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    Summary

    “Mm, a shame. I would have thought myself a major point of interest for the devotees of Mythal.” Dorian said, blowing out a candle.

    “As unlikely as it seems, they don't share the sentiment,” Alecto said, smiling, “I’m glad for it, I don’t want a voice in my head interrupting when you’re doing awful things to me.”

    “I don’t want a voice in your head at all, actually.” Dorian said, just a tad quieter.

    --

    Or: The Inquisitor, exhausted and with a hundred whispering servants of Mythal in his head, returns from the Temple to fall into his lover's arms. They pick up the scattered pieces of one another, as they have done time and time again.

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