe he could ask. The mage-templar war was something Dorian had many questions about, but nobody seemed to have any real answers for him. Perhaps Hawke, who had witnessed its origins, would be able to tell him more.

Dorian relaxed and caught his breath, letting his magic stabilize and watching the others. Blackwall was collecting strewn bodies, laying them in a straight line and murmuring the Chant over each corpse. Lavellan was rummaging through one of the moldy houses missing a roof, Solas and Hawke at his elbow, making triumphant noises every time he found something worthwhile in a vase or chest. Fenris stood sentry at the door, arms crossed over his chest. Dorian slung his staff back over his back and made his way over to Blackwall.

“We can’t bury them,” he said.

Blackwall didn’t look up at him, bent over the last of the bodies. “They’re men, not darkspawn. They deserve some respect in death even if they were our enemies in life.”

Really, had the man swallowed those old-fashioned stories of idealistic knights when he was a child or was every Warden so stalwart and righteous? Dorian shook his head. He didn’t relish death or see any reason to treat corpses with disrespect, but in the end, they were just dead bodies—they didn’t deserve any special consideration any more than they deserved to be desecrated. The soul was gone, so who cared what happened to shell left behind?

He turned and realized Lavellan, Hawke, and Solas had moved on to the house with a roof. Anxious to be away from Blackwall—who knew if that kind of idealism was catching?—he hurried after them. Fenris met him at the door, but he didn’t do more than give Dorian a poisonous side-glare as he went past.

The second house had its roof and all of its walls but it was still a crumbling mess, full of water and mud. In one corner there was a pile of dead bodies—their missing scouts, judging by the armor. Dorian risked a look at Lavellan and winced at his hard eyes and icy expression. He almost felt bad for the bandits.

“They were ambushed,” Solas said. He was reading a grubby piece of paper from a desk in the corner. “These bandits call themselves the Blades of Hessarian.”

Dorian started. He knew that name. A small but powerful group at odds with the Chantry about their interpretation of Andraste. They had something of a reputation throughout Thedas for their ruthlessness but Dorian had read that they were also effective and thorough. Why they felt the need to attack the Inquisition was anyone’s guess. Dorian figured they took as much issue with Lavellan being called Herald as the rest of the Chantry.

“One of the Chantry’s little groups,” Hawke said thoughtfully. He rubbed his hands together. “Well, as I always say—there’s nothing better than fringe extremists!”

Lavellan was reading a paper nailed to the wall. His expression gave away nothing, but his hands were tight fists.

“Seems the scouts were a message,” he said.

Lavellan ripped the paper from the wall and scanned it, mouth tightening with every word. Dorian and Solas exchanged looks. They had both seen Lavellan’s fury before and knew what it meant.

“What does it say?” Hawke asked. “Do they want to use you for ritual sacrifice? Because I’ve been there and it’s a lot less fun than it sounds.”

“They want to challenge me. There’s a necklace I can make,” Lavellan said. “I wear it to accept. The offer is to kill their top dog and become top dog myself.” He tossed the paper into the dirt. “As if I’m going to do that.”

Dorian picked the paper up. The letter was aggressive and derisive but the terms were plain; make this Crest and face the leader in single combat and they would have the Blades of Hessarian as their allies. Dorian clicked his tongue. Not a bad offer, he thought. The Blades had clearly taken over this part of the coast and they had eyes and ears throughout Thedas in places the Inquisition couldn’t reach right now with the Chantry’s antagonism. And Lavellan could doubtlessly dispatch their leader in single combat. It would be easier and more efficient than storming the entire stronghold and they’d get a pretty alliance out of it to boot. A win-win.

But, taking in Lavellan’s furious pacing, Dorian doubted their Inquisitor saw it that way. He handed Solas the letter and braced himself for a battle.

“They really think they can kill my people and invite me to some sort of tea party in one breath?”

“It’s a duel, not a tea party,” Dorian said.

“I can see how you’d get them confused,” Hawke said. “I’ve had several tea parties that ended in duels. And vice versa.”

Solas hummed. “You should consider it.”

Lavellan rounded on him, eyes flashing. “Consider what? That?” He gestured at the letter with a violent jab. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not interested in doing some kind of ridiculous parley with these people!” Lavellan bared his teeth and Dorian flinched. Lavellan was always a little wild, a little restless, but there was something hard under the edge of it now that Dorian didn’t like. “You seriously want me to make their white flag necklace and prance into some sort of civilized duel? No. I want a fight, damn it.”

Dorian’s frown deepened. Lavellan’s eyes were over-bright, his color high. He’d never shied away from battle before, but Dorian had never thought he particularly enjoyed it. He always seemed more at ease killing the local wildlife than killing bandits or rogue mages or templars. He exchanged an uneasy glance with Solas.

“Lavellan—”

“I want an actual fight,” Lavellan repeated. “Not some sort of ceremonial chicken-shit nonsense. We should storm their fucking camp and just get it over with.”

“And what will killing the lot of them get you?”

Lavellan spread his hands. “Vicious, vicious satisfaction?”

Hawke guffawed. "Sounds like my kind of fight," he said. "Count me in."

Dorian couldn’t usually read Solas that well, but their exasperation was so mutual it was blindingly obvious when they shared a look. Solas shrugged slightly as if to say, you try, and Dorian sighed again.

“They’ll make you their leader if you win,” Dorian said. “They’re a powerful group and they control this region. If we want to take it back without a bloodbath an alliance is much easier and less likely to get more of our people killed. Not to mention they have connections we don’t and ears in places we can’t reach.” Lavellan’s face went hard and mulish, mouth puckering. Dorian bit the inside of his cheek. “Lavellan. There’s no question you need to make that necklace.”

Lavellan paced some more. When he finally faced Dorian again, he looked like he had just bitten into something sour.

“And if I said I don’t give a damn about any of that?”

“I’d say don’t be a fool,” Dorian snapped. “You’re Inquisitor, remember?”

Lavellan snapped right back. “How could I fucking forget, Dorian?”

“Then act like it!” Dorian took in Lavellan’s narrow eyes and forced himself to calm down. Lavellan hadn’t asked for this or even been remotely prepared for it. It wasn’t in his nature or training to consider what Dorian had been raised to know as commonplace. He needed to remember that and explain it calmly, not strangle Lavellan for being so thick-headedly stubborn. “You can’t go off and do whatever you want any more, Lavellan. You’re our leader. Your first priority isn’t what you want, it’s how you can make the Inquisition stronger. And this will make the Inquisition stronger.” He eyed the ticking vein in Lavellan’s jaw. “You said you wanted my advice,” he said more softly. “This is it. Make the necklace.”

Lavellan opened his mouth to say something then closed it. Dorian watched as some struggle took place on Lavellan’s face. After a long moment, he whirled around and hit the wall with such a hard slap it took out a bit of the crumbling wood. Above their head, the roof groaned.

“Fine,” Lavellan said. “If you really think this is for the best—fine. I’ll do it.” He turned back, green eyes full of fire. “But I’m going to hate every single minute of it.”

Dorian smiled, relieved that hadn’t taken as much convincing as he’d thought it would. It looked like Lavellan had meant it when he said he valued Dorian’s advice.

“Well, you really wouldn’t be you if you didn’t complain about it the entire time,” he said.

The bandit camp was silent as they strolled in.

The necklace had been simple to craft and the guards at the front gate had fallen silent and respectful when they’d noticed Lavellan wore it around his neck. Lavellan had barely looked at them—for someone who had wanted to storm the place not even an hour ago, he seemed cooly unimpressed as their group approached the bandit leader, a broad, menacing man with a longsword strapped to his back and an ugly grin.

“The Inquisitor,” he said with heavy irony as they approached.  “What an honor. I see you got my note.” He bared his teeth. “And my gifts.”

Dorian noticed murmuring in the crowd. Whatever their leader had done, it didn’t look like everyone in the Blades approved. But no one stood forward or spoke against him. Dorian began to wonder. They’d assumed that the leader had left the note for them, but what if it had been someone else? Perhaps they wanted to get rid of him?

“You’re bold for a dead man,” Lavellan said with forced lightness.

The leader threw his head back and laughed. “A runt like you, kill Alaric the Bold?”

Dorian heard Hawke stifle a laugh. “Never trust a man who gives himself a nickname,” he whispered to Dorian.

“Oh?” Dorian asked.

“Usually means they’ve got tiny dicks,” Hawke said. “There’s a lot of over-compensation and monologuing from men with tiny dicks. It’s boring.”

“The Bold?” Lavellan looked as derisive as Hawke. “Really?”

“Prepare yourself, ‘Herald,’” Alaric said. “One of us is going to die today and it’s not going to be me.”

He charged. Lavellan just managed to get out his knives and block his attack, though it was hard enough to drive him back. Dorian stepped forward but he was dragged back with the rest of their group, forced into the circle the Blades were making around Lavellan and Alaric. The man who had stopped him from interfering, dark-haired and dressed in blue, gave him a hard look.

“The challenge is single combat,” he said. “He will forfeit if you intervene.”

Lavellan and Alaric circled each other, looking for weaknesses. Dorian frowned at the hard, nasty smile Lavellan wore, his over-bright eyes and flushed face. He didn’t know why it bothered him more than Lavellan’s withdrawn pallor in Skyhold—he certainly looked healthier like this—but it still worried him.

“This may have been a mistake,” Solas said.

Dorian glanced at him but Solas was focused on Lavellan.

“You really think he can’t take that lug?” he asked.

“It’s not that.” Solas didn’t even spare him a look. His hands were tight around his staff. “Watch carefully.”

Dorian frowned and turned back to the fight. Alaric and Lavellan weren’t really attacking each other, still figuring out each other’s styles. Alaric’s longsword was a heavy, menacing thing and he was twice Lavellan’s breadth, but Dorian had seen Lavellan take down red templars that were three times as big as him. The knives in Lavellan’s hands were new, forged just before their trip—similar in shape and size to the ones he’d lost but with some subtle differences in color and sheen.

Dorian flinched as Lavellan threw himself at Alaric, knives whirling. The knives weren’t the only things that were different, he realized. Dorian had seen Lavellan in battle enough times to become familiar with his style. He was a fluid fighter who relied on his flexibility and speed to overpower opponents, driving at them from all angles with light hits until they were exhausted and finishing with a powerful stroke. But Lavellan wasn’t fighting that way now—his strikes were as straight-forward as Cassandra’s, more aggressive and awkward than anything Dorian had ever seen him do before. Dorian tried to think back to the bandits they’d encountered, but he’d been too focused on Hawke; he hadn’t noticed Lavellan fighting any differently.

Lavellan stumbled as the Alaric caught him on the side with a charge and Dorian took a step forward, heart in his throat. He was dragged back by one of the bandits but Dorian hardly noticed. He kept his eyes on Lavellan, who recovered his balance and lunged, nicking Alaric deeply enough for first blood. He relaxed a little to see Lavellan back on his feet, but his heart still hammered in his chest.

He’d expected the Alaric to be a mid-level swordsman, barely worth the challenge of someone with Lavellan’s skill. If Lavellan was hurt or, Maker forbid, killed in this fight, Dorian would never be able to forgive himself. He was the one who had convinced Lavellan it was a good idea to do single combat, he was the one who had insisted on the duel. If they had stormed the camp they might have had more enemies but at least they would have been fighting together. At least Dorian would have been able to send the fireball he could feel gathering at the tips of his fingers as Alaric swiped at Lavellan again, a nasty smile visible under his helmet

“Some ‘Herald’ you are,” he said. “I see those tales are exaggerated after all!”

Lavellan said nothing. He changed his grip on his knives and charged, face set and grim. Alaric sent him flying backward. Lavellan landed in a hard flip, hair coming undone from its loose braid and falling around his face. Dorian strained against the hand on his shoulder. The Blade who kept him restrained gave him a shake and a stern head shake but Dorian didn’t care; if that great thug hit Lavellan one more time, he was going to send a lightning bolt his way, one-on-one duel or no.

“He’s not doing very well,” Hawke observed. “Is he sick? Does he need help?” He perked up. “Now can we fight everyone?”

“Hush,” Fenris said.

A hand on Dorian’s other shoulder. He looked back to see Blackwall glaring at him.

“Be calm,” Blackwall said. “He is no weak-willed child to be coddled.”

“He’s off,” Dorian hissed back, incensed. “He should have had this fight wrapped up with a pretty bow in two minutes, but he’s struggling. Something’s wrong.”

“He’s probably just tired from the fight before,” Blackwall said.

Obviously a man who had barely seen Lavellan in battle. Dorian, who had seen Lavellan rally after fighting through hordes of demons and red templars, gave him an incredulous stare. Lavellan’s stamina was almost as high as Bull’s; he wouldn’t be run so ragged after a measly skirmish in the woods!

“He will be fine,” Solas said.

“How can you say that?”

Dorian squirmed again as Alaric caught Lavellan’s leg with his sword. Damn it, that had just healed—!

“If you do not calm down, you will risk what he is trying to achieve here,” Solas said.

“Who cares about what he’s trying to achieve if he’s dead?”

“He does,” Hawke said and they all looked at him. Some of his good-natured humor had sloughed off, leaving exposed the man who had taken Kirkwall by the fist. As he met Dorian’s eyes, the mask came back up and he grinned, though his eyes remained steady and serious. “If you fuck this up for him after you cornered him into trying it, he’s definitely going to be pissed at you.”

Dorian hissed through his teeth. Hawke was right, damn it, but that didn’t mean he was any happier as he watched Lavellan lock blades with Alaric. Lavellan was narrow but strong enough that Dorian almost didn’t believe it when he began to buckle under Alaric’s pressure. His hand tightened into a fist as Alaric sent Lavellan to his knees, knives skidding a great distance away as they fell from Lavellan’s hands. Alaric laughed.

“Look how the heathen pretender falls!” he crowed. “I look forward to putting your head on a spike, knife-ear.”

He lifted his sword. Dorian lunged forward (he heard Hawke yell, "Okay, maybe it's cool to interfere if he's actually going to die!" behind him), spell on his lips, but the camp suddenly turned bright, vivid green, blinding him. Through slitted eyes, he realized Lavellan had lifted his hand. The hand with the Anchor. Above his head was…

“Oh, fuck that’s cool,” Hawke said. “Why does everyone else always have all the cool powers, Fenris?”

“Hush, Hawke.”

A rift, a tiny one, but it felt nothing like the rifts Dorian had helped Lavellan close over the past few weeks. Those had been doors; annoying when left open for demons to come through, but ultimately harmless in themselves. This one was a black hole—even at this distance, Dorian could feel it trying to suck him in, eating everything around it greedily.  The Blades scrambled backward from it, obviously feeling it too, but Alaric had no such luck; it had been created right above his head and it swallowed him whole in seconds.

Lavellan crushed his hand into a fist and the rift closed with a crackle of energy. It was silent in the clearing as Lavellan panted, clenched hand trembling, still awash with residual green light. All of the flushed color in his face had drained away, leaving him paler than ever. It was only when shocked murmurs started from the bandits that Dorian recovered himself enough to shake off his keeper—who didn’t seem so keen on keeping him back now that the fight was over—and run to Lavellan’s side.

“Lavellan?”

Lavellan didn’t seem to hear him. He was staring at his hand, face blank. His entire wrist was flooded with green. Dorian realized, a little horrified, that it had crept up since he’d last seen it like this; the Mark now covered all of Lavellan’s hand and fingers in intricate green lines, marking his veins and saturating his skin. Dorian could feel the energy pulsating from it without even touching Lavellan and he shivered. It had to be painful, he thought. Maker.

Solas knelt in the mud next to Lavellan. His face was expressionless as ever, but Dorian thought his eyes were softer than normal.

“Let me see, da’len,” he said.

Lavellan still didn’t respond. Dorian wasn’t sure he even knew they were there. Dorian reached out and touched his shoulder, jumping back as Lavellan took a sudden and unexpected swipe at him. His eyes were blank and wild, utterly empty of the control Dorian had come to expect from him. He held up his hands, aware of the watchful eyes of the bandits surrounding them. He wondered if they were reconsidering their promise to honor Lavellan’s leadership and prayed to the Maker that they weren’t about to attack.

“Kai,” he said. “It’s Dorian. We need to look at your hand.”

For a long, horrifying moment, he thought it wouldn’t work. Perhaps he had overestimated Lavellan’s familiarity with him, perhaps Lavellan had been too badly shaken to respond to anyone. But then the wild animal in Lavellan’s eyes eased back and he was himself again—restless and enigmatic, but not dangerous. Dorian almost wanted to cry in relief.

“Sorry,” Lavellan said. He flexed the hand with the mark and winced, though he didn’t make any noise at what had to be excruciating pain. “I’m so sorry, Dorian, I don’t know what—”

“It’s quite all right,” Dorian said. “Not the first time someone’s wanted to take a swing at me. Next time just try to aim away from the face, hm? It’d be a shame to damage it.”

Lavellan shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

Did he not know he’d already said that? He sounded so dazed. Dorian reached out carefully and put a hand on Lavellan’s shoulder again. He was trembling like a horse that had been run for too long, muscles jumping under Dorian’s hand. Maker.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Solas? What’s wrong with him?”

“I do not know,” Solas said.

Solas murmured something in elvhen that made Lavellan look at him. Every move he made was markedly slow as if he was almost too exhausted to function. Dorian vibrated with impatience as he offered his marked hand to Solas and Solas proceeded to examine it. Dorian wasn’t sure if Solas was making those interested hums to annoy him or not, but if he was doing it on purpose, it was working.

He glanced over his shoulder to distract himself and realized that Hawke and Fenris were in a quiet discussion with the Blades of Hessarian. Hawke was saying something, gesturing with his hands, too far away for Dorian to hear. Fenris watched, arms crossed over his chest.

“He said he would negotiate on Lavellan’s behalf,” Blackwall told Dorian. His bearded face was grim. “He’s a little flighty, but I figure he is the Champion of Kirkwall…”

“I’m sure he won’t start a brawl just yet,” Dorian said. “But we probably shouldn’t leave them alone with him for much longer. Solas?”

Solas sighed and dropped Lavellan’s hand. “The Anchor is spreading.” Dorian’s heart dropped. “Whatever these new abilities are, they are…” His head tilted to the side, considering. “Entrenching the Anchor. If it could be removed before, it can’t now. With every use it will only become more permanent and spread further.”

“Closing the rifts will do that?” Dorian demanded.

Solas made a tiny movement with his shoulders, impossible to read. “I do not think so,” he said. “He has closed rifts since Corypheus’ attack and suffered no further injury. The new abilities are causing this—mutation.”

“Perfect,” Lavellan said. They both looked at him, but he was staring down at his hand, face tight. “As if I wasn’t enough of a freak already, let’s add a mutating mark that can summon rifts. That’s sure to make me real popular.” He looked up. Dorian had never been particularly paternal in the past, but it was difficult to resist the urge to bundle Lavellan up and feed him soup at the sheer exhaustion on his face. What had summoning that rift done to him? “We’ll worry about it spreading later. Can you do anything about the pain right now, Solas?”

“I will speak to Fiona,” Solas said. “Perhaps there are some poultices or potions we can try.” He put a hand on Lavellan’s shoulder and squeezed. There was something strange and heavy in his eyes as he looked at Lavellan. “We will figure out something, da’len.”

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Lavellan said. “We should have just stormed this place and gotten it over with.”

Dorian flinched. Lavellan wasn’t looking at him, but Solas caught it and Dorian met his cool, even gaze.

“That fight gave you trouble,” Solas said, still looking at Dorian.

Lavellan hunched in on himself. “He was a hard opponent.”

True, but there was something evasive in Lavellan’s voice. It was the same tone he used whenever Dorian tried to talk to him about his past or his family.

“Even for a hard opponent,” Solas said. “I have never seen you panic like that before.”

Lavellan was silent for a long time. “I did against Corypheus,” he said in a low, pained voice.

“Good news!”

They all turned as Hawke and Fenris came back with one of the bandits in tow, the same dark-haired man who had stopped Dorian from interfering before. He only had eyes for Lavellan. Lavellan managed to struggle to his feet as they approached, but he listed to the side, leaning heavily into Solas’ shoulder. Dorian shoved down the curl of jealousy.

“The Blades here are willing to honor the duel, even considering the, ah… unexpected nature of their esteemed leader’s defeat.” Hawke bounced a little on his toes. “Seems they hated the poor bastard. Who’d’ve figured?”

“Well, he didn’t exactly win me over, so I can’t say I blame them,” Lavellan said. He turned to the man. “You’re willing to accept my leadership?”

The man inclined his head. “Yes, Your Worship. The Blades of Hessarian are at your service.”

Lavellan eyed him. “There are men in a house to the north.” Lavellan’s voice was hard, all vulnerability smoothed over and packed away deep. Dorian watched the Blade straighten. “Inquisition scouts your lot killed. Your first task is to retrieve their bodies and bury them.”

The Blade gave nothing away in his expression. “Yes, Herald,” he said. “Do you have any other orders?”

“You’ll let the Inquisition move inland,” Lavellan said. “I want to set up another camp further along the road.” He darted a look at Dorian. “I’ll send along orders from my spymaster as well.”

The Blade bowed. “As the Herald commands,” he said and marched away, shouting orders to the rest of the Blades in the camp.

Lavellan sighed, listing into Solas even more. “Can we go now?” he asked, plaintive. “I just want to sleep for a million years.”

As if Dorian could deny him anything right now. He glared at the others but they all seemed as ready to indulge the Inquisitor as Dorian was. Hawke was even grinning a little.

“This brings back memories,” he said when he noticed Dorian watching. “Pretty sure I said that about a million times back in Kirkwall.”

“More than,” Fenris said.

Lavellan huffed out a laugh. “Well,” he said. “Let’s go back to Skyhold then.”

“Yes,” Dorian said. “Back to Skyhold it is.”

Dorian had been studying for most of his life—while his natural skills were prodigious, one couldn’t get by on pure talent alone. And Dorian enjoyed it, for the most part; expanding his mind and collecting information, being able to spin out details and theories and histories at the drop of a hat. Books were easy companions who never wanted anything from him or asked him for favors or nagged him to find a wife and settle down. He’d always been able to disappear inside of them for a little while and there had been many times in Dorian’s life when all he wanted was to disappear.

Skyhold’s library was a mish-mash collection missing half the volumes Dorian would deem necessary for any true library but there were some hidden gems in there when he did enough digging. More now that Leliana’s spies had returned with their stolen tomes from the Magisterium’s library in Minrathous, a deft act of espionage that Dorian couldn’t help but applaud. The spy had found many interesting volumes on Tevinter’s noble lineage and their history—Dorian was certain Corypheus was among them. A magister with that kind of power and arrogance could only be a noble and if Dorian was able to discredit Corypheus’ claim to godhood by proving him a mortal man…

So far he hadn’t had much luck, though he had learned some interesting stories about House Pavus and collected some potential blackmail material if he ever decided to go back to Tevinter. He set his book aside and cricked his neck, stretching out tight muscles. He’d been in the library all day, absorbed in his reading and notes. The moon had risen high outside—it had to be past midnight. Dorian rubbed his eyes and decided a walk was in order before he finally retired for the night. Stretch out his sore muscles and get at least a taste of fresh air.

Skyhold was always bustling with so much activity during the day that walking through the main hall and out into the courtyard to silence was as strange as it was a relief. Aside from the guards circling Skyhold’s walls, the fortress was abandoned. At some point during the day it must have rained; the grass was wet and crunchy under Dorian’s boots and the air was crisp and clean. He inhaled deep, relaxing tight muscles as he made a slow circuit around the main courtyard. The only light to see by was the half-full moon and the stars, thicker and brighter in the Frostbacks than Dorian had ever seen them.

Dorian paused as he reached the tavern and heard an odd thumping noise. Without torches, it was more difficult to see but his eyes had adjusted enough to the half-light to make out a figure near the training dummies. Was someone practicing at this time of night? What in the Maker’s name? Dorian moved closer, curious. The figure was looping around the dummies in even circles, attacking and readjusting and attacking again. There was something oddly familiar about the movements but Dorian couldn’t place it until he got close enough to see the flash of silver in their hand and make out the bright color of their hair.

What in Thedas was Lavellan doing practicing on target dummies in the middle of the night?

Dorian stayed quiet, leaning against the wall of the tavern, as Lavellan attacked the dummies. It became clear as he watched that it wasn’t practice. Lavellan wasn’t doing what Dorian had watched Cassandra or Blackwall do before, going through forms to memorize them with his body. He was just attacking the dummies as he would an actual enemy—a full-on frontal assault that, Dorian noticed, had already ruined three dummies to nothing more than tufts of hay.

Dorian hadn’t seen much of Lavellan since their trip to the Storm Coast two days ago--at least, not up close. Dorian’s windows overlooked the Inquisition’s courtyard, so he often saw Lavellan tramping from one side to the other running some kind of errand. He’d heard from Varric that Lavellan had gotten the Anchor checked out by Vivienne as well, though Varric hadn’t been able to tell him what the verdict had been. Dorian was still trying to work up the nerve to ask Vivienne about it himself.

Dorian watched as Lavellan took out yet another dummy, sending its remains to the corner with the rest of its fallen brethren. His form was still off. It wasn’t as obvious as it had been on the Storm Coast, but his attacks were still uneasy and awkward, uncoordinated. Dorian wasn’t surprised when Lavellan sprang up and missed one of the dummies, crashing into it instead. They went sprawling to the ground and Lavellan began a stream of truly filthy swears. Dorian was impressed. He might write one or two of those down. He sighed and pushed off the tavern wall.

“Having trouble?”

Lavellan’s swears increased in volume and filth. Dorian ignored them and offered him a hand up. It took a little doing to untangle him from the dummy and he had straw in his hair when Dorian finally managed to get him to his feet. Dorian resisted the urge to brush it out or acknowledge how much mussed worked for Lavellan. Close up, it was easier to make out Lavellan’s drawn face and exhaustion. He’d clearly been practicing for hours—his skin was covered in sweat and he was shaking.

“You do know it’s past midnight,” Dorian said. “You should go get some beauty sleep.”

Lavellan gave him a grumpy look. “You’re awake.”

Dorian flashed him a smile. “Ah, but I don’t need beauty sleep. I’m already devastatingly handsome.” Lavellan’s scowl only deepened. He normally would have pounced on an opening like that, Dorian thought. “Is this some secret elvhen thing? You can only attack defenseless dummies under the moonlight?” He cocked his head, pretending to think. “No, I think it’s dance naked, isn’t it? So easy to get those two confused.”

Lavellan scoffed and turned back to the dummies. “We don’t dance naked under the moonlight.”

“More’s the pity,” Dorian said.

I just needed to clear my head.” Lavellan took another swing at one of the dummies. “This is the only time where I can get any fucking peace and quiet.”

Dorian softened, though he kept his tone playful, hoping to draw Lavellan out of the rotten mood he was in. “Sounds like you’re keeping busy.”

Lavellan snorted even as he barrelled into a dummy, stabbing it cleanly in the shoulder. “That’s one way to say it,” he said. “Josephine told me she wants me to start making contact with our noble allies on my own and Leliana keeps sending me these reports about Orlesian politics that I can’t make head or tails of...” He delivered a hard belly wound that sent hay spraying out onto the ground and flipped his knives to stab backward into the dummy’s chest. “Cullen won’t shut up about these reports he’s getting about some Samson guy and Blackwall keeps hinting and nudging about his damn Warden trinkets…” The dummy knocked his elbow as he turned and sent his knife spiraling away—Lavellan snarled and knocked the dummy against the temple with his hand. “Solas keeps pushing to go out and investigate those shards we keep finding and the mages won’t stop complaining that their tower has a draft, Cassandra and Varric won’t even talk to each other, and Vivienne’s still giving me the cold shoulder for keeping Cole who, by the way, was definitely the best decision I’ve made since becoming Inquisitor because he’s the only person in this entire fortress who seems capable of handling his own damn problems!” Lavellan punched the dummy again, sending it sprawling to the ground. He stood over its fallen form, tufted with hay and almost as destroyed as the three others he’d left in his wake and offered Dorian a hard, bright smile. “Present company excluded, of course.”

“Well, when you’re as capable and dashing as I am, you can be your own hero.” Dorian watched as Lavellan used his remaining knife to begin an attack on his last dummy. “Have you considered delegating this task list? That’s very in fashion these days. Practically vogue.”

Lavellan grunted as he stabbed the dummy in the chest. “Delegate to who? I tried to give the mages to Cassandra but she just keeps huffing at them and everything the advisors do apparently needs to be run under my nose.” He kicked the dummy in the groin and it went flying. Lavellan stood where it had been and rubbed hard at his forehead, streaking mud all over his face. “I don’t have enough hours in the day for all of this bullshit, Dorian. Especially not if I want to find Corypheus. And nobody seems to think that’s what we should be focusing on except me. Everyone else wants tea parties and scavenging as if we don’t have a rogue magister running around trying to end the world!”

Some odd, frantic note had entered Lavellan’s voice. His eyes were too bright, his color too pale. Dorian eyed him worriedly and wondered how much exactly he had been sleeping. When he’d suggested Lavellan take being Inquisitor in stride this wasn’t what he’d had in mind. It was like he was trying to get months of work done in a matter of weeks. If he kept on like this he might stretch himself so thin he’d crumble.

“Well, first off, Cassandra is never going to take the mages seriously,” Dorian said. “Give them to Josephine. She’s better at handling the kind of dramatic whining that only mages can produce.” He winked. “I would know. Leliana can handle the shard business—that is her job. Have her send out some scouts to keep Solas happy. As for Cassandra and Varric; they’ll work it out.” He considered. “You could always lock them in a closet and let them work out that latent sexual tension that way.”

Lavellan made a face, but some of the strain in his face softened. “I don’t want that picture in my head.” He sighed. “I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he said. “I had responsibilities back home but they were never anything like this. I could always handle everything myself.” His face soured a little. “I had to handle everything myself. There was never anyone else to do it for me.”

Dorian wanted to ask but he had a feeling the moment he did Lavellan would clam up. “You don’t have to do it by yourself here,” he said. “Capable as you are, even you might have a little trouble running the entire Inquisition on your own.”

“You wouldn’t think so, looking at the to-do list Josephine gives me every morning,” Lavellan said. He sighed again, looking at his fallen dummies. “I just… needed to let off a little steam, I guess. And even if I did have time during the day, I wouldn’t want everyone watching me.”

Dorian glanced at the knife Lavellan had yet to retrieve and back again. “You do seem to be having a little trouble,” he said. He couldn't stop the joke. “Performance anxiety?”

He was rewarded with a dry chuckle and a flash of a smirk. “Not that,” Lavellan said. “I don’t know what’s wrong. It’s not the Mark and all my cuts healed up days ago. I’ve got a clean bill of health but I just… can’t seem to get my balance.” He cut Dorian a look. “And sometimes in a fight I keep seeing…” He grimaced.

“Corypheus?” Dorian asked.

“That ugly idiot won’t leave me alone,” Lavellan said. Dorian choked on a shocked laugh. “With Alaric, when I lost my knives, I saw…” Lavellan shook his head and looked down at the knife still in his hand. “And these things aren’t helping.”

“The new knives?” Dorian examined the one Lavellan held. “They look the same as your old ones to me.”

“They are, mostly. I used the same schematic, most of the same materials. They’re almost identical.”

Dorian waited but Lavellan didn’t continue, just stared down at his knife. His jaw was set tight enough to make a muscle in his cheek jump.

“But?” Dorian asked, wondering if he was about to set off some sort of trap. He’d never been very good at spotting traps before springing them. “Something must be different about them.”

Lavellan let out a long, hard breath. “My old knives were… special in more than one way,” he said. “I told you I made them when I came of age? It’s a big thing with the Dalish. We have a ceremony and family comes, gives you gifts. That sort of thing.” Lavellan rolled his shoulders, flicking his hair irritably over his shoulder. “My sister enchanted those knives as her gift.”

Dorian shouldn’t have been surprised but he was. “Your sister’s a mage?”

Lavellan’s eyes were poisonous and sharp. “She was a mage,” he said.

Dorian had the unfortunate feeling that if he so much as breathed right now he might end up with the knife Lavellan was still holding in his ribcage. He stayed carefully quiet until some of the viciousness had bled from Lavellan’s face.

“Sorry,” Lavellan said. “Sore subject. Look, I never asked what she did to them but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t your basic dweomer runes and shit, you know? They felt alive. After using those for so long it’s really fucking weird to use knives that are just dead pieces of metal. I’m trying to adjust.”

“You lost them in Haven, didn’t you?” Dorian asked. “Why not ask someone to go look and try and find them?”

Lavellan shook his head. His walls were coming back up, carefully covering any vulnerability.

“It’s not important,” he said. “Stopping Corypheus as quickly as possible, that’s what matters. Whenever that’s over, I can try to find them again.” He flipped the knife in his hand but fumbled the catch, almost letting it slip through his fingers. He snarled at it. “I’ll just get used to these ones.”

Bullshit, Dorian almost said out loud. But he took in the strain in Lavellan’s face and his slumped shoulders and stayed quiet as an idea bloomed in the back of his mind. Lavellan might be too heroic and selfless to ask for this one thing, but Dorian could be selfish enough for the both of them. Especially if it meant Lavellan might stop looking so haunted. And keep a repeat of that fight with Alaric from happening again.

He clapped Lavellan on the shoulder, lingering a little on the curve of his bicep since there wasn’t anyone around to notice—Lavellan was probably too tired to care.

“I’ll help you clean up,” Dorian said. “Cassandra’s going to turn all her ire on you next if she sees this mess in the morning.”

Lavellan grimaced. “You’ve got that right,” he said. He cut Dorian a sidelong glance. “Thanks,” he said.

“Oh, there’s nothing I love more than a little manual labor in the middle of the night. Keeps the blood pumping.”

“Not for that,” Lavellan said. “It’s strange, but I always seem to be able to talk to you." He offered Dorian a sliver of a smile. "I’m glad you joined up, Dorian. I would’ve gone mad in a week if you hadn’t been here.”

Dorian’s faced heated. Did this man have no embarrassment for the things that came out of his mouth? Maker.

“Well, I’m still holding out for someone to feed me grapes, so if you want to show your appreciation in a more concrete way…” Dorian said and smiled at Lavellan’s bark of laughter.

Despite her infamy, Dorian didn’t know much about Leliana. Everyone knew the stories of her—how she’d joined the Hero because of a prophetic dream, her skills in archery, and even her elusive history as a bard in Orlais had become commonplace knowledge after ten years of spreading tales. But Dorian knew little about her as a person other than what he’d observed of her in the Inquisition—and all that told him was what any other fool could notice: her perceptiveness and solitary nature, her secrecy and sharp tongue. Dorian had realized early on to avoid Leliana if he could help it—he was not the type of man who enjoyed having his secrets or his mind known, and she could understand him with a glance.

But this was more important than his own comfort.

He climbed the stairs to the tower’s highest level with dragging feet, every step harder and harder. A scout came passed him, hurrying downward and spared him a curious glance as Dorian allowed her by. Dorian offered a charming smile that became a little more real when it actually made her blush. He was relieved to see not all of Leliana’s scouts were cut from the same elusive material she was. Dorian threw in a wink for good measure and the scout’s wide eyes and squeak made the last set of stairs much easier to climb.

Leliana was seated by the stairs’ opening, bent over a sheaf of papers spread over a long, low table. She didn’t look up as Dorian approached. He cleared his throat.

“What business does a great magister like yourself have with me?” Leliana asked, heavy on the irony.

Dorian bristled. “I really do hate to repeat myself, but I must say it again—not a magister,” he said. “And I know you know that.”

She glanced up at him, eyes bright under the dark brim of her hood. “Of course I know that. But it is fun to rile you up, master mage. You fluff up like an offended cat.”

“I do not—” Dorian took a deep breath. “I have a request.”

“Only the one?”

Dorian gritted his teeth. “I would like to put in a formal request to make a trip to Haven.”

Dorian suddenly had Leliana’s full, focused attention. It was unnerving. “A trip to Haven? Whatever for?”

Dorian had practiced this lie many times in preparation but it still felt clumsy on his tongue under Leliana’s interested gaze. “I suddenly remembered I left a most beloved amulet behind when we were all forced to flee for our lives. I’d dearly like to have it back.”

“An… amulet.” Leliana’s expression revealed nothing of the thoughts whirring behind her head. “I see. And why can’t my scouts retrieve it for you?”

“Well it was a precious item,” Dorian said. “I hid it in a very special place. Impossible for your scouts to know where to look, clever as they are. It won’t take long. A day there, a day back, I’ll be back before you know it.”

Leliana was silent for a long time. Dorian kept up his pleasant smile even as he wished fervently for this to be over. He should’ve just snuck out like he’d half-planned to do. But then he’d been struck by visions of being attacked by one of the night guards or some other ridiculous thing. An arrow to the back might be preferable to dealing with Leliana.

“The Inquisitor is in the Hinterlands,” Leliana said at last.

“I’m aware,” Dorian said. He’d waited expressly for Lavellan to go off on another journey south before he made his move. “I have traveled through Fereldan on my lonesome before, Spymaster. The Frostbacks are safer than most of the Hinterlands anyway. Less rifts and less pesky rogue mages and templars making a mess for everyone.”

Leliana hummed. “I do not think I need to tell you how suspiciously you are regarded.” Dorian bristled. “This will look like a betrayal to some, letting you go without the Inquisitor’s supervision. They will say you are returning to Corypheus.”

“Well then,” Dorian said in his most syrupy-sweet tone, “won’t they feel ever so embarrassed when I come back?”

Leliana hummed again. “Very well,” she said. “You have leave to travel to Haven tomorrow on the understanding of your return the following day. Dennett will get you a good horse—we’ve cleared a path through the Frostbacks that will make travel easy for you.”

Dorian inclined his head, relieved he’d gotten away with it. He turned to go.

“Dorian.” He stopped. “I do not agree with the people who doubt you. But if this is some trick, you should know I will hunt you to the ends of Thedas.”

Dorian didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer or a response. He simply left.

Dorian was delivered an official release the next morning by a sour-faced courier but it was still difficult to shake his nerves as he mounted his horse and prepared to leave from the front gate. He’d never left Skyhold for an extended period of time without the Inquisitor and even though he wasn’t technically a prisoner, he still half expected one of the guards watching his approach to shoot him with an arrow to keep him from leaving.

He frowned when he realized there was someone waiting at the gate. Two someones actually, and he groaned when he got close enough to see Fenris and Hawke. Hawke waved as Dorian approached, bouncing on his toes. Fenris simply glared.

“No,” Dorian said.

Hawke pouted at him. “Don’t be like that!” he said. “Your scary spymaster made us!”

“What?”

Fenris handed over his own document. Dorian read it with increasing fury. Orders to accompany Dorian Pavus on his journey to Haven with just enough hinting to let them know their real job was to keep an eye on him if he tried to defect. He nearly crumpled the paper in anger, but he forced himself to hand it back to Fenris instead.

“I see,” Dorian said.

“I would’ve ignored it,” Hawke said, “but you hear a lot of good stories about Haven. Makes all that stuff and nonsense with Kirkwall sound like a day in the park. I’m curious.”

Dorian stiffened. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Who wouldn’t want to come and gawk at the ruin and devastation of an entire town? There’s simply nothing more entertaining than going to visit the place where dozens of people died!”

“Oh, untwist those panties,” Hawke said. “It’s hard to get the scale of the thing from people's talk. I want to see it with my own eyes.”

Dorian frowned at him. “Well,” he said, nodding to the orders. “I can’t exactly stop you, can I?”

“You could absolutely try,” Hawke said. “Go on and fight Fenris. I need a good laugh.”

“What if I want to fight you?”

Hawke’s grin grew an edge that made Dorian uneasy. “Oh. That’d be fun too. You’ve got some cute tricks up your sleeve for a magister.”

“I’m not a magister.” How many times did Dorian need to tell people that before they got that? Did he need to draw them a picture? He glanced up and frowned when he realized the guards at the gate were watching them. Kaffas. “Fine,” he said, imperious to mask his aggravation. “You may accompany me. I need someone to chop all the firewood anyway.”

“Oh, I’m no good at chopping firewood,” Hawke said immediately. “But I can set things on fire really well! Do you want me to be the setting things on fire person?”

“Hawke,” Fenris said.

Hawke pouted. “You always ruin my fun,” he muttered. “I haven’t gotten to set anything on fire since we got here.”

Dorian patted him on the shoulder. “Maybe if you’re lucky we’ll run into some rams you can blow up,” he said.

"One can only hope," Hawke said.

The trip through the Frostbacks was mostly painless. Without an entire town to slow things down and an actual path, the trip only took hours instead of days—and, to Hawke’s obvious disappointment, they didn’t see another living thing for the entire day. It was eerily quiet. Dorian was almost glad for Hawke and Fenris—it would have been unnerving to be alone amongst so much snow and sky. He’d gotten strangely used to traveling in a group; sharing cooking duties with Varric or putting up tents with Blackwall, watching as Cassandra chopped a terrifying amount of firewood, trying to keep Sera from unleashing disaster and mayhem on their little camp.

Hawke and Fenris didn’t create the same level of comfortable noise but Hawke kept up a pretty consistent stream of chatter during their ride. Dorian listened with one ear, offering a quip or a cutting remark when it seemed relevant but he, like Fenris, was content to let Hawke talk himself out. He never talked about anything really important, just a lot of irrelevant gossip from his time in Kirkwall or what he’d picked up from Varric since arriving at Skyhold. He also never talked about his family though Dorian knew his brother was still alive. Dorian wondered if it was a  hero thing to be so close-mouthed about your personal life.

The sun was setting as they approached Haven. Dorian’s heart began to beat hard against his chest as they came upon the remains of the outpost they’d run to that horrible night. It must have snowed since they had left—the remains of their tracks and habitation had been completely covered, leaving the camp as untouched as it must have been when they’d first settled there. Dorian stared at the remains of the huge campfire as they passed it. Only weeks ago he had sat there consumed by grief.

Hawke’s chatter finally came to a stop as they descended the mountain path to Haven. The true devastation wasn’t visible until they exited from the sparse trees near the base of the mountain and came out to the smoldering ruins. Dorian drew his horse to a stop and stared. Behind him, Hawke whistled.

“Guess they weren't exaggerating,” he said.

All that remained of Haven were husks of buildings, most of them burned entirely to the ground. The outer wall had been utterly demolished, leaving the ruins exposed. Dorian led his horse slowly down the path that had once led through the training barracks. The blacksmithery was gone, reduced to rubble. The giant gate doors were broken into pieces, thrown several paces away and half covered in snow.

Dorian stopped his horse in what had once been Haven’s courtyard and dismounted. Hawke and Fenris followed suit. Dorian looked around. He had seen this happen, he thought, but it still shocked him to see how much of Haven had been destroyed. There were still the frozen remains of red templars scattered everywhere, half-buried in snow, imprints where Inquisition soldiers must have lain until Leliana’s people had come to pick them up. It was utterly quiet.

“That Inquisitor of yours really knows how to make an exit,” Hawke said. “Even I left Kirkwall standing. Well. Mostly.”

Dorian closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, he watched Lavellan’s hard face in the Chantry’s flickering lamplight, the shine of his bright hair as he stalked toward Corypheus. He forced the images away. 

“Wander about as you like,” he said. “I have something I need to find.”

Hawke and Fenris exchanged speaking looks. “Sure, sure,” Hawke said with a convincing ease that Dorian didn’t trust for a second. “We’ll be around.”

Dorian waited until they had started for the Chantry, the only building left somewhat intact, before taking a hard turn. He couldn’t stop thinking about the last time he’d walked this path—Cassandra and Lavellan injured, Varric grim-faced and stern at his side, the fire all around them. It was almost entirely different now, surrounded by snow and alone, but the ghost of that night followed Dorian with every step he took. When he finally got to the trebuchet’s clearing, he half expected to find red templars waiting for him.

But no. There were only the remains of that fateful trebuchet, clearly destroyed by the force of the avalanche and laying in scattered pieces around the clearing. The snow was heavy here, coming up to Dorian’s knees. He left his horse at the edge of the clearing and struggled through to the middle. What had Lavellan said? He’d escaped to the caves below Haven. How?

Dorian looked around. Nothing caught his eye immediately like he’d been half-hoping. He made his way to where the trebuchet had stood and looked some more, but there was nothing to see but snow and more snow. Dorian crossed his arms over his chest and harrumphed, annoyed. What if this had been some kind of fool’s errand?

“Whatchu doing?”

Dorian jumped, nearly falling back into the snow. Hawke stood at the edge of the clearing with Fenris, hand on his hips.

“Oh, nothing,” Dorian said. His voice was high and breathless. “Just taking a look around. Surveying the scene and such.”

“I thought you were looking for an amulet,” Hawke said, eyebrows rising.

“I… am. Looking for an amulet.”

“In the snow? Far, far away from any actual buildings?”

“I told you he was lying,” Fenris said.

Dorian bristled. “I’m not lying!”

Hawke and Fenris both gave him a look. Despite their remarkably different personalities, that look was practically identical.

“Well,” Dorian amended. “Not about the looking part. Just about… what I’m looking for.”

“You see?” Fenris asked Hawke.

“To quote your favorite expression, hush,” Hawke said. “What’re you looking for, ‘vint?”

Dorian flushed. He had really hoped he’d be able to find the knives without Hawke or Fenris noticing and then he could pretend to not be able to find the amulet and get away clean. But now he had to admit to the real reason he was here and expose all that gross sentimentality to a man he barely knew and an elf who thought he was one bad day away from joining the enemy. Dorian sighed. Best to rip the bandage off quickly then.

“I’m looking for Lavellan’s knives,” he said.

Hawke’s head tilted. “Lavellan… has knives already?” he asked.

“He remade them,” Dorian explained. “During the fight with Corypheus he lost the originals. They were quite unique, practically irreplaceable, but the stupid man won’t ask for anyone to come looking for them even though he’s having trouble adjusting to the new ones and they were very special to him and what is that look on your face, Hawke?”

Hawke was grinning from ear to ear. “You’re doing this for Lavellan!”

“Of course I’m doing this for Lavellan,” Dorian said. “I may be an extremely gifted mage but I wouldn’t know what to do with knives.”

“No, no, no,” Hawke said. He was practically vibrating with delight. “This is all for Lavellan. He’s been moody and snappish and you think getting the knives back will make him feel better—sweet Maker’s balls, you’re head over ass for him, aren’t you?”

Dorian winced. “No,” he said with all the stiff dignity he could afford when he was covered in snow.

“He is!” Hawke told Fenris. “I told you he wasn’t some sort of evil mastermind trying to destroy the Inquisition from the inside!”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed. “He may still be,” he said. “Remember—”

“Yeah, yeah, no magister tells the truth where lies may do,” Hawke said, flapping a hand. He pointed at Dorian and Dorian didn’t care for that at all. “But look at him! What kind of evil magister rides a horse for eight hours to stand in the snow and look for knives because the guy he likes is a bit sad about losing them? Come on, Fenris!”

Fenris considered that. “It is… unusual for a magister,” he allowed.

“Do I need to get altus tattooed on my head?” Dorian asked the sky.

“Well, if you had just said all this from the beginning, we could’ve helped!” Hawke said, rubbing his hands together. “I love this kind of love story bullshit. Now, what do these knives look like?”

“Pointy,” Dorian said. Hawke gave him a look and Dorian capitulated—if they already knew he might as well use that to his advantage. Grumpily, he expanded, “Red and silver, curved. He said he lost them around here.” Dorian considered. “They’re heavily enchanted.”

“Oh, that makes it a snap then!” Hawke said. “Just give me a moment.”

He closed his eyes. Dorian frowned at him. Magic did have a texture and presence, but sensing enchanted objects was much more difficult than sensing magic off of people. But Hawke only closed his eyes for a moment, as promised, before he opened them again with a wince.

“I can feel them,” he said. “You weren’t kidding about heavily enchanted, huh? But they’re not up here.”

“Where are they?” Dorian demanded. “And how exactly can you feel them?”

“They’re below,” Hawke said. “Come on. I can explain on the way.”

Hawke led them across the clearing to a narrow crack in the rock facade that gradually widened and turned into a winding tunnel. They descended and Hawke explained a unique brand of magical sensitivity that had run in his family for generations—all mages could sense magic in some way or another, but Hawke was unusually attuned to it.

Dorian lit a small fire in his palm as the tunnel got darker and blinked in surprise when he realized Fenris was glowing. His tattoos were lit with a pale light. Dorian wanted to ask about a hundred questions, but Fenris gave him a look. Dorian kept his mouth shut.

“We’re close,” Hawke said. His voice echoed oddly in the tunnel. “Take a left. Maker, they’re strong.”

Dorian turned and found himself on a narrow ledge. He grasped the slick wall behind him and glanced down, stomach quivering. It was a long, dark drop. Was this where Lavellan had fallen? No wonder he’d been so banged up.

He caught a flash of something bright out of the corner of his eye and turned. His heart jumped. There! On a nearby ledge, two bright objects were clearly visible, twinkling in Dorian’s firelight. That had to be them. How they’d gotten all the way down here was anyone’s guess—the avalanche might have pushed them down the same route Lavellan had taken or Corypheus and his archdemon had swept them aside in their escape.

The ledge was a little too far to jump. Dorian stared at it, considering.

“I’m going to make a bridge,” he said.

“Oh?” Hawke asked with bright curiosity. “From what? Ice?”

“Yes,” Dorian said. His mind was more focused on the spells that would be necessary and the strength of magic it would take to keep the bridge from crumbling the moment he stepped foot on it. “Give me a moment.”

“I’ll give you two,” Hawke said.

Dorian did a few more calculations in his head and took a deep breath. The space was almost too narrow for a staff, but he managed to draw his without toppling over the side. Hawke and Fenris watched from a distance, peering from the opening in the tunnel; Hawke with interest, Fenris suspiciously. Dorian took another deep breath and summoned deep from his magic. His ice magic wasn’t particularly strong, but the bridge didn’t need to be that wide or long—he could do it.

He sent a steady stream of ice magic in the gap between the two ledges, layered many times until he’d made a bridge he felt would be strong enough to support his weight. By the time he applied the final layer, his magic was getting low. Dorian set down his staff and rolled out his shoulders. The bridge looked tough and strong in the flickering light of Fenris’ glowing tattoos. Dorian glanced over the side of the ledge again, unable to help himself. If his magic failed in some way, that was a long way to drop.

He looked at the other ledge, the gleam of Lavellan’s knives. He closed his eyes and thought of Lavellan, unwilling to ask for even this one thing. Dorian’s breath evened. He could this for Lavellan.

He opened his eyes and took a step on the bridge. It groaned under his weight but held. Dorian released a long breath and took another step then another. He was so focused on one step at a time he was almost surprised when he was standing on solid rock. He looked back—Hawke and Fenris had crowded into the space he’d left behind, watching him. Hawke flashed him a thumbs up.

Dorian looked down. It was difficult to see this far away from the light Fenris emitted, but the knives gleamed with their own inner light, drawing the eye. He picked them up and jumped; touching them directly, it was clear that they were enchanted items. He could almost feel the magic coming off of them. No wonder Lavellan had trouble with unenchanted knives if this was what he’d spent his entire adult life using! The magic was strong, protective. Dorian spared a moment to think about Lavellan’s sister. This kind of enchantment wasn’t some slapped on runes or clumsy protection spell—this was powerful magic, meant to last. Dorian bowed his head and made a silent promise to that dead sister—he wouldn’t let it go to waste. Lavellan would be protected as she’d clearly wanted.

He turned back and frowned. His ice bridge was beginning to crumble. His grip tightened and released on the knives, unsure.

“Give me a moment!” Hawke called.

He crouched and within moments the bridge had strengthened again. Dorian scurried over it before his mind caught up with him and breathed a long sigh of relief when he was on solid ground once more. Hawke hit the ground and the bridge shattered, falling down the long abyss.

Hawke examined the knives in Dorian’s hands. “So that’s them, huh? They’re gorgeous. Almost makes me want to try my hand at knives, you know?” He held out a hand. “Can I?”

Dorian withdrew so violently he surprised himself. “No,” he said. Everything in him rebelled at someone else holding these knives even just for fun.

Hawke’s expression went impish. “Oh, they’re only for him, I got it. Come on, then. Let’s hurry back so you can wow him with the big romantic gesture.”

“It’s not to wow him,” Dorian said even as he followed Hawke and Fenris back to the tunnel and started the long hike back to the surface. “He’s the Inquisitor and he needs them. It’s… a purely strategic decision.”

“A strategic decision to get in his pants, you mean,” Hawke said. Fenris snorted.

“I will have you know,” Dorian said imperiously, “that this was a purely altruistic move on my part. Thoughts of the Inquisitor's pants didn’t even enter my mind.” And if Dorian had entertained once or twice how Lavellan might show his gratitude, no one needed to know that.

“Really? Not even with the tight ones he wears around Skyhold all the time? Because I have to tell you…” Hawke trailed off. Dorian hid a smirk as he realized Fenris had turned to stare, eyes poisonous. Hawke cleared his throat. “I mean! I have never once noticed Lavellan in a sexual way, no matter how tight his pants may have been. Amen.”

“That’s not how the Chant works,” Dorian said.

They emerged into bright sunlight. The trek back to the horses was arduous through the snow but Dorian felt lighter with the knives in his bag, ready to be given back to Lavellan. How would his face look when he saw them again? Would he smile like he had before everything had gone to shit in Haven? Dorian wanted that with a surprising ferocity.

“You know, the stories didn't really prepare me,” Hawke said as they left through the decimated gate. “You lot really survived all of that, huh?”

Dorian glanced back, taking in the sweep of ruined buildings and littered corpses. Haven was gone, he thought. Totally destroyed. But…

“Yes,” he said. “We did.”

Dorian didn’t leave the moment he heard the horn announcing the Inquisitor’s return, but it was close. He waited for a good ten minutes to maintain appearances, then wandered down the stairs at a leisurely pace, ignoring Solas’ amused glance as he passed.

His facade of indifference disappeared when it was clear Lavellan wasn’t in the courtyard. Dorian frowned and tramped down the stairs at a faster pace. He wasn’t in requisitions or the gardens or the stables. Dorian made an impatient run through the tavern and he wasn’t there either. Bull was no help—all he did was wink when Dorian asked where Lavellan had wandered off to, Krem stifling a laugh at his shoulder. Dorian stomped back out again and surveyed the courtyard with narrowed eyes, hands on his hips. He could just stay here, he thought. He’d seen Lavellan crossing the courtyard so many times from the library he was bound to show up eventually.

But he was too impatient now, practically vibrating with the urge to pace as he lounged outside of the tavern’s door. And he felt ridiculously transparent and increasingly paranoid—was Harding looking at him like that because she knew? Where those snickers from the nearby scouts about him? It had only been a day since he’d returned from Haven but he couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone knew. Not that Dorian had told anyone—he’d written up a cursory document for Leliana to report he’d never found that lost amulet—but he’d pretty much expected Hawke to open his big mouth and blab all about it. If he told Varric, it would be all over Skyhold within hours... which would explain why some of the servants were giggling as they passed by.

Maker.

Dorian stomped off again, head held high. He would just check the library again. Maybe Leliana knew where he was. She seemed to know everything else. Solas gave him a look as he swept past again, more visibly amused, but Dorian didn’t spare him more than an eye roll. Weeks of having that blasted elf underfoot and the one time Dorian actually needed to find him, he disappeared! It was infuriating. Where else could he be? Damn Skyhold for being so abnormally large and damn Lavellan for knowing it well enough to disappear like a ghost—

Dorian froze.

Lavellan sat in the window chair in Dorian’s favorite nook, feet propped up on Dorian’s table, perusing one of the books Leliana’s spies had stolen from Tevinter. He was still dusty from the road, dirt on his armor and mud on his bare toes. Dorian’s irritation fled, leaving warmth behind.

“Interesting read?”

Lavellan looked up. He had a healing cut on his cheek. He looked a little more relaxed but the deep bags hadn’t disappeared from beneath his eyes.

“Oh, yeah,” Lavellan said. “Your people sure got up to some nasty shit. Did you get to the part about the lady who got this rich magister to marry her and then murdered him on their wedding night and inherited his title and fortune?” He shook his head. “That’s efficiency for you.”

“Well, Tevinter has never been known for its sentimentality,” Dorian said. He felt oddly aware of his body—why did his arms feel so awkward, his hands so large? “Your trip to the Hinterlands went smoothly, I take it.”

“As smoothly as the Hinterlands can go,” Lavellan said. “Closed a few rifts, ran a few errands, took down a bandit stronghold. The usual.”

For Lavellan, it likely was. “Good, good. That’s good.”

A long, awkward silence. Lavellan put the book back on the table and dropped his feet back to the floor.

“Hawke said I should come see you,” he said. “He was… weirdly insistent about it.”

The unspoken question was clear. Dorian’s face heated. Damn that man and his interfering busybody soul, he thought. He’d just spent the last ten minutes racing around Skyhold to get this done, but now it was somehow more difficult than he’d thought possible to pull out Lavellan’s knives from where he’d been carrying them on his hip.

“I have something for you,” he said as he drew them out.

“A present? And here I didn’t get you anything—”

Lavellan stared. Dorian put the knives on the table between them. They gleamed in the dim light, as clean and bright as they probably had been newly forged. Dorian knew nothing about crafting, but even he could tell a masterwork when he saw it. They had been beautiful weapons even before Lavellan’s sister had enchanted them.

Lavellan reached out to touch them but drew his hand back. Dorian had imagined what he would look at this moment on and off for the past few days and he still found it difficult to look at the bare amazement and joy in his eyes. All of Lavellan's exhaustion seemed to have dropped away.

“Leliana sent some scouts to Haven,” Dorian said, looking at the wall instead. It was easier to force this out that way. “See what they could scavenge from the ruins, you know. She, uh. Found them.”

The silence stretched long enough that Dorian risked a peek in Lavellan’s direction. He regretted it immediately. Lavellan was looking at him now and the light dawning on his face was enough to make Dorian’s entire neck heat with a blush. He looked away again immediately but the damage was already done.

“Leliana found them, huh?” Lavellan asked with such a warm curl of pleasure in his voice that Dorian shivered. “And she decided to give them to you to deliver to me instead of doing it herself?”

“Well, she is a practical woman,” Dorian said. “Very good at delegation, if I may say so. You might ask for some tips.”

“Dorian.”

Damn. He refused to look. “Yes, Inquisitor?”

“I have no idea where this sudden bout of modesty’s come from, but.” Dorian jerked at the feather touch to his cheek, there and gone before he could even register the dry press of Lavellan’s mouth. “Thank you.”

He was definitely blushing now. There was no way he could look at Lavellan, not if he wanted to keep his sanity. The place where Lavellan had kissed burned with heat. Dorian wanted to touch it, to press his fingers to his cheekbone and imprint that moment there for days. The force of that longing shook him.

“I can’t imagine what you’re thanking me for,” Dorian said in his airiest voice. “I just did as instructed.” He allowed his voice to deepen into sincerity for a moment. “No thanks are necessary, really.”

“Dorian.”

Dorian turned to look at him. Lavellan’s color was high, his eyes bright, but there was nothing fragile or dark under the surface. He was smiling. Dorian’s throat hurt.

“Yes?” he managed.

“Just accept my thanks gracefully,” he said. “Don’t you nobles have all kinds of rules about that kind of shit?”

“Well, I was never very good at etiquette lessons,” Dorian said.

“Dorian.”

“Fine, fine,” Dorian said. “You’re very welcome. Now go and fight a bear or something else equally dangerous and ridiculous.”

Lavellan laughed and Dorian drank in that clear, bell-like sound. It’d been so long since he heard it with the clean forceful joy behind it. Lavellan picked up his knives and flipped them through his hands so fast they became blurs of silver and red. He never once faltered and the delight in his face only seemed to grow. He laughed again as he threw the knives and caught them, never fumbling.

“I’ll find a way to pay you back for this,” he said. “I swear, Dorian.”

He was gone before Dorian could tell him not to bother. Dorian sank into the nearest chair and took several deep breaths. He wanted to go and follow Lavellan out and beg him to stay in the library and keep laughing like that where Dorian could hear it. Instead, he pulled the book Lavellan had abandoned over and forced himself to focus on it instead.

It didn’t really work. He was distracted by the thought of Lavellan’s smile for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

It was only a flight of stairs, but Dorian really hated going to see Leliana. For one, he had never been very fond of ravens and there seemed to be roughly one hundred of them housed in the upper level of the tower. For two, Dorian was fairly certain Leliana had purposefully dimmed the torches somehow to make her rooms a little ominous. For three, there was the smell of bird poop everywhere.

And, of course, there was also the minor matter of Leliana’s uncanny ability to see past Dorian’s bullshit at any given moment. But that was really secondary to the smell.

But Leliana was the Inquisition’s spymaster and Dorian had found a clue in one of his books late last night that might finally reveal Corypheus’ family history. He had found mention of a magister called Sethius, a scion of House Amladaris. He fit the timeframe for Corypheus’ life and every description Dorian had managed to scrounge up fit as well. It was a weak link, not easily proved, but Dorian had followed such gut feelings before with excellent results. He was sure Sethius was connected to Corypheus somehow.

But the information did them no good if Dorian didn’t share it. And Lavellan, bless his heart, would have no interest in this little tidbit unless it gave some clue to how to take Corypheus down. Of the advisors, Leliana was the only one Dorian felt could put it to proper use.

She was seated at her normal table as Dorian climbed the last of the stairs. There were no couriers with her today, only a heavy stack of papers at her elbow that she methodically worked her way through. Dorian hesitated.

“Yes, Dorian?”

Leliana rarely sounded anything other than bored or indifferent. Dorian decided not to take it personally.

“I have some information,” he said.

He outlined his theory for her. To his gratification, the longer he talked, the more interested she became. As he trailed off, she hummed, tapping the end of her quill against the parchment she had been reading.

“There’s no actual proof,” she said. “But even that little hint should be enough to cause a scandal if Tevinter nobles are anything like Orlesian ones. And the suggestion that Corypheus was human might be enough to dissuade more magisters from joining his cause…”

“Exactly my thinking,” Dorian said. “What will you do?”

“I will bring it to Lavellan,” she said. Dorian raised his eyebrows and she gave him a look. “He won’t care much about it but he likes to be kept informed. And he might have an opinion on how we handle the situation. Josephine will want to blackmail them and Cullen will want to do something direct like selling it to their enemies.”

“And what do you think we should do with it?”

“Sell it to the House Amladaris,” Leliana said. “See what they do with it.”

“That could backfire spectacularly,” Dorian observed.

“A little risk is always necessary for a greater reward,” Leliana said. “Thank you for your help, Dorian. I’ll make sure the Inquisitor knows who found this for us.” Dorian’s neck heated. “Before you go, I have something for you as well. I was going to send it with a courier this afternoon.”

She shuffled through her papers and slid one to Dorian. He scanned it without really looking, then caught Alexius’ name and slowed down. Comprehension dawned as he took in the note, then fury. He threw the paper back on the desk.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Leliana sighed. “I would have thought you’d be pleased, Dorian.”

“Pleased? I put in a request to visit Alexius the moment we came back from Redcliffe. It’s been weeks.” He shook his head. “And now, after all that time, you’re finally giving me permission? Why the sudden and suspicious change of heart?”

Leliana regarded him for a long moment. Dorian resisted the urge to fidget under that thousand yard stare, inscrutable and distant.

“I did not trust you,” she said. Dorian flinched. “A Tevinter mage showing up right before Corypheus returns, anxious to join the Inquisition? I do not believe in coincidences, not anymore. Until you proved your loyalties, I did not want to leave you in the same room as a Venatori agent, a man who used to be your teacher and mentor.”

Dorian was so tired of this. “So you thought all of those times I’ve risked my life for this damn institution, all the blood and tears, all of the help, was all, what—a sham?”

“I used to be a spy, Dorian,” Leliana said. “More actively than I am now. I am familiar with infiltration. It would not be the first time a seemingly genuine agent who gave everything for the cause turned out to be false. The Inquisition is a new thing still and new things can topple with surprising ease. I had to be careful.”

“And?” Dorian asked, his resentment cooling a little in the face of her utterly unflappable pragmatism. “What exactly changed your mind?”

“You were free of us and returned,” Leliana said. “You went all the way to Haven to retrieve something of great value to Lavellan.” Dorian felt a flush beginning to climb up his neck. “You may not be loyal to the Inquisition, but I think I can at least trust that you’re loyal to our Inquisitor.”

Damn the woman. She really did see too much.

“So you decided Alexius would be safe with me?”

Leliana softened. “He is our enemy,” she said. “But he deserves to know of his son’s death from someone he knows. Someone who cares.”

Dorian blinked at her, surprised by this leniency. Leliana always seemed so aloof and cold, removed from her emotions. But there would be these hints of softness that made Dorian wonder if that stoicism and cynicism were natural or a mask she’d developed to keep the world at bay. Something she needed to cope with the horrors she encountered daily.

Dorian knew a thing or two about that.

“Well,” he said, his fury losing steam. “I suppose thanks are in order, then.”

“The only gratitude I need is your support for Lavellan, Dorian,” Leliana said. “He’s walking a lonely road right now. He needs everyone he can get.”

Leliana would know. She had watched the Hero of Fereldan once upon a time.

Dorian inclined his head. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said and left her to her solitude.

The dungeons were down a steep descent of stairs so Dorian shouldn’t have been surprised when he stepped out onto a sheer cliff. He froze instinctively when he saw the dead drop only a few feet away, nothing but sky and mountains below. The cells were packed into the mountainside, almost entirely empty except for the one on the far left. Dorian showed his papers to the guard at the bottom of the stairs and made his way over, carefully skirting the cliff’s edge. Someone should install railings, he thought. Or maybe the sheer terror of seeing the fall below was the point.

It was midday and the dungeons were filled with sunlight, but it still took Dorian a minute to find Alexius in his cell—he was huddled in the back corner, the hood of his robes flipped up, head on his knees. He didn’t look up as Dorian approached.

“Alexius,” Dorian said.

“At last, he comes,” Alexius said without raising his head. “I didn’t think you’d ever visit me, Dorian.”

“I had some other things to do,” Dorian said. “Trimming my mustache, reading some books, cleaning up the gigantic mess you made by joining a madman. You know how it goes.”

Dorian flinched back as Alexius looked up. He was only about fifteen years older than Dorian and Dorian had always thought him a vital man, full of vigor and charisma. Now he was a shadow of his former self—gaunt and wan, harsh stubble along his cheeks, red-eyed. He looked much older than he really was. Despite himself, Dorian felt a tug of pity. His news was only going to make it worse.

“What do you want, Dorian?” Alexius asked. “I didn’t think you were the type to gloat.”

“Then you clearly never knew me that well,” Dorian said. “There’s nothing I love more than gloating. But that’s not why I’m here.”

He cleared his throat. He wanted to look away when he said it out loud but Alexius had once been a man who had opened his home to Dorian despite his reputation, a man who had given Dorian the acceptance and knowledge he’d craved. He may have descended into madness with this business with Corypheus, he may have done unthinkable things, but for the man he had been and for Felix’s sake, he deserved for Dorian to look him in the eye for this.

“Alexius,” he said. “I’m so sorry. Felix is dead.”

He waited, bracing himself. But Alexius only seemed to age in front of his eyes.

“I see,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. “So the sickness has taken him from me.” He closed his eyes. “My boy. My poor boy.”

Dorian allowed him a moment to grieve. His heart was heavy and full.

“He will be buried among his family,” he said at last. “Honored as he should be. You have my word.”

Alexius shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “He is gone.” He opened his eyes and Dorian frowned at their feverish, blurry quality. “And soon I will be with him.”

“With him?” Dorian asked, alarmed. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t know?” Alexius asked. “I’m to be sentenced tomorrow. Your Inquisitor will no doubt delight in seeing me beheaded.” Alexius didn’t sound upset. His voice was full of longing. “Soon I will be dead and I will join Felix in the Maker’s kingdom.”

Dorian wondered if Corypheus had shared the little tidbit about the Maker not being real with Alexius.

“Lavellan is sentencing you?” Dorian asked.

“Oh yes,” Alexius said. “It has some irony, does it not? An elf giving judgment on a magister?”

The Inquisitor no doubt had enough power to deliver judgment now that the Inquisition was no longer a fledgling band of heretics. But Lavellan would never have thought that up on his own, Dorian thought. He didn’t enjoy having power over other people, not even his enemies. No, this had Josephine’s hands all over it—the only question was why Lavellan had agreed.

“He won’t kill you,” Dorian said.

“Won’t he?” Alexius asked. “He was ready to that day in Redcliffe. Now he has not only another chance but the full blessing of his people to do so.”

Dorian wondered. In the heat of the moment, fresh off his own guilt and grief, Lavellan had been ready to tear Alexius apart with his own two hands; but he’d also been willing to grant the Alexius in the future mercy. Would he see how much Alexius longed for death and grant him that mercy again? Dorian’s stomach tightened. It had been difficult to watch Alexius be killed the first time, even though Dorian had felt that he had deserved it. Now, he wasn’t sure—Alexius had done terrible things but he wasn’t yet the man he had been in that nightmare future.

More than that, Felix wouldn’t want his father to die. Felix had loved Alexius as much as Dorian had, had only wanted him to be happy. He’d hated the toll his sickness had taken on Alexius, the way it had driven him to mindless, overprotective worry. Felix wouldn’t want Alexius to follow him into the afterlife; he’d want Alexius to live and to try to redeem himself.

“No,” Dorian said again, coming to a decision. “I won’t let him kill you.”

Alexius’ laugh was brittle and frail. “Still full of that old sentimentality, I see. It will get you killed someday, Dorian.”

Alexius had always told him he had a soft heart. “Oh, it’s not sentimentality,” Dorian said with faux-casualness. “Your time isn’t up yet, Alexius. You’ve got more work to do here before you get to move on.”

“And how exactly are you going to stop the Inquisitor?” Alexius asked. “You’re a Tevinter mage, my former student. You really think he trusts you?”

Dorian thought about Lavellan’s bright, gorgeous smile as he looked on his retrieved knives, the barest brush of his mouth on Dorian’s cheek, the way he’d wanted Dorian’s opinion and listened to his advice. I always seem to be able to talk to you, Lavellan had said. I would’ve gone mad in a week if you hadn’t been here. Those weren’t the words of someone who thought he’d betray them at his first chance. Lavellan trusted him.

All Dorian had to do was figure out how far that trust extended.

“We’ll see,” he said and left.

Dorian caught Lavellan just as he was about to go through Skyhold’s gate. For once he was on his own and he was wearing—

“What is that?” Dorian demanded before his brain caught up with him.

Lavellan’s mouth quirked. “Disguise,” he said.

Lavellan wasn’t wearing his armor or his usual Skyhold fare. Instead, he was dressed in an odd mishmash of green and brown cloth, a ruff of dark fur around the collar. Dorian was appalled. He knew Lavellan gave little thought to his own appearance but…

“Are you taking fashion tips from Solas now?”

Lavellan rolled his eyes. “It’s not that bad, Dorian.”

Dorian let his silence speak for itself and Lavellan laughed at him. Dorian relaxed a little. In the days following Dorian’s trip to Haven, Lavellan seemed to regain his equilibrium. He no longer carried that manic, exhausted energy like a cloud around him and his mood had improved dramatically. It was a relief to see him lose that fragility that had marked him since the fight at Haven, though Dorian doubted it was gone completely.

“For the first time in weeks I finished everything I needed to do in a morning,” Lavellan said. “I mean, I am supposed to read some letters from some Orlesian twat or something but I escaped when Josephine went to go find them so I’m in the clear.”

“In the clear for what?”

Lavellan grinned, full of relish. “Bear hunting!”

It wasn’t the first time Dorian had contemplated the idea that Lavellan was stark raving mad.

“Bear hunting,” he repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. “As in, bears?”

Lavellan nodded. “We ran across some in the Hinterlands,” he said with obvious longing, stars practically twinkling in his eyes. “They’re huge. Cassandra wouldn’t let me go after one but I marked down where they are on the map so—”

Dorian had never really been in such agreement with Cassandra before. Lavellan was an accomplished hunter but Dorian had seen Fereldan bears before—they were monstrous and deadly. Surely Lavellan wasn’t planning to go out on his own for this little stunt?

“Does anyone else know about this… endeavor?”

“Oh, I left a note,” Lavellan said. “So Josephine wouldn’t think I got kidnapped.”

Dorian desperately wanted to read that note and to see Josephine’s face when she read it.

“You aren’t bringing anyone with you?” he asked.

Lavellan scoffed. “Bring any of you lot to hunt bears?” His face turned considering. “Well. Cole might not be too bad at it. He’s sneaky enough. I would say Sera but she’s useless in the woods. And I’d take Solas but I’m pretty sure he’d just watch disapprovingly from the sidelines.”

“I meant more along the lines of one of our burly warrior friends,” Dorian said, a little amused.

Lavellan scoffed again, more scornfully. “Bull’s not the sneaking type, Blackwall clomps around like he’s the qunari, and Cassandra would take all the fun out of it. No way.” He glanced at the gate and back at Dorian. “I have to go before Josephine comes after me. What did you need?”

Lavellan was practically vibrating with impatience but he didn’t try to blow Dorian off or dismiss him. He kept his eyes on Dorian’s face, patiently waiting for whatever it was Dorian wanted to speak to him about. Dorian softened. Lavellan really was something else.

“Why don’t I come with you,” Dorian said. His mouth was really acting on its own these days.

Lavellan’s eyebrows rose. “You?”

“Me,” Dorian said. He might as well run with it.

“You hate the woods almost as much as Sera does,” Lavellan said doubtfully. “And you clomp too.”

“Well,” Dorian said. “Perhaps I can distract the bear with my charm and good looks so you can sneak up on it.  I’ve been told I’m very desirable bait.”

Lavellan grinned at him. “I believe that,” he said. He shrugged. “Well, all right. If you really want to, I won’t stop you.”

“Let me go get a horse,” Dorian said and scampered off before Lavellan could change his mind.

The Hinterlands were muggy and hot, but the trees of the thick forests provided reasonable enough shade that Dorian was only mildly warm. He and Lavellan had ridden down to the lowlands together but as they approached the area marked on Lavellan’s map, he had swung off of his hart and handed the reins to Dorian, hissing at him to keep a reasonable distance away (“I wasn’t kidding about the clomping!”).

Dorian had agreed and watched, astonished, as Lavellan somehow melted into the shadows, disappearing without so much as a trace. Dorian had searched for him for a long moment, trying to track any movement, but it was simply impossible; Lavellan was gone. Disconcerting.

Dorian had allowed his horse to go at a slow, easy clip, tethering the hart to his saddle and relaxing. There was a soft breeze playing through the trees and sunlight dappled the forest floor in green and yellow and brown. He heard the distant sound of bird call and the rustle of the leaves from the wind. It was peaceful enough that Dorian almost forgot why he was out here in the first place.

A braying cry rose up in the distance and the hart startled. Dorian sat up in his saddle, peering through the trees. The cry came again, more ravaged, and then there was only silence. Unnerved, Dorian nudged his horse into a trot and set off for the direction the sound had come from.

He found a clearing, a bear corpse, and Lavellan covered in blood. He was grinning and wiping his knives clean on some nearby grass as Dorian approached. When he noticed Dorian, he waved him over.

“Good, you’re here,” he said. He gestured to the bear. “I’ll need to cut him up before we can go back to Skyhold, I think. He’s too heavy to carry back like this.”

Dorian felt vaguely queasy. The bear corpse was still bleeding into the ground, its beady eyes filmy and blank. It was monstrously huge; standing it would have been at least twice Lavellan’s height. Dorian slid off his horse. How had Lavellan managed to take down something like that on his own? Dorian knew he could handle game like elk and he’d seen Lavellan bring in more food than almost anyone during their trek through the Frostbacks but Dorian had never quite realized how skilled Lavellan was at hunting. He shouldn’t have been surprised; Lavellan had told him it was his primary job in his Clan and he’d doubtless spent years honing his skills. But it was one thing to know that and one thing to have evidence of Lavellan’s skill staring at him.

Lavellan was too busy unpacking his tools to pay Dorian much mind. He unfolded several wicked looking knives and cleavers, a tough looking wind of rope and several ruined handkerchiefs. He examined his tools for a long moment and extracted one stout knife and the rope before putting everything away. Lavellan examined the bear for a long moment and sighed.

“Help me,” he told Dorian as he began to push the bear over.

Dorian didn’t like the idea of touching a dead bear that much but he didn’t protest as he went over to help, grimacing at the feel of its cooling fur. The weight was terrible but they managed to get the bear to lay on its back. Dorian watched, a little bemused, as Lavellan cut his rope into pieces and used it to secure the bear’s legs to nearby trunks. He knelt in the grass by the bear’s side and picked up his knife. Dorian winced as he began to cut around the bear’s pelvis and looked away.

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” Lavellan asked.

Dorian kept his eyes fixed on a nearby tree. He’d been hunting before with his father, though he’d never enjoyed it much. But that had always been a more civilized endeavor—one spark of lightning and the beast would be down and the servants would have the task of transporting and preparing the meat. Dorian had never seen a field dressing up close before and he found he wasn’t fond of it.

“Have you spoken to Leliana recently?” he asked, trying to focus on the real reason he was here.

“I speak to her roughly eight hundred times a day,” Lavellan said. He grunted and Dorian glanced down quickly enough to see he had managed to slice upward and was currently making short work of taking off the bear’s pelt and exposing the skin underneath. Nauseous at the sight, Dorian looked away quickly again. How could Lavellan stand it? “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Right after I joined the Inquisition, I requested to see Alexius,” Dorian said. “Leliana only allowed my petition to be approved recently.”

“You went to see him then?” Another grunt but Dorian didn’t dare look again. “Why?”

“I brought him news of Felix’s death.”

“You could’ve sent a courier.” Lavellan didn’t sound judgmental. Dorian wasn’t sure if that was because he was truly sympathetic or too distracted by the bear to care.

“Felix was my friend,” Dorian said. “And Alexius, whatever he is now, was my mentor. He deserved to hear the news from someone who cared.”

Lavellan was silent for long enough that Dorian risked a peek. The bear’s pelt had been successfully peeled away and Lavellan was elbow deep in guts, carefully separating what Dorian thought were the intestines and bowels, depositing them a fair distance away. Blood streaked his cheeks and forehead. His eyes were distant and thoughtful.

“You know about his judgment,” Lavellan said.

So it was true. Dorian stomach dropped.

“He told me. You’re really going to do it?”

Lavellan examining the coil of intestines in his hand and put it to the side, taking up his knife once more to make several more precise cuts. He was coated in blood to the elbows but his hands were steady.

“Josephine thinks it’s necessary,” Lavellan said. “I’ve already told her I think it’s bullshit. I’m not—” He swore and pulled his knife back, apparently stopping himself from making a bad cut. “I’m not a king or something. I can’t dictate life  and death.”

Lavellan, as always, vastly underestimated his own power. Whatever judgment he made, Dorian had little doubt anyone would dare to argue with him at this point.

“So give him back to Tevinter,” Dorian said. He was a little surprised Lavellan hadn’t done that already. “Let them deal with him.”

“That’s the thing. Nobody wants anything to do with him. Josephine says Tevinter’s given him up and Alistair keeps saying that we should handle him since its our mages he fucked over. Everyone else has washed their hands of him so it’s all down to me.” Lavellan made another, more careful cut. “Here, help me roll him over a little.”

Dorian really, really didn’t want to touch that bear but he sighed and reached over to shift the carcass a little so Lavellan could cut away at its diaphragm. As he did, the bear’s chest cavity became more and more exposed. Dorian began to wish he’d just waited for the chance to talk to Lavellan later—he was quickly discovering he couldn’t abide looking at dead animals like this.

“You can go back to pretending this isn’t happening now,” Lavellan told him and Dorian stepped back with a little huff. Lavellan shot him a quick smile and then reached into the bear’s now open chest cavity with an expression of intense concentration. “Why’d you want to talk to me about Alexius?”

Dorian braced himself.

“He seems convinced you’re going to execute him.”

“He’s a smart man.”

Dorian flinched. “You’ve already decided, then?”

Lavellan’s focus seemed to be on whatever he was groping for but he spared Dorian an exasperated look. “Dorian. He tried to enslave hundreds of people for Corypheus.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve punishment,” Dorian said. “But murder is a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“You didn’t feel that way in Redcliffe,” Lavellan said. His expression twisted and he began to pull on something, surfacing with several bloody tubes attached to the bear’s heart and lungs. Dorian rapidly looked upward again. “Where was all this outrage when I killed Alexius before, hm? You didn’t say a word then.”

“The Alexius then was too far gone to save,” Dorian said. “I knew that and so did you. But you still you tried to help him—you gave him what he needed.” Lavellan didn’t say anything so Dorian dared to continue. “But this Alexius… He hasn’t done any of those horrific things, not yet. We stopped him in time.”

He didn’t realize Lavellan had stood until he was in front of Dorian. Dorian flinched back. Covered in blood, his eyes bright and hard, Lavellan looked particularly feral. It was both entrancing and frightening—Dorian had the disorienting feeling of being caught in some sort of predator’s trap.

“You really want me to spare him?” Lavellan snapped. “After everything he’s done? To me? To you?”

“I’m not saying set him free to go play amongst the daisies!” Dorian snapped back. “He’s made his bed—I just don’t think that bed should be a coffin! Perhaps some happy medium between complete acquittal and execution might be found!”

“Like what, Dorian?”

“I don’t know!” Dorian said. He’d tried to come up with a solution himself and offered one he’d thought of. “Can’t we put him to work somewhere?”

Lavellan scoffed. “A magister? Work?”

“He’s a mage,” Dorian said.

“So?”

Dorian offered him a hard, bright smile. “Mages are full of all sorts of grand ideas, you know. He might be able to help us.”

“Or he might turn on us the moment he can and go crawling back to Corypheus,” Lavellan snarled. “He deserves death.”

Dorian wanted to shake him. “What happened to ‘violence is a tool’?” he asked.

“Aren’t you the one always telling me to put the Inquisition first?” Lavellan asked. “Do you seriously think keeping him alive will keep all the people in that damn fortress safe?”

Dorian hissed out a long breath. “And you’re the one who told me you’d do whatever it took to end this,” he said. “That you’d take whatever help you could get. Alexius can help. He knows Corypheus better than we do, he’s more familiar with Tevinter history, and his knowledge of magic is unparalleled. He can help us, so use him.”

Lavellan snarled at him. “I can’t use people who might bite me the moment my back is turned! What is this really about, Dorian? Why are you trying to save him? He won’t thank you for it. If I sentenced him to execution tomorrow he’d go with a song in his heart. It’s what he wants—”

“I don’t care what he wants!” Dorian said. “This isn’t about him.”

Lavellan frowned at him. “Then who is it about?”

Dorian sighed and rubbed at his face. “For a long time, Felix was one of my only friends,” he said. Lavellan’s expression shifted, some of the anger fading away. “He loved his father. He wouldn’t want this fate for Alexius, no matter what he’s done—he’d want Alexius to live, to find some way to fix his mistakes.” He looked at Lavellan. “If you won’t do it for Alexius’ sake, do it for Felix’s.” He hesitated. “Or mine. I had to watch him die once—that was enough for me.”

Lavellan shook his head. Dorian couldn’t read his face at all, though he knew Lavellan was no longer angry. But the distance seemed almost worse, as if Lavellan was withdrawing from him. Dorian hadn’t expected this talk to go well, but now he wondered if he’d ruptured something in their growing friendship by asking for this favor. He’d thought Lavellan’s trust extended this far—perhaps he had misjudged. His stomach tied itself into knots as Lavellan took a step back and returned to his bear, taking up his knife once more.

“You should go,” he said, not looking at Dorian.

The knot in Dorian’s stomach tightened. “What?”

“I need to concentrate,” Lavellan said. “There’s a camp nearby—go wait there and I’ll ride back up to Skyhold with you.”

“But—“

“We’re done talking, Dorian. Go.”

Dorian waited but Lavellan didn’t look up at him, all of his attention on the bear. With a muttered curse, Dorian made his way back to their tethered horses and mounted his. As he turned to go back into the forest, he looked over his shoulder. But Lavellan wasn’t watching him, didn’t even seem to notice his absence. Dorian made his way out of the clearing with a heavy heart.

What had he done?

Dorian spent the morning of Alexius’ judgment in a flurry of nervous, manic activity, flitting from one book to the next and pacing in uneven circles in his little nook. When it was finally time to go downstairs he was so on edge he nearly jumped out of his skin when Solas appeared silently at his elbow to follow him into the main hall. Dorian gave him a silent, hard side-eye but Solas was unmoved.

The main hall was worryingly full; at least half of the Inquisition seemed to be packed inside, making even its cavernous space seem cramped. Dorian battled his way near the front of the crowd, eyebrows raising as he caught sight of the throne that had been placed at the front of the room. That hadn’t been there last night—blood-red and topped with impressive spikes, it was singularly intimidating. Leliana’s work, no doubt. Josephine was always more concerned with making Lavellan less fearsome and Cullen, poor man, had no head for manipulation whatsoever. The throne sent a clear message: the Inquisitor meant business. Dorian wondered what Lavellan thought about it.

Dorian straightened as Lavellan and Josephine entered from Josephine’s office. Lavellan was wearing his normal Skyhold attire but his hair was more intricately braided than usual and Dorian got the impression that someone had made a go at tidying up his appearance. He looked striking as ever and appropriately imposing. The crowd parted for him as he made his way to the front of the room.

Dorian caught Lavellan’s eye as he passed but couldn’t untangle the odd expression that crossed Lavellan’s face. Their little talk had done little to reassure Dorian that he wasn’t just here to see Alexius get beheaded, but he still felt better for having had it; he’d done what he could for Alexius for Felix’s sake and all he could hope now was that it would be enough.

Lavellan didn’t have any real reaction to the throne other than a slight pause as he approached and looked it over. He darted a look at Josephine but went to sit without any quibble. As he settled in, Josephine cleared her throat.

“You recall Gereon Alexius of Tevinter,” she told both Lavellan and the waiting crowd. “Fereldan has allowed us to proceed with his sentencing as an acknowledgment of your aid. His formal charges are apostasy, attempted enslavement, and attempted assassination—on you, no less.”

They brought in Alexius. Dorian’s heart sank at the look of the man; painfully gaunt and dead-eyed. Someone had taken away his hood and his bare, shaved head looked strange and vulnerable. The guard threw him at Lavellan’s feet and he didn’t give a protest, not even a token one. He simply folded to his knees and bent his head. It was so wrong, Dorian thought. The Alexius he’d known would have never bowed for anyone.

“Tevinter has disowned him and stripped him of his rank,” Josephine said. Dorian hadn’t known that, though he couldn’t say he was surprised. No magister in Tevinter would care about Alexius messing around with time magic but they would hate that he’d been so careless as to get caught, especially by southern barbarians. “You may judge him as you see fit.”

Lavellan studied Alexius’ bent head with inscrutable green eyes for several long beats. Murmurs rose from the crowd, but Lavellan ignored them. The throne engulfed him, but he sat on it as casually as he did on the stools in the tavern, with one foot cocked over the opposite knee, shoulders hunched, head resting on his open palm. At his side, Josephine looked a little pained.

“I’m not going to punish him for trying to kill me,” Lavellan said. “If I did that, I’d have to charge most of Thedas. But the apostasy charge… I don’t suppose there’s any actual precedent for nearly ripping apart time at the seams?”

Light laughter went through the crowd.

“Stop your japing,” Alexius said. There wasn’t any fight in his voice, only simple exhaustion. “Just get it over with.”

“Get what over with?”

Lavellan’s nonchalance seemed to bring more life into Alexius; he looked up for the first time.

“My execution,” he said with the faintest undercurrent of exasperation.

“You want to be executed?” Josephine asked, shocked. Murmurs rose in the watching crowd. “But—“

“I couldn’t save my son,” Alexius told her, derisive. “Do you really think I care now if I live or die?”

Josephine frowned at him. “You have nothing to say in your own defense?”

Alexius snorted. “I’ll tell you this,” he said, looking up at Lavellan. “You’ve won nothing. The people you saved, the acclaim you’ve gathered—you’ll lose it all in the storms to come.”

Dorian wanted to be angry at Alexius’ arrogance but it was difficult to ignore his relief at seeing Alexius full of fight again. He was on his feet now. He still looked wan and gaunt but he no longer seemed vulnerable. He stared up at Lavellan and Lavellan stared back, his own expression revealing little. As the silence stretched, Dorian heard whispers crop up around him.

“Render your judgment, Inquisitor,” Alexius said. “Let me go to my death in peace.”

To Dorian’s surprised, Lavellan laughed. “Your death?” he asked. “You haven’t earned that yet, Alexius.”

Shocked murmurs. Dorian stared. Lavellan didn’t even seem to realize he had an audience—the whole of his attention was on Alexius, who seemed as baffled as the rest of them.

“Excuse me?” Alexius asked.

“I said,” Lavellan said with a tone that implied Alexius might be hard of hearing or simply just stupid, “you haven’t earned that yet, Alexius.”

Josephine cleared her throat. “Your orders, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan hummed. “Well,” he said. “He ought to be kept busy enough that he doesn’t get any grand ideas, as I’ve been reliably informed mages are prone to do.” Dorian stifled a smile. “So. Put him to work.”

“To work?” Josephine asked.

“With the mages,” Lavellan said. “He’s a Tevinter magister and we’re hunting a Tevinter magister… seems like he could be a bit useful, don’t you think?” He turned to Alexius. “You swore you’d help the mages. I’ll see you keep that promise, Alexius. Everything you have—money, power, knowledge—you will give to them.”

Dorian was sure Josephine wanted to argue, but she looked out at the crowd of watching people and bit her tongue. She inclined her head and scribbled a note on her pad.

“No,” Alexius said.

“No?” Lavellan asked with an inquiring raise of his eyebrows.

“I won’t do it,” Alexius said. His eyes burned with fervor, color high on his cheeks. He looked almost deranged. “You want revenge, don’t you, Lavellan? Take it.”

“I won’t,” Lavellan said.

Alexius lunged forward. He only managed to wrap a hand around Lavellan’s ankle before he was dragged back. Lavellan didn’t react at all to the touch, maintaining his comfortable lounge.

“Kill me, damn it!” Alexius howled as the guards wrestled him back. “Kill me!”

Lavellan leaned forward. “I can’t do that,” he said. “I want to, the gods know. But someone I care about a lot more than you asked me not to. Looks like you’ll just have to live, Alexius.”

Dorian’s entire body suffused with warmth. He kept a steady hand on his staff and refused to check if anyone was looking at him. He just kept watching Lavellan.

“Damn you,” Alexius panted, ravaged face wrecked and on the verge of tears. “End this misery for me. Let me be with my son, Lavellan.”

Lavellan leaned forward. “Not this time, Alexius,” he said, almost gently. “Take him away. Fiona will be in charge of him from now on.”

The guards inclined their heads and dragged Alexius out. Lavellan stood, stretching his arms over his head and shaking out the muscles in his back. The crowd began to disperse, full of flurried whispers and side-looks. Dorian had no doubt there would be plenty of gossip about Lavellan’s decision. Dorian bit the inside of his cheek. Saving one magister wouldn’t be enough to tarnish Lavellan’s popularity but if anyone figured out that the person who had asked for mercy was Dorian…

But he didn’t regret it.

Dorian waited until the hall was mostly deserted before he approached Lavellan and Josephine.

“—know he’s a sorry sack of a human being, but I wasn’t kidding about him being useful,” Lavellan said. “I want Corypheus dead. If this guy’s good enough to teach Dorian, he’s got to know his stuff.” Despite his worry, Dorian couldn’t help but smile. “Fiona’s no fool. She’ll keep him in hand.”

“If you truly think it is wise,” Josephine said. “But he is a dangerous man. Her hand should be very careful indeed.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll get Leliana to keep of her people on him too,” Lavellan said. “But I think you’re overestimating him.” His voice was full of something between pity and sympathy. “He’s not dangerous to us anymore. All he wants is to follow Felix—we should be more worried about what he’s going to do to himself.”

Josephine gasped and Dorian’s stomach bottomed out. “You don’t seriously think—”

“I think he’s too proud for that,” Lavellan said. “He wants me to do his dirty work for him, the great bastard. But desperation breeds idiocy.”

Josephine took that in then nodded decisively. “I will be sure to inform Fiona about that potential development as well, then,” she said. At Lavellan’s look, she dimpled with a smile. “It would be a shame for your first ruling to go awry, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan’s face soured and Josephine’s smile smoothed out. “I told you before, I don’t want to make judgments,” Lavellan said. “Alexius was a special case. I won’t do any more.”

“Your power grows with each passing day,” Josephine said. “The Inquisition is seen as its own entity now. That gives you something of a sovereign’s powers—”

“By the Dread Wolf, no,” Lavellan said.

“Refusing to wield the power doesn’t make it go away, Inquisitor,” Josephine said.

“I can hope,” Lavellan said.

Josephine opened her mouth to say more but caught sight of Dorian and closed it again. A consummate diplomat, that one—she would never dream of letting anyone see her disagree with the Inquisitor in public, even someone from his inner circle. She inclined her head.

“Think about what I’ve said,” she said. “I must go make arrangements for Alexius’ quarters. Inquisitor.”

As she hurried off, Lavellan turned with a quizzical frown and caught sight of Dorian as well. Dorian felt very aware of Lavellan’s eyes on him as he approached and forced himself to keep his step light and his head high.

“For someone so reserved, you do have a good flair for the dramatic,” he said. “People will be talking about that scene for days.”

Lavellan grimaced. “I wasn’t trying to get people to talk,” he said. “I was just doing what I needed to do.”

That seemed to be the course of Lavellan’s life recently.

“And you needed to let Alexius live?” Dorian asked. “That didn’t seem to be the tune you were singing yesterday.”

Lavellan offered him a sidelong smile. “Well,” he said. “Someone made a pretty convincing argument on Alexius’ behalf.”

Dorian feigned surprise. “Really?” he asked. “They must have been quite convincing to win you over so thoroughly.”

“Well, he’s an articulate guy,” Lavellan said.

“Anyone I know?”

Lavellan turned the full force of his smile on Dorian. “Hm,” he said. “Well, he’s about so high,” he gestured to Dorian’s height, “hates the rain, kickass mage, pretty face, always ready with some smart-ass comment, and…” Lavellan’s face softened. “A lot kinder than he’d let anyone realize.”

Dorian’s face heated. He’d mostly been teasing, relieved that he hadn’t ruined his friendship with Lavellan with yesterday’s shouting match. But to be made suddenly aware of how Lavellan saw him—and he’d have to revisit that pretty face comment sometime in the future, probably when he was alone in bed—wrenched his heart sideways, making it beat twice as fast. Dorian could list his own attributes all day long and he had, he thought, a fairly healthy self-confidence but it still made his skin shiver to know Lavellan looked at him with anything approaching appreciation. That Lavellan was as aware of Dorian’s attributes as Dorian was of his.

That had to mean something, didn’t it? Or was Dorian getting his hopes up, as he always did?

“It wasn’t for Alexius, you know,” Dorian said, dropping the pretense and flirtation.

Lavellan followed suit. “I know,” he said. “I didn’t help him just because of you either.” His eyes were distant. “Felix was a good man. I owed him a favor—now it’s repaid.”

Dorian knew what that meant. Alexius wouldn’t get any leniency in the future if he pulled something; this was his one and only chance to repent. Dorian respected that. If Alexius did this again, Dorian would let Lavellan deal with him as he saw fit. Frighteningly, Dorian was certain Lavellan would do the right thing. Dorian had never had such faith in someone other than himself.

“Thank you,” Dorian said.

Lavellan shook his head. “Don’t thank me,” he said. “You’re part of the reason he’s still walking around, after all.” He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling his intricate braids. “I’d better go. Cullen had something he wanted to talk to me about.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” Dorian said.

Lavellan offered him a quick smile and jogged out of the main hall. He was always going to such a fast clip, that one. Dorian eyed the empty hall and let out a long, even breath before he started back for the library.

Dorian was finishing up his research for the night, finally prepared to go to sleep after a long day hunched over books in the library, when he heard Lavellan’s voice nearby. He perked up, forced himself to relax, and glared down at his books. Honestly. Dorian was used to being the unaffected, nonchalant one in any relationship—why couldn’t he ever at least pretend that in Lavellan’s presence?

He peered into the library’s main hall and blinked when he realized Lavellan wasn’t talking to Fiona, as he’d half-expected, but Helisma, the tranquil creatures analyst. Dorian had only spoken to her once or twice himself when he’d dropped off his own cache of poached items, but he’d been impressed by the breadth of her knowledge even as her flat stare and the distinct absence of magic made it impossible to be comfortable with her. She wasn’t like the rest of the non-magical people Dorian dealt with—it was as if there was an afterimage of the power she’d used to have hovering around her and that was more disconcerting than no magic at all. Dorian usually avoided her.

But Lavellan leaned against her work table, arms folded over his chest, listening intently as Helisma talked to him. He betrayed none of the impatience or annoyance Dorian had seen so many people turn on the tranquil; his expression was as focused and interested as when he was listening to any of his friends talk.

Dorian hesitated but made his way over to them. As he approached, it was clear Helisma was telling Lavellan about her recent research involving the changes in animal behavior after the appearance of the rifts. Dorian had heard her discuss it with Fiona before but not at the length she was rattling off details to Lavellan.

“—mating behaviors have also been affected,” she said. Her flat monotone was especially disturbing; Dorian was used to researchers talking about their pet projects with a passion that far outstripped the dullness of the subject matter. “Studying the behaviors of the carnivores of the area would also be useful but Sister Leliana has yet to find all of the necessary materials.”

“I’ll be sure to speak to her about it,” Lavellan said. “What about the odd behaviors you mentioned?”

Dorian perched just out of their little circle. Lavellan’s eyes flickered to him but back to Helisma without acknowledgment.

“Herbivores are generally prey animals, not prone to aggressive behavior unless threatened,” Helisma explained. “And yet they have attacked Inquisition soldiers without provocation. My research suggests this shift in behavior comes from the rifts in the area.”

“And closing the rifts will put things back in order?”

“Perhaps. It will take time even when the rifts are closed. The local animals may never recover and go back to their previous behaviors.”

“Tell me why,” Lavellan said.

Helisma couldn’t show any happiness but she seemed relaxed as she started in on a spiel about the ecological ramifications of the new fade rifts that would have put magister scholars back home to shame. Dorian listened, interested, but kept his eyes on Lavellan. Lavellan wasn’t usually a soft touch with anyone; brusque and tactless, he rarely allowed people to drivel on unless it was important. Dorian had seen him cut off Orlesian nobles who tried to go on about their homes and properties or some of the more religious soldiers who wanted to talk at length about the virtues of the Chantry. And yet he listened to Helisma’s long diatribe about local wildlife without any sign of impatience or boredom.

Perhaps he was more interested in zoological studies than Dorian had thought? But no, that didn’t seem right. For all that he was a seasoned huntsman, Dorian had never seen him show any interest in the patterns of animal life outside of that.

“—but once rift activity settles, the new patterns will eventually create order,” Helisma said. “Do you need to go, Inquisitor?”

“Go?” Lavellan asked, eyebrows rising.

“Dorian Pavus has been waiting for you for several minutes.”

Dorian startled. He hadn’t known she was even aware he was there. He offered her a wry smile but she didn’t smile back.

“Oh, no need to stop on my account,” he said. “I’m sure the Inquisitor could use a little education. I’d hate to get in the way.”

Lavellan rolled his eyes but straightened from his lounge. “Thanks, Helisma,” he said and clasped her on the shoulder with a light pat. “I’ll come by again soon, all right? We’ll have new samples for you to look at too.”

“Samples will help my research,” Helisma said.

Lavellan’s face softened. “Yeah,” he said. “I know. See you around.”

He shot Dorian a look and they walked together past Dorian’’s nook and down the long winding stairs. It wasn’t until they entered the main hall that Lavellan sighed.

“She was a brilliant scholar, you know,” he said.

“Oh?” Dorian asked.

“I asked Leliana. She was on her way to becoming First Enchanter in her Circle. She wrote some book that revolutionized animal medicine.”

Dorian almost didn’t want to ask. “And then?”

Lavellan was silent for a long moment. “And then a templar fell in love with her,” he said. His voice was as flat as Helisma’s but it was impossible to ignore the simmering rage underneath. “She refused him and he said she’d fallen in with demons, become an abomination. He performed the Rite on her with the Chantry’s blessing.”

Dorian knew what it was to be judged on what you were instead of who you were, so he knew that just as Tevinter had good people, so the Templars must as well. Cullen was an example of that if nothing else. But it was sometimes difficult to remember amidst such stories of horror when he was living with so many victims of their power. And, as always, it filled him with cold, panicked fury that any person could take magic away on a whim. Could reduce him to nothing more than a hollowed out version of himself, devoid of any emotion or joy. He shivered.

“That’s terrible,” he said.

Lavellan laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. “Cullen wanted us to go to the Templars, you know,” he said. “Back when the Breach was still our biggest problem. He thought they’d be more help. I didn’t know how to tell him I’d rather cut off my own arm than ask for their help.”

“You hate them,” Dorian said.

“‘Hatred is folly,’” Lavellan said. He led Dorian out of the main hall. “Fen’nas used to tell me that. ‘It creates barriers where there are none, turns peace to war, creates enemies when there could be friends.’” He sighed. “I was never a good student, though.”

They started down the stairs. The courtyard was quiet at this hour, nearly deserted; in the training ring, Bull and Krem were working on forms and several people milled about, chatting quietly. Lavellan stopped near the overlook on the stairs, looking down at them. His expression was distant, unreadable. Dorian allowed the silence to stretch between them until Lavellan’s mood settled a little. Finally, he turned to Dorian.

“We’re going to Crestwood tomorrow,” he said.

Dorian blinked at the unexpected topic change. “Oh?”

“Harding sent word—there’s some problem with the locals but a camp’s been established. Hawke let Loghain know to expect us within days.”

Dorian shivered. He wasn’t sure what news Hawke’s friend would have but considering their recent track record, it wasn’t likely to be good.

“You’re coming with,” Lavellan said. Dorian blinked and Lavellan shrugged. “I’m not exactly sure what the problem is but Harding suggested we bring a mage who’s good with fire.” The sidelong look he sent Dorian was soft, some of his earlier coldness dissipating. “Can’t think of anyone better.”

“Of course I’ll come,” Dorian said. “I would so hate to disappoint the lovely Scout Harding.” The sun had already set and a wind had cropped up—as always Skyhold was cold. Dorian crossed his arms over his chest but didn’t abandon his place at Lavellan’s side. “What do you think we’ll find there?”

Lavellan sighed. “Answers,” he said. “That’s all I can hope for.”

Dorian officially hated Crestwood.

It was muck, muck, and more muck. There were also, of course, those pesky undead, but Dorian almost didn’t mind them as much as the mud and the freezing rain. Undead, at least, he had the tools to deal with—more than deal with. Even Bull’s huge ax couldn’t do half the work of Dorian’s fireballs against the dead. No wonder Harding had requested a mage who was good with fire.

“Never thought I’d want to be a mage so badly,” Bull said after their third battle within the hour, shaking rain off his horns. “We’d be swamped without you, ‘vint.” He grinned. “Get it? Swamped?”

“Oh, I did,” Dorian said. “I was just so horrified I pretended to be temporarily deaf to spare myself.”

“No one appreciates my puns.”

“Oh, that’s not true,” Lavellan called back from his position at the head of the group. “Didn’t I laugh at that bear joke you made just last week in the Hinterlands?”

“That was a pity laugh, boss. It doesn’t count.”

“Beggars make the most of what they’re given,” Lavellan quoted.

“Is that how that saying goes?”

“There’s something in the trees,” Blackwall said.

Dorian groaned. “Again?”

Another battle that left them soaking and dirty, mud in places it should never be. Bull and Lavellan seemed perfectly content in the muck and even Blackwall hardly looked put off by it. Dorian shook his hand, miserable as mud went sloughing off of it. When they got back to Skyhold, he was taking the longest bath.

Not that he knew when that would be. At first, their trip to Crestwood had seemed simple; meet up with Hawke and Loghain, learn what they could about the Wardens and proceed from there. But the moment they’d arrived, everything had gone to pieces. Hawke had gone ahead according to Harding, but when they’d attempted to follow him they’d been sidetracked by the little matter of undead at every turn.

Dorian just wanted to go see Loghain and then hopefully they could retreat back to Skyhold and let the rest of the Inquisition take care of the mess of the undead. But Lavellan had grown wary of going to see Loghain after running into the Wardens on their way to Crestwood’s town. They’d been searching for Loghain and had little interest in actually helping Crestwood with their infestation of the undead but Dorian couldn’t understand Lavellan’s unease.

“They didn’t seem suspicious to me,” Dorian said as they tramped up the road toward the town, leaving the Wardens behind them.

Bull and Lavellan both gave him incredulous looks.

“Come on,” Bull said. “Your instincts can’t be that bad.”

“They kept watching us,” Lavellan said. “Like they knew we were thieves already and just wanted some gold to fall out of our pockets to prove it. I’d bet both knives they know we’re here for Loghain.” He shook his head. “We’ll circle around. Hawke can keep an eye on Loghain’s place for us while we deal with… whatever’s happening here first.”

Crestwood proper was a derelict little town full of wide-eyed, panicked people. Dorian couldn’t really blame them, surrounded by undead as they were. They got directions to the mayor’s house and Lavellan listened patiently as he outlined the situation for them; the sudden influx of undead, the rift that was causing it, and how they must be coming from Old Crestwood.

“Old Crestwood?” Lavellan asked.

Mayor Dedrick was wan and exhausted, a man at the end of his rope. “About ten years ago, we were attacked by darkspawn,” he said. “The Blight, you know. They destroyed the dam’s controls and flooded most of the town and the old tunnels. We lost half our population that day, not to mention the Blight refugees we’d taken in. A tragedy.”

Something flickered in Lavellan’s eyes. “I’ve never heard of darkspawn doing something like that,” he said. “Usually they’re all mindless destruction.”

Dedrick sighed. “Oh, there was plenty of that too,” he said. “They destroyed everything they didn’t flood. Took us years to rebuild. And now this.”

Lavellan frowned. “That’s where the rift is, then? Old Crestwood?”

“I would say so. More than enough corpses to work with down there. And all of the undead seem to be coming from the lake.”

“Then all we have to do is drain the lake,” Lavellan said. “Not so hard.”

Dedrick paled. “Drain the—”

“If the rift’s down there, we need to be down there too,” Lavellan said. “Until it’s gone, your people are going to keep being undead bait.”

Dorian frowned at him. There was something odd in Lavellan’s voice, though Dorian couldn’t quite place it. It was as if he was challenging Dedrick about something. Dorian couldn’t begin to guess about what though from the look on Bull’s face, he had some idea.

“The dam’s controls are in Caer Broach,” Dedrick said. “The hold further down the road. But it’s been occupied by bandits for weeks. Selfish buggers—we could’ve saved more if we’d been able to retreat there.”

“And that’s a problem because…?”

Dedrick stared. “I can’t ask you to risk your lives for us! There are at least two dozen men in there!”

Lavellan shrugged. “We’ve seen worse,” he said. “I’ll be impressed when they have an archdemon. That’s a challenge.” When Dedrick just stared at them, Lavellan’s eyebrows ticked up. “Unless there’s some reason you don’t want us to go to Old Crestwood…?”

“No, no!” Dedrick shook his head and seemed to regain himself. “If you believe it’s possible, I wish you nothing but luck! If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.”

He inclined his head to them. After a long pause, Lavellan did as well. As they left Dedrick’s house, Lavellan sighed.

“Ten gold says he had something to do with that flooding,” he said.

Bull shook his head. “I’m not taking that bet. That guy’s shady as fuck.”

“You don’t seriously believe he hurt his own people?” Blackwall asked, shocked.

Lavellan slanted a look at him. “You’ll find I don’t have as much faith as you do in shems, Blackwall. It’s been my experience they’ll sell anyone out to save themselves.”

Blackwall’s disapproval was clear but Lavellan didn’t seem to care. He led them out of the village and down the long winding road. Before long they came into view of the hold that had to be Caer Bronach—a menacing building that leaped out of the fog at them. The hold’s sturdy wooden doors were closed tight. Lavellan turned to Bull and Bull grinned.

“On it, boss,” he said and took his ax to the doors.

The bandits on the other side were waiting for them as soon as the doors fell. Bull led the charge with a mighty yell, ax swinging and Lavellan was right behind him, using his bulk as shield and distraction both. Blackwall took a place at Bull’s side and the three of them together focused on the bandits that came in waves down the stairs. Dorian stayed near the doors and focused instead on the archers on the walls, sending fireball after fireball their way.

It took several minutes to clear out the bandits on the first level and Dorian began to see why the mayor had viewed this as a suicide attempt; none of the bandits were particularly skilled but there were so many of them. Even when the first level was finally clear, they heard yells coming from above that meant there were even more men awaiting them up the stairs.

Dorian was beginning to feel a strain on his magic but he ignored it, following Lavellan and the rest at a fast clip up the stairs. There were thankfully fewer men on this level but they were better trained—by the time they had been cleared out, even Lavellan and Bull were breathing heavily. Blackwall had been stabbed at some point and favored his right arm but he made no complaint, simply shifting his blade to his left hand. Bull had taken damage too—someone had managed to cut his face.

But, Dorian noticed, Lavellan seemed almost untouched. He realized this was the first time he’d seen Lavellan in battle since he’d regained his knives—distracted by the sheer amount of men, Dorian hadn’t been able to watch him fight but from the wide smile on his face it was clear Lavellan was enjoying this on a level beyond the rest of them. His hands were calm and steady on his knives and he practically flew up the rest of the stairs.

“What’s gotten into him?” Blackwall muttered, out of breath.

Bull said something in his native tongue. When Dorian looked back, his eyes were bright with amusement.

“Battle-lust,” he translated. “That one’s high on the fight. Better than sex, that feeling.”

The third level of the hold only had a few bandits left to protect it but their skill far outstripped the ones below. Dorian kept to the edges of the battle, setting up glyphs and shooting fireballs as he could. As they bandits’ number dwindled, their leader eventually emerged; a towering man with a heavy, one-handed mace. Dorian was uncomfortably reminded of the old leader of the Blades of Hessarian, though this man was double his size.

But Lavellan didn’t hesitate. He launched himself at the man, knives whirling. Dorian watched and despite the battle and the muck and the hours of fighting undead, his heart was light. Lavellan wasn’t hesitant or awkward. His movements were as sure and graceful as they had been when Dorian had first met him, his knives a blur as Lavellan whirled and danced around the bandit leader. All that uncertainty had melted from him and Dorian could have laughed out loud in relief at the sight.

The leader went down hard, his mace skidding several feet away. For a moment, there was only silence. Then Lavellan began to laugh—a high, bright sound that made all the blood in Dorian’s body sing. Maker. It was difficult not to stomp over and kiss the damn fool.

Bull grinned as he clapped Lavellan on the back. “Not bad, boss!” he said.

“A good fight,” Blackwall agreed as he attempted to clean his sword.

“We should claim the hold,” Dorian said, approaching them. He nearly faltered as Lavellan swung to look at him, eyes bright and face flushed. Dorian allowed himself a moment to think that was probably what Lavellan would look like in bed before he forced his libido down. His voice remained miraculously even. “Put up the Inquisition’s flag and all that stuff and nonsense.”

“Another empty castle.” Lavellan grinned. “I should start a collection. Come on then. We can send word to Harding before we try to find those controls.”

It took no time before the flag went up, a letter was sent with one of the couriers who followed them from camp and Lavellan managed to find the door that led them through the bowels of the castle to the grassy field on the other side. In the distance was a simple building atop the sturdy walls of the dam.

“That has to be the place,” Lavellan said. “Come on.”

Some of his manic mood had sobered but he still led them at a fast pace down the winding road to the building, a tavern called the Rusty Horn. It seemed quiet and abandoned but they came upon a kissing couple as they entered who sprang apart, both flushed with embarrassment. Dorian hid a smile.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Lavellan said, smiling too. “But this place is hardly romantic.”

The children both blustered about not having anywhere else to go and Lavellan sent them off with a warning to be careful of the undead. As they made their way into the back room, Lavellan began to laugh.

“Boss?” Bull asked.

“He’s so afraid of spiders,” Lavellan choked out.

Bull and Dorian exchanged amused looks but Lavellan got ahold of himself as they went deeper into the tavern, his laughter dying off as they finally found the dam’s controls. For a moment they stood in the doorway, examining them. When Dorian looked over at Lavellan, all mirth had gone from his face. Damn.

“These aren’t destroyed,” Lavellan said. “They don’t look like they’ve ever been destroyed.”

“It’s been ten years,” Blackwall said, though even he sounded doubtful. “Somebody could have fixed them since the Blight.”

Lavellan gave him a long, hard look. “Do you think so?”

Blackwall opened his mouth, closed it. He looked at the controls and looked away. Lavellan sighed and moved toward them, beginning to turn the wheel. It was a huge device, doubtlessly heavy, but Lavellan managed without any help.

They all heard the click of the mechanism turning into place and the rushing sound of water. Lavellan stepped back, dusting off his hands.

“There,” he said. “Now I think it’s time we went to have a little chat with the mayor.”

Mayor Dedrick was gone.

Lavellan read the letter left on his desk and the increasing blankness of his expression made Dorian very nervous indeed. Lavellan finished the letter, took a deep breath, and punched the wall with all of his strength, cracking the wood. Dorian hurried forward.

“Must you always punch walls?” he asked, taking Lavellan’s hand to examine it. No real harm was done, though there were several splinters buried in his knuckles. “There are less damaging ways to show your anger, you know.”

“He’s the one that flooded Old Crestwood,” Lavellan said. He flexed his hand in Dorian’s grip but allowed Dorian to begin to pull out the splinters. He tipped his head to the letter. “That’s his confession.”

Blackwall swore. “That sorry bastard,” he said. “He fled before he could get caught.”

“I knew there was something iffy with that guy,” Bull said.

Dorian didn’t want to think about the fate of the people left in Old Crestwood—already miserable and sick, left to drown in the muck. Maker.

“It’s a sad, sorry mess,” he said, pulling the last splinter from Lavellan’s hand and allowing it to drop from his with only some reluctance. “Will the Inquisition bring him in?”

“I’ll hunt the bastard down myself,” Lavellan said. He looked ready to punch the wall again. “Killing a bunch of innocent people to save his own neck?” The curse he muttered was elvhen but they all understood the sentiment. Lavellan rubbed his face. He still had blood on his knuckles. “Come on,” he said. “We still have to go down there and close that rift, mayor or no.”

Old Crestwood was surprisingly intact after sitting at the bottom of a lake for ten years; while most of the houses had rotted through, several were still standing. Dorian spotted more than one bloated corpse, but it was the eerie silence that really unnerved him. He couldn’t shake the feeling of someone watching him.

Lavellan paused on their way to the cave that led to the tunnels below, taking a sharp left turn. Dorian had no idea what had caught his attention until they approached a house with the faint outline of a spirit in it, crying out to everyone around it.

“Why won’t they listen to my commands?” it asked with bleak despair. “Heed me!”

Lavellan hummed. He took a step forward toward the spirit.

“Are you a spirit or a demon?” he asked.

The spirit scoffed. “Demon? Those dolts who would suck this world dry? I am called to higher things.”

“You represent something, yeah?” Lavellan asked. “Spirits always do. What is it? Wisdom, justice, compassion—”

“Ugh, compassion,” the spirit said. “Soft virtues, all. I am Command.”

Lavellan’s eyebrows went up. “Arrogance, more like,” he said.

The spirit didn’t seem to hear him. “What of you?” it asked. “I felt your coming. Is there something alike in us?”

Bull and Dorian exchanged looks as Lavellan recoiled.

“Alike?” Lavellan asked. “No, I don’t think so.”

The spirit scoffed again. “Denial. That will not make it go away, little mortal. Even in this wrong world, your power is clear.”

Lavellan frowned at it. “And what’s so wrong with this world?”

“It ignores me. I order the rocks to part, they do not! I bid the sky stay close and it stays still! I don’t know how you mortals stand it.”

“So why don’t you go back?”

“I will not be denied. I refuse to leave until something obeys my orders.”

Lavellan eyed it. “What if I helped you out?”

“Why would the mortal do that?”

“Does it matter why?”

The spirit accepted that as its due. “Very well. I have only one command. A creature made of rage had the gall to chase me across the lake. Kill it in my name and be rewarded.”

“You just want me to kill a demon?” Lavellan asked. He shrugged. “I can do that.”

“Excellent! Go forth and execute my commands!”

Lavellan rolled his eyes. “Bossy,” he muttered.

He led them out without another word to the spirit. As they made their way past the old mayor’s house to the cave entrance, Bull cleared his throat.

“Boss?” he asked. “Any reason you’re making deals with spirits?”

Lavellan didn’t look back at them. “It doesn’t want to be here. We might as well help it out.”

Dorian wondered if that was all there was to it. That spirit had sensed some sort of kinship in Lavellan—had Lavellan felt a kinship in return? But Lavellan’s voice said the subject was closed so none of them asked any more questions as they entered the cave to close the fade rift.

Dorian wasn’t sure what he’d expected in the bowels of Old Crestwood but battling through hordes of undead just to reach a fade rift that seemed to spawn wave after wave of demons had not been it. He leaned heavily against his staff, catching his breath as Lavellan shook out the green sparks in his hand. That rift had been unlike any they’d seen before, so monstrous and strong that it had been almost impossible to get rid of the demons in order for Lavellan to close it. All Dorian hoped was that they wouldn’t be ambushed by yet another wave of undead on their way out—he didn’t think he had enough magic for another fight.

Bull and Blackwall seemed as exhausted as he was but Bull was grinning, uplifted as he always was after a hard fight. Lavellan, however, looked thoughtful; he stared down at his hand, still awash in green light. The Mark hadn’t spread any further since the Storm Coast from what Dorian could see, but it still covered most of Lavellan’s hand now. The light wouldn’t fade entirely for hours.

“We’d better go,” Lavellan said. “Hawke will wonder if we got eaten.”

Dorian had almost forgotten they’d come here to speak to Loghain. It had been several hours since they’d arrived at Crestwood—he dreaded finding out how Hawke had spent his time waiting. Dorian didn’t know Hawke that well but he had already figured out that a bored Hawke meant plenty of explosions.

The trek out of the cave seemed to take twice as long as their journey down even though they found a shortcut to a different exit. Dorian felt so tired as they left that he almost thought he was hallucinating the warm, sunny day they came out into. Hadn’t it been storming when they’d gone into the cave? It was almost like they had come out into a completely different part of the world.

And, of course, there was a fade rift waiting for them. Dorian groaned.

The ensuing fight took longer than it probably should have. They were all exhausted after the long battle in the cave and the Ascendant who came from this rift was powerful. But they managed. Once the demons were gone, Lavellan braced himself and held up his hand. Dorian was startled as he made a harsh noise of pain as the rift began to close.

“The more he has to do in a short period of time, the more painful it is,” Blackwall told him. “I’ve seen it in the Hinterlands. He nearly passed out when he had to close four in an hour.”

Dorian really hated the Mark sometimes. Lavellan shook out his hand, his face pale but composed. They all took a moment to catch their breath.

“This place,” Lavellan said after a long moment, “is fucking cursed.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Bull said.

“Come on,” Lavellan said, sheathing his knives. “Let’s go see what trouble Hawke got into. And if we get attacked one more time, I’m not going to be happy.”

At some point since their descent into Old Crestwood, Harding had set up another camp—they came across it on the way to Loghain’s hide-out and restocked their supplies. To Dorian’s surprise, Varric was waiting for them.

“Came over a little while back,” Varric said. “Too late to help out with that demon nonsense, but I figured another friendly face wouldn’t hurt when you talk to Loghain.”

Lavellan shrugged. He looked better after drinking a couple of potions and he’d cleaned most of the blood off of his face.

“Sure,” he said. “We’d better hurry, though. Hawke’s probably going stir-crazy.”

Hawke had definitely gone a little stir-crazy at some point—the area around Loghain’s hide-out was scorched earth and it was clear someone had been fighting. There weren’t any corpses though, so Dorian figured Hawke and Fenris had been working off some steam; Fenris had several burns along his arms and Hawke had a shallow cut on his neck. He was pacing in short, tight circles while Fenris watched, arms crossed over his chest. As their party approached, he turned and grinned at them.

“There you are,” Hawke said. At his side, Fenris gave their party a cool once-over and nodded. “Thought you got eaten. Hate to ask, but did you happen to do something magical in the past hour? The thunderstorm and gloom stopped suspiciously suddenly.”

“I may have unearthed an old part of the city that may have housed a rift that was causing a bunch of demonic activity which I may have closed to stop a host of undead from rising and devouring Crestwood,” Lavellan said. He shrugged. “All in a day’s work.”

Hawke stared. “You know, unbelievably I’m beginning to understand how Aveline must have felt,” he said. “No wonder Varric doesn’t talk to me anymore, you get into more trouble than I could ever dream of.”

“Not true,” Varric said. “You just have a very selective memory.”

“My memory is flawless.”

“Oh, yeah? Then how about that thirty gold you owe me for—”

“Anyway,” Hawke said, clapping his hands. “Loghain should be just inside. I don’t know why he needs to have a mysterious and hard-to-find hideout, but to be honest he’s always been a bit on the dramatic side. Shall we?”

“I’ll lead,” Lavellan said. “Hawke, if you wouldn’t mind taking up the rear?”

“Staring at everyone’s asses is always my preferred position,” Hawke said. Fenris gave him a hard nudge and Hawke simpered at him. “Not that anyone’s ass compares to yours, darling.”

“Silence,” Fenris said.

“You know I don’t do silence. Though if you want to break out the gag again—”

“Hawke.”

Varric sighed as they stepped into the low, dark cave. There were deep mushrooms growing in the stone walls, giving off a soft blue glow, but that was their only light as they moved forward. Dorian’s stomach tightened uneasily the further they walked. He couldn’t explain it, but he had a bad feeling about this place. It felt like there was someone watching them. Maybe Crestwood really was cursed.

“Stop.” Lavellan’s voice was so sharp all of them froze. “There are traps here.”

“Traps?” Varric asked.

“Yes. Look there.” They all peered over his shoulder. Dorian couldn’t see anything, but Varric muttered a low oath. “Clever, hiding them in the sand. We would have stepped right into them.” Lavellan slanted a look over his shoulder, eyes dark. “Any reason your Warden friend would try to take one of our legs off, Hawke?”

“Not that I can think of!” Hawke said still, insanely enough, cheerful. “But then, he’s always been a kinky bastard, so who knows?”

“I can disarm it,” Lavellan said, kneeling.

Dorian finally caught sight of a faint outline in the sand ahead of them, the sharp maw of a bear trap. It was disguised enough that if Lavellan hadn’t seen it, Dorian would have walked right into it. He shivered. The thing was sharp and strong enough to take off a leg. Why would Loghain have it right in front of his hideout when he knew they were coming?

The trap clicked and closed with a snap. Lavellan leaned back, brushing stray hairs out of his face.

“We’ll need to be careful,” he said as he stood. “If there are any more traps like that—”

Smoke filled the hall. Dorian’s staff was in his hand, but it was impossible to see—and in a moment he began to cough, lungs choking. It wasn’t just smoke, it was some sort of acid. His face began to burn.

Eyes streaming, he was able to catch a glimpse of moving shadows. He could hear Hawke and Blackwall shouting, Varric and Bull hacking out a list of swears, but Lavellan were silent. The smoke cleared enough that Dorian could breathe without coughing again. He took a deep lungful of clean air and froze when he realized the shadows he’d seen weren’t just his imagination—ahead of him, Lavellan was fighting someone.

The enemy was much shorter than Lavellan and stocky, dressed in sturdy, nondescript clothes. Unlike Lavellan, who used knives, they fought bare-handed—but no, not bare-handed, Dorian realized as they crashed a glass against Lavellan and he sprang back, yowling at the sudden wash of acid against his armor. The sudden retreat afforded a better look—a woman with dark hair. It was impossible to see more details in the half-light. She had no weapons but held a glass vial between every available finger, filled with things Dorian couldn’t begin to guess at.

“Who are you?” she demanded. She had the same accent Hawke did. In fact, Dorian thought, she almost looked a little like Hawke—coloring aside, there was something to the cant of her chin and the shape of her forehead. “Why have you come here?”

“We were invited,” Lavellan said, still trying to get the last of the acid off his armor. It was smoking a little and there were holes growing in the leather. “What the fuck is this, Hawke? I thought you said Loghain was expecting us!”

The woman didn’t drop her vials, but her poised tension relaxed a little.

“You’re with the Inquisition?”

“Yes!” Lavellan yelped as some acid dropped on his foot. “Couldn’t you have asked that first?!”

“We can’t be too careful,” the woman said, finally dropping her hands. The vials went away, secreted into pockets and around her waist. “Which one of you in the Inquisitor?”

“Now she asks,” Lavellan said. “You’re looking at him.”

She ran a critical eye over him. “You? You’re barely out of diapers.”

“I haven’t worn a diaper for years,” Lavellan said. “They aren’t flattering to my figure.”

She snorted. “And who are the rest of you?”

Since it didn’t seem like she’d let them pass without them, introductions went around. When they got to Hawke, the woman stared hard at him.

“You’re Amell, aren’t you? I thought you looked familiar.”

“Oh, are we distant relatives?” Hawke asked with an easy smile. “I’ve gotten ever so many of those since we took back the estate. Funny how none of them wanted anything to do with us when we were poor and illegal apostates, but you get a bit of money and suddenly relatives come dashing out of the woodwork—”

She snorted. “All right, calm down. I’m not interested in your money. But when you’ve got as little family left as I do, every little bit counts.” She surveyed them. “Well. You’d better come in. Watch out for the trip wire.”

She led them in and despite her warning, Dorian nearly set off the wire. Lavellan helped him over it, smirking a little. Dorian made sure to stumble into him so he could dig an elbow into his side and make him wheeze. Dorian’s many talents just happened to not include a keen eye for traps, that was all. But could Lavellan figure out time travel from one pendant and archaic research? Dorian didn’t think so.

The hide-out was well-lit but almost entirely empty. A thick sheaf of papers were spread across a heavy table near the back and there was a map of Thedas pinned to the wall. Other than that the place was abandoned.

But not entirely. Dorian stared as another Warden materialized from the shadows. Loghain Mac Tir was still a formidable name in Tevinter—for a southern barbarian, he was spoken of with some respect. An excellent general, though his reputation had tarnished with the hysteria he’d gone through in the Fifth Blight. Stripped of his title by an upstart bastard, some magisters sneered.

Loghain was older than Dorian’s father, but there weren’t any streaks of grey in his long dark hair and he looked as formidable and hale as Hawke or Fenris. He was dressed in Warden blue and he had an ornate sword strapped to his hip. As they filed in, he gave the woman an ironic look.

“I told you they were coming,” he said. “Must you always attack first, ask questions later?”

“I think I’ve earned the right to some paranoia,” the woman said. “You didn’t tell me the Inquisitor was nothing more than a stripling.”

In the light, her features were much clearer; she was older than Dorian had expected but not as old as Loghain, with dark skin and clear, intensely blue eyes. Aside from the eyes, she was nondescript; she could have been any woman on the street. Dorian frowned, wondering who she was exactly. She wasn’t wearing Warden blue but she was clearly involved with Loghain somehow. His lover, perhaps?

“It’s not like I knew either,” Loghain said.

“I’d really appreciate it if you stopped pretending I just learned how to wipe my own ass,” Lavellan said. “I know you two are inches from death over there, but that doesn’t make me incompetent.”

Loghain and the woman exchanged looks. “Does he remind you of anyone?” Loghain asked.

“I have no idea what you mean,” the woman said.

“Listen,” Lavellan said, “we came here for answers.”

“And all we’ve been is attacked,” Hawke said. “Not unusual, but it’s a bit of a downer, to be honest.”

They exchanged another look. They were communicating something with just their faces, though Dorian had no idea what it was. Finally, the woman sighed and stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest and letting Loghain take the lead.

“I asked Hawke to contact you because we need help,” Loghain said. “There’s something deeply wrong with the Wardens.”

Dorian had been right that Loghain wasn’t going to have any good news for them.

“Wrong?” Lavellan asked, eyes narrowing as he focused. “Wrong how?”

“They’ve gone mad,” the woman piped up, scowling. “I turn my back for one second and they start going completely stark raving mad, that’s what’s wrong.”

“Who is she, anyway?” Lavellan asked, frowning over at her.

The woman frowned back at him. “Doesn’t matter, kid.”

“It matters to me,” he said. “You dumped acid on my head, don’t I have a right to know your name?”

The woman barked out a laugh. “Nope. I’m not sticking around long enough for it to matter.”

“You know you have to stay,” Loghain said. “Who better to put the Wardens right?”

“They’re not my responsibility anymore, Loghain. I gave that up.” She sounded bitter.

Loghain gave her a long, hard look. “Yes, to find this mysterious cure of yours. Tell me, are you any closer to your goal? How long has it been?”

The woman was silent, but her glare spoke paragraphs. Loghain sighed.

“You don’t stop being a Warden,” he said. “You were the one who taught me that. You can’t turn your back on them anymore.”

“Still waiting for that name,” Lavellan interrupted.

Dorian glanced at him. Something in his voice had changed—had gone from belligerent to quiet wonder. He was staring at the woman now with laser focus. She’d caught the change too. She smiled without humor at him.

“Do I really need to say it?” she asked.

“Yes.”

They stared at each other. Finally, she stepped forward and dipped into a low, mocking bow.

“Myurin Cousland, Warden-Commander and Queen of Fereldan, at your service,” she said. At their shocked inhales, she grinned. “You might know me better as the Hero of Fereldan.”

Chapter Text

“Myurin Cousland, Warden-Commander and Queen of Fereldan, at your service,” she said. At their shocked inhales, she grinned. “You might know me better as the Hero of Fereldan.”

For a long moment, they all stared at Cousland. Dorian had heard plenty of stories about her, though he was sure they were vastly different from what Lavellan and the others had heard growing up. Most of the whispers in Tevinter about the plight of the Fifth Blight were tinged with condescending amusement. Oh, those silly Fereldans. Got themselves overrun by darkspawn again. For the people of Fereldan, Myuirin Cousland was a mythic figure, almost a god—for Tevinter, she was merely one barbarian among many.

Cousland endured their stares good-naturedly. She even opened her arms and spun to let them get the full picture.

Lavellan recovered the fastest. He looked a little like when he’d first seen Hawke and King Alistair—dumbstruck at a legend come to life. Not that the poor man ever seemed to realize he was becoming a legend himself. But he managed to put that awe away and offered Cousland a wry smirk.

“You know, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard this one before. How did it go again?” Lavellan pretended to think and snapped his fingers. “That was it!” He cleared his throat and said, in an affectedly low voice, “‘‘Three heroes walk into a deserted cave…’”

Varric and Hawke both laughed and Bull snorted. Dorian relaxed a little. Trust Lavellan to diffuse a difficult situation with a joke.

“Does this end with an orgy?” Hawke asked, eyes twinkling. “All the best jokes end with an orgy.”

“You don’t know anything about good jokes,” Lavellan told him. He turned back to Cousland, crossing his arms over his chest. “So?”

“So, what?” Cousland asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

“So, tell us why you’re here. Everyone thought you disappeared.” Lavellan crinkled his nose. “But if you say an orgy, I’m walking. That’s way too much work.”

“I promised Alistair at our wedding I wouldn’t have any more orgies unless he was there,” Cousland said, so grave that it took them all a moment to realize she was joking.

Lavellan looked delighted. “Any more orgies?”

“Cousland,” Loghain said, long-suffering. “Please. Remember the impeding doom of our entire order?”

“Ruin my fun,” Cousland said, making a face.

“That has long since been my duty.”

“I thought that was Howe’s job?”

“He has given the pleasure to me when he is absent,” Loghain turned to Lavellan, all levity fleeing from his face. “There is something deeply wrong with the Wardens.”

Dorian wished he could be surprised. Lavellan sighed deeply.

“Just once,” he said, “it’d be nice if an ancient order didn’t turn corrupt and evil. Just once.”

“You don’t know the half of it, kid,” Cousland said, mouth quirking.

Lavellan put his hands on his hips. “Well, out with it. What’s wrong with the Wardens? Murder? Blood magic? Corruption? All of the above?”

Loghain and Cousland exchanged speaking looks. Cousland inclined her head and Loghain stepped forward. He kept his eyes on Lavellan as he began to talk, somber and direct.

“After Hawke killed Corypheus, Weisshaupt was content to forget that whole affair,” he said. “He was dead and they could pretend that he had never existed. But I was not convinced. If an archdemon can survive seemingly mortal wounds, why not Corypheus?” His expression darkened. “I had already seen Fereldan fall to darkness once before. I had to be sure it could not happen again.”  He turned and began to pace from one end of the cave to the other. Cousland watched with her arms crossed over her chest, silent. “I began to investigate. I found evidence but no proof. And then…” He stopped, his back to them, head bent forward. “Every Warden in Orlais began to experience the Calling.”

Dorian caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see that Hawke had straightened to his full height. It was easy to forget how tall Hawke was sometimes—he was almost always slouching. His usual sarcastic cheer was gone as well, leaving his face hard-edged and keen, a blade unsheathed. Dorian shivered. He’d never seen Hawke like this, his usual masks so completely gone. What—?

“How long have you known?” he asked Loghain.

Loghain didn’t look back. “About a month.”

Hawke bristled. “You never told me.”

“I didn’t believe it concerned you.”

“My brother is a Warden,” Hawke snapped. “If he’s dying, that bloody well concerns me.”

Dorian looked down in time to see Fenris fold his hand over Hawke’s elbow. The light touch made Hawke close his eyes and take a deep breath. When he opened them again, he was more the man Dorian had come to know, but Dorian wouldn’t so easily forget again that that unsheathed knife was still lurking in Hawke’s eyes, hidden behind the bright smiles and cheerful jokes. Just like his height, it was easy to forget exactly how dangerous Hawke was. He was too good at hiding it.

“You should have told me,” Hawke said more calmly.

“Perhaps,” Loghain said. When he turned back to face them, his face was haggard, eyes dark. “But we had bigger concerns.”

Lavellan spared Hawke a glance and something seemed to pass between the two of them, a complicated series of nods and mouth quirks.

“This Calling,” Lavellan said as he turned back to Loghain, focused and intent. “What is it?”

Loghain shook his head. “Wardens take the taint of the darkspawn within themselves,” he said. “We have corrupted blood, all of us. The Calling is a warning that our corruption will claim us, that our death is nigh.”

Lavellan darted another look at Hawke. There was something strange and complicated in that glance that Dorian couldn’t begin to decipher.

“And every Grey Warden in Orlais is hearing that right now?” Lavellan asked. “They think they’re dying?”

“Yes,” Loghain said. “Thanks to Corypheus, I believe. If the Wardens fall, who will stop the next Blight? Our brethren are panicking.”

Lavellan frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is the Calling they’re hearing real?” he asked. “Or is Corypheus faking it somehow?”

Bull made a sound. When Dorian glanced up at him, he was grinning down at Lavellan. When he noticed Dorian looking, his mouthed good question. Loghain seemed to agree; his eyebrows rose and he gave it serious thought.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Even as a Senior Warden, I knew little about Corypheus. But I’m not sure it matters. The Wardens believe it to be real, despite my warnings.”

“Do you hear it?” Lavellan asked. 

Loghain closed his eyes. “Yes,” he whispered. “Oh, yes. Even now it itches at the back of my mind. I hum it under my breath, hear it in my sleep. Soon it will consume me entirely.” He opened his eyes again and Dorian saw for a moment how this man had swayed an army to abandon their king, had taken a country under his iron fist. There was steel all the way to the bones in that one. “But not yet.”

“And you?” Lavellan asked Cousland.

“I hear nothing,” Cousland said. If she was lying, it was impossible to tell; her face was placid and indifferent. “Which is why I agree with Loghain that it’s possibly a trick. I’ve been out of the country for years. If this is a spell of some kind, I was out of its range.”

Lavellan turned. “Blackwall?”

Blackwall shrugged. “I hear nothing as well,” he said, gruff and unreadable. Lavellan frowned at him. “Don’t give me that look. Worrying about it will only make it worse.”

“I’m not giving you a look, you foolish old bear,” Lavellan said. “You’ll come to me the moment you hear this nonsense in your head, understood?”

“I can handle my own problems, you bossy young pup,” Blackwall told him but there was a suggestion of a smile around his mouth. “Focus your energy elsewhere.”

Lavellan glared at him and then turned the glare on Cousland as she laughed. “Seems your people are just as stubborn as mine were,” she said, eyeing Blackwall. “You’re a Warden, then?”

“Yes,” Blackwall said and offered nothing else to her.

As the silence dragged on, Cousland laughed again. “You remind me of Sten,” she said.

And it was terribly amusing to see the way Blackwall’s eyebrows drew together but Dorian’s brain had been quietly wrestling with a problem during this entire conversation and it was galling to him that no one had asked it yet.

“Terribly sorry to interrupt,” Dorian said and ignored Cousland’s raised eyebrows as she seemed to realize he was Tevinter, “but I think the important question we’re missing is how Corypheus is doing this. How can he convince the Wardens they’re experiencing this Calling?”

“We have no clue,” Cousland said, still eyeing him curiously. “It shouldn’t be possible. If it is a spell, it’s an insanely powerful one.”

That was an understatement. To be able the mimic something like that would require either an insane amount of power or a worrying amount of control over tainted beings. Either one—or, as was most likely, the combination of both—was not a good sign. Dorian made a mental list of books he could consult to try and find precedent, though he doubted he’d find anything useful. In addition to being annoyingly powerful, Corypheus was also unfortunately unique; it made it difficult to figure out a way to defeat him.

“I believe it is something in his nature,” Loghain said. “Corypheus is, or was once, a mortal man. The Blight owns him but did not create him. Wardens are tied to the Blight through the darkspawn. That is how Corypheus influences Warden minds. Somehow he is using that power to mimic the Calling.”

True but too vague to be really useful. Dorian sighed. It was one thing to make grand pronouncements about how Corypheus might be manipulating the Warden connection, but unless they knew the details that didn’t help them at all. Dorian itched to go back to his library and start researching but forced himself to stay on the conversation at hand.

Lavellan scowled. “So the Wardens think they’re dying,” he said. “Experience tells me that made them do something fucking stupid.”

“A Blight nearly destroyed Fereldan,” Loghain said. “And then we had Wardens…” He darted a look at Cousland. “Barely.” Cousland rolled her eyes. “A Blight without any Wardens could very well destroy the world. They’re afraid.”

He paused, staring at them for a long moment, as if unwilling to say what his order had done. Cousland made an aggravated sound.

“Clarel is doing something stupid,” she said.

Loghain shot her a look. “Warden-Commander Clarel proposed a ritual involving blood magic,” he said.

“Like I said,” Cousland said. Her mouth twisted. “Fucking stupid.”

“Desperation breeds idiocy,” Lavellan told her, though he looked no less furious than she did. “What’s this ritual supposed to do?”

“Prevent further Blights,” Loghain said. “They believe the only way to keep the world safe when the Wardens are all gone is to stop the possibility of Blights altogether. They’re going to go find and kill the remaining Old Gods.”

Dorian’s blood ran cold. “Yes,” he said, keeping the panic out of his voice only from years of practice, “because that never ended badly for anyone in the past.”

Loghain inclined his head. “When I protested, called it the madness it was, they tried to arrest me. I barely escaped.” He gestured to the map spread out on his table. “Grey Wardens are gathering in the Western Approach at an ancient Tevinter ritual tower, doing something in preparation for the ritual.” He gave Lavellan a long look. “I called you here to ask you to come with me there to find answers.”

Silence. Everyone looked at Lavellan but he didn’t notice. His eyes were fixed on Loghain.

“They may be too far gone to save,” Lavellan said at last, very softly.

“Nobody is ever too far gone to save,” Loghain said steadily. “I’m proof enough of that.”

Lavellan hummed.

“All right,” he said. “We can leave now.”

Dorian frowned. “Now?” he asked, confused.

“If we ride hard enough, we can make it over the border in a few days, to the Approach in a week,” Lavellan said.  He didn’t seem to be paying the rest of them any attention as he rattled this off, too focused on making his own plans. Dorian’s frown deepened. “Let’s stop by the camp to resupply.”

“Boss—”

“Spitfire—”

“Inquisitor—”

Everyone started talking over each other. Lavellan crossed his arms over his chest and stared at them until they quieted, eyes a poisonous green.

“Problem?” he asked.

Bull was the only one who wasn’t intimidated at all. “I know you’re pissed at them but you can’t go running off to the Approach without giving them a heads up,” he said.

Nobody in their party needed to ask who ‘them’ was, though Cousland looked ready to. Lavellan didn’t pretend to not know what Bull was talking about either.

“I don’t need to be watched like a child,” he said. “They’re the ones who put the sword in my hand, they’re the ones who get to deal with what I do with it.”

“That’s not how it works and you know it, boss—”

“It works that way if I say it does, Bull—”

Cousland broke in. “We can’t go now anyway,” she said. “There’s only rumors of a meeting right now, nothing concrete. We can’t go marching in there half-baked which is what I told Loghain before he arranged this little meet-and-greet. If we go in there blind, we’re more likely to get killed than to get any answers.”

“Let’s go back to Skyhold,” Varric said in his most conciliatory voice. “The Nightingale can get us the intel we need.”

“Aw, Varric,” Hawke complained. “I want to go blow up a Tevinter tower!”

Varric cut him a fondly exasperated look. “Not helping, Hawke.”

“No,” Lavellan said. There was something harsh about the jut of his jaw, wild in his eyes. He looked like a cornered animal. “The moment we get back to Skyhold, Josephine will find some inane thing for me to do and I won’t be able to travel for weeks and we’ll miss this bloody thing entirely. I’m not letting an opportunity like this slip out of my fingers, not when this is the best chance we have of stopping Corypheus.”

“Did you not hear me?” Cousland demanded and they all blinked at her. “We can’t go in blind, fool, we’ll get killed and then who’ll stop Corypheus?”

“You don’t understand,” Lavellan snarled, whirling on her. “I have to get him. I need him to be dead.”

They stared at each other for a long, tense moment. Cousland was a head shorter than Lavellan, but her eyes—the blue her family was so famous for they’d made it their clan color—were just as fierce. She may not have done it for a while, but this was a leader. Dorian braced himself for a collision. Hawke had been mostly content to follow Lavellan’s lead and while Lavellan regularly clashed with his advisors, none of them had actually ever challenged his authority. Lavellan still didn’t really realize he had an authority to challenge and he was still bristling like an offended cat at Cousland’s brusque intervention.

“I know better than you think, kid,” Cousland said at last and something in her voice had softened a little. Good choice on her part. Lavellan liked nothing better than to dig his heels in. “If he’s dead, you’re free. I get that. But rushing into it is only going to make things worse for you, not better.”

Lavellan had been primed for a fight, body tense and eyes flashing, but at her words, he relaxed a little. His mouth was still tight and his eyes hard, but he didn’t look ready to go ten rounds with anyone who looked at him wrong anymore. They all watched as he turned Cousland’s words over.

“…Fine,” he said, clearly unhappy about it. “Back to Skyhold it is.”

All of them relaxed. Varric gave Lavellan’s arm a gentle slap.

“I’ll make sure Josephine doesn’t give you any stupid shit to do,” Varric promised.

“And I’ll talk to Red,” Bull said with a wolfish grin.

Lavellan flicked him a look. “Stop harassing my spymaster.”

“I don’t harass,” Bull said, a wicked gleam in his eye.

“Tell that to the barmaid,” Lavellan said, beginning to smile. Dorian pushed down the flicker of envy that Bull had been able to pull Lavellan out of his rank mood so easily. All that mattered was that Lavellan was better—it didn’t matter who’d helped. Even if Dorian wished, with guilty selfishness, that it had been him. “Or the mason. Or—”

“I have a big heart,” Bull said with unconvincing piety. He tried to adopt an innocent look but it was ruined by the height and the horns and the eyepatch.

Lavellan snorted. “Big heart? More like a big d—”

“Lavellan!” Blackwall said. They all stared at him and he flushed. “There are… There are ladies present.”

Cousland seemed as perplexed as the rest of them. “You mean me?” she asked when it was evident the rest of them couldn’t pass for any form of the word ‘lady.’ “You’re kidding, right? I went to war with Oghren. I’ve heard worse than a dick joke.”

Blackwall’s flush deepened. “As you say, m’lady,” he said.

“Cousland,” she corrected.

Blackwall’s eyebrows lowered. “My Queen,” he said.

They stared at each other and Cousland rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right,” she said. “Guess I can’t argue about that one, damn that man.”

“Do you really regret it?” Loghain asked.

Cousland rolled her eyes. “No,” she said. “Well. I suppose we’ll be coming with you to this Skyhold.”

“You’re staying?” Loghain asked. He didn’t sound all that surprised. “I thought this wasn’t your problem anymore?”

“Oh, shut up,” Cousland said, scowling. “I just want to make sure they don’t much up my order more than they already have. I literally went to war to build that shit up, you know?” Loghain smiled at her and her scowl deepened. “Shut up, Loghain.”

She marched past Loghain and punched Lavellan on the shoulder. “Come on then,” she said as Lavellan blinked down at her. “We’d better get moving. Loghain got a little sword-happy to get this place but ten gold pieces say their buddies come for revenge before the day is out.”

Bull and Blackwall started the exodus back to the cave’s entrance. Dorian lingered, waiting for Lavellan.

“By the way, fool,” Cousland said, “welcome to the club.”

Lavellan’s eyebrows rose. “Club?” he asked. “What club?”

“The ‘accidentally stumbled into leading an army’ club,” Cousland said.

“The ‘a strange old woman manipulated my life’ club,” Hawke said at the same time.

Cousland and Hawke exchanged glances, Cousland startled, Hawke amused. Lavellan grinned.

“Flemeth messed with you too, huh?” Cousland asked and Hawke shrugged.

“Well, she did save me and my family from certain death,” he said. “So I can’t be too annoyed with her.”

“She does like to do that saving thing. I’d admire it more if I didn’t think she had her own agenda.”

Hawke shrugged. “Everyone’s got their own agenda,” he said. “The only thing that really matters is if it’s against yours or not.”

Lavellan snorted. “Well, I haven’t had a strange old woman manipulate my life yet,” he told Hawke. “And I’m not leading any armies.”

Hawke slung an arm over Lavellan’s shoulders. “Count yourself lucky,” he said as he dragged Lavellan down to the cave entrance. “She was okay, but did I ever tell you about that time that Flemeth made me carry her ghost across the sea? Skeeved me right the fuck out after the fact, let me tell you.”

Fenris, trailing them, rolled his eyes. Dorian stifled a laugh and almost didn’t hear Cousland’s unhappy sigh. He glanced at her, but her eyes were fixed on Lavellan. She looked sad and, for the first time since they’d met her, vulnerable. When she noticed Dorian watching, she shook her head and all of that fragility was packed away. Dorian watched as she marched away, perplexed.

“She knows he’ll be leading armies soon.”

Dorian jumped. Loghain was intimidating up close—much taller than Dorian with a breadth that was almost like a qunari’s. But his long face was almost tender as he watched Cousland’s disappearing back. When he glanced down at Dorian, his mouth quirked down, almost a frown.

“That boy of yours, he’ll be right where she was ten years ago; blood on his hands, an army at his back. She hated to do it and she hates to see anyone else have to do it.” He shook his head. “She’s a sentimental fool, that one. I’ve always told her so.”

He marched away before Dorian could get a word in edgewise. Dorian looked around the now-empty cave and let out a long sigh. Every time he thought he got a grip on what was happening, something shifted. Dorian had always thought he was adaptable but being in the Inquisition was testing him on that front almost every damn day. His hands clenched. But if it meant keeping Lavellan from a fate like Cousland’s, he’d do better than just keep up. He began the long trek out to meet the others, already sorting through his book list to try and figure out what ones he should read first when they got back to Skyhold.

The ride back to Skyhold was quiet. They had a large party but the path between Crestwood and Skyhold had been cleared of rogue templars and mages, so it was a peaceful trip. Cousland had ridden up front with Lavellan on a sturdy brown mare. Dorian, riding in the back with Blackwall and Varric, couldn’t hear their conversation, but as Skyhold came into sight, they seemed more relaxed with each other.

Skyhold’s gates were open as they approached; Lavellan was a noticeable enough figure, even at a distance, that the guards would have prepared for his arrival without needing to be told. They rode in under the curious eyes of the Inquisition soldiers.

But, to Dorian’s surprise, most of that curiosity drained away quickly enough. The Inquisition was used to Lavellan coming back with unusual strangers in his wake and no one, not even the Fereldan soldiers, seemed to recognize Cousland in the slightest. How could that be? Even if the Blight had been ten years ago, almost every soldier there was old enough to remember it—and surely some of them had seen Cousland at her coronation or during the four years she’d remained in Fereldan as their Queen. Dorian puzzled over it the entire time they led their mounts to the stables and began the trek to the War Room. Surely someone should notice Cousland?

“It’s been years,” Cousland said as they entered Skyhold’s main hall. She whistled under her breath as Dorian glanced at her, startled. “Sure is big, isn’t it?” She glanced at him and winked. “The reason nobody recognizes me? It’s been years. They never saw me much even when we were in Denerim during the Blight or afterward and most of the time they make up what they can’t remember. Last I heard, I’m about eight feet tall with hair to my feet and eyes like the summer morning.” She shrugged. “I like it that way.”

Dorian flushed. He’d grown resigned to the idea that all of their companions would be able to read him easily enough, but it discomforted him that this woman, virtually a complete stranger, was able to see through him so quickly. Cousland made an amused sound. He wished someone was around to draw her attention, but Blackwall and Bull had peeled away once it was clear this was War Room business. Dorian had considered going with them but he’d been too curious about this so-called meeting at the Tevinter ritual tower and he’d decided to keep tagging along until someone threw him out. He was regretting that now. He glanced up at the rest of their companions, but Varric was preoccupied telling the others a long story about the origins of his nug racing business back in Kirkwall. Even Loghain, straight arrow that he doubtless was, looked too intrigued to notice Dorian’s discomfort.

When he looked back at her, Cousland’s mouth quirked.

“Don’t worry about it too much, ‘vint,” she said and Dorian’s flush deepened. “I know your type, that’s all. You always want to know things, huh? Noticing, questioning, endlessly curious.” She snorted. “You’re a cut from Morrigan’s cloth or I’m an Orlesian diplomat.”

Dorian winced. He’d heard stories about Cousland’s pet apostate, the wild witch. There were some particularly wild rumors about her; that she and Cousland were lovers, that she rutted with animals, that she drank men’s blood, that she had bound Cousland in service to her and that was how Cousland had survived through the Blight… They were nasty things, those rumors. None flattering enough that Dorian was comfortable being compared to her.

“Pavus, I need you!”

Dorian relaxed as Lavellan called for him and with an awkward nod to Cousland, who watched him with mirthful eyes, he hurried to Lavellan’s side. To his surprise, Lavellan threw an arm over his shoulder and drew Dorian into his side. They were too closely matched in height to make it comfortable but Dorian appreciated the warm, solid weight of Lavellan at his side.

“All right?” Lavellan asked into his ear.

Dorian glanced at him. They were close enough together that Dorian could see the faintest freckles across Lavellan’s nose, probably from being out in the sun so much. He was so warm. Dorian’s brain was useless mush and it took him several long moments to realize Lavellan was talking about Cousland.

“Just fine,” he said, trying to affect his usual nonchalance. But Lavellan was so close— “No need to worry about me, darling. I can take care of myself.”

Lavellan snorted. “Don’t I know it,” he said and released Dorian. “Thanks for the input, Pavus!” he said, more loudly, though Varric’s amused look said he hadn’t follow the dwarf with their little ruse. “Come on, the courier said they were already in the War Room. Must have heard I was coming.”

Dorian stayed at Lavellan’s side as they made their way through Josephine’s office and tried to ignore Cousland’s eyes on the back of his head. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her but he didn’t like the way she had been able to see through him so easily. Dorian was already an open book to too many people, people he actually trusted. It made his skin shiver to think of any stranger being able to see through him, decipher his secrets.

The advisors were gathered and waiting when they entered the War Room, talking in a small cluster. Josephine looked over first and her relieved smile turned to wide-eyed shock. Leliana, following her line of sight, stared as well, more open than Dorian had ever seen her. And Cullen, the last to catch on as always, dropped the sheaf of parchment in his hands.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the parchment hitting the floor. All the advisors began to speak at the same time.

“What is she—”

“Where did you find—”

“Myuirin?”

Leliana’s soft voice made everyone else go quiet. The shock hadn’t faded from her face. She looked ten years younger, less imposing spymaster and more the young woman she must have been at some point in the past.

Cousland smiled. She moved forward in three long steps and swept Leliana into a crushing hug, practically bowling her over. Dorian saw Leliana shiver and press her head into Cousland’s dark hair. She towered over Cousland by almost a head but in Cousland’s arms, she seemed to try and become smaller, curling around her.

“What’s good, Red?” Cousland asked. Whatever Leliana said back was muffled into Cousland’s hair, but Cousland scoffed. “You really expect me not to hug you? After all of these years? You may have a scary-ass reputation now, but you’re always going to be that innocent Sister Leliana to me.” She pulled away but kept Leliana within arm’s reach, scanning her features as if memorizing them. She grinned. “You look like shit, chantry.”

Leliana smiled back at her, so wide and beautifully genuine she might as well have been a different person.

“I look better than you,” she said.

Cousland scoffed. “Not possible.”

She finally seemed to register everyone else in the room when Josephine laughed. Cousland turned and offered Josephine a small nod but she froze when she looked at Cullen, all of her delight and openness fading away to hard indifference.

“Rutherford,” she said. “Nice haircut.”

Cullen didn’t look anything like he was greeting an old friend. He was pale and wide-eyed and Dorian noticed his hands were shaking before he hid them behind his back, trying to affect some sort of parade rest that failed miserably at making him look more professional or put-together. He was about two seconds from shaking apart, Dorian thought with a frown.

“Cousland,” he said, every inch the stiff soldier. “It’s an honor to have you with us.”

Hawke sauntered past Dorian and draped one arm over Cullen’s shoulders, leaning heavily into his side. Cullen bore his weight with a little trouble, teetering on his feet.

“You didn’t say that when I showed up,” Hawke said with a mournful stare. “All I got was Oh Maker, not you again.”

Dorian watched with interest as some of Cullen’s tension drained away as he focused on Hawke. He even managed a strained smile.

“That’s because I’ve seen how you ‘handle’ things, Hawke.”

Hawke pouted. “That’s discrimination! Name one thing—”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “You set fire to an entire city. More than once.”

“—okay, another thing I’ve done—”

“Robbery, arson, murder,” Cullen said, ticking off on his fingers, “impersonating several officials, and don’t think I don’t know exactly who started that nug racing scheme, Hawke—”

Hawke laughed and pressed a quick kiss to Cullen’s cheek, dancing away as Cullen took a half-hearted swipe at him.

“I’m sure I’ve never done all those naughty, naughty things,” he said with faux-piety. He ruined it by winking. “But if I did, at least I kept your job interesting, Curly!”

Dorian kept one eye on Cousland during their byplay. Her eyes were flat and wary and she kept them on Cullen, not bothering to pay attention to Hawke. She didn’t look malicious, but Dorian would bet all the books in his private library that there wasn’t any lost love between their Commander and the Hero of Fereldan.

Interesting.

He looked over at Lavellan to find him frowning at Cousland as well, clearly having come to the same conclusion. They exchanged a look but Lavellan just shrugged. Dorian figured it wasn’t their problem so long as Cousland and Cullen could keep it civil.

“I believe,” Josephine said, drawing all their attention, “that we had better all sit down.” She beamed at them. “Shall we call for tea?”

There weren’t any smiles or jokes as Loghain finished telling them the story he’d given Lavellan. They were gathered around the War Room table in borrowed chairs. There had been some chatter about Dorian, Varric, and Fenris remaining but Lavellan had given his advisors a long look and they’d been allowed to stay. Dorian wasn’t sure it had been worth it to stay; it hadn’t been any more illuminating to hear Loghain’s story another time.

The advisors exchanged dark stares.

“He can’t truly be—” Cullen cut off, shaking his head. “Every Warden? That seems impossible.” He turned to Lavellan. “What about Blackwall?”

“He says he’s fine,” Lavellan said. He’d sat in silence as Loghain had said his piece, slouched in his chair and deep in thought. He seemed distracted as he answered Cullen, fiddling with one of his knives and frowning. “I believe him. Cousland’s fine too.” He focused back on them, flashing Cullen a bitter smile. “Ten gold says this is some nasty trick of Corypheus’s.”

Leliana leaned forward. “That is what I am the most concerned about,” she said. She had taken the seat nearest to Cousland and even now she didn’t seem able to stop looking at her every five seconds. “Even if the Calling is not real, it is deeply disturbing that Corypheus can affect the Wardens on this scale. It should not be possible.”

Lavellan shrugged, flipping his knife through his fingers. “Well,” he said. “he also should’ve died a few hundred years ago, so I’m pretty sure Corypheus doesn’t care much about ‘impossible.’”

“We need to know more about this… blood ritual Commander Clarel’s planning.” Cullen shivered. “I can’t believe the Wardens would stoop so low. Blood magic?”

Lavellan scoffed. “Really?” he asked. “Ancient organization sworn to uphold values of truth and justice falls to the wayside, corrupted from within?” His stare was sharp, hard. He looked ready to draw blood. “Sounds depressingly familiar to me.”

Cullen stiffened and this time Hawke didn’t have a chance to relax him again. “The templars have their flaws,” he said with obviously forced civility, a heavy frown marring his face, “but the rogue templars aside, they have yet to commit this level of atrocity—”

Lavellan held up a hand but Dorian doubted that was why Cullen had cut off so quickly or why his face was rapidly paling. Lavellan’s face was cut glass, all angles, pulled so tight that the wrong move would cause damage. Dorian wouldn’t want to start anything when Lavellan looked like that either and he made sure to sit very still so as to not draw his attention.

“We’re not going to fucking agree on this,” Lavellan said after a long moment of everyone doing their best not to say anything or breathe too loudly and draw his fury. 

(Well. Most of them, anyway; Hawke, seated at Lavellan’s elbow, poked him in the shoulder with a look of childish delight and Cousland was watching avidly. Heroes really were their own brand of crazy.)

Lavellan managed to dredge up a facsimile of a smile that made all of them wince.“Desperation breeds idiocy, Commander, and that’s just as true for Wardens as it is for everyone else. Our job is to make sure they don’t fuck it up for the rest of us too.”

Josephine dove in, sensing the shift in atmosphere and taking advantage to turn the conversation back on track. A true diplomat.

“I believe our first order of business must be reconnaissance,” she said, glancing at Leliana. “The Western Approach is largely desert-land and travel is difficult. I believe we can have a forward-camp set up by the end of the week.”

Lavellan frowned. “We don’t have the time,” he said. “We know where they are now, we need to go and get them. If they slip through our fingers they could go to ground and we might never find them again.” His eyes glittered. “This is our chance to cut the legs out from under Corypheus. We can’t waste it.”

“Going in blind will help us as much as not going at all,” Leliana said, leaning back in her chair after a long, considering look at Lavellan. “If we do not know what we are walking into, it would be stupidly easy to catch us in a trap of some kind.”

Lavellan shook his head. “If there’s a trap, we’ll disarm it,” he said, a rogue to the bone.

Leliana’s frown deepened. She opened her mouth, but Loghain cut in before she could speak.

“I have my notes on the area,” he said. Lavellan and Leliana turned to look at him, but he was collected even under the heavy burden of their combined stares. “If you think it will help. I take it you will help us, then?”

“Obviously,” Lavellan said, frowning at him. “If Corypheus has the Wardens under his thumb, we’re all fucked. Which is why we need to get to that tower yesterday.” The advisors exchanged speaking looks, only to startle as Lavellan growled at them. “Don’t fucking do that. I’m not a kid, say what you’re going to say.”

“If we rush in, we risk making the situation worse,” Josephine said.

“If we don’t rush in, we risk losing our lead!” Lavellan countered.

Josephine was too well-bred to frown but a little wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. She turned to Cousland.

“Queen Cousland, do you believe that is a serious risk?” Josephine asked.

Cousland made a face. “Don’t call me that,” she said. “If there have to be titles, they should be ones I’ve actually earned.”

“Commander Cousland, then,” Josephine amended. “Do you believe the Inquisitor’s concern is warranted?”

“Of course it’s warranted—”

“No,” Cousland said, darting a look at Lavellan. “I think the fool’s got an itch in his pants and he’s trying to scratch it.” Lavellan glared at her, but she was unconcerned, focused on Josephine. “All our recon says the Wardens are meeting at this tower at regular intervals. Next one’s not for at least a week, maybe two.”

“More than enough time to send some scouts,” Josephine said. She turned back to Lavellan. “Inquisitor?”

For a long moment, they stared at each other. Dorian was impressed Josephine managed to keep her composure under Lavellan’s icy stare, but she didn’t budge and show a crack. Perhaps there was a reason Leliana had decided to recruit her. Eventually, Lavellan looked away but the harsh line of his mouth said volumes about unhappy he was about it.

“Fine,” he said. “Send some your people. But I’m going the moment they hear even a fucking whisper of a meeting, got it?”

“Of course,” Josephine said, unruffled.

Lavellan pushed his chair back and started to stand. “If that’s it—”

“Inquisitor—”

But Lavellan was already marching out, throwing open the doors without a backward glance. Josephine sighed.

“We will keep you updated on our progress,” she told Cousland and Loghain wearily. “For now, we will arrange for some rooms for you. Commander Cousland, we have something that is befitting of your status in the—”

“Sure, sure, that’s fine,” Cousland said. “Place me wherever. Listen, I’ve got some letters to write, so if that’s it?”

Josephine nodded and Cousland was up and out of the room as well. Everyone exchanged glances. Loghain looked wry.

“I would like to say she’s not always like that, but,” he said.

“I want it noted for the record that for once I was the most respectful hero in the room,” Hawke said.

“And if that’s not a sign of the end of the world,” Fenris muttered.

Dorian had no special talent in subterfuge. He had a terrible poker face and whatever skill he had with lying was taught through years of watching masters in Tevinter, not any innate talent. So when he went to Leliana’s office with potential information about Corypheus’s connection to the Wardens, he hadn’t been looking to uncover any of her secrets.

Leliana had been out, apparently in a meeting. One of her scouts had told Dorian to wait as he tracked her down and disappeared, leaving Dorian alone with the ravens. He glanced around, absently wondering how Leliana got any work done with all the noise and noticed a letter on Leliana’s desk. He would’ve overlooked it entirely except that his eyes caught on the words Clan Lavellan and his attention sharpened. He glanced at the stairs, back at the letter. Before he could stop himself or wonder how exactly Leliana would kill him for daring to do this, he had it in his hands.

He read the entire thing once, twice. He lowered it with a heavy heart, a bad taste in his mouth.

He heard steps on the stairs and hurriedly shoved the letter into one of his inner pockets. He wasn’t sure he’d sufficiently schooled his expression but thankfully it was just the scout from before, coming back to tell Dorian that it would be another hour before Leliana could see him. Dorian thanked him and made his excuses without really hearing himself speak. It must have been convincing enough since the scout let him go without a wary glance and Dorian thanked the years of growing up in Tevinter like he had never had before as he practically flew down the stairs.

Lavellan was at the archery range. Dorian paused as he approached, taken aback at the sight of Lavellan with a bow. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Lavellan pick up another weapon before. Lavellan brought the bow to his cheek and drew the string, letting an arrow loose. It thunked solidly into the dummy’s left leg. Even though Lavellan wasn’t as fluid with the bow as he was with his knives, there was still a solid competency there.

Sera, standing at Lavellan’s side, cackled at him. “You were aiming for his chest!” she jeered.

Lavellan made a face. “Can’t aim for shit,” he agreed, handing the bow to her. “Fen’nas always told me I should just stick with knives.”

“You’re a rogue, you gotta be able to fire an arrow,” Sera told him with mock sternness ruined by the wide grin on her face. “The great herald can’t even hit the side of a barn, huh? Fuckin’ embarrassing.”

Lavellan rolled his eyes at her and caught sight of Dorian. He smiled and Dorian’s stomach wobbled. Damn. He really, really didn’t want to the bearer of this particular bit of bad news but all he had to do was think about Lavellan’s face if he ever knew that Dorian had kept something like this from him and his resolve returned. Lavellan deserved to know. It was his clan, his family, and it galled Dorian that the advisors had clearly kept it under wraps.

“Pavus,” Sera said as she noticed him. She didn’t mind Dorian that much, Dorian thought, but she had a chip on her shoulder about nobles and Dorian was about as noble as they came. He offered her a nod and Sera rolled her eyes, hopping off the barrel she’d been perched on. “Don’t need to tell me to get out twice,” she said and marched away.

“You look like someone’s been messing around with your book organization again,” Lavellan said. He seemed more relaxed than he had since the last time Dorian had seen him, during that disastrous meeting with the advisors a few days ago. He even smiled, the slow, bright thing that never failed to make Dorian’s go a little weak. Damn the man. “What is it?”

Dorian hesitated. But it was Lavellan’s family. And Dorian might have his own complicated relationship with his parents but he’d want to know if they were ever in danger or hurt. He took the letter out of his jacket and offered it to Lavellan silently. Lavellan took it with a confused look in Dorian’s direction but he bent his head to read it without protest. After the first few lines, his confusion turned to disbelief and slowly hardened into fury. When he looked back up at Dorian, his eyes were chips of ice.

“Where did you find this?” he asked.

Dorian could barely breathe under that look. It was dangerous, there was no doubt, but Dorian also couldn’t deny that Lavellan had always been beautiful in his fierce anger. A great cat finally let out of its cage, allowed to unload its fury. Dorian’s heart thudded against his ribcage irregularly. What an inconvenient time to discover new desires, he thought faintly.

“Leliana’s office,” he said.

Lavellan snarled, purely animalistic. Before Dorian could say or do anything, he took off at a dead sprint. Dorian cursed under his breath and took off after him, but Lavellan was faster and in better shape than Dorian. As Dorian huffed up the steps, Lavellan was already taking a sharp left into Josephine’s office. Startled nobles gave him a look as Dorian hurtled after him but Dorian ignored them. He wondered if Lavellan had misheard him somehow but he realized as he burst into the office to find both Leliana and Josephine already there that whatever meeting Leliana had been in had been with Josephine. Cassandra was there as well, arms folded over her chest and she stepped forward as Lavellan marched forward and shoved the letter in Leliana’s face.

“What the fuck is this?”

Leliana was too composed to pale but her eyes narrowed. She looked over Lavellan’s shoulder at Dorian and Dorian shuddered. If looks could kill… He had a feeling he wasn’t going to get any birthday presents from their resident spymaster this year. Dorian snorted. If they even made it to his birthday.

“You know what it is,” Leliana said.

Lavellan crumpled the letter in a tight fist. “How long have you known my clan was in danger?”

Josephine and Cassandra, finally catching on to what this was all about, both paled. Josephine bit her lip and Cassandra folded her arms over her chest. Dorian realized with a sinking heart that they’d both known about this already too. He’d hoped it’d just been Leliana but all of them had known.

Lavellan realized it at the same time Dorian did. He snarled.

“You all fucking—” He took a short, sharp breath. “How long?” No one spoke and his snarl deepened into a growl. “How long?”

“We received the first request for aide almost immediately after arriving at Skyhold,” Josephine said. She went wan as Lavellan’s stare swung to her but she didn’t flinch. “Leliana suggested that there was something odd about the bandit attacks and sent her people to investigate. We received that letter three days ago. We’ve been trying to decide what course would be most helpful to take.”

Lavellan could have been a statue he was so still. Only the bloodless clench of his fists and his hard eyes revealed the depths of his rage.

“Were you ever going to inform me that my clan was in immediate danger?” he asked in a soft, dangerous voice.

“What would you have done?” Cassandra asked.

She didn’t flinch either as Lavellan looked at her. “I would have gone to them,” Lavellan said.

“Yes,” Cassandra said, mouth tightening. “You would have abandoned the Inquisition to go to their aid. We could not risk that.”

For a long moment, Lavellan stared at them. Dorian took a step forward, unnerved by the way Lavellan’s eyes had gone opaque and distant but Lavellan turned away before Dorian could reach him and walked out of the room so calmly it was almost eerie. Dorian stared after him, stomach clenching. Kaffas. He whirled on the three women, watching as all of their composure cracked a little with Lavellan out of the room.

“You know, I never thought I’d meet anyone who could match the backstabbers back home,” Dorian said in his most poisonous voice. “And yet…” He started to clap mockingly. He saw the anger in Cassandra and Leliana’s face but he didn’t care. He dropped the mockery and faux-sweetness to let some of his own fury out. “You know what his clan means to him. This goes beyond simple backstabbing—it’s just plain cruelty. I didn’t think you could sink lower from forcing him to be the Inquisitor but congratulations—you’ve outdone yourselves.”

“You know what’s at stake if he leaves, mage,” Cassandra said.

“I’m sure it will shock you all to know how little I care,” Dorian said. At that moment, he meant it. The world could go to hell if it meant more people wanted to try hurting Lavellan. Cassandra’s mouth tightened. “It would serve you all right if he was a little less selfless and he did disappear.”

“He will not do that,” Josephine said.

“No,” Dorian said. “He won’t. But that’s because he’s a better person than you deserve, not through anything you’ve done.”

He turned on his heel and marched out. Varric tried to catch his eye as he swept through the hall but Dorian didn’t have time to think about him. He scanned the courtyard as he came outside but he couldn’t catch sight of Lavellan anywhere. He skipped down the stairs two at a time and nearly ran straight into Sera. She was slouching against the stairs, arms crossed over her chest.

“Kitty’s gone to ground,” she said.

“What?” Dorian asked.

Sera shrugged. “Came tearin’ out of there like someone lit his tail on fire, told me to tell you he needed to kill some shit.”

Dorian relaxed a little. If Lavellan had been in a frame of mind to let someone know where he was going, he wasn’t as far gone as Dorian had worried. ‘Kill some shit’ probably meant he’d retreated to the nearest woods to hunt, the activity that always seemed to soothe Lavellan the most. (“Some people knit,” he’d told Dorian with a wry smile once, “I gut animals. Everybody’s got to have a hobby, right?”)

“What’d they fuck up this time?”

Dorian glanced at Sera. She was looking up at Skyhold’s castle with a distasteful moue. When she noticed Dorian looking she rolled her eyes.

“Common sense, innit? Those pillocks always seem to mess him up the most.”

“His clan was getting attacked by bandits,” Dorian said. “Nobody told Lavellan.”

Sera’s expression hardened. “Attacking his family and no one told him?” She whistled. “Cold-blooded. Must’ve been the Nightingale’s play.”

It did seem like something Leliana would come up with, Dorian thought. He still couldn’t believe the rest had agreed to it. Was the Inquisition really so much more important to them than Lavellan? He’d thought Cassandra, at least, cared about Lavellan for more than the mark on his hand and the title he’d been given. Dorian’s heart ached. He wanted to see Lavellan, to make sure he wasn’t doing something stupid and getting himself injured. He’d probably punched a tree or tried to fight a bear with his bare hands. Dorian’s fingers itched.

“He’s fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

Sera shrugged. “He’ll go kill some stuff, maybe get toasted with Bull, and he’ll put on his big boy panties and deal with it. That’s why he’s the Inquisitor, innit?”

She wasn’t wrong. But Dorian hated that Lavellan would have to do that, that he could see it so clearly in his mind’s eye. Lavellan deserved to rail against the unfairness of his life, he deserved to be able to sulk and hold grudges and rage as much as he liked. He shouldn’t have to choke it down for the safety of the world. He shouldn’t have to be treated like a wild dog that might go off the leash at any moment. Dorian saw that great cat in his mind’s eye again, pacing back and forth in a cage much too small for it. Lavellan didn’t deserve a cage.

Small hands patted his shoulder. Dorian glanced down at Sera.

“He’ll be fine, Pavus.”

As she strode away, Dorian wished he could believe her.

Dorian had been attempting to read for several hours when Cole appeared at his elbow. Dorian jumped so hard he dumped his book on the ground and hit his knee against the underside of the table. Cursing under his breath, he glared at Cole.

“A bell!” he said.

“You need to come,” Cole said.

Dorian straightened, his indignation fading. “What? What is it?” He frowned. “You aren’t going to try to get me to get a kitten out of a tree again, are you, Cole?”

“It needed help,” Cole said, unrepentant. “But no. It’s Kai.”

Dorian stood. It had been hours since Lavellan had disappeared to ‘kill some shit’ and while Dorian had managed to push his persistent worry to the back of his mind, it had been very difficult to ignore.

“He’s back?” Dorian asked. “Where is he?”

“The battlements,” Cole said. “Come, come. You can help.”

Dorian took off after Cole. The sun was beginning to set but the courtyard was quiet. Cole led him to the southern battlements and raced up the stairs so quickly that Dorian had trouble keeping up with him, a stitch building in his side as he climbed the last of the steps.

He caught his breath and straightened when he saw Lavellan. But Lavellan wasn’t alone; Cousland was there with him. Dorian hesitated but Cole gave him a little shove and he approached them. They were in such a heated discussion that they didn’t even notice his approach.

“—keep me chained here! They had no right—”

“Of course they didn’t,” Cousland said. She was much calmer than Lavellan. Her eyes flickered to Dorian and Cole but she didn’t acknowledge them. Lavellan, Dorian thought, didn’t even know they were there. “But they had their reasons, Lavellan.”

“I don’t fucking care what their reasons were.”

“What would you have done if you’d known?”

“I would’ve wanted to go help,” Lavellan spit. “I would’ve fought tooth and nail to go help.”

“They know you have one foot out the door, Lavellan. Can you blame them for being cautious?”

“And if my clan had died, Cousland?” Lavellan asked. “This whole operation could have gone tits up. They would’ve died and I wouldn’t have known until afterward.” He laughed bitterly. “If they even bothered to tell me that!”

Cousland sighed. “They need you.”

“They don’t need me,” Lavellan said. He thrust his hand at her. “They need this. Fuck, I’d just cut it off and give it to them if I thought it’d do any good!”

Cousland didn’t even look at his hand. “No, fool,” she said. “They need you. You can fight it as much as you like but that’s the hand you’ve been dealt and you can’t cheat fate like you cheat Wicked Grace.”

Lavellan withdrew his hand. He stared down at it.

“I’m so tired of this,” he said.

“I know,” Cousland said. “But there’s no one else.” She shook her head. “I’m not judging you, kid. I’d be a hell of a hypocrite if I talked shit about the way anyone handled being roped into this Chosen One bullshit. Didn’t exactly deal with it that well myself.”

That caught Lavellan’s attention. “That’s not what the stories say,” he said.

“You’re probably starting to realize that the stories don’t get much right,” Cousland said. Her mouth had tightened too. “I never wanted to be a Warden. That sort of stuff and nonsense was always more Fergus’s thing than mine. I was happy spending my days in a little room experimenting.” She shook her head. “Duncan took me. He let my father die and my mother sacrifice herself and he whisked me away to fight in his war. The only reason I became a Warden instead of disappearing into the night was so I could have a better chance at killing that son of a bitch Howe.” She looked at Lavellan, who looked as surprised by this little string of revelations as Dorian felt. Her eyes were flat, hard. “You think you’re the only one who got pulled kicking and screaming into this saving the world business, fool?”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Some of Lavellan’s furious tension sloughed off and he looked away, uncrossing his arms. Cousland kept watching him in silence, hawkish and intent. There was something oddly intense about her eyes—Dorian wasn’t sure if it was their color or the focus behind them or some combination of the two. It was unnerving.

“Do you regret it?” Lavellan asked. He didn’t look at her, but he must have sensed her confusion because he clarified. “Staying with the Wardens. Becoming Queen. You could have run away and killed Howe on your own—or left after he was dead. But you stayed.” He looked back at Cousland but Dorian wasn’t sure he actually saw her. His eyes were distant, focused inward. “Do you regret it?”

Cousland, to her credit, gave the question actual consideration. Eventually, she shrugged.

“I lost so much,” she said. “I saw more fucked up shit than anyone should have to see. But…” Her face softened. “I found people who made all that horror worth it. Who made everything I went through, everything I had to do, worth it.”

Lavellan’s expression cracked open. “How am I supposed to do that when they keep pulling this shit on me?”

“You’re the boss, fool,” Cousland said. “You think I herded my bag of cats around with a pretty smile? You’re their leader, show them that. Leliana’s sneaky, she’ll walk right over you if you let her. So don’t let her.”

Lavellan scoffed. “I’m not made for this leadership business,” he said. “Half the time I expect them to turn around laugh at a knife-ear daring to think he can tell them what to do.

Cousland huffed. “It’ll get easier,” she said. “I had trouble ordering Alistair around those first few weeks and, Maker love him, there’s never been a man better at following orders.”

Lavellan managed a weak laugh. Dorian smiled and Lavellan caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, turning to face them. He blinked at them.

“How long have you been there?” he asked, surprised.

Dorian shrugged. “Somewhere around the time you started giving those advisors the tongue lashing they deserve,” he said, moving toward Lavellan.

Lavellan’s smile was ragged at the edges. “So the whole time then. How’d you know where I was?”

Dorian gestured. “Our friendly resident ghost saw to that.”

He looked over his shoulder and frowned when he realized Cole and Cousland were stuck in a staring contest. Cousland, he realized, had drawn out a bottle at some point that was filled with a noxious green liquid. Dorian’s frown deepened. What in the Maker’s name was going on?

“What,” Cousland said in a strained voice, “is that?”

“Cole,” Lavellan said, sounding as perplexed as Dorian felt. “I know he’s a little… much. He’s not real good at not scaring the shit out of people yet. We’re working on it.”

“You needed me,” Cole told Lavellan. “I brought Dorian to help.”

Lavellan moved around Dorian and tapped the brim of Cole’s hat. “You did, did you?” he asked with fond tolerance.

Cole nodded. His eyes kept drifting to Cousland, who hadn’t yet put away her bottle, though she’d lowered her arm a little. She watched Cole and Lavellan with hard concentration, as if they were a complicated puzzle.

“He’s not human,” Cousland said.

Lavellan’s shoulders went up. “If you want to get technical, neither am I,” he said with faux-joviality undercut by the hard, glittering look he threw Cousland over his shoulder. “Neither are you, not if what Loghain says about the taint is true.”

Cousland didn’t rise to the bait. “I mean he isn’t alive, fool,” she said impatiently as if Lavellan’s defensiveness was merely irritating. “He’s possessing a corpse.” Her eyes darkened. “I’ve seen something like it before.”

Cole was completely focused on her now, his pale eyes wide. If he was possessed, it would explain a number of things, Dorian thought. Like how he was so solid and yet could disappear as he did, his odd powers, the strange energy he exuded. He’d never read about a demon possessing a corpse for an extended period of time. They preferred live hosts. And while Cole had never looked particularly healthy, he also wasn’t rotting. If he was a corpse, he was a remarkably well-preserved one.

“So dark and cold,” Cole said, drawing Dorian out of his thoughts. Dorian realized, horror washing over him, that Cole was using the soft, breathy voice he always adopted when he was looking into someone’s head trying to help them. And he was looking directly at Cousland. “Snow and blood, so much blood, so many dead and it’s my fault, mine—mother, father,  sister, little Oren, please no, please, please—blood, bodies everywhere, and everything hurts, it hurts so much but I have to keep going up and up and up, ignore the knife wound and the arrow in my thigh, I need to keep going, no one else can die, I have to kill that thing—So dark and old and its eyes—” Cole broke off, shuddering. His eyes swallowed his face, huge and bright. Dorian realized with a start that he was hyperventilating.

Lavellan reacted first. He bent his head, knocking Cole’s hat out of the way to look directly into Cole’s blank, staring eyes.

“Cole,” he said very gently. “Cole, look at me.”

Cole didn’t move. He didn’t look at Lavellan, didn’t even seem to hear him. He was trembling, eyes fixed on Cousland who seemed just as frozen and shocked as Dorian felt. Lavellan reached out and put both his hands on Cole’s face, cupping his cheeks.

“Cole,” he said again. “Da’lath’in ^[1], you need to look at me. Focus on me. There’s no one else here.” Cole’s mouth was still moving, though whatever he was saying was inaudible. His eyes flickered to Lavellan once, twice, then fixed back on Cousland.

“Do I need to leave?”

Her voice was tense but she had put away her potion and she looked ready to listen to whatever Lavellan told her to do.

“It might make it worse,” Lavellan said, not looking at her. “He has this… compulsion to help people. He might just follow you. Cole, listen to me. Everything is okay. Cousland is fine now. You don’t have to help her, she’s okay.”

“He’s right,” Cousland chimed in and Cole gave a full-body shiver.

“Cole? Cole, focus on me. My voice.” He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Cole’s. “Come on, da’lath’in. I’m right here.”

Dorian almost wanted to turn away from the tenderness in Lavellan’s voice. He had never seen Lavellan so unguarded, not even in the long, horrible days following Corypheus’s attack. He wanted to shield Lavellan from his prying at the same time that he wanted to stand there and drink in Lavellan’s softness entirely. He’d known for some time that Lavellan was kind but he’d never realized that he was so capable of showing it, that he moved from the coldness of his rage so quickly and easily. Dorian’s body flooded with warmth.

Cole’s shivering stopped. Lavellan leaned back and Cole’s eyes focused on him instead of seeking out Cousland over his shoulder. Lavellan smiled at him, so completely focused that Dorian wasn’t sure he remembered Cousland and Dorian were still watching.

“That’s it,” he said. “Focus on me. I’ve got you.”

“Help,” Cole said, barely more than a whisper. “I’m trying—” His eyes flickered back to Cousland. “I have to—”

“I’m way past help,” Cousland said, but her voice was kinder than it had been. “My mind isn’t a place anyone escapes without injuries, kid. Don’t worry about it.”

“No!” Cole said, much louder. He was looking at Cousland again. “No, I have to help—I can do it, please let me try again—”

“Go,” Lavellan said to Cousland. “You’re making it worse now.”

Cousland hesitated. “You’re sure—?”

“I’ve got him,” Lavellan said with a fierce glance over his shoulder. It softened when he looked at Dorian. “Can you find Solas? He might be able to help.”

If there was anyone Cole trusted besides Lavellan, it was Solas. Dorian nodded sharply.

“Of course,” he said. He would have done anything Lavellan asked of him at that moment and that was the scariest thing. “Come on, Commander Cousland. I’ll show you the rest of our humble abode.”

Cousland seemed reluctant, glancing over her shoulder as Dorian led her away down the stairs. They didn’t speak again until they reached the bottom, starting the long trek across the courtyard to the main hall.

“Will he be all right?” she asked.

“Do you really care?” Dorian asked, more curious than accusatory.

Cousland didn’t seem to realize that. She glared at him. “I’ve seen what happens to the possessed who don’t get what the want,” she said. “That… kid, he isn’t a puppy. He’s a potion that’s about to explode.”

And Dorian didn’t know Cole, didn’t really care that much about him, but he still bristled.

“Lavellan’s got him,” he said.

“But for how long?” Cousland asked. She gave him a sidelong look. “You’re really not worried at all?”

Dorian knew Cole wasn’t a harmless kitten—he could hardly forget how they’d met the kid, covered in blood after murdering his way to Haven. But he’d also seen the kid’s wide-eyed adoration of Lavellan, the way he always seemed to follow their Inquisitor around like a lost duckling.

“If there’s anyone who can calm Cole down, it’s Lavellan,” he said.

Cousland made an unhappy sound, but she didn’t argue with him anymore or as he led her into the main hall and she only gave him a mildly disbelieving look as he outlined the problem for Solas and called it a ‘minor annoyance.’ They stayed behind as Solas hurried off.

“I hope your faith’s rewarded,” she said at last. She shook her head, making her way out of the room. “This must be how Sten always felt,” he heard her mutter as she left.

Dorian rolled his shoulders, allowing some of his own tightly controlled apprehension out and made his way back to the library. Lavellan would fix it. Dorian was sure of it.

Dorian was not worried. He didn’t do something so plebeian as worry. He just needed to stretch his legs and if he so happened to do that near the stairs that led up to the stretch of battlements where they’d left Cole and Lavellan, it was pure coincidence. And if he was thinking about going up the stairs, it was just so he could get some healthy, necessary exercise, it had absolutely nothing to do with anyone who may or may not still be up there.

He looked at the stretch of stairs leading up and back at the courtyard. Some Inquisition soldiers were doing a poor job of pretending to not be watching him. Dorian’s stomach tightened and he cursed under his breath. Dorian wondered how far the gossip about Lavellan’s falling out with his advisors had spread. He forced himself not to think as he started up the stairs, one at a time, paying attention only to his body’s movement. He was so focused on each individual step that he was surprised when he didn’t have any more stairs to climb. Dorian’s worry tightened into a hard, anxious knot in his belly. He should turn back. This wasn’t really any of his business and it was doubtless private. He should—

He caught sight of red out of the corner of his eye and froze. Lavellan didn’t notice him. He was focused entirely on Cole.

They were braced against the outermost wall of the battlements, sitting so close together that Cole was practically in Lavellan’s lap. Cole’s hat was off, on the ground next to them and his pale head was bent, his face pressed into Lavellan’s shoulder. Dorian reminded himself again of Cole’s first appearance, of the few times they’d been on the field together. Cole wasn’t an innocent kid; he’d killed with barely a flinch before. But it was difficult to remember that in the face of this stark vulnerability.

“—need to help, please let me help—”

“Kid,” Lavellan said, his voice softer than Dorian had ever heard it. “I told you. You don’t need to help. You can’t help.”

Cole shuddered. “I can, I can, I just—Please—”

Dorian realized that Solas was there too, standing far off and watching. He’d noticed Dorian’s approach and was staring at him. Dorian got the message loud and clear: don’t interfere.

Dorian couldn’t read Lavellan’s face, couldn’t tell if the look he gave Cole was full of pity or compassion or sympathy. But there was something soft about him. Dorian had only seen it once or twice in the aftermath of Haven’s destruction and never unaccompanied by fear or pain. Lavellan looked gentle as if some of his barbed defensiveness had fallen away for something other than trauma. Dorian’s heart tightened. He couldn’t move as Lavellan smoothed a hand over Cole’s fair hair.

“You can’t,” he said and his voice was so kind that Dorian nearly wanted to weep too. “Da’lath’in, you can’t help everyone, no matter how much you want to.”

Cole shook his head and drew away from Lavellan. Dorian had expected to see some evidence of tears, but Cole’s face was dry and blank. Only his eyes gave away how upset he was, vulnerable and cracked open.

“You don’t understand,” Cole said. “I help people. That’s what I do. If I can’t help, why am I here?” His face twisted for just a fraction of a second and Dorian realized that despite his relative placidity, something in Cole’s mind was screaming. “What’s the point of me?”

Solas made a soft sound but didn’t speak. Lavellan was silent for a long time. His eyes were distant and far away as if he were seeing something invisible to the rest of them. Dorian hardly dared breathe, afraid that if they saw him there the moment would be broken. But he couldn’t force himself to leave either.

“A few years ago, I made mistakes,” Lavellan said. His eyes were still distant. “Big ones. Mistakes that hurt people I love very much.”

Cole shivered. “A sword,” he whispered. “Blood and pain, screams, I did this, I shouldn’t have let them come, I did this, my fault, my fault, my fault—”

Lavellan put a hand over Cole’s mouth. Despite his pallor and his sharp eyes, his hand was gentle. Cole fell silent.

“I spent a long time after that wondering why I was here,” Lavellan said. “If I could fuck up people who I loved so much, why was I here?” He released his hand from Cole’s face and Cole’s wide, bright eyes met his with complete understanding. “What’s the point of me?” Lavellan whispered.

Dorian shouldn’t be there. He knew it now and he wanted to leave, to take Solas with him, wanted to give Lavellan the privacy he deserved. His heart was too full, so tender it felt like it would burst with one touch. He could barely stand to think about it, to listen. But his legs refused to move.

“What did you do?” Cole asked.

“I was pissed. At myself, at everyone who talked to me.” Lavellan’s mouth twisted, less a smile and more a grimace. “I lashed out like a little brat. And then…” Lavellan sighed. “I had someone who talked sense into me. She beat my ass up and sat on me until I would actually fucking listen and she told me… She told me that existing is just something we do. You’re not here for some purpose, Cole. You don’t need to—to check off a series of boxes to be given permission to be here. Sometimes people can’t be helped or don’t want to be helped. And you can try, by the Dread Wolf you can try, but sometimes it won’t work. And that’s being alive, I think. Doing what you can, coming to terms with what you can’t.”

Cole stared at him. His face was still impossibly, otherworldly still but something Lavellan had said had hit its mark because the open wound in Cole’s eyes wasn’t bleeding anymore.

“Doing what you can,” Cole said thoughtfully and he was gone.

In the silence, Solas’s long sigh was very loud. “Well done,” he said to Lavellan and marched off before anyone could say anything else.

Dorian let out a long breath as well. He was going to try and sneak away when Lavellan looked up at him. He didn’t look away and Dorian wondered how long he’d known Dorian was standing there. He didn’t seem angry that Dorian had seen him in such a vulnerable position or even embarrassed.

“Is that why you’re so angry about them lying to you?” Dorian asked. “You could have lost more people you loved and not been able to help them.”

Lavellan flinched and Dorian wanted to take the words back. But Lavellan didn’t withdraw or deflect.

“The woman who helped me, she was my mentor,” Lavellan said. “She taught me everything I know. Basically my mother in all but blood. My younger brother and sister are still with that clan, my mother’s sister. My childhood friends. I don’t think any of you understand what a clan is to the Dalish. It’s not just family. It’s… our entire world. To know that could have been taken away and I wouldn’t have even known about it…” Lavellan released a long, hissed breath. “Leliana’s lucky I didn’t gut her.”

Dorian could believe that Lavellan would have tried. He was impressed that Lavellan hadn’t tried to start a fight-fight with her.

“What will you do now?”

Lavellan sighed and began to haul himself to his feet. Dorian offered him a hand and he took it without hesitation. Dorian pulled a little too hard and Lavellan stumbled into him. Dorian’s body flooded with heat under Lavellan’s considering look and the warmth of him.

“I need to have a little chat with Cassandra,” Lavellan said.

“Cassandra?” Dorian asked, confused. “Not Leliana?”

“Cassandra’s the only one Leliana listens to,” Lavellan said. “But Cassandra doesn’t listen to anyone. She’s the one I have to talk to.” He stepped back. Dorian missed his warmth immediately, but Lavellan smiled at him and that almost made up for it. “Want to come watch?” To Dorian’s surprise, Lavellan even managed a playful wink. “You seem to be doing a lot of that today.”

Dorian flushed. “Well, my attention is a gift,” he said and Lavellan’s laugh was rusty but genuine.

The guards told them Cassandra was in Herald’s Rest which was unusual enough on its own; Cassandra had never, to Dorian’s knowledge, stepped foot in the tavern. It was mostly empty as they came in except for a solitary figure slouched on a corner table. Dorian almost wondered if the guard had told them a lie in some sort of bid to protect Cassandra from Lavellan’s wrath when he realized the slumped figure was Cassandra. He gaped as Lavellan moved closer to her, seemingly unperplexed.

Dorian stared as he followed Lavellan. He’d never seen Cassandra even take a sip of mead or wine, even during that drunken revel that had followed closing the Breach. She had always been so proper, so upright and formal, that it had been almost impossible to imagine her as a drunk.

“Ah,” she said as Lavellan approached, swaying a little. “Here comes the hero of our age!” She waved a hand. “Mighty tamer of the mage rebellion! Once a lowly prisoner, now the fabled herald of Andraste! A toast to you, my lord.” She took a swig of her bottle, staring daggers at Lavellan the entire time.

Lavellan took her in from head to toe. His expression was hard and distant.

“Sitting in a dark corner?” he asked. “Drinking?”

Cassandra bristled. “Yes! What of it?”

Lavellan shook his head and sank into the seat opposite hers. “Pathetic.”

Dorian winced. Lavellan had never been one to mince words but he could tell from Cassandra’s furious expression that it was only making the situation worse. He remembered Cassandra taking a swing at Varric—the woman had a fierce temper and it seemed it only got worse when she was drinking. Dorian thought about stepping in but honestly, Lavellan was one of the few in Skyhold who would hold his own with Cassandra if she tried to attack him.

“You!” Cassandra spit. It took her several tries to say more and Dorian couldn’t tell if it was her fury or the drink making it impossible for her to speak. “You coddle the mages, you run off into danger without telling anyone, you bristle every time we advise you like a wild horse under bridle, you try to run off every chance you get—” She threw her bottle down and it shivered under the force. “I have watched you, almost exalted you as you straddled the world! I’m the one who raised you up!”

“Oh no, you fucking don’t,” Lavellan snarled, his anger just as fierce as hers. “You didn’t raise me up for my sake. You needed me to be your fucking stalking goat, your martyr. Don’t pretend any of this was for my sake, Cassandra! You and the others put chains on me and called it good because it was for the sake of the world!”

“We did no such thing!”

“I wanted to go! All this time, all I’ve ever wanted was to go home. You’re the ones who wouldn’t let me, remember? You want to pretend you didn’t trap me, that’s fine, but don’t act surprised when I try to gnaw my own leg off to get away!”

He sat back, breathing heavily. Cassandra stared at him.

“You hate us,” she said.

“I don’t hate you,” Lavellan said. “I’m so angry with you I can hardly stand to look at you, but I don’t hate you. I’m practical, Cass. I save hatred for people who deserve it.”

“You don’t listen to us,” Cassandra said as if he hadn’t spoken. “You will run to your people and abandon us. The Inquisition will fall and the world with it.”

“The Inquisition doesn’t matter to me,” Lavellan said.

“How can you say that? All of these people—”

“The Inquisition doesn’t matter to me,” Lavellan said again. “The soldiers do. These people put their faith in my hands and I won’t disappoint them. It’s for that reason alone I don’t slit all your throats and make my merry way back home. But that you thought for one second that it was okay to hide my clan getting attacked by bandits from me…” He took a deep breath. “You think I don’t listen to you? Fair enough. But if you want me to start, all this manipulating bullshit needs to stop right here, Cass. There won’t be any more secrets, any more missives that get conveniently forgotten. You’re either straight with me or I walk away from all of this right now, the safety of the world be damned.”

Cassandra was a proud woman, Dorian knew. Stubborn too. It was difficult to get her to change her mind about anything once she had set it on its course. She was still giving Varric the cold shoulder after his deception about Hawke and Dorian had never gotten more than a grunted hello from her on the battlefield. So he knew, as Lavellan likely did, that asking her to do this—to trust Lavellan, to treat him like the leader they’d made him into in truth as well as in name—wasn’t going to be easy.

“This is a two-way street, Lavellan,” she said. “Blackwall told me you wanted to go to the Western Approach on your own and that is not counting all that nonsense on the Storm Coast. You must heed our advice, listen to us. We want to help you.”

Lavellan’s face twisted. “You want the Inquisition to succeed,” he corrected.

“That too.”

“We share the same goal, Cassandra. We both want Corypheus gone. I won’t run but not if you keep this bullshit up. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Lavellan shook his head and stood. “I’ll remind you tomorrow when you’ve sobered up, but we’re not sending any more soldiers to Wycombe.”

Cassandra blinked up at him. “But your clan—”

Lavellan’s smile was sharp. “Yes,” he said. “My clan’s coming to Skyhold.”

A heavy knock on Dorian’s door came just as he was finishing curling his mustache. He frowned at it, checked he was presentable and went to see who it was. Dorian’s heart jumped at the sight of Lavellan, dressed in his armor and his hair loosely braided over one shoulder.

Dorian had seen little of Lavellan over the past few days but so had everyone else. After the high drama day of his advisors and Cole, Lavellan had disappeared into the Hinterlands for several days with Hawke and Fenris. Dorian hadn’t known he’d gotten back already.

“Come on,” Lavellan said. “I’ve got a surprise.”

Dorian closed his door behind him. “It better not be a dead elk,” he said dryly.

Lavellan scoffed. “Not quite,” he said. “Follow me.”

Lavellan led him into the undercroft. Dorian hadn’t been there since Lavellan’s disastrous appointment as Inquisitor but Harritt only spared them a nod, bent over a shield on the weapons table. Lavellan led Dorian to the back, sparing a quick hello to a dwarven woman working at the modifications table—was that the Arcanist?—as they approached the stash of weapons kept near the drafting table for Skyhold. Most of the weapons were plain and bare-bones, extras kept on hand in case of an emergency.

Lavellan reached into the mess and extracted a staff. Dorian’s breath caught. It was a thing of beauty: a polished handle already equipped with a sharp staff blade, ending in a wicked looking point that Dorian recognized from the more extravagant staffs back home. It was topped with a translucent orb that shivered with color; shifting from indigo to scarlet to emerald as it moved. Runes were inscribed along its side, giving it, as best Dorian could tell, strength for fire-casting and a boost when fighting demons.

Dorian’s hands itched to touch.

“Please don’t tell me you made that,” Dorian said in a low, rough voice.

Lavellan frowned at him, a strange flicker in his eyes. “I did.”

Dorian sighed explosively. “I’m not given to feelings of inadequacies, my dear Inquisitor, but you certainly test that every chance you get. Is there anything you can’t do?”

Lavellan flushed. Dorian was charmed up until Lavellan shoved the staff at him. Dorian fumbled with it at first, taken by surprise, then settled its weight in his hand. It had a good, solid heft and it practically hummed with power.

“It’s for you,” Lavellan said with such a fierce scowl that it took Dorian a minute to realize what he meant.

He looked at the staff. It was a thing of beauty, clearly crafted by a master. He could feel its power and balanced flow now—Dorian knew there were some mages in Tevinter who would have paid good money for a staff like this in their collection. He swallowed hard.

“I do already have a staff, you know,” Dorian said. He was proud he was able to keep his voice so steady.

“I know,” Lavellan said. “I’m not trying to replace it. But I wanted to…” Lavellan shook his head. “You’ve done a lot for me, Dorian. I wanted to do something for you.” Lavellan made a face. “and I’m not really that great at much else, no matter what you think.”

“Oh, really?” Dorian asked. “You weren’t up to a little bear hunting again?”

Lavellan snorted. “I saw your face when I was skinning that bear, you know. No matter what Sera or Bull calls me, I’m not a cat. Dead animals weren’t the right gift for you.” He gestured. “This is.”

“Lavellan—”

“Use it, don’t use it,” Lavellan said. “Think of it as a back-up. If something ever happens to that other staff of yours, I mean.”

“Lavellan,” Dorian said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

The gift was beautiful and it lit a warm fire in Dorian’s chest that Lavellan had made it for him, had crafted it and built it with his own two hands. But he couldn’t help thinking about how much people took from Lavellan here without thought—how many of the people around him asked him for things, from his freedom to his trust to his time. Dorian didn’t want to be just another obligation to Lavellan, another grasping hand.

Lavellan rolled his eyes. “I owe you everything,” he said. Dorian’s stomach swooped. “We can pretend I don’t if that makes you feel better, but I don’t leave debts unpaid, Pavus.”

Was that what he was? A debt? Dorian almost wanted to shove the staff back at Lavellan, no matter how beautiful it was or how strong it made him feel.

“And…” Lavellan hesitated. He fixed his eyes on where Dorian’s hands were wrapped around the staff. Dorian felt the look almost like a physical touch. “I wanted you to have it.” He dragged his eyes up to Dorian’s, something heavy and dark in his gaze. Dorian shivered. “Something of mine.”

Did Dorian have legs? He couldn’t feel them. Lavellan came closer to him and bent his head. Dorian’s mouth was dry but Lavellan was simply leaning into his ear.

“Enjoy the gift, Dorian,” he said and sauntered past Dorian and out of the undercroft.

Dorian sat down heavily on the nearest bench, staff clenched in his nerveless fingers. His ear tingled from where Lavellan’s lips had brushed it.

“Do you need a glass of water?” the Arcanist asked him with a kind smile but a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Dorian barely heard her. His mind was replaying the last five minutes over and over again on a loop, unable to process anything that wasn’t Lavellan’s hooded gaze or sweet words and soft touch. He clutched the staff closer to him, reveling in its smooth weight and buzzing power.

Well, he thought as he slowly recovered his facilities and felt less like a gibbering idiot. If Lavellan wanted him to enjoy the gift, Dorian wouldn’t be the one to disappoint him.

Chapter Text

“No, no, not like that—”

“Ow, fuck—”

Dorian frowned, peering through the door to the main hall. His eyebrows shot up as he looked just in time to see Hawke stumble and fall to the ground, cursing. Lavellan crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at him, ears twitching. He was flushed and frowning, shoulders hunched up and tense.

“You know I’m rather attached to my toes,” Hawke said, getting back to his feet. Unlike Lavellan, he was cheerful, smiling and loose-limbed. “I’ve got names for them and everything.”

“I’m fucking sorry, okay?” Lavellan snapped, shoulders practically rising to his ears. “This wasn’t my goddamn idea, so if we could just stop wasting everyone’s time—”

“Nonsense, darling. Proper etiquette is never a waste of time.”

Several things fell into place when Dorian realized Vivienne was in the room as well. He’d forgotten about Josephine’s promised lessons for Halamshiral. Intrigued, he stepped further into the room. He had no idea what they’d been trying to do or what Vivienne had been thinking recruiting Hawke to help. However bad Lavellan was, Dorian had the feeling Hawke was ten times worse. Lavellan hadn’t grown up learning social niceities—Hawke knew them and cheerfully ignored them.

The main hall was mostly empty, though Dorian didn’t know if that was by chance or orchestration. Varric was still there, not even pretending not to watch the commotion. He looked over as Dorian approached and tipped a wink at him.

“How long’s this been going on?” Dorian asked in a murmur.

“Half-hour or so. Iron Lady only pulled in Hawke about ten minutes ago. I think she’s starting to get desperate.”

Dorian didn’t know Vivienne could get desperate, but he had to admit if anyone could drive her to it, it would be Lavellan.

“This is pointless,” Lavellan snarled at Vivienne. Dorian was surprised he hadn’t just turned and run but that wasn’t really Lavellan’s style, even in the face of things that made him highly uncomfortable. “I know what fucking fork to use for each pointless course and I’m memorizing your stupid list of names so can we just—”

“No, we cannot just,” Vivienne said, raising her chin. She and Lavellan were the same height but she still managed to seem like she was looking down at him. “You must accept the reality of the situation, Inquisitor. You will be asked to dance. As the face of the Inquisition, it is necessary for you to have more grace than a dog walking on its hind legs while doing so.”

“Oh, here we go,” Varric muttered as Lavellan bristled.

“For fuck’s sake, V—”

“If you would perhaps start putting all your effort into actual improvement, we might make more progress,” Vivienne said. Her voice hadn’t changed in the slightest but Dorian still flinched back from her. “I do not, by any estimate, consider whinging to be effort.”

Lavellan looked ready to put his fist in the nearest wall. Hawke was on the verge of laughter, eyes bright. Dorian hesitated, wanting to intervene but reluctant to get on Vivienne’s bad side. Like Cassandra, she was terrifying when furious and Dorian had no wish to be on the receiving end of her scathing tongue any more than he wanted to face Cassandra’s sword. That Lavellan regularly butted heads with both women said something about his sanity. Or lack of it.

“He’s got it, Sparkler,” Varric told him. “You need to stop being such a mother hen.”

Dorian thought it was particularly hypocritical of Varric to say so, considering how much of a mother hen he was, but he was distracted as Lavellan let out a long, uneven breath and rubbed his nose hard. Still frowning and tense, he turned and shoved his hand at Hawke.

“Come on then,” he said roughly. “Let’s get this bullshit over with.”

Hawke’s eyes twinkled as he took Lavellan’s hand. “You’re a charmer, Lavellan,” he crooned. “I might just fall in love.”

“Shut up,” Lavellan muttered.

Dorian folded his arms over his chest and watched. Someone had at least taught Lavellan the basics—he had no trouble finding the initial position, even with Hawke taking the lead position. Dorian eyed the hand Hawke had on Lavellan’s waist and forced himself to ignore the sharp pang of envy it inspired. From the sly little look Varric shot at him, Dorian suspected he wasn’t doing a good job of it. When Hawke and Lavellan were settled, they both looked to Vivienne. Vivienne eyed them for a long moment and nodded sharply to her left. Dorian jumped as a simple, pretty tune started and looked around until he finally saw Dalish with a fiddle tucked under her chin. He hadn’t even noticed her.

Hawke looked into Lavellan’s eyes. Some wordless communication passed between them and Hawke nodded before he started to carefully whirl Lavellan around their makeshift dance floor. Dorian frowned before they’d gone two steps and he heard Varric groan under his breath. For two such graceful men, they really were terrible dancers, he thought. They were already out of step with the music and barely staying together, one wrong step from whirling apart. They took several more steps and then Hawke winced, jumping back. Lavellan dropped his shoulder and scowled, taking several steps away from him.

“My toes,” Hawke said mournfully.

“I’m not trying to step on your fucking huge feet,” Lavellan snapped. “You keep jerking me around like a damn dog—”

Vivienne’s sigh was tiny and pointed. Hawke and Lavellan both went silent. Vivienne regarded them until Hawke had gone dewy-eyed and pouty, all exaggerated repentance. Lavellan didn’t bother with the pretense—he glared at Vivienne, ruffed and indignant as a defensive cat. Vivienne’s mouth tightened.

“Very well,” she said. “I see we will get no more work done today. Inquisitor, you are free to go. But we must improve your dancing.”

“Fat chance,” Lavellan muttered and Vivienne’s displeasure became more pronounced. Lavellan glanced at her and sighed. “I’m trying, V.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Vivienne said, still frosty.

Hawke draped a casual arm around Lavellan’s shoulder and started to steer him to the door. As Lavellan relaxed a little under his hold, Hawke spared a glance at Vivienne. Dorian was surprised that it wasn’t his usual indolent charm—there was that wide smile, sure, but a warning in those pale eyes. Vivienne recognized it too; her eyebrows arched up but she gave Hawke the barest nod of acknowledgment. Varric whistled under his breath.

“That old softie,” he muttered. He looked up at Dorian. “Come on, Sparkler.”

Dorian wanted to protest—he’d been on his way to the grounds to attempt to collect the rarer herbs that grew around Skyhold’s gate—but Varric latched onto his wrist and dragged him along before Dorian could say a word. For someone half Dorian’s height, Varric had a grip like iron. They followed the way Hawke and Lavellan had gone and stepped, blinking, onto the castle grounds to find them huddled around the training ring.

The ring had only been constructed after their return from Crestwood. Simple and wide, it had become a favorite for Inquisition soldiers to spar during their free time. Depending on the popularity of the soldier or the intensity of the fight, sometimes a crowd would gather to watch. The ring was abandoned as Varric dragged Dorian toward it, but a fight must have just ended; several soldiers and stable hands were dispersing with furious whispers and exchanges of money.

“—let off a little steam,” Hawke was saying as they finally got close enough.

Lavellan’s eyebrows were high but his mouth was pursed thoughtfully. “We could destroy half the hold if we went all out, Hawke.”

Hawke’s grin was wide, bloodthirsty. “Sounds like fun.”

“Sounds like a headache,” Lavellan said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll just go batter a few of those training dummies—”

“Come on, Lavellan,” Hawke wheedled, adopting a set of truly pathetic puppy dog eyes. “Don’t you want to fight someone breathing for once? Someone you don’t have to kill?”

Lavellan straightened. All of the frustration and anger from the hall had drained away—he looked bright-eyed and invigorated as he ran a considering eye over Hawke’s lean frame.

“I won’t go easy on you,” he said.

Hawke fluttered his eyes. “Oh, I hope not.”

Dorian flinched back as something came whistling by. Hawke didn’t look as he caught it in one hand and Dorian realized it was his polearm staff. He whirled it once before planting it firmly in the ground and looking over his shoulder. Dorian looked too and realized Fenris must have arrived at some point with the staff in tow. Hawke blew him a kiss and Fenris rolled his eyes. Leaning on his staff, Hawke turned his attention back to Lavellan.

“Well? How about it, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan made a face. “If I win, you don’t call me that anymore.”

Hawke laughed. “Oh, we’re making bets? Excellent, I love bets.” He considered Lavellan and leered. “If I win, I get to call you Kai.”

“That’s a shitty bet,” Lavellan said. “You can call me Kai now if you want.”

“Really?” Hawke considered. “All right, if I win you owe me a favor, Kai.”

Lavellan looked as wary of that as he probably should and Varric laughed, striding forward to give Lavellan a friendly slap to the elbow. Lavellan startled, looking from Varric to Dorian with a little furrow between his eyebrows. Dorian wiggled his fingers at him in a little wave.

“Unwitting prisoner,” he said.

“Story of my life,” Lavellan said which should have been a joke but only made Dorian a little depressed. “Well, Hawke, if you’re so sure you want to get beaten into the ground…”

“Pretty sure there’s some saying about counting your chickens,” Hawke said. “Never understood it myself, but I’m a mage, not a farmer.”

They prepared without fanfare. Dorian’s desire to go look at herbs was a distant memory as Lavellan stripped his usual dark jacket, revealing his glorious bare arms to the world. Hawke stripped as well, just taking off his entire shirt. Hawke, like Lavellan, wasn’t Dorian’s usual type, but he could admit it was difficult to be indifferent to such a well-sculpted torso. He snuck a look at Fenris, who had settled in on Varric’s other side without a word. He didn’t really look different in the face of a half-naked Hawke but it only took Dorian a moment to realize Fenris was totally focused on Hawke, following his form with the intense interest of a predator. Dorian exchanged amused looks with Varric to hide the way his own stomach trembled as Lavellan went into a series of stretches that showed off his flexibility a little too well, Maker.

By the time Lavellan and Hawke were actually facing each other in the ring, a crowd had formed; someone had spread word that two of their local heroes were about to spar and it seemed like half of the Inquisition had stumbled over themselves to come watch. Dorian was lucky he’d arrived early or he would have been stuck at the back, barely able to see. As it was, while Varric managed to hold on to his place at Dorian's elbow, Fenris had been shuffled down the line until Dorian couldn't even see him anymore, poor man.

“Ten gold pieces on Hawke,” Varric said.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Dorian said. “Twenty on Lavellan.”

Hawke was formidable, Dorian had his own evidence of that. And if this had been a few weeks ago, with Lavellan still shocked and fragile from Corypheus, missing his knives, Dorian might have hesitated a little more. But this Lavellan, who was smirking at Hawke as he whirled his knives through his hands as quickly and smoothly as any circus performer? This was the Lavellan who had taken down Alexius, whose prowess was graceful and breathtaking. Dorian half-believed this Lavellan could do anything, take any opponent.

They didn’t have a referee so they began by mutual agreement to the cheers of the surrounding soldiers. For several long moments, they simply circled each other. Varric huffed at Dorian’s side.

“Spitfire makes him nervous,” he said, sounding a little amused. “I’ve never seen him hesitate this long to attack. Usually have to hold him back with both hands.”

He’d barely finished talking before Hawke launched himself at Lavellan, polearm whirling. Lavellan dodged out of the way, halfway across the ring before Hawke managed to turn and bring his staff down with a crackle of ice that followed Lavellan’s path with deadly swiftness. It caught Lavellan and managed to make him slip but Lavellan simply rolled and came up on one knee, using it to push off and lunge at Hawke with a strike meant to sunder him.

Hawke braced for him and they met in a clash of metal on metal. Lavellan was slimmer than Hawke but Dorian knew he was at least as strong. For a long, breathless moment, they were locked together, grinning fiercely at each other over their weapons. Then, quicker than Dorian’s eyes could follow, Hawke heaved Lavellan off of him, sending him rolling in the dirt. Lavellan came back up on his feet.

“We might both be out of money,” Varric said. He didn’t sound upset about it in the slightest. “They’re more evenly matched than I thought.”

Someone pushed into Dorian’s back and he looked back to glare. But it wasn’t someone over-enthusiastic soldier, it was one of Leliana’s people, impassive and hooded, and they didn’t bother with Dorian at all. Instead, they leaned over Varric’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Varric’s eyes went wide.

“Are you shitting me?” he asked. When the courier shook their head, he swore loudly and looked up at Dorian. “I’ve got to take care of this.”

“I assume something else terrible has happened?” Dorian asked, tensing.

“Not terrible,” Varric said. “Just a damn nuisance, per usual. I told that brat he should wait and what does he do?” Varric snorted. “He really is more like Hawke than he’d ever want to admit. Just keep watch on our boys, all right?”

He disappeared with the courier. Dorian watched him go with a frown but a huge cheer distracted him. He looked over and straightened as he realized Lavellan and Hawke were exchanging a flurry of close-range blows, sparks and lightning rise from where their weapons met. Dorian could barely follow them as they circled around the ring, but they hardly ever stumbled or let up. They really were evenly matched, Dorian thought.

Someone pushed into the empty space Varric had left. Dorian glanced over but it was only a dark-haired man with a terrible growth of beard around his chin. He looked oddly familiar, Dorian thought as he turned back to the fight. Perhaps he had been one of the requisition officers that regularly accosted Lavellan about surveys? They’d all gotten a little too familiar with those officers. 

Hawke managed to get some distance with his polearm, but Lavellan was the quicker of the two. He dodged underneath it and came in under Hawke’s guard, managing to get a shallow cut to his cheek before Hawke battered him back. At Dorian’s side, the dark-haired man made a surprised grunt. Dorian glanced at him, but his eyes were focused on the fight. A Hawke fan, Dorian thought. Not entirely surprising—Hawke was charming—but most of the Inquisition there was cheering for Lavellan.

At an impasse, Hawke and Lavellan circled each other, looking for openings. Lavellan’s hair was coming undone and he had several scorch marks on his clothes; Hawke had the cut on his cheek and another on his bare shoulder. But they were both grinning, wide and fierce and delighted.

“You ready to give in yet?” Lavellan asked.

“I was just about to ask you that,” Hawke said with faux-surprise. “How embarrassing.”

They lunged at each other again. Dorian could only follow about half of their movements, catching brief moments where Lavellan was about to land a blow or Hawke twirled his staff, so he didn’t realize the fight had ended until they suddenly stopped, the dust settling to reveal that Hawke had his staff blade planted solidly in the hollow of Lavellan’s throat but Lavevllan had a knife in Hawke’s stomach, ready to gut him. They stared at each other for a solid minute, barely breathing. Then, as if by mutual agreement, their weapons lifted and a huge cheer rose up among the crowd.

The dark-haired man at Dorian’s side made another low grunt. “He was holding back.”

Dorian spared him a cool look. A Hawke fan was one thing, but an idiot was another.

“I sincerely doubt it," he said.

As the man turned to face him, the niggling sense that Dorian had seen him before increased—he was dark-skinned with pale blue eyes and there was something about his face that screamed familiarity to Dorian. As he turned, Dorian also noticed that he was wearing blue armor. Distinctive blue armor. Dorian's brow crinkled. What were the chances of another Warden showing up in Skyhold?

The crowd was dispersing, full of excited chattering and money exchanges, but the man remained where he was, glaring at Dorian.

“Hawke wouldn’t be bested so easily,” he said.

“That looked like a tie to me,” Dorian said. “But perhaps my eyesight isn’t as good as it used to be.”

The man made a disgusted noise. “No tweedy brat is going to keep up with Adrian,” he said.

“You seem quite the expert,” Dorian said in his lightest voice. “Would you happen to be an old friend?”

Something shifted in the man’s face, the anger dispelling. “You could say that.”

Dorian caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to find Fenris bearing down on them. He looked furious but Dorian realized it was all directed at the man at his side. The man’s anger returned as well and he glared as Fenris approached. Fenris didn’t pause before he grabbed the man’s arm.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed.

“I have every right to be here!” the man said.

“If he finds out—”

There was a flurry of activity and Dorian backed up as they were suddenly surrounded by guards and Leliana’s people. For a brief, panicked moment, he had no idea what was happening—it took him several moments to realize that the soldiers didn’t care about him at all and were struggling to contain the man, sending him to the ground as he spat insults and struggled in their grasp. He managed to punch one or two in the nose but there were too many for him to get free. One of the guards forced him face-first into the dirt, panting. 

“What’s going on here?” They all turned to find Lavellan staring at them from the training ring, still breathless and sweaty. He frowned at the dark-haired man, then at his guards. “Who is that man?”

“We detained him at the gate, your worship,” said the guard struggling to keep the man on the ground. “He wouldn’t tell us why he was coming to Skyhold and he escaped the moment we turned our backs—”

Hawke sighed. He’d approached with Lavellan and he was looking down at the man with amusement and, Dorian realized, familiarity. Dorian looked back at the man, taking in his flashing eyes and scowl and cheekbones. Oh, he thought. Oh, that explained some things.

“You can let him go,” Hawke said. “He’s not a threat.”

“Fuck you, I am so a threat—”

“Shut up, you idiot,” Hawke said without any heat. “Lavellan, I’ll vouch for him. Wouldn’t be the first time.” He rolled his eyes. “If I have to be the one vouching for someone else’s behavior, you know they’re bad.”

“You know him?” Lavellan asked, looking between them with a frown.

Hawke and the man snorted in unison. “Yeah,” Hawke said. “I know him pretty well. Unfortunately.” He made a dramatic gesture with his hands. “Lavellan, meet my charming little brother.”

“Carver Hawke,” the man said. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but I don’t believe in lying.” He bared his teeth. “Unlike some people.”

Lavellan looked between the two brothers with raised eyebrows. “I think,” he said slowly, “we’d better take this somewhere else.”

The Herald’s Rest was quiet at this time in the afternoon, making it perfect for a discrete meeting. Lavellan had managed to convince the guards that he would be sufficient watch for their new guest and none of them protested, though several had scowled at Carver as they trudged away. Carver had been entirely unrepentant.

Dorian had no real say in this situation but he found that his curiosity made him follow the Hawke brothers, Lavellan, Fenris, and Varric as they made their way into the tavern. Carver gave them a stink eye as they all settled in at the same table, but he didn’t protest.

“You could’ve sent a letter, you know,” Hawke said once they’d all settled into their seats. “It would’ve been easier and resulted in less unpleasant arresting attempts.”

He looked casual and relaxed, slumped back in his seat like an indolent cat. But his eyes were sharp and focused exclusively on his brother. Carver bristled.

“And you would have answered it? I haven’t heard from you in months. Varric writes more than you!”

Varric held up his hands. “Don’t drag me into this.”

“I’ve been busy, brother,” Hawke said. His usual roguish grin had an edge. “Killing slavers, avoiding templars trying to make me Tranquil, unleashing ancient gods on the world… It eats up so much time, you would not believe.” He spread his hands.

Carver frowned. The deep grooves in his forehead made Dorian think it was a natural expression for him. Next to him, Fenris made a disgusted sound, but when Dorian looked over at him, his eyes were fixed on Hawke.

“Adrian—”

“So? Why are you here?” Hawke asked with more intent. “You shouldn’t be. I got Aveline to get you out for a reason, you know. And, more importantly, what did you do with Fluffy?”

Fluffy? Dorian thought, completely baffled.

“I’m not a baby, Adrian,” Carver said, frown deepening. “Even if you and Aveline never seem to remember that. And your mongrel’s fine. He’s with Isabella.”

He didn’t sound as defensive as he had before, though. Something had shifted in him, Dorian thought, watching as he shifted from side to side, avoiding look at Hawke. Dorian’s heart sank. If Carver was a Warden, if he’d come all this way just to see Hawke…

Dorian had a very bad feeling about what news was bad enough to drive him to do that.

“Isabella!” Hawke exclaimed. “I should’ve known. What’d you bribe her with to keep quiet about this little surprise visit? Wine? Gold? Expensive candies?”

“I just told her I wanted to get the jump on you and she agreed immediately,” Carver said.

“That does sound like her. And you still haven’t answered my question, Carver.”

Carver huffed. “You used to be much easier to distract, you know.”

“That’s a bold-faced lie. You’ve never been able to distract me.”

“Oh yeah? What about that time in Lothering with the Chantry sisters—”

“Didn’t we agree to never speak of that again? I distinctly remember making a terribly messy blood pact.”

“I’m pretty sure blood pacts don’t last forever.”

“Excuse me, yes they do, that is the point of making blood pacts in the first place—”

“Hawke.”

Both brothers turned to look at Fenris, but Fenris was only looking at Carver. Carver immediately scowled at him.

“You two still together then?” he asked unpleasantly.

“Of course,” Hawke said blithely. “No one else gives me as many screaming orgasms as Fenris.”

Carver’s entire face scrunched in disgust and Fenris rolled his eyes. But the tension had eased a little and Dorian didn’t think that was accidental. When he looked at Hawke, Hawke tipped him a wink.

“I really don’t need any more nightmares, Adrian,” Carver said. “Isabella’s stories are bad enough.”

“Isabella tells stories about us?” Hawke asked, deliciously intrigued. Fenris cleared his throat and Hawke straightened. “Right, right. Carver, just spit it out. What’s going on? Last I heard, you were safely tucked away in the Anderfels.”

Any humor bled from Carver’s face. He wasn’t looking at Hawke again.

“I have to tell you something,” he said and his voice was very different. Quieter, more focused. Dorian’s heart thudded against his chest. “I have to tell you and I didn’t want to do it in a letter. I know you and Aveline think I’m just a baby, but even I know this isn’t something you say in a letter.”

Dorian felt a hand grip his knee under the table and jumped. He glanced at Lavellan, sitting on his right, but his attention was fixed on Carver. There was something waxy and intense about his face and Dorian wondered if he even realized he had a murder grip on Dorian’s knee. He’d guessed too, Dorian figured. Lavellan had always been quick on the uptake. Dorian turned back to the conversation with a heavy heart. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Carver?” Hawke asked, frowning. “What is it?” He smiled but there was something off about it. “Do you need advice about your love life again? Because I told you, all you need to do is wear a glamor of my face and then—”

“Adrian.” Hawke flinched just a little and Lavellan’s hand tightened to nearly painful intensity on Dorian’s knee. “Just. Listen to me, okay?”

“Carver?”

Hawke’s voice was hesitant, almost scared. At his side, Fenris bristled and Dorian saw his hands curl into fists on the table. Carver took several deep, careful breaths before he swung his head up to meet his brother’s eyes. He wasn’t as handsome as Hawke, Dorian thought, not even as charming or likable. But Dorian thought he had the same steel all the way down to the bone that his brother did. Dorian held his breath and braced himself.

“I’m hearing it, brother,” Carver said evenly. “The Calling.”

Lavellan’s hand spasmed on Dorian’s knee. Dorian looked at him again but Lavellan’s face was still and cold, distant. Only his eyes betrayed him; too bright and focused to be indifferent. Dorian didn’t know what about this conversation was hitting a secret soft spot of Lavellan’s but he didn’t like seeing that look on his face. Dorian glanced around, but Varric and Fenris were too focused on the Hawke brothers and the tavern was deserted otherwise. Cautiously, he folded his hand over Lavellan’s under the table. Lavellan’s eyes flickered to him and Dorian offered him the barest smile. Lavellan didn’t smile back but his hand twisted so that he could interlace his fingers with Dorian’s. Dorian ignored the rush of heat up his arm and hoped to the Maker he wasn’t blushing. It was just comfort, he reminded himself as he turned back to the melodrama at hand. Nothing more.

Hawke’s face was utterly blank. Dorian had never seen him like this before. He hadn’t even turned into that dangerous, unsheathed version of himself; instead, it was as everything that Hawke was had been abruptly abandoned, emptied out. For a long moment, there was only tense, anticipatory silence.

“Adrian?”

Carver’s voice sounded fragile this time and so young Dorian wanted to close his eyes. How old was Carver? He couldn’t be that much older than Lavellan, surely. At his voice, some life returned to Hawke but it wasn’t difficult for Dorian to tell it was feigned. He’d grown up in a land of masks and Tevinter’s were deadlier than Orlais’s because they were made of real flesh. That empty, charming smile Hawke turned on Carver was entirely fake and Dorian's heart ached at the sight of it. 

“I see,” Hawke said. “I guess that would’ve been a pretty terrible letter.” Carver flinched but Hawke didn’t seem to see it. Dorian wasn’t sure he was seeing much of anything right then; his eyes were entirely unfocused. “‘Dear Adrian, terribly sorry to bother you but I happen to be hearing darkspawn music in my head and I’ll be kicking the bucket soon. Try not to muck up my funeral too badly. Cheers!’” Hawke chuckled. It was a horrible sound. “Definitely bad.”

“Are you serious right now?” Carver demanded, voice shaking. “I came all this way just to tell you and you’re cracking jokes?”

Fenris bristled. “Do not speak to him like that,” he said, half rising out of his chair.

“I’ll speak to him however I damn well like, he’s my brother you—”

Hawke stood so rapidly they both fell silent.

“Well, I have things to do,” Hawke said. He still didn’t look like he knew he was talking to anyone—he was looking blankly over their heads at the tavern door. “Terribly important things, need to get them done by this afternoon, can’t be helped—”

He was out of the door before any of them could even say anything. They all stared at it in shocked silence.

“Well,” Varric said, hoarse and gutted. “Shit.”

Carver slumped. “I should go,” he said. “I shouldn’t have come in the first place.” His laugh was bitter. “I don’t know what I was expecting.”

He rose to his feet. To Dorian’s surprise, Fenris lunged for him, taking his elbow in a harsh grip. Goosebumps shivered up Dorian’s back. Since they'd met Fenris had, even when furious, seemed calm, almost collected. But there was a ferocity to his face that was almost feral, eyes spitting fire.

“You will not go,” he said in a low, dangerous voice.

Carver frowned at him. “I don’t answer to you,” he snapped. “Just because my brother’s fucking you doesn’t mean—”

Fenris reeled him in. Carver struggled, but Fenris, like Lavellan, was much stronger than his lithe frame implied. He stood. Fenris was shorter than Hawke but so was Cavrer—they stood almost nose-to-nose. They were bristling at each other like two angry cats.

“You will not drop this news on him and then abandon him,” he said. “I will not allow it.”

“He doesn’t want to see me!” Carver said. There was genuine bitterness under that whine. “You saw that, right? He just ran! You know how he is! After all those years he was barely able to look at me after Bethie—”

“Oh, kid,” Varric said.

Carver snarled down at him. “No, Varric, you know it’s true! He got rid of me the moment he could! That darkspawn biting me was probably the best thing that ever happened to him, it meant he could finally cut me loose like he’s… he’s always wanted—”

Fenris did shake Carver then. Dorian was frankly astonished Carver was still alive after looking at the bloody murder in Fenris’s eyes. Carver seemed to recognize the danger he was in as well but instead of keeping quiet, like any sane man, he just snarled at Fenris. Insanity must run in the Hawke genes, Dorian thought. 

“Don’t tell me it isn’t true,” he said. Even though he looked furious, his voice shook. “I’ve never been his first choice. If he could’ve swapped me for Bethie, he would’ve. This must be a relief for him, after so many years pretending to care about me.”

“Idiot.”

They all swung to look at Lavellan, who was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. Dorian hadn't realized Lavellan had released the grip on his knee and he found he missed its weight even if the rush of blood through his leg was welcome. Lavellan was stone-faced and frowning, intimidating, but Carver just glared at him.

“What was that?”

“Are you deaf as well as stupid?” Lavellan asked.

Carver swelled with rage. “You—!”

“That great lout you call brother cares about you so much it kills him,” Lavellan said. Carver went still. “I could see it after watching you two together for five minutes. So if you’re still missing it you must just be a moron.”

Carver’s lip trembled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “You don’t know him. You definitely don’t know me.”

“Well, I do,” Varric said. He was as serious as Dorian had ever seen him, not a smirk to be seen. “And I’m telling you, if you fuck off into the wilderness, it’s going to destroy Hawke. You can’t just leave after dropping that stink bomb, kid.”

“I have to go,” Carver said, looking a little wild around the eyes. “The Wardens need—”

“You will not,” Fenris said. He hadn’t released his grip on Carver’s arm.

Carver’s mouth tightened into something mulish. “It’s my life,” he said.

“It is your life,” Lavellan said. He put a hand on Carver’s arm, right over where Fenris was still gripping his elbow. “But it’s his life too. All we’re asking you to do is stick around a while. Let him come to terms.” He shrugged. “We might even be able to do something to keep your dumb ass alive in the meantime.”

Carver looked ready to bite his head off. “I know you’re supposed to be some kind of mystical prophet or whatever, but I don’t need your empty promises.”

“I don’t believe in empty promises,” Lavellan said. "Come on, kid. Throw us a bone here. He deserves that, don't you think?"

Carver frowned at him, a struggle clear in his face. His shoulders slumped.

“He doesn’t want me here,” he said. “He’s never wanted me around.”

Lavellan's face didn’t show the pity that Dorian felt. He considered Carver for a long time through his eyelashes, mouth pursed. Then, to Dorian’s surprise, he smiled. It wasn’t particularly happy, but there was something wry behind it.

“I bet you ten gold pieces I can prove you wrong,” he said.

That was enough to startle Carver into looking at him, some of the abject misery leaving his face. When he raised his eyebrows, he looked startlingly like Hawke. It was a wonder Dorian hadn’t realized who he was sooner.

“You’re trying to make bets about if my brother cares about me?” Carver asked, incredulous.

Lavellan shrugged, all nonchalance. “Think of it this way,” he said. “It’s not as if you’ve got anything more to lose by taking it, right?”

Carver was Hawke’s brother, so Dorian thought he probably had a much higher tolerance for insanity than most normal people. He considered Lavellan’s point and smiled for the first time, small and a little shy.

“Well,” he said. “When you put it that way.” He looked at Fenris, smile falling away. “I’ll stay for now. I know that Corypheus guy is causing some trouble. I can help. But if Adrian wants me to go, I’m not staying. I had enough of that in Kirkwall.” He tugged against Fenris’s grip. “So you can let go of me now.”

Fenris didn’t, considering Carver with a calm, cold stare. “Your foolish selfishness has hurt him in the past,” he said.

Carver sneered. “Yeah? Well so has yours. So you can take your self-righteous lectures and shove them right up your—”

“By the Maker’s great, hairy balls,” Varric said. “Can the two of you not snipe at each other?”

Fenris and Carver regarded each other. Slowly, Fenris released Carver’s arm.

“He has always cared about you a great deal more than I ever understood,” Fenris said.

Carver blinked. “Back at you,” he said, but his mouth twitched a little.

No one saw Hawke for the rest of the day. Rumors abounded, as they always did in Skyhold, and news of Carver’s arrival spread quickly. Cullen seemed happy to see him again, greeting him with a rough backslap and immediately interrogating him on what he knew about Warden movements. Only Leliana still seemed wary of him.

(“He could still be a spy,” she had warned Lavellan as Josephine had led Carver out to get him situated in his new set of rooms.

Lavellan had rolled his eyes. “That kid couldn’t lie his way out of a paper bag,” he had said and that was that.)

Dorian had retreated back to his little nook in the library, though he couldn’t quite get his mind to focus on the ancient histories of Tevinter magisters or even the slightly more engaging necromancy books he’d picked up the last time they’d stopped in Val Royeux. He kept thinking about Hawke’s shattered expression or Carver’s steely acceptance. Or, even worse, the way Lavellan’s face had twisted when Carver had admitted he was dying. Lavellan didn’t know Carver, barely knew Hawke even if they seemed to be getting along well. Dorian couldn’t understand what had hit him so hard about their situation. Lavellan was hardly cold—he was probably one of the kindest people Dorian knew—but he didn’t usually get so twisted up by other people’s pain. Lavellan was more practical than that; he always found it more useful to try and help than to stop to commiserate. But something about the Hawke brothers had hit something soft and vulnerable in him, an open wound that Dorian hadn’t known existed. What?

He still hadn’t been able to puzzle out the answer when Lavellan himself appeared in Dorian’s nook just after dusk. Dorian looked up to see him there, leaning against Dorian’s bookshelves, and just about had a heart attack.

“Are you taking lessons from Cole?” he asked, trying to calm his racing heart.

Lavellan didn’t smile. “I need a favor.”

“I am, as ever, at your service, my dear Inquisitor,” Dorian said. “I do expect to paid handsomely in expensive wines and silks, however.”

It didn't make Lavellan laugh like Dorian had half-hoped.

“Varric just sent word,” Lavellan said. “Hawke’s making a mess of himself down in the tavern and he needs some help wrangling him.”

“Admittedly, I’m not seeing where I fit in here.”

Lavellan bit his lip. Did he know how damned distracting that was?

“I need you to help wrangle me,” he said.

Dorian had a brief, glorious vision of wrangling Lavellan into his bed—would Lavellan enjoy being tied up, pinned down? Dorian didn’t really think so, but he’d been surprised in bed before—but he forced it back down even as his body took an interest. Lavellan’s shoulders were hunched, as if he was trying to make himself smaller, and he wasn’t looking Dorian in the eyes, pretending to peruse the titles near him instead. Was he embarrassed?

How intriguing.

“And you decided to come to me?” Dorian asked.

Lavellan opened his mouth, closed it again. Sighed.

“Well,” he said, a little wry, “experience has shown me you're the best man for the job.”

Dorian stared, taken aback. Did Lavellan really think that? He knew Lavellan trusted him, valued his judgment. But he would have thought Solas was more suited to being Lavellan’s back-up, to keep him from going off the rails. Or Varric, who had had so much ample practice with Hawke. Did Lavellan really trust him to have his back in this situation, where he was so clearly invested even if Dorian had no idea why?

Lavellan still wouldn’t look at him. A flush was climbing up his neck. Dorian swallowed his own disbelief and growing warmth. He had to focus. If Lavellan was entrusting this much to him, Dorian would rather die than let him down.

“Well then,” he said, standing. “Allow me to be of service, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan finally looked at him. His eyes were soft, relieved. His entire body relaxed as Dorian approached and he reached out to squeeze Dorian’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said.

"Oh, don't worry about it. But I wasn't kidding about those wines and silks, you know."

Lavellan finally laughed and Dorian relaxed a little as they made their way down to the tavern in relative silence. The night was cooler than Dorian had expected and he shivered. The tavern seemed warm and inviting against the growing darkness. Lavellan paused outside of its door and gave Dorian a side-look.

“This won’t be pretty,” he warned and pushed open the door.

The tavern was mostly empty still, with only some soldiers gathered in one corner and Bull’s Chargers in their normal spot. Dorian spotted Hawke immediately and made to follow Lavellan to him. Lavellan waved him off, pointing at a table close by.

“Wait,” he said. “Better if I try this alone first.”

Dorian wanted to protest—hadn’t Lavellan wanted him around to help wrangle?—but Lavellan’s face made him swallow it. He made his way over to the table and settled down as Lavellan approached Hawke.

Hawke was slumped over his table like a great sleeping dog. Several empty tankards surrounded his bent head. At his side, Varric raised a tankard in salute as Lavellan approached. His smile was tight around the edges and there were worried crinkles around his eyes. Dorian watched as Lavellan surveyed the scene with a wrinkled nose, then sighed.

“Hawke,” he said. Hawke didn’t stir. “Adrian!”

“What?!”

Hawke raised his head at last, blinking blearily. He’d never looked less like the Champion of Kirkwall; his thick hair fell in uneven waves around his head and his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. When he saw Lavellan, he lit up and lunged forward, catching Lavellan around the waist and pressing his face into Lavellan’s belly. Dorian hoped no one was looking at him at the moment; he didn’t think he could hide his sudden, overwhelming envy. 

“Kai!” Hawke cried, muffled by Lavellan’s stomach. “You’re here!”

Lavellan gave Varric a baffled look over Hawke’s head. Varric shrugged, taking another long sip of his drink.

“He’s a clingy drunk,” he said. He sounded pretty normal even though he had as many empty tankards around him that Hawke did. His only tell was a slight burr to his usually crisp vowels. “Always has been. Watch out, though.” Varric winked. “He’s handsy.”

Lavellan yelped as he said it, jumping away with Hawke with impressive speed. Dorian hadn’t seen whatever Hawke had done, but from Lavellan’s wide-eyed surprised and Hawke’s lecherous grin, he could guess. Dorian had never realized he could be so envious. Lavellan frowned at Hawke, regaining his equilibrium.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” he told Hawke. “You only get pinching privileges if you’re fucking it too.”

Dorian’s body seized and he sternly told it to calm down. It didn’t listen, of course. Dorian might actually take up Bull on his ridiculous innuendos at this point, if only to try and get some goddamned relief.

“I won’t,” Hawke promised, more solemn now. “Just wanted to make you smile. You never fucking smile, it’s a waste. Where’s Pavus? He’ll—”

“Don’t drag Sparkles into this,” Varric said. He didn’t look over at Dorian, but Dorian got the impression he knew exactly where Dorian was sitting, the sly old dwarf. “And stop slobbering over Spitfire—”

“Did you know?”

Hawke’s sloppy cheer had hardened. Varric didn’t look surprised, but Lavellan’s eyebrows rose as he looked between them. Varric took a long pull of his ale before he answered.

“That baby brother was coming to visit?” Varric asked. “Who do you think gave him directions?”

Dorian blinked. He’d wondered how Carver had known to come to Skyhold, but Varric hadn’t said anything when he’d arrived. But Varric was good at keeping his cards close to his chest.

“Not that,” Hawke said.

Varric reached over and tweaked Hawke’s messy hair. His voice was gentle.

“That he’s dying? Yeah, Hawke. I knew about that.”

Hawke didn’t look at him, didn’t move for a long time. Then he laughed, helpless and so bitter Dorian’s heart stung for the man.

“You’ve always been a close-mouthed bastard, Varric,” he said. “I thought we left that shit behind in Kirkwall with the blood mages and corrupt templars.”

Varric didn’t take offense. “Hawke,” he said. “Carver asked me not to tell you because he wanted to do it himself.” He paused, eyes flickering to Lavellan and, just for a moment, to Dorian’s table. “I know what it’s like to lose a brother,” he continued softly. “I wanted you to hear it from him, not me.”

“And it makes the better story, doesn’t it, Varric?” Hawke asked. His voice was edged, almost poisonous. He still wouldn’t look at Varric. “'The reconciliation of two estranged brothers, brought together by tragedy?' Fits right on a book jacket, doesn't it?” He finally looked up. His pale eyes were hard and bright. “This going in your next book, Varric?”

Varric gently flicked Hawke on the forehead. Hawke startled backward, some of the edge fading.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “If you and Carver were too stupid to make up after everything else you’ve been through, I doubt you’re going to now. But he’s your brother, Hawke. The only real blood family you have left. If he really is dying, I don't want him to do it with any regrets. For either of you."

Hawke’s expression shattered. He opened his mouth, closed it again, bent his head. Varric’s face so soft and tender it hurt Dorian to look at him. Lavellan looked between them and put a hand on Varric’s shoulder.

“I’ve got him,” he said.

Varric snorted. “You think I don’t, after picking up his messes for seven years?”

“Varric,” Lavellan said, kind but firm, “You’ve said your piece. Let me take it from here.” He hesitated. “Big brother to big brother.”

Varric’s eyebrows shot up, but Lavellan stayed mute and stone-faced under his inquisitive stare. Varric sighed and stood after one last pull of his drink. He flicked a gold coin on the table and spared an affectionate look at Hawke, who was still ignoring the both of them.

“Don’t break him,” he said to Lavellan. “He’s a pain to put together again.”

Varric gave Dorian a wink as he passed. Dorian stayed put, watching as Lavellan sat down in Varric’s empty seat next to Hawke. They sat in silence for several long minutes. Lavellan played mindlessly with the gold coin Varric had left, deftly flicking it through his fingers.

Dorian heard a clatter and looked up in time to see Carver coming down the stairs of the tavern. His stomach clenched but Hawke and Lavellan didn’t seem to notice his arrival. Carver caught sight of them and his eyebrows pinched together. He looked ready to march over there and start yelling at Hawke. Before he could, Dorian reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him. Carver glared down at him.

“Let me go,” he said, pulling against Dorian's grip.

Dorian was no Lavellan or Fenris, but he wasn't entirely without muscle even if Carver doubtless was stronger than he was. He kept his grip steady so that Carver would at least have to work at it if he put serious effort into an escape.

“I realize you’re brimming with righteous indignation, but I would still prefer it if you’d hold off for just a moment,” Dorian said. “The Inquisitor's doing a lot of work on your behalf and I’d hate to see it ruined.”

For a moment, he thought Carver was going to ignore him and continue his rampage but he looked over at Hawke again and his shoulders slumped. Dorian cautiously let go and Carver sat down at Dorian’s table with an audible huff and spared him a suspicious side-eye.

“Who’re you again?”

Dorian offered a charming smile. “Just a concerned citizen,” he said.

Carver huffed again, reminding Dorian deeply of Cassandra, but let it go and turned back to Hawke and Lavellan. At some point, Hawke had stolen Varric’s gold coin from Lavellan and was flicking it through his fingers, making it dance along his knuckles. Dorian had no idea how long they’d been silent but it only took another minute or so before Hawke finally sighed.

“You going to ask me to get on with him now?” he asked. “Because people with gaudier outfits than you have tried and failed to get us to be best pals, so—”

“No,” Lavellan said. “He seems kind of like a pain in the ass.”

Carver scowled fiercely but it surprised Hawke enough to get him to look over. He searched Lavellan’s face. Dorian wasn’t sure what he found there—Lavellan looked as dry and unreadable as ever—but whatever it was made Hawke relax a little. He even managed a smile.

“Yeah,” he said emphatically. “He really is. A giant pain in my ass.”

“I bet,” Lavellan said with a warm, conspiratorial voice. “Probably drove you crazy every day when you were kids, huh? Got into all sorts of trouble?”

Hawke sighed explosively. “Maker, you have no idea,” he said. “He used to always get into so much trouble. Always breaking stuff or getting dirty or hitting people he shouldn’t be hitting. Bethie—” Hawke’s voice broke just the barest amount on his sister’s name and Carver shivered, “—used to be so sweet, so we always said Carver got all the bad temper between them. If there was something dangerous—” Hawke’s voice broke again, more deeply this time. He took a long breath, collecting himself. “If there was something dangerous around, Carver always went running right for it.”

“I did not,” Carver muttered.

Lavellan snorted. “Sounds rough,” he said.

“Rough?” Hawke asked, incredulous. “Try impossible! That little snot spends 18 years getting into all kinds of scrapes, but that’s not enough, no—he has to go and join the King’s Army just before the start of another Maker-damned Blight! He barely has the sense to desert before he gets himself killed, but then he spends two years getting into everyone’s face and all kinds of fights and then— and then—” Hawke shook his head sharply, as if to clear it. “And then he gets bitten by a darkspawn and doesn’t tell anyone and now he’s got the taint of those monsters in him and he’s dying inch by inch and I can’t stop it!”

Hawke threw his tankard. It was made of wood, so it only clattered against the wall, spilling what was left of Hawke’s ale. When Dorian looked over, he thought Carver had practically stopped breathing. His eyes were fixed on his brother, huge and surprised. Hawke sank back into his seat, breathing heavily. Lavellan put a hand on his shoulder.

“Hawke—“ he said.

“No,” Hawke said, shoulders tight, pulled up to his ears. “Don’t. You’re going to give me some inspiring speech that’s going to rouse all these feelings in me and I won’t have it. Isabella’s right, there's only one way to deal and that's drinking to forget."

Lavellan examined Hawke for a long moment. Dorian thought he was coming to some kind of decision, though he had no idea what the decision was.

“You know, I have little brothers too.”

Dorian’s heart picked up speed as Hawke’s head swung around. “You’re shitting me,” he said.

Lavellan’s smile was wry. “No,” he said. “Two of them, actually. Two sisters too. I’m the oldest.”

“The oldest, huh?” Hawke’s expression crumpled and Dorian heard Carver take a startled breath. “How’d that work out for you?”

“Fucking terrible, honestly,” Lavellan said. His face was caught somewhere between nostalgia and pain. “You know, there’s this practice in my Clan when a family is about to have a baby. Before its born, the parents sit down with everyone else who’s had kids and they get this list of what to expect. Little tips to help prepare them, you know.” Lavellan shook his head, mouth pursing. “No one sits you down and prepares you to be an older brother. They don’t tell you shit about what to do when you’ve got these—these little people just following you around and getting into all your shit and getting away with so much nonsense you would’ve been skinned for if you’d done it.”

“Or that you’ll have to clean up their messes and wipe their noses and change their diapers,” Hawke chimed in. His voice was watery and thin. “I was not prepared for the sheer amount of diapers.”

Lavellan smiled. “Diapers,” he said. “Creators, I’d forgotten about that."

Hawke nodded. "The trauma," he said sagely.

Lavellan snorted. "Yeah," he said. "But no one prepares you for any of it. Not the mess or the clinginess or the sheer bloody difficulty.” He reached over and put his hand on Hawke’s very gently. “Nobody warns you,” he said gently, “that you’ll love them so much you’d die to spare them even a little pain.”

Hawke's smile fell away and he made a soft wounded sound. He clutched Lavellan’s hand. Dorian’s heart was too full, looking at them. He’d grown up an only child and he’d always been a little bitter about it—he’d wondered as a child if he might have been under less pressure if he’d had a brother or sister to share it with. Now, looking at Hawke’s vulnerability so exposed and Lavellan’s hard, bright eyes, he wondered if he hadn’t had the easier time of it after all.

“He's dying,” Hawke said. “He’s dying, Kai.”

Dorian wanted to close his eyes, to try and avoid the sheer grief in Hawke’s voice. It was too raw, and vulnerable—as if Hawke, the cheerful buffoon, had just exposed an open wound. It made Dorian’s chest ache. He looked at Carver instead and that was almost worse—Carver’s heart was in his eyes and it was bleeding open. He looked as wrecked as Hawke, pale and shaking and so, so young. Dorian’s gut was eating itself, the misery almost too big to contain. When he’d read the Tale of the Champion, the sheer misfortune of the Hawke family had seemed like a distant tragedy, sad but ultimately unconnected to Dorian’s life. Now, facing the wreck of it up close, it was all Dorian could do to keep himself from shaking apart.

He looked desperately back at Lavellan. Lavellan was even-faced, blank and still as ever, and Dorian found comfort in that. Lavellan was always a rock in the middle of a rushing stream, Dorian thought, and his heart ballooned, pressing against his ribcage. Dorian took immense comfort in that steadfastness even as he wished he could press his face into Lavellan’s hair and curl over him, protecting him from the tragedies that followed him around, to help him take off the armor that let him face each new grief with steady hands and clear eyes.

“He’s not dead yet,” Lavellan said. His voice was all steel. “Until he is, you fight with every breath in your body to keep him alive.” Hawke didn’t react, staring down at their hands. Lavellan gave them a gentle shake. “Do you hear me, Adrian? He’s not dead yet.”

Hawke shuddered. He didn’t look at Lavellan. “Everyone’s gone,” he said in a low, rough whisper. Carver shuddered at Dorian’s side. “Father and Ma and, Maker, even little Bethie…” He swallowed hard. “Every time they die, they take a piece of me with them, Kai. I don’t know how much is left to give. When he dies—”

“He won’t.”

Hawke’s laugh was choked off and raw. “I thought you didn’t believe in empty promises?”

“I don’t,” Lavellan said. He reached out with his free hand and touched Hawke’s jaw. “So if I’m promising, you know I still there’s hope, Adrian. If you can’t believe in anything else, believe me. I won’t lie to you.”

“You might,” Hawke said.

“Not about this. Never about this.”

Dorian flinched as Carver got to his feet. He was so surprised that he didn’t think to try and grab him or stop him before he started to march over to Lavellan and Hawke’s table. Dorian was still wrung-out and wrong-footed but he scrambled to his feet as well. If their last confrontation had been any indication, this could only end in disaster.

Lavellan noticed Carver before Hawke did. He stood, putting himself between Hawke and his brother with a harsh frown.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Stand aside,” Carver said, peering over Lavellan’s shoulder. “Let me talk to him.”

“No,” Lavellan said, bristling. “He’s drunk and vulnerable. Give him the night to sober up then talk to him.”

Carver glared at him. “This isn’t any of your business anyway, he’s my brother—”

“Yeah and you’re a little pissant, so the last thing he needs is you in his face right now—”

“Lavellan,” Dorian said. Lavellan glared at him too but Dorian had seen worse. “You’ve done some excellent therapy here, but I think it’s time to let them figure it out themselves. They’re big boys.”

“Dorian—”

“You’re an excellent meddler, my dear Inquisitor,” Dorian said, unable to keep his own fondness out of his voice. Lavellan blinked at him. “But there comes a time in every meddler’s life where they just have to let events unfold as they will. Come on. Let them talk.”

Lavellan wrestled with himself for a moment. He clearly disliked giving any ground to Carver but he eventually huffed and stepped aside. Dorian wasn’t sure Hawke was even aware that the others had been essentially fighting over him; he was staring into his tankard with tight shoulders, mouth pursed and eyes blurry. Dorian’s heart twinged. Perhaps Lavellan had been right and giving Hawke the space to recover would be the kindest thing to do. But… Dorian remembered Lavellan’s shattered fury after being named Inquisitor. Dorian wasn’t sure he would have been able to reach Lavellan if his formidable armor hadn’t splintered enough to let his words slide through. Hawke’s defenses were equally alarming, if radically different than Lavellan’s. Carver would need all the help he would get to reach his brother.

And if all he wanted to do was hurt Hawke, well. Dorian knew exactly who to tell about it and he doubted Fenris would find any mercy in his heart for Carver Hawke.

Lavellan kept looking over his shoulder as they resettled in at Dorian’s table. The moment they sat down, he reached over and took Dorian’s hand. Dorian’s skin shivered and he glanced around. No one was looking at them though; the few people still left in the tavern were entirely preoccupied pretending that they weren’t trying to listen in on the Hawke brothers. Dorian still couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on him but he did his best to ignore it. Lavellan needed this. Dorian could give him this.

Carver had taken Lavellan’s empty seat. Hawke didn’t look at him. For several long minutes, they sat in stifled silence and Dorian began to wonder if Lavellan had had the right of it. Then Carver sighed.

“Do you remember what Father used to do to us when we fought?”

Hawke looked over at him. His mouth twitched. “You want to play No Looking, Just Talking?”

“It can’t hurt, can it?”

They stared at each other until Hawke stood, stumbling a little, and flipped his chair so the high back was facing Carver. Carver’s mouth twitched and he flipped his chair as well so that the backs were flush against each other. Both brothers sat again, back to back, facing opposite walls.

“Same rules?” Hawke asked.

“What’s it matter? You never paid attention to the rules when we were kids.”

Hawke snorted. “Rules are made to be broken, brother.”

“Yeah, you always said that. Look where it got you.”

Hawke flinched, chin falling forward. Carver sighed.

“You go first.”

“You’re the one who’s—” Hawke’s throat clicked and he swallowed. “You go first.”

“Fine." Carver took a deep, rattling breath. "When I first started hearing the Calling, I thought it was massively unfair. I’ve survived so much shit, haven’t I? Cailan’s war and the Blight and fucking Kirkwall. I railed against it.” He snorted. “But there’s no point, is there? What’s yelling about how unfair it is going to do? I tried that in Lothering and it did shit to save Father or King Cailan or Bethie. I tried it in Kirkwall and I still got bit by a darkspawn and Ma still died. Whinging about unfair it is doesn’t change that it’s happening. So. I’ve come to terms, Adrian. I’ve had more years than I ever expected.” He waited. “Your turn.”

“My turn? Fine,” Hawke said. The anger in his voice was better than the emptiness that had begun to drown him during his conversation with Lavellan. Lavellan squeezed Dorian’s hand as if he’d thought the same thing. “You’re a baby. You don’t know shit about shit, so you don’t get to be all mature and accepting. This could be a trick or some kind of fucked-up manipulation and I refuse to—” Hawke’s voice broke. He cleared his throat. “You aren’t allowed to die, Carver. Get that through your thick head.”

Carver’s laugh was ragged but fond. “Death comes for us all eventually, brother,” he said. “You and I know that better than most people.”

“You think Ma didn’t fight? Or Father?” Hawke asked. “Bethie went out fighting. They didn’t roll over and quietly accept what was happening to them and neither should you.”

“And why do you even care?” Carver asked.

Carver couldn’t see Hawke’s face, but Dorian could. Hawke looked gut-punched—eyes wide and mouth open, wan and shaky. Carver couldn’t have dealt a better blow if he’d actually hit him.

“Why do I care?” Hawke asked finally. “Just how fucking stupid are you?”

Carver scowled. “You’ve always hated me,” he said. “You played with Bethie more and complained to Father about all the training we had to do together and you and Ma never let me forget how much you would’ve rather Bethie survived the Blight than me—”

Hawke reached out and blindly grabbed Carver’s hand. Carver tried to pull it out of his grasp but Hawke had a strong grip.

“Don’t be more of an idiot than you can help. Ma and I missed Bethie, of course we did, but if you really think we’d trade her for you, you’re a lot dumber than I ever thought. And I've always thought you were pretty dumb.”

“Then what about after the Deep Roads? I didn’t hear from you at all. I had to get letters from Varric, of all people. Even about Ma’s death. And when we met up again during the Uprising, you could barely look at me—”

“Because it was my fault!”

Carver jumped. Lavellan’s hand tightened around Dorian’s. When Dorian looked at him, Lavellan looked half-ready to get out of his seat and march over to Hawke’s table. Dorian squeezed his hand until Lavellan looked at him instead.

“They’ve got it,” he whispered.

Lavellan didn’t look like he believed Dorian but some of his tension relaxed a little. He didn’t let go of Dorian’s hand.

“Your fault?” Carver asked, so nonplussed his fury had disappeared. “What are you talking about?”

Hawke closed his eyes. “Ma begged me not to take you with me. I decided you should go. If you’d stayed in Kirkwall, you would never have gotten bitten or become a Grey Warden.” He made a soft, choked sound. “You wouldn’t be dying now. It’s my fault. You want to know why I didn’t write you letters, couldn’t look at you? I couldn’t bear to face what I’d done to my baby brother. After what I did to Bethie and Ma…”

“Adrian—”

“I did everything I could to keep your dumb ass safe,” Hawke said. “I stopped all the fights, I tried to keep you from joining the Cailan's army, I made everyone wait until you were back before we fled, I took every dangerous task Athenril threw our way… But it was all for nothing because being my brother was always going to get you killed no matter what I did. Everyone I love leaves and it’s always my fault.”

Lavellan practically broke Dorian’s fingers as silence descended between the brothers. Hawke was tight-lipped and hard-eyed, two seconds from shattering to pieces. For the first time, Dorian couldn’t tell at all what Carver was thinking. As the seconds stretched, Dorian worried that Carver was going to say the wrong thing, that this rift that obviously existed between them wasn’t something that could be breached. He didn’t want to think about what Hawke might be like if he lost the last of his family like this, especially if he thought it was his fault. Hawke would be back to his charming and guileless self again, no doubt, but it would be hiding an open wound that would only fester for being ignored.

“I always knew you had a big head,” Carver said at last. “But this is really pushing it.”

Said big head whipped around, but Carver was still facing the wall.

“I do not have a big head,” Hawke said. “My head is perfectly proportioned.”

“All right, then use those perfectly proportioned ears to listen to me carefully,” Carver said. “I wanted to go with you into the Deep Roads. I agreed to become a Warden because I didn’t want to die yet. Getting bitten by that darkspawn was bad fucking luck. Just like what happened to Father and Bethie and Ma.”

“But—”

“Shut up, it’s my turn,” Carver snarled. “No matter how many fancy titles you get, that doesn’t make you a god, understand? I made my choice and that’s on me, not you. Maker, Adrian, I already had to share so much with you when we were kids. Can’t you let me at least have my own fucking mistakes?”

Hawke made a sound. Dorian couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a sob. Carver’s face tightened before softening so much it was almost like looking at a different person. Hawke turned in one huge movement. Carver jumped as Hawke’s arms settled around his shoulders and Hawke buried his face in Carver’s hair. He patted Hawke’s forearm with one hand and he looked so fond it was almost impossible to watch him.

“I don’t want you to die, kid,” Hawke said, muffled but still loud enough to be clear. “Please don’t die.”

Carver closed his eyes.

“I used to think you could beat anything,” he said. “You talked back to witches and fought templars and qunari and blood mages. I never once thought there was anything that could get one over you. But if this is coming for me, no one can stop it, big brother.” A flash of teeth, the briefest smile. “Not even you.”

Hawke’s sob was clear this time and Dorian had had enough. He gave Lavellan’s hand a little tug and made a meaningful look at the remaining patrons of the tavern who were all clearly still listening in. Lavellan got his meaning immediately and forced his face into a harsh scowl, standing and releasing Dorian’s hand. Dorian stretched it out as Lavellan shooed the remaining customers out, leaving the tavern empty. Once the last of them had left, Lavellan approached the Hawke brothers.

“Make sure he makes it back to his room in one piece,” he told Carver. “Fenris wouldn’t mind maiming me if anything happened to him.” He clapped a hand on his shoulder, carefully avoiding touching a still shuddering Hawke. “Nice work, kid.”

Carver cut him an unamused look. “I’m older than you,” he said. 

"Nice work, old man," Lavellan said without missing a beat.

Carver considered him. Without jostling Hawke from his shoulders, he fumbled into his armor and withdrew a single piece of gold, holding it out to Lavellan. Lavellan took it curiously and Carver scowled at him.

"A Hawke always pays his debts," he said. 

Lavellan blinked, then folded the coin into his hand with a wink, making his way back to Dorian. Dorian stood to meet him and they walked out of the tavern in silence. It was only as they were climbing up the stairs to the main hall that Lavellan let out a juddering sigh and his shoulders slumped. He looked as wrecked as Hawke had been.

“Creators,” he said.

Dorian reached out and carefully touched the tips of his fingers to Lavellan’s tense shoulderblade. “They’ll figure it out,” he said. “Between them they’ve got at least a half-wit’s sense.”

Lavellan stared at him, wide-eyed, then began to laugh. It was too choked to be normal but it still warmed Dorian to hear. Lavellan grabbed his hand and pressed his lips to his knuckles in a brief, searing caress that sent heat spiraling down Dorian’s arm. He was blushing, he knew it.

“Thank you,” Lavellan said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dorian said, glad that his voice remained mostly even. “You do know my price, after all.”

“Yes, yes. Wines and silks, was it?"

“You say it and yet has anyone showered me with expensive gifts? No.”

“Don’t worry, Dorian,” Lavellan said. “You’ll get all you’re due and more.”

Dorian still couldn’t set the matter aside even as he was climbing the stairs to his own piddly little room. He’d spent a restless two hours attempting to finish the studies he’d been in the middle of when Lavellan interrupted him, but it had been so impossible to focus he’d decided he might as well go to sleep.

It was so easy to forget how much Hawke had lost when you were around the man; he seemed so bright, so unchanged by the tragedy of his own life. But Dorian had read his story—Maker, hundreds of people had read his story. Dorian wondered if it was kindness or cruelty that Varric had put so much of Hawke’s life on display for the masses to witness. And Carver… Dorian had never spared much thought for the younger Hawke; he’d disappeared early in the story and had never been as vivid a character as the rest of Hawke’s companions. But surely his own life had been difficult; he'd lost just as much as his brother and never had anything to begin to make up for it.

Dorian had started to open his door when he heard the voices down the hall. He paused, glancing up and down, but the hall was dark and there weren’t any people that he could see. He’d thought all the rooms near his were empty. Curious, he followed the sound to a door at the end of the hall that was slightly ajar. A faint light was visible through the crack. Dorian hesitantly pushed it open and peered around the edge.

The light came from a single candle, leaving the room dark enough that Dorian needed a moment to catch sight of the figures on the bed. He froze.

Fenris was sprawled across the rumpled bed, pillows propped up behind him to brace his neck and cushion his back. He held a book in one hand, tilting it toward the light of the candle so that he could see. He was reading aloud in a low, rough voice.

Across his lap was Hawke. His face was pressed into Fenris’s stomach and Fenris’s free hand was slowly carding through Hawke’s thick, dark hair. As Dorian watched, Hawke murmured something too low for Dorian to hear that made Fenris stop reading for a moment. He looked down at Hawke’s head and bent to press a kiss to his hair, murmuring something back. Dorian could only make out a rough Tevinter endearment that made his throat close up. As Fenris lifted his head, he caught sight of Dorian in the doorway. The soft tenderness fled from his expression and in that moment, Dorian feared death.

He shook his head and held a finger up to his lips. He mouthed a sorry and backed up, closing the door behind him. For a long moment, he stood in the hallway and just breathed.

He’d never seen that before. He’d rarely known men who were in love with other men and that kind of casual intimacy was something he’d never witnessed himself. In Tevinter, everything was rushed out of necessity—Dorian could count on one hand the times he’d stayed the night with a conquest. His preferences were all about desire, he’d been told time and time again, not love.

But that hadn’t been desire in there. That had been intimacy, the same kind of deep love that Dorian had dared to wish for himself once upon a time. Dorian closed his eyes. Hawke deserved that after the night he’d had, after the life he’d had. But Dorian couldn’t help but feel brief, useless envy that he might never get that for himself—that he might walk through this life being a port in the storm for men and never the place they wanted to call home.

He allowed the envy for only a moment before he packed it away. He straightened and opened his eyes and went to his bed without allowing himself to think of it again.

Dorian had been deep in a treatise on the effect on the Fade on dreamers--the closest pre-Rift scholarship to what they were experiencing now after the Breach--when he became aware of the distant sound of music and laughter. He looked up from his book, blinking black spots from his eyes. The sound didn’t go away. Dorian looked out of his window at the high full moon and frowned. It was well past midnight, wasn’t it? Who in the Maker’s name was throwing a party at this hour?

He stood, stretching and wincing as his joints popped. He really needed to convince Lavellan to invest in a masseuse for Skyhold: at this point, he was one bad night away from throwing out his back like an old man and that would just be embarrassing.

Solas’ study was dark and quiet, but there was a faint light coming from underneath the door to the main hall. Dorian pressed his ear against it but the wood was heavy enough that he could only make out the muffled music and some chatter. He thought he recognized Bull’s voice. Dorian leaned back from the door with raised eyebrows. He should really just go back to his room and get some much-needed rest, but his curiosity refused to let him leave. Dorian cracked open the door and peered around the edge.

At first, it was difficult to see anything at all--the hall was only lit by the soft glow of a dozen or so candles. Then he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned in time to see Sera dipping Lavellan with a wild, croaky laugh.

“Sera, don’t you dare—"

She dropped him and leaped back with a cackle. Lavellan sat up, rubbing his head and glaring at her. He was… Dorian swallowed. Lavellan was wearing a shirt, but it was thin and sleeveless, putting his glorious arms on full display. His hair was a simple ponytail and he looked soft in the candlelight. Dorian wanted to touch him so badly he curled his hands into fists to keep them from reaching out.

Distracted by Lavellan, it took him a long moment to realize that almost all of the inner circle was gathered in the main hall. Sera was hiding behind Bull, grinning around him at Lavellan. Blackwall leaned against a wall, eating an apple and dressed in his usual rags. Solas stood apart from the group, though Cole hovered around his elbow, flitting from him to the others and back again. Vivienne was the only one who had retained her regal dignity, still fully dressed and coiffed as she surveyed Lavellan with a disapproving frown. In her own corner, Dalish, of all people, was lowering her fiddle with a sigh.

“Is it over yet?” Lavellan asked as he brushed himself off.

“It is over when I say it is over,” Vivienne told him. “You’ve only danced with Sera and Blackwall.”

“Yeah, and look how well that turned out,” Lavellan muttered.

Blackwall flushed and Vivienne spared a severe look at Sera, who stuck out her tongue. Bull cackled.

“Sera was not invited to this little soiree and I am sorely tempted to evict her from these proceedings,” Vivienne said. "As for Blackwall... Well. Perhaps he could use some extra dancing lessons as well."

Sera’s, “Like you could!” was drowned out by Lavelan’s loud groan.

“I told you this was pointless, V,” he said. “I don’t know how you think all this is going to help.”

Vivienne frowned at him. “I have already explained my reasoning, Inquisitor,” she said. “You need to practice with many different people so you can feel more comfortable dancing with many different types of partners. You improved when you danced with the Champion, did you not?”

Lavellan’s face shifted at the mention of Hawke. It had only been a couple of days since Carver’s explosive arrival and Hawke had been scarce, barely out of the rooms he shared with Fenris. No one had seen Carver either, though Varric had assured him that he was still at Skyhold. Dorian knew it had to be driving Lavellan crazy, meddler and mother hen that he was. Between that and the lack of news about the Warden meeting in the Western Approach, Dorian got the impression that Lavellan was going a little stir-crazy. No wonder he couldn’t focus on Vivienne’s lessons.

“Come on, boss,” Bull said, stepping forward. “If you try to argue with her, she’s just gonna make your life hell.”

He held out a hand. Lavellan looked from it to Vivienne’s face and sighed grumpily.

“I am supposed to be your leader, you know,” he said as took Bull’s huge hand.

Bull laughed as he drew them together a bit tighter than Dorian thought was strictly necessary. Dorian frowned and inched further into the room. They made a striking pair, he acknowledged with a pang. Lavellan was close to Bull and his comfort showed in the relaxing slope of his shoulders, the amused smile he was turning upward.

“You may be the boss of us, but Vivienne’s her own boss and we all know it,” Bull said.

Vivienne clucked her tongue but it wasn't difficult to see she was pleased. “There we go. Much better. Dalish?”

“My fingers are getting tired.”

“What was that, my dear?”

Dalish blanched and set her bow to her fiddle. “I said, I can’t wait to play another reel, Lady Vivienne!”

“Oh, none of that,” Vivienne said. “Madame de Fer will do nicely.”

Dalish began to play. Bull waited for a beat then began to pull Lavellan around the room. They moved together more smoothly than Lavellan and Sera had or even Lavellan and Hawke. Dorian wondered where Bull had learned to dance and reminded himself again that just because he’d been raised to think of qunari as brutish thugs didn’t mean they actually were. Dorian hated it when people made assumptions about him because he was from Tevinter; surely he could refrain from doing the same to others, even if they were supposed to be his life-long enemies.

Still, even though Lavellan seemed to be doing better with Bull, it only took about half the song before Lavellan turned right when he should have turned left and collided so heavily with Bull that he bounced back a bit, swearing. Bull held up his hands, smirking a little.

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe you are a lost cause.”

“See?” Lavellan said, still trying to shake the sting of the collide out of his shoulder. “I told you, V! Just let me sleep in peace, won’t you?”

“No one is a lost cause, darling,” Vivienne said. “We’ll just have to get creative, that’s all.”

Dorian hadn’t realized how far into the room he’d come until Bull’s eyes rested on him and lit with mischief. Dorian had a very, very bad feeling about that look and he was just about to turn tail and flee, no matter how much he wanted to stay and watch Lavellan make an endearing fool out of himself, when Bull pointed right at him.

“Why don’t we get an expert to help us, huh?” he asked.

Everyone turned to look, including Lavellan. Dorian froze. He was not going to blush, he told himself sternly. He was not going to—

“You’re blushing,” Sera informed him gleefully.

Dorian glared at her. How rude. “I happen to be overheated,” he said with a pointed sniff. “I’m very delicate, you know.”

“Oh, I know—”

“I’m just saying,” Bull said with suspicious innocence. “Pretty sure ‘vints learn how to dance in the womb. Isn’t that right, Pavus?”

“Not quite the womb,” Dorian said. Under the combined weight of half a dozen stares, he conceded, “But near enough.”

“So? Pretty sure he’s more qualified to teach Lavellan the ropes than the rest of us put together.”

“You make a fair point,” Vivienne said. Dorian stared at her. Was he imagining the mischief in her eyes? Surely Vivienne couldn’t share a sense of humor with Bull? “I am sure Master Pavus has no objections to lending his expertise to such an excellent cause.”

Dorian wanted to curse her and curse Bull and curse his own damnable curiosity that had led him to getting tangled in this mess to begin with. He looked at Lavellan and stiffened when he realized Lavellan was already looking at him quizzically, eyebrows raised.

“You can’t make me any worse,” Lavellan said when Dorian met his eyes. He shrugged. “Might as well give it a go.”

Dorian could think of a dozen reasons why being that close to Lavellan was a bad idea, even if their only audience was Lavellan’s inner circle. But he couldn’t say any of them under the force of Lavellan’s bright, interested stare. He wilted.

“Well, I can think of worse ways to put my esteemed tutelage to use,” he said. “Though this would doubtless shock my dancing instructor into an early grave.”

Madame Breda had had very firm thoughts on proprietry.

“All the better,” Lavellan said. He opened his arms. “Let’s get it over with, yeah?”

“Not what people usually say to me,” Dorian said and revelled in Lavellan’s open laugh.

He and Lavellan were nearly of a height, but Lavellan had been following with his last few partners so Dorian assumed the lead position. As he reached for Lavellan’s waist his hands suddenly seemed three times too big and clumsy. Heat crawled up Dorian’s neck. He finally managed to grasp Lavellan’s waist just as Lavellan put a light hand on his shoulder. And then, suddenly, they were in each other’s space. Lavellan’s eyes were bright this close. He had unfairly thick eyelashes. Dorian couldn’t breathe, could only stare. Was it his imagination that Lavellan was looking at his mouth? Dorian's entire body lit with heat. 

“Come on, get on with it!”

The moment broke. They both turned to look at Sera, who stuck out her tongue at them. Behind her, Blackwall looked like he might be stifling a laugh. Dorian felt Lavellan’s full-body sigh but when he turned back, Lavellan was smiling too a little, rueful.

“Come on,” he said to Dorian. “Let’s get on with it.”

Dorian heard Vivienne instruct Dalish to being playing again, but he ignored it as he focused on Lavellan. He was very warm and solid under Dorian’s palm, all muscle. Dorian had wondered more than once what it would be like to be so close to him but he hadn’t anticipated the way it would turn his brain to slush. Could he actually help Lavellan learn to dance? Dorian barely felt like he could dance right now.

Thankfully, Madame Breda had been a firm taskmaster. Dorian had practiced these dances so many times he could do them in his sleep, so his body knew exactly what to do as he began the waltz.

Dorian had watched Lavellan dance several times now and he’d figured that Lavellan’s problem was that he wasn’t quite able to step out of his head enough to relax. True to form, Lavellan still felt tense and wary under his hand, resisting Dorian’s pull and bucking his lead. Lavellan, Dorian reminded himself, was used to leading himself. He began to see why Vivienne had insisted Lavellan had learned to follow first—without knowing that, he would have been terrible at leading too, even if he had a better disposition for that.

“May I ask you a question?” Dorian asked as they turned, feet moving rapidly. Lavellan narrowly avoided clipping Dorian’s foot.

Lavellan snorted. "Go ahead."

Dorian braced himself. "Do you trust me?"

Lavellan's eyebrows went up. “What kind of question is that? Of course I do.”

Oh, that was always so nice to hear. Dorian ignored the way it made his stomach go disgusting and squishy. He smiled at Lavellan instead.

“Then relax," he said. "I have you.”

Lavellan frowned at him. Something odd and complicated danced below his features. He didn’t say anything else, but the tension slowly went out of him and he stopped resisting every turn Dorian made. As Dorian had suspected, Lavellan’s natural grace was high enough to make his dancing beautiful even if it would likely never be technically perfect. Dorian’s heart thrummed against his chest as he turned them again and pulled Lavellan against his chest, their face close enough to kiss. Lavellan’s mouth quirked and more tension sloughed off of him.

They began to move faster. Vivienne had clearly drilled the steps into Lavellan’s head, for he followed Dorian through them without hardship. Lavellan didn’t falter, barely paused even as Dorian began to make bring out more complicated steps, began to lead him through more complex movements. Lavellan went with it all, so relaxed in Dorian’s arms that something tight and heavy caught in Dorian’s throat. He was beautiful like this, Dorian thought.

Dorian turned and, with a spur of the moment decision, dipped Lavellan low. Lavellan came up laughing, cupping his hands behind Dorian’s neck.

Dorian’s heart was so full and his attention so fixed that it took him a long moment to hear the clapping. He turned to find the inner circle regarding them with a variety of smirks. Bull was hollering and Sera was whistling and even Solas had the tiniest smile on his face as he gave a polite tea-clap that would have put Dorian’s mother to shame.

Dorian was fairly certain his flush went all the way down to his toes. He stepped immediately away from Lavellan and tried to clear his throat, tried to smile. He was sure it got stuck somewhere but he hoped it was enough to cover up the fluttering panic in his throat.

“See?” he asked. “All you needed was a bit of my expertise, Inquisitor. You’ll be a dancing champion in no time.”

He couldn’t look at Lavellan. His fingers were tingling and he felt shaky, as if he’d just fought several demons or jumped off a cliff. What had he been thinking? For a brief moment, he remembered seeing Fenris and Hawke in their little room. Dorian bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. What had he been thinking?

“Of course, Dorian,” Lavellan said. He sounded—soft, almost sad. Dorian risked a peek but Lavellan wasn’t looking at him. “Well, V? Did I finally match your exacting standards?”

“Not quite, Inquisitor,” Vivienne said. “But you’ve made an excellent start.”

“Do I get to sleep now?”

“I believe I can allow that. But this breakthrough does not mean you can avoid my lessons the way you avoid Josephine’s, Inquisitor.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

There was some shuffling. Dorian refused to look, keeping his smirk fixed firmly on his face and his eyes on the nearest wall. A gentle touch to his face made him flinch. He looked out of the corner of his eyes at Lavellan. He couldn’t read Lavellan’s face at all and his panic deepened. Had Lavellan realized? Had he noticed?

“Thank you, Dorian,” he said. His mouth quirked. “What would I even do without you?”

“Step on the Queen Celeste's foot and start an international incident, no doubt,” Dorian said.

Lavellan huffed. “I’m not that bad.”

“Not after my help.”

“Yeah,” Lavellan said and Dorian’s blush was back. How was Lavellan always so bold, so unselfconscious about his words? Dorian couldn’t imagine being that free. “You’re always helping me, Dorian. Let me know if you ever want me to return the favor sometime, yeah?”

Dorian was startled enough to look at him head-on. Lavellan stared back. He didn’t look tense but there was something heavy in his eyes. Dorian’s stomach tightened. He opened his mouth, closed it again. He didn’t know what he wanted to say, if he even had anything to say. Lavellan poked him in the cheek.

“Good night,” he said.

“Good night,” Dorian echoed, staring at Lavellan’s disappearing back.

He stood in the darkened main hall for several moments after Lavellan had disappeared, trying to make sense of that conversation.

“In my experience, happiness is a rare commodity.”

Dorian jumped. Vivienne didn’t look amused at startling him but Dorian scowled at her anyway.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re nattering on about,” he said in his airiest voice.

Vivienne’s mouth pursed. “I’m sure you don’t, darling,” she said. “And isn’t that the saddest thing of them all?” She shook her head. “Blow out that candle when you’re done trying to puzzle it out, my dear. And do try to think about it carefully. You’ve certainly got more brains than I ever expected, but even the most intelligent men are absolute idiots about this sort of thing.”

She strode out before Dorian could ask her what ‘this sort of thing’ was exactly. He frowned. Was it too much to ask for a straight answer out of someone every once in a while? Flummoxed and feeling like he was missing something big—something that rarely happened and Dorian didn’t like the feeling one bit—he went to blow out the candle and make his way to his bed.

Chapter Text

Dorian had prided himself on his fighting prowess back in Tevinter; he was an accomplished battlemage even if he preferred to spend his time indoors with his books. He had beaten more than one arrogant altus who thought Dorian’s preferences made him some sort of limpet who couldn’t tell one end of a staff from another. Coming south had revised some of his estimations of his own abilities—he had no doubt that he was a powerful mage but he also had no doubt someone like Cassandra or Lavellan or Fenris could take him out without breaking a sweat. Dorian didn’t appreciate feeling humbled, but he consoled himself with the thought that although he was surrounded by people who could probably kill him with their pinky finger, at least none of them could hold a candle to his intellectual acumen or aesthetic flair.

Still, Dorian thought that even though he might not be as dangerous as he’d originally assumed, he was still capable. So when he startled up  from his book as someone cleared their throat, nearly falling over himself in his surprise, he was embarrassed and disgruntled.

Lavellan’s mouth tipped up. “You’re going to throw your back out if you keep reading like that, you know,” he said.

He was the picture of indolence—leaning back in one of the library’s chair enough to put it on two legs, feet propped up on Dorian’s table, twirling a knife through his fingers. He was wearing his usual dark, soft clothes but his hair was pulled up in a simple knot on the back of his head, loose enough that strands of it had already begun to drop back to his shoulders. With his face scrubbed clean and his eyes bright, he looked… soft. The young man he was instead of the legend. Dorian swallowed. Was there any look Lavellan had that didn’t make Dorian want to touch him?

“How long have you been sitting there?” he asked.

The tiny smile widened. “Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” Dorian swore. “I really must be losing my touch. How utterly embarrassing.”

“If you aren’t safe in Skyhold’s library, you aren’t safe anywhere,” Lavellan said. “What’s it today, then?”

Dorian gave him a side-look. “You’ve never been interested in my research before,” he said.

“Haven’t I?” Lavellan was the picture of innocence with those wide eyes and that moue. Dorian didn’t believe it for a hot second. “How gauche of me. I so humbly apologize, Master Pavus.”

Dorian laughed. “I see those lessons with Lady Montilyet have been paying off.”

Lavellan rolled his eyes. “You’d think Halamshiral was tomorrow, the way Josephine frets. She’s driving herself wild over the colors for the Inquisition outfit and we still have two weeks to finalize it.”

“I’m sure she just wants you to be properly prepared.”

Dorian couldn’t even imagine Lavellan in a room full of stuffy, gossipy nobles. Every time he tried to conjure it in his mind’s eye, he blanked out. But he had a feeling that Lavellan’s predictions of bloodshed wouldn’t be entirely off the mark.

“If I have to hear one more lecture on some twat’s hurt feelings at getting the wrong place setting for tea, I’ll kill myself,” Lavellan said. “Rescue me.”

“I think you’re fully capable of rescuing yourself,” Dorian said, ignoring how the plea made his heart beat a little bit faster, the foolish thing. “Is that what this is? Are you hiding from Lady Montilyet in here?”

“She wouldn’t stop talking about place settings, Dorian.”

Dorian fought to keep a straight face. “A most grave topic indeed,” he said.

“No, don’t you start too—” Lavellan frowned, looking over Dorian’s shoulder. “Do you hear that?”

He stood. Dorian frowned. He hadn’t heard anything but he’d long since learned to trust Lavellan’s instincts for trouble. He stood as well and followed as Lavellan took the stairs down two at a time. Solas watched them pass with a minute frown but didn’t make to follow.

Lavellan wasn’t the only one who’d heard whatever it was—people were milling in an excited group in the courtyard. As Lavellan came down, they parted and hushed, watching him with expectancy. Dorian scowled and followed at Lavellan’s heels.

At the gate was a large party of humans on horses. Dorian blinked as they approached and the royal seal of Fereldan became visible. One of the men pulled off his helmet.

“Alistair!” Lavellan called out.

The King of Fereldan offered a wave. “Lavellan,” he said. He looked around, eyebrows rising. “Or is it Inquisitor, now?”

“Kai is fine,” Lavellan said. “Nobody told me you were coming.”

There was a warning in his voice for Cullen, who stood by the group’s horses. Cullen spared him a dry look.

“That is because no one told us he was coming,” Cullen said. “King Alistair sent no word ahead.”

“I wanted this to be quiet,” Alistair said, swinging off his horse in one fluid moment. “All right then. Where is she?”

Dorian blinked and then the King’s appearance suddenly made sense. With everything else Cousland was, it was easy to forget that she was a Queen and a wife—that the King wasn’t just her liege or comrade in arms but her lover and husband. Cousland hadn’t spared more than some fond comments about the king since she’d arrived at Skyhold—hadn’t, as far as Dorian had heard, even asked to see him or sent word. How had he known she was here?

Lavellan crossed his arms. All of his good-humored pleasantness fell to the wayside.

“Where’s who?”

Dorian shot him a surprised look and he wasn’t the only one. He wasn’t seriously trying to—

The King snorted. “You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that,” he said, not unkindly. “I had a lot of sneaky people on my team back in the day, you know. Sneaky. No offense, but you’re not about to beat Morrigan at the whole ‘I know a thing but I don’t want to tell you’ game because she’s too good at it for anyone to beat her.”

“He speaks only the truth,” Leliana said.

Dorian jumped. He hadn’t heard her approach. Lavellan leveled an unimpressed look that Leliana met with raised eyebrows.

“I’m guessing someone knew Alistair was coming,” Lavellan said in a hard voice.

“I did not know he would come,” Leliana denied. “But I felt he should be informed of Myuirin’s reappearance.” Something in Lavellan’s expression made her sigh. “She is my friend, Kai,” she said. “We all were very worried about her. I sent word to the others as well, so they would know that she was safe.”

Alistair scoffed. “That woman is never safe,” he grumbled. “You’d think I’d be used to it after ten years but no, she still goes gallivanting around the country without so much as a letter to say ‘hey, I’m not actually dead like everyone thinks.’ And who am I, anyway? Just her husband.”

“Didn’t Zev warn you about the perils of marriage at your bachelor party?”

This time everyone jumped, including Lavellan and Leliana, so Dorian felt a little better. Cousland could be as much of a ghost as Cole sometimes—Dorian had no idea what dark corner she’d been hiding in, but she’d clearly been there long enough to hear the entire conversation if the vexed tilt to her eyebrows was any indication. Dorian bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t smirk.

Alistair, just as taken off-guard as the rest of them, pointed an accusing finger at Cousland as she approached him. “You—!” He sputtered. “You took our dog!”

Cousland’s eyebrows flew up. “He’s my dog,” she said.

“Oh no you don’t! If I have to clean up his poop, he’s my dog too!”

“Cheddar’s fine,” she said.

Lavellan made a muffled sound. When Cousland turned to him, he stared at her.

“Is that your mabari?” he asked. She nodded. “You named him Cheddar?”

“In my defense, I got him when I was six and he wouldn’t stop eating through our cheese supply. Drove Cook mad and gave him terrible gas.” She shook her head. “He’s with Nathanial, Alistair.”

Alistair grimaced. “Oh, well if Nathanial has him—”

“You’d think I would be the one with the unending grudge against the Howes and yet—”

“He has a shifty look! Shifty! And he’s always around!”

“He is a Warden, love.”

“He’s a criminal.”

“So are half of the Wardens.”

“You’re letting a madman who tried to kill you look after our dog!”

“He only tried to kill me the one time.”

Heads swiveled as they argued. Lavellan nudged Dorian in the ribs, looking more relaxed.

“Should we break them up?”

“And miss out on this free entertainment?” Dorian whispered back and smiled as Lavellan shook with laughter.

“—maybe I would if you hadn’t been gone, you wretch!”

Lavellan and Dorian both straightened. Alistair had gone from frustration to fury in a moment, hands clenched and eyes ablaze. Cousland didn’t look alarmed, her face as calm as ever, but Dorian noticed hands going to their weapons all around them. Alistair was an ally and a hero, but no one was comfortable with someone getting violent next to their Inquisitor.

But Alistair didn’t do anything else, even shout. He let out a long, harsh breath, took his horse’s reins in one hand, and stomped away without another word, his retinue following with nary a whisper. Cousland didn’t try to follow him or say anything to stop him. Leliana put a hand on her elbow but Cousland shook it off.

“Myuirin—” she tried.

“Don’t,” Cousland said and stomped off in the opposite direction Alistair had taken.

Dorian had developed the bad habit of midnight wandering when he was a teen, an insomniac with too much academic fervor. His family estate back in Tevinter had been excellent for it, equipped with huge gardens and meandering halls—in less spacious places, Dorian had made do with pacing, but it was never the same.

Skyhold was excellent for his wandering too, even if he had been nervous of the guards during those first tense weeks. Now they knew him well enough for some stiff nods as he passed them on the battlements, though none of them had yet ventured for something so friendly and polite as an actual conversation. But Dorian usually haunted the garden, taking turn after turn while his mind ate away at whatever thorny problem or a knotty bit of academia was making it impossible to sleep that night. Dorian had thought more than once that it was actually a good thing his mind worked better when he was moving—it was practically the only time he voluntarily went outside when he was a child.

Dorian had been surprised to find that Skyhold was full of insomniacs, though most of them struggled with sleep for wildly different reasons than Dorian did. Lavellan, Dorian thought, still had nightmares—and he was hardly the only one. It wasn’t unusual for one or two people to be in the gardens or the Main Hall or even the training grounds well past midnight. So Dorian wasn’t really that surprised to hear raised voices as he approached the main door to the garden; he just sighed and decided he would take a turn around the courtyard instead. His mind was still full of the latest bit of necromantic theory he’d just read, distracted enough that he didn’t even realize he recognized the voices until he was already turning away.

“—damn fool plan of this kid’s—”

“He’s older than I was when we were fighting the Blight—”

“And you were too young for that too!”

Dorian paused, frowning. He turned back to the door, stepping closer to hear better, but the wood was too heavy to make out more the snippets of whatever Cousland and King Alistair were shouting at each other about.

Dorian only hesitated for a moment, looking back over his shoulder to make sure there weren’t any wayward guards watching. He opened the heavy door just enough to slip through, letting out a breath when he realized Cousland and the King were at the far end of the garden under the gazebo and hadn’t noticed him. He hurriedly slipped behind some of the tall trees in the nearest corner, staunchly ignoring the voice in the back of his head that sounded like Cassandra admonishing him for invading someone’s privacy like this. Cassandra wouldn’t notice good gossip if it bit her on her astonishingly sculpted biceps, what did she know?

Alistair had shed the heavy cloak and armor he’d worn when he arrived at Skyhold, clad only in a flimsy shirt and worn pants. Cousland was just as dressed down—it was the first time Dorian had seen her out of her armor. She looked smaller in regular clothes but she had her arms crossed over her chest and her chin tilted up as Alistair paced in front of her, arms waving.

“—don’t know what it’s been like since you left, M!”

“You’ve done fine without me,” Cousland said.

Alistair glared down at her. Dorian hadn’t thought affable, bumbling Alistair could look so furious.

“You know what people called me when you left?” he asked. “Fool wasn’t the worst of it. Even after everything you did, there were still people who thought taking a Warden for a  Queen was crazy—and they came swooping in like  the vultures they are the moment you disappeared.”

“Alistair—“

“I didn’t even want to be king!” Alistair cried out, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve handed over the crown to Anora in a second without an ounce of regret. You thought it should be me, you’re the one with the head for all this political stuff and nonsense.” His voice softened with vulnerable hurt. “We were supposed to be in this together, M. Isn’t that we promised?”

Cousland shook her head. “I may be your wife, Alistair—”

“Not at the wedding, you ninny!” Alistair scowled at her. “Before! During the Blight, you were the only one holding me up sometimes. We were partners, M! When did that change?”

“It didn’t.”

“You left!”

”I had to!”

For a long second, they just stared at each other, breathing heavily. The tension was thick enough to cut. Dorian bit the inside of his cheek.

Alistair was the first one to stand down. He dragged a hand down his face and sighed.

“I missed you,” he said, voice cracking like a boy’s. “For months, I’d kept turning around to tell you something and you weren’t there. I  just… missed you so much, M.”

Cousland didn’t soften. “I had to go, Alistair,” she said. “You know why.”

Alistair hissed through his teeth. “By the Maker, that cure nonsense. M, we’ve gone in circles about that thing—”

“It can be done.”

“It can’t. Wardens have been looking for a cure for hundreds of years  and just because one random dog-trainer found a flower to help animals with it—”

“If there’s something that can help the dogs—”

“—who have wildly different reactions to Blight sickness and the taint, which every single healer we’ve talked to has told you, including Anders! And Maker knows, you listen to him even if you won’t listen to me—”

Cousland snarled at him. “There has to be a way,” she said. “There is a way and I couldn’t just—relax with my dresses and duties knowing it’s out there, Alistair!”

“You don’t need to fix them, M!” Alistair frowned at her, then tried to soften his expression. “I know you didn’t want this, but a lot of Wardens chose this life. They don’t see it as a curse.”

“How can it not be a curse?” Cousland’s voice had the cadence of an old argument. “To wait out your years waiting to die?”

Alistair’s silence stretched a moment too long. Dorian realized what that did the same time Cousland did; her eyes widened. She reached out and pulled back again, hands flexing.

“No,” she said. “Tell me you haven’t, Alistair.”

“Thought it was my imagination at first,” Alistair admitted. Cousland’s expression cracked, exposing something raw and tender underneath the hard surface. Alistair saw it as plainly as Dorian did and he softened immediately, holding open his arms.

“Oh, sweetheart. It’s all right.”

“Don’t call me that,” Cousland said without any real heat. She hesitated, then stepped into the circle of Alistair’s arms. “You’re not allowed to die, idiot. Didn’t I forbid it?”

“Well. I’ve never been that good at listening, love.”

“Pretty simple thing to remember, farm boy,” she said.

“You know I’m not actually a farm boy. I grew up in a castle just like you.”

“You told me you slept with the horses.”

“When I wanted to.”

She withdrew to look up at him, all of her defensive fury gone. “I didn’t mean for it to be so long, Alistair. I just… I needed…”

He kissed her forehead. “I knew I was marrying a martyr when I proposed, love. I’m not saying you shouldn’t try. But would it kill you to write a letter every once in a while?”

“Can you read them?”

“Hey! I had an education, you know. A good one, even! No matter what Morrigan says.”

Dorian just about jumped out of his skin when a hand landed on his elbow. Heart in his throat, he turned and all but collapsed from relief when he saw Lavellan.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered.

“Could ask you the same thing,” Lavellan said.

Dorian flushed. Well yes, it looked rather bad to be caught spying like some lecherous stalker, didn’t it?

“I heard voices,” he said with as much dignity as he could.

Lavellan’s mouth twitched. “And you, being the busybody you are, came running to get the scoop, huh?”

Dorian bristled, but Lavellan shook his head, lifting a finger to his mouth with dancing eyes.

“Ssh,” he said. “Tell you what. If you stay quiet, I won’t tell them you were out here. Deal?”

Before Dorian could agree or disagree, he darted out from behind the trees, making enough noise to alert Cousland and Alistair to his approach.

“Cousland?” he called.

Alistair jumped, flushing, but Cousland only looked over her shoulder at Lavellan, one eyebrow going up.

“You need me to tell you a bedtime story, fool?” she asked.

Lavellan snorted. “You’d be the last person I asked to do that,” he said. “You’re needed.”

“It’s one o’clock in the morning. What do you need me for?”

“The guards caught some people sneaking over the walls. They say they’re Wardens?” Lavellan shook his head. “Do Wardens have something against just coming through a gate or something?”

Cousland sighed. “Not all of them,” she said. “But the ones I know usually have… trust issues. Where are you holding them?”

“Th Main Hall,” Lavellan said. “I hate to interrupt a romantic evening, but the dwarf keeps threatening to cut off my balls if I don’t let him see you.”

Alistair snorted and Cousland drove an elbow into his sternum that made him gasp. She didn’t even look back.

“I’m coming,” she said.

“Dorian.”

Dorian jumped, nearly dropping his book. He swore in Tevene.

“You really have to stop doing that,” he said.

Lavellan wasn’t smiling the way he usually did when Dorian made a fool of himself. He wasn’t grim either, but there was a coiled restlessness to him that Dorian had always only seen on the battlefield. Dorian tensed.

“How soon can you be ready to  head out?”

Dorian frowned. “Twenty minutes, give or take. Where are we going?”

“Harding finally reported. Wardens have been spotted at the Tevinter tower in the Western Approach. If we leave now, we can still catch them.”

Lavellan’s tension made sense now. They’d all been waiting for Harding to report in for nearly two weeks now.

“Give me ten minutes,” Dorian said, already running down his mental list of supplies. Luckily, he left his pack alone between travels. He should only need to restock his potions, perhaps stock some of the rarer herbs in case of emergency…

“Dorian.” Dorian glanced over and shivered. Lavellan’s grin was full of teeth. “Let’s get these bastards.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Dorian said.

Bull and Solas were waiting at the gate when Dorian arrived, their mounts prepped and ready. Dorian had expected Hawke and Fenris as well, not to mention Cousland and Loghain; they had been waiting almost as anxiously as Lavellan for news from the Western Approach. But the newcomers in Warden blue were a surprise—they could only be Cousland’s mystery guests who had arrived late last night and had already spawned dozens of rumors.

The man was tall and gaunt with a heavy set to his brow that made Dorian inexplicably think of Cullen. His companion was a dwarf with a thick red beard and the biggest ax Dorian had ever seen strapped to his back—and Dorian regularly traveled with Bull.

“Someone might think you’re overcompensating for something,” Dorian said to the dwarf.

He blinked up at Dorian. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot; Maker, was he hungover?

“What’s that?” he asked. His heavy burr was almost incomprehensible to Dorian. “You starting something, fancy?”

“Now, now, there’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Dorian said. “Plenty of men can still… satisfy their partners no matter what size they may be.”

The dwarf seemed to recognize he was being insulted even though Dorian didn’t think he realized yet what exactly Dorian was insulting. He puffed up but it only made him look bloated.

“Now see here you ‘vint—”

“Children, please.” Lavellan leaned heavily into Dorian’s shoulder, smelling of soap and mint. “I don’t need any fucking sniping on this ride.”

“Tell your pet mage to keep his mouth shut, then,” the man said with a disdainful look toward Dorian.

Dorian stiffened, but Lavellan only gave the man a cool once-over. 

“Dorian’s not a pet,” Lavellan said. “I don’t tell him to do anything.”

Dorian was warm all over and it wasn’t entirely because Lavellan was still draped over him. He hoped he wasn't blushing.

“My hero,” Dorian said. “Shall I give you a token so you look appropriately dashing?”

“I could use an extra handkerchief,” Lavellan said. “But there's no need. Dorian meet Howe and Oghren, our newest Wardens.”

“A pleasure,” Dorian said, though it wasn't. "Is there any reason we're been inundated with Wardens?"

“Well, it is their Order we’re trying to fix,” Lavellan said. He finally peeled himself off of Dorian. Dorian couldn’t decide if he was happy or disappointed. “Cousland called them in. thought they could help. I was going to ask Carver to come as well, but Hawke put his foot down." Lavellan sounded amused. "Heard they had a whole screaming match about it, but Hawke wouldn't be moved. So we get Howe and Oghren instead."

“No King Alistair?” Dorian asked with an eyebrow wriggle at Cousland.

“Watch yourself, ‘vint,” Howe snapped.

Cousland gave him an exasperated glance. “He left early this morning,” she said to Dorian. “He’s a king first now, not a Warden. If the situation worsens, he’ll join us.”

“Just like the old days, eh, Cousland?” the dwarf, Oghren, asked with a disturbing leer. “Darkspawn, end of the world, lots of pretty…” He looked around, brow wrinkling. “Where’re all your pretty ladies?”

“You do remember why we’re here, don’t you, Oghren?” Howe asked with obvious disgruntlement.

“Uh…”

“Maker.”

“Well, it’s like I told Felsi,” Oghren said. “When Cousland asks you to do something, you don’t no and you don’t ask questions. So I’m here. But last time there were pretty ladies.”

Lavellan’s mouth was puckered like he badly wanted to laugh. He bent down to Oghren’s eye level.

“Tell you what,” he said in his gravest voice. “We come back in one piece, I’ll introduce you to the prettiest lady I know.”

Oghren perked up. “You really mean it?”

“By the Creators.”

“Well!” Oghren hoisted his enormous battle-ax on his shoulder. Dorian resisted the urge to make another joke. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

In the flurry of activity of everyone getting on their mounts, Dorian leaned into Lavellan. “You’re not seriously going to let him loose on the women here?”

Lavellan gave him a wicked smile that made all of Dorian’s organs flip simultaneously.

“Well…” he said. “I said the prettiest lady I know. And who’s prettier than Cassandra, Dorian?”

Dorian snickered. “Oh, I think Leliana would be heart-broken if she heard you say that, Lavellan.”

“Well, I hate to play favorites but I’ve always had a weak spot for brunettes with great cheekbones.”

Dorian knew he was flushing a little but determinedly ignored how that description could also apply to him. Thankfully, before he could say anything, Hawke draped himself over Lavellan’s shoulders. He was taller and broader than Lavellan, but Lavellan didn’t even waver under his unexpected weight.

“What’s this I hear about brunettes with great cheekbones?” he asked.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Lavellan said.

Hawke leaned into him further. Lavellan scowled and tried to shrug him off to no avail.

“Why, Kai,” Hawke crooned. “I’m hurt. Devastated. Bewildered.”

“You’re heavy, you great lug.”

“Heavy with sadness.”

“Heavy from all those pies you keep stuffing in your face.”

Hawke stepped back from Lavellan so suddenly he stumbled a little. Dorian reached for his elbow to steady him and found himself sharing a long-suffering look with Fenris as Lavellan and Hawke began to make faces at each other. Fenris realized who he was commiserating with after a moment and schooled his features, but Dorian still counted it as a victory.

“See if I teach you my special techniques now,”  Hawk said with a dainty sniff.

“I think I’ll survive without all your showy pyrotechnics, Hawke.”

Hawke’s mouth dropped open.

“Showy—!”

“All right, babies, you’re both very pretty,” Cousland said, already astride her horse. She raised her eyebrow. “Are you ready to start saving the world or do you want another few minutes to squabble?”

Hawke looked like he was seriously considering petitioning for the few minutes to squabble, but Lavellan’s face smoothed other, leaving the manic restlessness Dorian had noticed in the library. Lavellan was more than ready— he was a bloodhound with the scent of prey in the air, hungry and prowling. Without a word, Lavellan leaped onto his hart, graceful and quick as any cat, and grinned at Cousland with too many teeth exposed.

“Let’s do this,” he said.

The ride to the Western Approach was brutal. Dorian had become somewhat accustomed to Lavellan’s feckless speed and impatience with rests; their mounts, thanks to Master Dennet, were usually good enough to keep up with Lavellan’s pace even if Dorian’s thighs didn’t exactly thank him for it. Lavellan always rode with the group, but Dorian had thought more than once that he chafed at being tied down to a large party; his eyes were constantly fixed on the horizon and sometimes his great hart would skip several steps ahead, as if it too desired to be let loose at a gallop that would outstrip everyone else. But then Lavellan would glance back and his expression would change and the hart would settle to a more reasonable pace.

Still, they made excellent time due to Lavellan’s brutal push. The trip to the Approach normally took four days, but they were already approaching the Orlesian border by their first nightfall. They would make it to the ruins by tomorrow evening if all went well and it was making everyone a little restless. The moment they tied off their mounts, Lavellan went loping into the woods with Hawke and Fenris to find some meat for their evening meal; the others began to roll out the tents, starting the arduous process of setting up camp.

Dorian had never been camping in Tevinter. The longest he’d ever spent outdoors was the ferocious summer festivals in Minratheous, where even magisters sometimes roamed the streets during the wild three-day celebration. Dorian had many fond memories of that debauchery, most of it sun-drenched. But until he’d come south, he’d never had to set up a tent or built a fire without magic or any number of things that were apparently taught to these southerners at birth. Dorian had spent several miserable, wet days under his sorry excuse for a tent before he’d managed to make his way to Redcliffe and a reasonable inn.

Dorian saw no need to subject himself to work that he was abysmal at when there were so many around him that were better at it. But during his first few travels with the Inquisition, it was impossible to ignore the prickle in the back of his mind as he lounged and watched everyone else hurrying around camp like busy bees. Spoiled noble brat, it whispered and Dorian found himself wanting to do something to shut it and the disdainful looks Solas and Cassandra kept giving him up.

But his attempts to set up the tents had only gotten him laughed away and he had no real skill in hunting, especially not with Lavellan around to do it ten times better and faster than Dorian could ever dream. Eventually, he’d decided the fire was simple enough to take as his own; he’d never chopped wood before either, but at least it was fairly easy to learn, and his magic had come in handy more than once in a place as windy and wet as Fereldan could be.

He’d struggled at first, but the routine had become soothing. Dorian had done it enough now that he automatically began gathering sticks and dry bark and leaves to burn as kindling. He had no blade but they were often with someone who had a stout knife on them—this time, he borrowed Bull’s, who never failed to give it with a little wink that made Dorian roll his eyes. The trees in the area were stumpy but many of them were dead or dying, which made collecting the wood a little easier. When he returned, Lavellan had already come back, a slender deer slung around his shoulders like some kind of grotesque shawl. An arrow protruded from its eye.

“I’ve got a few birds too,” Lavellan said as he spotted Dorian. “I’ll have them ready by the time you get the fire up.”

Dorian refused to let on how much he enjoyed this quiet time. He imagined how his friends back home would react to see him with his sleeves rolled up, carefully setting up a little wood house and filling it with kindling, starting a fire like any non-magic barbarian, an elf casually skinning a deer at his side. They would be shocked, no doubt. Scandalized, even. And Dorian might have been too, once upon a time, if he’d seen another mage behave so. But it had been difficult to hold entirely onto those sensibilities even when he’d lived in Tevinter; here, in the south, with the threat of Corypheus looming over them, it was impossible.

There was also the way he enjoyed the quiet, the presence of Lavellan at his elbow. Dorian still couldn’t watch his capable skinning but he liked stealing glances at Lavellan’s focused face, the way his mouth tightened or relaxed, the brightness of his eyes. Sometimes he would reach up and scrub an errant strand of hair out of his face, an exasperated pinch between his eyebrows, and Dorian would have to look away before he betrayed himself.

But no matter how much he secretly enjoyed it, Dorian had a reputation to uphold. So he bitched and moaned and generally let everyone know how much he was lowering himself whenever he had to do these barbaric things. He didn’t think he fooled Bull or Lavellan, but he’d seen Howe rolling his eyes once or twice and he knew some of Lavellan’s other companions would rib him for his so-called delicateness. (Sera most often, as if she wasn’t exactly  as priggish  during rough living in the woods, but Blackwall had surprised Dorian by being goaded into it once or twice.)

Lavellan never said anything about Dorian’s whining. Dorian mostly kept it to a low grumble as they started the process of dinner. They’d gotten it down to nearly an exact science; Lavellan had just finished depositing neatly cut portions of deer meat when Dorian’s fire became more than a tiny spark. It was still too hot to cook anything on it, but Lavellan would just use the time to clean his mess and skin his birds as well. Dorian had never cooked  something for himself in his life and he was always a little fascinated watching Lavellan’s process; the way he was so clearly used to cooking over a campfire instead of the big ovens they had back in Skyhold, the little tricks he employed to get the most out of their meat, and the furrow between his brows as he attempted to get the timing just right on a tricky part of stew were all distracting and—well. Dorian wasn’t sure if anyone could really call their leader and the closest thing to a living saint Thedas had at the moment adorable, but if the shoe fit?

Once the fire was stoked,  Dorian retreated to watch the whole production. It was only when Lavellan straightened, dusting his hands off on his armor as he looked down with satisfaction at the deer and bird stew bubbling gently away in the heavy pot Lavellan carried that Dorian made his excuses and retreated. He had one other duty.

Solas joined him without a word as Dorian approached the border of their little camp. Dorian side-eyed him but Solas was as inscrutable as ever. Only Lavellan seemed able to read those mono-expressions. Hawke came loping up on his opposite side a moment later, a charming smile already fixed in place.

“Let’s get this party started, shall we?” he said. “Solas, go wild.”

Solas never went wild, but he nodded without comment and began to the complicated process of raising barriers that would last through the night. Solas’s barriers were some of the strongest Dorian had ever seen, but barrier magic was transient by nature; it was difficult to make barriers that would stick without an unholy amount of magic. Dorian and Hawke’s contribution was another layer of magic to make the barriers steadier and more sustainable; by combining their magic, they could make the barrier last through the morning probably.

They circled the entire camp. The barrier was noticeable with three mages magic in it, glowing a soft, steady blue in the darkness. It would probably attract some bandits but, Dorian thought with no little pride, they’d have a hell of a time trying to get through. Dorian felt a little shaky when they were done—nothing so serious as magic exhaustion, but he’d used more than he should have—and shook himself out as they made their way back to camp.

When they came back, it was clear dinner was ready—bowls and spoons were being distributed as Lavellan fretted over the pot, checking and re-checking the taste. Hawke slung his arm over Dorian’s shoulder.

“Bit of a fusspot when it comes to food, isn’t he?” he said into Dorian’s ear.

“I know the concept of actual cooking instead of the blowing things up you do might be strange,” Dorian said dryly.

“No need to get snappy, Pavus. Fussing or not, your man’s a real catch.”

“You know, most people say he’s a catch because of the whole ‘Inquisitor, leader of thousands, Herald of Andraste’ thing. Not because he knows how to make a truly excellent soup.”

Hawke gave Dorian a solemn look with a smile lurking in his eyes. “The way to a person’s heart,” he said, “is through their stomach, Pavus. You wait too long, someone’s going to snatch that up with all their teeth.”

Dorian knew that. He’d known for ages that he was hardly the only one to notice Lavellan’s various charms; half the Inquisition seemed in love with the man. Lavellan was as charmingly ignorant of their lascivious looks as he was of their awe and admiration, but Dorian noticed when the requisitions officer stared at Lavellan’s glorious backside or the soldiers that always lingered when Lavellan trained without his shirt or the stutter in conversation in the tavern when Lavellan unraveled his thick, bright hair. It was the statistical reality that someone was going to try their luck—the only variable was if Lavellan would actually take them up on it.

“You know the best way to keep anyone from trying to take a bite,” Hawke said.

Dorian resolutely didn’t think of biting Lavellan. “Lavellan can bed who he likes,” he said, struggling to maintain an indifferent attitude. “It’s no business of mine unless they have truly horrendous fashion choices. I’d have to mock Lavellan mercilessly for the rest of his life.”

Or curl up in a ball and try not to die, Dorian thought. Hawke shook Dorian a little. His eyebrows were pinched together when Dorian glared up at him, a quirk to his mouth that Dorian couldn’t really read.

“I honestly thought I was the dumbest son-of-a-bitch when it came to this, but you’re really giving me a run for my money, Pavus,” he said.

“There’s no need for name-calling—”

“Dorian! Come over here and try this!”

Dorian turned and only spared a suspicious look over his shoulder as Hawke let him go with a chuckle. Hawke winked at him but Dorian just shook his head and hurried over to Lavellan, who shoved a spoon under his nose the moment he was in range. Dorian tasted the soup without thinking about it, wincing at the heat. The taste was lovely; deep and meaty, with enough spice to give it a kick. Lavellan wasn’t like the Skyhold cooks, who always seemed to tend toward bland.

“Delicious,” he said. “Will you stop mother-henning the soup and start serving it now?”

Lavellan made a face at him. “Taste checking isn’t mother-henning,” he grumbled.

“It is the way you do it.”

Lavellan scowled at him but waved over the rest of their companions and began the process of dividing up the food. Out of consideration for his size, Bull always got two helpings but everyone else got roughly the same size portions. Their party settled in to eat.

Lavellan was the last to sit, making sure everyone else got their portion before taking his own. It had taken some arguing on Lavellan’s part to ensure that—Cassandra especially hated to see him be the last one served and often got very vocal about it. But Lavellan insisted that the cook ate last and he always took the final portion regardless of what anyone else told him about it.

The Wardens had made their own little group by the fire, huddled together like a flock of blue-breasted birds. Dorian had settled in-between them and Hawke and Fenris, who were having their own quiet conversation. Dorian watched out of the corner of his eye as Lavellan considered where to sit, ignoring the little burst of warmth in his chest as Lavellan settled in at his elbow.

The food disappeared quickly. Dorian hadn’t been lying about the taste—there was more than one appreciative murmur that seemed to fluster Lavellan more than any of the bowing and scraping of the Inquisition soldiers. He was pink in the ears as he quickly ate his own portion.

Once the food was eaten, the dishes collected to be rinsed out in the nearest stream, the party relaxed by the fire. Depending on who was traveling, the ways they relaxed could vary wildly; Dorian had spent more than one night having to listen to Sera’s bawdy tales or deal with the stink of Blackwall’s pipe. Dorian preferred to read whatever book he’d managed to fit into his pack and he settled in with an interesting history of the Warden order that had caught his eye when he’d been hurriedly packing that morning.

As the night deepened, their party was quiet except for some quiet scraping as Bull and Lavellan maintained their weapons. The Wardens were talking quietly and Hawke was dozing with his head in Fenris’s lap. Dorian relaxed, able to fully immerse himself in the unexpectedly thrilling story of the beginning of the Warden order during the First Blight.

“Hey, Cousland.”

Dorian looked up, disoriented, at Lavellan’s voice. He’d set aside his knives, head tilted back to look at the sky through the trees. He didn’t seem as relaxed as everyone else was, but he’d lost some of the edge to his restless mania. Cousland looked over.

“Yes?”

“What’s it like being a Warden?”

Tension cropped up in the Warden group but Cousland only raised her eyebrow. “Why?” she asked. “You want to join up?”

“Don’t do it,” Oghren chimed in. “They make you drink nasty stuff.”

“That’s not it,” Lavellan said. “I know the stories. Creators, everyone knows the stories. But if the Wardens really are doing something shifty, I just…” He shook his head. “I want to understand, I guess.”

Speaking looks were exchanged throughout the Warden group. Cousland largely ignored them, her eyes fixed on Lavellan with consideration.

“I don’t really know any more than you do,” she said. “Fereldan Wardens were wiped out during the Fifth Blight—Alistair and I mostly just made it up as we went along.”

“That stuff you’re selling smells an awful lot like bullshit.”

Cousland’s mouth quirked. “They tell a lot of fanciful tales about the Wardens, fool. I heard them as much as you probably did.”

“Griffons,” Lavellan said. “Battles to the death, protecting all the realms. Legendary shit.”

“Legendary shit,” Cousland agreed. “But what the Wardens are isn’t as grand as all that.”

“And what are the Wardens?”

“A shield.”

Silence as Lavellan considered it. “A shield?”

“The last line of defense, the vanguard,” Cousland said. She’d didn’t sound proud or arrogant, simply weary. “A shield against the dark.”

“I knew that already,” Lavellan said.

“Well, here’s something you may not know; when you shield against the dark, you look it straight in the eye. You take its blows, hear its battle cry. There’s not a Warden alive who hasn’t changed and it’s not the taint that does it, not really. You can’t look into the dark without changing, without taking more of it into you than you could ever want.” She kept her eyes on Lavellan, ignoring the way the rest of them were staring at her. “It makes us cold, Lavellan. Defensive and hard and quick to judge. Too quick, sometimes.”

“You’re making it sound like whatever the Wardens are doing, whatever their connection is to Corypheus… like it was inevitable. That they deserve it.”

Cousland was silent for a long moment. Dorian noticed Howe touch her elbow but she didn’t react to it at all, or the way the three men seemed to curl around her, all of them glaring at Lavellan. Lavellan didn’t notice either, too focused on Cousland, his eyes clear and thoughtful.

“I don’t think they deserve it,” Cousland said. “But I don’t think I’ll be surprised by anything we find at that Tower, Lavellan. The stories are very pretty but the truth of the matter is the Wardens have rot at their core that’s almost impossible to get rid of.”

Lavellan hummed. “Do you think they can be saved, Cousland?”

Her eyes were luminous. “No,” she said. “But I hope that I’m wrong, fool.”

The Western Approach was dry and hot and full of sand. Dorian was immediately overwhelmed with homesickness.

The deserts of Tevinter weren’t quite like this, of course. You couldn’t throw a rock in Tevinter without hitting a ruin, for one, and there were the sprawling cities that crawled with people and animals and movement. The Approach, on the other hand, was empty desert stretching out for miles; the only habitation were the Inquisition camps. But Dorian could see little lizards crawling over available rocks, deathroot growing at the base of every shrimpy, shrubby tree, could feel the heat settle over his shoulders like a blanket and it was impossible not to feel a little comforted.

He was alone in that opinion, as far as he could tell. The Wardens muttered complaints except for a stone-faced Loghain, Hawke was sweating buckets, Bull was as indifferent to the Approach as he’d been to any other landscape, Solas was as stone-faced as ever despite the growing sheen of sweat and pale blush blooming on his face. Only Fenris seemed as utterly unaffected by the heat as Dorian and they shared another unexpected sympathetic look more than once during their travels at their companions’ constant complaining.

Their Inquisitor, however, had apparently had the foresight to plan ahead to combat weather so utterly at odds with the chilly rain he was used to in the Free Marches. Lavellan, testing Dorian’s sanity, had chosen something oddly Qunari to wear; light, loose white pants and a shirt largely made up of complicated knot-work and a short vest to cover his shoulders and chest. His skin was pale enough that it should have burned in the strong sun, but it glimmered with some sort of lotion that Lavellan explained Cousland had created for him. His hair was swept up high, out of his way in a series of complicated and secure braids, and he looked fierce and feral and entirely mouth-watering. Dorian wanted to bite him.

“You really need a solid fuck, ‘vint,” Bull muttered when they stopped for water.

The qunari, as ever, was crude but right. Dorian glared at him anyway and purposefully looked away from Lavellan’s biceps and dip in his strong, narrow back. He needed to focus. They were heading into enemy territory, preparing to confront a minion of Corypheus’ that was messing with the Wardens, and he needed to think about that and not how soft Lavellan’s skin looked or how the strange potion on it made it shimmer slightly or—

Kaffas.

As the sun sank, they saw the high arch of the ritual tower in the distance. They’d confronted several bands of Venatori on their trek, all of them barely worth the effort it’d taken to eliminate them. The sight of the tower still made Dorian’s grip on his staff tighten, gut rolling. He knew it wouldn’t be Corypheus they confronted here, but he had a bad feeling about whatever they were going to find.

They stopped near the bridge that led into the tower to make some hasty last-minute battle plans. Dorian stared up at the huge block of stone rising out of the sand in front of them, gut roiling. Hawke looked more than a little sick. They could all hear shouts and see flashes of some kind of magic.

“They are here,” Loghain said.

“You can feel it,” Hawke said with a light shiver. His normally sparkling grey eyes were flat, almost dull, his smiling mouth pursed and tense. “Their magic. It’s…” He shook his head and didn’t shrug off the hand Fenris put on his shoulder.

Everyone exchanged glances. Lavellan had retreated into the still, icy facade he often adopted when entering battle. Seeing it calmed Dorian’s nerves a little. If Lavellan was here, they would come out of this in one piece. He’d come out of worse scrapes than this more times than Dorian could count. At least there wasn’t going to be an archdemon or an avalanche.

“I know there are Inquisition scouts in the area,” Cousland said, “but I’m putting Howe and Oggie around the perimeter just to be safe. Even if we can’t figure out what they’re doing here, we need to know where they’re going if they get away.”

“Sounds good to me,” Lavellan said. “As long as you trust them.”

Cousland gave him a withering look. “I’ve trusted them with more than this before,” she said and turned to her people. “Don’t get cocky,” she instructed them. “Stay hidden and keep your eyes open.”

They both saluted—Oghren’s sloppy, Howe with military precision—and started back into the desert, disappearing among the sand almost immediately. The rest of their group exchanged looks. There hadn’t exactly been a lack of tension on their ride in, but it had reached almost astronomical levels. Dorian flexed his fingers around his staff and tried to ignore the writhing snake in his stomach that was making cold sweat break out along his back. He’d faced worse than this. Lavellan was here, calm-faced and focused. There was nothing to be frightened about.

“Let’s go,” Lavellan said.

Their party was silent as they crossed the bridge and climbed the narrow, crumbling stairs. As they approached the top of the stairs, Dorian shivered. Hawke was more sensitive by far, but Dorian could feel the magic now that they were closer and he had to agree with Hawke’s assessment—it was nasty. Some of the nastiest blood magic Dorian had felt in a long, long time. His fingers were beginning to go numb around his staff.

He doubted the Wardens gathered in the tower didn’t notice their approach; they were too big a group to attempt stealth. But none of them turned to look as they crested the stairs and that set alarm bells ringing in Dorian’s head. Why would they be so cavalier about an enemy approach? Did they have traps ready? The advisors had worried endlessly that this was a trap. They were a big group, they had some of the greatest heroes of this age with them, but they could still be overpowered in the right circumstances.

There was a Warden cowering in front of a robed man that Dorian immediately recognized as Tevinter. He swallowed past the heavy lump in his throat. He hated this. Hated seeing his countrymen standing opposite him, committing the heinous acts that everyone despised them for without guilt or misgiving. Filling their scripted part with aplomb and a poisonous smile, utterly cavalier about the way they were dragging their country’s name through the mud. Maker.

The Warden was a warrior, though his sheath was empty and his shield was gone. He was sweating heavily, knees buckling as a Warden mage advanced on him.

“No,” the warrior said. Dorian could see the whites of his eyes. “Wait, please—”

“Warden Commander Clarel’s orders were clear,” the Venatori magister said.

The warrior didn’t look at him. “This is wrong,” he said to the mage. Pleading. Dorian’s heart sank. “You can’t—”

The Venatori cut him off. “Remember your oaths?” he asked with a nasty smirk. “In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death…”

“I’m sorry,” the mage said just as he plunged a knife into the warrior’s belly.

“Sacrifice,” the Venatori hissed.

Without his weapons, his armor stripped away, the warrior was dead in seconds. Dorian wanted to move forward, do something, but there were dead-eyed Wardens everywhere and he couldn’t shake the feeling that there were traps waiting for them. None of them moved, though Dorian saw that Lavellan’s hands were clenched so tightly around his knives the knuckles were pale.

“Good,” the Venatori said with such slimy satisfaction that Dorian’s stomach rolled with sick shame. Maker. Was it any wonder half the Inquisition didn’t trust him when he had countrymen such as these? “Now bind him just as I showed you.”

Dorian straightened as a slim Fade rift opened behind the mage, allowing a rage demon through. There was a swell of magic and Dorian’s eyes narrowed. He’d read of rituals that would bind demons to people, of course, but he didn’t recognize this one. Dull red marks shone under the mage’s eyes and he turned as dead-faced as his companions, joining their ranks with his new demon.

Dorian realized as the Venatori turned to their group with a self-satisfied smirk that his fear of traps had been for nothing. The Venatori hadn’t stopped them from approaching or attacked them for one simple reason; he’d wanted a show. And, like simple fools, they had been a willing audience. He eyed the warrior’s corpse and apologized silently.

“Inquisitor,” the Venatori said, sweeping into a mockingly low bow. “What an unexpected pleasure. Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, at your service.”

Vyrantium sounded familiar. Dorian thought his father had mentioned something about a Lord Livius once or twice after meetings with the Magisterium. If Corypheus’s influence had really reached so high, pulling him out of Tevinter would be nearly impossible. His stomach sank. With every new revelation of Corypheus’s influence, he lost more and more hope for a Tevinter he could be proud of.

“If you’re a Warden, I’m a qunari,” Cousland said flatly. She had no weapon but she fingered the generous belt around her waist that held her potions. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing with my people, ‘vint?”

He cast a disdainful glance at her that turned thoughtful.

“You look familiar,” he said. “You’re not an Amell, are you?”

She bared her teeth. “On my mother’s side.”

“Well, well. No magic, though? A pity.”

“Not for me.”

Erimond ignored the spite in her voice, tapping a finger against his chin. “But a Warden, how interesting. Tell me, my dear, how did someone of the blood end up in the ranks of criminals and low-lives?”

Cousland smiled sweetly at him. “It’s a secret. But if you really want to know…” Her smile widened. “Come down here, I’ll whisper it in your ear.”

Erimond sniffed. “It seems barbarianism runs deep, doesn’t it? So little civility, even from one of your supposed caliber.” He turned back to Lavellan and his sneer deepened. “And you. I know we can’t expect something like sense from you Southerners, but a feral elf from the wilds as your pretend savior? It’s almost laughable.” He sniffed again. “Did she come to find you, our Warden friend? Bring you here to stop me? Let’s see how that goes, shall we?”

Lavellan’s face was still and cold as a frozen lake. Dorian hadn’t seen him like this Haven, since Redcliffe. A shiver went down his spine. Erimond was a fool for not recognizing the danger he was in.

“Looks like you’ve already done my work for me,” Lavellan said, inclining his head toward the felled Warden. “Maybe it’s that feral elf stupidity, but how does murdering your allies in cold blood help again?”

Erimond’s laugh was cold and high. “What, him?” He gestured to the warrior and Lavellan’s eyes flickered to the remaining Wardens, checking their reactions. They didn’t react and Lavellan’s mouth tightened. Erimond noticed, of course, and laughed again. “Are you really hoping to garner some sympathy? Make the Wardens feel a bit of remorse?” His eyes were wicked with amusement. “Shall we test it? Wardens!” The Wardens all came to attention like dogs and Dorian’s unease deepened. He recognized that reaction. Oh, Maker— “Hands up!” Hands went up without question. “Hands down.”

“He’s taken control of them,” Loghain said with horror. “They’re Corypheus’s now.”

“They did this to themselves,” Erimond said. His satisfaction was thick and revolting. “You see, the Calling had the Wardens terrified. They looked everywhere for help.”

“Even Tevinter,” Loghain said with awful understanding.

“Yes,” Erimond hissed. “And since it was my master who put the Calling into the little heads, we in the Venatori were prepared.”

“The Calling,” Hawke called out and Dorian didn’t miss the flicker of irritation in Erimond’s face at having his gloating monologue interrupted. “Corypheus did that? It’s not real?”

“Oh, it’s real enough,” Erimond said. “You see, my master controls the Blight. It is a tool.”

Dorian couldn’t resist such an easy pot-shot. “You’re the tool,” he said in his smarmiest tone.

Erimond’s eyebrows shot up as he turned to look at Dorian for the first time. “You are no southern barbarian,” he said. “You would become a traitor to your own people?”

Dorian smiled at him the way he’d smiled at countless idiots who’d tried his patience before.

“If anyone’s a traitor, Livius,” he said in his sweetest voice, “it’s you.”

Erimond’s expression turned murderous. “The Calling will remain as my Master wills it so,” he snarled. “It will kill the remaining Wardens once our army has marched across Orlais. You see, when Clarel came to the Venatori, we were prepared. I went to her, full of sympathy and we came up with a plan. Raise a demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and kill the Old Gods before they wake.”

“Oh, that demon army,” Lavellan said with such faux-casualness that Dorian almost snickered.

Erimond’s expression flickered again. Whatever he’d expected from this confrontation, he wasn’t getting it and it was starting to infuriate him. The magisters of Tevinter didn’t have a lot in common but Dorian would say very few of them liked to be mocked.

“Sadly for the Wardens,” Erimond continued as if Lavellan hadn’t spoken, through obviously gritted teeth, “the binding ritual I taught their mages has a side effect. They’re now my Master’s slaves. This was a test. Once the rest of the Wardens complete the ritual, the army will conquer Thedas.”

Lavellan’s faux-nonchalance was gone. His eyes were clear and cold, back straight.

“So Corypheus did this to them?” he asked. “Influenced them, made them do this ritual? Made them murder their own?”

“Made them?” Erimond laughed again. “Made them? Of course not! Everything you see—the blood sacrifices, the binding ritual—the Wardens did it of their own free will. Fear is a very good motivator and they were very afraid.”

Lavellan shook his head. “Desperation breeds stupidity,” he muttered.

“Just so,” Erimond said. “You should have seen Clarel agonize over the decision. Burdens of command, I suppose. You sympathize, surely, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan’s icy mask broke for a brief second. Dorian wanted to grab his hand at the tumultuous heart-sickness he glimpsed roiling under the surface of that facade, but it was up too quickly again to try. Erimond smirked at the hit he’d scored and Dorian itched to send a fireball his way. But Lavellan hadn’t given the command for an attack yet.

“You really want to try to use demons as an army?” Lavellan asked. “That’s risky.”

“Demons need no food, rest, or healing. Once bound they will never retreat. What would be more perfect?”

“And you’re really just fine with this,” Lavellan said. “The world falling to the Blight, Corypheus murdering his way to power. What do you even get out of this?”

Dorian frowned at him. Lavellan was asking more questions than Dorian had expected—most of the time, Lavellan tended to rush into battle, especially against people like Erimond who he so clearly loathed. But when he glanced back at the others, Bull rolled his eyes and gave him a tiny nod. He mouthed information.

Oh, Dorian thought. Erimond was proud and self-satisfied as a cat with a canary in its grip; he was spilling information left and right and Lavellan was trying to squeeze every last drop from him before he noticed. Dorian should have realized.

“—rules from the Golden City, we Venatori will be his God-Kings here in the world.”

Dorian couldn’t help himself; he laughed. Erimond glared at him.

“What, traitor?”

“I’d prefer being a traitor to a witless fool,” Dorian said. “If you think Corypheus will relinquish any power to you, you’re far more delusional than I imagined. And considering that clown outfit you’re wearing, I imagined you were plenty delusional.”

Erimond snarled, staff coming up. “You—“

Dorian jumped as an elbow knocked into his side. Lavellan gave him a hard side-long look that silently said be quiet. Dorian frowned at him, but Lavellan was already turning back to Erimond, taking a subtle step forward that put Dorian behind him.

“Do you really think this is enough?” he asked.

Erimond looked at Lavellan, temporarily distracted. Lavellan’s smile was slow and wide, nothing but teeth and mockery. He swept a hand around the tower, encompassing the dead-eyed Wardens, the pile of corpses, the demons. Erimond’s expression shifted.

“Some demons? A fade rift? You really think that’s enough to stop me?” Lavellan’s smile turned feral, blood-thirsty. “Didn’t your little master tell you about how I fucked him up at Haven?”

Erimond had completely forgotten about Dorian. His entire attention was on Lavellan now, a bloodhound on the scent. But he wasn’t frightened by Lavellan in the slightest, not even intimidated. Dorian’s stomach tightened as Erimond held out a hand with a smirk of his own.

“Oh,” he said, “he told me.”

And he closed his fist.

Dorian lost years of his life as Lavellan cried out and fell to his knees, his marked hand glowing green and pulsing with magic. Erimond’s smirk grew into something wicked and sharp. Dorian stepped toward Lavellan, heart in his throat, but Lavellan shot him a look that froze him in his tracks. That wasn’t fear in his eyes.

“The Elder One showed me how to deal with you, Kai, in the event you were foolish enough to appear again,” Erimond said. The intensity of the magic increased, the green light pulsing faster and faster. Little hairs rose on Dorian’s arms and the back of his neck. “That Mark you bear? The Anchor that lets you pass safely through the Veil? You stole that from my Master. He’s been forced to seek other ways to access the Fade.”

Dorian’s ears rang. The magic was almost impossible to bear now, making the air thick and unspeakably heavy. Dorian had no idea how Erimond was doing it but they had to do something to stop it, something before Erimond did something irreversible to the Mark, to Lavellan. He was still bent over his glowing hand, head bowed and back rising and falling quickly as he panted.

“When I bring him your head, his gratitude will be—”

“You know what, Livius?” Lavellan said. His voice was weak and pained but he looked up at Erimond with a harsh, edged smile. “You talk too fucking much.”

Lavellan raised his glowing hand and closed it into a harsh fist. Everything exploded.

When Dorian could see again, Erimond was on the ground, bleeding from the gut. Before any of them could move toward him, he was scrambling away with a hasty order for the Wardens to kill them, disappearing from the tower at a dead run that would have been funny under different circumstances.

Dorian wanted to follow him, but between the Wardens and the demons, it was impossible. By the time the dust settled and their enemies were dead, Erimond was long gone.

For a long moment, all of them just breathed. Then Lavellan crumpled to the ground again, his knives sliding out of his hands. His hand was still glowing green, although it pulsed at a much slower rate than it had under Erimond’s control. To Dorian’s horror, the green began to spread up Lavellan’s wrist, circling his forearm in thin tendrils.

“No,” he said, dropping to his knees at Lavellan’s side. “Solas!”

Solas was already there, his hands awash with blue light. It was much weaker than normal—he’d used most of his magic to create their barriers in the battle—but enough that Lavellan’s grimace of pain eased a little.

“One day,” Lavellan said in a soft, exhausted voice. “I really will cut this damn thing off.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Hawke advised, leaning on his pole-staff to peer down at Lavellan. He had a heavily bleeding cut over one eye but he was grinning as usual. “Cutting off your own arm? That’s messy. Better get a doctor for that.”

“Do not encourage him,” Dorian said.

Hawke blinked at him. “Don’t encourage him to do what? Be medically responsible?”

“Hawke, your idea of medical responsibility is abnormal,” Fenris said. “Let me look at that cut.”

“Oh, it’s just a head wound,” Hawke said carelessly. Fenris put a hand on his shoulder and when Hawke looked over at him, he seemed to shrink a little. “Fine,” he said. “But I get to complain the whole time.”

“I would expect nothing else,” Fenris said.

They moved over so that Fenris could apply something to Hawke’s face. Cousland edged in, her face wan and her brow pinched.

“What is that?” she asked, staring at Lavellan’s hand.

She sounded on-edge. Dorian couldn’t really blame her; he was on-edge too.

“The Anchor,” Dorian explained. “It’s what lets him close rifts.”

“That’s the Anchor?” Cousland asked, aghast.

“It pains him?” Loghain asked.

“It pains him that you’re talking about him like he’s not sitting right fucking here,” Lavellan gritted out. “My fucked-up hand is not that interesting. We need to figure out where that bastard went.”

Speaking looks were exchanged over Lavellan’s head as they mutually decided to respect his wishes and not make a fuss.

“Oghren and Howe will follow him,” Cousland said. “They can give us a report when they meet us at camp.”

“I have a suspicion,” Loghain said. “There is an old Warden fortress not far from here. It would be ideal for the kind of plans Erimond outlined.”

“Adamant?” Cousland asked. “I’d forgotten about that old ruin.”

“Yes. It has not been used for some time, but it is defensible and remote. An excellent headquarters for an undertaking of this magnitude.” Loghain looked at the carnage around them and, for the first time he looked his age. “I had hoped… But you were correct, Cousland. The rot has set in. Through the ritual, the mages are slaves to Corypheus.”

Hawke and Fenris returned. Hawke’s head wound had been neatly patched up, the blood wiped hastily from his face.

“The warriors might be able to help us,” he said.

Awkward silence as everyone tried not to look at the pile of corpses nearby. Hawke’s expression dropped.

“Of course,” he said softly. “It’s not real blood magic until someone gets sacrificed.”

Fenris put his hand on Hawke’s shoulder again and Hawke leaned into his touch. Solas made a soft sound and the blue around his hands disappeared. Lavellan’s hand still glowed green but it seemed a little dimmer than it had before—and, better yet, it was no longer spreading up Lavellan’s arm. Dorian let out a long, relieved breath.

“That is the best I can do until we return to Skyhold, my friend,” Solas said. “Will you be all right?”

“Aren’t I always?” Lavellan asked as he hauled himself to his feet.

He wavered and Dorian caught him around the elbows, steadying him. For a moment, they were eye-to-eye and Dorian caught the weariness and the horror that Lavellan had concealed for that long conversation. Then Lavellan pulled away and any vulnerability went underneath those icy walls. He looked around them and shook his head.

“Human sacrifice, demon summoning…” he muttered. He whirled on Loghain and Cousland. “I was expecting something bad, but this has honestly exceeded expectations.”

“They were wrong,” Loghain said. “But they are doing this to prevent future Blights.” His expression was bleak. “Cousland has her own feelings about the Warden duty, but I can respect their reasons even if I abhor their methods. I know too well the drastic measures someone will go to save their people.”

To everyone’s surprise, Fenris scowled at him. “Blood mages always have reasons,” he said. “Excuses they tell themselves and others to justify their murder and torture. They are ready with an excuse no matter what evil they commit.”

“He’s right,” Hawke piped up. He looked uncharacteristically grim. “Everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify their bad decisions. But it doesn’t matter what excuses you make or what stories you tell—in the end you’re always alone with your actions.”

Loghain’s face tightened. “Hawke—”

“No,” Cousland said, coming between them. “We can fight about morality later. Right now we have bigger concerns.”

Loghain spared her an outraged look. “Bigger—”

“Demon army,” Cousland reminded him. Loghain backed off with a heavy scowl. “If Erimond was telling the truth, we need to figure out what to do about it. And fast. Save your bickering for after.” She turned to Lavellan and scrutinized him. “You okay to ride?”

Lavellan made a face. “I’m not a baby.”

“Is that what I asked, fool?”

Lavellan glared at her. “I’m fine,” he gritted out. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

When they arrived back at Skyhold, the advisors were waiting for them. No one was surprised; Leliana’s couriers had been in the camp when Howe and Oghren had arrived to report that Erimond had retreated to the South, confirming Loghain’s theory that their stronghold was Adamant Fortress. Lavellan, being fussed over by Solas, had made them set out as soon as they were able and they’d made just as good time on their trip back as they had on their trip out. All of them were exhausted from the hard ride but no one protested when the advisors insisted on a meeting in the War Room right away.

Dennet took their mounts with heavy disapproval for their exhaustion and their party followed the advisors, ignoring the looks and whispers that followed them. Most everyone knew that Lavellan had gone to find out about the Wardens and rumors were doubtless running wild. Dorian would have to ask Varric later what the best ones were.

The gigantic War Room table had been cleared except for a map of Orlais. Little golden pins had already been placed around the Western Approach and Dorian found that he couldn’t stop staring at them as Lavellan and Cousland traded off explaining their confrontation with Erimond.

“You’re saying he’s turning the Wardens into an army?” Cullen asked, aghast. “How is that even possible?”

“A ritual,” Dorian piped up. “I recognized it. It’s old Tevinter blood magic. Even magisters would consider it taboo, at least in public.”

“What does it do?”

“Essentially it forces a connection between a mage and a demon,” Dorian said. “Not a full possession, but very like. All mages are vulnerable to the Fade and to demons—the ritual uses that vulnerability to force open a door. The mage loses all will and independence, but he also gains the strength and invulnerability of the demon. Magic also increases tenfold. It was once considered a desirable ritual because of that, but it fell out of style when it became clear that there was no way to undo the process.”

“So all of these mages…”

“If they’ve performed the ritual, they are lost to us, yes,” Dorian said. “With that door open, there’s no way to shut it again without destroying the mage as well. At least, nothing my people have found.”

At the end of the table, Fenris made a sound of deep disgust. “Magisters will stop at nothing for power,” he said.

Dorian wanted to argue, but it was difficult after facing the worst of his own people.

“If they become so powerful, what can we do to stop them?” Leliana asked.

“They can die just like anyone else,” Dorian said. “It just takes a harder hit.”

“The Wardens are gathered in Adamant Fortress at the Eastern border of the Western Approach,” Loghain said. “It is a highly defensible stronghold. It will not be easy to breach.”

Cullen looked older. “We’ll need trebuchets,” he said. “And more men than we have now.”

“I will write to our noble allies,” Josephine said. As always, she was keeping minutes, her quill rarely stopping even though she almost never looked down to check her work. “They will be able to lend us aid.”

Cassandra shook her head. “Should they refuse, we may be able to salvage what remains from Haven,” she said.

“We need to talk to this Clarel,” Lavellan said. “If we can reason with her, maybe we can prevent more mages from being turned.” He looked at Cousland. “Do you think she would listen to you?”

“I don’t have any power over her,” Cousland said. “She’s a Warden-Commander just like me. If she’s doing what she thinks is right, I doubt I can convince her otherwise. Wardens have a one-track mind when it comes to the Blight.”

“But you can try.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t try,” Cousland said. “Just managing expectations. I’ll go to this Fortress with Howe and Oghren, seek an audience. Even if she refuses, we can probably get in the Fortress somehow. It might be ‘highly defensible’ but most of these old strongholds have some way inside.”

“I should go with you,” Loghain said.

“No,” Cousland said. “Stay here. You can represent us at Halamshiral.”

Loghain’s appalled horror was so clear that it broke some of the remaining tension.

“We’re still going to that?” Lavellan asked.

“It’s next week, Lavellan,” Josephine said. “We have already accepted the invitation. Duke Gaspard will be expecting us.”

“Shouldn’t we be focusing on the little problem of a demon army?”

“It will take time to gather the resources needed to launch an attack,” Josephine said. “And if we make the proper connections at Halamshiral, we may have more allies to request resources from. Attending Halamshiral is just as important, if less outright dangerous, as our plans for Adamant Fortress.”

Lavellan huffed. “Fine,” he said. “But I still think worrying about a party when we have possessed Wardens on the loose is beyond stupid.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Josephine said with an arch sweetness. “You have made your opinion abundantly clear.”

Lavellan gave her a long look but she only smiled at him. He snorted and turned back to the rest of them.

“If we can stop Corypheus’s plans with the Wardens, we’re that much closer to cutting the bastard off at the knees,” he said. He smiled at them, wide and slow. “We’re going to get him.”

Pleased looks were exchanged across the table. Even after their confrontation with Erimond and their hard rides, despite the challenges facing them, there was hope in that room. After Haven, the Inquisition had struggled with morale; how were they going to stand against a creature of legend, an unkillable god? Only Lavellan had kept soldiers from deserting. Now, with real power beginning to gather under their belts and actual plans, things were beginning to turn around. 

There were promises to see through the plans they'd laid out before everyone began to get up to go. Lavellan lingered and tipped Dorian a wink that made Dorian hang back too. As Oghren started to pass, Lavellan grabbed him.

"I have someone to introduce you to," he said. His eyes were twinkling but his voice was grave.

Oghren perked up. "The pretty lady?"

"Didn't I promise?"

Oghren chortled to himself as Lavellan propelled him to Cassandra, who was deep in conversation with Cullen. She glanced over as they approached and Dorian had trouble keeping his face straight as she glared disdainfully down at Oghren. If Cassandra disliked Varric, she was going to hate Oghren. Dorian wondered if this was some kind of petty revenge for Cassandra's biting words and her hand in the deception about Lavellan's clan--if so, he approved.

"Cassandra, I'd like to introduce you to Oghren," Lavellan said. His own voice shook with barely surpressed laughter.

Cassandra gave him a suspicious look. She had good instincts. "I know him. We have already been introduced."

"She is a looker," Oghren said, obviously deeply impressed with Lavellan's supposed taste. "Not much for tits, but I've always been a leg dwarf myself."

Cassandra's dark look turned thunderous. She put her hand on her sword and reached for Oghren's beard with the other. Dorian noticed, torn between hilarity and disgust, that Oghren didn't look at that upset at having his beard pulled.

"We will have words, dwarf," Cassandra hissed.

Lavellan managed to wait until Cassandra had pulled Oghren out of the room--all while he was crooning about the words he wanted to have with Cassandra--before collapsing into laughter. 

Dorian had just put the finishing touches to his mustache when someone knocked on his door. He glanced out the window at the still rising sun and frowned. A bit early for anyone to be seeking him out, even Leliana’s little messenger birds. He was tempted to ignore it and go back to his grooming routine.

“Dorian? Are you awake?”

Dorian flung open the door before he remembered that he hadn’t attended to his hair. Lavellan didn’t seem to notice or care but Dorian was very conscious of his messy bedhead as Lavellan smiled at him, as crisp and put together as if it was the middle of the afternoon and not six o’clock in the morning.

“What’s happened now?” Dorian demanded, only half-joking. “Another fight to the death? Perhaps you’d like to go mock another magister to his face?” Lavellan’s tense mouth quirked a little, on the edge of a smile, but his eyes were shaded. Dorian’s gut rolled. “What could possibly be so terrible you came to get me out of bed at this ungodly hour of the morning?”

“You were already awake,” Lavellan said. “Can I come in?”

Dorian frowned but stepped aside. It wasn’t quite how he’d imagined introducing Lavellan to his bedchamber but, he thought as Lavellan looked around curiously, at least he wasn’t a slob like Sera or Bull. He’d put away his books from last night and he kept his table of potions ingredients tidy and organized. The only remotely embarrassing things on display were his rumpled sheets and the small pot of hair wax still sitting open on his vanity.

Lavellan’s gravitas seemed to disappear under his curiosity. Dorian crossed his arms over his chest, trying to ignore the mixture of embarrassment and arousal as he watched Lavellan run his clever fingers over everything in Dorian’s room from the still-drying herbs on the windowsill to the staff he’d gifted to Dorian in the corner.

“As much as I enjoy watching you fondle my possessions,” Dorian said, hoping Lavellan wouldn’t realize how true that was, “I do assume you had a reason to this extremely unorthodox early visit?”

Lavellan was still fingering the staff. He gave the shifting glass ball at the top one final fond tap before he turned back to Dorian with an utterly unreadable expression.

“Mother Giselle cornered me this morning on the way to breakfast.”

Dorian’s eyebrows. He was aware Lavellan kept odd hours—he had his own brand of insomnia and never came down to breakfast at the same time twice in a week—but as far as he knew, Lavellan and Mother Giselle had never gotten along. Varric had said something about bad blood when Dorian had asked him and left it at that, though Dorian had gotten the impression that there was something of a story there.

“I see,” Dorian said, though he didn’t.

Lavellan shifted. “She. She gave me a letter for you.”

Dorian smiled, hoping to unknot the tension in Lavellan’s shoulders with a joke when he said, “Is it a naughty letter?”

Lavellan didn’t even smile. “Dorian.”

Dorian bit the inside of his cheek. Lavellan’s eyes were steady and dark as he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a heavy envelope. It was good, heavy parchment, expensive, with a seal on the back that made Dorian’s mouth go dry. No, he thought. No, no, no.

“It’s from your father,” Lavellan said and Dorian’s world exploded.

Chapter Text

Flash, bang!

“She said she got the letter a few days ago. She didn’t know what to do, so she came to me. She thought I could convince you to go, tried to tell me I should trick you into it or some shit. Like I’d ever do that.”

One of the straw men went up in flames. Dorian ignored the whispers and looks of the passing Inquisition soldiers as he whirled sent a fireball, watching with relish as it decimated the next straw man. He’d already gone through three of the things; if he kept this up, there wouldn’t be any training dummies left for Cassandra to beat to death with her sword. Dorian didn’t care. He’d wanted to go out into the woods surrounding Skyhold and really go on a rampage, but the guards at the gate hadn’t let him. Dorian snarled, gathering his magic, desperate to satisfy this unfamiliar urge to destroy something—

“And if I don’t want to go?”

“I’m not making you do anything you don’t want, Dorian. I’ve had enough of that bullshit thrown at me. I thought you should know and now you do. The rest is up to you.”

Dorian slammed his staff into the ground and a wall of flames came up, incinerating three more dummies and the grass surrounding them. He reached with his magic, bringing the flames higher and higher. It felt good to exhaust his power this way, to throw and throw until there was nothing left. He wanted to empty himself out. He wanted to forget.

The letter mocked him. He’d read it over and over after Lavellan had shuffled out of his room, parsing every word with growing fury. His father’s nerve knew no boundaries. To send this request to a complete stranger, to adopt this patronizing tone; as if Dorian was simply a wayward child to be shepherded home as if his avoidance was born from some kind of childish pettiness. I know him; he would be too proud to come if he knew—even just to talk. What his father knew of Dorian could fill a thimble.

The letter had brought everything rushing back. Suddenly he wasn’t Dorian Pavus, infamous Tevinter mage who figured out time travel on the fly and had the ear of the Inquisitor—instead, he was just Dorian, the pride of house Pavus, on the cusp of adulthood and heady on his own power and wit and beauty and stumbling on the pages of cramped, tidy notes his father had written about a blood ritual that would take everything Dorian was and mangle it. When he’d found those notes, he hadn’t recognized what he was reading, not at first. He’d been looking for a book for his research and he’d found the pages underneath one of the books on his father’s desk. Dorian had glanced at them absent-mindedly, then again as he’d registered what he’d been reading.

It had been five years, but Dorian could still feel the creak of his father’s chair as he had slowly sat in it, could still taste the grimy tang of the bile on the back of his throat as he had forced himself to continue reading. With each word, his stomach had roiled with fear and betrayal and by the time he had finished the last paragraph, he was so disgusted he had nearly vomited right there. He’d barely been able to stand and make his way out of his father’s study. Dorian didn’t know what he’d done after that; the next clear memory he had was standing outside of Alexius’s sprawling mansion with his family staff in one hand and a bag of his belongings in another.

Alexius had taken him in without a word of protest. Dorian had never told him what his father had been planning to do, though he was certain Alexius guessed at least a little. His parents had sent letter after letter, begging Dorian to talk to them, to come home, to remember his responsibilities, even vague threats of disownment; there had not been an apology in a single one of them, though Dorian’s father had eventually begun obliquely referencing ‘the incident.’ Dorian had sent back each letter unanswered. He spent all his time with Alexius and then with the gaggle of friends and hangers-on he’d gathered in Minrathous who were more than happy to entertain his glorious presence. By the time the whispers of the Venatori and Alexius’s madness had drawn Dorian south, the letters had slowed to almost a trickle, become perfunctory instead of pleading. Dorian had buried himself in his research and his social life and had avoided his father for five years.

Until now.

Dorian twisted his fingers and one of the last straw men went up in flames. The destruction only cooled his fury a little. What was his father thinking? How had he even found out that Dorian was in the South? Dorian hadn’t spoken to his small circle of friends since he left. But Magister Pavus’s reach was long and it wasn’t like Dorian had tried to hide his name. But to send a letter now, to try and use some proxy to get Dorian to come crawling back to him as if Dorian needed to beg to be let back into the family that had disdained and betrayed him… He had the gall, the sheer nerve to send a summons for Dorian like some dog, to wait until Dorian was actually making something of himself to reach out and try to drag him home again as if his betrayal wasn’t enough of a wound already? Dorian wanted to yowl at the sky, to rip the skin off of a bone, to do something to let out the rage boiling under his skin.

Someone yanked at his elbow. Dorian whirled, a spell already on his lips, beyond caring if whoever was trying to get his attention could dodge or not. He stopped short. Fenris stared back at him, utterly calm. Behind his shoulder was a huddle of nervous-looking Inquisition soldiers.

“Stand down,” Fenris said.

Dorian had spent years banking his anger and bitterness, folding it down and down until it was small enough to ignore. He’d practiced brushing it off with a quip or a barb, hiding the way any hits landed, perfecting his mask to survive. In Tevinter, where rage was seen as a weakness and loss of control, he had no choice but to put it in a box and pretend it wasn’t there. But he found that he couldn’t do that now, with so much of his fury near the surface, the anger too impossibly strong to wrestle back. He smiled with all of his teeth at Fenris, the way he’d seen Lavellan do more times than he could count; a challenge and a fuck-you all rolled into one expression.

“Make me,” he said.

Fenris’s eyebrows rose. He withdrew his hand.

“I do not seek to fight you,” he said. “I only wished to prevent you from burning down our stronghold.”

He turned. Dorian’s hands curled into fists.

“You tell so many stories about the magisters you fought, Fenris,” he said in the voice Felix had once told him was a velvet trap. “They all sounded so very impressive. I never would have guessed you were actually a coward.”

Fenris froze. Dorian saw the looks the Inquisition soldiers watching them exchanged, but he didn’t care about them. Fenris turned. He was a stoic elf, hardly given to the histrionics of his partner, but Dorian would have to blind and dumb to miss the hard fury in his face. Dorian smiled at him again with all of his teeth. Good. Dorian’s rage was so huge it needed to be shared or he’d collapse underneath it.

“If it is a fight you desire,” Fenris said, “it is a fight I shall give you. Come.”

Dorian’s joy was so deep it was almost feral. Yes, he needed a fight, he needed to rake off this hurt and fury on someone or the poison would fester inside of him. Better to do it with Fenris, who despised him, than someone he cared about.

Fenris marched off. Dorian closed his hand in a fist and the sputtering fires went out completely, leaving only smoke in their wake. He marched off after Fenris with a cheerful whistle and a wink toward the horrified looking Inquisition soldiers. He wasn’t cheerful, not at all, but his nonchalance clearly infuriated Fenris; his shoulders were tight and hard as he paced inside the sparring circle in the courtyard. Dorian sauntered in as well, whirling his staff absently through his hands.

“Prepare yourself, Magister.”

Dorian settled. Fenris drew his frankly enormous sword. Had normal-sized weapons gone out of vogue or was everyone in the South compensating for something?

“Don’t cry too much when you lose, darling,” Dorian said as they began to circle each other. “It’s not an attractive look.” He smiled. “Of course, I wouldn’t know. I’m always devastatingly handsome. It’s a curse, really.”

“You talk too much.”

Dorian ducked under the harsh swing of Fenris’s sword and braced with his staff as it came rushing down at him. They locked weapons and Dorian immediately knew it was a mistake. Fenris was just like Lavellan; deceptive slimness hiding astonishing strength. Dorian was no match for that kind of physicality and they both knew it. Dorian gritted his teeth and tried to hold up under Fenris’s dominance.

“I have fought more magisters than I can count.” Fenris bore down even more. Dorian’s muscles screamed. “Magisters, arrogant and careless because of their magic, fell to me time and time again. They could not stop me, pathetic and weak as they were.”

Dorian noticed out of the corner of their eye that they’d gained a crowd. All the better. Dorian always did his absolute best when there was an audience watching. He looked up into Fenris’s focused face and smiled.

“Now who’s talking too much?” he asked and charged his staff with lightning.

The shock sent Fenris flying back. Dorian only had a moment to catch his breath and recover, though. He wasn’t wounded, but his entire body ached from that battle of strength. If he got caught like that again, he’d be finished. Well, Dorian thought as he steadied his breathing and reached for his magic. There was a simple solution to that particular problem, wasn’t there? He just wouldn’t get caught again.

Fenris was coming at him again. He was fast too. Dorian sent out a slick sheet of ice across the ground in front of Fenris’s feet, clicking his tongue in annoyance when that barely slowed him down. Dorian whirled as Fenris charged him and got enough seconds to send up a wall of fire. He needed to get some distance between them, damn it, but Fenris was practically unstoppable. The fire barely slowed him down either—he just leaped through it with only a moment of hesitation. Dorian cursed under his breath. Was he some kind of demon?

“You know, this Danarius of yours trained you up well,” Dorian blustered. “He must have been fond of you, hm?”

Fenris’s eyes narrowed and he charged him again. Dorian began to get an idea of why a magister would have chosen a soporati elvhen slave as his champion. Fenris ignored magic sent his way entirely, barely even seeing it as an obstacle. Between his stamina and speed, he could simply overwhelm even the most powerful mages. If Dorian didn’t do something, come up with something, and fast, he was going to lose. The monster that had been unleashed in his chest after reading his father’s message snarled at the thought of it. He was no weakling, no matter what his father or any of his peers thought. He was Dorian of house Pavus and he refused to lose.

“A kindness really, to treat you so well!” he called out as he sent up a blistering wave of heat. “Did you ever thank him, Fenris?”

Fenris hesitated at the circle of flame. Given a reprieve for just a moment, Dorian backed up to the sturdy wooden fence around the sparring circle and began to gather his magic. He was running on fumes now after his wave of destruction earlier and the amount of magic he needed would take time. He needed to stall some more, distract Fenris so that he wouldn’t attack just yet.

“I have noticed that for someone who hates magisters and Tevinter as much as you do, you spend a suspicious amount of time talking about them,” he called out. “Are you quite sure you aren’t a little homesick? Perhaps you miss your dear, departed master?”

It was difficult to see Fenris past the flames circling him, but Dorian could make out his face tightening. He took a deep breath and kept gathering his magic. Time for the real ax. He ignored the twinge in his belly that said these tactics were maybe a bad idea—he wanted to win and Dorian may have left Tevinter, but he would never be able to shake out that desire no matter how far he traveled or how much he changed.

“I did hear a rumor that you killed him,” he said in his airiest voice. “Now that wasn’t good repayment for everything he did for you, was it? Maybe that’s why you bring him up all the time, Fenris. Maybe you regret it. Perhaps you secretly wish he was still alive so that you could call him master again—”

Dorian choked. Fenris had come up under the flames and buried his hand to the wrist in Dorian’s chest.

Dorian could hear the blood pumping in his ears. He couldn’t feel Fenris’s hand, not really, but there was a pressure against his ribcage that made every breath a struggle. All of Dorian’s rage, all of his violence, all of his desire for victory fled in the face of the overwhelming shock and terror.

For a moment, they just stood there. Dorian swallowed several times but his throat was incredibly dry. Fenris was close enough that Dorian could see faint scars on his jaw. His eyes were clear now, glowing from the lyrium that had been injected into his skin. Dorian had wondered how that had affected Fenris’s body, had been trying to summon enough courage to ask more than once; now he knew. He had to bite back a hysterical laugh.

“You know,” Dorian said with more bravado than his felt, “usually people buy me dinner before they stick body parts inside me.”

Something tightened in his chest and Dorian scrabbled for breath. Kaffas, him and his big mouth. Hadn’t Felix and Minaeve always told him it’d get him killed? Dorian had lost all control of the magic he’d been gathering in his surprise. He was utterly defenseless. Dorian caught movement out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t dare turn his head or move or do anything to encourage Fenris to finish killing him. So it wasn’t until a blade rested against Fenris’s throat that he realized who had jumped into the sparring circle. Dorian’s stomach plummeted so quickly to the ground that he almost thought Fenris had actually pulled it out of his body.

“Release him.”

Lavellan’s face, from what Dorian could see out of the corner of his eye, was stern and uncompromising. Every inch the Inquisitor. Fenris didn’t look away from Dorian but he did something with his hand that made Dorian’s chest seize. He gasped and Lavellan’s knife nicked Fenris’s neck just the barest amount.

“I don’t want to kill you, Fenris. Hawke would probably murder me and then the world’s pretty doomed according to my advisors. So do me a favor and release him and everyone can walk away with their hearts and their heads intact.”

Fenris finally looked at Lavellan, lip lifting in a snarl. “He is a fool and a monster, just like the rest of his countrymen. You would save his life? After the evil he has undoubtedly done in Tevinter, the insult he just gave me?”

“He said some shitty things,” Lavellan agreed. Dorian had never felt so small in his life. “But we don’t kill people for saying shitty things. Especially not when they’re trying to do better than the rest of their shitty country most of the time.”

“You would excuse him?”

Lavellan bared his teeth at Fenris, that fuck-you smile Dorian had tried so hard to emulate. Lavellan was better at it than he was.

“Violence is a powerful tool,” he said. “It should only be used when necessary to make it more effective. This isn’t the time to use it, Fenris. Release him.”

Even though it was Dorian’s chest Fenris had his hand stuck in, Dorian almost felt as if he wasn’t there. He wished he wasn’t there. Now that the terror had flooded out the fury, he felt almost sick. What had he been thinking? Goading Fenris like that about being a slave, it was despicable. But he’d wanted to win, he’d wanted to beat Fenris in the ground and try to expel the poison that his father’s letter had stirred up and he’d just—not cared. Dorian’s stomach roiled. Had he truly changed so little? Perhaps the Inquisition soldiers were right to always treat him like a pariah if this was the behavior he reverted to the moment he had some pressure put on him. Kaffas.

Fenris pulled his hand out all at once. To Dorian’s surprise, he didn’t even take any important organs out with him. Dorian slumped, rubbing his ribs and trying to ignore the weakness in his knees. With the pressure gone, he felt mostly normal, but it was difficult to shake the impression that something had been bruised when someone had put their hand in his chest. Venhedis, this day just kept getting better and better, didn’t it?

The moment Fenris pulled his hand away, Lavellan lifted his knife. Dorian looked up in time to see Fenris give both of them utterly blank looks before he turned and marched away. Dorian couldn’t look at Lavellan. He felt exhausted all of the sudden. All he wanted was a long sleep and for this terrible day to have never happened.

A hand on his shoulder. Dorian flinched.

“Come on,” Lavellan said. His voice was free of condemnation and his face, when Dorian risked a peek upward, was calm and neutral. Dorian released a long breath. “We’d better go get you checked out by the healers.”

The mage tower was another new addition to Skyhold, commissioned especially by Lavellan. It still wasn’t completely done—they lacked a real roof, for starters—most of the Inquisition’s mage population had moved in and made the place their own. The infirmary was near the top and the only other occupant when Lavellan and Dorian stumbled in was, to Dorian’s surprise, Carver Hawke.

Carver blinked at them. He sat on one of the long, sturdy beds, a stack of armor by his side. He wasn’t wearing a shirt either and Dorian may have just had the scare of his life and Carver Hawke may not even really be his type, but he wasn’t one to ignore a set of nice abs. Carver noticed his once-over and squawked, reaching over to pull a nearby blanket over his nipples and stomach. Dorian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Men really were fragile creatures, weren’t they? It was a pity they were so good-looking.

“What are you doing here!” Carver demanded.

“I could ask you the same question,” Dorian said. “You don’t appear to be injured. Is this some hidden healer-patient fantasy you’re trying out?”

“What? No!”

“Don’t antagonize the boy, Dorian.”

Dorian jumped. He turned so fast he almost fell. Lavellan caught him around the elbows and hauled him back to his feet, but Dorian hardly noticed. Alexius stared back at him, eyebrows raised in a way that Dorian must have seen hundreds of times. It was the look that said ‘you’re absolutely the greatest buffoon I’ve ever met in my life’ and Dorian had sometimes even seen it in his dreams when he was still studying under Alexius. What?

“Alexius?” he said weakly. “You’re… here.”

The eyebrows went higher. “Obviously, Dorian. Why are you antagonizing my test subject?”

“Can you please stop calling me that?” Carver asked plaintively. “Fiona just says patient, that sounds nicer.”

“It is incorrect,” Alexius said. “You are not ill, you are here for data collection and observation.”

Carver made a face. “That makes it sound really creepy.”

“Data collection and observation?” Lavellan asked, frowning. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“It is an independent venture of the mages here.” They all turned as Fiona entered the room. She had changed from her usual robes into practical pants and a soft white shirt. She looked much younger. “We did not want to get anyone’s hopes up until we had something conclusive to offer.”

“Offer on what?” Lavellan asked.

Fiona and Alexius exchanged a speaking look. Dorian knew that Alexius had been placed in Fiona’s care, but he hadn’t expected them to approach anything like a rapport after everything Alexius had put Fiona and her people through.

“They want to find a way to stop the Calling,” Carver said when the silence continued to stretch.

Dorian blinked. “You think there’s a way to stop it?” he asked Alexius, his own misery sidelined by his curiosity.

“We have no real idea,” Alexius said. “We hope by studying a subject under its effects, we can determine a treatment that will make the… illness retreat. Much like treating an infection or cancer.”

“The Calling isn’t physical, though,” Lavellan said, eyes narrowing. “Loghain and the others said it was something they heard in their head.”

“But it’s caused by the weakness of their mutated blood,” Fiona said. “The taint. We believe there may still be a way to combat it. We’ve been working with Messere Hawke here to try to do exactly that.”

“You decided to do this on your own?”

Lavellan didn’t look at Alexius, but Dorian got the sense he wanted to. Dorian wasn’t the only one who’d noticed that Fiona and Alexius had gotten unusually close to each other. Dorian wasn’t sure what Alexius could do with thorough research on this burden of the Grey Wardens, but he doubted Lavellan thought it was for anything good.

“No,” Fiona said. “King Alistair visited us before he left for Fereldan. He asked us to look into it.”

Her voice softened curiously over the King’s name. Dorian frowned at her. Their last encounter had been objectively terrible. Much like with Alexius, Dorian would have expected Fiona to hold a grudge instead of following the King’s command. Perhaps she was just a forgiving woman?

Lavellan seemed to accept that explanation. He still darted a suspicious look Alexius’s way.

“And Alexius here is…?”

“Helping,” Alexius said sardonically. “That was to be my punishment, was it not, Inquisitor? Money, power, knowledge…?”

“Gereon has been very useful,” Fiona said in such a flat voice that Dorian suspected it was actually her version of intimidation. “Before now, we knew so little of Tevinter magic.”

Dorian wanted to protest—they had him, didn’t they?—but it was true enough that he never spent that much time with the Inquisition mages or Fiona. He found them horribly depressing most of the time.

Lavellan’s eyebrows rose. “When I asked you to take him in hand, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” he admitted. “He’s really helping?”

“He really is,” Alexius said. “Now that we’ve assuaged your fears that I am somehow corrupting your mages, shall we move to your reason for being here?”

Lavellan made a face but didn’t interrogate them further. “Dorian had a bit of a scuffle with Fenris earlier.”

“You’re injured?” Alexius asked with disapproval. “That elf beat you?”

Dorian tensed but he forced himself to smile. “I wouldn’t say lost so much as Fenris made a very compelling argument for why our fight should no longer continue.”

Lavellan clicked his tongue. “The elf,” he said with a poisonous look Alexius’s way, “stuck his hand in Dorian’s chest.”

Fiona and Alexius both looked startled but Carver was the one who jumped to his feet.

“He did what?” he asked.

They all looked at him. “Weirdest shit I’ve ever seen,” Lavellan said, warming a little. “He started glowing and stuck his hand right in Dorian’s chest. Didn’t leave a mark even when he pulled it out.”

Carver began to curse. Fiona looked alarmed but Alexius turned to Dorian with a thoughtful frown.

“This elf, Fenris,” he said. “He is from Tevinter, is he not?”

“He used to be a slave,” Carver snapped before Dorian could answer. “His old master is the one who put all those damn crazy tattoos on him. Lyrium tattoos. They do something freaky to his body so he can pass through physical stuff no problem. Merrill tried explaining it to me before but most of what she said just went straight over my head, honestly.”

Honestly, it was fascinating. Dorian knew templars injected themselves with lyrium, but he’d never heard of anyone successfully making lyrium tattoos before. The effects would likely to be unique and doubtless highly unstable. But it was unlikely Fenris would ever let him examine them now, he thought darkly.

“So it really was true.” They all looked at Alexius. His eyebrows were high on his forehead, a crinkle between them. “I heard rumors that Magister Danarius managed to tattoo one of his elvhen slaves, but I was never close to the man himself, so I never had any reason to get proof. I thought it was a wild tale that had spiraled out of control among the parasites he claimed as allies.”

“Fascinating as this all is, the young man should be checked out,” Fiona said firmly. “Master Pavus, please take a seat.”

Dorian obediently sat. Carver, still ruffled, sat as well, muttering under his breath. As Fiona passed a hand awash with healing blue over Dorian’s chest, he looked over at Carver.

“Why do you care if he’s sticking hands where they shouldn’t go?” he asked.

“Because you’re not some random thug in a Kirkwall back alley!” Carver snapped. “You’re our ally, even if you are a magister. Fenris has never had any sense about Tevinter and Hawke’s too soft to keep him on a short leash. If he snaps and kills you, we’re going to be tossed out on our asses.”

Dorian opened his mouth, closed it. It was unfair, he thought, since he was the one who had provoked Fenris so thoroughly in the first place but the very thought of confessing to such a thing while Lavellan and the others looked on made his skin shiver. So he closed his mouth and carefully didn’t look at Lavellan to check his reaction.

Fiona finished her examination quickly. As she withdrew, Dorian rolled his shoulders. Fiona’s healing magic was unexpectedly pleasant. His usual healer was Solas, who always took care of injuries when they were away from Skyhold. He’d never realized that there was a bit of a sharp edge, almost a bite, to Solas’s healing magic that kept it from being truly soothing.

“You seem fine,” she said. “I could not detect any injuries or even any real bruising. Whatever Fenris did in there, it seems to have been minimal.”

“Excellent,” Lavellan said, coming up behind Fiona’s shoulder. “Since we’ve got that all sorted out, maybe now you can tell me what in the Dread Wolf’s name you were fucking thinking?”

Dorian barely withheld a flinch. Lavellan didn’t raise his voice but it was sharp enough to cut. He hadn’t talked to Dorian like that for ages, not since Haven. Dorian didn’t relish its return, but he refused to admit that a simple letter had destroyed his self-control and decency so thoroughly. Lavellan would want to know why a missive from his father could degrade him so and Dorian’s one hope was that he could get out of this mess without Lavellan ever realizing the true reason for Dorian’s estrangement from his family.

Time to deflect. He wanted to huddle in on himself so he forced himself to lounge instead, provocative as he could make it. He noticed Alexius’s mouth twitch from the corner of his eye but Fiona and Carver both looked appalled and disgusted respectively. Lavellan’s expression barely flickered.

“Why, I don’t know what you mean,” Dorian said. “I was just letting off a little steam. Indulging in some of that… What’s the charming term you Southerners use? ‘Trash-talk’?” He blinked slowly. “I didn’t realize such a hardened warrior would be so sensitive.”

Lavellan looked at him for a long time. He opened his mouth. Dorian braced himself, but whatever Lavellan was going to say got waylaid by the door slamming open. Dorian only had a moment to recognize Hawke’s dark hair and broad shoulders before he was lifted bodily off the bed and slammed into the wall.

This was beginning to be a day full of new and unexpected challenges.

“What the hell did you do to Fenris?” Hawke demanded.

There wasn’t any playful banter or charming smiles now. Hawke wasn’t at his most dangerous, but he wasn’t playing the winsome fool at the moment. He had a hand around Dorian’s throat and Dorian’s feet were lifted clear off the ground. Dorian struggled to answer, to breathe.

Dorian’s mouth had gotten him in trouble before but he’d never been attacked so much in such little time because of it.

Thankfully, Hawke released Dorian’s throat as he whirled around to block the knife coming at him from the back. Hawke didn’t have his staff or even any armor, but Dorian had the feeling that living in Kirkwall had given Hawke a thorough knowledge of basic barbarian brawling. At the very least, he didn’t seem cowed in the slightest that Lavellan’s knives were out and pointing at him. Dorian slumped against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

“It was just a nasty misunderstanding, Hawke,” Lavellan said. “I’m going to tell you what I told Fenris—you kill Dorian and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

“A nasty misunderstanding?” Hawke demanded. He laughed, but it didn’t sound anything like his usual friendly chuckle. “He basically said Fenris missed being a slave!”

“He said what?” Carver demanded.

Lavellan flicked a cool look over Hawke’s shoulder at Dorian. “He said something shitty,” he said. Dorian was beginning to get used to feeling two feet tall. “If I let you kill everyone who said something shitty and kind of racist against elves, you’d have to murder most of the Inquisition, Hawke.”

“You think I give a fuck?” Hawke asked. “You know how long it’s taken Fenris to heal from that shit Danarius put him through? Especially after he found out what a piece of shit his sister was? He’s good now, Kai, do you get that? And then he hears a few words from your that wannabe-magister over there and all of the sudden he’s fucked up again and it’s like we’ve gone back to when he could barely fucking talk about Tevinter without drinking himself to death—”

“Adrian.”

Hawke glared at him. “Fuck you, Kai. What if someone had done that to him, huh?” He gestured with his thumb to Dorian. “You’d do worse than a little choking and you and I both know it.”

“Yeah, I probably would,” Lavellan said and Dorian stared at him. “But I’d hope there’d be some level-headed idiot who’d keep me from going too far around. You’re in luck. I happen to be a level-headed idiot these days by sheer fucking force.”

They stared at each other. Hawke was still snarling but Lavellan was even-faced and firm. Eventually, Hawke threw his hands up. He whirled on Dorian and Dorian flinched back, half-expecting to feel the hand on his throat again after all of that. But Hawke only pointed a finger in Dorian’s face.

“You’d better make this right, Pavus,” he snarled. “Don’t make me regret helping you.”

He stormed out without another word. In the wake of his absence, silence hung in the room as Dorian tried to avoid looking at anyone.

“Well, Dorian,” Alexius said at last. “I’m pleased to see your instincts for trouble haven’t dulled since coming South.”

Alexius hadn’t been a senior member of the Magisterium for nothing; that broke the lingering tension. Fiona stepped forward and put a gentle hand on Dorian’s shoulder, directing him to the bed.

“We’d better look you over again,” she said. “With any luck, you’ll last a whole ten minutes this time without someone else trying to injure you.”

“Fat chance,” Lavellan muttered.

He stood over Fiona’s shoulder as she examined Dorian’s throat. All of Hawke’s fury seemed to have transferred to Lavellan—he looked as ready to rip Dorian’s head off as Hawke had. Dorian remembered Hawke’s accusation that Lavellan would have hurt anyone who had been awful to Dorian and doubted it. Not when he looked ready to rip Dorian apart himself.

“I’d ask you again what you thought you were doing, but since you’re only going to bullshit me, I don’t think there’s a point,” Lavellan said. “So you’re going to go to your fucking room and reflect on how utterly shitty you just were to someone who didn’t deserve it and then you’re going to go and fucking apologize. You got me?”

“I’m not a child,” Dorian said.

Lavellan leaned heavily over Fiona’s shoulder. His eyes were deadly.

“Dorian,” he said in a too-sweet voice. “Do you understand the words coming out of my fucking mouth?”

Dorian could be reckless and foolhardy but he didn’t, despite all evidence to the contrary, have a death wish. He nodded. Lavellan eyed him for another long moment and then shook his head, marching out of the room.

“You have some light bruising,” Fiona said. “I’ve healed it, so you are free to leave as well, Master Pavus.”

Dorian hesitated. He wanted to go—wanted to go to his bed and curl under the covers and just pretend this day had never happened or go get three bottles of wine and drink his problems away—but something Hawke had said nagged at him. He’d known Danarius was dead from the Inquisition gossip and Varric, but…

He looked at Carver. “What did Hawke mean about Fenris’s sister?”

Carver looked remarkably like his brother when he was so furious. “None of your damn business.”

Probably fair. Dorian stood and rolled his shoulders. Alexius, who had watched everything from his solitary corner, gave Dorian a searching look as he passed that Dorian ignored. Alexius had lost the right as his confidant when he abandoned everything he’d taught Dorian and nearly killed him.

“Wait.” Dorian hovered in the door. Carver looked conflicted when Dorian glanced at him. “Fenris’s sister… She was a slave too. Varric says she’s the reason he got those tattoos. So that she could be freed.”

Dorian stiffened. “But he hates her?”

“She went back to Danarius after a few years. Couldn’t hack it on her own, I guess. She agreed to try and trap Fenris, turn him back to a slave if Danarius would teach her about magic. I was gone by then, but Varric told me about it. She pretended to want to see him and then tried to hand him over to Danarius. It’s only because Hawke was there that Fenris escaped.”

Dorian’s heart fluttered against his ribs. He was surprised it hadn’t beat entirely out of his chest yet.

“So he killed her?”

“What? No. He let her go.”

Dorian closed his eyes. He left without another word.

The Herald’s Rest was bursting and raucous, filled to the brim with soldiers singing off-key bar tunes, loud and suspiciously spectacular war stories being tossed around, ad an increasingly dirty round of Wicked Grace—led by Varric and Sera, no less—being played at one of the back tables. Dorian, at his usual seat at the bar, allowed the noise and the chaos to wash over him like a balm. There was nothing better for forgetting than losing himself in a drink and a crowd.

He hadn’t been able to go back to his room as Lavellan had ordered. He’d slunk across the courtyard, ignoring the dirty looks and whispers that followed him, and into the tavern where he planned to get well and truly sloshed. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t even remember his own name when he was through, not to mention what an utterly terrible day he’d just had.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, but he’d burned through several ales and was well on his way to being tipsy when someone shouldered into the seat next to him that had been conspicuously empty the entire time. Dorian had been able to feel the glares on his back since he entered, but he had coin so the barkeep hadn’t cared too much about him. It suited Dorian, though. He wasn’t made for company tonight. Dorian raised bleary eyes and groaned when Bull leered down at him.

“Looks like you’re having a party, ‘vint!” He patted Dorian companionably on the shoulder. Between his strength and Dorian’s dizziness, it nearly sent him to the floor. “Hey, barkeep! Another round for the Chargers!”

As the barkeep began to gather drinks, muttering under his breath all the while, Bull settled into the seat next to Dorian’s and gave him a long once-over.

“Wow. You really do look like shit, Pavus.”

Dorian gave him the stink-eye. “Do you honestly not have anything better to do than insult me right now?”

“Not really.”

“I’m sure a qunari of your talents can find something. So go.”

“You’re being pretty picky about company considering how low your popularity’s dropped, ‘vint. Half the people in here look like they want to kill you and the other half looks like they’d be happy to stand by and watch.”

Dorian dropped his head against the table. “Gossip is, unfortunately, one of Skyhold’s particular vices.”

“No shit. But there’s one juicy tidbit that’s been swept under the rug under all this fuss.”

“Oh? And what tidbit is that?”

Bull snorted. “A little birdie told me you got a pretty swanky letter this morning. Hand-delivered by the Inquisitor. Must’ve been important.”

Dorian had to resist the urge to be sick all over the bar counter. He doubted that would do anything to help his popularity.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Oh, really? So that letter with the Pavus family seal was for someone else, huh?”

“You’re really very irritating,” Dorian told him.

“Oh, stop. You’re hurting me.” Bull’s voice was entirely flat. “So what’d the family say, Pavus? Come back home or it’s a spanking for you?” Bull leered. “Kinky.”

“I am not talking about this with you.”

“You’re down on choice here, ‘vint. You pissed off some of your only friends in this place with all that nonsense this morning.”

Dorian slammed his ale. “Do you think I don’t know that?” he demanded.

“I think you know better than anyone else thinks,” Bull said. “But I’m not so easy to distract, Pavus. I’ve been called worse names by uglier guys than you and I don’t really care that much about how you feel about me. So lay it on me.”

Dorian stared at him. “Are you seriously offering to be my confidante?”

“Well, I can’t pull out fancy words like confidante when I’m as sloshed as you are right now, but I figure I have two ears and a working knowledge of Tevinter politics. I’m also the only one in here who isn’t pissed at you right now. So go on, Pavus. Lay it on me.”

Dorian studied him. Bull didn’t look like he was joking or pulling Dorian’s leg. He looked… utterly serious, in a way Dorian didn’t see often outside of the battlefield. It was disconcerting and entirely too much to deal with drunk.

“Why do you even care?”

Bull touched one thick finger to Dorian’s forehead. “You’re a really big dumbass if you need to ask.” When Dorian only stared, Bull huffed. “I’m your friend, idiot.”

Dorian took another long swig of his drink to hide the embarrassing urge to blush or sputter. He tried to imagine how the group of friends—no, followers really—would have reacted if he told them a great hulking qunari had just claimed Dorian as a friend. They would have checked him for a concussion. And yet Dorian wasn’t running screaming for the hills, hadn’t been able to summon up any more than some embarrassed pleasure. Had being in the South actually changed him so much?

He winced as he remembered that afternoon. Or had he actually not changed at all?

“Do you believe people can change, Bull?”

Bull snorted. “People don’t change. They spend all their time lying to themselves about it, but the truth is people can’t really do it. You are what you’re born as and you stay that way until you die.”

Dorian’s heart was heavy. “You truly believe that?”

“You don’t?”

“If that’s true, where does that leave us?” He gestured between them. “Our people have been at war for centuries, haven’t they?”

“You call that a war?”

“It's barely an eye-watering slap fight, I'll grant you, but every now and again it heats up.”

Bull snorted again, more deeply this time. “That’s just force of habit. A real invasion’s different.”

“Still. War for hundreds of years and yet here we sit, friends. Isn’t that change?”

“Maybe. Or maybe neither of us had that hate in us to begin with.”

Dorian thought of his fury that morning, the words he’d flung out of desperation and rage at Fenris. The way he could turn vicious when he was upset, the years he’d spent carefully crafting insults to fling if anyone tried to get too close. He thought as he’d tried to avoid for years, of his father’s bone-deep disgust of everything Dorian was, so ingrained that he’d nearly turned his only son into a vegetable to get rid of it. The thought was like a wound.

“Dorian.”

“My father has that hate in him,” he said without realizing he’d decided to say it. “He hated me so much I haven’t spoken to him in five years. The letter this morning. He wants to meet me. He says he’s changed.”

Dorian finally dared to look up. Bull scowled down at him. At some point, his tray of drinks had arrived and Dorian could hear loud shouts from the Chargers somewhere in the tavern.

“Do you believe him?”

“What?”

“Do you think he’s really changed?”

“Didn’t you just say people don’t change?”

Bull rolled his eyes. “You’re different from me, ‘vint. Just because I think something doesn’t make it true. It’s just what I think.”

Dorian thought about his father. The last time they’d spoken face to face, they’d fought about something. Dorian had been too close to another man at the latest banquet and his father had been worried people would talk about Dorian’s preferences. His father was always worried about it, but never for the right reasons. He’d never worried about what would happen to Dorian, he’d only worried about what would happen to the family name.

“I don’t know if he’s changed,” Dorian said. He snorted. “I don’t know if I have either. He said in his letter that I would be too proud to come.”

Bull sighed. “He must know you better than you think,” he said. “Because it sounds like he knows how easy you are for dares.”

Dorian bristled. “I’m not easy for dares.”

“You are. It’s okay, it’s pretty cute.”

“Cute—!”

Bull patted Dorian on the back. “You’re not a bad guy, okay? People don’t change, but sometimes they fuck up. If that happens, you just got to make up for it and move forward. That’s true for you and it’s true for your dad too.”

Dorian blinked at him. “Why are you helping me?” he asked again, helplessly.

Bull snorted. “Family stuff can be rough,” he said.

Dorian bristled. His drunk mouth spoke before his brain could stop it. “What would you know about it? True qunari don't have families.”

Bull was true to his word—the insult rolled off of him without even a flinch. Dorian still wanted to slap his own mouth. Why couldn’t he stop doing that? It was as if getting that letter had inadvertently opened a well of meanness somewhere deep inside of him and he didn’t know how to plug it back up again.

“Having to walk away from everything you grew up with, knowing you've disappointed the ones who loved you?” Bull looked over at the table of Chargers. “Burning out so hard you have to leave everything you've known and start over?” He looked back at Dorian, utterly placid. It was almost infuriating. “I know a little about that. Takes a tough man to do it and no man does it unless he has to. Whatever your dad did, it’s got you running scared. But you’re not a coward, Dorian Pavus. So you turn back around and go kick its ass. That’s the only way you’ll beat it.”

Dorian had a blinding vision of Bull drop-kicking his father the way he attacked so many spirits and demons. It was surprising enough to make him sputter out a laugh. Bull flashed him a smile. He wasn’t Dorian’s usual type either, but Dorian couldn’t deny the smile made him a little charming. Despite the horns. He thumped Dorian on the shoulder in a single, solid pat. Dorian nearly fell to the floor again.

“You’ll be all right,” he decided. “Try not to get yourself killed in the future, yeah? The boss is in a tizzy and it’s damn embarrassing to watch.”

“What?” Dorian demanded but Bull was already striding away with a laugh.

Dorian realized with a dawning horror that the table that the Chargers always commandeered in the evenings had one extra person. Lavellan glared across the room at Dorian. He looked more casual than usual—his long hair was down around his shoulders in a thick sheet of red and he was lightly flushed. Dorian’s stomach tightened but Lavellan didn’t come storming over to demand what he thought he was doing in the tavern instead of his room. Dalish, bless them, dragged Lavellan over to whisper something in his ear. Dorian took the opening and made his escape to the second floor where he wouldn’t be as easily seen.

“I can help you.”

Dorian jumped, knocking over his ale, and looked down. Cole looked back up at him, sitting on the edge of the second floor with his legs dangling out into the open air. Dorian was sure he hadn’t been there before, but perhaps he had; no one seemed quite sure how Cole’s particular brand of invisibility worked. Dorian frowned at him and Cole blinked, as innocent as a lamb. A lamb with at least four knives on their person.

“I don’t need your help,” Dorian said with as much dignity as his wine-soaked head could summon up. He’d had several more drinks as the night progressed and it was frankly impressive he could even make a sentence at the moment if he did say so himself.

Cole was about as expressionless as Fenris but his pale eyebrows rose up.

“Are you sure about that?” he asked.

Dorian wasn’t sure about anything, really, except maybe that he definitely needed another glass of wine to aide him in forgetting this day had ever happened. Getting up proved to be quite the challenge; his knees buckled a little and he found himself on the floor before he could recall how exactly what had happened. Cole watched it all happen with the kind of curiosity Dorian had seen small children exhibit when they burned bugs or poked dangerous things with sticks. Dorian tried to get up again, failed, and resigned himself to living on the floor for now. At least the tavern’s floor was moderately clean, for a tavern.

He dragged himself over to Cole’s side. The drop from the second floor to the first seemed very long, though it was really only a flight. Dorian eyed the open air warily and decided not to risk it. Instead, he pulled himself upright and leaned against a nearby chair, resolving to get up and get that glass of wine the moment his legs started working and the world stopped spinning.

He caught the sound of bright laughter and looked down automatically, ignoring the world spun around him. He smiled a little when he caught sight of Lavellan’s bright hair among the Chargers. Someone must have told a joke—Lavellan’s head was tipped back, mouth open as he cackled. He looked happier than he had before as if some of his simmering tension had finally boiled off. Dorian relaxed a little to see it and wondered when he’d become so attuned to Lavellan’s mood that his happiness could ease Dorian’s mind.

“He’s happy,” Cole murmured. In his inebriated state, it took Dorian a moment to realize he was also watching Lavellan. “Warm and bright and fuzzy enough that the worry isn’t as overwhelming. With Dalish, he can almost pretend he’s back home, with people who understand him instead of all these people looking to him to lead them, who look up to him and treat him like some long-dead shemlan prophet, free from responsibilities and worries and soothing ruffled feathers, Creators what I wouldn’t give to be back in my bunk again with Fen’nas nagging me to get up and start the day before the sun’s even risen, I just want to go home—”

Dorian shouldn’t be hearing this. “Cole.”

Cole shook his head, shivering as he if he was throwing something off. When he spoke, he was himself again. “He’s so bright. Hard to look at.”

“Not hard at all,” Dorian murmured.

“He was so angry before. Worried sick and hurt and furious, all tangled up until it made him poisonous. It’s better when he’s like this. I want him to be like this more.”

Dorian eyed Cole out of the corner of his eye. “Can you turn it off? What you do?”

Cole didn’t look at him. He was still watching Lavellan, who was talking to Krem about something.

“No. What they feel is always there, waiting. Sometimes I can turn it down or ignore it. But I can never turn it off.” Cole shrugged. “It’s all right. If it’s too much, I can come here.” He put his face against the rails, as content as Dorian had ever seen him. “It’s warm here.”

Dorian looked down and tried to see it as Cole did; the crowds of murmuring, singing, drinking people. Tucked up above, hidden away from sight, Dorian was free from their resentful stares and whispering and could see them as they are; their anxiety and restlessness and professionalism fallen away to leave them something approaching contentment. Dorian’s eyes were helplessly drawn to Lavellan once more.

He jumped when he realized Lavellan was looking up, had caught sight of him. Lavellan was too far away to see properly, but Dorian’s stomach dropped when he realized Lavellan’s face had gone somber and hard. Lavellan turned away when Dorian looked down at him and Dorian’s heart crumpled. Maker. How could Lavellan affect his mood like this, even drunk as he was? How long had it been since he’d been this far gone over someone? Surely not since he was a teenager, realizing his own desires for the first time when his dashing tutor had put his hand on Dorian’s shoulder to congratulate him for doing well on his exams. He wasn’t a boy anymore and this wasn’t some random man in a tavern. He shouldn’t—

“He thinks of you too, you know.” Dorian jumped. “Since you came in, he’s been thinking about you. There’s Dorian, he’s so fucking stupid, is he all right, he did such a shitty thing but is he all right, he’s looking at me, Creators, is he still looking at me, I want him to look—”

“Oh, Maker,” Dorian said, covering his face with his hands to hide the burn of his blush. “Is this some kind of joke, Cole? Are you trying to pull one over on the big bad ‘vint because of what I did this morning?”

“I don’t play jokes,” Cole said, affronted.

“Oh? Then what was that nonsense with the cook and the cheese? The pots in the garden? The jam?”

Dorian peeked through his fingers to catch Cole pouting at him. A big, bad spirit pouting at Dorian. Dorian’s life had become exponentially stranger since joining the Inquisition.

“Those weren’t jokes either,” Cole said. “And just because you don’t believe me doesn’t mean it isn’t true. He’s angry with you but he keeps watching you. It’s like that whenever you’re together. He watches you, you watch him. Whenever you two are in the same room it’s like a ringing in my head.”

Dorian shook his head. “He can’t be thinking of me,” he said. “Not the way you’re saying, Cole. He—” hates me, Dorian wanted to say, but he knew it wasn’t true and that knowing shook him. When had he developed such confidence in Lavellan’s regard for him? “He’s angry with me. Besides, he’s not—I’m not—”

He shook his head again, more forcefully this time. He was too drunk for this conversation.  But he knew Cole had a tendency to babble whatever thoughts he overheard to anyone that would listen and Dorian couldn’t imagine the catastrophe if anyone else had heard those little tidbits Cole had pulled from Lavellan’s head.

“You can’t tell anyone that he’s thinking about me, Cole. Do you understand that? Even if it’s not what you’re thinking, someone else might take it the wrong way. No one can know—”

“Shame, shame, shame,” Cole said. Dorian shut his mouth with a click. “I don’t understand. He looks at you and it’s—there’s Dorian, he’s there, I want him to always be there. And you’re the same, but there’s always that shame. Disappointment, bitterness, father would be so disgusted, what if I get in too deep, I’ll taint him, father is right I’m a monster, I’ll ruin him, what if he wants more than a port in a storm, what if he doesn’t, what if he’s like all the others, I couldn’t bear it—” Cole shook his head. “I told you didn’t I? He’s not like the others. So bright, so bright.”

Dorian’s heart thundered in his ears. Having Cole’s particular brand of magic turned on him was more than disconcerting—it was disturbing. Cole was harmless enough and he’d saved Dorian’s life countless times in the field, but Dorian sometimes understood why Vivienne refused to go on missions with him. It was unnerving, to have him hold your thoughts up as easily as if he’d plucked an apple from a tree, thoughts you hadn’t even been aware you were having.

“You can’t make promises on his behalf, Cole,” Dorian said. “He’s the Inquisitor.”

“He’s Kai. Tell him. He wants to help you.”

Dorian turned, but Cole had already disappeared. Dorian stared at the space he’d been for a long moment and then let out a long breath.

He looked back down and smiled. Dalish had dragged Lavellan up by his elbows and they were currently in the process of showing the others some kind of dance—some sort of Dalish thing? There was a lot of clapping and twirling and stomping and Lavellan was laughing so hard his eyes crinkled shut. Dorian’s heart gave a strange thump, almost painful, and he was so fucked, so well and truly fucked.

“Well,” he said, sort of talking to Cole even though he wasn’t there anymore. Dorian had a feeling the spirit would hear him regardless. “I think it’s time I get well and truly toshed.”

Dorian woke bleary and extremely, excruciatingly hungover. He groaned into his pillow. It took several minutes to peel himself away from his sheets, stumble to his feet, and grapple for a glass of water. He drank it one solid gulp, blinking away the fuzzy remains of sleep.

He never slept long when he was drunk, though he’d never been able to figure out the reason. He’d been too wasted to remember what time he’d crawled into his bed last night, but he knew it had been well after midnight. The sun was only barely cresting the horizon, light the merest suggestion on the horizon. He couldn’t have slept for more than four or five hours.

Still, despite the hangover and the ache in his body, he felt surprisingly clear-headed; more than he’d felt since Lavellan had put that letter in his hand. He dressed slowly and ran a brush over his teeth and through his hair. He fixed his mustache. He ate from his stash of dried nuts. He left his room.

Without allowing himself to think about it, he marched down the hall and rapped neatly but insistently on Fenris and Hawke’s door.

It took several minutes for anyone to answer him, but Dorian didn’t stop knocking. He was a little afraid it would be Hawke, who Dorian suspected wouldn’t let him see Fenris no matter what Dorian said. But when the door swung open it was Fenris standing there, dressed in comfortable pants and a heavy shirt. Fenris, Dorian figured, must constantly be freezing in Skyhold much like Dorian himself was. Fenris didn’t look like he’d just been dragged from bed aside from the clothes—he was as alert and bright-eyed as ever. His brow was deeply pinched and he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Magister,” he rumbled. “What do you want?”

“What I’d really love is a hangover cure,” Dorian said. His voice was little more than a rasp. He should’ve drunk more water. “But right now, I’d like a chat with you. Please.”

Fenris considered him for so long that Dorian nearly chickened out and made a run for it. But eventually, Fenris sighed and stepped out, closing the door behind him. He wasn’t wearing shoes, but Dorian figured he must be like Lavellan; feet made of stone, impervious to cold or injury.

Dorian hadn’t really expected Fenris would want to talk to him, so he had no real idea where to lead them. He decided the brisk morning air would help wake him up, so he led them to the nearest balcony. The sun was steadily rising, more and more light beginning to fill the valley of mountains that surrounded Skyhold. Dorian leaned forward. It really was a spectacular view, even if he still got extremely dizzy from the heights.

“Speak.”

Dorian turned. Fenris looked deeply unimpressed still. Hawke had implied that Fenris had had some sort of breakdown yesterday over what Dorian said, but Dorian couldn’t really see it. Fenris looked as normal as ever. Dorian cleared his throat, opened his mouth, cleared his throat again. Fenris watched him without a change in expression at all, which was almost more disconcerting.

What was it Bull had said? Make up for it and move forward. Dorian could do that. He needed to do that.

“I behaved improperly yesterday,” Dorian said at last. Once he started speaking, the words came out surprisingly easily. “It was… rather beastly of me, honestly. I can make excuses, certainly, but none of them can really make up for what I said better than an apology. So. I’m sorry, Fenris. It was a terrible thing to say and I deeply regret it.”

Fenris didn’t say anything. Dorian fidgeted. He could count on one hand the times he’d sincerely apologized and every time it made him itchy. Sincere emotion was so taxing. How did the normal people handle it every day? Would Fenris even accept it? He’d made no secret of how little he trusted or liked Dorian and Dorian had proved him right yesterday. Maker, how he loathed proving people right about something he so desperately wanted them to be wrong about.

“Apology accepted,” Fenris said at last.

Dorian slumped in relief. “If you could convey that to your surprisingly terrifying significant other, I would greatly appreciate it. I have no desire to be murdered.”

“Hawke’s temper runs hot,” Fenris said. “But he burns out just as quickly. He will forgive you and treat you as he once did in little time.”

That was more of a relief than Dorian wanted to admit. He liked Hawke more than he suspected Hawke liked him and it had been uncomfortable to have Hawke so bitterly disappointed in him.

“If that is all, Magister?”

Fenris started to turn to go without waiting for an answer.

“Wait!” Fenris paused. Dorian swallowed roughly around the sudden dryness in his throat. “Carver told me about your sister.”

Fenris’s shoulders went up. “If you are truly looking for forgiveness, you should stop speaking now.”

“I’m not—It’s just—” Dorian hated fumbling for words. “He told me what she did to you. How she betrayed you. I know it’s not any of my business—”

“No. It is not.”

“—but I just…” Dorian took several deep breaths. “Did you ever forgive her?”

The words burned on the way out. Dorian had to breathe deeply through the pain and to try to calm his thundering heart.

Fenris didn’t turn to look at him but the harsh set of his shoulders had softened. Dorian could hear the distant call of birdsong from below the balcony. The wind picked up, rustling their clothes and the leaves of the nearby trees. Dorian shivered.

“…I never forgave her,” Fenris said after a long silence. “But I never stopped loving her either.”

Dorian took a step back as if he’d been dealt a blow. Fenris marched away without a backward glance. Dorian watched him go silently; he’d taken more than he should’ve with that question and he knew it, but it’d been impossible to not ask, not after hearing the story from Carver. He’d burned with the need to know.

Not forgiven, but never unloved. Dorian swallowed several times. Kaffas.

Dry-eyed and trembling a little, he made his way back inside. He had a trip to prepare for.

It didn’t take long to gather what he needed—Dorian didn’t plan to be gone longer than an afternoon. He left before anyone other than the watch had really woken. The sky was still filmy and grey, the sun only just peeking over the mountaintops. Dorian wore another cloak on top of his favorite armor—it was dastardly cold in the mornings, a sure sign of Thedas’s descent into winter.

He’d expected to have to wait for Leliana to wake up, but she’d already been in her office when Dorian had made the trek upstairs to check. Dorian wasn’t sure she even slept. Her eyebrows had gone up when Dorian had told her he needed to take a solo trip into the Hinterlands for the day, but she hadn’t protested or asked any questions. Dorian was grateful for that, even though he was sure she already knew everything about his little family drama.

Dorian had left her office, taken his steady grey more out of the stables and, trying to ignore his splitting headache, made his way out of Skyhold without another word to anyone.

The ride was quiet. The sun climbed steadily higher and it warmed up a little as Dorian descended from the Frostbacks. The ride down into the Hinterlands wasn’t long and Redcliffe was even closer—Dorian stopped for a quick and decidedly boring breakfast with only an or so left to travel before midday. If he ignored the reason for his trip, it was almost pleasant.

He munched on the hard bread and apples that he’d brought along as he stretched his legs and checked his horse over. She endured his attentions patiently, so he gave her one of the apples in reward.

Dorian wanted to linger even more, but he knew if he did, he’d never go to Redcliffe. Reluctantly, he re-mounted.

Dorian had traveled the entire way down without seeing another person, so the thundering of hooves behind him caught him off-guard. Whoever it was was riding at quite the clip. Dorian turned, half out of curiosity and half to justify more stalling.

His heart dropped to his toes when a set of antlers crested the hill into his clearing—he knew that hart. There was only one person foolish enough to ride that onerous beast.

Dorian’s shock made him too slow—he didn’t even think of riding away until Lavellan was almost upon him. Not that it would have done him much good—Lavellan was clearly bound for Redcliffe and his hart was much faster than Dorian’s mare.

Lavellan’s expression was unreadable as he pulled up to Dorian’s side. He was wearing his usual armor and his hair was neatly braided—nothing out of the ordinary except his actual presence. Dorian couldn’t help staring at him. He tried to be nonchalant. If Lavellan had followed him here, that meant someone had told him where Dorian was going.

“Who told you?”

“Bull,” Lavellan said. “He saw you leaving through the gate and came to get me. I would’ve been here sooner if Josephine hadn’t put up such a fuss about missing lessons so close to Halamshiral.”

Dorian’s fury was abrupt and deep, almost painful. He smiled through it.

“So you thought, what—you’d come to watch the show? Nothing better to do than watch some good old-fashioned Tevinter drama?”

Lavellan weathered Dorian’s temper without blinking, which only infuriated Dorian more.

“I came because you should have someone who gives a fuck with you. And because Bull reminded me that they might just take off with you.”

“I don’t need someone to protect me,” Dorian snapped. “I know I’m very pretty, but I’m not actually a princess. I can protect myself.”

“I know,” Lavellan said, exasperated. “You think I’d trust just anyone to guard my back? But family is different. You don’t expect them to stab you in the back.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dorian muttered. “So you’re—what? Going to follow me around looking menacing? You do know that no retainer of my father is going to be impressed by an elf, Lavellan, even if you are the Inquisitor.”

Lavellan’s mouth tightened. “I’m pretty fucking aware of what your country thinks about my people, Dorian. You made that perfectly clear yesterday.”

Dorian winced. Kaffas. He’d spoken without thinking.

A little more apologetic, he said, “I apologized to Fenris for that.”

“Yes. He said as much when he and Hawke came to see me off. Hawke had a message for you, by the way.” Lavellan cleared his throat and deepened his voice. It did manage to sound quite a bit like Hawke when he said, “‘You’re an idiot, but I guess you’re less of a dick than I thought you were. Sorry for almost choking you. Don’t do it again or I’ll finish the job next time.’”

“Well,” Dorian said. “As much as I enjoy a little breath-play—”

“Dorian.”

“What? It’s a perfectly respectable kink—”

“Dorian.” Lavellan folded his arms over his chest. “You know what a risk it is to come all the way down here by yourself. Forget your family, there’s still rifts and demons in this area. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I was thinking very few people wanted anything to do with me after yesterday’s debacle,” Dorian said.

Lavellan’s expression flickered. “Dorian,” he said slowly. “No matter how angry I am with you or how much of an asshole you are, I still don’t want you dead. I thought I made that clear yesterday when I kept stopping people from killing you.”

“There’s only room for histrionics from one of us in this relationship,” Dorian informed him. “Calm down. I wasn’t going to die. The demons are almost wiped out in the Hinterlands and none of the weaklings left over would be enough to get me.” He made a shooing motion. “So you can make your merry way back to Skyhold now. If you hurry, you can make it in time for dinner.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Dorian.”

“Well, you’re not coming with me.”

“Aren’t I?”

Lavellan’s expression was at its most mulish, brow furrowed and mouth pursed. Dorian had found it charming more than once in the past, but all he really wanted to do was shake him. Dorian had chosen to do this alone for a reason. He had no idea what his family retainer would even say or do, but the thought of Lavellan witnessing it made his back break out in cold sweat. He’d spent so long hiding his family drama from Lavellan, hiding what he was from Lavellan.

“No, you aren’t. There’s no need to come with me like you’re my babysitter, Lavellan. I can handle this on my own like a big boy.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Lavellan said. “Clearly there’s some bug up your butt about your family, Dorian—you made that really fucking clear from the way you just fell the fuck apart yesterday over a letter.” Dorian winced. So he had guessed what had made Dorian lash out yesterday. Now he really did feel like a toddler. “If they freak you out that much, I’m not letting you go in there alone if I have to tie us together.”

“Don’t I get some say in this?” Dorian demanded. “I’m not some exotic pet to be coddled. What happened to that charming idea of ‘I don’t tell Dorian to do anything,’ hm?”

“I’m not telling you to do anything,” Lavellan said. “I’m telling you what I’m going to do and if you don’t let me come with, I’ll just follow you to Redcliffe and we both know Dumbass is faster than your horse.”

“That’s still the stupidest name for a red hart—”

“He tripped over a branch! He keeps trying to pull me off course so he can chase something shiny! Of course he’s a Dumbass!”

“Well, you and Dumbass should just turn right back around and go back to Skyhold. I’m doing this alone, Lavellan. I am more than capable of handling this by myself—”

“You shouldn’t have to!”

Dorian blinked, stunned into silence from the force of Lavellan’s bellow. Lavellan panted, color high on his cheeks. He scrubbed a hand over his neat braid and huffed.

“I know you can handle it yourself, Dorian. But you shouldn’t have to, okay? You’re not the type to just blow up over nothing and yesterday you blew up hard. This isn’t going to be easy for you, even if I don’t know why, and I refuse to make you suffer through it alone.”

“Why?” Dorian demanded.

Lavellan threw up his hands. “Because I care about you, okay?”

Dorian knew that. He really did. Lavellan wasn’t like the people he’d known in Tevinter, who side-talked around affection like it was kind of contagious disease that they didn’t want to touch directly. Lavellan was the most straight-forward, tacit person Dorian knew.

But it was still beyond embarrassing to hear him say it. Dorian’s face burned. He quickly turned on his heel so he wasn’t looking directly at Lavellan and cleared his throat several times.

“Well!” he said. His voice sounded suspiciously wrecked, damn it. “I’ve learned over the course of our long and peculiar relationship that there’s very little that can budge you when you’ve made your decision, Lavellan. So if you must come… I suppose I can’t stop you.”

Lavellan sounded far too amused and smug. “No,” he said. “You can’t.”

The tavern was empty when they arrived.

“Uh-oh,” Dorian said. The last time he had been here, it had bustled with people. “This is not a good sign.”

Lavellan sighed at his back. “You think we’ll ever just go somewhere and things will turn out like we expected them to?”

“Not in this lifetime.”

Lavellan straightened. “Someone’s coming down the stairs.”

Dorian heard it too a moment later. He braced himself, but he’d half-expected Letus or Reed or one of the other family sycophants to be tromping down those stairs; he was utterly unprepared to meet the solemn hazel eyes of his father. Dorian’s knees weakened but he curled his hands into tight fists, letting the pain of his nails biting into his palms ground him. He would not faint here. He would not.

“Father,” he said in the coldest voice he could manage.

Lavellan shifted behind him but didn’t say anything. Maker. He’d been nervous enough about having a retainer in the room with Lavellan. If he’d known about this little ruse of his father’s, he would have knocked Lavellan out cold instead of giving in to his demands to come with. Dorian’s stomach roiled. Oh, Maker, he was going to be sick—

“Dorian,” his father said.

Dorian almost closed his eyes. His father’s voice was so familiar. Dorian had heard it so much during his life—telling soothing stories when he was sick, berating him for some minor infraction as a teen, bragging about some accomplishment to the other magisters when he was still a teen… Dorian hadn’t heard it in five years but it was still as familiar as his own voice.

“So the whole story about the family retainer was just… what?” he asked. He sounded hoarse and wrong. “A story? Reed was too busy sorting your robes to come all the way to the South to try to drag me home again?”

“Then you knew,” his father said. He looked over Dorian’s shoulder as if Dorian wasn’t even there and the force of his rage nearly bowled Dorian over. “I apologize for the deception, Inquisitor. I never intended for you to be involved.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Lavellan asked. Dorian recognized that voice. It was the one Lavellan had pulled out on Alexius once upon a time, the one he sometimes turned on his advisors. His deeply pissed off voice. “Didn’t even cross your mind Dorian would tell me about it, did it? You seriously thought I’d let him come here alone, let alone allow anyone to trick him into coming here without knowing what he was walking into?” Lavellan shook his head. “Don’t know what they’re saying about me up North if that’s something you think I’d actually let happen.”

Dorian’s father blinked. Dorian wondered if anyone had told him about this barbarian Inquisitor, if he had any idea at all about what he was walking into when he decided to come South. Even if they had, his father probably hadn’t listened.

“Surely, there’s no need for your personal involvement,” his father said, trying to recover his equilibrium. “This is a minor family squabble. You must have more important things to concern yourself with.”

Dorian should be beyond being hurt by his father, but it seemed he wasn’t. How utterly embarrassing.

“A squabble?” Dorian asked. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

Dorian’s father flicked him a look Dorian had seen hundreds of times when he was a child—an irritated side-eye that said hush you mouthy child, the adults are speaking. Dorian had always loathed that look in particular, even when he was barely able to articulate why. He’d spent years as a child trying to avoid getting it and then had decided that it was useless to try, so he’d made himself even bolder and more obnoxious out of spite.

“What is this, anyhow?” Dorian took a step forward. His father still stood on the stairs and Lavellan was guarding the door. “An ambush? Kidnapping?” He sneered deeply. “Loving family reunion?”

Dorian’s father abandoned the quieting look for the disappointed aggravation that had been common when Dorian had been a teenager. He looked to Lavellan again, this time with conspiratorial indignation.

“This is how it’s always been,” he lamented. “This attitude, this… disrespect—”

Dorian nearly started screaming, but Lavellan’s harsh snort stopped him.

“Considering you lied to get him here, Dorian has every right to be pissed with you,” he said in the same tone he used whenever Vivienne said something encouraging about the Circles or Cullen started to talk about recruiting Templars. “Pull the other one, asshole. It’s got bells on it.”

Dorian wished for a moment that he was less appalling at art—he would have dearly loved to paint the stupefied look on his father’s face at the moment. It hardened in an instant.

“And what lies have you been telling your new friend about me, Dorian?” he asked.

Dorian barked out a laugh. His stomach was so tight it was painful and his head buzzed as if the room was filled with bees. He couldn’t feel his fingers from how tightly he was clenching them into fists. He was amazed he hadn’t passed out, honestly, and then his father had the gall, the sheer, unmitigated gall to accuse Dorian of making up stories to get Lavellan to dislike him?

“I believe we both know who the liar is between the two of us, father,” he spat. “After all, you spent years telling me you would love and protect me. What a joke that turned out to be.”

His father’s expression flickered, softened. “Dorian. If you’ll only listen to me—”

“I don’t want to listen to you. I don’t want to see you. Or did I not make that clear by avoiding you for the past five years?”

“You’ve been behaving like a child, Dorian. Avoiding your responsibilities, worrying your mother, running away to the South, endangering yourself for some fool’s errand—”

“It’s not a fool’s errand,” Dorian snapped. His heart was beating too fast. He’d always had trouble arguing with his father. “It’s the end of the world. And we helped cause it, again.”

His father pursed his lips. “Not this nonsense about these so-called Venatori again. I hear enough of that in the Magisterium, Dorian.  That’s not why I came here.”

“And why did you come all the way down here?”

Dorian’s father spread his hands. He was a young man still, with only the faintest grey in his hair, but he suddenly looked years older.

“I came to speak with my only son,” he said in the soft voice he had once read stories to Dorian in. “And to see if there was any chance he would forgive me.”

Dorian’s mind blanked. He stared at his father’s face, the face so like his—the same nose and full mouth, the same shape of the eyes. Once upon a time, he’d been proud of that, proud that everyone knew he was a scion of House Pavus, his father’s heir. He would have done anything to make his father proud of him, given up anything on his father’s order. Dorian had no idea what to say, could barely even figure out his own churning feelings.

He wanted forgiveness?

Dorian flinched as a body inserted itself between himself and his father. He’d almost forgotten Lavellan was still in the room. Panic clogged his throat. He’d never wanted Lavellan to find out about this, but especially not this way. His dirty little secret, the thing that had gotten him sneers and snickers and torment since he was old enough to know his own feelings and now Lavellan was going to know. Maker, no.

“And if Dorian doesn’t want to forgive you for whatever it is you did?” Lavellan asked.

Dorian’s father went hard-eyed and stern in an instant.

“Inquisitor, as much as I appreciate your help in bringing my son here, this is no concern of yours. This is a family matter.”

“I didn’t bring your son here. He came here on his own. And if it concerns Dorian, it concerns me.”

There was a long pause, pregnant with tension. Dorian frowned.

“Ah,” his father said and Dorian’s ears flushed. He knew that tone too. “So it’s like that. I should have known.”

His disgust and disappointment were so familiar and infuriating that Dorian pushed past Lavellan to glare up at him. Dorian’s father had no right to make judgments about them, not after everything he’d done and especially not after everything Lavellan had suffered through.

“Don’t you do that,” he snarled. “You can say what you like about me, but don’t you dare say that about him.”

“And what else am I supposed to think, Dorian?” his father asked. His eyes were cold and hard. “You run away from everything you’ve known to come South and join with this heathen movement led by a wild elf. You turn against your own countrymen and bring disgrace upon Tevinter without any sense of shame. You bring him here with you!”

“He’s my friend!” Dorian said. He ignored the voice in the back of his head that murmured how much he’d wanted something more, how his father wasn’t entirely wrong. He hated that voice. “Is that concept incomprehensible to you? I don’t sleep with every man I know, father!”

His father went wan and so did Dorian when he realized exactly what he’d said. Kaffas. He’d known there was no real hope to get out of this without Lavellan finding out, but he’d still… Dorian hardened his heart. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had turned away from him once they knew the truth. He’d… well, he wouldn’t get over it, but he’d survive. He slowly turned to look at Lavellan.

Lavellan stared back. He looked as if Dorian had just announced his hair was black, not that he liked men. When Dorian continued to look, waiting for some kind of reaction, Lavellan raised his eyebrows and glanced at Dorian’s father. Whatever he saw there made his eyebrows rise even more.

“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry, is this supposed to be something shocking? Was I supposed to faint or something? I can still do that if you want.”

Dorian almost wanted to faint. “I wasn’t aware you had guessed,” he said stiffly, feeling suddenly very foolish and small. Had Lavellan known this whole time and been laughing at him? Oh Maker, had he guessed about Dorian’s feelings for him too? “I never told you.”

“I know you think I’m blind when it comes to this sort of stuff, but I’m really not.” Lavellan shrugged. “Besides, it’s not like I don’t know what to look for.”

Dorian really almost did faint. Lavellan couldn’t be—he couldn’t actually be saying—

Lavellan wrinkled his nose. “Creators and you say I’m blind. Dorian, I’ve flirted with you for months.”

“You flirt with Cassandra too,” Dorian said, his mouth working on the automatic as his brain attempted to process this enormous revelation. “You flirt with Vivienne.”

“Flirting is how Vivienne and I communicate,” Lavellan said. “It’s either that or we scream at each other. With Cassandra, it’s mostly just funny.” He shook his head. “You really didn’t know? Huh. I owe Bull fifty gold.”

“You would openly admit to it?”

They both jerked to look at Dorian’s father, whose mouth was puckered like he’d bitten into a particularly sour lemon. Dorian’s stomach dropped so suddenly he thought he might vomit.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Lavellan asked, nonchalant. “That’s not actually a serious concern in Tevinter, is it?”

A long silence. Lavellan looked between Dorian and his father with a little dent between his brows. Dorian stared at him, perfect and at ease and shameless and had to swallow hard. Lavellan liked men too. Lavellan didn’t see it as an aberration or something to be hidden. He’d known about Dorian for ages and he’d never once pulled away or treated Dorian differently.

Dorian’s body felt curiously light. For the first time since he’d seen his father come down those stairs, he didn’t worry about what he was going to say.

“Of course it is,” he said. “Every Tevinter family is intermarrying to distill the perfect mage, perfect body, perfect mind. The perfect leader. Of course, that means every perceived flaw, every aberration, is deviant and shameful. It must be hidden.”

Lavellan stared long and hard at him. Dorian couldn’t read the thoughts whirring behind those eyes in the slightest and wished he was standing a little closer so he could touch Lavellan’s shoulder. His body was always easier to read than his face.

“‘Deviant and shameful,’” Lavellan murmured. “What did he do?”

Dorian blinked. “What?”

Lavellan’s eyes pierced him like a sword, pinning him in place.

“Dorian,” he said with more gentleness than his look. “What did he do?”

“Really, Inquisitor, these accusations are becoming—”

His father had adopted a perfect blend of injured indignation. Dorian tensed and whirled on him. Lavellan knew and he didn’t care and Dorian didn’t have to protect him anymore. There was no reason to keep it secret and hidden, was there? Lavellan knew and he didn’t care and Dorian’s father didn’t deserve to stand there and try to pretend to be the injured party, he didn’t deserve to try to get sympathy.

“Don’t, father!” Dorian snapped. “I won’t let you spout more of your convenient lies.”

“Dorian—”

Everything felt raw as if Dorian’s skin was turned inside out, vulnerable organs exposed to open air. Dorian couldn’t look at Lavellan; he kept his eyes trained on his father. He’d never told this story to anyone before, never spoken of it before now. His father had never even referenced it directly. He’d thought he’d do that until his father died; keep his anger and bitterness and betrayal bottled up inside of him until it really did poison him.

But… Dorian thought about Fenris, who Hawke said worked every day to be better than he had been, and Bull, who thought people couldn’t change but didn’t let it stop him from befriending a Tevinter mage and Cole, who exposed himself every day to the rawest and darkest emotions and never flinched back. And Lavellan, who saw the poison in Dorian’s soul and never hesitated to follow him into the breach just because he didn’t want Dorian to be alone.

“You taught me to hate blood magic,” he said at last and took vicious satisfaction in the way his father flinched. “‘The resort of the weak mind,’ isn’t that what you called it? But what was the first thing you did when you found out about me?”

Dorian hesitated, trembling. The words rested warmly against his tongue but he couldn’t force them out, not after five years of enforced silence, five years of biting them back. A warm weight on his elbow. Dorian didn’t look down but he leaned into the touch. Not alone, he reminded himself.

“You want to know what he did?” he asked Lavellan and felt the hand on his elbow tighten in response. “He tried to change me.”

The words felt like cauterizing a wound.

“Dorian,” his father said in the same soothing voice he’d used when Dorian was five and sick with a fever. “I only wanted what was best for you.”

Dorian lunged forward, held back by the hand on his elbow at the last moment. He struggled against it, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. Best for him?

“You wanted what was best for you! You and your fucking legacy! You’d give anything for that, even me!” His voice cracked. “You were supposed to love me!”

“Oh, Dorian. I do love you.”

Dorian uttered a hoarse cry. He tried to lunge for his father again, but Lavellan pulled him back once more, this time with both hands. Dorian was furious enough to look at him and went still. Lavellan’s face was icy and still, his eyes bright and hard. Dorian recognized that face and the danger that accompanied it. He shivered, shaky and torn open and utterly, amazingly free.

“You tried to change him?” Lavellan asked Dorian’s father in a deadly even voice.

His father hadn’t survived on the Magisterium for so long for nothing—he stiffened, eyes narrowing, recognizing the unexpected danger he was in. He attempted a cajoling voice.

“I tried to make life easier for him.”

Dorian shuddered with revulsion and Lavellan’s grip tightened enough that Dorian would probably have bruises.

“Your son,” Lavellan snarled, “is brilliant and funny and kind. He’s so fucking brave and he tries so fucking hard that I sometimes can’t even believe he’s real and you tried to fucking change him?”

Dorian’s heart was beating so fast he half-expected it to give out. He knew he was shivering, but he couldn’t make himself stop. Lavellan’s tight grip on his arm was all that was keeping him up at the moment.

His father’s face was severe. “You don’t understand our ways, Inquisitor.”

“No.” Lavellan’s earlier indolent calm was shattered, leaving him as feral and wild-eyed as Dorian had ever seen him. “You’re fucking right I don’t. I don’t understand anything about making innocent people slaves because they have pointed ears or turning your children into chess pieces for some kind of fucked-up race for perfection or hurting your own son for something as stupid as who he loves. I don’t understand and I don’t fucking want to.”

“Inquisitor—”

“Magister,” Lavellan said. “The only reason I haven’t killed you is that Dorian probably wouldn’t want me to, so I’d be real careful about what you say right now.”

Dorian’s father stilled. He was not a stupid man and he had good instincts; he could sense there was a dangerous predator in the room and that it had its teeth on his throat. Dorian thought he would be happier to see his father so cowed but it only made him feel sick. He tried to imagine one of Lavellan’s knives in his father’s throat and shuddered. Maker, what was wrong with him? He’d held on to his bitterness toward his father for so long, why couldn’t he just hate the man and be done with it?

I never stopped loving her either. Dorian’s throat clogged up.

“Dorian.” Lavellan passed gentle fingers over Dorian’s cheek and Dorian closed his eyes. If he kept them closed, he could pretend his father wasn’t there and this whole nightmare wasn’t happening. “Is there anything you want to say to him before we go?”

Dorian hadn’t expected to be asked. He’d been almost relieved; he wasn’t sure what he could say now that he’d finally aired the ones he’d buried in his heart five years ago. It took him a long moment to try to respond to Lavellan’s question, but Lavellan’s patience never wavered.

“You don’t think we should talk?” Dorian asked at last. His voice sounded rubbed raw. “Have some kind of glorious reunion?”

Lavellan shook his head. He looked nothing like he had a moment ago; with his focus on Dorian, he was soft and patient, warm. Dorian didn’t want to look away from him.

“If that’s what you want, I won’t stop you,” Lavellan said. “Is that what you want?”

Dorian had spent so much of his life wanting his father’s approval and love, doing everything he could to earn it. He’d worked and worked and hidden so much and tried so hard, but his father had never been impressed. Even after he’d left his house, he’d never been free of that; he’d stopped trying to make his father proud, tried to stop caring about his opinion, but it had never silenced the little voice in the back of his head that asked what Magister Pavus would think about this. Dorian wasn’t sure that voice would ever go away. His father had loved tradition more than Dorian, enough to ruin everything Dorian was for it, and Dorian didn’t think he’d ever be able to forget that either.

I didn't forgive her, Fenris had said. 

Dorian looked over Lavellan’s shoulder. His father stared at him, pleading with his eyes. Dorian had never seen his father plead before. He had always seemed insurmountable, almost divine. And yet here he stood, simply a man with a man’s faults, a man’s indiscretions and biases. He’d come all this way to ask Dorian to forgive him.

But Dorian wouldn’t. Perhaps Bull was right and people couldn’t change after all.

“There’s nothing I want to say to him,” Dorian said.

His father reeled back as if he’d been struck.

“Dorian—”

Lavellan threw one of his knives without looking. It embedded in the wall behind his father’s head, quivering. Lavellan turned and herded Dorian so that he stood between Dorian and his father. Dorian put his head between Lavellan’s shoulder blades and tried not faint like a damsel.

“I’m pretty sure I told you not to talk,” Lavellan said. “And since you’re being so nice and quiet now, why don’t you listen up. We are walking out of here and you’re not going to try to follow us, you’re not going to send any of your people to follow us, and you’re not going to bother Dorian with any more letters or requests to come home. If Dorian wants to see you again—and I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t blame him if he never wants to—that’ll be his choice and his alone. If you try any of this bullshit again, I don’t care about Tevinter politics or elvhen rights or even the end of the fucking world—I’ll come up to Tevinter myself, cut off your balls and feed them to you. Are we clear or do you need me to draw you a picture?”

A long silence. Dorian smiled. No, his father really had had no idea what he was getting into when he came South.

“You can talk now,” Lavellan said, smug as any cat with a canary.

“Yes,” Dorian’s father said. His voice was hoarse, almost lost. “I can see now coming was a mistake. I will return to Tevinter immediately.”

“Good,” Lavellan said. Dorian felt his shoulders bunch as he pulled something—probably retrieving his knife. Dorian stepped back as he turned, though he kept himself between Dorian and his father. “Come on, Dorian. We’re leaving.”

Dorian took one last look at his father as Lavellan hustled them to the door. His head was woozy and his eyes were blurry but he could make out his father’s slumped shoulders and the tired, mournful set of his mouth. He looked older and more tired and, Dorian thought, nothing like Dorian at all.

The ride back to Skyhold was utterly silent.

As they left Redcliffe, Dorian’s adrenaline and elation left him in a giant swoop and he was suddenly overcome with the enormity of what he’d done. His father would disown him now, surely. He’d find a suitable heir among Dorian’s cousins, perhaps even try for another child. Dorian would be cast out and penniless and he’d burned the last bridge he had to his home because of the red-haired elf trotting along at his side like some kind of ninny-brained fool.

Maker. Maker, what had he been thinking?

Dorian kept his eyes fixed to the horizon and did his absolute best not to think for the agonizing four-hour ride. When that became impossible, he recited old rituals and spells to himself—and when that failed, he fell back on the tactics that he had used as a child, made anxious by the pressure of the world around him, and started counting everything around him. Four birds in the sky, three of them white and the other red, one hundred and eighty-two trees, eight butterflies, fifteen foxes, eight nugs—

By the time they arrived at Skyhold’s gate, Dorian had cataloged so many things that his head ached a little. He abandoned his charger to Dennet’s tender mercies and hurried into the castle without so much as looking over his shoulder to check on Lavellan. He knew he should do… something. Thank him, probably, though Dorian was so filled with panic about the absolute wreck of his safety net that he wasn’t sure he could properly do it. But Dorian just needed time alone, to process the enormity of what he’d done, try to make some kind of sense of it now that he wasn’t hyped up on the anxiety rush. He needed to think.

He took the stairs to the library two at a time. His preferred alcove was as he’d left it two days ago—Maker, had it only been two days?—and Dorian slid into his favorite chair. He buried his head in his hands and tried to breathe deeply but footsteps interrupted him before he could get too far. He lifted his head and gaped as Lavellan came around the corner at full speed, panting a little. He stopped in Dorian’s alcove, bent over to catch his breath.

“Where does all that speed go when we’re fighting demons?” he wheezed out.

Dorian’s entire body locked up. He didn’t want to do this. He wasn’t ready to have this conversation, to talk about everything Lavellan had just stood witness to. He wanted solitude, damn it, but if Lavellan had really chased him all the way to the library, Dorian doubted he’d get it. To stall, he stood and faced the window. Maybe Lavellan would get the hint and go away.

Lavellan had never taken a hint in his life.

“You can’t ignore me until I go away, Dorian,” he said.

Dorian bloody well could.

“Dorian?” Dorian kept looking out the window. He heard Lavellan sigh. “Is this about what I said to your father? Because I’m not sorry.”

Dorian tensed. He couldn’t do this. He kept seeing his father as they’d left him, alone and small on the stairs. At the time, Dorian had been almost elated. Now, he just felt deeply miserable. That man had raised him, hadn’t he? Why couldn’t Dorian be a good son and forgive him? Hadn’t he came all that way to apologize?

“He’s a good man,” he said softly. “Deep down. He’s the one who taught me principles matter.”

“Yeah, until they get in the way of ambition, apparently.”

Dorian flinched and whirled around. If Lavellan had looked smug or biting, Dorian would have lashed out at him. But he only looked concerned, brow crinkled and eyes soft. Beautiful as ever in the dim light of the library. Maker, Dorian wanted him. Had wanted him this whole time and wasn’t that what had gotten him in this mess to begin with? Wanting what he couldn’t, shouldn’t have?

“You can hate me all you want, Dorian,” Lavellan said. Dorian’s mouth nearly dropped. Hate him? “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“All right?” Dorian barked out a laugh. “No, I am not all right.”

He didn’t know what he was, but it was far from all right.

Lavellan regarded him. “I know you probably want to be alone right now,” he said. “I just… I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t know.” Dorian stared at him. Lavellan bit his lip. “You said he tried to change you, Dorian. You didn’t say how. Please, I know you’ve let me get away with murder today, but—”

Dorian’s fury left him all at once. He was so tired.

“He did it out of desperation, I think,” he said as he sat back down at the table. He wasn’t going to escape this conversation. “I was twenty-five, I was supposed to get married and start popping out children already. But I wouldn’t put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away.” Dorian shook his head. “Selfish, I suppose, to not want to spend the rest of my life screaming on the inside.”

Those months had been hell. His parents had pushed girl after girl at him, insisting that this would be the one to make him leave behind those… proclivities. He’d had more than one screaming match with his father over it, though their arguments always left him ill and shaky afterward. He’d always refused the women, the marriage, the insistence that he be a little more circumspect with his lovers, few as they actually were. His father had been continually suspicious about every man Dorian had become close to, had berated him time and time again for even the most platonic touch. Every aspect of his life had come under such intense scrutiny that Dorian was surprised he’d been able to bear it.

In retrospect, he should have seen the fallout coming. Things had been tense in that house for months before Dorian had found out about his father’s plans for the ritual. But it had still caught him by surprise, the lengths his father would go to ensure his son wasn’t a freak. How little his father valued him and loved him.

“He was going to perform a blood ritual,” Dorian said. Lavellan hissed through his teeth. “It would have altered my mind, made me… acceptable. Wildly illegal, of course.” He barked out a bitter laugh. “Unstable, too. It could have left me a drooling vegetable. It crushed me to think he’d find that absurd risk preferable to a scandal. That he cared so little about…”

Dorian couldn’t say it out loud, even now. Lavellan let out another sound, this one lower and angrier.

“He’s scum, Dorian. The worst kind. I should have killed him.”

Dorian shook his head. “Part of me always hoped he wouldn’t have really gone through with it,” he admitted. He’d wished for that so much in the months following his sudden arrival at Alexius’s. “If he had done it… Maker, I don’t know what I’d be now.” He could imagine it: docile, suggestible, drained of something essential to him. He wouldn’t be completely gone, but he’d be different. Dorian had struggled for so long to embrace himself that the thought of it was repulsive. He didn’t want to be different. “I don’t think I’d much like that Dorian.”

He didn’t look up but he heard Lavellan move. A warm hand covered his, squeezed.

“If I’d known what we were walking into, I would never have given you that letter, Dorian,” he said. “I would’ve burned it first. No wonder you were so wound up.”

“I wish you hadn’t had to see that,” Dorian said. His ears were burning. “Maker knows what you must think of me now.”

Lavellan lifted Dorian’s hand to his mouth and brushed a warm, soft kiss over his knuckles. Dorian’s entire body went warm.

“I know I was angry with you before,” he said quietly. “But I don’t think less of you. More, if that’s even possible.” He pressed another kiss to Dorian’s knuckles that set every nerve on Dorian’s arm alight. “You’re so incredibly brave, Dorian.”

Dorian blinked at him. Lavellan had said that back in Redcliffe too, hadn’t he? No one had ever called Dorian brave before.

“Brave?” he echoed, dumbfounded.

“You spat in the face of a tradition that told you to hate yourself,” Lavellan said. He put Dorian’s hand down carefully on the table. “Your father hurt you and you refused to let him get away with it or to let him own you. You’re walking your own path. Not everyone has the guts to do that. I admire you a lot, you know.”

Dorian’s face flushed. Lavellan was still touching him, still looking at him with those warm eyes. Dorian had always been a little flustered around Lavellan, a little useless, but now he realized how utterly at sea he was with this man. His brain, whirring and anxious for hours, quieted. He breathed deeply.

“Careful,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “If you keep saying those things, I’ll start to think you mean them.”

Lavellan’s face was intent. “That’s the thing, Dorian. I do mean them.”

Dorian’s entire body tingled. Lavellan was looking at his mouth. Lavellan liked men and he was saying all of these things and looking at Dorian’s mouth like he wanted nothing more than to—

Lavellan bent his head as Dorian surged up. Their kiss met at an awkward angle, teeth clashing, but Lavellan put a hand in Dorian’s hair and Dorian tilted his head and it smoothed out. Lavellan’s mouth was warm, his lips chapped and soft. He tasted of mint. Dorian’s heartbeat thudded in his ears as they pressed closer together. Maker, it was everything he’d thought about since he’d seen Lavellan in that Redcliffe Chantry months ago. He dropped his hand to Lavellan’s waist and shuddered as Lavellan groaned against his mouth. It was too much, too good—

Something scuffed nearby. They were still in the library.

Dorian pulled back so quickly he knocked into the table. He swore as pain stung his hip, panting.

“Dorian?” Lavellan asked.

Dorian didn’t look at him, too busy checking to make sure no one else had seen. His heart was beating fast from panic now. He hadn’t been so stupid since he was a teenager and reckless on his own immortality. He knew better now. But Lavellan had a way of making him utterly stupid and he’d known that for a long time too.

Dorian relaxed a little when he realized no one was nearby. Thank the Maker they’d stayed in the alcove. He looked back at Lavellan.

“We can’t do this here,” he said in his firmest voice.

“What?”

Dorian frowned at him. He knew Lavellan had never cared a whit for public appearances, but this was a little dense even for him. Surely he had to realize what a risk they were taking?

“This—” He couldn’t say it. They might not be watched, but he knew all too well how sound carried. “We’re in the library, Lavellan! Anyone could see us.”

A long pause. Lavellan’s voice was decidedly dangerous when he asked, “So?”

Dorian looked at him. His mouth was plump and his cheeks flushed with color, hair slightly mussed. He looked good enough to eat. Dorian wanted to kiss him again, badly enough that he almost reached out. But that wasn’t desire in Lavellan’s eyes and Dorian wasn’t some stupid teenager anymore. Perhaps the South was more welcoming to his type than he’d expected, but Lavellan was still the Inquisitor and Dorian was still the suspicious Tevinter mage. If anyone saw them together, it wouldn’t just be Dorian’s neck on the line.

“You’re the Inquisitor,” he explained.

The dangerous expression on Lavellan’s face deepened. “So?”

“You know as well as I do people will—” Dorian’s stomach twisted. He hated having to say this. “People will talk, Lavellan. You’re not some no-name ranger and I’m not a nice Fereldan lass. The Inquisition’s already overlooked a lot of things for you, but their tolerance is only going to stretch so far.”

“Their tolerance?” Lavellan demanded, incredulous. “The fuck do I care about their tolerance? This has nothing to do with them, Dorian!”

“Of course it does!” Dorian said. “You’re the Inquisitor!”

Lavellan breathed hard through his nose. “I can’t fucking believe this,” he said.

“Lavellan—“

“For months, you’ve been the only one to treat me like a person,” Lavellan said. All of the softness and warmth from before was gone. Dorian felt sucker-punched from the loss of it. “You gave me choices. You didn’t stoop to that hero worship bullshit that even Varric’s been sucked into. But now you’re telling me that this can’t happen because I’m the Inquisitor. Dorian, what kind of bullshit—”

“You’re practically a saint to these people, Lavellan,” Dorian said. “If they see you with me, they’ll revolt. You have to think carefully about who you… who you get involved with.”

Lavellan’s expression twisted. “What happened to not wanting to spend your life screaming on the inside?”

Dorian bit the inside of his cheek hard. But he knew he wasn’t wrong. The Inquisition was important, too important to undermine for whatever feelings they might have for each other. Lavellan would get over it like every other man Dorian had taken to bed and Dorian… well, Dorian would get over it too, in time. Maybe. But they couldn’t do this and no amount of gentle, heart-wrenching kisses could really change that. Dorian had known it from the moment he had realized how deeply invested he was in Lavellan, all the way back on the lonely, cold mountaintop. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t possible.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said, hating himself and the world in general. “But, Lavellan—we can’t.”

Lavellan growled low under his breath. “Fuck you, Dorian,” he said. “If you don’t want me, just say so. But don’t pull this ‘you’re too important, you must avoid scandal’ bullshit on me—”

“Lavellan—”

“If you really cared about me, that wouldn’t matter,” Lavellan said. He was hurt, Dorian realized numbly. He hadn’t thought anything outside of gods and archdemons could really hurt Lavellan. “Creators, Dorian, you—” He shook his head. “This was stupid. I was stupid for trying.”

He turned and left before Dorian could stop him.

Chapter Text

“No.”

“Oh, come on. Surely you won’t deny a drink to a paying customer?”

“I’ve been not denying you for hours now, mage. I’ll admit I’m impressed you’re not unconscious, but if I give you anymore your dumb drunk ass is going to stumble off a cliff. I don’t need that on my head, thanks.”

“What if I promise to be very, very good?”

The barkeep made a deep sound of disgust. “Turn those cow eyes on someone who’ll actually believe ‘em. Now, get. I’ve got plenty of other things to do right now that don’t include catering to some pompous Tevinter bastard.”

He turned and walked away before Dorian could start doing anything really embarrassing like actually start begging. Dorian wasn’t sure who exactly had decided that the Inquisition’s liquor would have to be corralled through the tavern—it was something that smacked of Cullen’s self-righteousness—but it was making Dorian’s self-imposed task of getting blackout drunk difficult. His own liquor had all been gone before the evening was out—now mid-morning well upon them and he had only succeeded in getting somewhat tipsy. Damn his tolerance and damn Tevinter for being a country full of lushes.

“You look a little pathetic, Sparkler.”

Dorian was not drunk enough to put his head down on the table and whine, though he sorely wanted to. Varric made an amused sound as he sat down at Dorian’s elbow. He looked like he’d been burning the midnight oil as well—there were deep circles under his eyes and his ponytail was ruffled. Luckily for Varric, the rumpled look worked quite well for him, enhancing his roguish charm. Dorian was a little jealous, really—he always looked pasty and two seconds from death after all-nighters. He daren’t think of how he looked now. His mustache was probably terrifying to behold.

When the barkeep appeared as if out of thin air, Dorian glared at him. The barkeep glared back even as he spoke to Varric in a more conciliatory tone.

“Get anything for you today, Master Tethras?”

Dorian gaped with outrage. Where had that kind of five-star customer service been five minutes ago? “So you’ll serve him?”

“He hasn’t been blowing through my best ale for the better part of an hour,” the barkeep snapped. Then, doing a complete about-face, he turned, as sweet as you please, to Varric. “Master Tethras?”

“Just water for me this morning,” Varric said. “Though I wouldn’t mind a bit of a hair-of-a-dog if you’ve got something in that vein.”

“Long night for you too?” The barkeep gave Dorian a side-look. “Seems to be a running theme this morning.”

Varric adopted the charming, roguish smile that Dorian was sure he practiced in front of a mirror somewhere, the one that made it seem like he was one of the pirates in those blasted novels of his that would sweep you off your feet in a whirl of devilish adventure. Dorian loathed him.

“Oh, you know how it is. All the best ideas come after a few glasses of wine.” The barkeep laughed and turned away. Dorian eyed Varric sourly and Varric rolled his eyes, adding in an undertone, “Someone told the Seeker I wasn’t planning to keep writing Swords and Shields a few days ago.” Dorian blinked as Varric smirked. “You know, I’ve never been threatened with dismemberment over a book before. Thrilling stuff.”

“I’m sorry, it might be the drink talking,” Dorian said, “but did you just say Cassandra—Lady Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine, that Cassandra—actually reads your romantic drivel?”

“Hey! It’s not drivel!”

“No plot, cardboard characters, all of it there to prop up a lot of bosom heaving and turgid member-ing. How is that not drivel?”

“I’ll have you know that Swords and Shields is some of my finest work.” Varric’s expression was all mournful eyes and solemn mouth. “I thought very deeply about the characters and I put some of my most heart-wrenching, soul-searching thematic arcs, my most careful and thorough symbolism—”

“Oh, come off it.”

Varric grinned. “All right. It is drivel, a little bit. But reading a bit of drivelous fun never hurt anyone and if the great Cassandra Pentaghast likes to fill up her free time with some bosom heaving and turgid member-ing, all the power to  her and more book sales for me.”

The barkeep returned with a flagon of water and a shot glass of something that looked and smelled truly vile. Varric tipped him a thanks and, with only the hint of a grimace, downed the stuff in the shot glass in one go. He shook his head, making a face.

“Nasty stuff, that,” he said. “Still better tasting than Anders’ junk. I swear he made it taste worse every time out of revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“Not big on drinking, Anders. He used to lecture Hawke all the time, but Hawke just told him he needed to get the stick out of his ass and have a bit of fun every now and again.” Varric speared a glance Dorian’s way. “Of course, even Hawke wouldn’t be toshed before nine. Not unless there was something really bothering him.”

Dorian scowled. “Can’t a man unwind without getting interrogated?” he demanded. “I’ve already had to deal with half of our troops watching me like I’m up to something more nefarious than a morning ale and our dear barkeep refuses to give me another drop to boot!”

“I’d leave it alone if I thought a morning ale was all it was,” Varric said. “But you’ve been drinking all night and I know you didn’t sleep.” Varric reached over and placed a hand on Dorian’s arm. He had unusually large hands, more calloused than Dorian would have thought for a merchant dwarf who dealt largely in information. But Dorian supposed no one survived Kirkwall with soft palms. “Come on, Sparkler. You look like hell, and not the fun kind. What gives?”

Dorian didn’t look at him. He had spent every minute of the last night reliving the library over and over in his head in painful detail. He’d wanted to sleep, wanted to forget that the night had ever happened, but it was impossible to turn his brain off. Every time he’d shut his eyes, he’d seen Lavellan’s hurt face, heard the crack in his voice when he’d said, ‘If you really cared, it wouldn’t matter.” It was bad enough that Dorian had that memory—the thought of talking about it, unearthing it for someone else’s prying eyes, was almost unbearable. He couldn’t do it.

After his long silence, Varric sighed. “Well. Let me tell you what I know then, shall I? You had a big old hissy-fit a couple of days back that ended up in everyone being pissed at you and Broody almost coming to blows with our dear Spitfire. Then you disappeared yesterday morning and Spitfire took after you with all due haste. You come back, both of you looking like you’d been through some kind of hell, and have a row in the library. My facts matching up to your facts so far?”

Dorian had used Varric’s network of information before, but it was disconcerting to have its accuracy turned on him. He shrugged, playing with his empty glass. He heard Varric sigh again, but he didn’t dare look. How many people had heard what he and Lavellan fought about? He hadn’t thought anyone was in the library, but if Varric knew about the fight, surely he knew about the kiss, too?

“I’m guessing all that nasty business over the past few days had to do with that letter from your dad,” Varric said. Dorian tensed. “Tiny told me that one, after you and Spitfire ran away to Redcliffe. Think he was actually worried something might happen, wanted me to send a few of my people down to keep an eye on things. But what nobody can tell me is what the fuck happened in that library to make Spitfire act like someone jammed a stick up his ass.”

Dorian finally looked over. Varric stared straight back at him, eyebrows low and mouth firm.

“What are you going on about?”

“Most of the training dummies are dust,”  Varric said. “Spitfire called an early advisors meeting and took off this morning for Fallow Mire even though Halamshiral’s four days away. The Seeker’s frothing at the mouth and I’m pretty sure Ruffles is having a minor breakdown in her office.”

Dorian blinked. “He left?” he asked dumbly.

“Ran out of here with only Chuckles and Tiny for backup,” Varric said. “What the hell happened, Sparkler? Last I saw, you two were joined at the hip.”

Dorian stiffened and turned back to his glass. “We did have a fight,” he admitted stiffly. “A difference of opinion. Once he cools off, I’m sure we can continue to work together amicably.”

Varric’s long silence was so uncharacteristic that Dorian looked over at him again. Varric’s mouth was open almost comically wide. When he met Dorian’s eyes, he closed it with a click, but his eyebrows were still high on his forehead.

“You two fought?” he asked. “About what?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh yes it does! Two days ago you got in a pissing contest with one of our best allies and all Spitfire did was send you to your room like a child. What could you two have possibly fought about that was worse than that, bad enough to send Spitfire running for the literal hills? I know he hates this Inquisitor stuff, but he knows how important this Halamshiral business is. He wouldn’t just take off without a reason!”

Dorian didn’t look at him. He wouldn’t say it. He’d told Lavellan the truth in the library—the Inquisition had to come first and no one in the Inquisition would look kindly on their Inquisitor shacking up with a Tevinter mage. No matter what feelings they had, no matter if Lavellan could actually return them... It was moot. Lavellan would realize it sooner or later and they would return to things as they were before this whole mess had happened.

“Maker, Sparkler. Are you all right?”

Dorian laughed. “Oh, never better,” he said. He doubted Varric believed him, but that was all right. As long as Varric never guessed the truth of why Dorian felt like one huge, open wound, that was all that mattered. “Aside from the matter of my woeful lack of drinks, that is.”

He thought for a moment that Varric was going to push the issue. But Varric surprised him by sighing and waving down the barkeep.

“Another drink for my friend here,” he said.

The barkeep’s brow wrinkled. “Master Tethras—”

“I’ll take responsibility for him. Maker knows I’ve got the experience in handling drunk idiots.”

The barkeep frowned but went to get another ale. Dorian smiled a little. He must have looked truly pathetic for Varric to take pity on him like this. He would be sober enough to feel ashamed about it tomorrow.

Dorian woke, point-blank and disoriented, to the sound of cheering outside his window. His head throbbed as he strumbled to his feet, nearly tripping as the room spun around him. It took several tries to get the window open so he could look outside and a long moment before his hazy eyesight adjusted. There was a crowd gathered in the main courtyard. Dorian frowned. It couldn’t be anything too terrible, not with the way they were carrying on. He groaned as pain spiked in his head and closed his window.

He had no desire to do anything but lay in his bed and be miserable for however long it would take his atrocious hangover to subside, but just as he laid back down someone banged on his door. Dorian muttered an oath under his breath, but the banging didn’t cease so he hauled himself up and threw it open. The messenger on the other side looked a little nervous.

“Lady Cassandra requests your presence in the War Room, Master Pavus,” she said.

“Did she happen to mention the urgency of this blasted summons?”

“Extremely urgent.”

Dorian muttered another oath. The messenger flushed but kept her place, standing straight-backed until Dorian rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, very well. Go tell the Seeker I’ll be there shortly.”

“I’m to escort you, sir.”

“Of course you are.” When the messenger didn’t move he sneered. “I don’t suppose you’re to watch me dress as well? Yes?”

“Uhm. No.”

Dorian took great pleasure in shutting the door in her face. He gathered his robes and tried to ignore the pounding in his head. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten to his room yesterday, but somebody had to have helped him—Dorian would never have put his things away so neatly when he was that drunk. Varric, probably. They’d been joined by several of Bull’s Chargers during their afternoon in the tavern and some of the Inquisition soldiers besides, but Dorian doubted any of them would have seen him safely to his room. He didn’t know for sure, though. The last clear memory he had was challenging Varric to an… arm-wrestling contest? Maker.

Dorian didn’t waste much time trying to put himself together. Until he managed a bath, there would be no disguising his rough day. He cleaned his teeth, did his best to manage his messy hair, and despaired of his mustache before he opened the door once more. Refusing to let the messenger get the best of him, he strode out confidently even though every bone ached and his knees were like water. The messenger struggled to keep up as Dorian led her down the stairs to the main hall.

It was busier than normal and Dorian’s headache worsened from all the smoke and chatter. Everyone was talking and Dorian caught snatches of conversation here and there. Something about a missing patrol that had come back.

“What’s happened?” he asked the messenger.

She brightened. “Oh, it’s the Inquisitor, sir!” Dorian’s heart quivered. “He returned from Fallow Mire not an hour ago with all of our missing soldiers.”

“Missing soldiers?”

“Captured by some highland clan with these queer notions about the Inquisitor. Rumor has it their leader wanted to fight him, so he kidnapped one of our patrols in Fallow Mire and held them ransom. Lady Nightingale was going to give them up for dead, but the Inquisitor insisted on going to find them.”

That must have been the errand Lavellan had gone to run yesterday. Dorian was surprised he’d finished so quickly. Fallow Mire was half a day’s journey at least—to have returned so early, he must have either worked through the night or found the patrol extraordinarily fast.

A cheer went through the crowd as a ragged group of Inquisition soldiers entered the hall. They were patted on the back and led to the food tables. Each one of them was battered and bruised, covered in muck and slime, but their faces were shining with relief. Dorian turned away from watching one of the soldiers embracing several children that had to be his family and froze when he realized who else had come into the main hall. Another, louder cheer rose as everyone else recognized Lavellan.

Lavellan looked like hell. His hair hung around his shoulders, loose and unkempt and his armor was as slimy as the soldiers. But it wasn’t just that—Dorian could see how haggard his face was even across the room, dark circles and pursed mouth and deep exhaustion that made Dorian’s heart ache. Behind him were Bull and Solas and—was that Cole? Dorian had forgotten about him again. They were as dirty as Lavellan, even Solas, who never seemed to get a speck on his robes in the field.

Dorian had stared too long. Lavellan met his eyes and Dorian flinched from his cool, hard gaze. He’d expected—well. Disappointment and more of Lavellan’s blistering fury. He’d expected Lavellan to rail at him or snub him or tell him to leave. But Lavellan’s expression wasn’t angry or even bitter. It was unnervingly blank.

“Come, Master Pavus.” Dorian startled. He’d forgotten entirely about the messenger until she tugged at his sleeve. “Seeker Pentaghast will be angry if we are late.”

He wanted to protest but he kept his mouth shut. His headache still throbbed behind his eyes, but Dorian found that he felt curiously numb, as if he’d been standing out in the cold for too long and all of his extremities had gotten frostbite. His brain was foggy and his thoughts distant as he followed the messenger through Josephine’s office and into the War Room.

What did Lavellan’s empty eyes mean? Had Dorian really hurt him so badly in the library? But Lavellan had never just… retreated, not like that. Except in the aftermath of Haven, when he’d been gripped by fear so deeply it had cracked something in him, but even then Lavellan had lashed out, had raged. The Lavellan back there wasn’t anything like what Dorian had expected. He was empty.

“Finally,” Cassandra said.

A large group was gathered around the war table—Lavellan’s advisors and several of his inner circle besides. Hawke and Fenris were both there too, but Dorian was careful not to look at them. Fenris had accepted his apology and Hawke had forgiven him, but it was a tentative peace yet and would take more rebuilding than a single conversation. Better to not disrupt it.

“What is all this fuss, Lady Cassandra?” he asked. “You interrupted my beauty sleep.”

Cassandra dragged a disdainful eye over him. Dorian was acutely aware of his disheveled hair and the bags under his eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “I can see how desperately you need it. But we have more important matters to discuss. It involves the Inquisitor.”

Dorian tensed. “Oh?”

“You are aware that he left yesterday morning on some insane venture in Fallow Mire?”

“Can you call it insane when he achieved his goal?” Dorian asked, bristling despite himself. “I’ve seen the soldiers myself, Lady Seeker. All alive and accounted for. Surely that makes that ‘insane venture’ a rousing success, does it not?”

“He ran off on his own on this fool’s errand,” Cassandra said. “He barely gave us notice and Halamshiral is in three days.”

“Is he not the Inquisitor?” Dorian asked. “I didn’t realize his actions needed your permission.”

“It’s not about permission,” Cullen broke in. “We’re worried about him. He was… not himself yesterday.”

“No, he was not,” Leliana agreed. “And why is that, I wonder?”

Dorian really wanted to go back to bed. “You’ll have to ask him.”

“No,” Cassandra said. “I believe we can ask you.”

“Me? What would I know about it?”

Dorian began to sweat. He carefully didn’t look at Varric, who he could see out of the corner of his eye. Had someone told her about the library? Had someone seen? Was this where they threw him out for daring to corrupt their leader?

But Cassandra’s brow wrinkled as if Dorian was being deliberately obtuse.

“Are you not his confidant?” she asked. “He speaks to you more openly than anyone. Or was I mistaken?”

Maker. Dorian would have been beyond happy to be called Lavellan’s confident not even a week ago, but now it just gave him a sick feeling in his stomach. Lavellan did speak to him openly. He’d seen Lavellan at his worst and heard Lavellan’s frustrations and fears—but what did that matter now, when Lavellan must hate him?

“I am sad to say that I am as clueless as any of you about this sudden bout of temper.” Dorian’s most insufferable voice helped mitigate any curiosity about his knowledge or lack thereof. Cassandra scowled at him again and Dorian winked, ignoring the sick knots writhing in his belly. “Perhaps he’s in the need of some… amorous affection, yes?”

Cassandra made a sound of disgust. “I was right all along,” she said. “It is useless to ask you.” She turned to the rest of the group and crossed her arms. “Well? I hope the rest of you have something better to contribute.”

“I’m still a little confused about why we’re all here in the first place,” Varric said. Dorian could have kissed him for how nonchalant he sounded. “So Spitfire went on a dangerous mission. Doesn’t he do that every other day?”

“I am afraid I must side with Varric on this matter,” Vivienne said. “The amount of worry over a small outing seems misplaced.”

“He couldn’t leave here fast enough yesterday,” Blackwall chimed in. “But you’ve heard the noise outside. He’s already back.”

The advisors exchanged glances, communicating silently. Dorian watched the movement of eyebrows and pursing of lips and thought that it was odd that people who spent so much of their working lives at odds could communicate so intimately when the time called for it.

“It’s not that he left,” Josephine said at last. “It’s how he did. We’re just concerned.”

“Concerned about what?”

Dorian’s heart nearly escaped his chest. He wasn’t the only one to jump as Lavellan strolled into the room, careless as you please, and draped himself over an open chair like a stray cat. He was as grimy and haggard as he’d been in the hall but he looked less blank. Or, Dorian thought, he was hiding it better.

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra’s shoulders were very straight. “We didn’t expect you to report so soon after your arrival.”

“I wanted to get it out of the way. I’m up to my fucking eyeballs in mud. I’m owed the longest bath of my life after this.” Lavellan’s eyes roved over the room, eyebrows rising. “Seems like you’re having quite the party in here.”

Awkward looks were exchanged. Dorian realized that Solas and Bull had followed Lavellan in at some point, though he couldn’t see Cole with them. Solas had a crinkle between his eyebrows and Bull, to Dorian’s surprise, was stoic, almost thunderous. When he noticed Dorian looking, his frown deepened.

“—speak to them about something.”

Dorian jerked back just as Lavellan gave Cassandra a long stare. “Something,” he repeated, so deadpan that all of them shared a nervous laugh. “I see. What’s this something, then?”

Cassandra had never been one to beat around the bush. “Your behavior of the last two days has been most unusual, Inquisitor. First, you insisted on going down to the Hinterlands on your own, then you make a mad dash to Fallow Mire on what could have easily been a fool’s errand, only days before we are to leave for Halamshiral—”

Lavellan’s boots hit the floor. He was a light-footed man, so it wasn’t a particularly intimidating sound, but Cassandra stopped speaking all the same. Lavellan didn’t look angry—his voice was as light and casual as it had been moments before. But Dorian wasn’t foolish or stupid and neither were most of the people in this room. All of them tensed.

“If I hadn’t gone, those men would have been executed last night. That fuckwit had them ready for the chopping block. So I’m sorry if it was inconvenient for you, Cass, or if it messed up our schedule, but I’m going to be honest when I say how little I give a fuck.”

“It’s not that we didn’t want the patrol rescued,” Cullen said, proving yet again that he had more courage than brains. “But what if you had taken too long to return? Or, Maker forbid, been injured or killed? It was a dangerous gamble.”

Dorian was beginning to be deeply wary of the way Lavellan was still so casual. It wasn’t true relaxation, the way he got when he felt safe and happy, the way he’d felt—well. In the library. It was the indolence of a predator on the prowl in a room full of prey. Dorian began to back up to the door. He’d said his part and looking at Lavellan and hearing him speak was still utterly painful. He’d just slip out and leave the others to the deadly business of managing Lavellan’s unpredictable mood—

A heavy hand on his shoulder. Dorian wasn’t surprised when he looked behind him to find Bull, but he wasn’t pleased either. He scowled. Bull scowled back.

“Cauterwhaling about what might have happened is stupid.” Lavellan made a slow circuit of the war table, idly picking up golden pieces and placing them back down as he went. Judging by the twitch under Cassandra’s eye, he was putting them back down wrong. “I’m back, aren’t I? The patrol is safe, there’s plenty of time to make it to Halamshiral, and no one died. Happy fucking ending all around.”

For a brief moment, Lavellan met Dorian’s eyes. Dorian flinched back but Lavellan was already looking away again.

Cassandra looked ready to keep pushing with her heavy frown, but Hawke stepped forward and swung an arm over her shoulder with an easy smile. She shrugged it off, turning her frown on him.

“Well, that’s all settled then,” Hawke said, unbothered by her rejection. “Maybe you were being a tad overdramatic, Cassandra? Don’t be embarrassed, it happens to me all the time. Or that’s what Carver tells me, at least.”

“I was not being overdramatic—”

“Spitfire’s right, everything’s turned out fine,” Varric said. “I’m sure we all need a good rest before setting off for Orlais. Shouldn’t we be going?”

There were murmurs of agreement and a controlled stampede for the door. Dorian tried to leave as well, but Bull hadn’t taken his hand off of Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian scowled up at him.

“Can I help you?” he asked. “It’s only, usually I make someone buy me dinner first before we get around to the manhandling.”

Usually, Bull would leer at him and make a comment of his own—that was the way their odd friendship functioned. But instead, he frowned and glanced over Dorian’s head before looking back down at him.

“You and I need to have a little chat,” he said.

Dorian glanced back and his stomach sank when he realized Bull had been looking at Lavellan, surrounded by his advisors and growing increasingly annoyed.

“Oh?” he asked weakly. “A chat about what, precisely?”

“I think you know.”

Bull steered Dorian out of the War Room and shoved him down a rickety staircase off of Josephine’s office. The hall they ended up in was huge, dusty, and empty.

“What the hell happened between you two?”

Bull had finally let go of his arm. Dorian could try to make a run for it, but he doubted he’d get far. Fuck.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play coy with me, ‘vint. The last I knew of it, you two were getting along fine. He went to help you with that thing with your dad, didn’t he?”

Dorian knew he was flushing, but he couldn’t stop it any more than he could stop Bull from using that obnoxiously sharp perception of his. He stubbornly looked at the wall over Bull’s shoulder and steadfastly tried to pretend this wasn’t happening. But Bull wasn’t kind enough to just let it go like Varric. He reached out and shook Dorian just once, hard enough that his tooth rattled a little.

“You can’t ignore me until I go away,” he said. Dorian had never heard him sound so hard before, so much like the qunari Dorian was familiar with. “You didn’t see him out there, ‘vint. The Seeker wasn’t too far off the mark.”

Dorian straightened. “What?” he demanded. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about being lucky the boss made it back here in one piece, that’s what I’m talking about!’ Bull huffed. “It was almost like it was after Haven again. Do you remember that fight on the Storm Coast? He didn’t just duel with those avaar bastards, he slaughtered them. It was like he didn’t even think of his safety at all.”

Dorian’s blood went cold. Lavellan’s bleak fragility after Haven, the feral restlessness that caused him to push himself to his breaking points, had been something he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to witness ever again.

“But he’s fine,” Dorian said. “He’s barely got a scratch.”

“Thanks to Solas and that Cole kid,” Bull said. “I don’t think Solas did anything but put barriers around the boss—left me on my own, not that I blame him.”

“And Cole?”

Bull made a heavy sound, almost a snort. “You know, those two together are almost scarier than him and the Seeker? I’ve never seen the kid so active during a fight before. But if it wasn’t for him, boss would have gotten more than one sword in the back.”

Dorian felt sick to even think about it. What would he have done if Lavellan had gone out on this mission and not come back? Then he thought, he sickness growing and writhing in his stomach, what would he do in the future if Lavellan didn’t come back? It wasn’t just Halamshiral looming over them—there was Corypheus and his Venatori and the army of demons he was creating. There was no guarantee, none, that Lavellan would survive this, even if Dorian had seen him survive so many impossible things before. Lavellan could be cut down. Lavellan could die. Hadn’t Dorian already thought it happened once? And he would die thinking Dorian cared more about the Inquisition than him, he would die hating Dorian.

Dorian almost thought he would be ill. He took several deep breaths.

“Hey.” A hand on his forehead, then his shoulder. “Shit, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make you feel shitty too.”

Dorian shrugged the hand away. “I’m perfectly all right.”

“Yeah. And I’m wearing a corset.”

“Well, that would do wonder for streamlining your—”

“Oh, fuck off.” Bull sighed. “Look. Seeing the boss like that stresses me out. I don’t like it and I want to help fix it. I’ve been trying to think in between all the bog spirits and avaar and rifts and the only thing I can think of that would set him off like that is you. So I’m going to ask you again. What happened?”

Dorian swallowed. He couldn’t say it now, just as he hadn’t been able to say it in the tavern. The thought of talking about it, letting someone else know his deep guilt and shame and fear was too much to stand. Maybe… Maybe if it had been Lavellan asking. Maybe Dorian could have confessed what he was feeling and why and asked for forgiveness for taking away yet another choice in Lavellan’s life, for putting the greater good of the many in front of the want of the one. But Lavellan could barely look at him and Dorian wasn’t brave enough to let anyone else past his very high defenses.

At his prolonged silence, Bull sighed again.

“All right,” he said. “If you won’t talk, I’m going to start guessing. Did something happen with your dad? No? Afterward, then? Ah. Well, the boss already knows most of your sordid secrets and he’s still arse over tits for you, so I don’t think it’s some dark secret in your past that set this off. No. I would say you finally told him how you feel, but we both know you’re too—” Dorian knew he’d flinched, but he hadn’t been able to stop it from happening. He stood utterly still as Bull paused. “Holy shit,” Bull breathed. “You told him?”

“You know, I do believe I have urgent business elsewhere—”

Dorian tried to push past, but Bull held him in place with one hand. He couldn’t even be bothered to make it look like it took any real effort, damn him.

“I didn’t think you would ever tell him,” Bull said. His eyes narrowed. “But you didn’t, did you? But he knows. If he knows, why the fuck are you two miserable instead of christening every room in Skyhold?”

Dorian turned away. He cursed his easy to read face and Bull for being so adept at reading it. He prayed to the Maker that something, anything would happen to get Bull to let him flee. He’d take even an attack by Corypheus over this.

“Oh, shit. Did you reject him?”

Dorian tensed. “Can you just stop?” he hissed. “I realize this might escape you, being a spy, but there are some things that are private. I’m as worried about Lavellan as you are, but perhaps you should focus on him instead of uselessly interrogating me about something I know nothing about!”

“You really did,” Bull said as if Dorian hadn’t spoken. “Maker, Dorian. Thirsty men in deserts don’t look at water like you look at him. Why the hell would you tell him no?”

“I told you, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Dorian—”

“Just leave it!”

Bull frowned. “You’re really fine with this?” he asked. “Whatever reason made you tell him no, making you both so miserable… It’s worth this?”

Dorian scoffed. Was that even a question? Lavellan was the Inquisitor and he knew, as he’d always known, that there wasn’t anyone else for the job. And if the stakes were anything other than the end of the world, Dorian might have gambled with both their reputations just for a moment of the bliss he’d found in the library. But the stakes were the end of the world. If the Inquisition crumbled, Corypheus would overtake them all—Dorian had seen it. And if the others turned on Lavellan, the Inquisition would crumble.

Dorian had been called selfish more times than he could count and sometimes it had even been true. In Tevinter, he hadn’t hesitated to take lovers even though he’d known it would drag his family name through the mud. He’d put his own wants before the needs of his family and he didn’t regret it, even if he hadn’t burned for any of those men as he burned for Lavellan now. But even Dorian wasn’t willing to put his happiness before the world. And he’d be damned before he saw any of these people turn on Lavellan, who had let them take and take from him, who had given them so much more than they deserved.

“Maker,” Bull said. “All right. I still think it’s fucking stupid, but you and the boss pretty much have the corner on being stupid anyway.”

Dorian relaxed. He’d been afraid Bull would keep pestering. “You know, I do believe no one has ever called me stupid before,” he said. “One doesn’t usually call magical geniuses idiots.”

“That I can’t believe,” Bull said. “You’re one of the stupidest people I’ve ever met.”

Dorian bristled. “Excuse me—!”

“Yeah, yeah, you know your way around a staff. Pretty sure no one else could have gotten the boss out of that time-travel mess either.”

“Precisely.”

Bull patted Dorian on the shoulder. “You’re still a fucking dumbass where it counts, ‘vint.”

“And how, pray tell, do you figure that?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.”

Dorian was still gaping with outrage when Bull turned and made his way up the stairs.

Dorian wanted to go back to the tavern and beg a drink from the barkeep, though he doubted it would do any more good than it had yesterday. He wanted to go back to his rooms and pull the covers over his head and try to sleep without dreaming—perhaps when he woke, the past few days would prove to be a nightmare and everything would be as it had been. He wanted to go to Lavellan’s door and knock on it and beg—

He went to the battlements.

Dorian had never enjoyed heights. They didn’t make him woozy, but his stomach still clenched when he reached the top of the stairs to see the dizzying drop of mountains that surrounded Skyhold. He braced himself against the wall and breathed for several minutes. There wasn’t a place in Skyhold that was truly without people at this time of day—even now he could hear the chatter and pitter-patter of the people in the courtyard below, the heavy stamp of boots as guards made their rounds, even the faint conversation through the open window of the nearest guardhouse—but this was as close as Dorian could get. And the air here was clean and open, the mountains so distant and indifferent. Dorian’s troubles seemed less overwhelming here as if he’d climbed past them as well as the Inquisition.

He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to see Lavellan’s cold eyes or hear the whisper of Bull and Varric and everyone else in the back of his mind. It didn’t matter what they thought and it couldn't matter that Lavellan was hurt. He would get over it. He would find someone more suitable to enjoy and they would be allies, nothing more. The Inquisition would have its Inquisitor and, if they were truly lucky, they would all avoid the end of the world and horrible death.

It would work itself out.

“You look troubled.”

Dorian huffed. “That’s one way to say it.”

Solas’s sole concession to the heavier winter weather of Skyhold was the ruff of white fur he now wore over his robes. Dorian felt it brush his shoulder as Solas stood next to him. He must have cleaned up at some point after his arrival, as his robes were clear of the gunk and grime he'd been covered in.

“Come to enjoy the view?”

“I was looking for you. Cole told me where to find you.”

Dorian turned in surprise. Solas’s face was as utterly blank as ever.

“Looking for me? Whatever for?”

“I had something to discuss with you.”

“What intrigue. Whatever could you and I have to discuss?”

“Your falling out with the Inquisitor, to begin with.”

Dorian forced himself not to flinch. This entire morning had felt like one lash after another, coming from all sides. He lounged against the battlement wall, determinedly not paying attention to the sheer drop below him, and raised his eyebrows incredulously at Solas.

“Falling out sounds a tad dramatic, don’t you think?”

Solas was silent for a long time. He came to stand next to Dorian’s elbow. Even this close, reading him was nearly impossible. Lavellan had some skill with it, but Dorian had yet to meet anyone else who could pry the thoughts from behind that stone wall. It made Dorian uneasy, to have so little to work with.

“I have been with him longer than almost anyone here,” Solas said at last. “I tended his wounds after the Conclave.”

Dorian blinked, turning to face him more fully. “I didn’t know that.”

“It was a dark time. I sat beside him for some time, studying the anchor. I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Fade, yet found nothing.” Solas snorted. “Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn’t produce results.”

Dorian couldn’t imagine someone as straight-laced and righteous as Cassandra ever following through with such a thing, but she had not earned her reputation as the Divine’s fist without reason. And he’d heard some terrible stories about those early days when the Rift had been wide open—lootings and killings and everything in between just among the common folk, not to mention the constant outpouring of demons and the deaths growing ever higher. In the midst of that panic and terror, what wouldn’t she have done?

“I was so sure he was never going to wake up. How could he? A mortal sent physically through the fade, someone without a speck of magic to protect him. You know, as so few here did, how utterly impossible it was that he was even still alive, let alone that he would be conscious any time soon. I was frustrated, even frightened. Any spirits I may have asked for help had already fled. I had no faith in Cassandra, nor she in me. I was ready to vanish.”

“Vanish?” Dorian asked, incredulous. “The Breach threatened the whole world. Where would you have gone, pray tell?”

“Somewhere far away where I might research a way to repair the Breach before its effects reached me.”

Dorian snorted. “You know, I thought the only person in this castle that confident of their abilities was me.”

Solas’s eyes narrowed. “I just needed time,” he said. Then his ire fell away and he shook his head. “I never said it was a good plan.”

“You obviously stayed,” Dorian said. “Why?”

Solas tapped his long fingers on the battlement wall, looking out at the mountains surrounding them. When he spoke, it was so soft it might as well have been to himself. “I told myself; one more attempt to seal the rifts. I tried and failed. No ordinary magic would affect them, can affect them. You know this as well as I. I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee and then…”

Dorian flinched ba Solas turned to him. He was still expressionless, but there was something sharp in his eyes, something dark. His voice gained strength and focus and the words came out of him at an unusually fast pace, as if he needed to get them out quickly to speak them at all. For the first time, Dorian wondered if it was costing Solas something to tell him this story, to reveal his vulnerabilities and doubts.

“I was in the middle of a fight. Demons on all sides, a rift producing more than we could possibly hold off. And then, in the middle of it all was him, throwing knives and howling for blood. He killed the demons who threatened us and sealed the rift with a gesture. And right then I felt the whole world change.”

He fell silent. Dorian stared at him. He’d known Lavellan was fond of Solas and that Solas cared more about Lavellan than anyone probably guessed. He’d known they were friends, of a sort. But he’d never expected the reverence he heard from Solas, who always viewed the world around him with objective criticism, who never seemed to put any stock in lords or gods or monsters.

“As truly fascinating as this all is… Why are you telling me this?”

Solas sounded like himself again as he answered. “You know better than most what he faces. What he is. He fractured rules of man and nature—not just with the rifts, but during the episode with you and what happened in Haven. He’ll shatter more before this is over.”

“He’s not a god,” Dorian said, appalled. “He’s a person.”

“He wasn’t to me that day,” Solas said. “He held the key to our salvation. He is the key. Without him, we are lost.”

Dorian’s stomach sank. “I’m perfectly aware of that.”

“Are you?” Solas shook his head. “The Breach is gone, but the threat remains. He is the only one of us with a real chance against Corypheus, the only one with the weapon we need to keep his power from growing. Without him, the Inquisition will stall and the world will fall.”

“I need you to start approaching a point sometime soon.”

“Fallow Mire was a disaster.” Dorian flinched, but Solas’s expression never wavered. “I don’t know what the Iron Bull told you, but we very nearly did not make it without losing him. And you may be able to convince Cassandra of your ignorance, but I am not so blind.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying—”

“I think you forget where I spend the majority of my time,” Solas said. “And how easily sound carries in open places.”

Dorian shut his mouth. Solas was so quiet a neighbor that he did often forget that he’d claimed the study below the library for his own. Half the time, Dorian only remembered he was in there when he was on his way to the main hall. He paled. Kaffas.

“I think you need to think very carefully about what you’re saying,” Dorian said.

“I have thought carefully about it,” Solas said. “I did not say anything because I felt it was not my place to interfere. And I would have continued to not interfere if I had not seen him nearly kill himself half a dozen times in the past day.”

Dorian’s heart wrenched. He hated that Lavellan had been so reckless without Dorian there to watch his back and guard him. He hated being the cause of it, knowing that he had made Lavellan so miserable and foolish. He didn’t want Lavellan to do this to himself.

“What do you expect me to do, then?” he asked. “Go to him? Take it all back?”

“No!” Dorian flinched. Solas lowered his hand and his expression smoothed out again. “No,” he repeated more gently. “I believe you made a wise choice.”

Dorian’s throat felt tight. “Wise?” he asked.

“The people love him,” Solas said. “It does not take much to turn love to hate, to make a savior a villain.” His eyes flashed. “I have seen it happen time and time again. He has never been careful about such things and that may very well be his doom.”

Dorian knew that. He’d said it himself. But it was surprising how much it made his stomach twist to hear it from someone else, to have it said in Solas’s calm, logical voice as if it was the simple truth. Dorian could never be with Lavellan without risking everything.

“What do you want from me, then?” he asked. “I’ve told him it couldn’t happen. I pushed him away.”

“If he is going to bring all of us through this he needs to be focused.” Solas’s mouth pursed. “He needs to put stopping Corypheus before anything else. He won’t do that while he’s thinking of you.”

Dorian couldn’t remember how to breathe. His lungs were working, weren’t they? It didn’t feel like they were, not in the slightest.

“He knows that.” The words hurt to get out.

“He’s been told it, but he doesn’t know it,” Solas said. “All I want from you is what you should give him anyway—space. He needs to focus on what’s really important. He cannot do that if you are distracting him.”

Solas was remarkably good at twisting the knife. Dorian wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not, but he would have given him a round of applause if it wasn’t so incredibly painful.

“I am still a member of this Inquisition, am I not? You lot do still need me. I can’t just avoid him.”

“No,” Solas said. “But I have seen the way you watch him and the way he watches you. He is loyal and he cares for you. He won’t forget you if you don’t make him.”

Dorian didn’t want Lavellan to forget him. He didn’t want to lose Lavellan’s wry smiles and rolled eyes and sotto voice jokes. Was it really necessary to give all that up, to save the world? If the Maker did exist, and Andraste knew Dorian was beginning to have his doubts after everything he’d seen, then he had a marvelously grotesque sense of humor. Practically Magisterium-like. One could applaud if one was not so utterly miserable about it.

A hand on his shoulder. Solas didn’t invest often in facial expressions, but something had softened around his eyes.

“I do not mean to cause you pain,”  he said.

Dorian couldn’t stand it, his sympathy. He shrugged the hand away and put on his most blistering smile. “Pain?” he asked. “You overexaggerate, darling. The Inquisitor has his charms, I’m sure, but it’s not any hardship to give him a little breathing room. There’s no shortage of people in Skyhold whose shoulders I can cry on, you know.”

Solas’s eyebrows rose just the tiniest bit. His mouth flattened. Dorian kept up his smile and determinedly didn’t think about the hard twist in his stomach at the thought of finding solace with anyone but Lavellan.

“I see,” Solas said. “Perhaps this is for the best then. Remember what I said, Master Pavus. If he loses his focus now, it’s not just the Inquisition that will be doomed; it is the world. Leave him be.”

Solas inclined his head and turned. Dorian watched until he disappeared down the stairs and turned back to the mountain view. His smile was gone and he felt inordinately sick. He rubbed a hand over his face and closed his eyes for a long moment, just listening to the howl of the wind among the mountaintops, the twittering of the birds in the garden below, the murmur and rush of people moving and talking and living.

He opened his eyes. He turned his back on the mountains and descended the stairs.

“Oh, Master Pavus! Just the man I was dying to see!”

Dorian turned, a courteous smile already in place. He’d learned it was best for his overall health if he treated Vivienne as amicably as possible. While she had never turned that legendary vitriol on Dorian, he’d heard too many stories to risk it, even if his head was splitting and all he wanted to do was find something to eat and go back to his rooms for the rest of the night.

The main hall had emptied out during the afternoon, though there were still several soldiers that Dorian assumed were from Fallow Mire eating at one of the tables. They still wore their grimy armor and seemed intent on demolishing as many meat pies as they could get their hands on. Vivienne spared them a disgusted sniff as she marched past them to Dorian’s side. He offered her a little bow.

“Madame de Fer! What can I do for such an enchanting woman?”

Vivienne’s mouth quirked. “Your flattery is quite useless on me, darling,” she said. “My affections are already quite spoken for.”

“The truth is never worthless, yes?”

Vivienne’s titter was as hard and practiced as her smile. Dorian wondered if anyone ever saw a softer side of her or if everything vulnerable was kept under lock and key, only released when completely alone. She had to have friends and confidants back home, didn’t she? A partner or a lover, as she had just implied. Surely someone knew what lay beneath the hard veneer of her courtesies and attitude.

“A simple request, my dear,” Vivienne said. “Hamalshiral is so soon and our dear Inquisitor has not yet mastered an Orlesian dance I have been assured will be quite popular. Since you did so well with him last time, I had hoped you would lend me your assistance once again.”

Dorian hoped his sudden panic didn’t show, but he doubted a woman like Vivienne missed much. He did his best to keep his voice level and disaffected. Maker, couldn’t he catch a break?

“As delighted as I would be to assist—”

“Oh, you would? Excellent! And here comes the Inquisitor now, what perfect timing. One might even say providential.”

Dorian’s heart felt too big for his chest. He practiced breathing steadily and kept his eyes fixed on Vivienne instead of looking at the approaching shadow in the corner of his vision. Damn, damn, and damn again. He’d hoped to be drunker the next time he spoke to Lavellan face-to-face.

“You can’t seriously expect me to waste time with more dancing lessons V—”

Dorian could tell the moment Lavellan realized who Vivienne was talking to when silence descended. Dorian couldn’t look at him. The quiet drew out for several beats, enough to become pointed and awkward. Vivienne, bless her heart and instincts for drama, didn’t allow it to fester.

“I was just recruiting Master Pavus here into lending us his aid once more. I’m sure you remember his capable teaching, my dear.”

What did Lavellan’s face look like? Dorian dearly wanted to know, but couldn’t bring himself to check. His heart hammered in his chest, so fast he was almost afraid it would burst out of his ribcage. He wanted to run. He probably should run. Would Lavellan come after him?

“Dorian probably has somewhere else to be, yeah?”

If Lavellan had sounded angry or cold, Dorian would have left without another word, run like he wanted to. But there was a softness there Dorian’s hadn’t expected, a sadness that gave him the courage he needed to look at Lavellan directly. It wasn’t what he’d dreaded and imagined to himself over and over the past day. True, Lavellan’s face revealed little of his emotions, something Dorian had begun to expect when Lavellan was under a great deal of stress. But his eyes were softer than Dorian could have ever hoped for, and his mouth wasn’t as stern. Dorian’s stomach swooped. Lavellan wasn’t angry.

Why wasn’t he angry?

“Nonsense, darling,” Vivienne said. “Master Pavus could hardly have a task of graver importance than ensuring you don’t trip over your own feet with half of Orlais watching.”

Lavellan looked at her. Dorian felt the absence of his gaze like a physical touch. “Yes,” he said in his driest voice. “What a fucking embarrassment that would be. How would I ever recover?”

Vivienne sniffed. “I know how little you care for things like appearances or politics, my dear, but that does not make them any less important. Now, come, come. Maker willing, we will master this dance today and I can send you to  the Winter Palace with an easy heart.”

Before Dorian or Lavellan could protest again, she gripped both of them by the elbows and hauled them away. Vivienne was a tall woman and not someone Dorian would ever describe as delicate, but she had a much stronger grip than anticipated. There was no way he would wriggle free.

Vivienne brought them to the gardens, which were largely deserted aside from some Inquisition soldiers who watched curiously as Vivienne steered them to the gazebo. Dalish already stood there, waiting. As they approached, Dalish tipped a wink toward Lavellan, bow settling on their violin strings. They turned their attention to Vivienne.

“Another reel?”

“Not quite. The music we discussed.” Dalish nodded and Vivienne finally released her grip on their arms. Dorian rubbed some feeling back into his elbow and Vivienne turned to Lavellan. “Now, my dear Inquisitor, do try to stay on time, will you? You don’t want to hurt poor Dorian’s toes.”

She stepped back and stared at them expectantly. Dorian looked at Lavellan, but Lavellan wasn’t looking at him. Dorian’s stomach twisted. Lavellan might not be as angry with him as Dorian had feared, but he clearly hadn’t forgotten about their—meeting in the library or their argument. Dorian risked a look and frowned when he realized the garden was a little fuller than it had been just moments before. Though no one was staring, there was a great deal of tiring overt glances and whispering.

The only way to power through gossip was to pretend it wasn’t happening. Dorian would know. And the best way to pretend it wasn’t happening was to act utterly normal. Dorian may not be the best liar, but he hadn’t survived Tevinter’s snakes without some skill. He plastered on a smile and turned to offer his arm to Lavellan.

“That would be a shame, Madame,” he said. “But I’m sure our merciful Inquisitor wouldn’t be so gauche as to take off my toes. Not unless I’ve been well and truly naughty, of course.”

He waited. He tried not to hold his breath as Lavellan turned and examined him. Dorian kept his fake smile firmly in place and didn’t lower his arms and imply that there was anything unusual in the slightest about Lavellan’s hesitation to begin the dance.

“Inquisitor?” Vivienne asked. “Shall we begin?”

Lavellan seemed to realize himself, shaking his head. He stepped forward into Dorian’s arms and Dorian had to use every trick in the book to keep himself from revealing how right it still felt for him to be there. He wasn’t following this time but leading. Dorian allowed a hand to settle on his waist and ignored the flutter of warmth that went through his side. He put his hand on Lavellan’s shoulder. Though his face was utterly neutral, the muscles of his shoulder were tight, almost thrumming with tension. Dorian flexed his fingers.

Dalish began the tune. Dorian knew the dance—a complicated partner march that was currently popular in Tevinter as well as Orlais. He’d only danced it a few times himself, though he knew the steps. It didn’t require any particular grace, but the knowledge of the correct steps to take was absolutely key; without them, someone could fall out of sync with their partner, which was considered a horrible misstep in the Game and quite gauche.

Dorian felt the deep breath Lavellan took, his shoulders rising and falling. Then, with stern determination, Lavellan began the dance.

It was immediately clear that it was going to be a failure. They were out of sync within four steps and Lavellan somehow managed to step on his foot three times in less than a minute. Lavellan wasn’t bad at leading, but he was tense and forceful, moving Dorian here and there without properly preparing him for where he needed to go—it made it almost impossible to keep pace with him and made Dorian stumble into him more than once. Dorian tried to help by leading while following, to nudge Lavellan in the place he needed to go or shuffle them along the proper way, but Lavellan didn’t want to cooperate with that either. The whole thing felt less like a dance and more like some kind of tiresome battle for control.

They finished the dance quickly, half a beat before they were supposed to. Almost before the music had officially stopped, Lavellan stepped away, dropping his hands from Dorian like he was made of fire. Dorian’s neck was flushed, he could feel it. He hadn’t danced that horribly in front of other people since he was taking lessons himself, a boy of seven or eight. His father would have probably murdered him if he’d ever embarrassed himself like that at a ball. Maker.

“Well.” Vivienne’s voice was cooler than the winter air. “I do hope I do not have to tell you how utterly horrendous that was or I might fear for your intelligence.”

They both turned. Her face was as cold as her voice had been and behind her, Dalish was frowning. Dorian’s toes throbbed as he shifted from foot to foot, trying to feel less like he was a boy on the end of his father’s scolding. He didn’t dare look at Lavellan.

“I’m hopeless at this,” Lavellan said. “I told you that from the start.”

If anything, Vivienne’s expression grew icier. Dorian winced and wondered if Lavellan really did have a death wish.

“If it was simply a matter of lack of talent, I would allow the lessons to cease,” she said.

“Then—”

“But it is not a lack of talent,” Vivienne continued as if Lavellan hadn’t interrupted. “That is the crux of the matter, my dear. I have seen you dance well. I have even seen you dance with excellence. You have the skill. You are simply not trying.” She lifted her chin, mouth pursed. “I suppose you can guess how little I care for people who do not try, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan’s mouth tightened. For a long, tense moment he and Vivienne held each other’s gazes.

“The way I dance isn’t important.”

“My feelings about people who do not try are shockingly the exact same as my feelings about people who bore me with their tiresome stupidity, my dear. We have argued this point before. Your ability does matter. Excelling here will make things remarkably easier for you in a place where you will have few friends and even less support.” Vivienne sighed. Dorian got the impression that she might have rubbed her temple if she was the kind of woman to show that much discomfort in public. “You are going to make this harder on yourself if you persist in resisting this, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan made a low, irritated noise in the back of his throat. “You think I don’t know that all those shem nobles are going to ooh and ah over how well a savage knife-ear can dance their stupid dances, V? I’m not some kind of dancing fucking bear! Fuck them and their backstabbing approval! I don’t need them to—pat themselves on the back for getting one of those heathen Dalish to act like their version of civility!”

Dorian couldn’t help staring. He’d known Lavellan had chafed under the lessons Josephine had set up for him, that he’d hated the whole idea of Halamshiral. But he hadn’t quite understood the reasons other than Lavellan’s discomfort with human nobility. It hadn’t even occurred to Dorian that anyone would think that about Lavellan or make those sort of comments.

Vivienne’s face was a stone mask. Dorian couldn’t tell what was going on beneath it, though he knew something was.

“You are not doing this for them,” she said at last. “Without the support of those nobles, the Inquisition will suffer. We will have fewer resources and allies, fewer friends in this fight that we are increasingly unlikely to win. And we will not have their support if you don’t smile in the face of their comments and dance to their tune and adopt their version of civility for the evening. Is your pride worth more than the lives of the soldiers in your care? Because they will die if you cannot swallow it for one night.”

Lavellan snarled. “Fuck you, V,” he said. He turned to Dorian. “Fine. Fucking fine!”

Dorian yelped a little as he was yanked into Lavellan’s arms. Lavellan’s face was smooth except for the harsh crease to his brow, but his shoulders were still hard and tense. He had a tight grip on Dorian’s waist.

“Dalish,” Vivienne said.

The music started up again. Dorian winced as soon as they began. He hadn’t thought it was possible to get worse, but somehow Lavellan was managing it. Any sort of poise he’d had during their first attempt was gone—Dorian was moved around like a sack of potatoes that was being particularly annoying. Halfway through, after his toes had been stepped on yet again, Dorian lost his patience.

“Are you trying to permanently maim me?” he asked.

Lavellan didn’t stop, but he cut Dorian a truly withering look. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

"Oh, I don't think concentration is being very useful to you, yes?"

“Your nattering on isn’t helping much either.”

“I was brought in to help you,” Dorian said.

Lavellan missed another step and brought them forward too early. They were nearly a full step ahead of the music. Dorian sighed and resisted when Lavellan attempted the turn.

“Wait a moment, let’s get back on tempo,” Dorian said.

Lavellan surprised him by turning them anyway. Dorian nearly got swept out of Lavellan’s hold by the force of it—he clutched Lavellan’s shoulders and frowned at him. Lavellan’s pale face was flushed with color except for his mouth, which was so flat and tight it was nearly white.

“Lavellan—”

“Don’t try to order me around,” Lavellan said.

Dorian flinched, stung. “I had assumed I was helping you,” he said acidly. "Pardon me for the confusion."

“Don’t help me either.” Lavellan was moving them faster and faster. Dorian was starting to get dizzy and they were definitely far ahead of where they were supposed to be now. He was a little surprised Vivienne hadn’t stopped them yet. “Don’t— Creators. Just don’t do anything to me, Dorian. I don’t want anything from you.”

Dorian could almost ignore the sickening swoop in his stomach as heat rushed to his face. So much for Lavellan not being angry. “So that’s it, then?” His voice came out much harder than he’d anticipated, full of so much anger that he almost surprised himself. “I thought we were friends, at the very least. Yet, you’re ready to cast it all aside the moment I don’t—”

“I thought we were friends!” Lavellan snarled and drew them to such an abrupt halt Dorian stumbled. The music screeched to a stop as well. Dorian could feel the eyes on them, making his skin crawl. “Why do you think I—” Lavellan shook his head. “All this time, you were practically the only thing holding me up and all this time the only thing I’ve been to you is the Inquisitor.”

Dorian felt that like a blow. How could Lavellan even think such a ridiculous thing?

“That’s not—”

“What? Not true?” Lavellan gave him a hard stare. “So if I asked you right now about—”

“Lavellan.”

Lavellan’s smile was small, utterly mirthless. “I don’t want anything from you, Dorian,” he said again. “You’re free of me.”

Dorian didn’t want to be free of Lavellan. The mere thought made him feel unsteady as if he were on a ship that was in the middle of a storm and he couldn’t find his footing.

Lavellan marched away before Dorian could tell him as much, but that might have been a blessing. It wasn’t until Dorian turned to watch him leave that he realized what an audience they’d gathered. Several of the Inquisition soldiers were looking at Dorian with nasty glares and, more alarmingly, several were frowning at Lavellan. Dorian’s heart seized. No, no, no—

“Inquisitor, we have not yet finished our lesson,” Vivienne called out.

“Fuck your lessons and fuck Halamshiral,” Lavellan said without turning or stopping.

Vivienne’s mouth pursed. “Crude child,” she muttered. She looked around the gardens and her eyebrow rose. “I did not realize that we were conducting a show,” she said in her mildest voice. “Perhaps I should be charging admission.”

Inquisition soldiers weren’t stupid. They scattered, whispering and glancing over their shoulders, until the only ones left in the gardens were Vivienne, Dalish, and Dorian. Dorian rubbed a hand over his face, wondering what he could do to downplay the damage they’d just wrought. If the soldiers who had seen that whole sordid affair began to spread rumors that Dorian and Lavellan were having some kind of quarrel, it would only be a matter of time until someone suggested it was a lover’s tiff. Dorian’s only consolation was that Lavellan’s reputation would take less of a hit if everyone thought he had been spurned.

Dorian sighed. Perhaps he could convince Varric to spread some rumors about an ethical fight instead. Most of the soldiers trusted and liked Varric and took his gossip as gospel.

“Dalish,” Vivienne said. Dorian looked to find her watching him with an alarmingly considering expression, eyebrows high and mouth pursed.

“Yes, Madame?”

“Play another. A waltz this time, if you please.”

“But the boss—”

“Master Pavus won’t be dancing with the Inquisitor this time. He’ll be dancing with me.”

Dorian frowned at her, trying to figure out what her game was. “As lovely as you are, you hardly need my tutelage, my lady,” he said.

She smiled, but it was not a kind expression. “I will be the one doing the teaching, I think,” she said. “Dalish.”

After a beat, a simple tune began, lighter and airier than the Orlesian dance had been. Dorian didn’t know how to refuse without pissing Vivienne off, so he accepted the light hand she put on his shoulder. Dorian waited a moment to let her prepare and then moved them slowly into a waltz.

Dancing with Vivienne was nothing like dancing with Lavellan. For one, Vivienne was clearly an accomplished dancer—there was no danger of stepped-on toes with her as a partner. But where Vivienne excelled technically, she also lacked… something. It took Dorian several more turns before he realized that Vivienne’s dance was utterly impersonal; she could have been exchanged with anyone and it would have been exactly the same. Lavellan, even when he was terrible, even when he was doing his best to pretend Dorian didn’t exist, was the utter opposite of impersonal. Dancing with Lavellan was like dancing with no one else in the world.

“Dances are treated as something of a game in Orlais.” Vivienne didn’t so much as falter as Dorian turned her out and drew her back in, utterly graceful. “Much like everything there, I suppose. Who you dance with and how well you do it means everything. The wrong step, the wrong partner, and you can be ruined.”

“It is the same in Tevinter,” Dorian said. “At least, among the elite.”

“Yes. Dancing is a tool.” They began to move down the length of the garden, moving faster. “Simply something else to establish your prestige, nothing more. I always thought so, right up until I met my lover.”

Dorian nearly tripped. Vivienne carried him through several hasty steps until he’d righted himself again.

“Your lover?” he managed to ask.

“Duke Bastien.” Vivienne was not a girlish woman—she didn’t sigh or croon his name. But something in her voice softened just the slightest amount. “I met him at a ball not unlike Halamshiral. I was very young—not yet twenty. I was not much interested in any of the men there, though I had already danced with several prestigious lords during the night. But those were dances made solely out of calculation, not any kind of passion. I had my mind very firmly set on my reputation, you see. I wanted to be feared and respected and I hardly had any room in my head for anything other than making that dream a reality.”

They’d reached the castle wall—without pausing, Vivienne turned them back toward the gazebo.

“But then he tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. He was so grave, so focused. I felt like I was the only person in the world when he spoke to me. ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I did not speak to you. You are magnificent, a hawk among sparrows. Please, I beg of you. Dance with me.’ And pretty words are the beating heart of the Great Game, but at that moment I believed him utterly. It was alarming and intoxicating to be so flattered by this stranger, a man I knew by his reputation alone. And what a reputation it was! I would have danced with him for that, of course, danced and laughed and pretended to care about him for just the one turn together, then faded gracefully away from his appreciation and pretty words. It would have been the correct thing to do, the most advantageous for me. But for the first time in my life connections and reputation didn’t matter to me. I didn’t dance with him because he was well-connected or talented or a potential ally. I danced with him because he looked at me like I was the moon.”

Dorian could scarcely breathe. He had no idea why Vivienne was telling him this. They weren’t close, could hardly be called more than colleagues. She didn’t sound particularly wistful. Her voice was as even and collected as it had been when she had been instructing Lavellan or responding to Dorian’s harmless flirtations. She kept her eyes firmly off of Dorian’s face.

For several long beats, she did not continue the story. Dorian didn’t think he could bear not to hear the end of it.

“And then?” he asked.

He only noticed Vivienne’s deep exhale because he had his hand on her waist.

“And then, my dear? We danced, of course. One dance turned to two turned to three. In the Great Game, you never dance so long with someone you are not devoted to and we had only met that night. He was married, I was young. Whispers spread about us as we danced yet again and soon everyone was watching, everyone was talking.” Vivienne’s laugh was light, musical, a little wintry. “But we didn’t stop. We danced together the rest of the night and didn’t care a whit about the whispers and the scandal it caused. What did the opinion of the others matter, when we knew our own hearts so well?”

Dorian stopped mid-step. Vivienne stopped with him without even stumbling. Dorian took his hand off her waist and stepped back. For several long moments, there was only the whispering of the flowers in the garden. At some point the sun had begun to set, casting long shadows over everything. The dance hadn’t been particularly vigorous, but Dorian was breathing as hard as if he’d run a long distance. His throat was tight, almost painfully so.

“You threw away your reputation,” he said finally. “Your standing, your name. You could have been ruined forever, lost everything that you were working so hard for.”

“Yes,” Vivienne said. “I could have.”

Dorian had to clear his throat several times. “Do you regret it? Taking the risk?”

“I have never in my life regretted it.”

Maker, why did that feel like a punch to the gut? “People talked about you. They sneered about you. You… You could have avoided that if you hadn’t taken up with him. There wouldn’t have been any looks, any doors closed to you. It would have made your life a lot easier, yes?”

Vivienne was opaque at the best of times, but Dorian could not have begun to guess what she was thinking at that moment. Her face was smooth and expressionless, her eyes deep and unreadable. Dorian couldn’t help remembering the worn statues that one couldn’t help but find in old Tevinter ruins—their cold stolidity fixed ever outward, unbreakable and old as time itself.

“Oh, Master Pavus,” Vivienne said. “Things would have been indisputably easier without Bastian in my life. He is a married man and my senior, a well-respected nobleman who had no business showing any interest in an untried mage. Taking me as his lover made all sorts of tongues wag, presented all kinds of obstacles to our goals and ambitions. It is unarguable that our relationship made our lives so much more difficult.”

Dorian’s throat was so dry. He swallowed hard. The words had to be forced from his throat.

“Then why do it? You’re a practical woman, Madame de Fer. Surely you could have simply turned him away, ended your relationship with him before it ever began. You would have had an easier life. A happier life, perhaps.”

Vivienne looked him in the eye for the first time. She wasn’t that much older than him, he realized. She would have been a beautiful young woman and she was beautiful still.

“Would my life have been simpler without him in it? Assuredly.” She sighed. “But, Master Pavus, simple is not always preferable. Some things are worth all the complications and difficulties they bring.”

Taken aback, Dorian couldn’t think of a single thing to say in response, any kind of rebuttal. Vivienne watched him. Maker, she was as composed as ever. It was like she hadn’t just exposed a weakness, a scandalous story that no doubt had troubled her for years. Dorian would never have guessed any of this about her if she hadn’t told him, would never have known a thing about it.

“Why…” Dorian had to clear his throat. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I didn’t care for the Inquisitor when we first met.” Vivienne shook her head, rueful. “He has no sense of subtlety and a terrible head for diplomacy. He is entirely too soft on mages and has this bizarre vexation against templars who are only trying to do their jobs.” She sighed again. “But I find that it does not give me any pleasure to see him unhappy. And unhappy he is, my dear.”

Dorian’s heart began to jackrabbit. Was he really so damned obvious or was he just surrounded by supernaturally perceptive people? “I’m not sure why you think that has anything to do with me.”

“Please do not insult me. I may not be a professional spy like the Inquisitor’s pet qunari, but I know heartbreak when I see it. And you and I are not so different that I cannot guess what might have caused it.”

Dorian’s hands curled into fists. He was getting extraordinarily tired of other people pretending to know his feelings better than he did. “Oh? Perhaps you can enlighten me?”

Vivienne looked at him. Dorian felt it like a reprimand and flinched. “He makes you happy, that much is obvious. Just as much as you make him, I suspect. No one rejects happiness unless they have something more important to them and I know that the only thing that was ever more important to me was my reputation. Without it, I would have remained nothing, you know. Another mage girl in another Circle, doomed to a life of walls without any real power of her own. What people said of me, what they thought, that trumped everything.”

“You gave up your reputation,” Dorian said. “For that Duke Bastian of yours.”

“Yes,” Vivienne said. “There comes a time in one's life when one realizes that there is truly nothing more important than happiness. I did that day.” She reached over and touched Dorian’s shoulder lightly, barely a brush of the fingers. “You still think there are more important things than happiness. That’s what’s causing this pain of yours and of his. You’re putting your duty ahead of your heart.”

“It’s not just our reputations on the line, Madame,” Dorian said.

“No,” she said. “You think I don’t see what could happen as well as you? I never said it couldn’t be an admirable thing, to put your happiness after something else. But it is painful, is it not? And I find I have no interest in causing our Inquisitor pain.”

“I can’t spare him from it.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps you can.”

“I can’t.”

Dorian could, he knew it. He could flout the rules like he desperately wanted, he could take Lavellan in his arms and damn the consequences, the reactions, the world. He could do it and it would be so, so sweet to do it.

But he could still that dark future, where Lavellan hadn’t stood in Corypheus’s way. He could still hear the way the soldiers talked about him as if he was all that they were holding on to some days. He could still hear the whisper of his father’s voice in the back of his head, condemning him for a selfish, soft fool more interested in pleasure than doing the right thing, the honorable thing.

“It can be an admirable thing, in its own way,” Vivienne said. Her voice was cooler than it had been before, but her eyes were softer. “But pain doesn’t always go away, my dear. For his sake, as well as yours, I hope you learn to think differently about the situation. And soon.”

She didn’t allow Dorian to have another word before she marched away. Dorian sagged against the gazebo and wished fervently for a drink.

Before Dorian had come South, he had never put much stock in sparring. It was something done in Tevinter, but it was almost always ceremonial—mages testing their prowess against each other to show off to interested sponsors or to try and attract attention from the magisters they wished to study under. Dorian had participated in several of those bouts himself and had earned a reputation as a tricky duelist who disliked direct confrontation. Overall it wasn’t quite as impressive as being known as a powerhouse, but Dorian had always preferred his opponents to underestimate him anyway, so it had suited him.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had sparred simply to practice his form before coming South. He’d had a reputation as a lazy layabout in Tevinter and while that wasn’t strictly true—Dorian studied more than any but his closest friends knew and he had spent more than one long evening perfecting a tricky bit of spellwork—it hadn’t been based entirely on rumor. Dorian had disdained the dueling grounds where inexperienced mages went to hone their skill and practice against partners in less formal settings.

Yet, he had found himself time and time again in the training grounds in Skyhold, vanquishing straw dummies that seemed neverending and practicing his blocks and whirls. It had to be Lavellan’s influence. Even after becoming Inquisitor, Lavellan had always trained and trained.

Dorian worked on his footwork and determinedly ignored the bystanders watching him. He expected they had come to see if he was going to throw another outrageous temper tantrum or begin decimating all the dummies again. Dorian was going to have to do some damage control on his own reputation in the Inquisition—if he became known as someone with an out-of-control temper, he wasn’t going to earn any favors with anyone. It was bad enough being the Tevinter mage, he didn’t need to give the masses any more arrows in their bows. If he had been able to think clearly after receiving his father’s letter, he would have remembered that and tried to conduct his breakdown a bit more privately. Alas, his good sense had flown out of the window along with his self-control and common decency and he had lost any goodwill among the soldiers he’d had.

Dorian brought his staff down and became aware of the sound of clapping. He turned, ready to lash out at the condescending person with a bright smile, and froze when he realized that it was Hawke, Fenris at his elbow. Hawke jumped down from where he’d been sitting on the low wooden fence, stretching his arms over his head. He really was an impossibly tall man. He had his polearm staff slung over his back.

“Heard a rumor that you were working on your form,” Hawke said. His words were congenial, but his eyes were sharp. “Thought I’d come to see if you were any good.”

“I have several testimonials that assure me I am, indeed, very good,” Dorian said. “Do I meet with your approval?”

“Well, you’re certainly better than at least half of the magisters I scuffled with in Kirkwall,” Hawke said.

Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “Only half?” he asked. “How… kind of you to say so.”

Hawke’s grin said he knew exactly how much of an insult that had been. Dorian reminded himself that he had recently been quite in the wrong when it came to Fenris and Hawke and he had no right toward feeling disgruntled. It didn’t stop him from wanting to take a swipe at Hawke’s head, just to wipe that infuriating smirk off his face.

“It’s been a while since I went up against another mage,” Hawke said. Dorian froze. “Interested, ‘vint?”

“You want to fight me?”

Hawke’s smile was a little too wide to be called pleasant. “Just a friendly spar, that’s all,” he said.

Dorian had had his own doubts about Hawke’s acceptance of his apology or forgiveness. It seemed he wasn’t going to get out of his punishment for his treatment of Fenris quite so simply or easily. Dorian had the feeling even if he refused, Hawke wouldn’t let him leave.

“I see,” he said, trying to stall for time. “Are you sure you want to waste your time on someone who is only better than half of the magisters in Kirkwall?”

“I used to have a friend in Kirkwall who said that working up a little sweat is better than none at all.”

Dorian got a distinct impression that he was being goaded. Normally, Dorian would consider himself above such things, but he couldn’t help bristling. His magical prowess had always been something he had been considerably proud of, second perhaps only to his looks and impeccable flair. Hawke was poking all these holes in his ego and Dorian didn’t like it at all.

Well. If it was a fight he wanted, might as well get it over with.

“Are there any rules for this particular contest?”

“Oh, just the usual,” Hawke said, drawing out his polearm. “No killing or dismemberment, we fight until someone surrenders. Oh, and no singeing the hair. I’ve had terrible trouble with that in the past, it was annoying.”

Dorian, having faced several attempts to burn his mustache, couldn’t help but wince in sympathy.

“Well then,” he said, settling in. He shifted his balance to the balls of his feet and breathed in deeply. “Shall we?”

Hawke grinned. He spun his polestaff in several flashy circles. Dorian could have attacked him, but fortunately Dorian had seen Hawke in combat enough to be wary. No matter how ostentatious his style, he was wickedly fast.

“You seem a little scared, Pavus,” Hawke said.

“Properly cautious,” Dorian said. “You didn’t seriously expect me to go rushing into the fray, did you? I’m not our dear Inquisitor.”

Dorian almost bit his tongue. The comment had come without thought.

“Yeah, he’s a bit reckless, isn’t he?” Hawke mused. “Honestly, that’s half the reason I like him.” That didn’t surprise Dorian at all. “Speaking of Kai, you wouldn’t happen to know why he’s been in this tizzy for the past few days, would you?”

Oh for Maker’s sake. Dorian sent a blast of freezing air out of pure frustration. Ice had never been his element, so it was weak, but it did the job of shutting Hawke up. He ducked out of its way with a laugh and came up under Dorian’s guard, polestaff heading straight for the jugular. Dorian brought up his own staff just in time and they locked weapons for just the briefest moment, reminding Dorian yet again that while they were both mages, Hawke was taller and stronger than him.

Still… Dorian frowned. He felt like it should be more difficult to brace against Hawke. Hawke was frowning too as Dorian heaved him off and got some distance between them.

“That staff of yours,” Hawke said. “Where’d you get it?”

Dorian glanced at the staff in his hand. In the field, he almost always used the staff he’d brought from home, one of the sole family heirlooms he hadn’t sold or gotten rid of ever since his estrangement from his family. It was a good staff, powerful and capable of adding remarkable focus to his spells.

The one he was using today was the one Lavellan had made him.

“What does that matter?” he asked.

He sent a blistering fireball before Hawke could ask any more questions. He didn’t want anyone, let alone someone as nosy as Hawke, to know that Lavellan had made him such a beautiful staff or that Dorian used it so rarely not because it wasn’t powerful or helpful but because it felt like such a treasure that sometimes he felt reluctant to even look at it for too long.

He used his family staff in the field but he often found himself reaching for Lavellan’s staff—and it would always be Lavellan’s staff to him, no matter how long Dorian used it, he suspected—in the privacy of his own quarters or when he wanted to do magic within Skyhold. It was very different from his family staff, which thrummed with power and purpose, as comfortable and known to Dorian as his own hands. Lavellan’s staff was just as powerful, perhaps more so, but the way magic moved through it was so new to Dorian, almost intoxicatingly so. It flowed so clearly and cleanly, almost without thought. If his family staff was a traditional weapon, full of strength and force, Lavellan’s staff was something entirely new, precise and subtle. 

“Come now, don’t be like that,” Hawke said. He’d managed to come up in Dorian’s guard again, damn the man. He was too fast to be believed, just like Lavellan. “I’m just curious, that’s all. It feels weird.”

Dorian blocked the polestaff again. Again, it was disconcertingly easy to do. Dorian had seen Hawke in the field, had seen him fight. He knew how strong he was. And Dorian, despite all his ego, had no delusions about his own physical stamina. There was no way they should be evenly matched and yet…

“Weird how?” he demanded.

“Don’t you feel it?”

“Not all of us are quite so sensitive to magic as you, you know.”

Hawke laughed as Dorian tapped him hard on the arm, spinning them apart. He wasn’t even breathing hard, but Dorian was beginning to pant. Maker. Maybe he should begin doing those dreadful physical exercises that Blackwall and Cassandra were always trying to sell him on.

A crackle and Dorian ducked just as a stream of lightning went over his head. He straightened, glaring. If that had hit him directly, he might have had a heart attack. He might have scorched his hair. Dorian sent another fireball, bigger than the last, and Hawke cackled as he ducked out of its way without a scratch. He came up with a great whirl of the polestaff and Dorian only dodged the whirlwind by a breath. Damn.

They traded spells back and forth for several breathless seconds—lightning and fire and air and once, when Dorian was feeling a little desperate for some breathing space, a water spell that utterly failed to work. Hawke, of course, had little to no trouble with most magic, even earthquakes and hexes. Dorian had a hell of a time trying to avoid getting them head-on and by the time the onslaught began to let up, he was scorched and drenched and covered in stings. He hated hex-magic.

Finally, Hawke had sent a wave of ice that caught Dorian’s foot in a relentlessly cold grip. Before Dorian could struggle out of it or melt it, he had a polestaff under his chin. Dorian breathed heavily, collecting himself and trying to talk himself out of the wave of disappointed self-contempt that always rose whenever he didn’t manage to defeat someone. He’d stood toe-to-toe with Hawke for much longer than anyone would have predicted, he consoled himself. Even Lavellan had tied with him, and Dorian no longer had any computations about how much better at combat Lavellan was than him.

Still. It was hard to ignore the little voice in the back of his head, sounding remarkably like his father, that whispered about how utterly useless he was.

“Nice fight,” Hawke said. He lowered the polearm and the ice melted. Dorian’s foot throbbed from being encased in the cold for so long but he could still feel all his toes, so he figured it was fine. “You did better than I expected.”

“I still lost,” Dorian said.

“Yeah, well. You would have lost a lot sooner without that staff of yours.”

Dorian looked at it. Despite taking several heavy hits from Hawke, it didn’t look damaged at all—the smooth wooden handle still gleamed, the glowing orb at the top still bright and shifting from color to color.

“What exactly is it that you feel from my staff?” he asked.

“You really don’t feel it?”

“Obviously not.”

Hawke leaned on his polestaff and considered Dorian. “Well. It’s got attitude for a staff, that’s all.”

“Attitude?”

“Most staffs are pretty boring,” Hawke continued without acknowledging Dorian’s exclamation. “They’re just there for their mages, help them along, nudge them a bit. But yours… Well! It’s doing a bit more than nudging. Have you always had that? I don’t think I remember feeling that before.”

“I—” Dorian looked down at the staff in his hands. He hadn’t noticed anything off about it. It did respond to him better than any other staff he’d ever had and his spells had always felt more powerful using it, but he’d always figured that it was just simple craftsmanship. He cursed himself for not asking more questions when Lavellan had given it to him. “Some months ago, yes. I don’t use it very often.”

“You should,” Hawke said. “That staff is determined for you to win. It wants to protect you. Where’d you get it?”

Dorian opened his mouth, closed it. He could feel the blush creeping up his neck, curling around his ears.

“Ah. Well, it does feel a little like Kai, now that I think about it. Got his fighting spirit, at least.”

“It wasn’t—”

“Oh, don’t lie, that’s just tiresome. You’re too bad at it to be convincing. Besides, Kai may not make me special, uber-powerful staves, but I can recognize his handiwork. Didn’t you see that ax Bull got?”

Dorian didn’t have a right to blinding jealousy, especially not over something as mundane as weaponry, but that didn’t stop it from overwhelming him for a second. He shoved it down. Lavellan was an accomplished weaponsmith. He had every right to make whatever he pleased for whomever he pleased. He wondered if Bull’s ax wanted to protect its wielder.

“By the Maker’s hair ballsack.” Dorian made a face. “Varric is never wrong, is he? You two really had some sort of falling out?”

“Is our estrangement really that damned interesting?” Dorian demanded. “We haven’t had any rows, made any scenes, and yet I have person after person waxing on to me about it.”

“What else are we supposed to do when you from this,” Hawke held up two intertwined fingers, “to this?” He separated them with a sharp motion. Dorian scowled at him and Hawke rolled his eyes. “Look, I get it. Do you know how many patronizing lectures I got from Varric to get my head out of my arse about Fenris? How many long-winded self-righteous speeches from Anders about the perils of falling in with a mage-hunter? How much underhanded and naughty sex advice from Isabela? My friends were all insufferable about it.”

“This isn’t—”

“What, love? Because it sure as hell looks like it from where I’m standing.”

Dorian made a deep noise in the back of his throat. “Fine. Fine! What are you going to tell me, then? That true love conquers all and I should just ignore all the impossible problems we face and hope that my own selfishness doesn’t bring about the end of the world as we know it?”

Hawke laughed. “I mean, I could, I guess. Sounds like you got that advice already. Let me guess—Varric?”

“Viviene, actually.”

“Viviene?”

“I was as surprised as you are.”

Hawke shook his head. “I’m not going to give you lectures or speeches or sex advice. I don’t think you’re going to listen to me—I sure as hell didn’t listen to any of my friends.”

“So?”

“There were a few times where I wondered if it was worth it, the thing I had with Fenris,” Hawke said. “You might not have noticed, but he’s a bit of a tetchy bastard. Prickly. Withdrawn. Sometimes I have to pry feelings from him like I’m breaking into a house. And he’s an ex-slave and he hates magic and Maker if that didn’t cause some godawful spectacular rows.” Hawke tipped a wink. “Though there was some spectacular make-up sex to enjoy too.”

“I suppose you have a point somewhere in the midst of all this, yes?”

“Just that… The way Varric tells it, Fenris and me, we were this fated couple. He swept a lot of our shit under the carpet. But the truth is, being with him was always a lot of hard work. Being with him was never an easy choice. He’s been a pain in my ass since I met him and he still is.” Hawke winked again. “Pun intended.”

Dorian really didn’t need those images in his head. “Your point, please.”

“Well. It wasn’t easy and we spent a lot of years circling each other. But eventually, I took my head out of my ass and looked around and realized that if I actually managed to grow old without some blood mage killing me, I’d spend all of my years regretting him not being there. And that, uh. Meant that I just had to deal with the hard stuff and do my best to make him happy. After that, it was pretty simple, really.”

Dorian had just about had it. “That’s a very pretty sentiment,” he said in his sharpest voice, smiling wide. “Utterly beautiful. I might make it into a poem, turn it into a song. They can sing it in the tavern.”

“I know—”

“You don’t know anything,” Dorian said. “You and Varric and Vivienne and—everyone who’s felt the need to drop in their two coins about my relationship with Lavellan… You don’t know anything. He’s the Inquisitor. Even if, by some miracle, his people don’t turn on him for fraternizing with the enemy, we survive Corypheus and escape this whole bloody mess unscathed, there’s no happy ending involved. He’ll go back to his forests and I’ll go back to Tevinter. There’s no future, there’s no bliss, there’s no growing old together! This whole mess, it’s just proximity and lust and we’ll both be fine if we just let it go.”

Dorian was breathing hard by the time he finished spitting that all out. Hawke stared at him, wide-eyed and wan. He’d straightened from his usual slouch as Dorian had shouted at him. Dorian didn’t dare check to see who was listening in—why did his damned temper always get him into so much trouble?

A hand clasped his shoulder. Dorian flinched, but the grip didn’t tighten. Fenris regarded him coolly when Dorian turned to look. Over his shoulder, the courtyard was remarkably empty.

“I encouraged them to be elsewhere,” Fenris said. “This was not their concern.”

Well. Small miracles, at least.

“Hawke. I told you this was folly.”

“Fenris, you know I can’t just—”

“They are not children. They will work it out or they will not. It is not for us to decide.”

Hawke looked put-out. “You heard him!” He looked at Dorian. “You can’t seriously think all of that, Dorian.”

“I don’t know what you were expecting, but this isn’t some epic romance,” Dorian said. “We aren’t in—in love. It’s just a fancy that will pass and we’ll both be better off if we don’t indulge and make it more than it is.”

Hawke’s laugh was more barkish than normal, almost harsh. “Look, Dorian, you can lie to me and to Fenris and to yourself as much as you want. But you really are an idiot. No one makes a staff like that for a passing fancy.”

“Lavellan makes weapons for everyone.” Dorian waved his hand. “You said so yourself.”

“I’ve felt Bull’s ax and Blackwall’s sword. They’re beautiful weapons, better than most the people around here could make, but they’re nothing like your staff. That thing, it’s—it’s not just determined to protect you. It’s devoted to you. If you were in danger, it would destroy itself to get you out of it. Can’t you feel it?”

Dorian’s grip tightened on the staff. For a moment, brief and endless, he could feel—something. A bright pulse, a wash of heat, a whisper against the rim of his ear Doriandoriandorianmineminemine—

And then it was gone. The staff was the staff and Dorian’s heart raced.

“No,”  he said. “No, I can’t feel it.”

Hawke shook his head. “Well, trust me, then. No one who just fancied you could make something like that for you. You can lie to yourself about how you feel about Lavellan, but he cares about you a hell of a lot and if you insist on ignoring that, then maybe you're exactly the bastard I thought you were.”

Dorian didn’t want to remember Lavellan’s bright eyes and soft mouth, the wretched way he’d spoken when Dorian had broken them apart. Lavellan didn’t love him. Lavellan was—interested, sure, but it would pass. Dorian would make sure of it.

“We can’t, Hawke.”

Hawke made a low noise. “Why not, you—”

“Hawke.”

“Fenris, he’s being a bloody idiot and Kai’s not being any better—”

“Hawke.”

Hawke’s words dissolved into a low grumbling. Fenris turned to Dorian and regarded him. Dorian looked back and tried not to sweat under that cool gaze. It was difficult not to feel judged and left wanting when Fenris looked at him, especially after recent events. He had the feeling that even though Fenris had accepted his apology, there would not be warmth from him in the near future, if ever.

“You must make your own decisions,” Fenris said at last. “Come, Hawke.”

“That’s it? Seriously, Fenris?”

“I told you from the start that this was foolish.”

“And I told you, foolishness is my specialty—”

They marched off together, still bickering. Dorian leaned heavily against his staff the moment they were out of sight, trying not to collapse. Maybe, he thought, he should just go to the library or his room and hope that no one else would feel the need to talk to him.

Dorian was pretty sure the Maker, should he exist, had it out for him. He’d dropped off the perplexing staff in his room, trying not to think too hard about how cold and heavy his body felt the moment he set it down and made his way to the library to try and do some light reading before finally retiring to bed.

Tomorrow was Halamshiral and there was a rush of preparations in the Main Hall, but no one stopped him, which he had been grateful for at the time. Grateful too soon. It wasn’t until he was climbing the steps to his claimed nook that he’d seen Mother Giselle standing just outside of it. Dorian had only had a moment to uselessly pray that it wasn’t him she was waiting for until she turned on him with sharp eyes and a heavy frown.

“Master Pavus,” she said.”You’re a difficult man to pin down.”

“Oh, most people wouldn’t say that,” Dorian said.

Mother Giselle’s nose wrinkled just the tiniest bit. Dorian knew he should reign it in, but it was difficult to resist the urge to poke. He’d had this problem with the holy men and women in Tevinter as well. But how could he resist? They all took themselves and their order so seriously.

Besides, he was well aware that Mother Giselle considered him some kind of degenerate. Dorian disliked being judged, but if she was going to do it, might as well give her something to judge him for.

“I must speak with you,” she said.

“Oh, must you?” he asked.

“I have been watching you for some time, young man. At first, your presence here seemed useful, even necessary. But lately… I don’t know what you think you are doing.”

Dorian’s temper spiked. “Being clucked at by a hen, apparently.”

“Don’t play the fool with me, young man!”

“If I wanted to play the fool, I could be rather more convincing, I assure you.”

Dorian had thought holy women weren’t supposed to feel scorn, but the hard look Giselle gave him convinced him otherwise. He cursed the Maker—hadn’t he had enough confrontations for the day? Couldn’t he have some damned peace?

“Your glib tongue does you no credit.”

How could Dorian pass up an opening like that? He smiled at her, low and wicked. “You’d be surprised at the credit my tongue gets me, Your Reverence.”

She opened her mouth, likely ready to squawk at him about his blasphemous lust or what have you. Dorian sighed, mentally preparing himself and wishing he’d just stayed in his room. But before she could speak, Mother Giselle shut her mouth so quickly Dorian heard the snap of her teeth, her eyes widening. Dorian frowned, then followed her gaze over his shoulder. He stiffened. Lavellan finished coming up the stairs, eyes cool and arms crossed over his chest.

“Seems like I’m interrupting something,” he said. “What’s going on here, then?”

Dorian looked back at Giselle. Her mouth was pinched closed, jaw clenched. She wasn’t going to say anything.  Well, hell. He wasn’t at all interested in letting her get away with having a go at him, no matter what bad terms he was on with Lavellan at the moment.

“It seems,” he drawled, “the revered Mother is concerned about my undue influence over you.”

Lavellan’s eyes flickered to him and Giselle’s mouth tightened. She stepped forward, chin coming up.

“It is just concern, your worship. You and this mage have been close since he arrived. You must realize how it looks.”

Dorian stiffened. He hadn’t realized that was what she had been scolding him about. Maker, had rumors spread already? What were they saying? Dorian needed to speak with Varric the moment this was over and get him to spread something, anything around. He’d be damned if he went through all of this heartache just for the Inquisition to turn on Lavellan for something that hadn’t even happened.

Lavellan’s brow furrowed. He looked taken aback. That, above all else, spurred Dorian to click his tongue and speak where he might have just ignored Giselle’s comments or turned them into a harmless joke. Besides… Lavellan had been the one who had insisted that his role as Inquisitor wouldn’t have anything to do with his love life. Better to dispel him of those notions in a more concrete way.

“You might need to spell it out for him, my dear.”

“This man,” Giselle said with a dark look Dorian’s way, “is of Tevinter. His presence at your side, the… rumors alone—”

“Oh?” Lavellan said. Despite wanting to prove his point, Dorian was gratified that he was using that voice, the dangerous one edged in ice. It gave Giselle pause too, from her expression. “I don’t suppose you could tell me what’s wrong with him being from Tevinter? Specifically?”

Giselle was more cautious when she answered. “I’m fully aware that not everyone from the Imperium is the same.”

Dorian snorted. “How kind of you to notice. Yet you still bow to the opinion of the masses?”

“The opinion of the masses is based on centuries of evidence.”

“Centuries of evidence?” They both looked at Lavellan. He was smiling, but it wasn’t a kind expression. “Isn’t what they’ve used to convince themselves the Dalish are heathen animals? That mages deserve to be locked in cages and turned Tranquil?”

“Your worship, what would you have me tell them?” Giselle asked.

“The truth?” Dorian asked, laconic.

Giselle's eyes snapped. “The truth is that I do not know you and neither do they. Thus these rumors will continue.”

“I don’t care about all this side-stepping bullshit,” Lavellan said. “What are these rumors, exactly? And considering how often Dorian’s saved my life—hell, saved the Inquisition—I’d also like some kind of reason for why I should care about them in the first place.”

For the first time, Giselle looked taken aback. Whatever response she had expected from this discussion, it hadn’t been that. Dorian hadn’t expected it either. Surely Lavellan wouldn’t just shrug off Giselle’s scrutiny and judgment? Surely this would help him recognize the very real consequences of their relationship?

But no, Lavellan was staring at Giselle evenly, without even an ounce of embarrassment or shame. Dorian’s chest tightened. Oh no.

“You risk much, your worship,” Giselle said, recovering herself. “The Chantry—”

“Do I look like a shem to you?” Lavellan didn’t raise his voice but they both flinched. “We’ve already talked about your precious Maker before, Giselle. I don’t hold to your god and no amount of cajoling from you or Cass is going to change that. I don’t give a fuck about the Chantry.”

Dorian winced. Not for the first time, he wished someone would teach Lavellan a little diplomacy. They were already on the outs with the Chantry due to Lavellan being pronounced the Herald—no one had liked that—and Lavellan’s actions since hadn’t endeared him to them in any way. Dorian could see the practicality in keeping the Inquisition away from Chantry control, but to alienate them completely would be unwise. And consorting… carnally with a mage from Tevinter or refusing the advice of a respected Mother would be sure to alienate them.

Not that Lavellan would ever be called particularly wise.

Giselle’s face was hard as stone, but she didn’t protest Lavellan’s words. He wondered what discussion they’d had before.

“It is not just the Chantry, your worship. You risk more than that. You risk everything we have worked so hard to build here.”

Dorian could hear the lingering question that she didn’t ask. Is he worth it? It put a bad taste in his mouth. He knew he wasn’t worth it. That was why he’d put an end to it before it could really start, why he’d forced himself to push Lavellan away. He wasn’t worth it and sooner or later someone would convince Lavellan of that as well and he’d move to greener pastures and find someone he could be with that wouldn’t start whispers or turn anyone against him. The mere thought was agony, even if Dorian recognized the necessity.

Lavellan stepped forward. He wasn’t that much taller than Giselle, especially with her hat, but he was better at looming. Giselle didn’t look that intimidated, but she looked less stern than she had a moment ago.

“If you think anyone in this world could tell me who I’m allowed to spend my time or energy on, you clearly don’t know me at all.” He stared down at her. His eyes were bright, mouth tight enough to make the scar on his cheek harsh and vivid. “If the world doesn’t like that I care about Dorian, the world can fuck off.”

Dorian’s neck burned.

“That is not a wise decision,” Giselle observed.

Lavellan’s placidity disappeared as he smiled wide, exposing all of his teeth. “Neither is telling me what I can and can’t do, Mother.”

“I see. Perhaps I was mistaken to believe this was necessary.” She shot an inscrutable look over Lavellan’s shoulder toward Dorian. “If you believe he can be trusted, then of course I must surrender to your judgment, your worship. Master Pavus, I apologize. Excuse me.”

She swept away without another word or look back. Dorian’s body tingled with leftover adrenaline, hardly able to believe he’d just witnessed Lavellan tell a holy mother to back off. He was beyond brazen—he was crazy. What would Giselle tell everyone who asked her about them now? She didn’t approve of their friendship, let alone their rumored relationship, but she also wasn’t the type of woman to spread gossip. Dorian’s stomach twisted into knots.

He waited for Lavellan to leave as well. No matter how ardent his defense, Dorian hardly dared hope for a return to their normal relationship before the mess with his father. But Lavellan didn’t leave, he only slumped, rubbing a hand roughly over his face.

“That’s what you were talking about, that night,” he said.

Dorian’s throat tightened. “I may be very pretty, but no one would be happy if I were to, ah, exert my undue influence over you.”

For the first time since he swept to the rescue, Lavellan turned to look at him. For a long moment, they stared at each other. It felt like such a long time since Dorian had been close to Lavellan like this, though it had really only been a few days. His eyes were so green. Just over his shoulder was where they had kissed barely two days ago. Dorian’s skin ached.

Lavellan looked away and Dorian felt like he could breathe again. “You weren’t wrong, you know,” he said.

“I’m right about many things, it’s true.”

“About people’s reactions. Josephine said as much when I asked her.”

Dorian’s stomach turned to stone. “You… asked—”

“She’s the one in charge of my reputation,” Lavellan said with a twist to his mouth that spoke of how little he cared for that. “I figured if I was going to do something that might fuck it up, she deserved to know. But she told me pretty much the same thing you did. People would be angry, they’d turn on me, the Inquisition would go up in flames, the world would end, and so on.”

Dorian had to swallow hard before he could speak. “And?”

Lavellan took a step closer. Dorian flinched and Lavellan froze. “That’s it,” he said very quietly. “You know, I could ignore the backlash, Dorian. I’ve never cared about being Inquisitor. I could forget all of that to be with you.”

Maker. Dorian curled his hands into fists just to ground himself. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

“I know. But I don’t care about rumors or any nasty things people might mutter. I don’t care if anyone turns on me, not if I got you out of it. But…” Lavellan lifted his head toward Dorian’s face. Dorian flinched again, eyes darting around, and Lavellan let it drop without touching him. “If you wanted to keep us hidden for your sake, I’d do it, Dorian. Who cares if anyone knows? But it’s not for your sake, is it? You’re trying to make decisions for me like I’m some kid that needs to be wrapped in moss and protected from the world. I can’t stand that. I won’t let you do that to me. So.”

Dorian wanted to reach out to him, but he could see some of the Circle mages down the hall watching them. “Lavellan—”

“I want you,” Lavellan said. Dorian’s chest seized. “I have for a long time. Probably longer than you would’ve guessed. But I won’t hide just because you think it’s the best for the Inquisition and I won’t turn you into some dirty secret just because the Inquisition might not approve. And I won’t let you turn me into someone who flinches because there’re other people in the room when we kiss.”

Lavellan was an excellent marksman, so Dorian shouldn’t be surprised that he was so good at striking a blow. He was surprised at how much it hurt. He struggled to breathe evenly as Lavellan sighed and looked at him.

“I know you’ve got hang-ups about this thing and I would never force you to do anything, I’m not that kind of scum. I didn’t even really mean to—to kiss you.” Lavellan’s face flickered, something dark in his eyes. “I hoped—but it doesn’t matter. I’m not angry with you, Dorian. I know you’ve got reasons for why you don’t want to be with me and I respect that. I’m sorry for the shit way I acted, but I just needed time. We can still be friends.”

Friends. It was what Dorian had hoped for, had clung to for months, but now it left a sour taste in his mouth. Friends was all they could have ever been, really, but how was Dorian supposed to go back to that now that he knew what Lavellan’s mouth felt like on his own, now that he’d heard Lavellan said I want you with his own breath? But he’d known, hadn’t he, that that was all he could ever have? Hadn’t he known that for months?

“Well?”

Dorian knew he didn’t have the best poker face, but he tried a smile. “That’s probably for the best,” he said and ignored the flicker in Lavellan’s eyes as best he could. “After all, this war won’t last forever and I’ll be back on my way to Tevinter once we’ve shown Corypheus the true meaning of pain. Best to be sensible.”

Lavellan licked his lips. “Sensible,” he repeated. “Most people wouldn’t call me that.”

“Perhaps it’s time for you to practice,” Dorian said. “You are Inquisitor now, after all. Not just some ranger from the Free Marches.”

He hadn’t meant to hurt Lavellan with that, but Dorian could clearly see that he had. He wanted to step forward, put a hand on Lavellan’s wrist, but Lavellan was still poised to flee. Besides, Dorian didn’t normally prize himself for his self-control—he had no idea what he’d end up doing if he actually touched Lavellan at this moment. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be something platonic.

“Right,” Lavellan said roughly. “Right. Well, that’s settled. One last thing. Tomorrow morning we ride for Halamshiral.” He’d finally mastered the pronunciation. Dorian wondered who’d taught him. “I want you to be in my personal guard.”

Dorian blinked. “Personal guard?”

Some of Lavellan’s strain eased as he slipped into the more professional mode. He was using what Dorian had come to think of as his Inquisitor's voice. Dorian’s chest tightened a little. He’d missed listening to  Lavellan more than he would admit.

“Most of the Inquisition will stay here since it’s supposed to be a peaceful party, but my Inner Circle will be attending, along with the advisors. Leliana is convinced Celene will be in danger before the night’s out. While the others dance and keep watch, I’ll be covering her with you and a few others.”

“Who else?”

Lavellan clicked his tongue. “Sera has her own project and Bull stands out too much, otherwise they’d be my first choices for this kind of thing. They’re wily. No, besides you it will be Cole and Cass. Cole is forgettable and Cass has noble blood, even if she hates it. She can cover the rest of us if we get caught somewhere we shouldn’t.” He made a face. “Especially with me being an elf. I have a feeling no noble is going to like me snooping around, Inquisitor or not.”

“And why me?”

“We need a mage,” Lavellan said. “And you’re less likely to get us in trouble than Solas.”

“Oh, I don’t think Mother Giselle would agree with you about that.”

For a moment, Lavellan’s mouth quirked. “Well. She may not like you, but I’m pretty sure she hates Solas. You should hear some of their rows.” Then, as if remembering himself, he straightened and his face smoothed out. “Is that all right with you? It’ll mean bringing your weapons.”

Weapons. For a blinding moment, Dorian could only think about the staff, about Hawke’s certainty that it was made to be devoted to him. He swallowed. It meant nothing, he reminded himself. He had to believe that or it would be utterly impossible to continue to work with Lavellan, which would defeat the whole purpose this torment.

“I’m sure you’ll need my valuable expertise in some fashion,” he said. “What kind of man would I be to deny it to you? Count me in.”

“Good. If you can, pack some armor. I know Josephine is forcing those hideous outfits on you, but it’d be better to have something a little more durable on hand to slip into.”

“On me?” Dorian asked. “I was under the impression we were all wearing the same thing. Some sort of united front, yes?”

Lavellan’s smile was small but genuine. Dorian couldn’t stop the wash of relief at seeing it. “Well. Let’s just say I might stand out a little from the crowd. See you tomorrow morning, Dorian. Don’t forget.”

He turned to leave. Dorian’s eyes caught on his strong back and thick hair and before he could stop himself, he reached out and touched Lavellan’s elbow. Lavellan froze but didn’t turn around.

“I want you too, you know,” he said, so softly it was barely a whisper.

He felt Lavellan shiver. For a moment, Dorian could picture it—Lavellan turning and drawing Dorian into his arms, sharing kisses, going to bed together, waking up together, damning the consequences and potentially even the world together. At that moment, feeling Lavellan tremble under his hand, he wanted it with a hunger that stunned him.

But Lavellan pulled away. “I know, Dorian,” he said and disappeared down the stairs.