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Chapter Text

Dorian’s heart was in his chest. Throbbing, pounding, wrenching – and any other word that could possibly come close to describing the terrible twisting feeling of being turned away from the very thing he had always dreamed of. The trite saying was that it was better to have loved and lost than never loved at all – but it seemed an insensitive sentiment for someone who had never once been loved in the first place.

Dorian held on to the sight of Ryn for as long as he could. He held tightly to the slip of paper he had been given – his only hope, slender as it might be – and he tried with every ounce of himself to memorize every detail of the Inquisitor’s lovely face. Ryn’s eyes were solemn and sad – no, more than that. Ryn was heartbroken, and not merely for the lover he had likely lost. Ryn was heartbroken for him.

The winds rose. They howled and they screamed, they tore at him, battered him, had him struggling to remain upright. They kicked up dust, and the world grew dark around him, and soon – too soon – he could no longer see Ryn at all. The elven Inquisitor was gone, and with him the first and only glimpse Dorian had ever had of love and acceptance and – and everything he had ever wanted.

It was dizzying, sickening, terrible. Travelling between worlds was not something man was made to do. In his home reality, only death awaited Dorian. Mistrust. Hostility. Solitude. Futile as it was, he continued to search for Ryn in the shifting shadows and howling winds, until eventually blackness overcame his vision.

When he awoke in a jail cell, his reaction was complicated.

After all, he had fully expected that, in his absence, Rellana’s death sentence would have been carried out against the other Dorian who had taken his place here. He had tried to prepare himself for the idea of clawing his way out of a grave, or awaking atop of pile of ashes. That he was here meant that that other him had somehow managed to survive Rellana’s wrath. It meant that, when the wind died down and the smoke cleared, it wasn’t a rotting pile of remains that would greet Ryn in that other reality, but the lover he had thought lost.

It also meant that somewhere out there, in that other place, someone would hold Ryn, drink from the sweetness of his lips, make love to him in the firelit night.

It made little sense for Dorian to feel jealousy, but it was there, sharp and cruel, with its green eyes and sharp, merciless talons. When he sat up, his head swam, and he felt like sicking up. Even knowing it was him in that other world – some other him, some luckier him – he hurt. He was grateful that Ryn would not be alone. He was glad Ryn would be happy. He still hurt.

He rested his forearms on his knees, and hung his head, and tried to hold on to those last moments with the charismatic little Inquisitor.

He heard a door open, somewhere in the dungeon. The creak was like a scream.

Footsteps. He didn’t care. He was back where he belonged. The world had been set right for better or for worse.

In his case, worse.

He took a breath, then another. He still wanted to be sick. He would gather himself, somehow. He would – he would think of something. He opened his hand, and the paper Ryn had given him was still there. He still had hope. It was an unlikely long shot, but it was something.

What would he say if he even managed to find him? Dorian supposed he had plenty of time to figure it out.

“Dorian – we have no time!” the whisper was urgent, harsh. He looked up to find Cullen, cloaked and hooded, crossing the prison floor. The blond stopped to fumble at a key ring, and got the cell door open. Dorian was still staring at him when he tossed a bundle at him. A cloak that smelled of manure struck him in the face. “Hurry!” Cullen hissed.

“What - ?” Dorian began.

“Blackwall is waiting just outside the gate with horses,” Cullen said. “This is the best we could do. Rellana has moved up your execution for tomorrow.”

It seemed a small eternity he stared at him. He’d known he was home, but hearing Rellana’s name was like a slap in the face. He felt cold, and sick. In that other world, he and Cullen were friends. Perhaps they would have had a chance here, too, had things been different.

“If the guards come back, it’ll be my neck on the block,” Cullen said. “Get up! Come on!”

Dorian did.

The cloak was heavy and coarse, and the sour stench that clung to it seemed to hover, to worm its way into his sinuses as Dorian swung it ‘round his shoulders. There wasn’t time to complain, or insist on something nicer. No, he was home now, and he remembered the rules. He had made the mistake of underestimating Rellana once. He would not do that again.

Cullen relocked the cell behind him, and hung the keys on their place on the wall. Outside, the night guards were slumped over a game of cards, fast asleep.

“Cullen,” Dorian began. A sharp motion indicated the need for his silence.

They crept through the dungeon, and everywhere they passed, soldiers slept. It was clearly a spell, and a good one. Dorian stepped carefully over splayed, armored legs, squeezed his way past a guard leaning on his spear. Cullen motioned for him to wait, and the sound of Dorian’s heartbeat, combined with the snoring of the guards, seemed to make a cacophonous racket. Cullen eased the dungeon door open and peered out into the starlit night. Satisfied, he motioned to Dorian. When the mage joined him, he pointed across the yard.

“The regular guard is still about,” Cullen told him, low. “Hug the shadows, and use the service exit. In one hour, Vivienne will blow out the cell wall. Varric is going to try to leave a trail to misdirect searchers, but once Rellana knows of your escape, I am certain I will be required to hunt for you. Make sure you’re far away by then.”

“Cullen…”

“Now go.”

Cullen gave his shoulder a shove, and it would be hours later before Dorian realized there was no pain – before he thought to pull his shirt aside to look for the grotesque, growing bruise that had been there in the other world. He was too stunned to think of it then, too stunned to do anything at all but go where he had been directed, as he had been directed, sneaking through the shadows, his shoulder scraping along Skyhold’s wall, his heart in his throat.

Here, he had had no friends, no touchstones to ease the hurt and the solitude. Rellana’s Inquisition was every man for himself. They didn’t talk. They didn’t drink together. They weren’t a team. Cullen had stood for him that fateful day in the courtyard, when Rellana had first called for his execution – but though they had been on terms that were moderately less chilly than what Dorian shared with the rest of the Inquisition, they weren’t friends. Not in this world.

But for Cullen – and Varric, and Vivienne, and Blackwall, and who knew who else – for them to put themselves at risk to rescue him meant that something fundamental had shifted in his absence. Ryn’s influence at work, even from another world. He had changed that Dorian, and that Dorian had changed Rellana’s inquisition.

The service gate had been left unlocked. Dorian was out of breath by the time he reached it. The metal bars were like ice in his hands. It opened almost soundlessly, but he was too careless with its release, and once he was through it slammed back with a bang.

“Are you mad?” Blackwall hissed. “Stop making that racket. Come on – we have to go.”

Dorian bolted for the horses.

--

They made the best progress that could be expected on horseback, in the dark and the snow. Despite their best efforts, they did not get so far that they were unable to hear the explosion, an hour later, when Vivienne blew out the cell wall as promised. Dorian hoped she and his other conspirators weren’t caught. It seemed a simple enough plan, disguising the true method and direction of his escape, but it seemed to rely very heavily on Rellana’s temperament – on the assumption that she would be too infuriated to really look at the situation.

Dorian prayed this wasn’t the day that Rellana decided to surprise him.

He and Blackwall did not speak as they rode. A heavy snow had begun to fall, and Dorian struggled to keep them both warm with his magic. After the explosion, Blackwall led them off the road and then their progress became even slower. The falling snow would cover their tracks, but the darkness and the inclining slope of the mountain made their trek dangerous. He didn’t dare use a mage light, and the flashes of clarity from the moon and stars between the trees were precious few.

Too soon, Blackwall called for them to stop. They were only a few scarce miles from Skyhold, and pink had yet to begin to brush the sky.

“Have you lost your mind?” Dorian demanded, aghast, as he watched the warrior dismount.

“Likely,” Blackwall said. “Else I wouldn’t be out here with you. But I’ll not have a good horse wasted on a broken leg in these conditions. We’re lucky we’ve made it this far.”

“Vishante kaffas – they’ll find us for sure here!”

“They haven’t so far,” the warden chuckled. He patted his horse and turned and seemed to vanish into the darkness, leading the steed with him. “Are you coming or not?”

There was a cave, Dorian discovered, after a minute longer than it should have taken him. In daylight, and from certain angles, the configuration of rocks and foliage would have done much to disguise its true size and depth. In the darkness it was almost impossible to even know it was there.

They left the horses with food and water toward the back of the cave, and Blackwall got a fire lit – or rather, relit, as a place was already prepared for one. There was even a bundle of sticks and foliage that served almost like a door that Blackwall used to cover the cave mouth.

“Have – have you been living here?” Dorian asked, too stunned to think to offer to help. Looking around the firelit cavern, he could see the man’s slept-in bedding, the remains of his lunch, his armor.

Blackwall made an annoyed sound, as if he thought Dorian was being extremely dim. “Where else do you think I’ve been hiding out since the Winter Palace?” he asked, and once again Dorian had that unsettling reminder that the world had continued to turn in his absence. His memories of the Winter Palace involved sitting at Ryn’s bedside after the Inquisitor’s injury, watching with his heart in his throat as Ryn fought the duchess.

Kissing him on the balcony.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to begin to contemplate the kind of havoc Rellana had surely wreaked.

“There’s a bedroll for you in the corner, and water in the pot if you want to make tea,” Blackwall said gruffly. “I recommend you sleep while you have the chance, but I understand that the bitch’s prison is a less than comfortable place. If you want food…” he trailed off as he looked up from the fire and his eye fell on Dorian. He frowned. “Well, Blight take you, then,” he said. “No surprise someone like you would still worry about prettying up in prison.”

It took Dorian a moment to understand. Though he had woken clad in the filthy rags his other self must have been wearing, he was otherwise clean. His facial hair was trim, his eyes lined with kohl, and though the stench of sweat and other prison odors clung to his clothing, he himself smelled of the soap and the hair oil and the cologne he had used that morning. It seemed a different lifetime – and, in a way, it was – dressing himself with even more care than usual, trying to fool himself into believing Ryn would have a last minute change of heart and decide to keep him.

Amatus, please - !

Blackwall’s annoyed huff brought him sharply back to the present. “Don’t think you’ll have time for that nonsense on the road,” he said. “You can worry about your looks once you’re back in Tevinter where you belong.”

“Tevinter?”

“The sooner I get you on a boat, the better.”

“Why in the world would I go to Tevinter?”

Blackwall actually laughed, and looked offended when Dorian remained serious. He said, “Well, you’re not coming with me. If I’m going to recruit the kind of army that will stand a chance of tearing Rellana down, I don’t need some prissy vint riding my heels.”

Dorian didn’t answer. He had a hard enough time keeping his utter shock from registering on his face. An army – to take down Rellana? He never would have imagined any of them attempting to do such a thing.

He busied himself unrolling his bedroll, and they didn’t really speak again. Blackwall gave him some provisions – some hard biscuits and a fistful of dried meat – and when the warden wasn’t looking, Dorian stuffed them into the pack someone had prepared for him.

He wondered how long they had been planning his escape. He wondered what the plan involved, taking down Rellana. Once she defeated Corypheus, she would be left with the resources to use the Inquisition to do whatever she wanted. She could make herself a queen, and rule with an iron – if childishly unstable – fist.

Dorian could see it – the need to stop her. Once she served her purpose, she became a liability. He could even see his part in it – how he could use his family’s power and influence to help Tevinter prepare to war with Rellana and her so-called Inquisition. It would require a certain amount of groveling to get back in his father’s good graces, particularly after their last meeting, but –

We both speak as men who dearly love your son.

Dorian rubbed his thumb across Ryn’s little note. He wasn’t selfless enough for this task. Give up everything, every scrap of freedom and pride, just to stop Rellana? No. Why should he care? He was going to find Ryn. He deserved to find Ryn.

They curled up in their respective bedrolls and the wind shrieked and howled outside. The snow was still falling. Dorian didn’t care.

“I refuse to believe a world exists where I wouldn’t love you.”

Dorian listened for Blackwall’s breathing to steady, then slow. He waited for his snores.

By the time the warrior woke the next morning, Dorian would be long gone.

Chapter Text

In a small village less than a week’s journey outside Redcliff, Dorian’s venture nearly met a premature end.

Dorian decided that he would meet too much opposition, should he try to sail up Lake Calenhad to the northern coast. Rellana and her Inquisition would expect him to take the quickest route to Tevinter, so though it would take longer, he instead headed east. Like many places in Ferelden, the village he first came to stop in had been hit hard during the Blight. Even ten years on, it was still struggling to recover – for every neatly thatched wood cabin Dorian passed, there were at least three burnt out ruins. The village hadn’t been large to begin with, but it was tiny now – and even with its position along the Imperial Highway, the presence of a hooded stranger stopping for supplies was not something that would go entirely unremarked.

Stopping in such a place wasn’t Dorian’s preference, but the decision was based on several factors – mainly that the provisions Blackwall had given him, and those he later found in his pack, were already running low.

Second, but no less important – Dorian was simply tired of sleeping on the ground. (Maker’s mercy – how did the Dalish sleep? Dorian would wait to worry about that until after he found Ryn.) Even a flea-ridden straw mattress was preferable to one more night on the road. Dorian told himself that he simply had to take the chance.

But something strange was to happen to him during this stop.

The first time he felt it, Dorian was standing in the common room of Lothering’s little inn, haggling with the old man who ran the place over the cost of a room and a hot meal. His pack, he had found, had a little money in it, but he had a very long way to go and couldn’t afford to be wasteful.

It was a sudden creeping sensation – eyes on the back of his neck, a feeling of dread. Dorian shoved the coins into the old man’s hand and took a seat at a back table near the stairs, facing the door. He kept his hood pulled up over his head.

A few minutes later, two of Leliana’s spies entered the inn. Dorian decided to take his meal up in his room.

It happened again that night. Dorian went from a deep and untroubled sleep to sudden wakefulness in a matter of seconds. For a bleary moment he felt convinced someone was in the room with him, screaming for him to get up! Get out!

Dorian threw back the covers and sat up. His heart was pounding, and terror raced through his veins. Without really understanding why he was doing it, he put on his boots.

As he was gathering his things, he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs leading up to his floor. Throwing his pack over his shoulder, Dorian swung open the window. The cold air hit him like a slap in the face, and chased the remaining cobwebs from his mind.

Looking down, he weighed his chances. He was two stories up, and he couldn’t afford to injure himself right now. The sound of armored boots had moved into the hall. He knew, somehow, that they were Inquisition soldiers – that though Leliana’s agents had not appeared to notice him, they clearly had. He felt his panic begin to swell.

Look up.

The urge was so sudden and so powerful that Dorian did. The edge of the roof hung low above him. If he was careful – yes. Dorian didn’t let himself hesitate, or think. He climbed up onto the window ledge and reached for the edge of the roof. His muscles strained as he hauled himself up, praying that the roof was in good repair. It was tile, rather than the thatch the rest of the village boasted, and one loose nail could ruin him.

Had Dorian truly spent the last however-long-it-was languishing in Skyhold’s cells, he doubted he would have managed the feat. He hauled himself up onto the roof, pulling in his legs just moments before he heard the door burst open in the room below.

He was breathing heavily, and the cold air burned his lungs. Below, they began to ransack his room, looking for clues to his whereabouts. A soldier stuck his head out the window, but miraculously did not think to look up.

Dorian rose slowly, carefully, and in a crouch he began to make his way to the other side of the inn.

A slick spot could too easily have sent him flying, but for the moment Dorian’s luck held. He climbed the slope of the roof and tried to keep his slide slow and measured along the other side. Since his rooms were in the front half of the inn, he had hoped that the Inquisition soldiers would focus their attention there, giving him a clear shot to the stables around back. He was nearly too far down the roof before he discovered that there were indeed guards stationed there. He backtracked carefully before one of them happened to look up.

The wind cut at him, chilled his sweat against his skin. Desperately he fought to think, to consider his options. He didn’t want to abandon his horse – it was a long road yet before he got to Gwarin, and once there he would need to be able to sell the thing. The mare wasn’t a great piece of horseflesh, but she’d managed so far, and he had to have money to book passage on a ship to get out to the Free Marches. More importantly, he didn’t want to look like some deranged wildman the first time me met Ryn in this reality, and whoever had prepared his pack for him had only included the essentials. Dorian would need to purchase clothing, a razor for his face and hair, cologne – if he could even find anything halfway acceptable in Ferelden. The tastes here were entirely suspect, and he needed to make a good impression. It wouldn’t do to meet the elf in dirty homespun, stinking of dog.

So – what, then? Stay where he was, and hope to wait the Inquisition out? Once the sun rose, he would be rather conspicuous, perched up on the roof like some oversized bird. The Great Tevinter Tit, witnessed so far from its natural habitat – no, that wouldn’t work at all.

He supposed he could attempt to fight his way to the stables, and once he was mounted make a run for it – but Dorian had made his escape from Skyhold without a mage’s staff, and bare-handed magic was a tricky thing, even for someone with the talents and training of one Dorian Pavus. Moreover, he was outnumbered, and any outcry would bring more soldiers running. He –

The thought came to him suddenly, and Dorian didn’t give himself the chance to pick it apart. He moved, slowly, carefully, making his way to the right side of the inn, where the kitchens were. To his relief, Dorian’s vague flash of memory proved true – the kitchens boasted a lower roof, and a window sill halfway down would make it easy to reach. From there, Dorian could get to the ground. Beyond the private herb garden, there was a clear and less conspicuous path to the stables.

Dorian didn’t think anyone would be at the kitchens at this hour, but even still he didn’t want to act recklessly. He sat and eased himself down to the roof’s edge, his slide slow and controlled. He saw no lights, and heard no noises. He took his pack off and tossed it to the roof below and waited.

Nothing. They’ve all gone to sleep.

It was almost like a voice, the reassurance in his head. It was hard to shake the feeling that someone was there with him, crouched quietly at his side. Dorian even went so far as to look, letting his eyes scan the empty expanse of roof, the starlit sky. Nothing.

He began to lower himself down over the side of the roof.

Dorian had to drop the last little but, and his boots striking the roof tiles seemed thunderous. He paused, crouched there in the darkness, and when no cries of alarm filled the air, he grabbed his pack and hurried to the edge of the kitchen roof.

He gripped the edge and turned to lower himself to the ground, and one of the tiles beneath him slid free. Dorian lost his grip.

For a moment, he was airborne.

Dorian hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him. Beside him, the loose roofing tile crashed to the pavement, shattering loudly.

In the yard, Dorian heard someone shout.

He forgot his horse. He forgot his pack. Ignoring the aches of whatever his fall had done to him, he scrambled to his feet and turned to run in the opposite direction.

He made it three steps before he spotted Varric.

“Hey Sparkler,” the dwarf said, lifting Bianca as Dorian came to a hard stop.

“Varric,” he answered cautiously. He took a step back, his hands already lifting in defense.

Varric grinned. He said, “I would duck if I were you.”

And then he pulled the trigger.

--

They found Cassandra pacing in the stables.

“What took you so long?” she demanded, the moment they entered. She descended on them with all the fury of a charging ogre while Dorian pulled the doors shut behind them. “If you tarried simply to worry me, I will wring both of your necks.”

“Seeker,” Varric said, “I had no idea you would miss me so much. I’m flattered.”

She huffed and threw up her hands, talking two paces away, then rounding violently on them again. Dorian found himself trapped between the former Seeker and the door, and she jabbed her finger, hard, into his chest.

“And you!” she snarled. “What are you thinking? We had a plan, damn you!”

“Right now he’s probably thinking, ‘my but Cassandra seems stabby tonight,’” Varric offered.

Dorian coughed. He said, “Fairly accurate.”

Cassandra, in disgust, stalked away again.

“She does have a point though,” Varric said. “What were you thinking, running off alone like that? What happened to what we talked about?”

Dorian’s adrenaline was still pumping from his idiotic roofside acrobatics. He and Varric had hidden the solders’ bodies and made it to the stables without further incident, but pausing the escape for this friendly little chat was making him feel understandably antsy.

He said, “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about – but if you don’t mind, I’ve a very dashing escape to continue.

They were silent as he brushed past, searching the stalls for his horse. He didn’t like how many of the mounts he passed wore Inquisition insignia. Ryn’s Inquisition had been filled with hopeful young soldiers, ready to change the world. Rellana’s was full of brutes.

Dorian could feel the pair of them, Varric and Cassandra, their eyes on his back. He could feel the confused glances they no doubt exchanged. In Ryn’s world they may have been trusted comrades and friends, but here it was every man for himself. He appreciated the help. That didn’t mean he was going to give up his quest – and quite possibly his life – on the chance of dealing Rellana her just desserts. The idealist who had first sought out the Inquisition was no longer taking up lost causes.

“You are the one who started all of this,” Cassandra said, and she sounded lost, rather than angry.

Dorian didn’t answer. He guided his horse from her stall, and noted that his nerves and his rushed movements seemed to make the mare unsettled.

“Shit,” Varric realized, after another beat of silence. “You aren’t him.”

Dorian felt a chill down his back. His hands stilled. He turned, slowly, to find the dwarf’s eyes on him.

“What are you talking about?”

Varric slapped himself on his forehead. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before! Seeker! Do you remember what I told you – about that mess in the yard, and Dorian, and the amulet?”

“Yes,” she said. “But – you mean, the one time I have the sense to assume you are lying, and - ?”

Varric waved that off and turned his attention back to Dorian. “But how? You destroyed the amulet. You couldn’t have sent yourself home.”

Dorian’s shoulders felt heavy. They were staring at him, and he realized, as he stared back, that there was no point in denying the truth.

“He – sent me back,” Dorian said. Hearing the words stung. He was already beginning to forget the warm strength of their last embrace. “Ryn. Ryn sent me back.”

“That was the Inquisitor there, didn’t you say?” Cassandra asked.

Varric didn’t appear to hear, working through the jumbled knot puzzle of the past few moments. “So,” he said, “When you left Blackwall, you were – heading home?”

“No,” Dorian admitted. “I’ve some business to see to in the Free Marches.”

“Nobody goes to the Free Marches on purpose,” Varric said.

Dorian pulled his horse’s tack from where it hung on the wall, and debated the merit of answering truthfully. He couldn’t see a reason to hide it, and they were wasting too much time talking. At any moment someone was bound to discover one of the bodies. Once an alarm was rung he would lose whatever slim advantage he had gained.

“Ryn is supposed to be there,” he said. “I intend to find him.”

“That’s…” Cassandra began.

Dorian interrupted. “Reckless? Foolish? Selfish? I don’t care. Get out of my way.”

“I was going to say romantic,” she frowned.

“I confronted you,” Varric said, “The other you, not the you you. Once I figured out it was the wrong you. He told me everything. His Inquisitor was practically the only thing he could talk about. He couldn’t rest until he found a way home to his amatus.”

Dorian pushed down a surge of jealousy. Somewhere out there, he was holding Ryn. Somewhere out there, things actually worked out.

He said, “So you understand, then?”

“Look,” Varric said. “I’m sure he’s great. Love of your life – eyes like summer – beer flavored nipples – but once Corypheus is dead, Rellana is going to become a problem, and we’re the ones in the position to stop her early. I know you want to find the guy – I wish you all the luck in the world. But can’t it wait?”

“No,” Dorian said. “It can’t.”

Varric and Cassandra exchanged glances again, but they were silent as Dorian returned to his task. It was warmer here than it had been up near Skyhold, but still freezing to Dorian, and he didn’t relish the thought of another night on the road. With the Inquisition on his heels, he couldn’t afford to waste a single moment.

“Wait,” Cassandra said at last. Her voice was reluctant, surprising him and pulling him from his thoughts. “I have this feeling that…yes. We should help you.”

Varric looked just as surprised as Dorian felt. “Uh, Seeker,” he began.

She looked almost as if she was listening to something. “Yes, I’m sure of it. We should help, and we will.”

“We’re supposed to stay close to Rellana.”

“Madame de Fer will watch her. As will Cullen. You and I are needed here.” She nodded, decided. “Anyway,” she said. “You know they have the roads blocked. He will never make it on his own. And…I told you – it is very romantic, what he is doing. We must see it through.”

Chapter Text

Varric’s laughter was derisive and bitter. It rang out, loud in the quiet Ferelden countryside, and startled a murder of crows into flight. For Dorian, who had grown used to the easygoing and relatively happy dwarf of that other reality, the sound was almost equally jarring.

“What do you mean Hawke is different there?” Varric asked, as Dorian pulled his cloak tighter and looked, again, to make sure they weren’t being followed. The road behind them was empty, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. “Hawke is Hawke.”

“Tempting to settle on that. And I must admit that, at first, I thought the same thing,” Dorian said. “I fully believed it was the Breach which caused the branching of realities, and that everything prior would have remained the same. Ryn and Rellana, they were the catalysts. They had to be, didn’t they? After all, they made such spectacular counterparts. Then I happened to glance through Ryn’s copy of your Tales of the Champion.”

“Fine literature strikes again, I see,” Varric said. “By all means, continue.”

“Well,” Dorian considered. “The thing is, the things that were different – well they were just strange.”

“Strange,” Cassandra repeated flatly. “Strange how?”

“The Champion’s sister dying in Ferelden, rather than on a templar blade. The slave Fenris killing his master, rather than meekly returning to a life of service. Chantry still exploded – meaty bits and pieces of the faithful raining down over Kirkwall’s Hightown, mage rebellion rumbling its way across the country, all that messy business – but the little details – to be honest, it makes me regret that there wasn’t time to research the Hero of Ferelden as well. Can you imagine, if those events, too, are changed? And yet, I was still some recognizable version of me, and you were still some recognizable version or you – fascinating, really.”

“You wished to track the differences, like some kind of study?” Cassandra asked.

“I couldn’t get my publisher to go for a plot like this if I begged” Varric said.

“You know,” Dorian continued, “I think I may have even seen him once. Hawke, I mean – from a distance. I didn’t even realize it was him at the time, of course. They look nothing alike at all. He was a big, muscular bear of a fellow. With a beard! They told me he was a mage.”

Varric laughed again. “Jax Hawke, a mage? Now that is bizzare.”

Dorian stopped himself from pointing out that the Champion’s name had been different, too. He knew he was only talking to distract himself.

Cassandra and Varric had smuggled Dorian out of Lothering in the back of a pig cart. They bypassed the Inquisition’s road blocks without trouble; the soldiers stationed there had no reason to stop two of Rellana’s remaining loyal companions, particularly not when they claimed they had been sent to fetch a new dressmaker, further south. Jostled by every bump and smothering under a thick canvas blanket that stank of things he would rather not consider, Dorian somehow managed something like sleep.

By the time he woke, the sun had climbed high in the sky above them. They had left the Inquisition and its forces far behind, and Varric and Cassandra were anxious for details about Dorian’s strange journey.

Now Dorian walked beside the cart, stretching his legs and fighting to banish the last vestiges of sleep from his mind. It felt too good to have companions to share his quest with; it was hard to trust a feeling like that. It was too tempting a thing to fixate on, too tempting to wonder what had kept them apart before, so solitary in their misery. Dorian had seen what they had the potential to be – what the Inquisition had the potential to be – and it was too easy to think –

No. It was simply another layer of pain to add onto his return. There was no fixing the Inquisition. There was no stopping Rellana. Dorian’s best and only hope for happiness in this world was to find Ryn, bunker down, and wait for the storm to pass. What happened to the Inquisition – what happened to its people – was no longer his concern. Rellana had seen to that. That last stubborn flame of idealism that had withstood his father’s machinations had not been able to survive this reality’s Inquisitor. Even his brief visit to a kinder world could not rekindle it.

--

Their campfire crackled, glowing warm against the backdrop of the night, and Dorian found he felt dangerously close to happy.

And why not? For the first time since the terrible reveal at the Winter Palace, things were going his way. Varric had shot a few rabbits for their dinner, and Dorian’s belly felt full for the first time since his escape. He lounged against a fallen tree and licked the grease from his fingers and he thought, fondly, of the elf he would soon be reunited with.

The eerie feeling that they numbered four rather than three notwithstanding, the silence between them was a companionable one – surprising, given the reality they were in – and Dorian found he was very sorry to see it go when Cassandra spoke.

“Dorian,” she said, “What exactly are you planning to do once you find this Ryn of yours?”

Dorian lifted his head to glance at her, and found the Seeker frowning, her brow drawn down, her manner concerned.

“Why, what a personal question!” Dorian said. “Shall I draw you a diagram, or simply wax poetic on the virtues of my favorite oils? I do try not to plan too far ahead, but I’m certain I’ll get some ideas, once presented the right opportunity.”

“Don’t be cute,” she scowled. “You know what I mean.”

“No – no, I’m afraid I don’t.”

He wondered if it was his imagination or the firelight that made her seem to flush. “W-well,” she said, “Surely you do not plan to – to waltz up to him and announce yourself as the man he loves in another reality.”

Dorian feigned shock and fluttered his lashes. “Why of all the - are you saying you don’t think he’ll fall desperately in love with me the moment our eyes meet?”

Her own eyes narrowed. “That,” she said. “Is exactly what I am saying.”

“More to the point,” Varric said, “What are you going to do after that?”

“After?”

“After!” Varric said. He sat up. “Look – let’s assume things do work out. You meet, you fall in love, you use the oil. What then? I gotta admit, I really can’t picture you playing house in a Dalish camp – and I doubt he’s going to want to go play in Tevinter.”

It was Dorian’s turn to scowl. He lay back again, and stared up at the stars above. He thought of Ryn’s eyes, his smile. Somewhere in that other world, some luckier version of himself was likely in Ryn’s bed at this very moment. Some happier him had the elf in his arms, the weight of him against his chest, the taste of him on his lips.

Dorian hoped he was smart enough to appreciate what he had.

He could feel their eyes on him, waiting for an answer. He didn’t intend to give one. Things would – well, it seemed foolish to say things would work out without a hiccup, but Dorian believed in Ryn. He had to. What did he have left to him, if this, too, failed?

Dorian could have spent the entire night worrying about it, but he inexplicably felt his eyes growing heavy. He felt comforted as he drifted off to sleep.

--

“He’s out,” Varric said. He unscrewed the cap on his flask and took a deep drink, coughing when Cassandra thumped him in the chest and demanded he pass it over.

“Let us hope he sleeps heavy,” she said, and drank as well.

“Shit,” Varric said. “Shit.”

Cassandra hesitated. She took another swallow before she handed it back. “I feel in my heart that we are doing the right thing. Yet even still…”

“Even still, what in the everloving Void are we doing?”

“Yes,” she said. “That.”

Varric drank. He thought of the plans he and the others had dreamed up, the coup to strip Rellana of all power and authority the moment her task was completed. She was only useful to them until Corypheus was dead and the sky healed for good. He thought of that other Dorian, who had recognized the importance of their task over his own creature comforts.

“She will never trust us again – assuming we are not killed on sight as traitors,” Cassandra said.

“This insanity was your idea, Seeker.” Varric wiped his lips with the back of his arm, and stashed the flask away again. “You know, when you look at me like that, it’s really endearing.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to beat me to death with my own spine.” Cassandra scoffed. She crossed her arms and stewed for a moment before finally she told him, “You should never listen to me. All of my ideas are bad. Why are we here?”

“We can’t make ‘im go to Tevinter and get his daddy on our side. Might as well use what we have.”

“And what,” she asked, “Is that?”

Varric shrugged. “Damned if I know. The Dalish, maybe. Maybe this Ryn guy really is his soul mate. Maybe they’ll want to take responsibility for what they unleashed on us. Rellana was their Second. Maybe they can get her in line.”

“Or maybe they are just as bad as she is.”

“Wonderful.”

“We could go to Kirkwall for help,” Cassandra said. “Your friends – “

Varric barked out a laugh. “What friends? Merrill will never side against Jax, and that selfish son of a bitch has taken up with team Rellana, no question. Maker knows there’s not enough left of the rest of them to make a difference.”

“Starkhaven, then?”

“Maybe,” Varric said. “Maybe. Shit.” He fished out the flask again. This time he drained it. Cassandra watched him, frowning in the firelight. “Don’t look at me like that, Seeker.”

“I am not looking at you like anything.”

“Yeah you are – and it looks like pity. Feels like I’ve signed my own execution warrant.”

“We should have hope.”

“You didn’t drink enough for hope.”

Chapter Text

Rellana hated birds. She hated the stink of them, the dry ruffling musk of feathers, the filthy little splats of their indiscriminate shits. She hated the ear piercing screech of their cries and the stare of their dark soulless eyes, and their weird, gross little feet.

She half suspected Leliana of petting and pampering the terrible little beasts merely as a means to annoy her.

“My agents report that Pavus boarded a ship bound for the Free Marches,” Leliana said. Her fingers stroked, slowly, down gleaming dark feathers. “They nearly had him, but once again there were…complications.”

“Complications,” Rellana snarled. Her hands felt like claws.

Leliana’s smile lacked warmth. “I had my agents watching the specialty shops for a man with Pavus’s tastes and accent,” she said. “They tackled a Tevinter emissary to the ground for looking at hair creams – but it was not Pavus. We had to slit the piggy’s throat to stop his squealing.”

The spymistress sounded amused at this. Rellana wasn’t concerned. One less Tevinter in the world could only improve matters, as far as she was concerned. A pity it wasn’t the right Tevinter.

“How did Pavus slip your net?”

Leliana’s smile fell away. Rellana didn’t like how the redhead chose to address her while seated at her little table. It made her feel like a supplicant before a throne. She made a note to herself to have such a thing amended, when there was time. Leliana and her agents belonged to Rellana. They were her servants, and they existed on her whim.

“Strange things went wrong,” Leliana said. “Little things, but enough to worry the more superstitious of the soldiers – boots that untied themselves just before a chase. Guards who looked away at just the wrong moment, who fell asleep at their posts even though they were rested and fresh. The dockmaster’s list was altered so that my agents spent an afternoon watching the wrong pier. The men believe it is the Maker’s work. That he does not wish Pavus caught.”

Rellana watched her. Leliana had been spending less time in the Chantry these days, but it still made her skin crawl to trust humans with religious agendas. “And what do you believe?” she asked.

“I believe the Maker wouldn’t care if Pavus put on a pair of horns and started calling himself the Arishok. He stopped paying attention long ago. You taught me that.”

“Tell your soldiers it is impossible,” Rellana said. “Remind them that I am the Maker’s chosen. Me!”

Leliana smiled again. Slow, patient. Rellana felt like a child.

“I can send my agents to the Free Marches,” Leliana said. “We believe that is where his ship is headed, but we are unable to determine yet which city he will dock in. The records are simply…missing. I believe it would be best to let the matter rest for now. There is no reason for Pavus to continue to be a concern, and my resources would be better spent elsewhere.”

“That man is a traitor and a spy.”

“Now, Inquisitor,” she chuckled. “We both know that that is not true.”

Rellana felt her cheeks burn. Everything had taken a turn for the worse, her authority slipping like water through her hands. Pavus and Blackwall and Varric and Cassandra – if they were permitted to defect without consequence, it would forever call the validity of her reign into question.

“I am the Herald of Andraste!” she said, later, when she could trust venting her frustrations. “I have been chosen by the Maker himself! I will not be made a laughingstock!”

“I cannot imagine it is an easy task – being the chosen voice for a deity in which you do not believe,” Solas answered. He sounded amused.

Rellana stopped pacing and looked at him, found him smiling, close lipped, as he stood over his desk mixing the paint for a new mural. The candlelight softened him, made him almost seem to glow. Surrounded by humans and traitors, he was the only person in Skyhold she truly trusted.

“They don’t know I don’t believe,” she said, after a moment.

“Best it remains that way,” he advised. “At least, for now.”

Rellana tried to work up her rage again. The number who remained loyal to her was precious small. The Iron Bull – so long as she paid. Madame de Fer – so long as their connection remained useful. Solas – so long as –

“Why do you support me, Solas?” she found herself asking. He looked up, startled, and she felt compelled to explain. “You don’t believe in the Maker any more than I do.”

“Ah,” he said. “There is that complication, isn’t there? Is the fate of the world not enough, then? These rifts that threaten us all?”

“Not enough to keep the others loyal.”

“Ah,” he said. He was silent as he worked, adding color, mixing. There was something practiced in his actions, as if he had been doing it all his life. Usually, Rellana enjoyed watching him.

Tonight she had other things on her mind.

“It is a matter, simply, of my own plans,” Solas said at last. “I want more for my people. You are the instrument through which we will see that happen.”

“I am,” Rellana agreed, and she watched the smile tug on his mouth, listened to his chuckle. She moved closer to his desk, and helped herself to his chair. She said, “But I won’t be able to accomplish anything if these problems keep arising.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“I want the head of every traitor adorning the walls of Skyhold. I want to make it clear what opposing me means.”

“Time for that later,” he said. “I’ve no doubt you will have ample opportunity to make your point known in the days to come. But for now…”

“You think I should let Pavus go?”

“I think that once this Elder One has been defeated, your power will be without question. You will have the world at your feet in gratitude. Easy enough to gather up a few useless strays then.” He glanced at her. Something in her expression made him chuckle. “Come now,” he said. “Bloodlust is a lovely shade, but you should be practical. We’ve other matters to see to.”

“All right,” Rellana agreed, reluctantly. “For now.”

--

Cassandra got seasick, halfway through the voyage, and the trio stepped into port in Wycome smelling very heavily of sickness.

“Off to a great start,” Varric said. “This is definitely how you make friends.”

“Charming,” Dorian said. “I require a razor and a great deal of hot water and soap.”

“Not until we’re sure there’s no little birdies watching the stores,” Varric said. “Gwarin was too close.”

“As if my own mother would recognize me right now,” Dorian sniffed. “Although, to clarify, I’m not certain she would recognize me at my best, either. A rather inattentive lady, my mother.”

“Maybe your Dalish friend likes the scruffy look,” Varric said. “Come on. I need to get on contact with my people – and the Seeker here needs a bed that doesn’t move.”

“Don’t remind me,” Cassandra said darkly.

“A room for the wife and myself,” Dorian told the innkeep at the first place they found that didn’t look infested with vermin. He tried his best to sound Fereldan, and also not to laugh at Cassandra’s look of utter disgust. “Messere Amell – no, no, not that Amell. Can you imagine? We’re on our honeymoon, you see, and everyone keeps asking. But for certain, if you could guarantee a bit of privacy during our stay – yes, that would be excellent. Do you have room service?”

“You are not as funny as you think you are,” Cassandra told him. The moment they were shown the room she collapsed face down on one of the beds. She left it to Dorian to order their food, which he did with gusto. “Your wife,” she scoffed. “I do not know what you thought you were doing, but I do not appreciate it.” Her voice was half mumbled from the pillow.

The innkeep had said the inn’s tub would not be free for another hour or so, so in the meantime Dorian was forced to satisfy himself with the washbasin. He did not recognize the face that greeted him in the mirror – beard grown out, hair a ragged mess, bags under his eyes. He laughed at the fellow he saw there, and bent to wash his face.

“Don’t you see?” he asked. “We’ve made it. We’ve slipped, quite literally, out from under Rellana’s perky little nose and left Ferelden behind entirely. Nothing could go wrong at this point.”

Cassandra mumbled something that tapered off into a snore.

Dorian did what he could to get cleaned up in the little wash basin. The ship they had been on hadn’t been the worst accommodations he had been forced to endure in his life, but it would still take some masterful work before he began to feel like himself again. He bent his head to rinse his hair in the cold water, and finger combed the longer bits back. Since Cassandra was still sleeping, he stripped to the waist and washed up there, too.

By the time their food arrived, Dorian Pavus was feeling almost human again. He took the food with cheer and gave the fellow the most generous tip he could currently afford.

“We have a dwarven manservant who should be arriving shortly,” Dorian told him. “Do be a dear and send him up when he comes.”

The man looked at Cassandra, sprawled on the bed in her armor and snoring like a lumberjack. He said, “Ah, sure.”

“One other thing,” Dorian said as he turned to go. “My bride and I – we wanted to do a bit of sightseeing while we’re here. But, of course, there’s no need to take unnecessary risks. Do you know of any Dalish clans in the area? Would be a shame to wander into one unexpectedly.”

“No need for worry messere,” the fellow told him with a smile. “No Dalish around here.”

Dorian felt a bit of a jolt. He frowned. “No? None at all?”

“None sir,” he said. “Inquisition came and wiped all them knife ears out months ago.” He bit the coin he had been given, and seemed utterly unaware of the fact that the earth had fallen away beneath Dorian’s feet. He smiled and saluted with the coin. “You and the missus have a good day, messere. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Chapter Text

Dorian grieved in the only way he knew how – restless nights, bitter sarcasm, and copious amounts of imported Antivan wine.

If Dorian’s mother had taught him anything it was that drinking away the pain never really went out of style. In any case, one had to have something with which to fill one’s days once everything else in the world ceased to matter. Dorian’s something just happened to come in a darling little bottle.

“You do not know that he would have been the same man in this reality,” Cassandra tried to tell him. “You are mourning a person you did not really know.”

Dorian laughed in her face.

He could have told her that it was more than simply Ryn he grieved for. More even than the idea or the memory of the charming elven lad who smiled when they kissed, and stood up to Dorian’s father, and who loved him – or at least some version of him – without hesitation or shame. Dorian could have explained, if he’d had half a mind to, that Ryn had represented so much more to him than that.

Ryn had performed a devastating feat. He had offered Dorian hope, and Dorian had taken it – grabbed on like a man clinging desperately to the edge of a cliff. There were crocodiles below, but Ryn only had to smile to make Dorian believe himself capable of hauling himself to safety.

Dorian learned early in life that hope was dangerous, painful, and foolish – but Ryn had made him want to believe in foolishness. Like the ridiculous optimistic fool he was, Dorian had thrown all of himself into the idea that he could make for himself the life he wanted. He clung, white knuckled, to hope, certain his happiness was imminent, certain that at any moment he would pull himself up from the metaphoric cliff face and into a place of acceptance and safety and love.

And then the rock crumbled beneath his hands, and sent him plunging into an abyss so deep and so dark he could hardly believe anything else existed.

Of course Ryn was dead. This world was all pain and sharp edges – it could not corrupt him, and so it killed him instead.

Dorian lost all concept of time. He knew a few days passed, and then a few more. He stopped living and instead he merely existed, slumbering in some half-life of awareness. He knew of the concerned looks his companions passed behind his back. He knew of their whispered conversations, their worry.

“But where is he getting the wine?” he heard Cassandra demand once, her voice full of exhaustion. “You are not buying it, I am not buying it. Maker knows he does not leave the room. We cannot afford to keep allowing this behavior!”

“I found the money for another night, Seeker. Leave him alone; his heart’s broken.”

“His face will be broken if he keeps this up.”

Dorian knew she didn’t mean it. He knew that they worried when they had to leave him alone during the day. He knew that Varric was going out building up his network of spies and carta contacts, and he knew Cassandra spent every spare moment she was not watching him on her knees in the Chantry, praying for guidance, or forgiveness, or both.

What Dorian didn’t know was what he did with himself when they were gone – or where he got his wine. It seemed, sometimes, as if he wasn’t always alone, after all. Some nights when they returned, his throat would be sore from talking, and his wine glass full, and he had no idea why.

Dorian sat in a chair by the windows. He watched the wooden slats on the building next door, the way they changed color as the sun shifted against them, another day passing. And he drank. When he was awake, Ryn’s eyes haunted him, smiling and so blue they were nearly purple, full of kindness and mischief and life. He remembered, often, that morning he first awoke in that other world – bright sunlit warmth and Ryn’s bare skin against his hands. What a delightful surprise that had been, his warm little body and his full sweet mouth. What he wouldn’t give to go back to that moment.

When he slept, Dorian saw the battlefield, and the Inquisition forces as they descended to snuff the life out of one little Dalish clan with their gleaming armor and sharp requisition swords. Had it been a misunderstanding, as some claimed, or something Rellana ordered out of spite? Dorian never could decide what he believed.

Then came the inevitable day that Cassandra’s patience gave out. “I have had enough of your moping!”

She took away his wine, and she dragged him forcefully down the stairs, and she dunked him in tubs of icy water, again and again and again, until he regained enough of his senses to fight her off.

“Oh,” she told him later, “Stop sulking. You were making the entire inn stink like a brewery.”

“Completely humiliating,” Dorian complained.

“You can be angry with me,” she said. “Better than feeling sorry for yourself.”

Dorian fell silent, and he looked away. Everything was so dreadfully sharp, sober. Ache of loss and bitter disappointment, a hole in himself where hope had lived. Ryn’s face when they said goodbye. His dreams of the battle.

“You can still help us,” Cassandra told him. “You can still have purpose. Stopping Rellana is important. This will not be easy to turn away from. I turned away from the Maker’s chosen. Do you think that was easy? But - !”

Dorian interrupted. He said, “I want to see it.”

Cassandra fell silent, but he could feel her stare. They were alone; Varric had gone out to find dinner.

“See what?” Cassandra asked slowly.

Dorian realized he could smell himself – body odor, sour wine, self-pity. His beard and hair had grown out over their journey, and needed a good wash. His clothing was stained. He had stopped caring.

He could see the scene of the battle just as he had dreamed it – the heavy shadows of the forest, the gleam of Inquisition armor. An araval on fire, bright, violent light intruding against the green gloom. Bodies left scattered like a child’s playthings.

Had the Inquisition bothered to clean up its mess? He doubted it – not with Rellana at the helm.

The thought brought with it a picture – Ryn, slowly rotting on the forest floor, flesh that had once been so tempting and sweet now gone soft and swollen, bursting with – no, it had been months. He was likely little more than a scattering of bone now, with messy moist patches of gunk left clinging to the white. Did his bones gleam when the sunlight shifted through the trees to kiss his brow? Assuming wild animals or a wondering spirit hadn’t dragged him off first, that was.

“I want to tend to Ryns body,” Dorian said. “Whatever is left of him.”

Cassandra looked startled. She opened her mouth, then closed it. She frowned.

“Oh, don’t jump to volunteer to come with me,” Dorian said. “I’m sure I can manage to fumble my way through such a task on my own.”

“No, I – I want to,” Cassandra said. “And I am certain Varric will, as well.”

Dorian tried not to look too surprised. He had been ready to go on the defensive, to argue – maybe even beg – and ultimately to make another escape. Their continued help – their support – continued to baffle him.

Evidently he didn’t mask his feelings well enough. Cassandra frowned harder for a moment, and then her expression softened.

She said, “It is a noble cause – and the closure will help you move on. It will be an honor to help.”

“On the condition I aid in your little venture afterwards, I assume.”

“On no condition,” she said. “I just think…it would be a good thing to do.”

“Oh,” Dorian said. “Oh. You actually mean that.”

“Yes,” she said, “I do.”

“Well…all right, then. I suppose we will leave tomorrow?”

“If you feel you will be ready, then yes.”

“Luckily,” Dorian said, “I never get hungover.”

--

Dorian woke up hungover.

It wasn’t hard to find out where the Dalish had been camped. The people of Wycome had been all too aware of the “savages” resting on their doorstep, and more than a few were eager to share every ghoulish detail as told to them by the brother of an uncle of a friend’s grandmother’s neighbor who had really been there.

They ate a quick breakfast in the inn’s common room, eggs and toast and coffee, and Dorian’s stomach churned and his head pounded and he did his best to hide it. Nerves, he claimed. They didn’t believe him.

They left shortly after sunrise. For once Dorian barely noticed the chill of the cool southern winds, even as they entered the gloom of the forest. The Free Marches weren’t as bad as Ferelden when it came to the cold, but it was still early spring, and Dorian reserved the right to be sensitive about such things.

Something crunched underfoot. Dorian stopped.

The scene of the battle was laid out before him in a scenic clearing. It was hard to see at first: flash of red from a burned out aravel, gleam of a sword in the grass. Plantlife had grown up, had begun to reclaim the bodies as they rotted slowly against the dirt, embracing them, drawing them to them. They were not entirely stripped clean yet, though many lay in pieces scattered by animals. Dorian spotted a skull here, a ribcage there. He had stepped on a hand.

It would be impossible to tell which one was Ryn. Or at least, Dorian hoped it would.

He could have used his magic to gather up the bodies. He could have made them form back together, to dance around and tell him the stories of their deaths. Had he a sacrificial servant or two and the right mindset he could have even resurrected them to some semblance of half-lived monstrosity.

Dorian set his pack against a tree, and he got to work.

It took them hours. They gathered up every body they could find, Dalish and Inquisition. Some still wore armor, some mere tatters. They hauled them into a pile, with their weapons and whatever personal effects they had died with. Daggers and charms and lockets and shields. They worked silently, respectfully. Dorian’s heart went cold at the first archer he found, hand still locked around his bow. He stared for a long time before he looked at the ruin of what had once been the face. He didn’t know if it was Ryn or not. The hair could have been brown. The eyes were long gone. The mouth was open, twisted, anguished. It might not have been Ryn, but Dorian gathered the remains as tenderly as if it were, and added it to the pile.

Dorian only used his powers when he had to. To seek out parts, help loosen them from the earth. And when they were done, he held one of the bows they had found, and he called fire down, setting the bodies gently alight. Cassandra said a prayer, and Varric bowed his head. The hot wash of heat reminded Dorian of the feel of Ryn in his arms. He had always been like a little furnace, so warm and welcome against his side. Dorian closed his eyes.

And he felt something sharp press against his throat.

A female Dalish voice said, “Hello shem.”

Chapter Text

Dorian’s knees hit the ground so hard that he lost his balance. Rocks scraped his cheek as he fell forward with a grunt, and dirt went up his nose. Dust filled his lungs, but when he began to cough the Dalish only laughed and hauled him back up to his knees.

“Ellora! Ellora, come out, and see what we have brought back!”

The trio of hunters were jolly, puffed up with pride. They had every reason to be. The three girls – and Dorian meant that, girls, for the oldest among them was no more than seventeen or eighteen, the youngest, twelve – had managed, with stealth and speed, to take their captives with ridiculous ease.

Even Cassandra had been caught unaware, subdued in a matter of breathless moments. They took the sword from her hands, wrested Bianca from Varric’s grasp. Dorian and his companions were bound, blindfolded, and gagged, then thrown over the backs of halla like sacks of wheat ready for market.

When they ripped the blindfold from his eyes, the light pierced like a lance. Dorian’s entire body ached, back and shoulders an absolute riot from bumping along as the Dalish walked them in circles for hours to confuse the true location of the survivors’ camp. The knotted gag in his mouth tasted sour.

When his eyes started behaving like eyes again, Dorian looked for his companions. Cassandra was wild eyed, chest heaving. Her nose had been bloodied in the scuffle. Varric, in contrast, merely looked thoughtful.

“Ellora!” the two youngest singsonged. They shoved playfully at one another, and laughed, and smiled. They were all three quite thin, and Dorian wondered how winter had gone for them, their clan decimated, their aravels nearly all burnt.

The camp they had been brought to was not much of a camp, more an assortment of fragile lean-tos and animal skin tents. There was only one aravel, and a half-built frame of what one day may be another. The few elves Dorian saw were dirty, hungry, and wary. Dorian did not look for Ryn, and he did not hope to see him. He had had quite enough of shattered dreams and dashed expectations, and one more disappointment might very well kill him. Ryn was dead, his bones still smoldering atop the pile with the others’. Dorian’s life was not kind enough for anything else.

“Ellor - !” the hunters began again, only to stop as another young elven woman emerged from the aravel. She as dark haired and pale, gentle looking, even as she hurried over with a frown.

“What are you doing? You know the Keeper needs her rest. Why aren’t you with the other hunters?”

“Balls to the other hunters,” the eldest said. She was tall and brown, with close-cropped red hair and a confident stature. She spoke with her thumbs tucked jauntily behind the hilts of the knives that rode her hips. Dorian remembered the feel of those knives at his throat. “We’ve brought something better than the handful of skinny rabbits they’ll be bringing in.”

“What? A pair of filthy shems and a beardless dwarf? Tal, you really can’t - !”

“One of them is a mage.”

The elf called Ellora frowned. She pursed her pretty red lips, and let her eyes flicker over the three prisoners. Tal gave a broad grin, and she waggled her eyebrows. She said, “Do you love me yet?”

Ellora frowned a little more. She sighed, and then she motioned to the aravel. Tal’s grin grew and she almost skipped to it, quickly disappearing inside. Ellora frowned at the captives a moment longer.

“You are soon to meet our Keeper,” she told them. “She is unwell, and must not be upset. If you are not polite, I will see you fed your own intestines.”

She did not seem to expect an answer, and nor did she wait on one. “Just the shems,” she said, as she turned away, and Dorian and Cassandra were hauled to their feet, the gags cut from their mouths.

The interior of the aravel was dim, and it smelled strongly of herbs and sickness. It took Dorian’s eyes a while to adjust. The air was thick, smoky. They passed cabinets carved intricately in Dalish myths, and a table where two grey-haired warriors sat playing cards. The elves watched them be dragged past with a mixture of hostility and wariness that was fast becoming routine.

The bedchamber of Deshanna Istimaethoriel, Keeper of clan Lavellan, was, like the rest of the shelter, close and dark and smoky – but it once might have been quite comfortable. It was cluttered with many things: mementos of a life well lived. Carved wooden toys and necklaces of crystal, finely woven scarves, a few Orlesian paintings, a great many books.

Deshanna’s bed was too large for the room, though it looked soft and plush, piled high with many blankets. The keeper was propped up with pillows against a headboard carved with halla, her loose white hair flowing around her in waves. Dorian recognized the gaze of someone who should have died long ago, and only now held on due to stubborn ferocity.

“Tal tells me she found you at the old camp, burning bodies,” Deshanna said. Her voice was thin, and she could not finish her sentence without coughing. Ellora closed the door as she came in behind them, and she came to stand with Tal at the Keeper’s bedside with her hands demurely folded. “She tells me you burned our people’s bodies, alongside your own. She tells me you acted with honor. Will you do so now?”

“Can you believe the word of anyone, when they are bound and helpless?” Cassandra asked. “Release us, and we will not trouble you.”

Deshanna smiled without humor. “Answer my questions,” she said, “And we will see.”

Cassandra didn’t like that. Her frown was full of wrath and defiance. The Dalish only laughed.

“Why don’t you let me handle this?” Dorian asked, low. He earned a glare for his efforts.

“We have been unable to tend for our dead, for fear the shemlen would notice,” Ellora said. “We are few in number, and would not survive if they decided to come looking for survivors. It has broken our hearts to leave our brothers and sisters unattended for so long. Your actions hold more meaning than you can know.”

“Is it so unusual to see a human act with honor and respect?” Cassandra asked. The elves exchanged dry glances. She made an impatient sound. “Lavellan has a long history of peace with humans, does it not? What happened was a tragedy, but it was, ultimately, just a misunderstanding. Your people attacked an Inquisition envoy, mistaking its true intent.”

“Is that what you were told?” Tal asked darkly.

“Look,” Dorian said. “This showboating is really, truly quite impressive. I mean – bravo – it is so very unfortunate there isn’t more opportunity for this kind of thing. But I laid to rest someone very important to me today, so if you wouldn’t mind getting to the point - ?”

“Dorian!” Cassandra hissed.

“A Tevinter,” Dehsanna coughed, disdainful.

“Well, yes, but I happen to be a very nice Tevinter!”

“I like the irony,” Tal said. “Your people force elves to serve you. Now you will serve us.”

“Tal,” the Keeper said, warning, and the hunter fell silent. “Our people are full of anger,” Deshanna said. “You must forgive the child. You are right. Lavellan has existed peacefully alongside humans for many – many - !” another coughing fit prevented her from saying more. She motioned to Ellora.

“Our clan has passed a difficult winter,” Ellora said. “And we have lost many more than those who fell in battle. The hunting here has not been good. We have no aravels, and few halla.” She had to pause as another coughing fit took Deshanna, so loudly they had trouble hearing her words. In the interim, a young boy entered the room. He hesitated, staring at the prisoners, but the Keeper motioned him forward. He whispered a message in her ear, and no sooner had she nodded than he was darting back out of the room again.

Finally, Ellora continued.

“If our clan is to survive, if we are to have a single hope of recovery, we must move on from this place. We must find our own people.”

“Sabrae would have been the closest,” Deshanna said. “But they are long dead.”

“Out Keeper will not survive a long journey,” Ellora continued. “And we will not leave her behind.”

“And our part in all this is…?” Dorian asked.

“Tal says you are a mage. Assist me in healing our Keeper, and you will be allowed to go free.”

“Ah,” Dorian said. “Unfortunately, healing is – not exactly my specialty. More to the opposite, in fact. Charming as you may find me, I’m afraid I do better with the dead.”

“I need your power, not your expertise,” Ellora said. “Do you think we are but barefoot savages, incapable of casting our own spells?”

“I suppose good old fashioned blood magic never occurred to you?”

“The Keeper has forbidden such a thing.” Ellora’s face reddened just a bit, and Dorian couldn’t help but to think she had tried it – during the battle, perhaps, or even later. She said, “Will you help us, or not?”

“You have but to ask,” Dorian said, and nearly laughed at their expressions of surprise. “What?” he asked. “Too easy, was it? Is it too much to believe I don’t want my throat carved out by a bunch of vengeful elves?”

“What he means,” Cassandra said, “Is that he would be honored to help.”

“Good,” Deshanna wheezed. “Good.”

“It will take a few days to gather everything I need,” Ellora said. “In the meantime, you will stay in the camp. The hunters will watch you. They will see you fed, clothed, and housed. If there is trouble, we will not ask questions. You will die – slowly.”

“You paint quite the vivid picture,” Dorian said. “But I promise – we will be on our utter best behavior.”

“See that you are,” Deshanna said. “In the meantime, it seems the other hunters have returned – successful.” The brought surprised and pleased reactions from the other two. Deshanna smiled. “Perhaps our luck is turning. We will celebrate tonight, and thank the gods for their mercies.”

--

Outside the aravel, there was much more excitement and activity than there had been before. As Cassandra and Dorian stood blinking in the sunlight, Tal cut them free from their bonds.

“What’d I miss?” Varric asked when they rejoined him. Dorian left it to Cassandra to explain.

There was an air of celebration. The hunters had returned with not only the predicted rabbits, but also a stag, and a mother boar with two fat piglets. They were in the midst of stringing everything up for cleaning. Jubilant in their success, the hunters were rough housing, joking, smiling and victorious.

Ryn was with them.

Chapter Text

Dorian was vaguely aware of many things. They existed. He knew they existed. He didn’t necessarily care, but he knew.

He was aware of Cassandra’s voice, explaining to Varric their deal with the Dalish. He was aware of Varric’s unnecessary added commentary. He was aware of the fact that the sun was moving lower on the horizon, and he hadn’t eaten since dawn, and an unholy ache had started in his belly.

He didn’t care.

The world had fallen away beneath Dorian and nothing would ever matter again as much as this moment – the sight of the smiling elf, the sun stretching lazy fingers of light to tangle in his hair. Dorian couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. If he moved too quick, the moment might vanish.

He had mourned him. He had cradled his remains against his chest and sent them, with all the love he was capable of, into the waiting arms of the Maker.

And now Ryn stood before him, bright and whole and alive.

He didn’t look exactly like the Ryn he had known in Skyhold. He was thinner, and he was barefoot, and he wore Dalish armor. He didn’t carry himself with that silent, natural air of command. His hair was longer, loose and windblown, and he had a new pair of scars – only a few months old, Dorian would put money on it. One crossed the edge of his brow, the other the corner of his sweet, plush lips. His hair was shaved on that side, as if to purposefully display the scars to their fullest.

Dorian had never seen anyone more beautiful.

While the other hunters laughed and teased one another, Ryn helped clean the kills. He was soaked to the elbows in blood, and it didn’t even matter – not with the way he smiled at the children who came with wooden trays to collect the cuts of meat as they were made available. Not with the fact he was living, breathing, real.

Ryn spoke to the children, teased them, admonished them, playfully, to be careful with their task. His accent was stronger than the Ryn of that other world, who, surrounded by humans and forces of the Chantry all too eager to proclaim him the herald of a god he didn’t even worship, had been forced to downplay his otherness – first for the sake of his own safety, and then for the success of the Inquisition that meant so much to him. The nobles of Halamshiral, who had been so delighted and pleased with “that charming little savage” would have fainted at the sight of him now.

Here he was wholly Dalish, in a way Dorian had never seen him.

Ryn happened to glance their way. He was smiling at something someone had said, and the scar on his mouth made the expression look crooked. For a moment, his eyes happened to meet Dorian’s. Ryn’s eyes were almost just as he remembered – clear and mischievous and so blue they were nearly purple. Dorian could see only two differences here. Ryn’s eyes no longer held the weight of the fate of the entire world anymore.

But they were much sadder than he remembered.

Ryn did not know him. He wouldn’t, of course. They had never met in this life, in this world. They had never been meant to. His eyes passed over Dorian with little more than mild curiosity, and then he returned to his task.

--

The sun had burned itself down into evening, and the Dalish bonfire rose up in its stead, orange glow stretching high into the darkness.

“We have many reasons for gratitude tonight,” Ellora said. The clan’s First seemed to glow herself, her simple white dress and dark flow of hair in stark contrast to the flames at her back. “Andruil herself has reached out her hand to bless our hunters, to give hope and sustenance in these dark times.”

The Dalish passed around wooden trays laden with food. Most of the meat had been taken to be cured and dried, kept for the elves’ long walk when the day came for them to leave the Free Marches. They had put effort into turning what was left into a feast, pulling from their precious stores winter greens and root vegetables, bruised wrinkled apples, hard brown bread, thick crumbly cheeses.

Dorian watched how the Dalish ate, how they only took a little, each time the tray was passed, despite the fact it was a feast. There were less than thirty of them, most very old or very young – the people most likely to have stayed out of the battle. The warriors who guarded the clan all had grey hair, and they took care to eat far less than the younger of their number.

Ryn, too, did this, Dorian noted. He took his fair portion, but had a way of almost absently passing it along, sharing with those around him without seeming to do so. Dorian might not have even noticed himself were it not for the fact he had been watching, tracing the path of those long brown fingers on their journey from plate to mouth.

“Ask our hunters,” Ellora said, “And they will describe for you how the hare threw himself into their path. They will tell you how sweetly the boar sacrificed herself, offering up her life and the lives of her children for the People to live one more day.” There was an instrument she played as she spoke, fingers skillfully plucking the strings of something like a hand harp. Dorian was no musical expert, but he could hear the places where another instrument should have been – just as he could see the places around the fire where friends and family were missing from their space, empty places that gaped like open wounds.

The Dalish passed gourds filled with fruity wine. They listened intently as their First spoke. She made the hunters’ tale into something more, describing how the stag alone had been disobedient to Andruil’s request and, spotting the hunters, had attempted to flee.

“He had lived many summers, and sired many young – but he found life sweet and was afraid of the mystery that waited after. He turned his back and he fled – but he did not know one hunter waited, apart from the others. His bow shot straight and true.”

The hunters laughed. They thumped Ryn on his shoulders, and when he tried to drink, he spilled wine down his front. He laughed, too.

--

It was very late by the time the feast ended. As Dalish parted, retreating to their tents and lean-tos, Ellora approached with Ryn and Tal in tow.

“Our two oldest hunters will host you,” Ellora said. “They will see that no harm befalls you here, and that you, in turn, do no harm. You have already had the misfortune of meeting Tal,”

“You know I’m your favorite.”

“ – and this is Ryn.”

Dorian could feel, rather than see, Cassandra and Varric’s reactions. Varric started a coughing fit that might actually have been laughter. Cassandra stepped on his foot.

“Ryn, is it?” the dwarf coughed. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Ellora said, “Do not think trouble will be tolerated from you. You have agreed to help us – that does not mean you have our trust.”

“But,” Ryn said, “There is little reason not to treat you as guests, so long as you continue to conduct yourselves as guests.”

Ellora frowned at him. Ryn smiled.

“You will go with Tal,” Ellora told Cassandra, “And the dwarf will go with Ryn.”

Dorian gave a start. He pulled his eyes from Ryn to look at Ellora with surprise. “What about - ?”

“You will be in the aravel, with me, and the Keeper, and her guards,” she said. She emphasized guards. She lifted her chin. “Lest you decide to change your mind on our agreement. The Keeper’s condition is delicate, and I will need you at my side to learn the things which you must do.”

He looked to Ryn again. He looked to Varric.

“I assure you, I’m a very quick study,” he said.

“Does it not occur to you that we are separating you three on purpose?” Ryn asked him. He was still smiling. He said, “We’re all very sure you won’t plot together to betray those of us who remain. But humor our silly whim, anyway.”

Dorian opened his mouth. He closed it. He made some sort of noise.

Varric said, “What my charming friend is trying to say is, that sounds perfectly reasonable. We’ll all be on our best behavior, promise.”

“Is that what he said?” Ryn asked. “The accent threw me.”

Impatient, Ellora was already turning away. “With me, then,” she instructed.

Dorian glanced back only once. Varric and Ryn were walking away. He caught their voices for a moment.

“What’s a dwarf’s chances of finding himself reunited with the world’s most beautiful crossbow?” Varric was asking. Ryn laughed.

“That’s yours, is it?”

Ellora motioned him impatiently into the aravel. She closed the door behind him on the darkness outside, and on his chances of talking to Ryn again that night.

Chapter Text

Dorian woke up stiff and sore, his back in knots.

The aravel had been built to house a family of four or five, with tent-like extensions outside for more. Aside from the main room and the one which housed the Keeper, there was a loft above them with built-in bunks – bunks now claimed by many of the clan’s orphaned children.

Dorian didn’t know who had claim to the extensions outside the aravel, but inside it was cramped. One of the Keeper’s guards slept on the floor of the loft, dangerously close to the ladder. The other one had a pallet on the floor in front of the Keeper’s door. Ellora, Dorian learned, had a cot beside the Keeper’s bed, lest she require help in the night. Dorian –

For Dorian, they gave him a pillow and some blankets and told him to use the table as a bed. He laughed until he realized they were serious. It took Dorian half the night to fight his way into something like sleep, and he didn’t stay there long before pain and discomfort woke him. The table was unyieldingly hard, and his legs hung over the edge.

Dorian gave up on sleeping, and instead he propped his pillow against the wall, and watched the light shift and change at the window as the night passed. The aravel was quiet but for the soft snoring of the guards. At one point a child whimpered with unpleasant dreams. Another comforted him. Then it was quiet again.

Dorian thought about the gleam of the sun in Ryn’s rich brown hair. He thought of home, and how they would laugh if they saw him now, trekking across the country to chase a dream, unshaven, humbled, sleeping on a table in a Dalish aravel, getting tongue-tied over a pair of pretty eyes.

Dorian Pavus, what are you thinking?

He scratched his beard. He wondered if the Dalish would lend him a razor. He wondered how he could possibly make Ryn love him. Humans had killed his people. His own countrymen wouldn’t have hesitated to enslave them, should they come across a clan so small and so poorly defended.

You fascinated me, Ryn had told him. But that had been another world – a world where Ryn was alone and frightened, cut off from his people. He had liked Dorian because Dorian didn’t treat him as some holy savior. That wasn’t a path open to him now.

Dorian had expected his memories from that other reality to dim and fade away, to become less sharp once he was once again in the real world. Instead, it was his reality that felt like the dream. What was he doing here? What reason did this Ryn have to love him? He hadn’t thought this through.

But, oh, Maker, he was alive.

Dorian must have dozed. The next thing he was aware of, light was pouring in through the windows, and the aravel was waking up. The older children were hauling buckets of water in for the Keeper to bathe with.

“Take the shem to the river and have him wash up,” he heard Ellora tell one of the guards. “Then give him to Lenna to help with the breakfast.”

“Shall I dip my finger in the coffee and make it that much sweeter?” Dorian offered. Ellora curled her nose.

The water at the river was cold and clean. Several of the Dalish were there already, bathing side by side without concern for modesty, women and men together, casual in their skin.

Tevinter had their own bath houses, but there was considerable more pomp and circumstance to it than merely stripping down and jumping naked into the water, and they were strictly segregated by gender. More, any naked elves in the kinds of baths Dorian had grown used to would have been there to serve, not bathe.

It was an unexpectedly uncomfortable comparison.

The guard gave him a square of thick yellow soap, and collected his clothes when he stripped. When he inquired about borrowing a razor, the guard looked at him as if he’d grown a second head, but promised to make inquiries so long as Dorian continued to behave himself.

Dorian washed quickly, freezing in the cool water. Around him Dalish children laughed and ran along the banks. Elders washed clothes. Young hunters teased each other about their skills. Even so small and fragile, they were a community.

Dorian scrubbed his hair and his beard. He was thoughtful as he donned the leathers the Dalish had provided him to wear. Everything here was shared freely with everyone who belonged.

For now, that included Dorian.

At the Dalish’s little outdoor kitchen, Dorian was first set to cleaning, peeling, and cutting vegetables. The cook, Lenna, who Dorian quickly decided was quite possibly the worst person he’d ever met in his life, wrapped his knuckles with her spoon and berated him for being too slow. When he used magic to finish the task, she grew even less pleasant.

“If you’re going to act like a child, then you can work like a child,” she said.

His new job became to stand with a big cauldron full of weak runny porridge and spoon helpings into Dalish bowls as they passed. This seemed all well and good until he began to suspect the demotion was meant to be embarrassing. Hard not to notice the way the Dalish seemed to smirk and snicker in his general direction.

“You’re making the servings too big,” the child who was helping him complained. Dorian ignored her until it finally came time to get his own breakfast and there was almost nothing left. Lenna split what was left between the child and the rest of her helpers, and sent Dorian on his way with only a hard heel of bread and a tin cup of bitter coffee.

After his bad night’s sleep, Dorian was grateful to finally sit down. Standing there doling out porridge hadn’t helped his back. Dorian groaned as he collapsed into the grass next to Cassandra.

“It seems the work does not agree with you,” she said. Dorian noted that her hair was damp, her face slightly red.

“Invigorating bath this morning,” Dorian answered, and slightly red became full out crimson.

“I do not want to talk about it,” Cassandra said. Dorian felt slightly vindicated as they lapsed into silence.

The heel of bread was so hard Dorian feared breaking a tooth. He had to let it soak in the coffee before he attempted to eat it. As he waited for it to soften, he let his eyes scan the Dalish, idly looking for Ryn. He had not come through his line; maybe it was better he hadn’t seen Dorian embarrass himself.

“He took Varric out on a hunt this morning, before the sun had risen,” Cassandra said, as if reading his mind. “He wanted to see how Bianca worked.”

“We have plenty of time to get to know one another,” Dorian said. “I am, after all, irresistible.”

Cassandra snorted. “If you continue to look at him the way you did last night, he is likely to go running for the hills.”

“Running,” Dorian said, “Because his desire for me is so overwhelming.”

“I think not.” Cassandra’s voice was flat and dry.

Dorian tried the bread. Whatever taste it might have had on its own was utterly obliterated by the strong, bitter coffee. Ah, well, he had never been a fan of breakfast to begin with.

Cassandra stirred her porridge thoughtfully. When she spoke again, it was slowly, choosing her words with care.

“It occurs to me,” she said, “That once we have fulfilled our obligation to the Dalish, Varric and I will have little reason to linger here. You have found your love – our purpose for coming is done.”

“To be perfectly honest,” Dorian said, “I’m unsure why you’ve stayed as long as you have.”

Cassandra frowned. She continued to sir her porridge. “Did you know that Varric had word from Blackwall? Back in Wycome.”

“It would hardly surprise me,” he said. “But I see you are trying to lead me to a point. I haven’t a clue what that point is, but I have faith it exists.”

She continued to frown at him, then looked away. Her eyes scanned the Dalish at their breakfast. The loss that had taken the clan was even more apparent in the daylight. “The clan is vulnerable as it is,” she said. “The first group to fall upon them will vanquish every life left. Blackwall is recruiting an army. If the Dalish were to join our rebellion, we could protect them.”

“Join – they’re all children and elderly!”

“They would not be expected to fight,” she said. “They are Rellana’s clan. They might be able to control her, to find a peaceful solution – they might be able to bring her back from what she has become.”

“Right,” Dorian said. “Are we forgetting that she sent her soldiers here to wipe them out? Are we forgetting that these elves might take unkindly to the sight of more armed humans?”

“You have the opportunity to talk to the Keeper – to Ellora. You could convince them - !”

“No,” Dorian said. “No I don’t think so.” He began to rise. Cassandra caught his arm.

“Say you are able to make your Ryn fall in love with you,” she said. “What then? Assuming the next threat does not wipe this clan from the planet – what life will you have with him, with someone like Rellana heading something like the Inquisition? This rebellion was your idea. That other you – he saw what was at stake. How can you not see the same?”

“Simple,” Dorian said. “I’ve chosen to be done with the entire matter.”

“You are selfish,” Cassandra said. “You were not so selfish before, I think.”

“A wise man learns his lessons,” Dorian answered. “I’ve learned mine, thank you. Ryn is alive, and he is here. That is the end of it. I’ll have nothing further to do with Rellana – or her Inquisition.”

Cassandra dropped her hold on him. She looked hurt. “We helped you,” she said.

“I never asked you to,” Dorian answered.

--

Dorian was stiff and sore and hungry and grumpy.

The birdsong was getting on his nerves.

The forest around him was lush and green with spring growth. He could hear a waterfall nearby, in addition to those damnable birds, and the weather was a little warmer than the day before. The sun peeked down from the branches in bright golden shafts. It was a beautiful day.

Dorian knew his mood was inappropriate for a man who had only yesterday discovered his love yet lived. His conscience was pricking over his conversation with Cassandra. More, he was feeling petulant over the fact it seemed the Dalish intended to work him to death until their deal was complete. He despaired of ever getting the chance to get Ryn alone.

As soon as breakfast was over, Ellora had claimed Dorian for herself. She made Dorian carry the basket of herbs they gathered. She made him dig up the stingier roots. All the while she talked about herb lore, explaining what each would be used for in the potion they would brew for the Keeper.

Usually, Dorian would have been thrilled by the opportunity to study new magics. Today –

“Madam,” Dorian interrupted at last, in exasperation. “I have been trained by some of Tevinter’s finest magisters. Why, the caliber of the Circles I’ve been expelled from alone - !”

“I’m supposed to be impressed?” Ellora asked. “Keep digging.”

Dorian was sweaty and dirty by the time they returned to the Dalish camp. Sweaty. And dirty. Ellora let him wash up at the river, but he scarcely had a moment to himself before Lenna was claiming him for food duty again.

He had just glanced up from washing his face and had caught sight of Ryn and Varric returning from their hunt, chatting amiably, when she pulled him away by the ear.

Back to the cauldron, the spoon thrust into his hand. Remembering his mistake at breakfast, Dorian took care to dole out tiny helpings of the night’s stew, which was thick and chunky and made him ache with hunger. The Dalish still snickered at the job he had been given as they passed, but their faces fell when they saw what they had been given. That worked for a while, and was almost satisfying.

“You dirty shem!” it was one of the young hunters who protested first – a boy of around eleven with a scarred face and a mop of dark hair. “You trying to kill me?”

“He shorted me too!” someone else protested. Those in line for food began to raise their voices in anger. Lenna looked over with a dark frown.

It took Dorian a moment to understand what happened next. A hand brushed his, took the ladle from his grasp. A hip bumped him, urged him out of the way.

“All right,” Ryn said. “There’s enough to go around tonight. Who was next?”

He was – there, at his side. Smiling, spooning up helpings of stew for waiting bowls. He was warm, and he smelled of the forest, and he wasn’t bothered by whatever indignity there was to doing the kind of task normally assigned to a child.

He looked at Dorian and he smiled. He handed him a bowl full of fragrant stew.

“Go join your friends,” he advised.

So passed Dorian’s first day among the Dalish.

It wasn’t so bad, really.

Chapter Text

By the end of his first week in the Dalish camp, Dorian Pavus had managed to accomplish three things.

First, he had learned the proper Dalish method for doling out soups, stews, and, yes, even porridge – a task he was assured most reasonably-intelligent six-year-olds mastered within the first hour. There was talk of graduating him up to bread service.

Second, Dorian could identify and name a variety of medicinal plants native to the Free Marches. He learned which needed to be boiled and which crushed, which one had leaves that left the breath smelling sweet, but roots that caused hours of explosive diarrhea, and he learned of twelve different concoctions to induce hallucinations. He was assured that this, too, was an accomplishment happily managed by the typical Dalish child.

Third and final, Dorian had managed the task of doing irreparable damage to his back, sleeping on that damned table. That may have been exaggeration, but Dorian was beginning to forget what it felt like not to wake stiff and hunched and sore. When he complained, Ellora pinched a nerve that left him numb for half an hour.

After that, he kept his discomfort largely to himself.

One thing that Dorian failed to accomplish within the confines of his first week, however, was gaining for himself a single private moment with Ryn. In fact, after the second morning, he didn’t get the chance even to see him: the hunters were trying to stock the camp for movement, and so they left on another hunt. A long one, this time. Their tents and bedrolls went with them. Because he had Bianca, and because Ryn was his host, Varric got to go with them.

“Every party needs a mage!” Dorian insisted to Ellora, who laughed at his suggestion that he should follow after them. “What if they require a healer?”

“You couldn’t heal a pimple,” she told him. “Mix that poultice.”

Dorian sulked, and he mixed, and he learned the names of twelve more flowers.

Begrudgingly, he had to admit that there was a kind of beauty to the fragile little camp, even if he was an unwanted, untrusted outsider. By Tevinter standards, their lives were laughably simple – but there was more love to be found in the little community than Dorian had ever seen back home. Certainly more than had ever existed within the stifling confines of his own household. Dorian began to understand how such a thing had helped to shape a man like Ryn, and the Inquisition he led in that other world.

It did not explain what had gone wrong with Rellana.

“She was always a selfish one,” Ellora told him, when curiosity got the better of him, and he had the poor manners to ask outright. “Came to our clan when she was seven, convinced we owed her something for gifting us with another mage.”

“She came from one of those western clans – near Orlais,” one of the guards volunteered, overhearing them at their work. There seemed always to be one close at hand, as if they suspected Dorian might suddenly turn his paring knife on their First. This one, a white haired lady named Rona, was a little friendlier than most. “They’re always a little tetchy.”

Ellora shook her head, disagreeing with Rona’s theory. “I always felt bad for her, leaving her family so young,” she said. “We offered to take them in, too, but their clan wouldn’t part with them, even on trade.”

“Was she raised by the entire clan, then?” Dorian asked. He remembered what the other Ryn had once told him: Ryn had been orphaned young, and instead of placing the burden of an extra mouth on one singular household, he had been passed from roof to roof, son and brother to all.

Ellora shook her head. “Deshanna took her in herself,” she said.

“It gave her airs,” Rona said. “Being the daughter of the Keeper. She thought she deserved more than the rest of the children. She was always demanding special treatment.”

“She wanted to feel important,” Ellora said, and for a moment she looked sad. “Now, I wager, she does.”

After a moment, she caught Dorian watching her, and sent him with a sharp gesture to help prepare supper.

Dorian wasn’t the only one kept busy, and he would have been willing to wager that, even if Cassandra had decided she wanted to be on speaking terms with Dorian again, she wouldn’t have had the time. She was tasked with helping to rebuild the half-finished aravel, and Dorian saw her often hard at work – browning up in the sun, her muscular bare arms taut, a satisfied smile on her face. If he hadn’t known better, he would think she was enjoying herself.

On Dorian’s fifth night in the camp, he was woken urgently from sleep by a pounding on the aravel door. A frantic young man explained everything to Ellora in rushed, whispered urgency – his wife was in danger, the baby was too early. Ellora made Dorian come help, and both child and mother survived. Dorian did little more than hand Ellora things, mix medicines, and try not to get in the way, but the young man thanked him almost as passionately as he thanked Ellora, and the next morning he noticed a slight break in the chill with which most of the clan seemed to regard him.

Later, Dorian recognized the young man as the guard at the river, who he had once asked a razor of. As a token of thanks, the new father gifted Dorian with a small wooden shaving kit, looted from the pack of some Inquisition soldier after the attack. It would have been nothing beside the kinds of toiletries Dorian had once kept at home, but now he found himself marveling at the assortment of treasures held within as if they had been gifted by the Archon himself. It contained not only a razor and a tin of shaving cream, but mustache oil, and a little vial of cologne. He nearly wept – and did spend more than an hour, at first possible chance, shaving and trimming and making himself feel human again.

A few nights later, Dorian woke to the sound of his name, and the feel of being watched, and he opened his eyes to meet an achingly familiar blue gaze.

“What did you do to your face?” Ryn asked in a whisper, and Dorian blinked, and rubbed his eyes, and tried to kick his mind into working.

“Am I awake?” he countered.

The elf frowned at him. “You smell like orchids.”

Ryn moved back to let Dorian sit up. The mage pinched himself, hard, and yes, it hurt – though the now-familiar ache in his back should have already told him he wasn’t dreaming. Pink and watery, sunlight was just beginning to peer in through the windows of the aravel.

“She said I could have you for a bit,” Ryn whispered. “The ingredients are all gathered and mixed, and now she has nothing but the waiting. Will you come with me?”

“Seems like a good shave does do the charm,” Dorian murmured. He realized Ryn was still waiting for an answer. He didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’ll come with you. Anywhere.”

Ryn smiled, then slid from the table to let him get up. He helped Dorian to dress, handing him his boots, and his shirt, and his belt. It didn’t occur to Dorian until they were outside that this was strange.

“You were on a hunt,” Dorian said, still tucking his shirt into his pants. He peered around the camp, finding it still and quiet. A few hunters and guards were up, as well as Lenna, the clan’s cook, and a few of her helpers, already started on breakfast. Ryn retrieved from her a parcel of cheese and bread, and a dented cup filled with coffee, and presented them to Dorian. He seemed surprised Dorian had noticed his absence.

“We got back last night,” Ryn said, then, “Be quick – I want to get going as quickly as possible.”

Dorian nearly scalded his tongue in his hurry to obey. He couldn’t tear his eyes from Ryn as the slender hunter knelt to slide more tightly wrapped parcels of food into two packs, and checked their contents over to make sure nothing had been forgotten. Rising again, he shouldered his bow, and lifted a hand to wave at another hunter.

“No more than a week,” he told the fellow, in response to a question asked in their language. The sky was growing later, brightening his long hair like a halo, and his eyes, when he looked to Dorian, pierced through to the mage’s very soul. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Dorian quickly downed the rest of the coffee, and brushed crumbs from his mustache. The action earned him a heart-stopping smile.

Ryn explained himself as they walked, putting distance between themselves and the camp.

“We haven’t been able to trade since the attack,” he said, “And there are essential supplies we cannot get on our own – things we need before we move on. Some of us, like Tal, wanted to steal them, but we can’t take the risk. If the humans see even one Dalish, it could give them all the excuse they need to hunt the rest of us down.”

“We’re going to Wycome,” Dorian realized.

“A lone Dalish can’t go into the city unremarked,” Ryn said, looking sly, “But a Tevinter with his pet won’t even be looked at twice. I hope you don’t mind a little subterfuge.”

“I’ll do my best to keep up,” Dorian said, and Ryn laughed.

After a few moments of silence, Ryn glanced at him with another of his smiles. “You’ll be stuck with me for a while, I’m afraid,” he warned. “We’re going to circle around the main road, so we can enter properly. No need to rouse suspicion.”

“That – that sounds like a reasonable plan,” Dorian said.

“It was your friend Varric’s idea.”

Dorian vowed to kiss that hairy little dwarf, the next time he saw him. “And he, ah, suggested you to be my partner in this venture?”

“I volunteered.”

“How very helpful you are.”

“Not at all,” Ryn grinned. “I’m afraid I did it for very selfish reasons.”

Dorian’s pulse picked up a little. He worked very hard at keeping his voice smooth. “Don’t tell me you plotted to get me alone, now,” he said with a laugh. He tried, very hard, to remember how to flirt. All he could think about was the feel of Ryn’s body, with him in the Inquisitor’s bed. The taste of his lips, on the balcony of the Winter Palace. “I am so handsome and charming, you may never want to let me go.”

“Fortunately,” Ryn told him, “You aren’t one of the items I’ve been authorized to offer for trade.”

“I wager the business proposition would head south rather quickly, once they started asking for refunds.”

Ryn glanced at him, and even with the changes in him, Dorian knew that playful half smile, the light of mirth in those incredible eyes. “I thought you just said no one would want to let you go.”

“On the contrary - in my experience, people find it all too easy to let me go,” Dorian answered. “But you – I think you should want to keep me.”

Ryn stopped, then, and Dorian was three steps away before he realized it. He turned back, wondering if he had already blundered into some mistake. Ryn was looking at him, and he couldn’t quite read the expression in the elf’s eyes.

“I can trust you, can’t I, Dorian?” Ryn asked.

The abrupt change in mood filled Dorian with dread. “Why do you even feel the need to ask?”

Ryn was frowning. His thumb moved, brushing the lip of the quiver that held his arrows at his waist. He looked, more than anything, thoughtful. After a moment, he began to walk again.

“There was some concern,” he said. “About allowing one of our own to make this journey alone with you. We hold your friends – but is that enough to keep you from sliding a knife across my throat while I sleep?”

“I would never harm so much as a hair on your head.”

Ryn looked less than convinced. His easy smile had been replaced by something else, and for the first time Dorian began to see that more than his visible scars had come from the attack on his people.

Dorian said, “I’m just here to help.”

Ryn said, “I suppose time will tell.”

They were silent for a long time, after that.

Chapter Text

The day stretched, morning into afternoon into evening, with that same silence hanging between them. To Dorian it felt heavy, swollen with the increasing weight of his own expectations. There was so much to be said, and no way to say it. Dorian’s thoughts were restless.

You loved me, there. It could happen here, too. You thought it would. You asked me to find you.

Please keep me, this time.

Dorian didn’t trust that he wouldn’t say too much, and so he let the silence continue. It was strange, not knowing what to say to one another. In that other world, Ryn had known him – deeply, intimately, inside and out. With a quizzical tilt of his head he had been able to root out Dorian’s lies. His eyes, intelligent and penetrating, had seemed always to be keenly aware of every little secret that lurked in the depths of Dorian’s soul.

He had been writing to Dorian’s father.

There, Dorian had been faced with the awkward complication of a stranger who knew him so completely. Now, he was the stranger, possessing an advantage Ryn would be unable to comprehend.

Dorian thought it would be very nice if they could simply skip all this business of getting to know one another, and jump right to the part where Ryn was in love with him. Finding the clever little archer had been the extent of Dorian’s plans. He had thought he would know, once they met, what to do next.

Dorian wished he had thought to ask more questions about what brought them together. You fascinated me, Ryn had said, but Dorian felt far from fascinating now, tromping about the forest like some ungainly fool. He couldn’t simply wait, trusting it to happen on its own. His luck didn’t work that way. Not in this reality.

Walking beside him, grasping for words he knew he would not be able to find, Dorian missed him.

Dorian was no woodsman, and his thoughts distracted him. He payed more attention to his thoughts and his companion than his surroundings, and so his progress made a great deal of noise. When he startled a pair of rabbits into feeling across their path, Ryn brought them down with a cheeky grin and two swift arrows.

“Seems dinner is on me tonight,” he said.

The elf was more a part of his surroundings than he was an intruder to them. Barefoot, he was confident and silent in every step he took. He seemed more woodland spirit than man – a visage that, as Inquisitor, he had not been able to embody so completely. There was a certain distinct beauty to him like this, something wild and untamed. Bright sunlight slatted through the trees to kiss his hair, and the shadows made his eyes seem to glow. His lips were plush, and curved, and distracting. Dorian couldn’t forget the way they tasted.

Ryn was taking them a long, roundabout way, so that they could enter the city like legitimate travelers and, if there was trouble, obscure the way back to the clan. He had planned for the journey to take them more than a day, Dorian knew, yet still he was surprised when they stopped for the night and Ryn began the process of setting up his little tent. Dorian recognized its shape, its splash of color. It was smaller than he’d expected, up close.

“I’m afraid you will have to sleep with me,” Ryn informed him as he worked. “It’s going to rain tonight – tie this off to that stake, please.”

Ryn looked up, with his teasing, troubling little smile, when Dorian failed to answer him.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those who would be bothered by the idea of sharing a small, enclosed space with another man,” he said.

“On the contrary,” Dorian said, finding his voice, “I often find such arrangements to be quite pleasant. For both parties involved.”

“Oh, that is good to hear,” the way Ryn answered made Dorian warm.

He asked, “Have you been staying in this same tent with Varric?”

Ryn laughed. “The dwarf is a bit smaller than you,” he pointed out. “There’s plenty of room if you aren’t too shy.”

“And you aren’t, I wager.”

“I’ve never been accused of it, no,” Ryn said. Then, “I’ll try to keep my hands to myself. I promise – your virtue is safe from my wily Dalish ways.”

“Now, where is the fun in that?” Dorian asked, and Ryn laughed again.

Once the tent was secured, they gathered kindling and Dorian got the fire started with a spark of magic while Ryn cleaned and prepared his rabbits for dinner. His elegant brown hands were quick and skilled, and he was far more comfortable in their shared silence than Dorian was.

Ryn worked quickly and efficiently, accustomed to such a gory task. For a moment it seemed impossible to picture him as he had been in that other world, commanding armies atop a gleaming warhorse, resplendent in fine cut leather. Dorian thought it was nice to see him like this – living simply, at ease with his environment.

“You are an industrious little worker, aren’t you?” Dorian asked, as he settled himself upon the ground, his back against a fallen tree. “I feel positively exhausted just watching you.”

“Ah, but you’re only here to look pretty, anyway,” Ryn informed him. He did not pause in his work.

Dorian, pleased, folded his hands atop his abdomen and crossed his legs at the ankle. “And how am I doing?” he asked. “I would hate to fall short of your plans. Best to give a very thorough review. Focus on my eyes, if you like, or my incredible physique. I shan’t be picky.”

Again that quick glance, that troublesome smile. Ryn was amused with him, if nothing else. Dorian supposed it was a start – and, given his reception by the rest of the clan, a better one than it could have been.

Ryn may not have been shy, but he was comfortable with the quiet, and as he let it fall between them again Dorian struggled not to fidget or overthink. He watched him lay out strips of meat wrapped in fresh cut herbs, watched the rising wind waft his soft dark hair.

As the smell of cooking began to fill the air, the pop of grease to invade the silence between them, Dorian cautiously eased into a topic trickier than their meaningless flirtations had been.

“You spoke of trust, earlier,” he said, as casually as he could manage. “As your plan seems to revolve around the image we will present, as a Tevinter and his – and an elf, I can’t help but to wonder…does it at all concern you, what I am?”

Ryn didn’t look at him, but he gave an honest answer. He said, “I haven’t decided yet.”

“I suppose that it’s the worst response I could receive.”

Ryn turned the meat against the flames, and sat back on his heels. When he finally did look at Dorian, he could not read his expression, except that it was appropriately thoughtful. He had no trouble meeting Dorian’s eye.

“I’ve always liked humans well enough,” Ryn said at last. “Our histories are a matter of individual actions. The smiling farmer who pays a fair price for a pile of skins is not responsible for the subjugation of my people by an Arl hundreds of miles away. I never understood the reasoning behind hating an entire people because of the actions of a few.”

“But then the attack happened,” Dorian supplies. “Yes, I can see how your feelings might be a bit more complex, now.”

“Complex,” Ryn repeated. Almost absently, he brushed his fingers against the scar on his lip. When he caught himself he dropped his hand, and a look that fell somewhere between guilty and annoyed crossed his face. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

“A wonder my companions and I weren’t killed on sight.”

“The soldiers attacked us,” Ryn said. “They did more than kill. They enjoyed hurting us. But it was one of our own who sent them. I – don’t like what I feel growing within me when I consider it.”

“So – you’re determined to continue liking humans, on principal?”

Ryn grimaced. He said, “I’m determined not to let blind hatred turn me into someone I wouldn’t recognize.”

“I think that’s admirable,” Dorian told him, after a moment. Ryn didn’t answer.

He was going to lapse into silence again, but Dorian, desperate, tried to claw it back. He didn’t want to end their conversation on such a heavy topic.

After a moment, he said, “I’m surprised you didn’t bring any books on this venture. We could have read to one another by firelight – something dramatic and tragic.”

“Could we, now?” Ryn asked, looking both curious and surprised.

“Well,” Dorian said, “To be frank, it’s odd to see you settle down without your nose buried in some thick tome.” It took three beats for Dorian to realize his mistake, and when he did, he continued quickly. “What I mean is, you strike me as remarkably well read. That’s all.”

“For a barefoot savage, you mean?” Ryn asked. It was light, almost teasing, but there was a trap lurking there.

“I don’t see you that way,” Dorian said. Then, when it didn’t seem enough, he went on. “You know, before I came south, I never knew an elf who wasn’t – ah, that is…” Shit.

“A slave?” Ryn supplied.

“I keep putting my foot in this, don’t I?”

“Do you own slaves, Dorian?” Ryn asked.

“No,” he said, “But my family does.”

That dreaded silence fell again. Dorian felt the words bubble up within him, the justifications he told himself, his attempts to put off questioning everything he had ever known. His arguments seemed weaker and weaker, the more of the world he saw beyond Tevinter. Ryn himself proved so many old assumptions wrong. He swallowed them back.

Ryn rubbed his forehead, and he turned the meat again. He didn’t look at Dorian when he spoke.

“I used to read,” he said. “They burned my books when they attacked. Said they were wasted on a knife ear.”

“Shit,” Dorian said.

“You’re worse at finding a topic than you thought,” Ryn said. His smile was close-lipped and strained, grim.

“Maybe not,” Dorian said. “We can’t simply avoid difficult conversations all together, can we? Not if we’re to – to become friends.”

Ryn’s sudden burst of laughter was unexpected.

“Friends?” he repeated. “Is that your aim, then?”

“Something like that,” Dorian admitted. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

“It’s…weird.”

Dorian scoffed. “A Tevinter Altus and a Dalish archer, weird?” he asked. “Whatever would give you that idea? Best take care not to fall in love with me while you’re at it, or we’ll be in for some really awkward family reunions in the not too distant future.”

Ryn’s frown softened, just a little. He let his eyes scan their surroundings – the towering trees above them, the night growing dark around them. The air smelled of rain and cooking meat.

“All right, Dorian,” Ryn said. “In the interest of difficult conversations, then – will you answer a question?”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Nervous, are you?”

“Around you? Best go ahead and ask.”

Ryn lowered his gaze from the treeline. He was stunningly beautiful by firelight, even with his expression so solemn.

He asked, “Why are you here, Dorian?”

“Why – you invited me, if you’ll remember. I simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get you alone.”

Ryn waved away his rather honest words as insincere flattery. “No,” he said. “What I mean is, why were you at the battleground? Why did you tend those bodies?”

Dorian faltered for a moment.

“I,” he said, slowly, careful with his words. “Was looking for someone – someone very dear to me. I thought he might have perished there.”

“An Inquisition soldier,” Ryn said. He didn’t say it sharply, as someone who hated. Neither was the word flat and icy with displeasure. The soldiers had killed his people and enjoyed it, Ryn said, yet he spoke with compassion. Dorian thought of him, standing strong and proud with the Inquisition’s insignia bright on his chest. He thought of his followers – earnest in their quest to save the world.

“They could be so much more than what she has allowed them to be,” Dorian said.

Ryn smiled grimly, and was silent as he removed their meal from the flame. His eyes met Dorian’s when he passed him his portion.

He said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Chapter Text

They had barely made their retreat into the tent before the storm Ryn had predicted hit. He looked at Dorian, lit by the soft glow of a magelight, with his eyes bright and his smile troublesome, and he asked if Dorian was still feeling reluctance to share the tent.

“Once it turns to mud, the ground outside will likely be very soft,” he taunted. “To be fair, though, you may drown.” Thunder crashed outside, and the wind howled, as if in agreement. Dorian fixed his eyes squarely on the cheeky little elf.

“Let me assure you,” Dorian said, “There is nothing in this world I want half so much as to spend the night with you.”

Ryn had laughed. “Oh,” he said. “But you are trouble, aren’t you?”

It took some maneuvering for them to fit comfortably with space between them. It would have been easier if they were lovers, if Dorian could have simply held Ryn in his arms. He almost suggested it.

Hours later, Dorian was still awake, lying there staring up into the darkness while the storm raged outside, tormented by the thought of the body curled so sweetly beside him. After all it had taken to get here, it felt unreal that Ryn was now so close.

Even with the space between them, Dorian could feel the warmth that radiated from the elf’s sleeping form. Even over the storm, he could hear the soft sound of his breathing. The tent smelled of Ryn. Dorian was surrounded by him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was back there, in that other world, that first morning – that any moment now he would feel those arms curling around him, those lips against his skin.

Dorian wanted to stretch out his hand, to lay it against Ryn’s chest and feel the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. He wanted to hold him in his arms, and bury his face in his hair, to breathe him in like oxygen, because he was alive, and he was here, and Dorian would not be alone again.

He kept his hands to himself.

Dorian’s mind was restless, taking him down paths other than sleep, and he found himself thinking of their lives as they might have been, if he had never glimpsed the promise of that other world.

He thought of himself as he had been – as he might, in truth, still be, given his last conversation with Cassandra. Selfish, directionless, and bitter. Ready to throw aside everything important to him over a matter of wounded pride. Dorian had come to the Inquisition full of ideals, and let Rellana chip them away, one by one, until he was left with nothing.

Dorian thought of Ryn – how he struggled in the wake of the attack, angry and afraid, but unwilling to be changed by it. Hanging on to himself with every scrap of his strength.

He thought of Ryn as he could end up if he ever lost that battle. Stewing and suspicious, the bitter kindle of his anger growing, hot and red, until it rose into a flame that consumed him completely – turned every good thing he was and everything he could be into nothing but ash and ruin.

It left him cold, picturing Ryn like that, and he pushed it away after only a few moments. Instead, he tried to imagine better things. The brightness of Ryn’s smile, the delight of his humor. The way it had felt – being loved openly, whole heartedly, without reservation.

Eventually, he slept.

--

In the morning, they ate cold leftover rabbit and hot herbal tea that tasted like dirt. They packed up the camp, and Ryn teased him as he watched Dorian carefully shave and shape his facial hair.

“I don’t understand the point of leaving only a little,” Ryn said. “If I could, I would have a great, long beard. Down to here.”

“Don’t ever say such a thing – it would spoil your looks entirely.” Dorian let his gaze be pulled from the little scrap of mirror in the shaving kit to look to the elf who watched him so intently. “Do you not like it, then?”

“You’re very dashing and handsome,” Ryn promised. “Whatever you do.” He finished off the last of his tea and rose in a sudden burst of energy, moving to pull clothing out of his pack. Dorian did not know where the elf had come by the simple linen pants and shirt, only that he jerked and almost cut himself when Ryn began the process of stripping out of his leather Dalish armor.

Ryn noticed.

“Is the sight of a little skin enough to make your jaw hit the ground, Dorian?” he asked lightly. It was too close to the truth for Dorian to feel comfortable answering. He had seen it all before – he had seen it all before – but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t even pretend not to be watching. Ryn was thinner, here. The harsh winter he and his clan had struggled through had not gone without impact, and Dorian had seen with his own eyes how the little elf made sure those around him were taken care of before himself. He was still beautiful.

The clothing didn’t quite fit – it was a bit too large, and hung about him, making him appear even smaller and leaving a sense of vulnerability to Ryn that hadn’t been there when he had been in armor. Even though it was a simple thing, the blue of his shirt made his stunning eyes stand out even more. He grimaced as he slid his feet into a pair of boots. The ensemble was entirely appropriate for their ruse.

“And last,” Ryn said, brandishing a thick piece of leather to serve as his collar. “Will you help me put it on?”

“You’re certain about this?” Dorian pressed. Ryn only frowned a little, and lifted his shoulders into a shrug that could have meant any number of other things. Dorian could feel his heartbeat hammering when his fingers brushed his throat. His hair was soft against Dorian’s knuckles.

“I’m not going to look like much of a merchant in what I’m wearing,” Dorian mused, as they began to walk. Ryn made much more noise beside him, now that he had shoes. “I suppose we will have to rely on my superior breeding to win out.”

“You don’t think well of yourself at all, do you?” Ryn grinned.

“My father is a magister,” Dorian told him, because this Ryn didn’t know. “We don’t get along.”

“When did you last see him?” Ryn asked, and Dorian nearly laughed. He was so earnest, walking beside him, his eyes so large and interested, focused on the conversation, thoughtful, wanting to get to know him. Dorian thought on that horrible day, of Rellana’s trickery, of the cold dread that had dropped into his belly like ice the moment he heard his father’s voice.

He wondered how it had gone, in that other world.

We both speak as men who dearly love your son.

Dorian took a breath. “It, ah, wasn’t too long ago,” he said. “I do believe he was trying to have me kidnapped. Oh, don’t look so shocked. It would hardly have been the first time.”

“Your father wanted to kidnap you?”

“My father wants to control me,” Dorian said. “That’s what it boils down to, control. He didn’t have a son in order to love him, it was a matter of status. His misfortune that he got me.”

“That can’t be true,” Ryn frowned.

He could feel the familiar ball of bitter pain that formed in his belly whenever he thought of his father’s plan, of how close he had come to losing everything he was. It was strange, thinking of it again, with everything else going on. Strange to remember that he was back home, in this world, where there was no reconciliation, and he was not loved, nor wanted. Not as the man he was, anyway.

Ryn had almost made him forget.

The forest was quiet around them, the light weak and watery after the night’s storm. Ryn’s pale eyes were on him, purple this morning, intent and intense and interested. Dorian swallowed a lump, and tried to keep his voice casual. After all – somewhere out there was a Ryn who already knew all this. What was the harm in telling this one?

“I’m not what he expected,” Dorian said, regretting ever getting on this subject. “Not what he wanted.”

It came out slowly – piece by painful piece. More than he had ever told anyone, Dorian’s cavalier attitude falling away with the more he revealed.

“I always adored my father. Mother hardly knew I existed, and was hardly sober enough to remember she had a son – but my father, ah, the great magister Pavus. I wanted nothing more than to make him proud.”

Somewhere within him, Dorian was aware that he was telling too much. He knew how strange it must be to Ryn, who had not even really spoken to him before yesterday, to suddenly hear of his darkest demons. But once they had started, Dorian couldn’t stop. He told him not only of his father’s plans to change him, but of other things, too: his misery at Carastes, bouncing about from Circle to Circle, tutor to tutor. Alexius. His abduction from the home of Lord Abrexis and subsequent confinement in his father’s home. Each painful bitter word fell from his lips with the same ease that last night’s rain had fallen from the sky, as if he were some guileless schoolboy who knew no better than to bare his heart, as if he truly believed that proving he was unloved would prompt Ryn to take up the challenge that was one Dorian Pavus.

And when he fell silent, hoarse and saddened, the words could not be taken back. They hung, invisible, in the air between them. Each moment that passed, and Ryn did not answer, was like a small eternity, cutting into his skin, leaving him raw. This was not how things were done. This was not how he wanted the elf to know him.

Dorian opened his mouth to apologize, and Ryn finally spoke.

“I don’t remember my family,” he said. “I suppose that’s why I want to believe better of yours.”

“You were raised by the clan, weren’t you?” Dorian asked, and earned a curious look. He fumbled for an explanation. “Someone mentioned it. A few days ago.”

Finally, Ryn nodded. “I never felt unloved,” he said. “But I never felt that I fit in, either. I didn’t have my own place. It seems like a selfish thing to say, now.”

“Not at all,” Dorian said.

“It’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it? For someone who can claim an entire clan as their family to feel so lonesome?” he smiled at Dorian, and Dorian found himself remembering those empty places around the fire, the burned out aravels and the pile of bodies.

“You feel it’s disrespectful to think that way, now that so many of them are gone,” Dorian realized. Ryn inclined his head.

“Something like that,” he acknowledged.

Dorian took a breath. He wished he had the right to claim a place in Ryn’s family. The elf would no doubt laugh if he knew what he was thinking. Ryn was the kind of man who mattered a great deal to anyone with the luck to know him; he would never truly be alone. Still, Dorian wanted to say it. You have me, now. I found you.

This time when the silence grew between them, Dorian didn’t fight it.

--

When they found the road, Dorian stopped to look over Ryn’s disguise one more time.

“I suppose this is your last chance,” he told him. “If you aren’t comfortable with this ruse – “

“I’m not,” Ryn said, “But it’s the only way an elf with vallaslin is getting into Wycome right now.”

“Is it desperation or trust that leads you to play this game with me?”

“That,” Ryn told him, “Is a secret.” He took a step back and spread his arms. “How do I look? Believable enough?”

No, Dorian almost answered. An elf who looked like Ryn would be the bed pet of someone with power and money to spare. The merchant Dorian was to pass himself off as would never have been able to afford –

Dorian stopped that line of thought. He didn’t like it.

“Keep your head down and walk behind me,” Dorian instructed. Ryn looked impish as he reached to pull a twig from his hair.

“I suppose if I’m naughty, you could always tie me up,” Ryn said.

Dorian tried very hard not to think about that.

--

Varric was a tricky, slippery bastard, who had used their hunts as an excuse to do everything he could to prepare Ryn for this venture. He had, it seemed, caches of money stashed all over the Free Marches for emergencies, and had given Ryn the location of one – as well as the key to the room at the inn they had been renting, which was paid through until the end of the month. The dwarf had also instructed Ryn on all of the places to find the various notes and letters his contacts would have left for him, and given him a stack of correspondence to leave in their place.

Ryn explained all of this to Dorian as they walked along the road, passing steadily more and more travelers until, after about two hours, the gates of Wycome at last rose up before them. Ryn received a few appraising looks, and Dorian lifted his voice to bring the attention back to himself.

“Pick up your feet, will you, boy? Positively useless – crashed the cart, you see, and we’ve been walking for ages. Do you know of a good tavern nearby?”

They passed the gate guards without incident.

The first order of business was to purchase a horse and cart to bring the supplies back with, and then they moved on to their business for the clan – buying salt and spices and flour and sugar, all in big barrels. They bought coffee and certain textiles, nails, since the clan didn’t have a smith anymore – anything it was difficult for the Dalish to come by on their own, they bought. They didn’t know how long it would be that they were on the move, and with their numbers so limited, so was their capacity for self-sufficiency.

Dorian liked the way Ryn’s eyes looked when he added a stack of books to the pile.

For his part, the little Dalish followed him demurely about the city, playing his role so well that Dorian had to field three separate offers to purchase him. He sidled close and, under the guise of a pet’s affections, murmured advice on goods and prices. They collected Varric’s correspondence along the way, and though Dorian kept an eye out for Inquisition soldiers and spies, their progress was not troubled.

“It smells like an alehouse in here,” Ryn said that evening, when they retreated to the room Varric had let. Dorian felt odd, stepping through the door.

Varric had paid very well to keep the inn’s staff from interfering with their business – as such, the room had not been touched in their absence. The bed was unmade, the servant’s cot in the corner left out, and several empty or partially-empty bottles of wine scattered the floor by chair at the window, where Dorian had spent his time.

A sense of unreality flooded him. He watched Ryn move about the room, and thought only that the last time he had been here, he had been convinced the elf was dead and rotting. The memory of his grief hung in the air like cheap perfume. He felt its weight, its presence. His heart did something strange when Ryn threw himself into the chair, kicked off his boots, and propped his feet up jauntily against the window.

“You know, even before the attack – if I came to a place like this on my own, they would never have even considered letting me use a room,” Ryn said. “Who knew all one needed was a Vint?”

“A dirty, smelly Vint,” Dorian corrected. He tried not to act like he thought the room was full of snakes, but he felt considerably spooked, all the same. He came around to sit on the edge of the bed, on the side nearest Ryn. “I can’t believe the wait for the tub was an hour.”

“And that was after your bribe,” Ryn said. “Are you sure you don’t want to go down to supper?”

“Not before I’m washed,” he grimaced. “You are a savage, after all, aren’t you?”

“What will we do until then, then?” Ryn asked. He bent to pick up one of the bottles, and peered inside. He made a face when he sniffed the contents. “This has gone sour,” he decided. “That spoils that option.”

“I don’t want to drink,” Dorian said, staring at him sitting there, like a ghost haunting the place where he had been mourned. Ryn looked at him.

Dorian couldn’t have said what it was that moved him, then. The light in the elf’s eyes, or the inviting curve of his lips. Maybe it was simply the fact that when he had last walked out of this room he had believed him lost forever, and now he was here, warm and charming and flirty, and alive, so very alive.

He reached for the chair, and he tugged it closer to the bed.

Ryn let his legs drop from the windowsill. There was a curious tilt to his head.

He let Dorian kiss him.

Chapter Text

Ryn’s lips were soft against his own, and he tasted as intoxicating as Dorian remembered.

He kissed him gently, waiting for that moment when the elf would pull away. Waiting, braced for rejection, outrage, even as Ryn’s lips parted beneath his own, even as the elf pressed forward, curious, experimental, no less careful than Dorian himself. Ryn’s lips against his own were so light, like a dream, barely there at all, lips brushing, tongue darting out, pink and quick, tip just brushing his lips, and then away. His hands were on Dorian’s knees. They slid, slowly, up his thighs, and came to rest there when Dorian’s breath caught.

Slowly, Ryn smiled. “You won’t go down to supper without a bath,” he said. His voice was low. He pulled back to look Dorian in the eye, and his were dark, and warm, and troublesome. “But you’ll do this? I don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned.”

“Priorities,” Dorian said, utterly breathless, and Ryn laughed as he reached, desperately, for him. The elf moved from the chair, and spilled into Dorian’s lap like water, straddling him boldly, with one knee on either side of him on the mattress, his hands cupping the mage’s face.

He was solid and he was real and he was there, smiling against Dorian’s lips, kissing him leisurely, lazily, as his clever fingers slid through his hair and under his collar, then began to make quick work of the buttons of Dorian’s shirt. There was a sense of play to his kisses, light and fun and refreshing, teasing, as he always teased. He slid his hands against Dorian’s skin, and rocked his hips meaningfully, and Dorian clung to him like a drowning man. When he reciprocated, sliding his hands up under Ryn’s loose shirt, the shock of bare skin was breathtaking. Ryn was impossibly warm under his hands. Ryn kissed Dorian harder, and then he broke away. Rocking against him, his lips brushed his throat.

“Amatus,” Dorian whispered, and he felt the thrill that it was no longer another man’s name for him, but his own. This was his Ryn, and no other, luckier self had claim to him. Ryn was smiling against his skin. His hands were in Dorian’s hair again. “This – this is real?” he found himself asking. “You want this?”

“Why not?” Ryn asked with a soft laugh, and nuzzled his flesh.

Dorian was having trouble concentrating, but he found himself frowning, nonetheless. “Why…not?” he repeated.

“I’m I supposed to be surprised that you want me? I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

“I – !”

“Relax,” Ryn laughed. “It’s just sex, Dorian. Let’s have some fun.”

It felt like a bucket of ice, upended over his head.

Dorian must have tensed, or moved, or done something else to indicate his sudden change in mood. Where Dorian had been warm and full of wonder only moments before, he now felt alien, unreal, cold. Ryn drew back from him, his brow creased in concern.

“Dorian?” he asked.

Dorian slid his hands out from beneath Ryn’s shirt and Ryn, aware of his sudden discomfort, rolled off his lap and onto the bed beside him, looking at him with concern, even as Dorian stared back at him in horror.

For a moment, Dorian wasn’t there anymore, but back in Tevinter. A raised eyebrow in the middle of a conversation, a crook of the finger during a party. Coat closets and spare bedrooms and quiet corners of strangers’ gardens, a slew of men he hardly knew and didn’t care to, quick and tawdry and sweaty and meaningless -

Every sexual encounter of his life had been about nothing more than catching a bit of fun. Finding some release. It was fine, so long as it wasn’t serious. Don’t get attached. Casual and meaningless, quick, dirty burst of pleasure, then on with their own lives. That had been – he was done with that – he and Ryn had been more. They were supposed to be more. What had been such a novel concept when he had gone to that other world was now something Dorian realized he expected.

“This isn’t a temporary diversion,” Dorian said, and caught Ryn’s hand as he reached to pull him down to himself. Ryn tilted his head, curious and concerned.

“I don’t understand,” Ryn said. “Dorian, what’s wrong?”

He couldn’t stand it, suddenly. The thought of his relationship with Ryn operating under those same rules he had lived his life by back home. Holding himself back, not getting attached – it was too late for that. The thought of coming all this way just to find Ryn and have it be – have it be nothing – it was –

Dorian struggled, and he almost couldn’t get the words out. They sounded pathetic, childish. They were the kinds of words he never would even have thought, before he met the elf in that other reality.

He said, “Don’t you think there could be a world where – where you and I could love one another?”

Ryn frowned. He was gentle when he answered.

“Dorian,” he said. “We don’t know one another.”

Dorian stared at him, and he felt absolutely gutted.

--

Ryn could not decide what it was he had done wrong, and if the last two days of their venture were anything to go by, he wasn’t going to find out. The human, Dorian, showed absolutely no indication he planned to explain why his obvious interest in him had fizzled out so suddenly. In fact, getting him to talk to him at all had become a challenge.

Ryn knew he hadn’t misunderstood the signs. He knew the attention he received, and the way Dorian had looked at him from their very first meeting had been clear.

Even still, somewhere, he had missed something.

Dorian had left that night without finishing their conversation, and when Ryn woke in the morning it was to find him curled in the servant’s cot by the wall, reeking of wine. When they shared breakfast, Dorian’s eyes were red, and he would not look at Ryn directly.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Dorian told him, when he asked. “Do forgive the misunderstanding last night. I promise, it shan’t happen again.”

“But we were doing so well,” Ryn answered. Dorian didn’t acknowledge he had spoken.

They finished up their shopping and left by midday. Their passage through the forest was slower with the horse and cart, and Ryn was kept busy looping back to cover signs of their trail. He could almost believe that to be the reason they didn’t speak much that day. The weather was clear, and so they didn’t set up the tent that night, instead laying out, watching the stars through the canopy of trees.

Dorian still looked at him in that interested, intense way of his, but Ryn’s little teasing and jibes went unremarked, and eventually he stopped trying.

He didn’t like this kind of quiet. Tense. Waiting. He didn’t like feeling that there was something he had missed.

“If you would only tell me what I’ve done,” Ryn said, when he could stand it no longer.

“It was my mistake,” Dorian said, again, a few moments past the time when Ryn thought he would not receive an answer. “It’s nothing you did.”

“It’s something,” Ryn insisted. “You’re a different man today.”

“I’ve been a different man for a while.”

“Weren’t you the one who talked to me about friendship? And trust? And difficult conversations?” Ryn demanded. “One moment you want me, and the next you won’t look at me? Was all that talk just bullshit, then?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Dorian told him, and would explain no further.

It was a fine day, bright, the sun slatting down through the trees in golden shafts. Ryn expected to return to his clan to find them hard at work at the usual business – building the aravel, preparing for travel.

Instead as they approached Ryn found an uneasy sense of stillness to his people. They stood or sat around the ring of their clearing, not a single hand busy with work, their faces drawn and grey. In the center of the clearing, someone had set up a pallet, soft with cushions and blankets and pillows, and as they approached, Ryn could see two of the warriors coming from the Keeper’s aravel with Deshanna’s small, frail form held between them. Her white hair was loose around her, like clouds.

All of Ryn’s other worries flew out of his head. He dropped the horse’s lead, tossed his pack to the ground, and jogged the rest of the way to the camp. He came up short just at the edge of the seemingly accidental circle his people had formed, near the dwarf, Varric.

“Took a turn for the worst last night,” Varric said, after a brief, acknowledging glance. “Ellora’s potion won’t be done brewing for another week. Glad you got back in time, kiddo.”

Ryn was a few years past his thirtieth birthday, but now wasn’t the time to protest a harmless nickname. He stared, feeling the blood drain from his face and the land fall from beneath his feet as the warriors settled Deshanna as comfortably as they could on the pallet. The earlier concerns weighing on his sharp mind were suddenly lost entirely.

“They shouldn’t - !” his voice stopped, rasped. He swallowed hard. As he tried to move forward, the dwarf caught his sleeve. “They shouldn’t move her,” he said. “She could – she might - !”

“She wanted to die with the sun on her face,” Varric said. “She wanted her people around her.”

Ryn released a shaking breath.

“Surely there’s some way to expedite the potion’s chemistry,” Ryn hadn’t realized Dorian had come up behind him until he heard the mage’s voice. It was thoughtful, if unaffected by the magnitude of what losing their Keeper would mean. A man worrying a puzzle, rather than struggling to save a loved one. Ryn grasped, blindly, at that practicality. He made himself breathe again. It was Ryn who Dorian looked at, and for a moment it seemed he might reach for him, and then the moment passed, and the comfort of a touch never came. Dorian began to move away, his eyes scanning the group of elves gathered to say goodbye. “If Ellora only wouldn’t be so secretive on what we’ve been making. Where is she? Perhaps there is still time.”

“I think they’ve made peace, sparkler.”

“No,” Dorian said. He didn’t stop. “No, that’s unacceptable. There has to be something we can do.”

It took the afternoon. Ryn tried to keep busy. He gave Varric his letters and what was left of the money they had been given. He restrung his bow, and made a stack of arrows that, with his hands shaking as they were, he would never be able to use. He fed the horse, and brushed her down, and then did the same for all the halla.

Keeper Deshanna lay on her pallet with her face upturned toward the sun and her eyes closed, and one by one her people came to her, to press her hand or kiss her forehead. She had words for many of them, but weakened quickly. By the time Ryn got to kneel by her side, she could only smile, and pat his hand. His face was wet when he leaned down to kiss her. She squeezed his fingers weakly.

Dorian and Ellora were still tinkering with the potion when she passed.

Chapter Text

Under other circumstances, Varric might have found the chance to observe the process of Dalish mourning fascinating. There were stories here, in the way the elves sang to their Keeper, in the process through which they wrapped her body in herbs and draped it with flowers. They built up her pyre with all of her favorite possessions, and let it burn, bright, deep into the night.

The next day, the Dalish were back to work. They had to be practical to survive, and they had to move on from this place soon, before their human neighbors realized they yet lingered. They no longer had the cover of winter snows to keep hunters from stumbling upon them.

As outsiders and humans, dual damning traits, the hostility and suspicion hoisted on both Dorian and Cassandra seemed to only grow in the wake of the death of the Keeper, whereas before Varric had thought they might have been making some progress. It was as if Deshanna’s passing had reminded the elves of their own vulnerability out here, still so weak and so close to Wycome. Varric kept as close to his companions as he dared that day – an easy enough task, as none of them were permitted to do any of their usual work for the clan.

“They didn’t tie us up,” Varric pointed out. “That’s good, right?”

It still felt like being prisoners again.

Throughout the day, elves had been going in and out of the Keeper’s aravel. Most seemed to be working, clearing out the Keeper’s things, cleaning. All that ended around midday, and the aravel had been quiet since. Varric was surprised when, at twilight, Ryn finally emerged. He stopped outside for a moment, and seemed to take a deep breath. His hands rested atop his head as he stared skyward, as if in prayer. Then he gathered himself, visibly, and approached their group directly.

“Keeper Ellora wants to speak with you,” Ryn said, and it was odd how he and Dorian would not quite look at each other. “All of you.”

As they entered the cool shadowed confines of the aravel, Varric was reminded not so much of a dwelling place but of a chantry.

The curtains had been pulled tight against any possibility of light slipping in from outside, and candles burned brightly from every surface that could hold them, leaving the elaborate carvings that decorated the furniture in eerie shadows. Heavy incense perfumed the air, thick enough to mute the candlelight.

Varric had never been in the aravel himself, before, but he knew how it had been a hub of activity for the little clan, and how unnatural it was for it to be so empty and silent now. The closed door that led to the room where Deshanna had lived out the last months of her life seemed a barrier to some holy sanctuary.

“Sit,” Ellora said, and motioned them to the table. She arranged herself across from it, her arms crossed, her rear against the counters. Ryn actually went so far as to sit on those counters, his hands hooked over the edge to keep them still. His head was lowered, and between the flicker of shadows and the spill of his hair, his expression was unreadable.

Varric thought of the correspondence the elf had brought him, and of the half-worked, desperate plan he felt just stupid enough to try. He watched the archer, as the others arranged themselves. Ryn didn’t look like much, with his pretty face and slender form. His shoulders were heavy, as if in defeat.

Varric hoped to Andraste that he was everything both Dorians claimed he was.

“It seems our purpose for staying here has ended prematurely,” Cassandra said, before Ellora could. The warrior was tight and tense, unarmed. She hand Varric had been discussing their plan since before they even landed in the Free Marches, which meant, more than anything, they had been arguing about it. But she hadn’t seen Varric’s reports yet, and she didn’t know quite how stupid he was really prepared to be.

He was going to have to be ready to talk fast.

“The second aravel is nearly complete, and our supplies are better off than they’ve been in months,” Ellora said. “The clan is ready to move on.”

“And what does that mean for us?”

“You were unable to fulfill your part in our bargain,” Ellora said, and he could see a hint of danger there, the temptation to blame the clan’s loss on some failure of their guests. Ellora shook her head, and she spoke with a kind of reluctance. “Still, for a pair of shems and a dwarf, you’ve acted with honor. We will not kill you.”

Beside him at the table, Dorian made a soft, exasperated noise. He too was tense, his eyes on the table.

“A generous offer,” Varric muttered. Cassandra kicked him.

“Our hunters will blindfold you and take you some distance from Wycome,” Ellora said. “A day’s journey, maybe two. Either way, if you choose to betray us once you reach your people, you will be unable to tell them in what direction we have gone. It’s better that way.”

“You can’t think we would actually do that,” Dorian said, his head coming up, his eyes on Ryn. The archer was silent and motionless, even as Ellora lifted her shoulders in a gesture that could have meant anything.

“Some of us trust you more than others,” she said. “In my experience, I find it best to remove the temptation completely.”

“It makes sense,” Varric said. He realized that this was the moment he had been waiting for, the moment he had been trying to build up to, as long as they had been in the camp. It was also likely his last shot. He owed a lot to Ryn, bringing him those letters. “But it’s not going to solve any of your problems.”

“Right now,” Ellora said, “The three of you are my problem.”

“So you ditch us,” Varric said. “You run, and you hide, you find another clan to take you in, and, hey, maybe you get another one or two good years before something like this happens again.”

“As long as there are shemlen, things like this will always happen,” Ellora said, with poorly restrained contempt.

“You’re ignoring the root of what happened to your people, Keeper,” Varric said. “You’re going to take your clan and disappear into the woods, and meanwhile princess Rellana becomes a real world power. What do you think happens next? What do you think happens to the elves when she starts using her Inquisition to fuel her temper tantrums? Who’s going to get the blame for her bad behavior?”

Ellora didn’t answer, though Ryn lifted his head. In the gloom of the aravel, his eyes seemed to glow.

“What are you saying, Varric?” he asked, remarkably calm.

He thumped his index finger against the table to emphasize each of his points. “I’m saying I’ve got a warden friend out there who’s already recruited almost three hundred soldiers. I’m saying I’ve got an Orlesian enchanter writing to three separate former circles – mages Corypheus hasn’t corrupted yet. I’ve got a Maker-damned son of a magister, right here beside me, ready to broker an alliance with Tevinter.”

The last part was almost certainly a lie, unless Dorian had changed his mind and not bothered telling anyone, and in the resulting silence that followed his words, Varric silently and desperately prayed Dorian didn’t contradict him.

Ryn was the first to speak, cautiously, frowning. “You – want to challenge the Inquisition?”

Cassandra frowned at him for a moment, but she was the one to answer. She said, “We want to be the Inquisition.”

Quickly, and yet doing his best to hide his nerves, he reached into his jacket for the thin cloth roll Blackwall had sent. When he tossed it onto the table, it unfurled slowly to reveal a very familiar eye, stitched brightly in black and red.

“You’ve lost your minds,” Dorian hissed.

“It was your plan,” Varric told him, under his breath. He jabbed his finger down into the symbol, his eyes on the elves. Louder, he continued, “We fight under her banner, and Rellana can’t move against us without making the rest of the world think her little set up is falling to pieces.”

“It looks like infighting,” Ryn realized. “She attacks you and the world thinks the Inquisition is crumbling.”

“And if she’s smart enough to treat with us instead,” Cassandra said, “If she absorbs us, that is, then it puts us back into position to temper her ambitions. To keep her power from becoming absolute.”

Varric said, “We fix what’s broken.”

“I formed the Inquisition,” Cassandra told the elves. “I let my faith blind me, and I did not see what she was until it was too late to hold her back. We can stop her. Surely the Maker has a better plan.”

Silence greeted her words, the air in the aravel thick and tense. The elves kept their council with their own thoughts. They were both frowning.

Ellora was the first to speak.

“You speak freely of hope,” she said, “But exactly what is the role you see for my people in all this madness?”

Varric felt a twinge of nerves again. This was the part he and Cassandra had been unable to agree on.

“It’s twofold,” Varric said. “First – elves. City elves, Dalish. We need numbers, and I want you to recruit them. Fighters, craftsmen, spies. Whatever your people can bring to the table, I want it.”

“And the second thing?” Ellora asked.

Varric licked his lips. He was sweating. He smiled.

“I want Ryn,” he said. “I want him to be our leader.”

Beside him at the table, Dorian jerked. He almost bolted out of his chair. The archer was staring at them through wide, shocked eyes.

“Me?” he asked. “I’ve never led anything in my life!”

“This conversation is done,” Ellora spat. “You want a scapegoat – someone to save your neck from the chopping block when something goes wrong.”

“Look,” Varric said, quickly, smoothly, half-rising from his own seat, “Rellana is only number four or five on the list of scary fucks who want me dead. I’m not worried about who gets the blame.”

“Then why - ?”

“I just – I have a very good reason to believe he’d be good at it.”

“Varric!” Cassandra hissed. Dorian, beside him, looked ready to commit murder.

“Deshanna almost sent you to the conclave, didn’t she?” Varric asked Ryn, directly. The little archer was frowning at him, but he looked thoughtful. When he answered, his voice was quiet.

“There are a number of names she considered,” he said.

“Then let me say this,” Varric said. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his belly. He tried to look confident, to act as though he fully believed what he was saying. He had to, didn’t he? He had seen enough to know better. Anyway, it was the best shot they had. “A lot of weird shit has happened since the sky ripped open. No one’s going to argue that. So believe me when I say, with complete and utter authority that I know exactly what it is I’m talking about – this world would be a much better place if you had been the one to step out of the Fade that day.”

No one spoke for a long time, then. No one really even moved.

Ryn drew a breath. “Dorian,” he said. “Am I the one you were looking for?”

Dorian didn’t look at him. His voice was a rasp when he answered, “Yes.”

This time the silence that fell seemed final. Even in the shadows of the flickering candlelight, Ryn looked pale. His eyes were like dark bruises in his pretty face. He stared at Dorian, and Dorian did not look his way.

“Three days,” Ellora said at last. “Three days to mourn and to finish the other aravel. We will give you your answer then.”

--

The discussion ended, they trickled out one by one. Ellora first, already holding herself like a Keeper. Varric, looking apologetic, almost ashamed. He hadn’t wanted to put forth his plan, Ryn thought. He hadn’t wanted to involve them, whatever responsibility Lavellan had for unleashing Rellana upon the world.

As the proposed sacrifice, Ryn wondered if it should have been a comfort the dwarf at least appeared reluctant to put his name forward. His head was pounding.

When Cassandra rose, she hesitated, pensive and frowning. She looked at Ryn as if she had something she couldn’t quite figure out how to say. She looked at Dorian as if she wanted to apologize.

Finally, she left, and they were alone.

The heavy incense burned Ryn’s eyes. He felt unreal, stunned, as if some great cosmic force had picked him up, lifted him entirely from his body, and slammed him back into it.

Varric’s words made no sense, and yet the dwarf had believed them. All three of their visitors had believed what it was he was saying, and Ryn – Ryn felt it, truth that hit like a physical blow. He had stepped aside, and let them choose Rellana. He had put away his own desire to see the world, in favor of the experience she would gain on her own. He had asked his name be withdrawn.

He wanted, very badly, to be sick.

“I didn’t mean to involve you in this,” Dorian said, low and bitter, and Ryn stared at him, hard, unable, now, to pull his eyes away.

He was surprised that the human would voluntarily choose to speak to him now. He had spent the last two days ignoring him, after all.

“What was it?” Ryn asked. “A dream? A vision?”

“I went there,” Dorian rasped. “That world. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Tell me,” Ryn said. Dorian shook his head.

“No.”

Ryn drew in a breath. If only his head would stop aching so that he could think. He should be with his clan, mourning his Keeper. He should be on his knees in supplication to the gods, concentrating on each happy memory of Deshanna, praying her safe passage from this life.

But he couldn’t think, not with Dorian’s eyes on him. The space between them seemed like miles. He remembered the heated intensity of that gaze as he tracked his movements across the camp, before they had even properly met. He could still feel the soft, tentative press of his lips, and the way his hands shook when he touched. Dorian had kissed him as if afraid he would disappear.

“What were we to each other?” Ryn asked.

Dorian’s voice was raw. He said, “Don’t.”

The mage looked rough – scraped thin and worn out, pale. His eyes were red. He pushed his hands through his hair and it stood on end.

“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?” Dorian asked. “What Varric is asking? You’re happier without the Inquisition, you know.”

“Are you really going back to Tevinter?” Ryn countered. “After everything you told me? I can no more sit back and let the world crumble than you could, Dorian.”

He shook his head. “You really don’t know me at all, do you?” he asked with a bitter laugh. “I’d let them all burn if it meant I – if we could – “

“No you wouldn’t,” Ryn said, with utter confidence. He couldn’t read the way Dorian stared at him. When he took a breath, it trembled. He realized he was afraid. “I’ve never been without my clan before. I suppose Varric will have other tasks for me than he will for them.”

“It’s dangerous,” Dorian said.

“So is Tevinter.”

Chapter Text

“Well,” Maevaris said cheerfully, when Dorian climbed into her coach. “Don’t you look like shit?”

“Yes, thank you,” Dorian answered. “Does it really matter who is the better looking when we are the only two to know the difference?”

“That sounds like something an ugly person would say,” she smiled. Despite himself, Dorian felt a certain tightness in his shoulders begin to grow loose.

The docks were grey and gloomy under a heavy fall of rain, but they were still busy. Slaves were in constant motion, loading and unloading cargo ships like a colony of ants that had stumbled upon a forgotten feast. They couldn’t let something like the weather put them behind. Foremen, sheltered under the arches of black umbrellas, watched their every move as jealously as if they were the ones to hold their leashes.

Dorian found himself guiltily flinching from every elven face he saw.

“I suppose the good news is it’s unlikely anyone recognized you,” Maevaris said, with a winkle in her nose.

“I feel like a drowned dog,” Dorian told her.

“Darling,” she said, “You look far worse than that.”

“Yes, well,” Dorian said, “Welcome home to me.”

“I’ll throw you a party,” Mae decided. “After you’ve had a bath or three. Mn?”

Dorian snorted, and settled back against the coach’s cushioned seat. Outside, he heard Mae’s driver cluck to the horses, and in a moment they were moving.

Maevaris was at ease, seated across from him, resplendent in blue, her arms extended gracefully across the back of the seat. Dorian had sent word a scant two days before his own departure from the Free Marches, and yet she was here, having made the trip to Minrathous and opened up her home a month out of season, just to help him.

“I do appreciate what you’ve done,” Dorian said. “I won’t forget.”

“How flattering.”

“What I mean is, I’m touched that you chose to come personally. That’s all.”

“Don’t make me blush,” she said. “Anyway, I wasn’t going to simply throw you to the wolves.”

“I won’t forget,” he said, again. “Likely it would have served you better if you had.”

Mae frowned at him, her bright lips pressing into a thin and thoughtful line. “You’re different,” she decided, more curious than accusing. “What have those ghastly southerners done to you?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, that sounds dull. Don’t bother telling me, then. But there is one thing I do want to know – I thought you didn’t intend to come back here. At least, not until the hole in the sky is fixed and the Venatori put in their place. What happened to all those grand ideas, then? Haven’t lost them, have we?”

He said he couldn’t love me.

The words bubbled, threatening, on his tongue, and along with them the sharp stab of pain that had not left since that night in the inn, Ryn warm and willing in his arms. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to tell his old friend everything, to spill out the contents of his heart. He wanted to say, out loud, how it had felt when Ryn looked at him, confused and concerned, his tilted, eyes guileless and utterly ignorant of the depth of Dorian’s feelings. How crushing it felt, to know he could have his body, but not his heart.

“We don’t know each other, Dorian,” Ryn had said, so gently, offering kindness rather than truth, avoiding the question. No, Ryn couldn’t see a world where he loved him. Ryn hadn’t even considered it, and Dorian had been a fool to think he might.

He had known better once, before Ryn had changed him – before he’d learned to hope again.

If Ryn had wanted him, Dorian never would have left his side – but Ryn had not wanted him, not for anything more than a passing romp, anyway, and so it was only fair that Dorian remove himself. The elf hadn’t even seen him off when he’d left the Free Marches. (He couldn’t. Dorian knew that. Ryn couldn’t venture into Wycome, not when he was so clearly Dalish, not with the city’s mood the way it was. But to Dorian, feeling raw and exposed and heartbroken, his absence had throbbed like an open wound.)

Dorian choked back the words, though Maevaris was a good friend, and it would not have been the first time he bore his heart to her. Dorian and Ryn were different men here. Ryn couldn’t love him, and Dorian had no claim to expect him to. He was never going back to that world, so now there was little else to do but keep this one livable. At the very least, Dorian could do his part to make sure the rebel Inquisition was successful.

There was too much work to be done to indulge in heartache.

Dorian told Maevaris about Rellana, instead. He told her about Rellana’s Inquisition, and the caliber of people she seemed to attract and cultivate. He brushed over his own brief flirtation with execution, the first time he had tried to leave, as well as his eventual flight from Skyhold, focusing instead on Varric’s plan to temper Rellana’s power.

Sometime in the midst of it, Mae lost her teasing smile in exchange for something much more serious, calculating.

“Of course, you’ll have whatever you need from me, in terms of support,” she said. “But to really have the kind of impact you want, it’s going to take more than one cooperative magister. You’re going to need – “

“My father,” Dorian said. “Yes. I’ve no doubt word will reach Qarinus of my arrival before nightfall, if I know his toadies half as well as I think I do. He’ll be upon me in no time at all. Yippee.”

Silence fell between them. Dorian felt ill with the thought of crawling back home begging favors, even if it was for a good cause. The fact it was something he had been prepared to do even before he had ventured to that other world did not occur to him now. He turned his head to the window, and watched the dark, cramped streets of Minrathous pass him by through the fall of rain.

“He came to Ferelden,” Dorian told her. “Did you know that? He tried to ambush me.”

“Clearly that didn’t go as intended,” Mae said.

“No,” Dorian huffed. It still made his blood boil, the memory of his father’s face that day, the approximation of actual human emotion, as if he actually cared. “I’m certain you can imagine how I might finding my needing him now to be…dissatisfying.”

“No one will be quietly smuggling you out of Minrathous,” Mae said, softly, fiercely. “Not while you’re under my roof.”

“If you only knew how dearly I’m depending on your support,” Dorian began, and then stopped himself. Maevaris didn’t prompt him to continue.

Even in Minrathous, with its old names and ancient fortunes, Maevaris was one of the richest magisters in the city. Her manor was almost unmatched in opulence, rising from the gloom like some hulking behemoth, all pointed spires and dark stone, gilded columns and stained glass windows. Statuary lined the long stone drive up to the house, frolicking goddesses and dragons, with a fountain feature that made it seem as if they passed a ball of water back and forth among them.

Inside, a line of beautiful male slaves awaited their arrival, eyes downcast, collars bright gold against their strong necks. Mae smiled when she saw him notice them. “Your staff, for the duration of your visit,” she said. “Do you like them? I tried to remember your tastes.”

Only two of them were elven, yet even still, for a moment Dorian saw Ryn in them all.

“Who wants to help our darling Dorian bathe?” Mae was asking. He shook his head.

“I’ll, ah, see to myself tonight. You have my thanks, though. For the kindness you’ve shown me – the help you’ve offered.”

“You really are trying to make me blush,” she said. “I don’t know, I think I‘m going to bore of the sincerity act rather quickly. Do think of something more entertaining before breakfast, all right?” She smiled, to show she didn’t mean it, and patted his cheek.

--

Dorian bathed and shaved, and when he returned to his bedroom it was to find the sheets turned down and the magelights burning low. A closet of clothes awaited him – fine, stylish things that must have been whipped up in record time once Mae learned he was on his way, and that he didn’t have much in the way of luggage. She hadn’t said anything, but she must have known his personal funds were currently limited.

A bottle of wine awaited him by the cold fireplace. He had his choice of a stack of books.

Dorian was clean and fresh smelling, and a feather mattress awaited him.

And yet, in some strange way, he found he wished very powerfully to be back in Free Marches, struggling to find a comfortable way to sleep on his makeshift bed, atop that wretched table, knowing Ryn was just outside, a few tents away, and feeling, still, hope that they could find time together.

He didn’t sleep for a long time.

--

Rufinus had spent the better half of the morning flirting with him, and Dorian, out of practice with the subtleties necessary within Tevinter’s better circles, didn’t figure it out until almost midday.

Or – more likely – perhaps he merely hadn’t been looking for it.

The certain tilt of the head. The brief hand touch. The open invitation in the eyes.

Dorian had been back in Tevinter for a week, and Mae had already begun the task of gathering and cultivating the sort of people most likely to agree to participate in their cause, hosting hunts and parties and dinners almost every single day, and Dorian found himself now in the stables at the end of a ride, with the son of a minor house’s fingertips light against his leather boot, his gaze upturned and appreciative.

It was only a moment. The groomsman moved in, and Rufinus moved away. Dorian dismounted without acknowledgement of the silent invitation.

It would have been easy to take him up on it. There were plenty of secluded places to lose oneself on Mae’s property. Hot hands and eager mouths, they could the both of them been satisfied and cleaned up hours before they were expected down to dinner.

Dorian begged off a headache to excuse taking drinks with the group as they headed back inside, and instead he made for his rooms.

He was alone in the hall, still dressed in his riding leathers, when the slave approached him with the tattered envelope.

Dorian’s first response was an involuntary burst of anxiety. So far he had received no word of his family’s arrival in the city, and he was no rush to be obligated to see his father again.

His concern passed after a moment. He could tell by the wear and the postage that the letter had not come from anywhere local.

Varric, then, updating him on their current status, perhaps. A bit early, which might not be a good thing. Dorian tore into the envelope with only a little less trepidation than he would have had it actually been from his father. A dark part of his mind expected to see news of failure, arrest, Rellana’s armies crashing down on them in the middle of the night.

Dorian unfolded the letter.

He recognized the handwriting immediately.

Dorian,

I hope you don’t find yourself too offended by the idea I might choose to write to you. I meant to ask if you would mind, but then you were gone, and our brief time was through.

I hope your journey was uneventful. I hope your family is well. I hope, in time, there is some happy resolution to your estrangement. Take pity, if you can, and try not to leave them in painful anticipation of your reunion for longer than you must. Take caution, as well. Do not let them change you.

We’re in Kirkwall. The city is terrible, with its oppressive press of buildings and its stink of sour piss. The guard captain is a fair woman, however, and she promised us safety until our ship arrives. We are staying in the alienage until then. I met the lover of the infamous Jax Hawke, an elf named Merrill, who acts as a sort of Keeper for the elves here. She has no desire to involve herself in our venture, but she promised us the use of any of her people who choose to come along. She is also allowing those of our number too young or weak to be of assistance sanctuary among her people. Most of us want to find some way to help.

When we reach Denerim, I’ll leave my clan behind once and for all. I don’t look forward to it. I don’t understand this faith placed in me – but I can’t believe it is as Ellora says, and you all are only looking for an easy target to take the blame.

Regardless, I intend to do my best.

Dorian, I do wish we could have spoken more before you left us. When we parted, you seemed to no longer possess any interest in speaking to me. I won’t claim to understand, but I won’t obligate you to a correspondence you find distasteful, either. I hope, someday, you and I can talk again. I still have questions.

Write to Varric, if you don’t want to hear from me again. Send a card, if writing is too strenuous. Only, please send some word, so I know you reached Tevinter safely.

Your friend,

Ryn

Somewhere, in the midst of reading, Dorian sat down on one of the couches that lined the hall. Mae found him there, later, likely looking dull and stupid with the surprise he was certain he wore on his face.

“An admirer?” she asked, wicked pleasure spreading across her face.

“A friend,” Dorian corrected. He folded the correspondence carefully, his hand smoothing over the paper.

“Mn,” Mae said, unconvinced. “Well! Best get changed. You aren’t going to dinner in that. Oh, I wish you’d stop dismissing my slaves when I send them.”

“Spending so much time in Ferelden has infected me with the most terrible sense of self sufficiency, I’m afraid. It’s all the rage over there, you know.” It was strange how something he had once taken for granted now left him with such a deep, uneasy feeling.

“Next thing I know you’ll be wanting a dog,” Mae muttered. She sighed, and wiggled her fingers as she turned away. “Dinner is in two hours. At least try not to arrive looking as if you dressed yourself.”

He couldn’t help but to imagine how horrified she would have been to see the manner in which he had arrived at the Dalish camp.

“What did you do to your face?” Ryn had asked, when he finally shaved. Dorian could see his grin, the playfulness in him as he demonstrated the length of beard he wished he could grow. He quickly pushed the thought away. He wouldn’t dwell on the little archer’s smile, or the heat of his body, or the bright comfort of his presence. It wasn’t fair – not when Ryn couldn’t love him.

After he returned to his rooms, Dorian sat at his writing desk for a long time, deciding what he would write. In the end, he decided to exercise restraint. It wouldn’t do to make a fool of himself trying to woo someone who didn’t want wooing, however much he ached for him. Dorian could be Ryn’s friend, as asked. That could be enough. Almost.

--

The dinner Maevaris hosted consisted of several of the younger, more liberal elite of Minrathous, lured to the city early by the promise of one of her events. These were not the old guard, drenched in the reek of blood magic and ancient tradition, but instead the kind of reckless reprobates Dorian had once found himself most at home with – bored second sons; who inherited unexpectedly; business-savvy new money, who thrived on scandal; adventurous young nobles, with foolish spouses who didn’t pay near the attention they should to their activities. Artists and poets and dreamers.

It was nothing for this group to get together, to drink and argue politics deep into the night. Dorian’s arrival was greeted with pleasure and surprise, raised glasses, and taunts about the likelihood of him staying very long before Magister Pavus had him quietly abducted.

It was a joke to them, though the memory stung his pride. Once, Dorian might have retaliated – saucily, and with a smile.

Now, he took his place at the table.

--

Amatus, the letter began, and Ryn, tucked against the railing of the Sea Bitch as the crew readied her to sail away from Kirkwall, frowned a little at the almost entirely unfamiliar word. The salty sea air lifted his hair, and brushed it from his face like a caress.

Amatus, he read, it wounds me that you would think receiving correspondence from you would be received with anything less than pure joy.

I am aware that I owe you an apology for my behavior before we parted. Were I a better man, you would have received it long before now. I didn’t hear what I wanted, and I responded childishly. Forgive me. You have my word that all attempts to seduce you will henceforth cease.

Please consider yourself the reciprocate of my lifelong friendship and devotion.

My family was in Qarinus when I arrived in Minrathous, though I’ve no doubt word of my arrival has sent them packing with all haste. Joy.

Do write to me again. I would hate to get bored.

Yours,

Dorian

Chapter Text

24 Justinian

My dear, devoted friend,

I think you will be interested to know that we have one of your countrymen aboard the ship. Fenris is a former slave and a fellow elf, freed, I am told, by our very own Captain Isabela, in a spectacularly violent show of piracy. His memory is an unreliable patchwork of images and sensations, and yet he was able to tell me, with some measure of confidence, the meaning of the word “amatus”.

It strikes me as a strange nickname for a man you claim to no longer harbor any interest in seducing.

I will be in Denerim before I am able to send this. Please forgive any delay; I would not like for you to think me an unreliable correspondent.

Ryn

P.S. It has come to be my theory that elves and water were not meant to mix. I look forward to solid ground more than I could possibly say.

--

1 Solace

Amatus,

Back among my own ilk, I find my attention caught not by the splendid excess and finery we do so well, but by the idea of a wicked tease of a merman, with the unfair advantage of terribly pretty eyes.

I think I’ll commission a painting.

I do find it odd that this Fenris fellow should give you what is undoubtedly a terribly erroneous definition for my harmless little moniker. A pity that, by the time this reaches you, he will have sailed far away, and thus prove unavailable for further discussion on the matter.

A fascinating manner of regional dialect differences, I suspect. No matter. I assure you – though you’ve thoroughly broken the black shriveled remains of my unworthy heart – I have moved on with my life as well as my affections, and no longer harbor any intent of seducing you. You are utterly safe from my unwanted lusts.

It’s strange to me that I have been back in Tevinter for this long and yet I have yet to receive so much as a note from my father. So much for his talk of reconciliation. (My mother’s silence is less personal, you see. If it isn’t a cabernet or a nice chianti, she hardly knows it exists. As far as she is aware, I remain a bright and innocent lad of ten.)

But – do you suppose I might have been so lucky as to have finally succeeded in cutting myself free from the proverbial apron? I once swore to myself never again to lay eyes on my father’s face – but the promise has long since been broken, and, more’s the pity – I actually need the old bastard now.

Will you remain in Denerim long? I will soon be sending along thirty talented mages, recently expelled from their Circle for political protests. Do find a use for them, will you?

Thoroughly bored, and yet yours, always,

Dorian

--

8 Solace

“My” Dorian, is it, now?

As luck would have it, Fenris has chosen to stay on with my party, rather than set sail again. He is motivated by the strong desire to murder Jax Hawke, should we happen to cross the man’s path. Varric assures me that this action would only be fair, and so I have agreed to withhold judgement on the matter.

I tell you all of that in order to tell you this – Fenris and I have thoroughly discussed your proposed theory on regional dialect differences. My new friend tells me, without reservation, that you are full of shit.

That is an actual quote, my Dorian.

I wish you would see fit to entrust me with whatever secret it is you insist on keeping from me. I ask, not with the intention of holding you to feelings you may not harbor, but instead merely to level the playing field somewhat. I would like for there to be honesty between us. What do we gain from anything less?

I do like you, Dorian.

But, I will let the matter drop for now, however reluctantly.

We are leaving Denerim within the week, and I have been learning to ride a horse in preparation. Can you imagine? It’s a comical thing to our party, standing in the cool southern morning air and watching me bounce around each morning, my teeth on edge. Horses are very different from halla. Also, they bite.

Tal has successfully charmed the elves here, which is little surprise to me, for all that they are a tight, closely guarded community wary of outsiders. There were some problems during the Blight, and the scars remain, but Tal has her own way with people. She has made the acquaintance of someone named Red Jenny, and I gather that when we move on, so will they, albeit in their own direction. Ellora and the rest of the remaining clan will remain in Denerim for a little longer.

I feel as if my people are being scattered to the winds, and I feel little but dread. Do you think, when all this is over, there will be anything at all of Lavellan left?

Pensively,

Ryn

--

Ryn sat back at his desk and he looked over his neatly printed correspondence with a frown. It was his fifth or sixth attempt, his desire to keep from putting undo pressure on the mage to share his story warring with the power of his natural curiosity.

For whatever reason, Ryn had an unfair advantage. He could have pressed it, and gotten his way. He felt sure of it.

But then – no, he was sure he would never have forgiven himself. Even now he wasn’t sure he hadn’t gone too far. He had no intentions of playing with the emotions of a man who had been nothing but kind to him.

“Oh yeah,” Varric had said, when he overheard Fenris explaining the meaning of that word, amatus. “Sparkler’s definitely in love with you. Didn’t you know?”

Ryn rubbed his face.

It would help to know what it was the Tevinter had seen. To hear, in detail, that Ryn would be able to succeed in what he set out to do. He felt small and inept, utterly out of his depth, and Varric spoke as if he expected him to lead armies. If only Dorian would talk to him, would help him to believe as the rest of them did. A little reassurance, from someone who had actually seen –

Ryn had agreed to this madness. He couldn’t change his mind now.

His little room in the alienage was sparse and dim. There were more empty buildings, most of them fire damaged, than there were elves here. The inhabitants of the little community had never fully recovered after so many of their number had been killed or shipped off into slavery during the Blight. Ryn and his people had had their choice of places to stay. Ryn’s room consisted of a hard little bed, a rickety stool, and a desk made up of a board stretched between two barrels.

He had to remind himself that they were helping, if only in the smallest of ways. Ryn and the other hunters were providing more food than the elves here were used to enjoying, and Ellora worked tirelessly to heal the sick and ailing. Cassandra was leading the effort to repair parts of the alienage left damaged ten years ago, and Varric had brokered a peace agreement with the city guards.

They had barely begun to make an impact and already it was time to move on. Worse, some of the best of these elves would be leaving with them, having declared loyalty to the rebel Inquisition and, astoundingly, to Ryn himself. He couldn’t fathom why. He had merely suggested the places and the manner in which the others might help – he hadn’t done nearly as much as anyone else.

He had so much more to worry about than whether or not a mage from Tevinter might have loved him in a world that never happened. He didn’t have time to indulge in his insecurities or long for reassurance, like a child caught out in the dark.

Still, Ryn thought it might have been nice if Dorian were there.

“Will you see this goes out with the post?” Ryn asked, when he found Varric outside. Though the south was cooler than the Free Marches, the alienage seemed a dry and dusty wasteland, and he almost choked on his words. Two elven children ran by, chasing an inflated goat bladder. They were dirty and skinny, but they looked happy. That meant something, at least.

“Awful lot of letters to Tevinter these days,” Varric observed. He did not sound entirely displeased. The dwarf examined the envelope as if he was considering reading its contents, but ultimately he slipped it into his coat pocket with little more than a shrug. “I’ve got a few to send out to my editor myself,” he said. He eyed Ryn. “How are you holding up? You’ve been cooped up inside all day.”

“I’m ready for some fresh air,” Ryn said. “Has your friend Blackwall arrived yet?”

“He’d held up at the gates,” Varric said. “I don’t think the queen is too interested in letting an army camp on her doorstep – Inquisition or no. And even if they got in, I doubt any of the elves want human soldiers inside the alienage, even if it is only for a few nights.”

“I can’t blame the sentiment, but the men will need a good night’s rest before they march again. I’ll go see what I can do.”

“What – walk up and ask Anora to sanction a big friendly camp out?”

“I’ll say please.”

“What do – wait, you’re serious?” Varric’s shorter legs had to hurry to meet Ryn’s long stride.

“Of course I’m serious. We don’t have time for all this grandstanding and posturing. There’s a hole in the sky, and as far as they know, we’re the ones trying to fix it. I’m not interested in spending a week negotiating where to place our sleeping bags.”

“Andraste’s ass, you’re going to get us all killed.”

Varric had sounded more impressed than concerned. Ryn suppressed a smile, and didn’t look at him. “Are you coming with me, or not?”

“Shit. Yeah, ok, why not?”

Chapter Text

“But don’t you look distracted,” Maevaris said, genuinely concerned. “Don’t tell me running into dear Livia was that traumatizing. To be sure, the woman is a shrew – but I thought you were made of sterner stuff than all that.”

Even in the late summer heat, Dorian felt a particular chill down his spine, one he associated solely with his childhood fiancé. The look Maevaris cast him told him she remembered exactly the effect the name conjured. In younger days the name of his intended had summoned the cold dread of a long and painful future – cold halls and a passionless bed, dying slowly on the inside, screaming where no one could hear.

Maevaris reached out, and she patted his hand. “There, there, dear. I’m a beast for even bringing it up,” she said, and he knew she was sorry.

They’d spent the morning lazily adrift on Mae’s pleasure barge, relying on cucumber water and the salty sea spray to gently amend the after-effects of last night’s fete.

It was strange to Dorian that this sort of thing had been his life once – party after party, night after night, taste of wine on his lips and buzzing in his skull, a stranger’s hands on his body – or perhaps many strangers’ hands, depending on how he was feeling that day. It had all lost its appeal.

The fact that now these nightly entertainments bore an actual purpose beyond flirting and gossip and passing his time as pleasurably as possible did little to dissuade Dorian’s growing discomfort in the fact that he was here, living in all the luxury Maevaris could provide, rather than out sweating in the dirt with the rebel Inquisition.

Even as Dorian’s memories of that other reality began to fade, he felt a slow but steady resurgence of the idealism he’d once thought Rellana successfully squashed. There was a hole in the sky, and people were dying, and Tevinter carried on as it ever did. Through newly opened eyes Dorian saw the excess and the waste, the slaves, the blood magic and the abuse in ways he hadn’t quite been able to grasp before, when it had all simply been a normal and unquestioned part of life.

He wanted to be able to do more than raise funds and rally students against the Venatori.

Running into Livia, brief and terrible as it had been, only served to put him back in the shoes of the man he had been several years ago. Selfish, frightened of the future, seeking pleasure and distraction rather than dealing with the problems he faced head on.

“I’m thinking of returning to Ferelden,” Dorian said. The statement earned him a look of surprise and concern from Maevaris.

“Is this because of your elf?” she asked. “Darling, it’s only been a few weeks since you’ve heard from him. Varric assured me everything’s going swimmingly over there. They’re still in want of funding, of course – armies are expensive and I can’t keep propping the whole thing up on my lonesome – but your boy is moving mountains, as far as anyone can tell.”

“I’m not worried,” Dorian said, “And he’s hardly ‘my’ anything, is he? Varric writes to me, too, you know. I know they’re keeping him safe – and if Ryn is too busy to write to me himself, then I have to respect his choice in priorities, however questionable they are.”

“Oh, don’t sound so wounded, darling.”

“I simply think I would be far more useful to them right now if I were there. I’ve gotten things started over here, now I’m simply…ornamental. That’s all.”

“And after all that fuss about coming home.”

“Well, that was when I expected my arrival to coincide with the necessity of crawling back into my father’s good graces,” he huffed.

“You may need to do some crawling, yet,” Maevaris said, and nodded at something in the distance. As the barge was brought around to the dock, a figure in Pavus livery stood out among Mae’s slaves. Dorian sat up as the elf was pointed out to him, and he felt something sink in his belly.

--

The slave was lovely, as young as people often mistook Ryn to be, although his hair was lighter and his eyes not nearly so spectacular (in Dorian’s completely unbiased opinion). It didn’t stop the mage from doing a double take, and wondering for a moment if his father had heard rumors about the place where Dorian’s affections now lay.

If the lad had been chosen in the hopes of eliciting a softer response from Dorian – or, worse, to let Dorian know that his father had eyes where Dorian least wanted them - then they needed to have Varric take a second look at the spies lurking within the rebel Inquisition. That there were spies was only to be expected, but this – this was a little too on the mark.

If this was indeed more than coincidence, then Dorian hoped his father had paid dearly for the information.

The lovely lad stood in appropriate self-effacement, and offered his message two handed, palms extended upward, vulnerable, eyes demurely lowered. It helped to dispel his resemblance to Ryn, somewhat, and Dorian’s chest began to loosen, until he happened to think of what Ryn might look like, with all fight and fire taken out of him.

Dorian took the crisp, cream-colored envelope, and his hands only shook a little when he broke the seal.

“Ah,” he laughed, a little lightheaded. “It seems my father has chosen to open the Minrathous estate, after all. He requires my presence this afternoon for tea. Requires!”

“Out of the question,” Maevaris said. She addressed herself to the slave. “Inform the magister that his son has other obligations, which cannot be broken on such embarrassingly short notice, but that he will be more than happy to receive him in my solar tomorrow afternoon, and not a moment before.”

“He’s going to hate that,” Dorian said, as they watched the elf hurry away with their response. He didn’t move at all like Ryn. “Blood magic is ever so much more convenient in one’s own facilities.”

“If he tries anything, he’s going to have a nasty surprise in store,” Mae said, frowning.

“I should count myself lucky to have such friends as you.”

“Yes,” she said, “You should.”

--

In anticipation of his meeting with his father, Dorian, predictably, didn’t sleep.

He tried writing to Ryn, but the letter cut too deeply, exposing too much of his soul, so when it was finished he burned it, and watched its ashes scatter to the wind.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible as he imagined. Somewhere there was a world where they had reconciled, after all – where it was Ryn who met him in that Chantry, and Ryn who stood at his side in that tavern.

We both speak as men who dearly love your son.

He tried to think of the elf, instead of his worries. According to Varric, the bold little hunter had plunged without hesitation into undead-infested swamplands, braving demons and beasts and brutal Avaar warlords in order to rescue a group of Inquisition soldiers Rellana had willingly abandoned for dead. The soldiers, in their gratitude, immediately defected to the rebel Inquisition’s cause.

In the Hinterlands, through tenacity and charm, he had forged alliances and set into place systems through which the refugees of the mage rebellion would be seen safe and fed and warm. He expelled highwaymen who sought to take advantage of the chaos, and he brought stability back to the region, where Rellana had done little more than close off rifts and earn herself the loyalty of a cult.

Varric even claimed that Ryn and his party had killed a dragon, and though Dorian knew this to be only heroic embellishment, he spent some time trying to picture it – Ryn’s nimble fingers on his bowstrings, his hair rich with the scent of dragonflame. He liked the thought of the elf framed like some heroic figure of legend. If he was accomplishing half as much as Varric claimed, Dorian was proud.

Dorian remembered Ryn’s warmth and his strength, the way he smiled when they kissed.

Eventually, he slept.

--

Magister Pavus arrived, not in the afternoon for tea, as expected, but for breakfast.

Over honeyed fruits and strong black coffee, Dorian was just opening his latest report from Varric.

Sparkler, it read, Ryn says hello. We’ve received reports of weird shit out in the Western Approach, and we’re moving to meet it. Not sure when we’ll be able to get communication flowing again, so just sit tight. We’ll let you know how it goes.

P.S. Thanks for the mages

That was it, the entire extent of the letter. Dorian checked the back for another note, looked in the envelope, and even pushed his chair back to check the floor, in case anything had fallen out.

Then he heard his name.

“Dorian.”

His father stood in the archway leading into Mae’s dining room. Magister Halward Pavus, in all his glory, flanked on either side by a pair of strong slaves – guards, though they had been made to give up their weapons upon entering Mae’s property. He looked older than the last time Dorian had seen him. More grey in his hair, lines etched more deeply in his face.

Maevaris, who had been reading the paper with her bare feet propped up against the table, let them drop now, an expression of mild annoyance crossing her face.

“How gauche,” she said. “Magister Pavus, if I had known you were coming, I would have had a place set. I’m afraid you’ve embarrassed me now. Me, or, I suppose, yourself, that is.”

He didn’t answer. Halward had never been fond of any of Dorian’s friends, but for once his lack of a response probably wasn’t meant as a slight. Dorian returned his father’s stare, and he did not rise, even as Mae settled back with her paper again, giving clear indication she had no intention of quitting her own dining room.

“I did not think I would ever see you again,” Halward said. His voice bore the same heaviness it had before. Without invitation, he crossed the room, and sat in a chair near his son.

Dorian didn’t know how to feel as he watched him. So many emotions warred for the moment that he could settle himself to none at all.

“I had no intention of allowing you to,” Dorian said coolly. “I’ve only contacted you now because I intend to use you.”

“Yes, all right,” Halward said. “Whatever you want.”

Dorian jerked. “Just like that?” he demanded, the anger coming first to the surface, the old hurt, the betrayal.

Halward shook his head. “Whatever it takes to heal the rift between us.”

Dorian stared at him hard, and didn’t for a moment believe it was to be half so easy. He expected his father’s support to come with terms, conditions. Come home. Marry Livia. He expected to have to negotiate, to fight tooth and nail to get what he wanted without losing too much in the process.

“Dorian,” Halward said, “I never expected a second chance to talk to you. To tell you how sorry I am, how much I regret – “

“Sorry is a small and vastly inadequate word.”

“Yes,” Halward said. “I agree.”

Reluctantly, Dorian looked at Maevaris.

“Will you leave us, please?”

--

After he was gone, Maevaris hit Dorian with a slew of spells to ensure nothing had been done to him. He let her, feeling wrung out and exhausted, run down, weary.

It hurt, how genuine his father’s remorse had seemed. How pulled he felt, a part of him ever still that brilliant boy who had wanted nothing more than his father’s pride and approval and love.

He told Maevaris only as much as he could bear to, and when he was finished, they were both silent for a very long time.

“Letters,” Maevaris said at last. “He’ll provide funding and political support and in return all he wants is for you to keep in contact?”

“There’s a trap in there somewhere,” Dorian said. “I have no illusions there isn’t.”

Mae’s frown grew deeper. “If he is so eager to be in your life, then why did he wait so long to come?”

“He said he was afraid. Can you imagine? My father? Afraid?” Dorian would have laughed if he weren’t so tired. He still had Varric’s letter, plain and too short and now wrinkled by his clenched fist. He straightened it out carefully.

Maevaris watched him. “What will you do?”

“I have every intention of keeping in contact,” Dorian said. “From as far away as I can get.”

“Ferelden,” Mae said. “Well, isn’t that convenient – he’s made your decision for you. No, no, you have my utmost support. But mark me, darling, if you get yourself killed, I’m hunting this Ryn of yours down.” She sipped at her coffee, and grimaced. It had gone cold. She set it aside.“Now,” she said, “I suppose you’ll want help packing.”

Chapter Text

Dorian found that he liked the journey from Tevinter even less the second time he was forced to undertake it. Each day, each hour that passed felt like a grain of sand in an hourglass, marking the time that separated him from the place he really needed to be. He tried to remind himself that he had gotten important things moving in Tevinter, that the journey had not been in vain, and this waste of time wasn’t really a waste at all.

Each day the rising sun brought him another day closer. One mustn’t curse the sun when it was being so helpful, even if time did seem at a standstill when one was saddle sore and bored out of his mind, travelling with a hired caravan of uneducated Soporati who barely tolerated his presence.

At every stop, Dorian would send a letter on to the rebel Inquisition’s informants to forward on to the Western Approach. He included an update on how far he had made it, and instructions on which stops they would be making in the future, should anyone choose send a response back.

Aside from one brief missive in Varric’s writing that said, only – Don’t. Too dangerous. There were never any letters for him – and days turned into weeks, and weeks into –

The caravan moved slowly; it was run by a small family, who stopped often to visit with friends and contacts along the way. More, a bout of bad weather also delayed them. When Dorian complained, they seemed to move even slower. Several times, he almost struck out on his own.

He tried not to worry. He couldn’t help but to worry. Dorian had left Minrathous just after All Soul’s Day, and he was sure it would almost be Harvestmere before he reached the Approach, all without a word from the rebel Inquisition, or a whisper of their presence. There was talk of the Inquisition itself everywhere, of course – some of that could have been about Ryn and his company, certainly. Part of the point was to pass themselves off as Rellana’s people, after all.

But Dorian remembered Rellana’s wrath, and he remembered piles of elven bones, and his dreams were haunted with visions of everything that could have gone wrong.

--

Dorian parted ways with the Soporati in Val Royeaux. He stocked up on supplies, and waited two days in the city in case word came from Ryn. He received a letter from Mae (Everything’s going swimmingly, darling, I’ve found two more patrons to your venture. You can thank me now, or later, just be sure to be generous) but nothing from anyone else. Dorian bough a good bottle of wine, drank himself silly, and moved on the next day.

The Western Approach was a bleak place. It looked like any typical desert, but it was unnatural, wrong. It was also cold. Dorian followed the iron towers that served to mark what little path there was, and at night he set wards against darkspawn. Even with his cloak and a fire and a good bedroll, the wind cut through Dorian, and had him shivering all night.

“You’ve done it now, Pavus,” Dorian told himself, the next morning, as he saddled his horse. “You’ve absolutely no idea what the fuck you’re doing, besides making a fool of yourself. Bloody brilliant. What a pretty corpse you’ll make out here.”

A growl seemed to indicate some sort of response. Dorian turned, just as something slammed into his chest. He hit his head on a rock as he fell, and when he came to, it was to the sound of his horse screaming as a pair of varghests ripped into her. His pack and supplies, his food, his spare clothes, everything was scattered about.

Only his horse’s panic had saved Dorian from a similar fate, drawing the attention from his prone body to a much more lively target. Even now she was still thrashing, screaming, fighting, but their teeth had torn too deep. The larger varghest was already trying to drag her away. The other swung its head, stuck its snoot in the broken spine of one of Dorian’s tattered books.

When Dorian reached for his stave, the creature’s small, beady eyes fixed on him.

Dorian didn’t need to think to reach for the Fade. His horror and panic muted, he called fire from the sky, and incinerated the scene – varghests, horse, supplies, everything. He didn’t think. The spell was an immediate, instinctual, stupid thing, and he knew the moment he released it that it had been a mistake. The heat washed over Dorian, the first real warmth he had felt in days, as he sat there in the sand, and watched his every means of survival out here burn, and felt little more than numb.

--

Later, Dorian tried to scavenge what he could of his ruined supplies. Fortunately, he had been wearing his cloak. There was little else good news. Somehow, his shaving kit had survived, the carved box knocked away in the beasts’ feeding frenzy, and if Dorian had had anything left in him he might have laughed at the irony. In the Free Marches, he would have given anything for a shaving kit. Now it was all he had.

Eventually, he began to walk again. He trudged through the thick sand, one foot after the next, his cloak hitched high, not only for warmth, but to protect his nose and mouth, and in time his legs grew weary, and his stomach began to ache from hunger, his mouth dry for want of water. The shadows began to stretch across the land, day easing into night, and so Dorian chose an outcropping of rocks, and set his wards. He knew he that if he was to survive he had to come up with some sort of plan, but for now he felt too detached from it all. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would summon the old Pavus spirit and be absolutely brilliant. He pulled his coat tightly around himself, and he tried to sleep.

He awoke surrounded by men in Inquisition regalia.

“Well, what do you know? He is alive.”

Tired and hungry and freezing, Dorian’s mind took too long to piece together what was happening. For a moment he was back in Skyhold, freezing in that little jail cell.

“Oy, you, what are you doing out here all alone?”

“And with no supplies?”

Dorian’s teeth were chattering when he tried to answer. One of the men handed him a thermos, and when he drank he found it filled with whiskey-spiked coffee. The warmth coursed through his throat and down to his belly. He drank as deeply as he could before the soldier took it back with a laugh.

“Enough of that,” the man said, “We’re going to have a hard enough time as it is without a drunk man to look after. Look here, my name’s Rylen – and you are?”

“Short a horse and anything else that might be remotely useful in a hellscape like this,” Dorian said.

The one called Rylen looked back at the others. There were a few chuckles. He motioned, and someone produced a hard bread roll stuffed with cheese and dried meat.

“We noticed,” Rylen said, as he handed it over. “You seem to have run into some misfortune out here. I wager that smoldering mess a few miles back was your horse? What happened - get lost from the rest of your Venatori friends?”

The food turned to ash in Dorian’s mouth. “I’m not with them,” he said.

“You mean this place is crawling with Vints, and we stumble on the one mage who isn’t a Venatori?”

Dorian raised his eyes to the man’s. He drew his dignity around himself like his unsufficient cloak, and tried not to look too unsteady on his feet. The soldier was taller than him, and that was inconvenient. “As unlikely as it sounds, yes. Yes, that’s exactly what seems to have happened.”

The one called Rylen watched him for a moment. Dorian took another bite of the roll, and considered his chances. These men had been a sight friendlier and more helpful than the typical Inquisition soldier, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be able to turn to brutality the moment it was called for. Rellana liked them stupid and mean. He had no illusions of the fate that would meet him if he found himself back in Rellana’s tender care.

“You know who we are?” Rylen asked.

Dorian said, “I’m afraid I do.”

“Venatori or no, we can’t let some strange Tevinter wander around the desert on his lonesome. If you’re lying to me, that gives you leave to report back to your masters. And if you’re not – well, then, I’ll have just left a good man to die.”

“I see your predicament,” Dorian agreed pleasantly, even as he reached for the Fade. He was outnumbered, but he had the element of surprise on his hand – what was more, he was smarter, and far more skilled than any of the kinds of troops Rellana cultivated. Fortunately, the soldiers’ offer of food and coffee had woken him up a bit, helped him feel a bit more human. Dorian summoned a nasty trick of a spell and –

It was like slamming into a brick wall. The Fade was gone. His spell was gone. Rylen smiled in the face of his horror, and he reached out to pat his shoulder as he doubled over, panting for breath.

“Templar?” Dorian wheezed.

“Let’s not try that again, all right?” Rylen advised. He turned to the others. “Secure him. We’ll let the Inquisitor decide what’s to be done with him.”

--

It rose up out of the desert before him like an edifice of doom. Griffon Wing Keep seemed a creation not merely of brick and mortar, but of stone and spike as well. Great black pillars of smoke rose up from busy forges, and Inquisition soldiers ran drills out front. That familiar banner seemed to hang from every possible surface, proudly displaying Rellana’s might and power, her unquestioned authority and dominion over these Blight-wrecked lands.

The entry gate was new, solid metal, and it rose almost soundlessly to admit them entrance. Liveried servants hurried forward into the courtyard to take their horses.

“Is the Inquisitor in?” Rylen asked.

“Out running fool errands for that blighted professor,” the servant answered, with clear distaste. “There’s more important things to be done than tracking every time a dragon takes a shit in this sandbox, but no one asked me, did they?”

“Indeed they didn’t,” Rylen agreed. He looked at Dorian. “Well, my friend, at the very least we can get you warmed and fed while you wait.”

Dorian, who was well used to what constituted hospitality in the Inquisition, was surprised to be led into the Keep’s kitchens. He was still chained, and Rylen stayed at his side, ready to intervene the moment he reached for his magic, but he was given a chair near the roaring fires, another roll, and a large mug of coffee – without the whiskey in it this time.

“So if you aren’t a Venatori,” Rylen said, pulling up a chair across from him, “Then what brings you all the way out here? Far from home, you are.”

“I’m in search of someone,” Dorian said, thinking quickly. “The professor that fellow was speaking of outside. I’m from the University of Minrathous, you see, and my field happens to be draconology. I was hoping to apprentice myself to him, but you see, I got a bit lost – and then my hose – well, I haven’t been having a very good day, have I?”

“It’ll get worse if you try lying to the Inquisitor.”

“Yes, of course, I can imagine. But surely you needn’t bother her with something as small as a lost scholar? I’m here for educational purposes, not blood magic.”

Rylen didn’t answer. He reached back, and retrieved a plate of sausages. Dorian’s chains clinked as he awkwardly tried to juggle his dishes and eat. At least he was warm. He had a little time to think. The food was a hard lump in his belly, but he forced himself to eat every bite. If he somehow managed to pull off an escape, he would need the energy when he was wandering lost in the desert again. And if he didn’t escape – then it would likely be his last meal.

--

Dorian wasn’t sure how much time passed before word came that the Inquisitor had returned. His food eaten, he had settled himself back in his chair and feigned sleep, until sleep really caught him. Rylen didn’t protest or have him shuffled into a holding cell. Instead, at ease, he talked and gossiped with the kitchen staff, as if he wasn’t ready to separate Dorian’s body from his head at the first wrong move.

It was the same servant from the courtyard who hurried in and said, “The Inquisitor’s returned, Knight Captain.” Dorian, rousing, thought he might have been able to tell all on his own, if only by the sudden spark of energy that moved through the keep, spreading from the outside to the inside. Servants hurried about, voices were raised.

Rylen lofted his brows at Dorian. “Well now,” he said. “Not too terrible a wait, was it, scholar?”

Dorian could have stood for the wait to be a little longer. Rylen hadn’t left him alone for so much as a second.

When he stepped outside, the cold desert wind hit him like a blow after being so warm for so long. He tasted sandy grit in his mouth, and his cloak seemed more insufficient than ever. He could see the Inquisitor riding into the courtyard on a spirited young buckskin, a departure from Rellana’s usual taste in mild, pampered show horses. She usually only rode white mares, decked out in white and gold fittings, like a hero out of the tales.

Even her armor was more functional than decorative, thick leathers the color of the sand, that completely hid her womanly curves. She wore a kind of elven hat that wrapped around her head and nose and mouth, protecting her from the wind and the sand, and hiding her face. When she stepped down from the saddle, she seemed taller, held herself differently.

And even before she reached up to unwind her hood, Dorian realized it wasn’t Rellana he was looking at.

It was Ryn.

Chapter Text

After Rylen had him unchained, Ryn ordered a bath and a change of clothes for Dorian be brought up to his quarters.

“Most of the men and staff are in tents out in the courtyard,” he said, “But they insisted on giving me rooms. At the very least I can offer you a little privacy to recover from your journey.”

Dorian, following him through the halls of the Keep, still felt a little dumbfounded. “They said they were taking me to the Inquisitor,” he said. “I thought I was about to lose my head. Did you tell your men to be looking for me, then? Your idea of a little joke?”

“Not at all,” Ryn said. “I mean – I did tell them to be on the lookout for you, but…” he paused, considered, then shrugged, glancing back at Dorian. “To most people, one elf is as good as another. They hear that an upstart Dalish is running the Inquisition, they see me, and they make assumptions. Varric thought we should run with it – confuse things even further.”

“To be certain, Rellana must love that.”

“I think she wants me dead even more than the rest of you now,” Ryn turned back to open the door to his quarters, working the slender key in an ancient lock. “They’re out here, you know. The real Inquisition. We’ve had…talks…with them. They didn’t go well.”

“Ryn…”

He stepped back, holding open the door to allow Dorian access into the room. Once, it might have been luxurious, but time and Ryn’s humble touches rescued it from such a fate. There were good furs on the bed, and stacks of books on the desk. The chair by the fire was still cluttered with the evidence that Ryn had been sitting there making arrows at some point in the recent past.

“Welcome to my Keep,” Ryn said, with obvious, if somewhat embarrassed, pride. “We took it – Varric, and Cassandra, and Fenris, and I.”

“Just the four of you? All by yourselves?”

He lifted his shoulder. He watched Dorian as if trying to solve a puzzle. “We had the element of surprise.”

“You are marvelous, aren’t you?”

Again that little shrug, that searching look. Dorian stood there, in Ryn’s rooms, his hands at his sides. He desperately wanted to embrace him. After a moment, he decided he would.

“Would it be too much to ask to hug you?”

“I probably smell,” Ryn warned him, but he was already moving forward.

“I’m sure it isn’t – oh. What is that?”

“I was investigating dragon kills – it’s a long story.”

“I think I’ve heard a bit about that. All right,” Dorian said, stepping back. “I shall hug you later, then.”

“I’ll mark the appointment,” Ryn smiled.

Ryn was more beautiful than Dorian remembered. Unlike his counterpart in that other world, marked Herald of a religion he wanted no part of, this Ryn had not needed to temper his Dalish wildness for the sake of his safety. His hair was still short on one side, the other side falling well past the small of his back. It was braided today, quickly, messily, making his vallaslin and his scars and his large, stunning eyes even more noticeable. He still wore Dalish leathers, though marked with the Inquisition’s insignia.

Dorian realized that Ryn was looking him over, too, only when a knock came at the door, and the elf broke his gaze, stepping away so that servants could haul in a tub and bucket after bucket of steaming water. He felt the loss of his attention like a cold breeze.

“You stopped writing,” Dorian said, when they were alone again.

Ryn said, “I did write. I just didn’t send them.”

“An important distinction.”

“I’m sorry if I worried you.” Ryn wasn’t leaving the room, and Dorian didn’t ask him to. He recalled how the Dalish bathed, communally in the river, shameless in their bare flesh, and he didn’t think anything of it as he undressed.

He forced a laugh. “You know, I should have known this wasn’t the real Inquisition,” Dorian said.

“Why is that?”

“Your soldiers – they were too intelligent, and far too kind.”

“We’re getting a lot of men who were turned away from the true Inquisition. Our Knight Captain Rylen was sent here by one of Varric’s contacts there, a Ser Curly, I’m told.”

This time Dorian’s laugh was more genuine. “Cullen, then. Still sticking his neck out, I see.” The water was almost too hot. Dorian eased himself in carefully, and he tried to ignore the feel of Ryn’s eyes on him. He reached for the soap, and a wash cloth.

“We’ve got quite a few contacts in their ranks. We’re – we’re growing faster than I expected. I never thought we would make an impact, but they have to take us seriously. The Inquisition, I mean. Things out here – Dorian, you shouldn’t have come.”

“Tell me,” he said. “What’s going on?”

He chanced a glance at the elf. Ryn had sat down at his desk, and his eyes weren’t on Dorian at all. In part, that was truly a shame – Dorian had an excellent body, particularly wet and soapy as if currently was – but on the other hand it was an excellent opportunity to observe him unobserved. The way the light from the window played off his profile. The soft fall of his hair. The slight droop in his shoulders that meant he was tired. He had picked up that other Ryn’s way of carrying himself, that unconscious air of command. He had been born to lead, even if he never sought it for himself.

“One of Varric’s contacts has reported – it’s unbelievable, really. I,” his head lowered, he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to believe it’s true.”

“Tell me,” Dorian said.

So Ryn did. Corypheus had manipulated the wardens into committing blood sacrifice to raise a demon army. The wardens, convinced the Calling was upon them, had thought they would be marching on the Deep Roads, to prevent any future Blight from ever occurring. But of course, it was not the domain of the archdemons, but Orlais the ancient magister planned to invade.

“Varric’s contact says that once the warden binds the demon, Corypheus owns their will,” Ryn said. “They’re husks, mindless and helpless, killing their own for what they perceive to be the greater good.”

“But this sounds familiar,” Dorian said, before he thought, and Ryn looked at him, and he had to explain. “You – in that other world, the you I met there, you understand? – you told me that you saw something like that. An alternate future, where Corypheus succeeded, and the world was dying.”

“So it’s true, then,” Ryn said, and it wasn’t clear if he meant Corypheus’s plan, or Dorian’s excursion into another reality.

Dorian rose, and began to towel himself off. He didn’t miss the way Ryn’s eyes flickered, briefly, over him. He wished the attention came under better circumstances.

“What is the Inquisition going to do?” Dorian asked.

“There’s something big stirring at Adamant Fortress,” Ryn said. “We have reports that Rellana has had Jax Hawke and Teyrn Loghain investigating. Can you imagine - ?” he cut himself off, shook his head. He said, “Even Rellana sees how we cannot allow this to happen. She’s begun preparing her army. I want to fight.”

“You want to show up to Adamant to fight,” Dorian repeated. “With all the might of the real Inquisition gathered there.”

“It isn’t as if Rellana doesn’t know we’re here. For all I know, once she’s dealt with the wardens, she could very well turn her army on us anyway.”

“Here in your Keep. Which you can fortify.”

Ryn looked up, then. His eyes were hard. “The wardens are victims, but Rellana won’t see that,” he said. “I have to – no, I’m going to do something.”

“Why do you have to do anything?” Dorian demanded. “This is madness! We’ve thrown you into a conflict that has nothing to do with you, purely on my word that you would make a better Inquisitor than Rellana. That isn’t right!”

“I can’t argue with you while you’re in a towel,” Ryn said, turning his attention to the window. “In any case, it does involve me.”

“Now that we’ve pushed you into it.”

“No,” Ryn said. “I mean – our elder put me up to be sent to the Conclave, and I stepped down. I suggested he support Rellana instead, because she was to be our Keeper one day, and I thought the experience would help her.”

“You’re saying this is your fault?”

“In a way.”

“You are aware, I hope, that you’re being completely and utterly ridiculous?”

Ryn was quiet for a moment. Finally, he said, “I’m aware that I’m here now, and I have resources, and I’m going to use them. I have an army, Dorian. What use is it if I’m not going to use it to make some good?”

“You’re mad,” Dorian said.

Ryn said, “Get dressed, please.”

--

Later, they found a tent for Dorian – small, but sturdy and thick, well sheltered against the desert’s frigid winds. He was given a good bedroll and an even better dinner, and though a few of the soldiers clearly couldn’t help but view a Vint mage with suspicion, he wasn’t treated as an outcast. It was Ryn’s Inquisition, as Dorian remembered it, almost, and the elf’s attitude and principles had had their effect, as surely as Rellana’s had had on hers.

“You were right about him,” Varric said, as they stood huddled around the fire, watching the night slowly encroach. “Andraste’s ass, I still don’t understand why I believe any of this shit, but you were right.”

“He’s going to get himself killed,” Dorian said.

“Maybe not. Maybe we’ll get a miracle.”

Though the night darkened around them, the Keep was well lit. Dorian could see Ryn on the battlements, and the elf he had written of, Fenris, was at his side. They were discussing something with the guards on duty there. Plans, perhaps, or, just as likely, simply asking them about their day. That was the way Ryn lead. He probably knew every man’s name, here, as he had in that other world.

“You know, a place takes on the personality of the people within it,” Varric said. “Each individual has an influence – some are stronger than others, but – yeah. It’s different, here. The world is different. Things might be ok.”

“My father used to say something very like that,” Dorian murmured. Ryn was finally turning away from the guards, his head bent toward Fenris as they spoke. He had washed and changed clothes since Dorian had left his side, and his still-damp hair, now free of its braid, danced softly on the breeze. The damned fool would give himself a cold in this chill. “About the influence each individual personality can hold.”

“Now that you’ve met the real thing, I’ve gotta ask – you still love him?” Varric asked. “Like you thought you did when you first came back?”

Dorian watched Ryn until he lost sight of him on the battlements. He seemed to stop to speak to every man and woman he passed. In the flicker of firelight, Dorian could see his smile, the courteous tilt of his head that meant he was listening. He wasn’t the Herald – he didn’t have the mark – but they still looked at him as if he had been sent by the Maker himself.

Dorian thought that he probably looked at the archer in the same manner, himself.

He didn’t answer Varric’s question.

--

The timing of Dorian’s arrival had been more fortuitous than he at first realized. Slowly, over the course of the next week, the Keep began to fill up. Tal arrived, with an assortment of Dalish and city elves that almost looked like an army, many of whom wore red bands on their arms, and called themselves “Jennies”. With her was a blonde elf Varric said had once tried to join up with Rellana in Val Royeaux, only to be turned away, before Dorian himself had joined the Inquisition.

“You’re welcome here, Sera,” Ryn told her, and grasped her hand. She grimaced and yanked her hand back, and wiped it off on her thigh.

“Don’t think I’m not watching you too, pointy,” she said. “You look plenty big, all stuffed up here in your big stupid fort thingie.”

“I shall take that into consideration.”

Blackwall arrived, with the army he had been recruiting, and there were too many men for the Keep to hold, and so they had to camp outside its walls, their tents dotting the landscape. Ellora arrived shortly after, with more elves in tow. Tevinter mages that Dorian had sent were also there, somewhere, blending in with the rest of them so that Dorian himself barely knew them.

Dorian didn’t get time alone with Ryn, though he was often called to join him when discussing strategy. Someone had drawn up an approximate blueprint of Adamant, based on records and reports coming in from spies within the actual Inquisition, and there were many nights that stretched into morning as Ryn and his companions stood around the table, discussing their plan of attack.

Ryn wrote to Rellana, and told her they would be joining themselves to the Inquisition’s attack, and would collaborate happily if she would tell them where she wanted them.

She wrote back, and told him she would kill every rebel she laid eyes on.

“She’ll feel differently when she finds herself hip deep in Corypheus’s demon army,” Ryn said, with a shrug. He tossed her missive into the fire. He looked tired, but feigned energy. “Blackwall, tell me again about the trebuchets your men are building.”

The sky was pink by the time that meeting broke. In the hallways outside, Ryn glanced back at Dorian with clear amusement on his weary face.

“Messere Pavus,” he said. “Are you following me back to my rooms?”

“Fortunately, I remember the way quite on my own, so there’s no need to follow.”

A dark brow arched. Something like amusement played on the elf’s lips. “And what of your determination not to seduce me?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve been dreaming of the chance to get me alone again since the moment you smelled fetid dragon lunch on me?”

“This has nothing to do with seduction,” Dorian told him. “I’m coming with you to your rooms to make certain you sleep.”

Ryn frowned. Dorian couldn’t read his face, and was too tired, himself, to try.

“I sleep,” Ryn said.

“An hour or two at a time. That is unacceptable.”

“It’s all I need,” he said. “There’s too much to do.”

“You’re going to sleep,” Dorian said, “If I have to drug you myself.”

They fell silent for a moment, passing a pair of guards at their stations. Ryn gave the two a nod, and waited until they were past before he spoke again. “I want to see the morning drills,” Ryn said.

“That’s at most two hours away, and you see them every morning. You’re going to sleep.”

Again that long, unreadable look. “Are you attempting to bully me?”

Dorian, tired himself, and more than a little cranky, snapped at him. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing – now march.”

It was remarkable that Ryn didn’t argue. They reached the elf’s rooms without another word passed between them, and Dorian instructed the guards outside on no uncertain terms that they were to have no interruptions whatsoever. He locked and bolted the door behind him, and even considered setting a magical trap or seven.

“Dorian,” Ryn said.

“Clothes off, ass in bed.”

He shook his head, and seemed to be more resigned and amused than anything else. “I’m a grown man, you know. I don’t need a minder to put me to bed.”

“You’re more than that,” Dorian told him. “You have people counting on you. If you’re going to do this damned fool thing, you’re going to do it rested.”

Ryn shook his head once again. He smiled at him, his hands falling to his belt.

“Do you want to help me, then?”Ryn asked. “I could use the company.”

“If I thought you meant that, I would be there in an instant. I won’t be distracted.”

“Dorian…”

“Let me reiterate: clothes off. Ass in bed.”

Ryn sighed, and he didn’t argue again.

Chapter Text

Rellana knew she had lost the room, although she wasn’t quite sure how.

Room was a bit of a joke, when she was stuck in a tent. Even the largest, most luxurious tent the Inquisition could find paled in comparison with the rooms in the Keep that should have been hers, if not for upstart imposters who happened to get there before she decided whether or not the place was worth the effort of taking. It had been filled with Venatori – how had she been to know whether rooting them out was more trouble than it was worth? The place had been falling apart. There had been reports the water was fouled. She had still been deciding.

The morning was cold, and the wind that seemed so insistent on slipping through the tent’s entrance bit at her through the flimsy fabric of her robe. There was a nightgown beneath, sheer and soft and pretty, but Cullen had refused to come in to the meeting until she put on the robe, and really, she was beginning to wonder why she kept such a lackluster commander around. She had other prospects, and would never have let a shemlen touch her anyway, but an appreciative gaze or two would not have been amiss. She’d entertain thoughts of twisting him around her little finger, if he wasn’t being so annoying.

It was strange how her advisors seemed able to communicate with one another without so much as meeting each other’s eyes. Josephine, with her head turned away, the nib of her pen blacking one corner of her mouth. Leliana, staring straight ahead, somehow both hollow-eyed and tireless, as if Rellana were the only thing in the world. Cullen, pacing. They had all been up hours before Rellana.

There had been some muttering, when she sent for them to leave Skyhold and join her out in this freezing wasteland, but each time she left Skyhold she couldn’t help but to feel that more and more was changed upon her return. The traitors that flew her banners had to have insider assistance, and it didn’t matter how angry she got, no one was willing to give anyone up. Leliana hadn’t protested at the thought of putting some of the staff and a few of the men to question, but the other two certainly had. They had, it seemed, absolutely no wiggle-room on the concept of torture, particularly when whoever was feeding her rivals seemed to be doing good with the information.

Cullen was trouble enough, but Josephine had never disagreed with her so openly before – speaking out, much to her humiliation, right in the middle of her audience chamber, as she sat like a queen at court, with an audience to hear every word.

The ordeal had been humiliating, but more importantly it led Rellana to recognize an important truth; she couldn’t trust either of them to stay behind and run her little kingdom in her absence. Not when she had yet to be sure which of them was plotting against her. She would shuck off her soft diplomat and her weak commander all together if it weren’t for the fact she knew the so-called rebel Inquisition would scoop them up the moment they were free, and Rellana had never liked sharing her toys.

She could have had them stripped of power, jailed, executed, but, as Solas advised, it would only make her look weaker. She had already had too many defect. She couldn’t allow her rage to blind her.

She would make some use of them yet.

“Were my words unclear?” Rellana asked.

“You want us to attack tonight,” Cullen said. Rellana wondered if he knew how his hand strayed to the sword belted at his waist. She wanted to laugh at the thought that he would dare draw on her. “With half our forces still en route, and the majority of the men we do have in need of a good night’s rest. You want us to attack underprepared, in the dark. Do you have any idea how many men we would lose?”

“The Maker wills our victory,” she said. “Andraste came to me in a dream.”

Joesphine made a sound, and Rellana looked at her quickly. The other woman didn’t look up.

“We do not know that the possessed wardens have need of food or sleep, or even how well they will be able to see in the darkness,” Leliana said. “The Maker must have a very strong belief in you, in order to suggest we attack when we are the ones who are at the disadvantage.”

Rellana lifted her chin, but Leliana merely blinked at her, slowly. She could not decide how to take the redhead’s words, only that the thought that the last of her advisors might also be turning on her struck her like a brick wall.

“He does,” Rellana said, and Leliana merely smiled, a tight, close-lipped expression.

“These are your men we’re talking about losing,” Cullen said. “You can’t order such a thing flippantly.”

They don’t matter, she stopped herself just short of answering. The soldiers who followed her were nothing but a faceless mass, a means to an end. They were humans who would have spat at her feet if she hadn’t walked out of the Fade the day the Conclave fell. They weren’t people. They were the game pieces that would get her what she needed – Corypheus’s defeat, and his orb, and a return to the power and dignity her kind deserved.

“How much longer can we afford to delay?” Rellana asked instead. “Each moment that passes is another moment for them to grow their demon army – another moment closer to the completion of their ritual.”

“I won’t throw my men at a meat grinder just because you’re afraid the soldiers in the Keep will beat you to your victory.”

A silence followed the commander’s declaration. Rellana felt a hot wash of anger, chased by embarrassment. It was too close to the mark.

“Out,” she said. “I want you all out. Now.”

“Inquisitor,” Josephine said, “I do wish you would at least look at the treaty I…”

“Out.”

“That was a charming sort of mess,” Solas said, when they were gone. He came out from behind the decorative screen that had kept him from her advisors’ view, a predatory grace in his movements. His eyes shone strangely in the lamplight, and his expression was sour.

“She wants me to ally myself with those traitors,” Rellana said. “They’re calling him ‘Inquisitor’, did you know that?”

“To most humans, one elf serves as good as another.”

“Everyone is acting as if he’s done something worth notice. I’m the one who stepped from the Fade. I’m the one sent by Andraste!”

“You don’t believe in Andraste.”

She waved off the reminder. She was the one pacing now, kicking at the skirts of her nightdress in irritation as he watched, reclining against an embroidered divan.

“Can he close Rifts? No. Did he end the war in Orlais? No. What has he done except help a bunch of shemlen?”

“Rellana.”

She stopped, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes. She heard the other elf rise, felt his hands on her shoulders.

“You’re still tired,” he said.

“I feel as if it’s slipping away from me,” she said. “They don’t respect me. They don’t fear me. I’m trying to accomplish something more and the world is being swayed by a nobody handing out blankets.”

“It isn’t so bleak as that. Not quite yet,” he said. “You are the only one in possession of the anchor, after all.”

“The anchor,” she spat. “I hate this wretched thing.”

“Think of what we will accomplish when all of this is over,” he said. “Everything will change, Inquisitor. I promise you that.”

His hands slipped from her shoulders, but his voice was just at her ear.

She turned in time to see him slip from the tent.

--

Ryn laughed, and the sound startled the other man in the room into wakefulness.

“Did you really fall asleep in that chair just to make certain I didn’t sneak out of bed to work?” he asked.

Dorian, blearily, looked at the chair, then back at the elf in the bed across the room. For a sleep-addled moment, he couldn’t remember his own name, much less how or why he had come to fall asleep curled into an armchair near the fire.

“It looks terribly uncomfortable,” Ryn said.

Dorian carefully stretched out his legs, and he winced. His neck was aching. “I don’t think I meant to fall asleep here,” he said.

“That’s good,” Ryn told him. “Because if I’d known you were spending the night, I would have asked you to join me in the bed.”

“Not much of a night. It was nearly dawn when we got here,” Dorian groaned. He rubbed sleep and day-old kohl from his eyes. Ryn’s gaze felt like brands against his skin. “Anyway, don’t tease me when I’ve just woken up; that’s mean.”

“Who says I’m teasing?”

The light that slipped in through the window was watery and weak, but definitely sunlight. It had to be late afternoon, stretching into evening. The day was nearly over, wasted while they slept, and Dorian had, indeed, fallen asleep in Ryn’s bedroom like some faithful lapdog who couldn’t bear to spend more than a few moments away.

“We were talking,” he remembered. “You were asleep almost as soon as you hit the pillow, and I sat down, only for a moment. I closed my eyes, and…blast it, are you furious with me? We’ve wasted half the day.”

“It was a brilliant plan,” Ryn said. “I feel spectacular.”

“You don’t look it,” Dorian said, and yawned. He rose, and stretched his back, and waved his hand vaguely in Ryn’s direction. “Fix your hair, please, it’s terribly distracting.”

Ryn grinned, and didn’t lift a finger. He seemed so small in that large bed, shirtless and sitting up against a mountain of pillows. “If you want to compete over who’s the more distracting…”

Dorian didn’t have time to answer before a rap came at the door. When he moved to open it, and a pair of serving girls with breakfast trays let themselves in. They were prepared for Dorian’s presence, and not at all surprised, and he had to wonder how long it had taken for word to spread around the Keep that he had spent the entire day locked privately in Ryn’s rooms.

He wondered how incriminating it was, the mess they both looked, how satisfied and comfortable Ryn looked in that bed. The girls were too schooled to betray any of their own thoughts with word or glance, but Dorian found himself glancing in the mirror anyway, at his own messed hair and wrinkled, slept-in clothes, the dark smudges of his makeup around his eyes, the shadow of stubble at his jaw.

Ryn’s eyes met his through the reflection.

Dorian turned to the window instead. He listened to Ryn thank the girls, and he listened to the door close, and then he became all too aware that they were alone, and Ryn was half dressed in bed, and Dorian had made a terrible mistake in his failure to leave in a timely manner.

“You are going to eat with me, aren’t you?” Ryn asked. “I think it’s a shame that the only time we’ve had alone we both spent unconscious.”

“I shouldn’t be here,” Dorian said, but he moved toward the bed, where they had left both of the trays. He remained all too aware of the pull of Ryn’s eyes. He knew how warm his skin would be, were he to touch him. He knew how soft it would be, too.

“You’re going to have to talk to me one of these days. What are you so frightened of? Surely you’ve noticed – I’m fond of you.”

“I can’t – press my advantage,” Dorian said. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Your advantage?” Ryn asked. “Because I’ve figured out that you’re in love with me?”

The words sent a flash of cold down his skin, and he nearly choked on a grape. Dorian looked at Ryn, who looked smug there, in his blankets, sipping his coffee with raised brows.

Dorian wheezed, “Well, we don’t come right out and say such things where I’m from.”

“I warn you, if you deny it – I won’t believe you.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Are you worried I’ll use it against you?” Ryn asked. Dorian nearly laughed.

“You aren’t capable of such a thing,” he said, without hesitation. He eased himself, carefully, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him as if afraid it was full of snakes. He reached for his own coffee.

“You’re in love with me, you follow me up to my rooms to make sure I sleep, and yet you act as if I’m the last person in the world you want to speak to. Does it hurt, being around me? Should I leave you alone?”

“I found you, and you’re alive – that can’t hurt.”

“Then why - ?”

“I have an unfair advantage,” Dorian said. “I know – things about you.”

“I could know things about you too, if you’d tell them to me.”

Ryn was trying to lighten the mood. He reached to snag a grape from Dorian’s tray, and smiled and him, and was so beautiful that it broke the mage’s heart a little. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to tumble him back, against that soft bed, and press his lips to every inch of skin he could find.

“I like you,” Ryn told him. “And I need – something to blunt all of this. Something to keep me, me. Something to – I can’t explain it – to keep me feeling like a person. Don’t you think all this dancing around one another is silly?”

“You’re a charming flirt, but you aren’t serious about me,” Dorian said. He forced the words out. He fought to keep his voice steady, to keep it light. “In Tevinter, that’s all you learn to expect. You accept it, you don’t question, you – I can’t have that with you. I wouldn’t be able to bear it. Everything in me says I should smile and take whatever I can get, enjoy it while I can – but I’ve been a port in the storm before. I couldn’t bear it. Not with you.”

“We were in love in that world?” Ryn asked.

Dorian said, “Devastatingly.”

He jerked when Ryn’s fingers brushed his, his gaze falling on the elf before he could stop it. Ryn looked at him, earnest, his lips parting, as if he would say something.

And the door, left unlocked by the serving girls, burst open.

Cassandra looked at Ryn, and then at Dorian. She looked at the place where their hands touched. She looked at the ceiling, and then at the floor. She turned around as if to leave, then faced them again.

Finally she decided to address Ryn’s right shoulder.

“You must come now,” she told him. “The Inquisition’s armies are moving.”

Chapter Text

Rellana’s forces had been slowly trickling into the Approach for weeks, but as it stood she had just a little over a quarter of her army on hand when she decided to march on Adamant.

“What is that girl thinking?” Cassandra’s voice was colored with frustration and disgust. Ryn had called them in for an emergency meeting in his quarters – Cassandra and Varric, Fenris, Blackwall, Ellora, Tal, and Rylen. With the addition of the servants who had come to help Ryn into his armor, the room was decidedly cramped. Dorian found something wrenching about watching Ryn be strapped into the trappings of war while their late breakfast sat, virtually untouched, upon the bed.

“She’s counting on the soldiers to get her close enough to use the anchor,” Varric said. Fenris made an annoyed sound in response.

“She intends to use her forces as a battering ram,” he said. “Sacrifice men in order to expedite the process, then depend on magic to make up the difference. Foolish.”

“You forgot wasteful and reckless,” Cassandra spat, and Fenris cast her an appraising look.

“I thought it was implied,” the elf said. Cassandra snorted.

Dorian had the distinct feeling that their beloved Seeker would have been most spectacularly pacing the room, had she the space for it. Instead she made a helpless gesture, and turned to look out the window. She peered through the glass as if she could somehow spot the Inquisition’s movements from there.

“I cannot believe Cullen has allowed her to move forward with such a ridiculous plan.”

“Seeker,” Varric said, “It’s been a long time since anyone has had the ability to allow Rellana to do anything.”

“We’re moving out,” Ryn said. “If we act quickly, we may yet be able to save lives.”

Dorian had known it was coming and yet even still the declaration managed to turn his stomach. Ryn truly looked like the Inquisitor now, his expression hard and determined, his humble Dalish leathers replaced by flashing battle armor. His hair, only so shortly before wild from sleep, was now braided back, tight, to his head, to keep it out of his eyes. There was no gentleness to him now, no trace of the lad who teased Dorian with a smile that said he knew how to ferret out his every secret. Now he wore only a look of determination, hard and steely and terrible.

“You’re all clear on where I want your people?” Ryn asked, and Rylen, Blackwall, Ellora, and Tal all agreed. Fenris and Dorian and Varric would all stay with Ryn, while Cassandra had her own assignment – making her way to Cullen. The last thing they needed was for the true Inquisition to turn against them at the battle’s end.

Dorian wanted another moment along with Ryn. He wanted to go back to last night, or this afternoon, back to that magical moment where they had woken together in the same room, and all things had seemed present and possible for them. He wanted to tie the elf up and lock him away sage and sound in a trunk somewhere until all this was over. He hated the others, for a moment, for ever involving him. He hated himself for allowing it.

He didn’t even manage to catch his eye as they filed out of the bedroom.

In the courtyard, they mounted their horses. Ryn’s spirited buckskin danced as he addressed the men with a few encouraging words. Dorian could not hear him over the sound of his own heart in his ears. Ryn looked like a hero of legend – the tragic kind, beautiful and beloved and doomed. Dorian gripped his reins until his hands were white-knuckled and aching.

They left the Keep in a thunder of hooves and Dorian couldn’t quite squash the worry that he might have managed to squander what little time with Ryn fate had been kind enough to give.

--

Whatever the Inquisition had planned for their attack on Adamant, it likely hadn’t been the mess that greeted their rebellious counterpart upon arrival.

Torches and spells lit the night brighter than the noonday sun, and made the situation too clear too quickly. The fortress was still locked up tight, but outside the walls, bodies swarmed – a kicked anthill made up of soldiers, and wardens, and demons. They had been ready for the attack.

Atop the walls, archers sent down rain after rain of fiery arrows, and poured cauldrons of boiling oil on those who fought down upon the heads of Rellana’s Inquisition when they tried to breach, and yet her soldiers did not dare fall back. They pressed on, fighting, falling, failing.

From his vantage at the front of his men, Ryn watched the movements of Blackwall and Rylen’s troops. Their banners were easy to spot in the unnatural brightness that favored this battle. From the right and from the left, they hit the untidy lines with all the force of a twin pair of hammers, sending ripples through the ranks of combatants and Ryn knew, somewhere deep in his gut, that the sun would be rising on an Inquisition victory.

Clucking to his horse, Ryn urged him forward. At the head of his own arm of the rebel forces, he made the waited gesture, and they descended down onto the battlefield, down the middle, their movements covered by a hail of spells from Ellora’s camp, and arrows from Tal’s.

Ryn did not enjoy the act of killing. The hunters who had taught him had instilled in him a respect for life, whatever its form – but they had also been sure they made him understand that there were times when death was the only option. He made himself focus on that part – on the necessity, rather than the waste – but as he released from horseback arrow after arrow, he yet found himself trying to aim for joints and limbs, rather than hearts and throats.

Too soon, Ryn found his arrows running low, and though the boy riding at his side offered up a second quiver, it occurred to him that too soon he would be too close for them, and that his hunting knives would not have the reach he needed while in the saddle. Ryn shouldered his bow, as well as the quiver, and he quickly dismounted, with instructions to the boy to lead the horse back to camp. He drew his knife just a moment before a demon took note of the lull around him. He barely managed to block in time, the creature’s claws raking the flat of the wide blade as he raised it in defense. A spell blasted the thing away from him.

“Amatus, get back on your fucking horse!” Dorian snarled.

“Go!” Ryn told the boy, who didn’t need to lose his life waiting on Ryn as if he were some overstuffed noble, and to make sure he went, he slapped the boy’s horse on the rear.

He didn’t bother to explain himself to Dorian as he turned away. He knew Dorian would rather have him safe than effective. In return, he heard a string of foreign curses, followed by a brisk answer in Tevine. Fenris was at his side, lit up in lyrium, his blade already dark with blood and worse things – and evidently he did not have patience for Dorian’s worry.

Varric was conserving his crossbow bolts just as Ryn was his remaining arrows, and between them Dorian and Fenris had the brunt of the work as they carved their way slowly forward. Ryn did not stop to engage unless he had no other choice.

It was eerie, the pull he felt, as if led by some supernatural means, weaving through the pockets of fighting, deeper into the fray, even as his companions struggled to keep their enemies from closing in around them. At times he could almost imagine a figure just ahead of him, beckoning – he could almost hear a voice telling him hurry, here, now.

Then, with a sound like a powerful crack of thunder, the gates of Adamant fortress split and buckles under the Inquisition’s assault. Ryn darted forward.

“Kaffas!”

Weaving between bodies, avoiding combatants, Ryn made it to the gates. He climbed over the rubble, his team tight on his heels. He felt someone grasp him from behind, Dorian’s arm tight around his chest, the mage’s head bowed low over him as he released a spell. A thick, almost entirely opaque grey dome descended over them just as a demon’s fiery attack struck from behind. Dorian was breathing heavily against his neck; his chest was heaving. Through the grey haze and orange sparks, Ryn could see Rellana entering the Keep.

His clanmate wore armor studded with gold and gems, and a fur lined cloak that, rather than protect he from the frozen desert night, instead billowed around her in dramatic fashion. Aglow with power, she was followed by an elf, a human, and a hulking Qunari.

It seemed as if she met his eyes for a moment before she disappeared into the fortress.

Dorian dropped his spell only after Fenris and Varric succeeded in cutting the rage demon down.

“You’re maddening,” Dorian said, and gave him a shake. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“The witch has successfully breached the fortress,” Fenris said, sheathing his blade as he drew near. Behind him, Varric hefted Bianca. He scanned the field for anything else that might have taken note of their party’s passage. For now, they seemed to have come to a lull in the fighting around them. The rebel army was having an effect. “What are your orders?” he asked Ryn.

“We have to make sure Rellana succeeds in freeing the wardens,” Ryn said. He was surprised that he had to struggle to catch his own breath. He almost felt as if his journey across the battlefield had been made in a fog, so caught up had he been in his goal. “But more than that – we need to save lives. Some of the wardens might still have their senses about them. We can’t let them be killed.”

“You want to reason with them?” Varric asked.

Ryn shrugged. “I’ll improvise,” he said.

--

Rellana was like a shadow, continually slipping away the moment they caught sight of her. She used the struggles of her soldiers to keep herself out of combat, opportunistically running past, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the fortress. Several times, Ryn was forced to put off his pursuit as they came across choke points on the battlements, where Inquisition forces labored to gain a foothold. Rellana had left them to fall, but Ryn could not.

He was determined, unstoppable, cutting through demons and mind controlled wardens with arrows or knives, as Dorian struggled just to keep up. His heart in his throat, he had lost track of the number of times Ryn seemed to dodge a wound that should have been fatal, as if preternaturally warned.

They came across a group of wardens fighting one another in the main bailey. Here, they caught up to Rellana, who had paused as if to watch the two groups take each other out. It was Ryn who was the first to lift his bow in defense of those who would rebel rather than meekly submit to sacrifice. It was Ryn who instructed the wardens to fall back to safety.

“They should all be arrested,” Rellana said. She and Ryn stared at one another across the expanse of the bailey, two elves who had once shared a home and, in a way, a family. There was nothing of warmth or affection in the way she looked at Ryn.

The archer’s shoulders were straight as he took a step forward, gesturing to the wardens. “They’re victims!” he said.

Rellana’s hands twitched against her staff. She barely moved, and yet in an instant Ryn’s bow was raised. For a moment, they were both silent. The shouts and screams of the battle taking place below made the fortress seem a haunted place.

“You would kill me, then?” Rellana asked.

“You know you’re wrong,” Ryn said. “Let these men pass.”

She tilted her head, curious. “Do you think your arrows are faster than my magic?”

Ryn answered, “Yes.”

Rellana considered it, her eyes narrowed, her expression cold. Twin bright spots of color stood out against her cheeks, evidence of her fury. At her side, Vivienne murmured, softly, “Darling, really, don’t you think you’re embarrassing yourself? This false Inquisition are nothing but an embarrassing batch of mere pretenders – not the enemy.”

“But they are my enemy,” Rellana said. Nevertheless, she took a step back.

They all stood in silence until the wardens had gone.

“You’ve made quite a spectacle of yourself parading around with your little army,” Rellana said. Her knuckles were white against her staff. Ryn had not lowered his bow. When she moved, so, too, did Ryn. They began to circle each other, slowly, their eyes locked. “Copying me, playing imposter with my cast-offs and a few ragged banners? You’re a joke, Ryn.”

“I only want to help,” Ryn said, firmly.

“By undermining me?” she demanded. “Don’t you realize what I’m doing here? What I’m going to accomplish for our people?”

“The same kind of accomplishment you managed with our clan?” he asked.

Her face flashed crimson. “I am Andraste’s chosen!”

Ryn was unmoved. He sounded so utterly calm when he said, “You’ve been tasked with saving the world; whatever force chose you – do you really think they would disapprove of willing assistance?”

“I’m the Inquisitor,” she said. “Not you!”

And with sudden vehemence, Ryn snarled, “Then fucking act like it!”

Rellana flushed white, and then she moved. She raised her staff as if to strike, her face twisted, ugly with rage. Dorian quickly began to ready a counterspell.

But the attack never came. It was Solas who stepped forward, a hand on her arm. The flare of magic around her seemed to wink out in the instance of his touch, unnoticed by Rellana as he spoke to her, his words low and quick and urgent. He had his body turned so that they could not read his lips. With his free hand, he placed fingertips lightly against her staff and, slowly, it began to lower.

Dorian could not hear what was spoken between them, but he could remember the way Rellana’s face changed when the other elf spoke to her. He could remember how, even from the beginning, she had looked at him with such naked admiration and longing, such need for his approval.

He stepped back, his hands folded behind him, his head lowered as if he were a servant, and Rellana his queen, and Rellana, pretending at more control than Dorian knew she naturally possessed, lifted her chin proudly, and planted the butt of her staff against the ground as she took a moment to consider herself.

“Very well,” she said at last. “You have managed to stumble your way, somehow, into a – a sizable army. And you have brought the goodwill of the people to my Inquisition – stupid of you, but useful to me.”

“Don’t you see the potential you’ve been given, Rellana?” Ryn asked. “What you can really do? Besides throw your power around and stomp your foot? People are hurting; they’re dying. They’re so grateful for the help. Don’t you think they’ll remember it was an elf who saved them – just as they’ll remember if it’s an elf who hurts them.”

She pursed her lips. Her eyes flared with annoyance, but she lifted her hand in a queenly gesture that he should fall silence. She glanced back, briefly, at Solas, though he did not lift his head.

“The fact remains,” Rellana said, “That you’ve been acting under my banner. Under my name. Do you deny it?”

“No,” Ryn said. “We wanted to foster good will for the Inquisition. We want you to succeed.”

Her smile was cold, lips like blood against her pale face. “Then I propose a treaty,” she said.

Ryn looked truly surprised. “That’s…more than I expected,” he said.

“You seem to be under the mistaken impression that I’m unreasonable,” she answered, and behind her, Vivienne made a face, and rolled her eyes skyward.

Ryn licked his lips, then pursed them. “Not at all,” he said, “I believe we’ve known each other long enough to have a fairly accurate view of one another’s temperaments.”

“These are my terms,” she snapped. “I will accept you, and your so-called army, into my Inquisition. You will no longer answer to Inquisitor, you will follow my orders, and you will give me your Keep.”

“That’s very generous,” Ryn said.

“I’m not done yet.”

“I should have guessed.”

“You give me your men and your Keep, I will allow you to be a part of the Inquisition in truth, and I will even allow Cassandra, and Varric, Blackwall, and Dorian to live – and in return, when this day is over, you will kneel at my feet and submit yourself to my judgement.”

“Your judgement?” Ryn asked.

“You’ve worn my title. You’ve acted, dishonestly, under my name. You may not have been the instigator, Ryn, but you are the face of your imbecilic ‘rebellion’ – and I must take action for the wrong done to me.”

“I see,” Ryn said. And to Dorian’s horror, in a clear, firm voice, he said, “Done.”

Chapter Text

“She is frightened,” the blond boy said. He crouched at Ryn’s side, his face obscured beneath the wide brim of his hat, as the elf took a moment to drink some water and catch his breath.

After meeting up with Jax Hawke and Warden Loghain, the group had decided to take the opportunity of a momentary lull to take a moment to rest and see to any wounds while Rellana heard the men’s reports. Everyone was on edge.

Fenris paced like a hunting cat in a cage. The gaze he held locked on Jax was full of fury and naked loathing. He had nearly taken the man’s head off when they crossed paths, but Ryn had quietly promised they could have their much delayed discussion after the battle, and so far the tenuous peace was holding – if only just barely. Jax looked at Fenris with such smug amusement that even Ryn was tempted to violence.

“They threw her into their plan. She knows she can’t lead. Lost and scared – bluster, bluff, bravado – maybe if they fear me, they’ll never realize I can’t. I want to be great someday.”

Dorian displayed his discomfort in a different manner. He sat across the way, atop an overturned crate. His elbows rested atop his knees, and his every muscle screamed his tension. His eyes, red-rimmed, would not leave Ryn.

“Fears you, too,” the boy said. “The other one told her you were better, and she thinks it might be so. She doesn’t want anyone to get the chance to see it. Love – why should they love you, and not her? It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair!”

Varric had introduced Ryn to Rellana’s party, who looked at him much the same way anyone might look at a condemned man upon finding him hours away from execution. Now the dwarf stood talking to Vivienne and the Iron Bull. The qunari was the only one of the entire group who seemed anything like at ease. The other elf, called Solas, had not left Rellana’s side. He stood to her right, advising her, as she received her report.

“But I don’t know what I’m doing, either,” Ryn said, and beside him the boy, Cole, made a sound of soft agreement.

“No one ever does,” he said, and sounded bewildered.

Ryn didn’t know when the boy had joined them, or when, exactly, he’d noticed his presence. He must have followed them when they left the battlefield – a young soldier on the hunt for glory. Still, sometimes it seemed to Ryn as if they had known one another for a very long time. When he asked if they’d spoken before, Cole seemed pleased.

“I wanted to help,” he said, dreamily. “She wouldn’t let me, and I was angry, but I kept watching, anyway.”

“All right, then,” Dorian snarled, suddenly. He surged forward from his seat, and stormed Ryn’s way. Ryn had, privately, been wondering how long it would take.

“He’s frightened, too,” Cole said. Dorian didn’t seem to hear.

“What were you thinking?” Dorian demanded, his face contorted with pain. Ryn felt tired, and resigned, and little else. Dorian’s voice was raw but low, meant for him alone. “You can’t think she means to do anything but execute you. If you agreed, expecting something like a fair trial - !”

“If I’m the only one to be held accountable for our little venture, then so be it,” Ryn said. “The rest of you will be where you need to be to stop her going too far. That’s what matters – not me.”

“How – amatus, how can you say that?”

He felt a pang of guilt as Dorian’s voice cracked. He tried to smile when he reached for the mage’s hand. “I don’t have the Mark. What is it I’m really contributing here, aside from giving her a target to focus on?”

“What do you – everything you’ve accomplished – the people you’ve helped - !”

“Anyone could do that.”

Dorian raked his hands through his hair in frustration. “You want to heal the sky!” he said. “You want to make the world better! How can it ever be – without you in it?”

“The pain is like a hot knife, twisting in his gut. How many times do I have to lose you? I can’t breathe! Maker – Maker – Maker – I  love him so much!”

“Yes,” Ryn told Cole quietly. “I know.

“Clearly you don’t!” said Dorian, who hadn’t heard the boy and seemed, somehow, entirely unaware of his presence. “If you understood even a fraction, you would stop trying to sacrifice yourself at every turn, you bloody bastard!”

Their conversation was attracting the attention of the others – slow, pitying looks. When Ryn rose, Dorian slumped forward, his forehead resting against the elf’s abdomen, his arms going tight around him, grasping him. His hair was dirty with blood and sweat when Ryn put his hands in it.

“What should I have done instead?” Ryn asked. “She’s going to pardon the rest of you. Should I have offered someone else in my stead? Or run away with you, in the middle of the night – leave the world to its torment? How many years do you think we would have, if Corypheus wins? If Rellana burns the world around her?”

“At least there would be years,” Dorian said, his voice slightly muffled.

“Could you have loved me, if we’d had years?” Cole asked.

Ryn told Dorian, “I never said I couldn’t love you.”

His arms tightened around him. Ryn thought he heard something like a sob.

And then they heard it – the clatter of armor on the stairs. They sprang apart as if burned, and Dorian kept his red eyes lowered as he reached for his staff, the group scrambling for weapons set down in their moment of rest just before a fresh wave of wardens broke into their space.

--

For a moment, it was hard to see.

The air in the main courtyard was green with the haze of a forming rift, and below bodies writhed, faces upturned, lips chanting as the mages prepared their ritual. The wardens seemed sickly in this green light, like men who had been dead for months already, their eyes gleaming, glassy, and even with everything else on his mind, Ryn felt a small shiver of some combination of pity and revulsion.

For those who remained in some possession of themselves, waiting in neat lines in their gleaming armor, griffon wings proud across their chests, the Warden Commander, Clarel, spoke.

“Wardens!” she called, her voice reaching to them, echoing across the courtyard, somehow unconnected to the brutality and violence all around them. “We are betrayed by the very world we have sworn to protect.”

She would have said more, but a man stepped forward, Tevinter, by the look of him. They argued; Ryn could not hear their words. And then the sacrifice stepped forward. Clarel spoke to him, as well. Ryn tried to hurry forward. He opened his mouth in protest.

The man stood meekly as his throat was slit, his hot red blood splattering the cobblestones, and they were already far too late.

“No – stop!”

It was the Tevinter who spotted them first – Erimond, if Varric’s spies were right. He shouted to the wardens. “Stop them! We must complete the ritual!”

Rellana made a motion, a spell that pulled Ryn back, hard, to rejoin the group. She strode forward alone, chin high, like a queen entering court. She even wore a smile on her pretty red lips as she called back.

“It’s done, Clarel,” she said, confident, as if it was all already settled. “There will be no ritual, and no demon army!”

“Then the Blight rises with no wardens left to stop it, and the whole world dies!” Erimond called back. “Is that what you want? Yes – the ritual requires blood sacrifice. Hate me for that, if you must – but do not hate the wardens for doing their duty!”

There were a few cheers at that, from those below who still had something of themselves, who were not clever enough to have figured out the Wrong yet. The others stood, still staring forward with their glassy eyes. The Warden Commander frowned at them for a moment before stepping forward. She addressed herself to Rellana.

“We make the sacrifices no one else will,” she said. “Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them.”

“And then he takes your mages’ minds for his real master - Corypheus!” Loghain shouted back. Rellana stiffened when he stepped up beside her.

There was a moment of silence – tense words passed between the two, privately. Clarel lifted her hand, rubbed her forehead. She seemed to waver.

And then she made up her mind.

She ordered, “Bring it through,” and the mages continued with their ritual.

Lightening crackled, green, in the center of the courtyard. The vile emerald fog grew thicker. The mages swayed; they chanted. The air cracked and began to tear. The thin line of green grew thicker.

Their group eyed each other. More than one hoisted weapons. A few wardens moved forward.

“I betrayed the wardens once – and it cost me everything!” Loghain shouted, as Jax Hawke merely drew his sword and smiled in cocky anticipation of the fight to come. “Are you mad enough to think I’d do it again?”

A terrible screech tore through the air, coming from the growing rift. Something on the other side pushed at reality, tried to find its way through. Ryn readied one of his last remaining arrows. Rellana opened her mouth to speak, but it was Ryn who shouted over her.

“Listen to us!” he said, ignoring the terrible, murderous look she shot him as he forced his way to her side. “We have no quarrel with the wardens! We spared as many as we could – they’re below, recovering with our armies now. Please – you’re being used! Some of you know that, surely!”

There was hesitation, mumbling among those wardens who still possessed their own wills. Clarel spoke up quickly.

“Do not let fear sway your minds!”

Jax chuckled. “What’s wrong – afraid you ordered all these people to die for nothing?” he asked snidely. “Come on then. What are we waiting for?”

The look Loghain gave Jax was almost as murderous as the ones Ryn was receiving from Rellana, but he addressed himself to the wardens. He said, “One day, you may be asked to give your lives to stop a Blight – but not today.”

Clarel hesitated, and Ryn felt his first moment of hope. Her face was solemn, the decision a heavy one – as it should have been. There was something to be said for that.

Erimond pressed her, urgently. The wind carried his words: “Clarel – we have come so far! You’re the only one who can do this!”

“Perhaps we could test the truth of these charges,” she suggested. “To avoid more bloodshed.”

Erimond’s lip lifted in a snarl. “Or perhaps,” he said, “I should bring in a more reliable ally.” He turned away from her in clear dismissal, and as he slammed the butt of his staff against the ground, sparks went up in its wake. His voice seemed amplified. “My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor! He sent me this to welcome you!”

A terrible scream rent the sky.

Ryn was one of the first to turn, to see the dragon swooping in from the darkness above. He moved without thought, storing his arrow, shouldering his bow. He ran back to the others, catching Dorian, pulling him aside as an arc of fire, terrible in its heat and intensity, cut across the courtyard. The dragon circled, sweeping over their heads and landing with a crash atop a nearby tower. It let out another earsplitting scream.

Clarel was old for a warden, but her magic was strong, however close her true Calling might have been. She gathered her magic and struck Erimond, and when he was done she sent another spell arching, striking the great dragon. In retaliation another line of flame burst forth, narrowly missing her. The dragon took wing, and Erimond, the first to his feet, took after it. Clarel followed.

The rift screeched, and a pride demon clawed its way through while the dragons screams yet filled the air. There was chaos and heat, explosions of fire, flash of spells, blades drawn, orders shouted. Ryn rolled away from Dorian, and regained his feet. His fingers moved over his arrows, counting them – seven. The first he dipped in flame.

Rellana’s anchor cracked as she lifted it skyward. It effected the demon, somehow, slowed him. Ryn got off two good shots, and switched to daggers, darting in, dodging spells and curses, sinking his blades deep.

“How do we get out of here?” Varric called, when it fell.

Ryn was already moving – after Clarel. After Erimond. The others were quick to follow, even Rellana forgetting her hatred in the moment. Her hair was singed, and there was ash on her face. Her armor was missing several gems.

They ran along the battlements, hounded at every corner by demons and dragon’s breath, so hot and so foul it seemed to singe even from a distance.

When they found Clarel, she had Erimond cornered at a section of the fortress that had no other outlets of escape. Her spells pummeled him, one after the other, and the magister, faltering, could hardly keep up. He stumbled back, desperate, foundering. He fell, favoring his ribs as he tried to pick himself up. Clarel blasted him back.

“You – could have served a new god!” he told her, laughing, wheezing.

“I will never serve the Blight!” she said.

It was over. They had him, and the demon army was thwarted. Ryn and Rellana exchanged a look. They began to approach, slowly.

The dragon landed, and its jaws closed around Clarel. Ryn got one arrow loosed before it took off again.

When it spit the Warden Commander out, she landed so silently that Ryn at first thought she was already dead. Her body was broken, bleeding. The dragon crawled forward, slow, snarling. Ryn could hear Clarel speaking, her words low and labored. She lay on her back, staring upwards at the darkened sky, and as the creature passed over her, she let out one last, explosive spell.

The dragon screamed in pain. It slammed back, into the ground behind the group, and its momentum carried it, sending it over the edge of the fortress, a precipice where the battlements had long ago fallen away. It clawed, weak and desperate, for purchase, and the rock fell away beneath it – and beneath them.

Ryn felt the rock giving beneath him, and he scrambled backwards. He was clear when he realized that Dorian was slipping, falling slowly into the chasm, and he rushed forward again. He caught his arm, but nearly lost his balance, the unsteady ground and the weight of the mage pulling at him. He gave a step, grunted, gave another - and then he felt hands clawing at him – Varric and Fenris, and, to his surprise, Cole, helping to pull them both back, out of the way of the rapidly shortening path.

“Ryn!” Rellana shouted, and he looked up just in time to see the rock fall away beneath her, and the others – Solas, Vivienne, the Iron Bull, Jax, and Loghain. He met Rellana’s eyes, saw her outstretched hand.

And then she was gone.

Chapter Text

The stones beneath their feet were still shaking in a worrying way when the Inquisition soldiers found them. Cullen led the charge, his sword drawn, his armor bloodied, and he stopped short in surprise and alarm when he emerged at the top of the fortifications. The scene around them was silent yet no doubt clear – the scorch marks from Clarel’s spell and the state of her body, the shattered remains of the portion of fortress that had fallen away, the deep grooves left by the dragon’s claws. The four of them, huddled and panting and exhausted, too close to the edge for comfort.

Ryn was too still and too quiet as he stared at the place where Rellana had disappeared. He was trembling, and he seemed unaware that Dorian clung to him still, his lips uttering too many things into his hair, his arms likely bruising. The others had fallen back once they were safe, but Dorian was not willing to release him, not yet. He clutched the warm solid weight of the elf to his chest, and fought, unsuccessfully, to banish the images imagination caused, the thought of how close Ryn had come to going over that edge.

The weak, watery light of dawn was tinged with green. Dorian wondered if Cullen would feel obligated to arrest them.

“Thank the Maker!” Cassandra burst through the ranks of Cullen’s men and Ryn stirred, preparing to rise. Dorian almost grudgingly forced himself to release him, his arms empty and cold without him.  Ryn met their arrival on his feet, as the leader of the rebel Inquisition should, and Dorian, swaying, followed. “You are all unharmed?” Cassandra asked, both concerned and suspicious, as if she believed they were somehow hiding some terrible wound from her.

“Rellana,” Ryn began, as if the loss of the woman pained him.

“She opened a way into the Fade and vanished,” Cassandra said. “We saw it from below.”

“The Fade? Can someone survive that?” Ryn asked. Dorian could hear his exhaustion.

“She…did it once, after all,” Cullen offered, after a long moment in which no one seemed willing to answer. “Maker willing, she will again.” He didn’t seem entirely invested in the idea. Ryn merely nodded, slowly.

“And the dragon?” Ryn asked.

“It seems to have flown away,” Cullen said. He ordered his men to arrest Erimond – who had fallen unconscious but was still alive – and to see to what was left of the Warden Commander’s tattered body. Only once his task was done did he approach. He offered a somewhat awkward smile. “You’re Ryn, then? I must say I appreciate being able to put a face to the name at last.”

Ryn was like a husk of his normal self, his horror and exhaustion plain on his face and his bearing, and yet his lips quirked as he asked, “Am I shorter than you anticipated? That’s the reaction I usually get.”

“The rumors did not overstate the impact you have on the field, at least.”

Ryn nodded, and then he asked, bluntly, the question that had been worrying Dorian’s mind since the commander’s arrival. “Do you feel obligated to arrest me?”

Cullen grimaced.

“I might have,” he said, “Were it not for the inconvenient fact your forces currently outnumber mine. Rellana’s actions forced heavy casualties on our side – casualties that would have been far worse without your timely arrival, I might add. I’m afraid, at least for the moment, that the Inquisition is utterly at your mercy.”

Ryn merely nodded, and then he drew a breath and pulled himself up. Dorian had seen this from him before, back in that other world – Ryn, putting on the guise of the Inquisitor, donning authority like a cloak. His slender shoulders squared.

“I want to assess our position and get an idea of the damage,” he said. “If the fortress is mine, I intend to find some use for it.”

“My men are at your disposal,” Cullen said. His surprise in the shift in the elf’s demeanor was brief but approving. Something shifted in him too, became more deferential, almost unconsciously. He was a soldier reporting to a superior. “And the wardens?”

“Those who are not injured or possessed can help,” Ryn decided. “We’re going to need every hand. Put them under warden Blackwall’s command – and have this area blocked off. I don’t want any accidents.”

“As you say,” Cullen agreed.

The soldiers parted as Ryn strode past them. Fenris fell into place to one side, and Cassandra to the other. Varric was at the rear, Bianca on his back. He nodded and greeted soldiers he knew as they passed.

The kind of men Rellana recruited were brutish and violent and none too smart, but they had been bested today, and it wasn’t hard to figure out how few of them might have survived if not for the little Dalish archer and his rebel Inquisition.

In this world, Ryn had not been the one to stride from the Fade aglow with the proof of Andraste’s favor, but it didn’t matter. The way the soldiers looked at him as he passed now was no different than it had been there.

--

The air seemed simultaneously too thick and too thin. She choked on the fog. She wheezed and gasped for breath. She couldn’t escape the ghostly feel of skeletal hands carding through her hair.

Rellana stumbled over the Fade’s inconsistent footing. The ground beneath her seemed to shift and change at every moment. She reached for Solas to steady herself, but distance was inconsequential and temporary here, and where a moment ago he had been at her side, now he was out of reach. Her hand fell through cold and empty air and her momentum carried her down. Something jagged sliced her knee when she fell, and broken rocks cut into her palms. Her blood looked strange and sickly in the persistent green light.

“What makes you think your Inquisition will keep you around once your purpose is served?” the demon’s voice was slick and oily. The words carried with them a series of images – her mother’s face, the clan she had been born into. They had sent her away. The demon said, “No one ever really wants you. And now it seems they’ve found a replacement.”

“Don’t let it get under your skin,” Warden Loghain’s extended hand was clammy, but his expression betrayed nothing of the reaction he must have been feeling to their current situation. He helped her to her feet while Solas, his back to her, examined a ragged bookshelf, incongruously thrust through the floating remains of a rowboat. The mage seemed not to have even noticed she’d fallen.

“I’m not,” Rellana lied, and the warden’s cool gaze told her he didn’t buy it. At least he kept his commentary to himself.

The squelch of Jax Hawke’s boots as he continued to stomp on the remains of the things that had attacked them was getting under her skin. He said he saw spiders. To Rellana they looked like – something else. Formless, shadowy. It wasn’t their appearance that made her reluctant to look at them, but the feelings they evoked – the memory of being cast from her clan and forced to go to another, of being so unimportant that even her own mother hadn’t questioned sending her away.

She was going to be a great lady someday. The shemlen would bow before her, and her own people would praise her for uplifting them, and everyone would want her. Once she had the power she needed, she could afford to be kind. Once the world had learned to fear her, it would learn to love her. She wouldn’t ever feel that way again.

Jax pounced with both boots on the remains of a fear demon, and its blood rushed upwards, splashing her as she passed. Rellana nearly screamed in annoyance. Her nerves were on edge, and her hands yet trembled with fear, and Solas, her one true ally in the madness her life had become, was too entranced with their surroundings to care. It wouldn’t have been so bad, if he would just look at her. He was supposed to be the one who saw her for what she really was, after all.

“Will you stop that?” she all but screeched, when Jax began his stomping again. Vivienne raised a cool eyebrow at her, and Rellana had to turn away. She hid her shaking hands as she began to walk again.

--

Slowly, they began to pull together the pieces of what remained of Adamant fortress.

Ellora’s mages worked double time – healing the injured as well as working to free any remaining possessed wardens who had failed to fight to the death. More than half of the fortress’s barracks had to be converted into space for the wounded and dying. The supplies had to be looked over, plans made for their use and resupply. Rellana’s advisors spent three hours arguing over whether the Inquisition should keep the fortress or put it back into the hands of the wardens, whose loyalties were, at best, suspect.

Ryn was very aware of the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, and the headache that pounded in time against the inside of his skull. He would have forgotten to eat, had Dorian not been there to bully the food into his hands – and even then, the mage’s glower told him that the few tasteless bites he had managed were far from sufficient to satisfy Dorian’s preference.

There wasn’t time, that was all. Ryn had barely even sat down since the moment he rose to meet Cullen and the Inquisition forces. A part of him was very concerned that his legs would give out beneath him and send him sprawling into the dust. It would have made a nice comedic break in the tension, in any case. The way Dorian watched him, he suspected the mage would swoop him up and have him carted off to bed the moment he showed any indication of fatigue, however. He pressed on.

It was Rellana’s diplomat, Josephine, who finally caught on to the fact that Ryn would not stop until he was forced to. It was dark again outside, and Ryn didn’t know the hour – only that between Dorian’s bullying and Josephine’s interference everyone in the fortress seemed to have been informed that they would be socially and financially ruined if they interacted with him beyond pointing him in the direction of his rooms. He suddenly found himself with no choice but to call it a night.

He wasn’t surprised that Dorian followed him back to his rooms. The man had been a shadow at his back all day – disapproving of how hard he pushed himself, but not interfering. He could glower and advise at the same time, it seemed, as well as push food or drink into his hands whenever they were empty.

Now his talents seemed to extend to stoking the fire and making sure food, a bath, and a fresh change of clothes were brought up.

“By the time I turn around, you had better be resting,” he told Ryn, his voice dark.

Ryn groaned as he sank into a chair, already reaching for the laces of his boots. “You’ve defeated me,” he promised. “I am utterly obedient to your whim.”

“If only,” the mage huffed, and stabbed at the fire. Ryn rubbed an aching foot, noting for the first time the tense lines of the other man’s back.

“You’re still angry with me?” he realized.

“Exceedingly,” Dorian said, but then the bath and the food arrived, and so he didn’t continue.

“Dorian,” Ryn said, but he waved him off. Dorian sat in a chair by the fire. He didn’t watch him eat, or even pay attention when Ryn began to strip for his bath. Dorian himself had cleaned up and rested at some earlier point in the day – Ryn vaguely remembered a few hours in which the mage had been absent from his side, but he had been so busy that it was hard to pinpoint when or for how long. He looked better than Ryn likely had, in his torn and battle-stained armor. He only really felt his exhaustion when he sank into the hot water and felt his tight tense muscles begin to loosen.

Dorian picked at his food, then pushed it away. Ryn was half dozing in the water when the mage spoke.

“You do realize you’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours?” Dorian asked.

“Have I?”

“I suppose you would have kept going if we’d let you. Pushed until you gave out.”

“This is important, Dorian.” Ryn thought he would have stopped eventually, though he might not have taken the time to eat or wash up first. Falling into bed in his armor took much less effort. He was struggling to hold his eyes open as it was.

“And you aren’t?”

Ryn ducked under the water for a moment to rinse his hair and consider his words. “I’m a – a figurehead, Dorian,” he said when he emerged. “A symbol to rally behind, nothing more. I’m not contributing anything anyone else couldn’t. Whatever I was in that other place, there’s nothing special about me here. I’m just trying to contribute where I can.”

In his chair, Dorian made an ugly sound. “Contribute,” he said. “Sacrificing yourself to placate Rellana. Throwing yourself into the battle with no concern for your own safety. Running yourself ragged when any number of other people are perfectly able to manage - !”

“I just want to help,” Ryn said.

They were silent for a time. Ryn’s body began to alert him, slowly, to every cut and scrape and bruise, every twisted muscle and tired ache. He ducked under the water one more time, then made himself get out of the bath – while he still had the strength to do it alone. The towel waiting for him was soft and the fire had left it warm. Dorian didn’t so much as glance at him as he dried himself.

Slipping on the oversized sleep shirt he’d been left was almost an afterthought.

Dorian’s silence had lasted so long it was beginning to unsettle him. “I suppose I didn’t want to give myself time to think today,” Ryn said at last, hoping some explanation might soothe the mage’s nerves.

Dorian did look at him then, with his tired, red-lined eyes, his skin unnaturally pale in the firelight. Ryn had trouble meeting his gaze. He sat in the other chair beside the fire and finger-combed his wet hair.

“Whatever Rellana’s crimes, she’s still family,” Ryn said. He knew she would have had them both executed if she could, but it didn’t change the fact he would be sorry if she was dead. The half-opened rift in the courtyard continued to pulse and glow, but nothing had emerged. Ryn had ordered several guards put on it. “I can’t help but think I should have found a way to save her. And the wardens – surely there’s more I could have done, more…”

“You aren’t personally responsible for the health and happiness of all of Thedas.” Dorian sounded exasperated. Ryn scrubbed at his hair with the towel.

“I – I know,” he said. “But…”

“Kaffas!” the sheer vehemence in Dorian’s snarl interrupted Ryn’s thoughts and brought his head up, gaze snapping to the other man. Dorian lifted his hands and rubbed almost violently at his face. He pushed suddenly to his feet, and there was something terrible and raw in the way he looked down at Ryn. “I can’t do this,” he said.

“Do what? Dorian – can’t - ?”

“Can’t stand by and watch you throw yourself into the lion’s teeth at every opportunity!” he said. “I can’t keep losing you, over and over and over. I can’t watch you sacrifice yourself every time you get the slightest chance!”

“Dorian…”

“I don’t know how to explain to you what you matter – what you mean to this world. To me! You don’t even - !” Dorian stopped himself, laughed. He scrubbed his hands over his face again. “You don’t even understand what it is to me that I that I feel the way I – that I’m even capable of - ! Well, it would be trial enough loving someone without his having the faintest inclination toward feeling the same, but having to watch you treat yourself as if your life doesn’t matter - ! Ha!”

“Dorian, please, stop!” Ryn pled, rising. He reached for him, but Dorian jerked out his grasp.

Dorian’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. His eyes looked like bruises.

“Tell me to leave, then,” the mage said. His voice was raw. “If you’re really going to throw your life away, then I’m wasting my time here. You’re certainly more enamored with the idea of making yourself some great bloody sacrifice than you are with me.”

“That’s not fair,” Ryn began. Dorian shook his head.

“You’re right,” he said. “You have the world on your shoulders, and I’m just some bleeding stranger who showed up uninvited, begging for your love.”

“Dorian…”

“I swear, if you tell me you like me, you little bastard, I’m going to scream.”

Ryn opened his mouth, then closed it. They were silent for a long moment, an eternity that passed somewhere between Dorian’s wretched expression and their inability to quite meet one another’s eyes.

At last, Dorian drew a deep breath, like a drowning man coming up for air. “Right,” he said at last. “I suppose that says everything, doesn’t it? It’s all right, you know? I think I’ve known for a long time, the way this world works.”

He swayed a little, his first step toward the door, but then he managed to draw his shoulders up, his head rising. His hand was on the knob before Ryn found his voice.

“Dorian, please!” he said. Dorian’s outburst still floored him, but something like panic gripped him – a sudden terror at the thought of the man leaving again. The idea of facing what was to come without him was like a dark, terrible monster, lurking just at the edge of his vision. To him and his distracted mind, this might have seemed sudden, but Dorian had been stewing all day, watching him, fretting.

Dorian was serious – and that was the most terrible thing Ryn could think of.

Dorian stopped. When he glanced back at him, he looked wary and defeated. His eyes were wretched, awaiting the final blow. Ryn crossed his arms to keep his hands from shaking.

“You’re the only reason I can do any of this!” Ryn confessed. It hurt to meet his eyes, but he made himself do it anyway. “I’m sorry – I’m sorry I’m not what you expected me to be. But I need you. Please.”

“I can’t watch you kill yourself for someone else’s sake.”

“Then pull me back!” Ryn said. Dorian was the one who saw him, who believed in him as a person, and not some Inquisitor stand-in. He had been the one to put Ryn up for the job, true, but he was also the only one he could stand to let see his weaknesses, the only one he could trust not to lose hope when he had to take a moment to break. He had thought Dorian understood that. “If I go too far, if I push too hard, then stop me - please! Just like today.”

“Today? I tried all day today to make you settle down.”

“And I didn’t listen. I’m sorry. I was too upset, and I wasn’t thinking – not about you, not about anything or anyone except myself, and keeping myself occupied. It wasn’t sacrifice, it was selfishness.”

“You, selfish?”

“Dorian, you don’t know how it’s been for me since you returned. I know it’s only been a few days, but it’s mattered that you’re here with me.”

“How has it mattered?” Dorian demanded. “As far as I can see, you’ve done nothing but try to kill yourself at every turn. You aren’t expendable, damn it. You aren’t a bloody sacrifice!”

“Please - !” Ryn said. “Please don’t leave me.”

--

In the large nightshirt, Ryn looked small and frail. His arms were around himself, hugging himself, his hair still damp around his pretty face. Neither of them had spoken in several minutes.

The first step was the hardest. Dorian’s hand was gripping the doorknob so hard he was starting to cramp. He made himself release it, fingers uncurling, made himself move back toward the elf, and the warmth and light of the fire. Ryn’s head tilted back as he drew closer, his eyes never leaving his face. He looked like the tragic hero of a romance, the heartbreakingly beautiful water nymph whose lover would never return from war. Dorian heard the tremble in Ryn’s breath when he reached for him, his fingertips sliding against his cheek. His head fell back, as if in anticipation of a kiss, and Dorian couldn’t stop himself.

Neither one of us could stop smiling, Ryn had told him once, in that other world. He’d told him that their first time making love had been overwhelmingly happy, so much so that his version of Dorian had playfully scolded him for not taking the matter seriously enough.

There was none of that here. They were both utterly solemn as they kissed, Ryn pushed up on his toes to meet him, his clever fingers quick to work out the tricks of the various straps and buckles on Dorian’s attire. His own nightshirt fell away easily, a puddle of white soft cloth pooling around his feet before he stepped out of it, his skin so warm and so soft beneath Dorian’s slow, exploring hands. He pulled Dorian with him toward the bed.

“Please, Dorian,” he said. Soft, a whisper, and yet frightened, and desperate, too. As he sank down into the mattress, he clung to him as if afraid that Dorian would again pull away, and this time Dorian didn’t have the strength to do anything but follow. “Please,” Ryn said.

And Dorian answered, “Yes.”

Chapter Text

The morning light was weak and watery, and Dorian had Ryn in his arms.

Though neither of them had gotten quite the rest they no doubt needed, they were both awake. He could feel Ryn’s fingertips, featherlight, tracing idly up and down his forearm, stirring the fine hairs there. One of his legs was trapped between both of Dorian’s, and his breathing was soft.

Dorian tried with all his might to hold onto the moment for as long as he could.

He had dozed, on and off, for what little of the night there had been, but he had never truly slept. He couldn’t do it – not and risk the fact he might wake and find it had all been a dream. Ryn in his arms, the hot shocking press of warm bare flesh against his own. Ryn, so beautiful in the firelight, but so serious, too, holding his eyes as he rode Dorian, rocking his body atop him with single-minded intent, never once looking away.

Had it been good? Dorian couldn’t remember.

It had been intense – that was all he knew. Dorian in his need to experience it, to be present in the moment, to appreciate what he had while he had it. Ryn, driving to forget his day, or his duties, or his guilt, or whatever the Void it was the elf had been thinking. His eyes had glowed gently in the night. He’d bent his head to kiss Dorian, hard, fierce, his body rolling. Ryn’s hands on his skin. His body clenched tight around him.

And now, in the light of dawn, Dorian’s demons came out to play.

It had only been the once, surely. Ryn had gotten whatever it was he needed – a moment’s reprieve, a break from the stress. To think that Ryn might have offered himself just to shut Dorian up or to cement his agreement to stay was too much even for Dorian to consider - it wasn’t Ryn who Dorian doubted, but his own luck and lack of worth. But it wouldn’t have been good enough for more – he wouldn’t have been good enough for more. He knew better than to expect it. Whatever magic they had worked in that other world, there was no place for it here. A moment’s reprieve, that was all they could have. A break to remind Ryn what it was to be a person again, rather than a hero. Ryn would smile and thank him. He would be charming and beautiful and flirty. It wouldn’t happen again.

“You’re tense,” Ryn murmured, his voice soft in the morning quiet, as if afraid of breaking something. Dorian felt his lips against his chest, half a dozen slow, insubstantial kisses. The touch against his arm firmed into a caress.

Dorian sat up.

“Well,” Ryn said. “That’s not worrisome at all.”

“You should get more sleep,” Dorian said. He pushed a hand through his hair. He felt the mattress shift behind him, and after a moment he felt Ryn’s hands slide against his back, his fingers press into the muscles of his shoulders.

“Only if you come with me.”

Ryn kissed his back, his shoulder. His hair tickled the mage’s skin. When Dorian turned his head, Ryn kissed his lips – soft, slow, lingering, smiling now, where he hadn’t last night. The elf had finally lost the haunted, exhausted look he’d worn yesterday, though there were still rings under his eyes. His sleepy smile continued, even as he drew back from the kiss.

“I feel much better today,” Ryn told him, and Dorian couldn’t help but to snort.

“How could you not, after such vigorous exertion?”

“Are you all right? I didn’t break it, did I?”

Dorian almost looked down. He earned a look of amusement from the elf.

“I’m – distracted,” Dorian said.

“Sex is distracting,” Ryn agreed, with more of that smile. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, and it fell across his bare shoulder as he tilted his head to regard him. His eyes were warm, his lips inviting. He was a dream made reality, there in the morning light. More seriously, he asked, “Are you having regrets?”

“Yes,” Dorian said, before he could think.

Ryn’s hands stilled, then slowly fell to his lap.

“Oh.”

Dorian shook his head, and he made himself tear his eyes from him. He turned away again, but the image of Ryn sitting there naked in the sunlight seemed to be imprinted on the insides of his eyes. He struggled with himself for a moment, reluctant to see the conversation through. It was one thing to know how a thing ended – another to actually make himself hear it.

“I’m – I’m merely curious where this goes, you and I,” he said, as carelessly as he could. “I suppose we should have taken the time to specify last night.”

“Where this goes?” Ryn asked. “You’re in love with me.”

Dorian winced. “Right,” he said. “And you like me. Yes, I remember.”

“Dorian,” Ryn sighed, and then, to Dorian’s horror, he chuckled. A moment later he was back, his arms sliding around Dorian from behind, his forehead pressing against his back. “Do you still want me?”

“I’ve no intention of changing in that regard, no.”

“I want you, too,” Ryn said.

Privately, Dorian thought yes, but for how long?

He was silent for too long. Ryn’s arms felt too good about him. The elf still sounded slightly troubled when he spoke. “You do remember that I would have had us here back in Wycome if you weren’t so set on being stubborn – don’t you?”

“I’m sure we would have had a marvelous time back in Wycome.”

“I had a marvelous time last night.”

That eased something in his chest, anyway. Dorian said, “Well, of course you did. I’m very good.”

“Mmn,” Ryn said, which might have been agreement. His fingers danced their way down Dorian’s abdomen, causing the mage to catch his breath. His lips played at his ear. “You seemed to enjoy yourself, too.”

“Ample evidence for that, I think.”

“Then what’s the matter? Are you still angry at me?”

Dorian released a huff of breath. “I don’t think that’s possible at this present moment.”

“Dorian,” Ryn said. The mage struggled to put his fears into words.

“Well,” Dorian said at last, the words pulled painfully from him. “We’ve had our fun now, haven’t we?”

Ryn was still, quiet behind him. His arms tensed for a moment, tightening and then releasing. He finally drew away, moved so that he and Dorian could look at one another properly.

“Is that what you think of me?” he asked, without any heat. His tone was surprisingly gentle, more curious than accusing. “Is that the impression I’ve given – that I’m frivolous in my affections?”

Dorian couldn’t find a way to answer.

Ryn said, “Dorian – I don’t know how else to explain to you that I want you in my life.”

It wasn’t fair, the way he looked, sitting there next to him in the morning sun. Ryn’s hair was charmingly tousled, his neck bruised from more than a few rather over-enthusiastic kisses.

“Yes, but – well, this isn’t the way things are done, you know?” Dorian asked.

Ryn said, “Have I given you cause to think I would be careless with your heart?”

“Amatus,” Dorian began, without any idea as to how he planned to continue. He was rescued, if such can be called that, by a sudden knock at the door.

“Inquisitor?” Cullen’s voice called. The doorknob jiggled, but for once it seemed the door was locked.

The title still struck Dorian as odd - Inquisitor wasn’t exactly the right term for Ryn here, but for lack of other ideas even Rellana’s people had begun to use it. Ryn had acted like an Inquisitor yesterday – moreso than Rellana ever had – and it had felt natural. Dorian didn’t know that he could get used to it in this world, without the mark on Ryn’s hand.

Cullen actually pulled on the door. “We need you in the courtyard,” he called through the thick and blessedly sturdy slab of wood. “The rift has opened – Rellana has returned.”

Ryn frowned at the news, his head bowing, and he was quiet for so long that Cullen began knocking again. “I’ll be out in a moment!” he called at last.

The two of them sat in silence, once they were alone again. Ryn was the first to move, to rise and move to the wash basin. The water had not frozen over, but it would be cold. Dorian had used spells to tidy them up last night, but now Ryn splashed his face and toweled down his torso and, after a moment, Dorian rose to help him dress.

“We’ll finish this conversation later,” Ryn told him, subdued and solemn, and Dorian only nodded.

--

Ryn’s late hours meant that no one had had the time to clean and repair his armor, and so when he emerged from his room with Dorian at his side, he was wearing his usual humble leathers. His hair hung loose over one shoulder, his form trim and tight, his feet laced into a pair of high boots.

Even with his simple attire, he looked like someone important. He carried himself with an air of authority that was not ego, bluff, or bluster, but instead natural and inborn. It seemed impossible that last night had happened – that Dorian had touched his body and shared his bed.

He followed, and tried to pretend that he belonged.

The group in the courtyard emerged from the Fade far the worse for wear. Servants were already attending them, with trays of food and fresh tankards of water, and even Vivienne drank deeply, spilling water down her front. They were all battle stained, ragged, showing clear signs of exhaustion. They were tattered and weary, and they looked as if they’d been gone a week, rather than one single night.

Solas alone might have been said to have born the journey with minimal trouble. He stood with straight squared shoulders, and his narrowed eyes took in those who had gathered in such a measured matter that Dorian had no doubt he had already noticed and weighed the shift in power that had occurred while they were away.

Even in his humble attire, Ryn looked far more the Inquisitor than Rellana now. She had stumbled, emerging from the rift, and she hadn’t managed to rise. Her clothes were torn, her face dirty. Her once-perfect curls were a ragged, lopsided wreck.

Ad Ryn approached, she looked at him with huge, horrified eyes. He reached to help her to her feet, and she clung tightly to his arm.

“I left him behind,” she said, with a kind of quiet horror. Rellana had sentenced men to death without a second thought – she had sentenced Dorian to death with an eager sort of pleasure – but now she looked bloodless and haunted.

“Where’s Jax?” Varric asked, and Rellana, impossibly, grew paler.

“Enough gawking,” Ryn told those assembled. There was a hard, disapproving note in his voice that Dorian wasn’t sure he had ever heard before. “The Inquisitor has been through an ordeal and she needs rest – be about your duties. Warden Loghain, with your assistance - ?”

The dark-haired warrior moved to Rellana’s other side. She looked like a prisoner, supported between them, though Ryn wasn’t much taller than her, and his grip was gentle.

There was disappointment around the courtyard as the crowds began to disperse, and Dorian overheard a few quiet grumbles. He saw Ellora break away to join Ryn, and after a moment, Tal, as well. The archer jogged up to her fellow elves as they disappeared into the fortress.

“Her people will take care of her now,” said a boy who stood near Dorian. He was tow-headed and pale, and something familiar nagged at Dorian’s mind. “She saw Fear and now she feels bad. She’s not used to regretting her choices.”

“She fears consequence,” Dorian said. “I won’t pity her. She’s a spoiled child who’s escaped paying for her mistakes too many times.”

The boy regarded him, silent, thoughtful, and then he was gone, and Dorian did not think of him again.

--

Ryn, Rellana, Cassandra, the advisors, and what looked to be every member of Clan Lavellan who had come out to the Approach had sequestered themselves away for talks, and while both Solas and Warden Loghain had managed to get themselves invited, Dorian had not.

He found company in the fortress mess hall. Adamant was, sadly, not in possession of a tavern, but the men found a way to make due. The Iron Bull had discovered the alcohol stores and decided to clean his memory of the Fade with a cask or three, and invited anyone within earshot to join him.

Varric was there, with Fenris, the two of them sharing a bottle of something that had no doubt been meant for a commanding officer. Varric poured him a glass without being asked, and motioned Dorian to a chair.

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt the mourning,” Dorian said, and Fenris gave an ugly sounding laugh.

“The only thing to mourn is the fact I didn’t kill the bastard myself,” Fenris said. He had to have been several drinks in already; he had never voluntarily spoken to Dorian before.

“It’s the end of an era,” Varric said, with something like real regret. “Jax and I couldn’t see eye to eye if the fate of all Thedas rested on it – but we had a history. That means something.”

“You aren’t responsible,” Fenris told him. “Not for his death, and not for his actions.”

“Daisy won’t take it well.”

“She’ll be the better without him – and so will the rest of the world.” Fenris saluted with his glass, and drank as if that settled the matter. His mouth yet held its bitter twist. Dorian watched him for a moment before drinking, himself. It was hard to look at this angry elf without thinking of the things he had read in that other world’s Tales of the Champion. It would help no one to tell Fenris of the ways his life would have been different – better – if Jax Hawke had never existed. It wasn’t as if Fenris could track down that other Hawke, as Dorian had tracked down Ryn.

“Worrying about what’s going on in that meeting isn’t going to help anyone,” Varric told Dorian, misinterpreting his expression.

Dorian chuckled. “And I suppose getting roaringly drunk will?”

“It will help you,” Fenris mumbled.

Dorian drained the glass in one go, though it was drier than his usual preference. Fenris stretched out his arm and refilled it almost immediately.

“Kid’s got a good head on his shoulders,” Varric said. “I’m sure he’ll come out on top.”

“You are aware that Ryn is in his thirties, I hope?” Dorian asked. Varric shrugged. They all drank.

“Tell me, Magister,” Fenris said. The drink made his voice warm, but his eyes were dangerous. “Do you find it at all inconvenient, falling in love with an elf?”

“Vishante kaffas – does the whole world know?”

“I’m sorry,” Fenris said. “Did you think you were being subtle?”

“You do know that I’m not a magister?”

“You do know that I don’t care?”

“Your concern is so touching.”

“My concern is for Ryn,” Fenris said. “How does it work when your family keeps confusing your lover for one of the household slaves?”

“Joke’s on you there,” Dorian answered. “I barely speak to my family.”

Fenris grunted, and he motioned for him to drink again.

--

Some hours later, Dorian stumbled into Ryn as he was leaving the talks with Rellana and her people. Ryn looked pale and tired, and Dorian was well and truly drunk.

“Is this your response to the idea of continuing our conversation?” Ryn asked, alarmed, as he caught him.

“I wasn’t out here waiting for you,” Dorian lied, convincingly, he thought. “Fate just happened to lead you skipping across my path.” He made a hopping gesture with his hands, and nearly lost his balance, but for Ryn supporting him. He said, surprised, “My but you’re stronger than you look.”

“You should be in bed.”

“Pity I’ve no idea where my rooms are located.”

Ryn shifted to get a better grip on him. He said, “Have you been drinking all afternoon?” Dorian merely shrugged.

It was nice, walking with Ryn’s arm around him. It was midafternoon, the Blighted sky flat and high above them, and the air was chill. Ryn was warm, however, a comforting heat at his side.

“I want to stay like this,” Dorian said, and Ryn made a sound that could have been a laugh.

“What – drunk?”

“With you.”

Ryn’s expression was tired, but gentle, too. He made that soft not-quite-a-laugh sound again. He said, “All right, Dorian.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, the population of Adamant was asked to gather in the main courtyard for an announcement.

Dorian had woken alone, and his head was pounding, but he had woken in Ryn’s bed. That was something, wasn’t it? He’d lingered for a moment, stretching out his hand. His fingertips found the other side of the bed still warm.

Rellana and Ryn made an odd pair, standing side by side, elevated above the crowd. Rellana still looked red eyed and wrung out, but some life had returned to her eyes and her chin had that haughty defiant lift. She wore a gown, and a full, luxurious fur coat protected her from the desert’s cold. The monstrosity of a crown perched atop her gleaming curls made her almost as tall as Cullen.

Ryn should have looked like a servant beside her. Perhaps that had been Rellana’s intention. His leathers were the color of dirt, and though he had resigned himself to wearing boots, there was still something of the wild Dalish savage about him. Yet even still –

Dorian didn’t think it was merely the extreme bias of his own personal feelings that made it seem to him as if Ryn could hold his own beside Rellana. She looked like a queen, true. He looked like – something else entirely. It was all in the way he held his shoulders, the grace of his movements, the tilt of his head.

Before them all, Ryn and Rellana sat down together, and they signed a treaty – the two factions of the Inquisition coming together to form a single strong body.

When it was done, before the ink was even dry, they signed a second agreement – this one naming the wardens as allies of the Inquisition.

“Lookit ‘er old sourpuss face,” Sera snickered, beside him. “She wanted to toss them out on their arses, but the little guy put his foot down.”

“Where did you hear this?” Dorian asked. Sera made a vulgar gesture.

“Tal gets talky when you know how to ask nice. She’s alright – for an elf. Said she thought they were gonna kill each other, there in that meeting. Rellana’s face got all red and puffy, an’ Ryn sat there all still and cold till she wore herself out.” She laughed. Dorian looked back to the two Inquisitors.

Warden Loghain signed the treaty, for lack of anyone more suitable. He would be leaving soon, for Weisshaupt, but the Inquisition would be leaving Adamant in warden control.

Reactions to this seemed mixed. Solas in particular looked sour. Dorian glanced at Sera again, and the wide grin plastered against her face.

“I must admit, I’m surprised you approve,” Dorian said. Sera made a rude noise.

“Lived in Denerim during the Blight, dinnit I?” she asked. “Anyway, anything that makes princess poochie puss pucker up like that gets first place on my list of good, yeah?”

Rellana did look furious. Dorian answered, “Yes, I suppose so.”

--

“You did it,” Dorian said, and laughed. “You actually accomplished what we set out to do – a leash on Rellana, and without bloodshed, too.”

“Oh, there’s been bloodshed,” Ryn answered. He looked up from his book, and allowed himself a moment to observe the mage who stood so uncomfortably in the bedroom doorway. Dorian had the manner of a man who was not entirely certain his presence was wanted. Ryn could see it, just as he could see his attempts to hide it, to cover his nerves with a more flippant exterior. Dorian brushed his fingers along a bit of carving along the doorframe, and didn’t quite look at him full on. Ryn said, “I’ve been wondering where you were.”

“It didn’t occur to me that an industrious little monster like you might be sequestered away reading in his rooms.”

“So, you were looking for me, then.”

Dorian jerked. He looked at Ryn, then, with a mixture of alarm and something very like fear. Ryn sighed and marked his place in his book. He let his bare feet drop from the place where they had rested, propped against the open window.

“If I recall correctly, I was recently forced to promise to take better care of myself,” Ryn said. That the book was about human customs and laws, Dorian didn’t need to know.

Even still, Dorian frowned. “Such strong language,” he said. “I didn’t force you, surely.”

Ryn decided to be honest. He said, “I would have had a very difficult time of it, had you left.”

Dorian’s frown darkened. “Do you mean to say that night wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been threatening to leave?” he asked, alarm creeping into his voice. “That I coerced you into – ?”

Before he could get too worked up, Ryn threw his book at his head.

For a moment, Dorian merely looked stunned. Then he said, “Ow.”

“Did that help?” Ryn asked.

The mage frowned at him.

Ryn rose. “You want to start an argument because you don’t want to talk about what you really came here to talk about,” he said, as Dorian bent to pick up the book. Dorian examined the spine unhappily, his fingers tracing the lettering, and the little tear caused by Ryn’s mishandling of the tome.

“You weren’t reading for pleasure, you were working,” he realized.

“You see – this is what I’m talking about.”

Dorian looked up then, at him. He seemed surprised to find that Ryn had crossed the room. He moved meekly enough out of his way, and watched as Ryn closed the door and firmly turned the lock. He was still frowning when Ryn turned to him. Ryn took the book from his hands and reached past him to set it on the mantle.

“I have too much work to do to read for pleasure,” Ryn said. “But today we aren’t going to waste time arguing about whether or not I’m working too hard. If you really want to help me, then I need you to talk to me.”

“Amatus…”

“Do you think I slept with you to shut you up?” Ryn asked bluntly.

The question shocked Dorian into silence, and Ryn had his answer before he even spoke, quiet, horrified. “You don’t have it in you,” Dorian said, as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

Ryn said, “Then what’s going on?”

“You assume something is going on?”

Ryn considered hitting him with the book again. Instead he turned away, and crossed the room, and dropped into his chair. He scrubbed his hands over his face for a moment, and then dropped them, sitting back. He felt suddenly exhausted when he looked at Dorian again and saw the lines of terror etched into his form. His face was smooth enough, haughty even, the mask of a proud man – but he held his shoulders as if he expected to be beaten.

“I think you want to find a problem, Dorian,” Ryn said. “And I want to understand why. If you can’t talk to me, then – then what are we doing?”

“That’s just it,” Dorian said, dropping his gaze. He examined his hands for a moment, before venturing further into the room. He leaned his backside against Ryn’s desk, facing him, folding his arms across his chest. “What are we doing?” he asked. “We didn’t – ah – finish the discussion.”

Ryn lifted a brow. “Not to name names, but that was because someone got himself drunk yesterday afternoon and had to be put to bed early.”

Dorian dropped his head. His smile was odd. He said, “Right. Yes, that did happen.”

“You were frightened.”

“All right, I won’t say you’re wrong.” Dorian was silent for a moment, but when Ryn merely waited, he continued, slowly, the words pulled out of him. “We don’t do this sort of thing in Tevinter, you know?”

“Have a conversation?”

“We don’t – a relationship between two men. It isn’t done. And it’s – well, to be perfectly honest, we both know it’s what I want. Both in general and in specific. With you.”

“Is that what you want?” Ryn asked, before he could stop himself. He was gratified to see the mage look a little embarrassed.

“Yes, yes, I’m not circumspect about it. Not after the things I’ve – but the problem, you see – the problem is that I haven’t a clue what you’re thinking. Try as I might, I can’t find a single reason why you might want the same things I do. And I’m – yes. I’m frightened. I don’t want to relax only to have the proverbial rug pulled out from under me, as it were. I’ve had that happen too many times. It isn’t pleasant.”

“You want to know my intentions with your heart,” Ryn said.

Still Dorian didn’t look at him. “Well,” he said. “You did say that you didn’t foresee falling in love with me. But when you smile at me, the way you do – when you flirt, and kiss, and when you – Maker, I’ll take that night with me to my grave – but you can see where it might be difficult for me to…get ahead of myself.”

Ryn stared at him, flabbergasted, and Dorian stared at the floor. It took him a good several minutes to even remember the discussion Dorian was talking about – that night in the inn in Wycome, when the man had looked at him, his eyes so hurt and pleading. Don’t you think there could be a world where you and I could love each other?

“Dorian,” he said. “I didn’t say I could never love you. I said I didn’t know you. I still don’t – not as well as I’d like to anyway.”

“While meanwhile I’ve done everything in my power to make a fool of myself.”

“I didn’t say that. But Dorian – the fact I haven’t fallen in love with you doesn’t negate my interest in you. I’ve told you I liked you. I thought I’ve been, well, perfectly clear in my intentions. Our night together was special for me too. I don’t know how I’ve managed to give you the impression that I’m not serious in my pursuit of you.”

“But why should you be serious?” he asked. “Why did you beg me to stay? Why did you offer yourself in Wycome? Why – yes, yes, I know, you like me, but - !” He stopped himself, a waver in his voice. They stared at one another, Ryn in his armchair by the window, Dorian, rigid against the desk. He grew even more tense when Ryn rose again, and moved toward him.

“I’m interested in you because you’re interesting,” Ryn said, coaxing Dorian to drop his arms, to let him take his hands. “You work so hard at hiding it, but you’re a good man, Dorian.”

“You really don’t know me,” he said, with a tired chuckle.

“You know – my clan always had good relations with our human neighbors. But even still – you were the first human to look at me as if I were a person. I enjoy spending time with you. I think you’re brilliant, and beautiful. And – the task set before me is less daunting with you by my side. I told you, I’ve felt the difference since you came from Tevinter. You aren’t here to follow me. You can’t understand what a relief that is. How much better it feels, just to talk to you.”

“I – I’m afraid I don’t know what to say.”

He felt his lips twitch. “How about, gee, Ryn, I’m sorry I ever doubted you. Also you’re very good in bed, and I never did that thing I mentioned doing, so how about we try that now? Just for starters.”

It made him laugh, at least. Dorian stepped closer to him, his head bent, his eyes losing some of that expression that reminded Ryn so much of a trapped animal. He said, “You really are a shit. You know that, I hope? I despise you.”

Ryn laughed.

Chapter Text

Leaving Adamant to the care of the Wardens, the newly united Inquisition set out for Skyhold by the end of the week.

The bustle and activity of their first day on the march was slow to die down, unexpected tension rising up between the less-disciplined members of the former Inquisition and their new allies. Ryn ended up calling for their stop early, and he made Rellana’s troops strike and reassemble their tents seven times before he was satisfied with the shape of their camp. If there was grumbling later over dinner, at least the men were too tired to cause trouble.

Of Rellana, Ryn had seen very little. In the days following her trip through the Fade she had become withdrawn and almost sickly, and confined herself to her rooms at the fortress. At their departure, she had sequestered herself in her carriage, only rarely to emerge over the course of the day. Ryn had had no intention of stepping over her leadership, but she’d left him very little choice.

Now the hour was late, the moons stretched high into the cold starry sky. Ryn’s feet hurt and his back ached and his mind kept drifting, longingly, to the bed that awaited him and the warm company he hoped to find asleep therein. He would like nothing more than to strip off his boots and sink into the mattress and spend a few hours oblivious to absolutely everything.

Instead, he found himself standing outside in the cold, being frowned at by an elf who clearly was in no mood to speak with him.

The simple question Ryn had asked – “May I come in?” was met with a look of hostility that Ryn was far more used to seeing from savage animals than his fellow elves. Solas was no more intimidating than a charging bear or a snarling wolf, however, and so Ryn kept both his smile and his ground, and he waited.

Eventually, Solas relented.

“If you must,” he said, sharply, and he stepped aside.

“Ma serannas,” Ryn answered, and was not entirely certain he didn’t hear a growl in response.

Solas was in possession of one of the larger tents in camp – and though it lacked ornamentation, he did have furniture: a bed, a table, four rickety old camp chairs, and some unfamiliar instruments that almost looked –

“Are these elven?” Ryn asked, and received in response a startled silence as he bent to examine the nearest.

“They – measure and strengthen the veil,” was the answer. “This one is broken, but there are others. With the aid of the anchor, they can be activated to – surely you didn’t barge in here simply to snoop through my personal possessions?”

Ryn straightened, almost guiltily, putting aside his excitement over the artifact with extreme reluctance. “No,” he agreed. “I didn’t. Though I would like to learn more about this sometime, if you’re amenable to it.”

“I fear its use would be beyond your abilities for comprehension,” was the curt reply.

Ryn bit his tongue on an argument, and instead he smiled, and tried not to gaze too longingly at the chairs. He doubted he would be invited to sit.

“If your business here is truly so very important, then I suggest you get on with it,” Solas said. “Otherwise, you are needlessly intruding upon my rest, and I shall consider you very rude.”

“You don’t like me,” Ryn said, and was rewarded once again by the sight of hostility replaced with surprise. He grinned. “No, no, don’t try to argue, you don’t. You really don’t.”

“I – am I to assume you’ve come here thinking to rectify the situation by annoying me?”

“Not at all. You are free to dislike me as much as you please.”

“So gratified to receive permission!”

“After all,” Ryn said. “I’m spoiling all your plans, aren’t I? I was never supposed to be here.”

Solas schooled his face, but Ryn had already seen it. There was a calculating, steely glint in his eye before his expression wiped itself completely clean. Ryn had noticed the same pattern before, when they met to discuss the terms of a treaty between their two factions.

“I’m not here to replace Rellana,” Ryn told him. “Whatever Dorian saw in that other place – I don’t have the mark. I’m not competition. We can’t save the world without her – she is safe.”

“Do you think that I am naïve? There are ways to neuter her without ending her life.”

“I’m telling you that I find myself uninterested in those ways.”

“No? Surely the lure of revenge, of justice, calls to you – given the fate of your clan.”

“If Rellana is to answer for her crimes, it will be Keeper Ellora who sees to her judgement, not me – and it will not happen before this is over.”

“What are you after?” Solas asked. “The simple hunter, unconcerned with politics or power, seeking only – what? To save the world?”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Ryn said. He thought the other elf might laugh at that – an ugly, derisive sound before he had even finished speaking – but Solas merely stared at him, silent and frowning. Ryn continued, “Rellana and I have never been fond of one another, but she is a part of my clan, my family. I fear the path she is on will only bring pain – not simply her own, but others, too. She could badly hurt our people, Solas, and we don’t have it to give.”

“They are not - !”

“Surely you know that, to the humans, one elf’s mistakes might as well be all elves’ mistakes,” Ryn interrupted his protest. “If the Inquisition’s elven figurehead proves herself a power-hungry tyrant, then it won’t matter how many holes in the sky she repairs. Can you imagine the loss of life if the nations of Thedas went to war with the Inquisition? If the Chantry declared an Exalted March on Skyhold? Think of the alienages burned, the Dalish clans driven into the sea, what little we’ve managed to reclaim lost, forever because Rellana decided she didn’t feel important enough!”

Solas didn’t answer him, though he did look more thoughtful than annoyed.

“Your point?” the mage asked at last – softly, calmly. Ryn drew a breath.

“I don’t want us to be enemies,” he said. “I don’t want your people to consider me a threat to Rellana. I’m here to help. Nothing more.”

--

Ryn’s head had begun to pound by the time he left Solas’s tent. Another discomfort to add to the list, his body telling him that it was past time he slowed down. The camp was quieter now, darker than it had been when he set himself to his talk, and he nodded his greeting to the sentries as he passed between rows of tents.

His own tent was a monstrosity that rivalled even Rellana’s, a luxury his people had insisted on despite his protests. Tonight he was grateful for it – for the ease with which he could pick it out of the shadows as he made his way back. The bed waiting for him would be soft. He had some reading to do before he slept – human social intricacies were so easy to stumble over! – but at least he could relax.

He could feel the tension in his shoulders already easing up as he ducked through the entrance. He would brew some strong tea and take off his boots and –

A dark head lifted as he entered. Dorian, in one of those ridiculous plush chairs Ryn’s people insisted on packing and unpacking at every stop, with a book open upon his knee and his chin perched artfully upon his hand. He looked indolent and luxurious, the picture of the bored Tevinter prince, but when he looked up there was a flash of anxiety in his eyes that all the careful posing in the world could never conceal.

“Terribly embarrassing,” Dorian said, by way of greeting. He marked his place in his book and closed it. “Evidently, the staff forgot entirely to pack a tent for me.”

“They didn’t foget,” Ryn told him. “I ordered them to place you here. With me.”

That look shifted, changed. Ryn couldn’t read it, but he thought it might have been an improvement. Surprise – pleasure? Sometimes Dorian stared at him like a starving man, and he wasn’t always sure what to do with it. Even still, Ryn found himself suppressing a smile.

“I do hope I haven’t overstepped?” he asked, and Dorian let out a heavy breath, and half a laugh, and pushed a hand through his hair, tarnishing its careful perfection.

“No,” he said. “No, not at all. Ah – “

“Because I should hate to make you feel as if you’d been demoted to the position of second Inquisitor’s plaything.”

“Demoted? Perish the thought!” Dorian said, rallying himself. He set aside the book and rose, and Ryn couldn’t stop a grin as he approached. The hands that reached for him still touched him as if afraid he’d disappear. “More to the point, your truly excellent taste can only reflect well on you. ‘Who is that marvelous creature on the second Inquisitor’s arm?’ people will ask. Truly, seducing me is one of the most politically astute things you ever could have done. Bravo.”

“I seduced you, did I?”

Dorian chuckled, catching Ryn’s chin. The lamps reflected off the gold in his rings. “My,” he said quietly, “But it is heady to know when you’re looking at me you’re seeing me, and not some other, luckier version of me.”

“I never met him.”

“I am eternally grateful you did not. I should hate to think of living my life in constant competition with myself. It’s exhausting.”

“What you must have gone through…”

“No talk of that, now,” Dorian said, pulling away. “It’s getting late, and I intend to have my way with you before we sleep, if you’re feeling amenable to the attention. Wine?”

Ryn watched him cross the tent. He admired the lines of his back, the way his musculature played under his loose shirt. Dorian took the lid off a decanter, sniffed its contents, and grimaced. “Fereldans,” the man muttered under his breath.

“You know, you still owe me the entirety of the story,” Ryn said. He took the chair Dorian had vacated, falling into it, then reaching to remove a boot. “I’m curious to know what I was like there.”

“Magnificent,” Dorian said without hesitation, then paused for a moment, as if regretting his words. After a beat, he turned back to Ryn, a drink in each hand. There was a rare honesty in his face that gave him a particularly vulnerable quality that broke Ryn’s heart. That a little affection could so clearly mean so much to the mage made Ryn want to shower him with more. “You,” Dorian began, then hesitated again. “You were like a light in a dark place. Everything you touched was made better having known you. Including me.”

“It sounds like a lot to live up to,” Ryn murmured.

Dorian was quiet as he came to join him. They shared the chair, Ryn finding a comfortable position curled against him, his legs across his lap.

“I was afraid, for a time,” Dorian said at last. His fingers moved over Ryn thoughtfully, tracing his ankles, the tops of his feet. “This world is not as kind as the other. I wondered how you could exist within it – alive, uncorrupted.”

“And?”

“And you are every bit the man I fell in love with in that other place.”

Ryn could feel Dorian’s heartbeat racing against his ear. Though Dorian spoke quietly, calmly, this was not an easy conversation for him. Had they been speaking face to face, he never would have been so candid. Dorian drank as if to wash the taste of his confession from his mouth.

“No disappointments?” Ryn couldn’t help but ask.

Dorian’s voice was rough when he answered, “None.”

They were quiet for a time. Ryn drank his wine and he struggled with the urge to fall asleep. He had so much work to do, but for the moment he was utterly unwilling to move. He liked the sound of Dorian’s breathing, the steady comforting rise and fall of his chest. He might have dozed, lightly, against his will, because it seemed some time passed before Dorian spoke again.

“Amatus,” he asked. “Why are we here? Why are you indulging my affections?”

Ryn managed to answer, “Because you’re interesting.”

He was still struggling to gather his thoughts to explain himself further when he fell asleep for good.

--

You fascinated me, Ryn told him, once.

You’re interesting, Ryn told him, now.

Perhaps Dorian really was on the right track.

The sun rose bright and, it seemed, a little warmer. Much of the camp had already been packed up and breakfast was nearly over by the time Ryn emerged from his tent, looking disheveled and, amusingly, a little grumpy.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked, when Dorian brought him coffee. “I needed to oversee the men - !”

“I did that,” Dorian told him, interrupting. “I thought you could use the sleep.”

Ryn frowned at him. “I,” he said. “Well. I needed to look over the – “

“I took care of that, too.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve taken care of everything. Amatus, sit down. Have some breakfast.”

“It is only the second day of the march,” Cassandra told Ryn, glancing over with a glare. “Pace yourself.”

Chapter Text

The last time Dorian saw Skyhold, he had been fleeing in fear for his life, a wanted man slipping the inevitability of his own execution. He remembered too well the darkness and the cold and the deep crushing heartache. He had only just lost Ryn, the love of his life having sent him away, rejecting whatever life they might have made together in favor of the greater good – and, perhaps, on the slim chance that the other him might return in his place.

Returning now felt odd, unreal. Willingly approaching the place where he had been humiliated, jailed – where he had very nearly been killed – gave Dorian the most curious disjointed feeling. That he should be bringing Ryn back with him made it all the stranger.

It was, for a moment, as if Dorian was existing in two minds, two bodies, two realities at once. He saw Skyhold not only as it was – a fortress, a prison, a looming monument to Rellana’s growing power – but also as it should have been. A sanctuary. A symbol of hope. A home.

The moment passed. Ryn, glancing over at him from atop his horse, smiled at him.

“You didn’t tell me how incredible it was,” Ryn said. Dorian forced himself to look at it again.

They’d had a hard ride through the snow. They didn’t want the army stuck on the mountainside for the night, so they had pushed hard. Now the sun was sinking low on the horizon, painting Skyhold’s towers in pinks and oranges. For Ryn’s sake, Dorian tried to recall the wonder he had felt the first time he beheld it. He didn’t feel like the same man he had been, then, full of ideals and confidence.

Dorian wasn’t certain that he believed in much of anything anymore – except for Ryn. His last bastion of hope. What an unasked for burden to place on the elf’s slender shoulders.

Rellana had emerged from her carriage for this final leg of the journey. She looked like a sad-eyed doll bundled in her furs, snowflakes caught up in her dark curls, her cheeks rosy from the cold. Ryn’s words brought a sour look to her face, spoiling the illusion.

“I found this place,” she told him. “Corypheus nearly killed me, and I trekked though the snow alone, bleeding. You were probably tucked up warm and safe before the clan’s campfires.”

“Probably,” Ryn said, his smile fading. “I would be there now, were they still among the living.”

Rellana’s face went white, and she quickly looked away. Before more could be said, she spurred her horse and pulled away, riding through the gates ahead of the group. Ryn frowned after her.

Someone had sent word ahead of their arrival, and servants lined the path in the garish livery Rellana liked, shivering in their neat little rows. Rellana’s faults aside, to them she was still Andraste’s chosen; the display was not forced, now were their cheers and applause. They still looked at her as their savior, though, for once, she appeared to pay no mind to their adoration. She passed them by without her typical prancing and preening.

No one went after her.

“I wonder if I will have the same rooms I occupied before,” Dorian mused as they entered the yard. The windows of Skyhold’s main building gazed down at them like eyes. He had never wanted to see this place again. “I’d be surprised if Rellana hasn’t turned it into a trophy room – but wouldn’t it be amusing if some of my old belongings were still there?”

“I’ll be shocked if her majesty didn’t throw them all out,” Varric said. “Shit, I think I left some manuscripts behind…”

“We will not be staying for long, in any case,” Cassandra reminded them. “There is far too much for us to do; we cannot lose momentum on this victory, not when the Inquisition is stronger than ever. We have opportunity now -  we must act quickly.”

“I agree,” Ryn said. “I want to meet with Rellana’s diplomat about those letters Isabela ‘intercepted’ last month. I have ideas about how we can use them, but I need stronger ties than what we have available. If we can use what’s already at the Inquisition’s disposal…”

He was lost, Dorian knew. Work would ever be more tempting a distraction for Ryn than the wonder of a new locale, or even just idle conversation with a certain devastatingly handsome mage. For once, Dorian was content to let it be. He found it oddly reassuring in this context – the knowledge that Ryn would stop at nothing to set the world to rights. He was where he needed to be, at long last. Cassandra and Cullen would have him in the war room for hours, and when he emerged, something will have happened. The world would be a little better because of the actions Ryn led them to. Dorian let himself fall back.

An army of groomsmen came out to collect their horses, and with them even more servants to see to their belongings. Dorian quickly lost Ryn in the flurry of activity, and the next thing he was aware of was the feeling of eyes burning into his skull.

He turned to find several of the others gathered together making plans: Varric, Fenris, the Iron Bull, Sera, and Tal. It was Fenris who had been staring – the elf did not and would not trust him, a fact only emphasized when Ryn was absent. Dorian hated thinking about what the fellow must say to Ryn when he was not around.

“Are you up for drinks, Sparkler?” Varric asked. “We might as well get ourselves out of the way for a while.”

“Not quite like old times,” Fenris observed wryly, breaking his glare from Dorian. Varric laughed.

“Thank the Maker for that!” he said. “In or out?”

“In,” Dorian decided. “If my presence can be tolerated, that is.”

“Don’t mind the elf,” Varric said. “He’s in mourning.”

“For Jax?” Dorian asked. “I thought you wanted him dead.”

“I wanted to do it myself,” Fenris answered, with no trace of petulance. Dorian thought it tone sounded as if he wouldn’t entirely mind killing Dorian instead. Dorian didn’t press him.

“Yeah,” Varric said, “But you were friends with him once. Before he – “

“Vishante kaffas – I was not!”

“All this talk of killing is making me thirsty,” Bull said. “Let’s move.”

--

Solas found her in her rooms, standing barefoot and without her furs in the open doorway to one of the balconies. She had thrown wide every door and window, and the cold snowy air stirred her hair and ruffled her skirts around her skinny ankles. Gooseflesh stood out on her thin white arms.

Night had fallen across Skyhold, and down below torches and lanterns lit the yard like dozens of fireflies as the staff worked to accommodate the army’s return. Somewhere down there were much of what remained of clan Lavellan, setting up their campfires and their tents in the dirt. Ellora led them now, where once it might have been Rellana. How small it seemed now, the idea of being a Keeper. Rellana inhaled, imagining she might be able to pick up the familiar, homey scents of Dalish cooking.

Instead, the air was simply cold.

Solas’s warm hands seemed to burn through the thin fabric of her dress as he closed them over her shoulders. Rellana had to close her eyes as she struggled with the emotions that had followed her the long way home. His gentle touch seemed almost a cruelty to her, a mockery. He had been with her in the Fade. He had heard, same as she.

Rellana was not Andraste’s chosen.

It had hardly mattered that Rellana considered Andraste a fairy tale and the Maker a joke. That was the point. For a time, Rellana had been special, set apart from the rest of her kind in a way that no one would ever be able to argue.

As Rellana, she was just another dirty elf clinging to a past that would never return – another mage, powerful and untrustworthy, prey to demons and templars and humans alike. As Andraste’s holy herald, she was…more.

Proof! Finally, proof of her worthiness, her superiority. Her own mother had thrown her away, forced her to join another clan – but this Shemlen god wanted her – had marked her!

“You’re going to miss your own welcome feast,” Solas murmured. His breath stirred her hair. She found herself fighting tears. Rellana never cried.

“A mess of salted pork and root vegetables the shems dug out of the cellar last minute,” Rellana said.

“Shall we insist on roast quail and flambé door mice?” he asked, amused. Rellana rounded on him.

“Do you truly believe a single person in all of Skyhold cares that I’m back?” she demanded.

He frowned. “You stepped out of the Fade unharmed for a second time,” he said. “You return, triumphant, the wardens saved, your ranks of soldiers swelling. You are the hero they will see repair the sky.”

“But it could have been anyone!” Rellana said. She found that she wanted very much to slap him. She wanted to stomp her foot and scream. She pressed her thumb into the mark on her palm until the pain was sharp enough to chase her tears. “A dwarf could have walked into that room and gotten this thing. Dumb luck, poor timing – I wasn’t chosen, just unfortunate.”

“Stop that,” Solas said, a little sharply, as she continued to press on the mark. He pulled her hands away from each other, his grip on her wrists almost bruising.

“It could have been anyone!” she said again.

“But in this world, it was you.”

Rellana finally managed to free herself. She turned, a little wildly, back to the balcony, and she gripped the railing tightly as she stared out at the lights below.

“They don’t want me,” she said. “They don’t want me, and they don’t understand what it is we’re doing here, and I - !”

“They don’t need to understand,” Solas said. She wished she could stand half as calm and cool as he did. Gently, he reached for her, turned her back to him. She felt as if she would fall forever into his eyes. “Allow me to remind you of just what it is we have at stake,” he said. “When the elves are restored to our rightful place, there isn’t a man, woman, or child in Thedas who won’t know your name. On that glorious day, all will know the part you played.”

Rellana closed her eyes, and she let her forehead come to rest against his shoulder. She felt tired, but strong, too. He made her feel strong – he made her feel as if they really could accomplish what they set out to do.

Solas held her for only a moment.

“Come now,” he said, drawing away. “You are expected at dinner.”

--

Dorian woke with no memory of how he’d gotten up to his rooms, and the vague uneasy sense that he might have acted very foolishly. The night before existed for him in only a series of images, snatches of auditory memory. He remembered Sera and Tal, dancing together in the tavern, grinning like lovesick fools. He remembered Fenris, intense as he questioned him about – something.

Memories of dinner were even less coherent. He recalled giggling in a most unbecoming way as Rellana rose to speak about her experiences in the Fade. She’d worn a white gown and a golden circlet, and held herself as if she were Andraste herself.

“She embraced me warmly, and called me Sister,” Rellana said, looking holy and demure until Dorian’s snickering caused an ugly blotchy red to crawl across her neck. He earned himself a glare. She raised her voice, her black curls gleaming in the firelight. “Andraste approves of the path we’re forging,” she said. “And she is pleased that it is an elf bringing about these times of change!”

“It’s all bullshit,” Bull murmured low from across the table, as Rellana asked Mother Giselle to lead them in prayer. “Andraste was never there. Just some damned spirit, masquerading as Justinia.”

“Well, that’s not creepy,” Varric said.

Dorian had found his laughter coming harder, and he’d tried without success to muffle his mirth against his arm. He remembered heads turning, eyes watching. Rellana looked furious. No one was praying anymore.

Under the table, Ryn had pressed his hand against his leg. His marvelous purple eyes were full of concern.

“Dorian,” he hissed. “Stop.”

Dorian had only laughed harder. He slipped sloppily from his seat, drunk, drunker than he’d been in years. That Qunari slop Bull had insisted on, it had to have been. Dorian remembered Ryn’s voice, making apologies. Something charming and witty. People laughed. And then –

Maker, but his head hurt.

The room seemed fuzzy around the edges. Dorian was very careful as he sat up.

How strange it was to be back here, when he could so clearly remember packing to leave. He had been out – finished – done, he’d thought. Now he thought he might be glad he’d been wrong, assuming his reputation survived last night. What would he be, had he succeeded in leaving? Back in Tevinter, suffering under his father’s thumb, struggling to bring about change – alone.

Dorian had never really settled into his quarters at Skyhold. In that other world there had been nicknacks, clutter, proof of a man who had made for himself a home, but here it had always been sparse and bare, a little cold.

It didn’t seem that way anymore.

The sun pouring in the windows was bright and warm. The fire burned in the hearth, warm and merry. A thick Dalish quilt covered him on the bed, it’s colors riotous, almost garish.

The empty place beside him smelled of Ryn.

Chapter Text

“And you said you found these in elven ruins?” Solas asked, as Ryn spread his collection across his desk. Ryn could feel the other elf’s gaze – surprised, suspicious. It had become a particular sensation Ryn could pick out even among the myriad other things vying for his attention these days.

“I’ve collected as much as I could with each new site we happened across,” Ryn said. “I can have Leliana mark the places on a map for you, if you want to visit them yourself – or I would be happy to take you. I was hoping you would be willing to help me make some sense out of this before Keeper Ellora gets back. She still hasn’t forgiven me for asking Tal’s group not to return to Denerim yet, and I need all the good will I can get. That aside, it’s just interesting.”

Solas appeared to ignore him, his eyes moving over Ryn’s work – tracings, artifacts, journals full of sketches and detailed notes, all gathered over the months he and the rebel Inquisition had been active.

“You said you’ve found more of my people’s artifacts, like this here?” Solas asked, motioning without looking to the large globe-like contraption nearby. “Whole and unbroken?”

“I’ve had those marked on the maps, too, if you want Rellana to activate them. Dorian said some of those places had residual magics so strong they made his hair ache. Do you think - ?”

“No.”

Solas’s answer was short, but he did lift a hand, thoughtlessly, to his own smooth skull. Ryn succeeded in hiding his amusement, keeping his expression entirely one of polite interest.

They talked only a little longer. The other elf’s iciness toward him was finally beginning to thaw, Ryn thought, but there was clearly a limit in regards to how much his natural curiosity would be tolerated, and it was important he learned to pinpoint the moment when he should gracefully extract himself from the conversation.

Rellana liked sharing power even less than she liked sharing a title, and she was, unfortunately, very good at attracting every lowlife, murderer, and religious fanatic in Thedas to her cause. It was all Ryn could do just to keep his own numbers from being overwhelmed. It seemed as if for every five cultists, rapists, or brutes Ryn rooted out of the army, Rellana recruited ten more.

Winning over Rellana’s most loyal supporters was Ryn’s only hope for making some stability for himself – lest he return to Skyhold one day to find orders issued for his arrest. His part in their victory at Adamant would not long remain in people’s minds if he didn’t take precautions.

Some of Rellana’s allies were easier than others. Cullen, Josephine, and Vivienne had been working against Rellana all along – Varric’s mysterious eyes and ears within the Inquisition.

“It’s a matter of heart, my dear,” Vivienne said, her expression cold and closed, when Ryn asked about the deception. Rellana still believed the other mage to be one of her staunchest supporters.

For these small victories, there were also defeats. The Iron Bull, for one, could barely stomach Rellana – but he loyalty had been paid for with cold hard coin. “Bad business to turn on a contract,” he explained one night to Ryn over very strong drinks. “You understand, don’t you? It’s too bad – I like you, kid. I really do. Be a shame to have to smash that pretty face in.”

“Bull, let me say without reservation that I would absolutely hate that, too,” Ryn had answered. The big Qunari stared at him as if startled, then barked out a laugh, one huge hand slapping Ryn’s back with bone-jarring force. They’d shared another toast, and – well, Ryn couldn’t remember anything more, except Dorian coming later to fetch him from the tavern and help him up to bed.

“Not so funny when the shoe is on the other foot, is it, amatus?”

Ryn scoffed. “I hate shoes,” he answered.

That had been well over a week ago. Dorian still hadn’t let him live down his drunkenness, and Bull and his Chargers were currently away with Rellana, securing Qunari allies for the Inquisition. Ryn wasn’t quite ready to give him up as a lost cause, but it would be a while before he had the chance to try again. The Storm Coast was at least a week’s hard ride from Skyhold. With Rellana and her retinue, the journey would likely take well over a month to complete.

Ryn could get a lot done in a month.

He slipped up one of the back staircases, a passageway most likely reserved for servants in Skyhold’s glory days. Here, like in many of the fortress’s more disused passages, repairs had not been fully completed. Ryn’s bootsteps echoed against the stone, drawing in response the screams of Leliana’s ravens. Ryn looked up into the shadows above, and for just a moment he considered a detour to the rookery.

He feared that the spymaster Leliana truly was a lost cause. While Ryn had previously assumed it would be Solas who proved to be the most difficult of Rellana’s allies to befriend, there was something utterly unmovable in the Divine’s former Left Hand. A truly terrifying woman, Leliana had met Ryn’s overtures with a cold, dead stare.

“This world is no place for your silly ideas,” she had informed him, her lip curling. “Friendship – love? The only thing that matters is the power necessary to create the results you require. You would be best served learning that now – before circumstances force your hand. This world will change whether it wants to or not. I will see it done.”

Ryn wanted to keep trying – but perhaps another day.

“You’re late, amatus,” Dorian said by way of greeting when Ryn stepped into the library. The mage was leaned against the railing, a book open in his hands, and Ryn couldn’t help but to wonder if he had watched his entire interaction with Solas down below. Ryn knew he didn’t trust the other mage one iota.

“Because he’s in love with Rellana?” Ryn had asked him, once. Dorian scoffed.

“One merely need look at the way he dresses to know Solas is lacking in anything remotely related to taste,” he’d answered. “No, amatus, my issue is this: no matter how dire the circumstances, mark my words, that man is only invested in his own interests.”

Dorian looked to cool and casual standing where he was that Ryn had to wonder just how long it had taken him to come up with such a pose. Had he practiced? How many other iterations had he gone through?

Ryn wanted to ask, but it always bruised Dorian’s ego when he let on how completely he saw through him. It was important to Dorian – the carefully tousled hair, the perfectly manicured nails, the mustache, the clothes, the demeanor – it was as if he thought the world would shun anything less than utter perfection. He had no idea how charming Ryn had found him the first time he saw him in camp, filthy and disheveled and so out of place, staring at Ryn with those pretty eyes of his, as if he’s just felt the earth fall away beneath him. There had been something honest about Dorian then, and no amount of fancy clothes or haughty mannerisms could take back what it was Ryn had seen.

He left him his illusions for now. Dorian would never believe him if Ryn told him the truth – that he didn’t need anything but himself. In any case, there was something endearing about his act, however much Ryn missed that silly beard.

“How tempting you look,” Ryn said, coming to rest beside him. He put his backside to the railing, his elbows back against it, and he groped at the all-too-casually offered backside along the way. He returned Dorian’s look of mild annoyance with a grin. “Do you think we could get away with slipping into one of these alcoves for a little while? I’ll try to be quiet this time.”

For a moment, Dorian looked utterly stunned by the suggestion, then intrigued. Ryn almost thought he had won – until Dorian’s annoyance with him slammed back into place.

“Why, you terrible, tricky thing,” Dorian said. “You won’t distract me – we agreed that you would take a break every four hours. It’s been nearly six.”

Ryn lifted his hands. “I wasn’t doing anything strenuous, I promise,” he said. “No reading tiny text in dim lighting, and very little paperwork. Look!” Ryn flexed and released his hand to show that it wasn’t cramped up. Dorian remained unimpressed.

“Have you eaten?” the mage asked.

“Yeeees?”

“Aside from that half a piece of toast at breakfast.”

“Oh. Then…no.”

“Amatus…”

“I - !”

“Got busy. Yes, I know.” Dorian sighed, and then he straightened, looking Ryn over. He reached out to brush Ryn’s hair back, then cupped the back of his head. “I shall never forgive you if worrying about you gives me grey hair,” he said, quite honestly.

Ryn smiled, and leaned in closer to him. “Think of how distinguished you would look,” he teased. “I always did fancy older men.”

“I’m younger than you, you terror!”

“A minor detail I’m certain we can hash out later. Are you going to kiss me, or not?”

“I hardly think you deserve it,” Dorian sniffed, but he did kiss him, anyway, lingering, tender.

“See? I haven’t vanished yet,” Ryn told him.

“You utterly unholy torment.”

“Maybe so – but that isn’t going to stop you from followingft6g me to that alcove. Is it?”

“No,” Dorian said. “It isn’t.”

--

Later, Varric stopped him, looking grim.

“I hate to be one of those guys, but I think I need a favor.”

“If it’s figuring out where Sera hid the marquess’s underthings, then I already told Cassandra – it’s just a loss we’re going to have to take. I’ve looked everywhere.”

“No! No, Maker, if only. Here,” he said, and motioned Ryn to a chair by the fire. The area had become a bit of an unofficial office for him, and the nearby table was cluttered with manuscripts, pen nibs, and letters. Ryn was fairly small even for an elf, but even he found the dwarven furniture just a sight too small to be comfortable.

Once they were seated, Varric continued to hesitate. Ryn offered him a smile.

“I have to say, it’s a strange feeling – finding you at a loss for words.”

“Believe me, I’m uncomfortable with it, too.” Varric fiddled with one of his pens, and didn’t quite look at Ryn. “The thing is,” he said, “Jax is dead.”

“Right…”

“Well – his father died before the Blight. His brother died fleeing Lothering. His mother was murdered by a crazy blood mage, and his sister was killed after the Chantry exploded…”

“All of that really happened? I thought at least the sister would - ?”

“You read my book?”

“It’s one of my favorites.”

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste. My point is – the Hawke family is gone, completely wiped out except for that uncle and, funnily enough, the hero of Ferelden. Except no one can find the Hero, and Jax purposefully left Gamlen out of his will. Look – that’s literally the only thing the will says!”

“Anyone but Gamlen,” Ryn read. “All right…”

Varric took the copy of the will back, gazing at it for a moment. “Jax had that estate, not to mention his fortune – and he never got around to marrying Daisy. Probably best for her. She’s already told me she doesn’t want his shit anyway. Without family or an heir, it should all default to the Viscount.”

“Which Kirkwall doesn’t have.”

“Well, it would go to the city, anyway, which is fitting. That’s not the trouble – the trouble is, there’s another brother, and my lawyers think he might still be alive.”

“Another - ? That wasn’t in your book.”

“Twins run in the Amell line just like mages do,” Varric said. “The Hero of Ferelden had one too, but she didn’t live. Seems like they usually don’t, in that line. Anyway, I never met the guy. Jax didn’t really talk about him. Sunshine – Jax’s sister, Bethany – Bethany mentioned him a few times. She was worried because he didn’t know they’d fled to Kirkwall, and he never answered any of her letters. I tried to track him down for her back then – before the Blight he was a stablehand in Redcliffe, but the town was almost completely wiped out by undead during the Blight. I thought he was dead.”

“You want the Inquisition to find him.”

“Look, I know it’s a shitty errand not on par with saving the world, but without a grave or a living body these lawyers can keep the estate tied up for years – and that money could really do some good for Kirkwall. Jax didn’t exactly leave it in a better state than he found it, you know.”

“No,” Ryn promised. “I understand.”

“You don’t think it’s a waste of time?”

“Not at all – I’ll put someone on it immediately.”

Varric looked relieved, along with surprised. Whatever expression he saw in Ryn’s face, he laughed.

“I guess I’m just not used to being listened to,” he said. “I appreciate it – I really do.”

“Speaking of appreciation,” Ryn said, leaning forward with a grin, “How’s that novel coming along for Cassandra?”

Varric chuckled in delight. “Oh, the Seeker’s going to lose her mind. Here, look. I’ll let you read the dirty parts. They’re terrible.”

Chapter Text

Ryn’s afternoon wartable meeting was running late. For one, Rellana’s political fumbling in Orlais had created an unnecessarily sticky situation for the Inquisition, who faced nobles blocking their advance at every turn. For another, Cullen had stumbled in on Ryn and Dorian during a private moment, and was now unable to look at Ryn without growing crimson and stammering, and it slowed things down.

For a third, just as they had been about to adjourn, a messenger had come rushing in with the newest missive from Rellana. She had succeeded in securing an alliance with the Qunari and would be returning to Skyhold. Her letter was full of instructions regarding how she was to be welcomed home – the size of the feast, the dishes, the decorations, the guest list – and she had very little to say regarding the actual terms of the alliance.

Fortunately, a second missive followed the first. Vivienne had done her best to ensure Rellana didn’t fumble the deal too badly, though it still favored the Qunari enough to have Josephine gnashing her teeth three lines in.

“I’ll find a way to salvage this, so help me!” she swore. “Leliana, do you think you could help me with the party, so I can focus on - ?”

“I do not plan parties.”

“Dorian can help,” Ryn said, half distracted by the next part of the letter. He missed Cullen’s wry chuckle.

“Oh, I doubt Rellana will like that,” the commander said, as if the idea truly amused him. Still reading, Ryn impatiently waved the comment away.

“There were casualties,” he said, eyes moving quickly over the page, brows drawing down. As the others fell silent, he quickly turned over the page for the rest, a cold feeling sinking into his belly. “Poor Bull…his entire team…”

Cullen’s amusement fell away quickly with the news, his mirthful expression sobering. He waited for Ryn to finish the letter before taking it from him, reading over its contents. “What a waste,” he said, after he was done. He passed the letter on to Josephine. “Rellana didn’t say a word about it. H'orderves she brought up seven times, but the Chargers…”

Several silent moments passed. Ryn had known he should have gone with her, but the opportunity to implement changes around Skyhold in her absence had been too tempting to pass up. He knew it was foolish to feel responsible, but even still –

“Josephine, can we plan a memorial?” Ryn asked. “I know you already have a lot on your plate, but – and if we can see if any of them have families…”

“Perhaps something small,” Cullen suggested. “Rellana wouldn’t like too much attention being drawn to – “

The sound of Ryn’s fist striking the table cut off whatever else he had been planning to say. Ryn kept his eyes on the map spread out before him, and he warred with the sudden flash of fury running hot through his body. He was all too aware of how the others had fallen silent, of the weight of their stares and their surprise as they watched him.

He knew he needed to speak, that the silence had stretched too long. Even still, he waited until he could trust himself.

“I apologize,” he said, slowly, carefully. “But I believe Rellana is more than old enough to have acquainted herself with disappointment. There is no cause to tiptoe around her tantrums – at least, not anymore. She’ll get over it. Or she won’t. I don’t really care.”

It was several more moments before anyone spoke.

“You don’t fear the wrath of Andraste’s chosen?” Leliana asked at last, head tilted, birdlike, eyes inquisitive. Ryn forced himself to continue meeting her gaze.

“No,” he said firmly. “I don’t.”

Ryn had never seen Leliana smile before, but a touch of amusement cracked the stern line of her lips.

“Very well,” she said. “You are setting out again soon, are you not? In that case, I will see to the memorial myself.”

Ryn tried not to look stunned.

“Thank you,” he said.

“She loved him and he betrayed her,” said the pale boy who followed Ryn from the warroom, later. Cole, he called himself. Ryn was beginning to remember. “First in the arms of the witch, and then at the feet of Andraste. Sharp – can’t breathe – he put the knife in her heart twice, and now it is black and cold. Amell.”

Ryn didn’t ask for clarification; he knew it wouldn’t help. Three steps away, and Cole was gone as if he’d never been. Ryn tried not to think too hard about it. He didn’t think anyone else could see the lad.

--

Leliana’s eyes and ears had succeeded in tracking down the last Hawke, but he had thus far ignored all attempts to contact him. Ryn had been planning a party to Val Royeaux to investigate Corypheus’s commander, Calpurnia – three days before departure, Varric announced he would be breaking off alone to find the man himself.

“He doesn’t live far from Val Royeaux – it’s on the way, and we can meet up later. Hard to ignore an annoyed dwarf on your doorstep.”

“Not if one is tall enough,” Fenris stated. Then, to Ryn, “If it concerns you, I could go with him. Perhaps, if this Hawke is as unpleasant as Jax was, I will receive some pleasure in killing him.”

“That would still solve my problem,” Varric mused, then lifted his hands defensively when Ryn frowned. “I’m just saying, we should keep our options open. That’s all.”

“All you’ve done is convince me I should come along,” Ryn said. “You aren’t killing anyone.”

“What if he really deserves it?” Fenris asked, tone dry and mildly amused. “It would be irresponsible not to take it into consideration.”

Ryn kept frowning.

“You’re both free to admit you’re worried about me at any time,” Varric said.

“Not really,” Fenris said. “I just don’t want to waste the opportunity to kill a Hawke. I hope they bear a resemblance.”

“No,” Ryn said, firmly.

“Revenge is a noble motivation, you know,” Varric said. “Trust me – if you’d known Jax Hawke like we did, you’d be completely on board.”

--

The night prior to Ryn’s departure coincided with Rellana’s return to Skyhold. She liked to think the little worm had planned it that way on purpose. Fine enough to play at Inquisitor while she was away, but he had to know his stolen authority wouldn’t stand up when she was there to fight him.

Rellana’s success with the Qunari had brought back her confidence and surety, and she had put aside her disappointment over not really being chosen by a god to such an extent that she’d almost forgotten about it completely. Her people believed she was holy, and so she was holy.

She felt like a queen as her servants prepared her for her welcome banquet. After her long journey it felt so good to bathe in milk, to have her hair washed in rosewater and brushed until it gleamed like black silk.

They scrubbed and polished and plucked until there was no trace of the dirty Dalish girl whose family had thrown her away. Her servants used only the finest Orlesian powders and face creams. They painted her face and curled her hair around a hot iron, pinned it with dozens of star-shaped diamonds, then dressed her in a gown of white silk, with a luxurious white fur stole – and when she looked in the mirror, pink cheeked and pretty, she saw not the humbled, humiliated disgrace her people had become, but instead the glory and beauty she would return to.

She entered Skyhold’s ballroom as if descending on clouds, greeted by the applause and admiration of her followers. She knew how she glittered and gleamed in the candlelight. Solas had not accompanied her on her venture, and she had purposefully avoided him in the hustle and chaos of her arrival, wanting to save their reunion for a time when she looked like a queen, and not a filthy vagabond.

She’d spend the entire journey back imagining how the scene would play out – how he would smile when he saw her – how he would take her into his arms. They would dance, rousing the envy of all who saw them, and then retreat to a balcony. Solas, impassioned by her beauty and her long absence, would declare his undying love.

So real had this sequence of events become to Rellana that she felt a moment of shock when she did not find him eagerly awaiting her arrival, but instead standing by the punch bowl, engrossed in conversation with Ryn. He was speaking animatedly, gesturing with his glass, the pretender-Inquisitor’s head tilted attentively as he listened – as if he wasn’t bored to tears by the way Solas rambled on about watching the memories of the elves of Arlathan on the chamber pot, or whatever it was he was on about.

It didn’t matter. Solas wasn’t like everyone else – he was too smart not to see through the archer’s so-called charms. Rellana only indulged in a moment’s annoyance before she picked up her skirts and moved to join them.

She placed a proprietary hand on Solas’s arm as the reached the other elves. Ryn was dressed so terribly simply – it was gratifying to see how drab and plain he looked beside her. Even the servants had more ornamentation.

Something Solas had said had made Ryn laugh, and he was still wearing his smile when she arrived.

“How pretty you look, Rellana,” Ryn greeted, and Solas shifted to look at her, as if only just aware of her presence.

“So she does,” he agreed. “As expected. Hello.”

She had expected something a little more from him, but he often had trouble expressing his affection – particularly in public. Rellana gave her prettiest smile, making sure her dimples showed.

“Well,” she said, “We wouldn’t want people thinking the Inquisition was being run by, say, some insufferable magister’s bed boy,” Rellana made sure to laugh, loudly, at the obvious absurdity of the idea, but to her annoyance Ryn merely looked thoughtfully amused, rather than grievously offended.

“Is that what they think of me?” he asked mildly.

“Well, if they don’t, you only have Josephine to thank.”

“I imagine it certainly is a point of curiosity,” Ryn said. “It wasn’t so very long ago you intended to execute him, after all.”

“He deserved far worse than what he got – and you’re a fool for trusting him.”

“Am I, now?” Ryn asked with a chuckle, and Rellana felt her temper flare.

“If you want to let your dick lead my Inquisition into the ground - !” she began. Solas interrupted.

“Vhenan, let us get some fresh air,” he said, and he swept her away before she could protest. She could see Ryn’s infuriating little smile as he finished his drink, and then she was outside, the night air cold against her heated cheeks. Solas brought her to a bench and instructed her to sit, and several moments passed in silence as he paced before her.

Inside, Pavus had found Ryn. Elegant, he bent his taller body to murmur in his ear, and Ryn laughed, and Rellana felt certain they were talking about her. It was Ryn who pulled the Tevinter out onto the dance floor, who wrapped the mage’s arms around himself, who looked at the mage with a sickening adoration.

Rellana said, “I hate them both so much.”

Solas stopped, and for a moment there was something in his gaze – something that frightened her, that made her feel small and dirty and insignificant, like a loathsome thing about to be destroyed.

He looked away, turning his face skyward, and the moment passed.

“Ah, Vhenan,” he said, softly. Then, “I’m leaving.”

“You - ?”

“Tomorrow morning, with them. There is an elven shrine along their way which I wish to examine. I thought it best to let you know now, before our departure.”

“When did you decide this?” she demanded, jumping to her feet. Her voice was loud enough that Solas glanced at the open doors to make sure no one was listening. “You wait until now to tell me?”

“We decided it prudent to keep an eye on the new Inquisitor, did we not?”

“I just got back!” Solas pulled his hand away when she reached for it.

“And you’re spoiling our reunion with your tantrum,” he told her.

“I’m - ! It’s not a tantrum!” she said. “I have every reason to be upset. He’s taking everything, and you - !”

“You do not know what it is to lose everything!” he said, so fiercely that Rellana took an involuntary step back. Her legs hit the bench and she sat down, hard. Solas turned away from her. “How frustrating you are!” he spat, throwing up his hands. “There are so many things I could teach you, so much I could show you, if only you weren’t so - !”

“Solas…”

He stopped, but did not turn back to her. After a while, he spoke again. “I think a prolonged absence on my part is most beneficial to our current situation. I will not – I cannot – “

“Solas,” she began again.

“I can’t,” he said, and moved, stepping back through the doors and leaving Rellana alone.

Chapter Text

After the third time he’d blindly walked himself into a faceful of spider webs, Dorian decided to excuse himself from the expedition and return to camp. The small, long forgotten elven temple seemed a safe enough spot for exploration – and if Dorian did not exactly trust the unexpected intrusion of Solas to their party, he knew that Cassandra and Varric were reasonably capable of keeping Ryn safe in his absence.

Back at their camp, Dorian and Fenris made for uneasy companions. It seemed his fellow Tevinter was only willing to endure speaking to him after imbibing a great deal of alcohol – a fact Dorian could hardly fault him for, all things considered. Particularly not with his eyes freshly opened by his most recent visit home, the gaudy excess and waste he had never before had cause to notice.

It was a guilty thing, sitting alone with Fenris. Dorian felt a strange sense of responsibility, as if his former state of blindness and complacency made him just as responsible as the man who had held him enslaved.

Perhaps it truly did. The idea was disconcerting.

“Do not think I will allow your words to influence me.”

Dorian started guiltily. He wondered if he had been staring. For all the world, the elf looked as if he were still ignoring him – his head bent over a solo card game. He had been even more solitary a creature than usual over the course of this venture, avoiding everyone except, occasionally, Ryn. Even Varric was not immune. The sound of his voice now was a bit of a shock.

“I beg your pardon?”

Fenris added another card to his stack. He didn’t look at Dorian. “What you’ve told me of that other world. The Hawke who was not Jax, and his role in my life.”

“I told you about that?” Dorian asked, even as a haze of drunken memory stirred. Shit.

“I could never love a mage – nor a Hawke. Regardless of whether or not this fellow bears even a chance of being the same man you read of – which he does not.”

“Is that why you’ve been so keen on killing him?” Dorian asked. “To prove a point to yourself over something I said after an unfortunate amount of ale?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Fenris snarled. “He will not be the same man.”

“And if he is?” Dorian asked, truly curious. “Knowing there’s a you in another world who loves him dearly - ?”

“Varric is a liar,” Fenris said, “And his books are hogwash.”

“Then why is it you seem so concerned?”

Fenris put another card down, and didn’t answer.

Once he was assured that he was being ignored again, Dorian settled back once more. He wondered what he would have thought, had a stranger told him of Ryn, when all he knew was Rellana.

He supposed he couldn’t fault the elf his fears.

--

It was surreal to Dorian, even now, to find himself sitting under Inquisition banners, at ease and damned near content. Fenris had well and truly returned to the no-doubt arduous task of ignoring him, and yet Dorian was at peace with that. Sitting in the fading Orlesian sunlight, listening to the quiet chatter of soldiers and the clink of horse harnesses, Dorian realized that he truly felt as if he were a part of something important, the perpetual outsider no longer.

Somewhere, in another reality, another Dorian was happy.

Dorian realized he no longer begrudged him that happiness. His skin no longer crawled with jealousy for a man he would never meet. He realized, strange as the idea was, that it might prove entirely possible that he was creating his own joy – here, in this cruel world he was made in.

His conversation with Fenris had put him in an odd mood – had turned him from thoughts of Tevinter’s many sins to less tangible musings. The thought that a twist of fate could have led to his living his entire life unaware of what he was missing – or that, learning of the possibilities some other way, he might by chance have allowed his fear to lead him to reject it, as Fenris seemed bound to. In love with a Dalish elf – no, he never would have believed it.

Ryn did not return his love – but what they had growing between them was far from nothing.

When the elf returned from his explorations at the temple, Dorian met him to help him from his horse, to sweep him into his arms and carry him to their shared tent. Ryn laughed, but did not protest the extravagant treatment.

“Miss me that much, did you?” he teased.

Dorian set to proving to him just how much.

--

They planned to spend as much as a week in Val Royeaux before moving on to find the other Hawke, in a village close by. They rented rooms in a fancy hotel of Josephine’s recommendation, and celebrated their first night in the city with a fine meal and several bottles of champagne.

Dorian half expected his humble paramour to find the city uncomfortable, but Ryn only laughed and clinked their glasses.

“It’s a bit like a honeymoon, isn’t it?” Ryn asked, and Dorian sniffed as if hurt.

“It’s cruel of you to tease me so, amatus.”

“Who says I’m teasing?” Ryn asked.

His smile was so pretty. It seemed illicit, being with this wild Dalish hunter in one of the best hotels in Orlais. Dorian kissed that upturned mouth.

“How you tried the cheese?” he asked. “It tastes of despair.”

Ryn said, “I’m not interested in anything like that.”

His happiness was catching. Dorian felt thrilled by it, by the casual intimacy as Ryn settled back against the couch and let his bare feet come to rest on his lap. Dorian watched him reach for and open a thick tome. Even here, he would keep working – but Dorian was on this side of the door. He ran his thumb up the arch of the elf’s brown foot, and watched it twitch in response.

“I am never going to be able to wrap my head around the Orlesian way of thinking.”

“Thank Andraste for that,” Dorian said. “In any case, if it’s really all that bothersome, you could always simply smash your way through like Rellana.”

“I considered climbing on couches and defecating in the bushes, but Josephine thought it might send the wrong message.”

The conversation tickled at the memory of another, with another Ryn. The similarities amused Dorian now. He put his champagne glass aside, and took Ryn’s foot in both hands, pressing his thumbs into the ball. He was rewarded by a groan, and the sight of the elf settling deeper into the couch cushions.

“Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish,” Ryn scolded, peeking from beyond the top of the book.

Dorian said, “I am at your command.”

“As if you were ever at anyone’s command.”

“Perhaps I know how to behave myself after all, hmm?”

Ryn snorted, but didn’t comment. They were silent for a time, Ryn reading, occasionally pausing to groan as Dorian massaged his feet, Dorian intent, worshipful in his attentions. It was good to see the elf relax – to be alone with him, without the specter of some lost love between them.

“What’s gotten into you tonight?” Ryn asked at last.

Dorian said, “I’m feeling appreciative, can’t you tell?”

“Appreciative of my boring you? You Tevinters do have strange taste.”

“It does occur to me to wonder why you need to devote such time to studying. We’re only here to do a little research, aren’t we? No politics involved.”

“No,” Ryn said, “But something is bound to come up eventually. After the way Rellana bungled the Winter Palace – well, I want to be prepared. The Orlesians are not so keen on the Inquisition as I would like.”

“Cleaning up Rellana’s messes, I see. But it is a shame – there’s a beautiful feather mattress just over there going quite to waste, you know. Might I tempt you into showing the poor thing some favor?”

Ryn laughed, but he put the book away.

--

“I have a surprise for you,” Ryn said, the next morning.

Dorian’s good mood had persisted through the night and into the morning, boosted by the rather rare gift of actually waking to find Ryn still in bed with him. The elf was sweet and attentive, indulging his lazy morning desires with an ease they might have lacked back at Skyhold, where there was always someone waiting to steal his attention away.

He was beautiful this morning, the bright sun shining against his loose hair, looking trim and wild in his Dalish leathers. He drew more than a few stares, the curiosity of onlookers taken in stride as he walked lightly at Dorian’s side, all smiles and teasing, his hand light upon his arm. Dorian toyed with the idea of kissing him, right there in the middle of the market, where anyone might see.

“A surprise?” he asked. “You terrible, tricky thing. Thinking of me, with everything else going on? Shall I guess what it is? No, no, just tell me. I must know.”

“You’re about to find out,” Ryn said, leading him around a corner.

And there, in the midst of the busy Val Royeaux marketplace, stood Ponchard de Lieux.

Dorian was surprised enough that he actually felt a bit dizzy. He stopped short, a ringing in his ears. He remembered that other world, his birthright in Ryn’s hands, his amazement that the elf had somehow managed to retrieve it. He remembered this world, arguing with this very man in Skyhold’s courtyard. He’d wanted to buy the trinket back. Ponchard had refused. That was the end of it.

That had been so long ago – months. Months before Dorian had tried to leave the Inquisition, before Rellana had ordered him arrested, and attacked him, and somehow sent him to that other, better world.

And here the man stood now, smiling beneath his golden mask like the cat who got the cream.

“What have you done?” Dorian asked, feeling stunned and unreal.

Ryn was smiling. Excited. Proud.

“Leliana received word months ago, but hadn’t decided what to do about it. You have no idea what I had to do to get it out of her,” Ryn said.

“This is certainly more than I ever dared hope for,” Ponchard said. Oh, the bastard was pleased with himself! Puffed and important, rocking back on his heels. “To think, another day or two, and I might have missed the opportunity entirely!”

“What have you done?” Dorian asked again. Ryn had somehow retrieved his birthright back in that other world. Somehow, he had never really taken the time to contemplate the circumstances that might have led to such a miraculous feat. He was Ryn. He accomplished the impossible.

But this wasn’t some fairytale perfect reality anymore.

“I’ve been wanting to get you a gift,” Ryn said. “Something to make my feelings plain to you. This sounded like the perfect gesture.” Dorian only stared at him.

“I found it quite the shame we could not come to an agreement when last we spoke, messere Pavus,” Ponchard said into his silence. “But from the rumors I hear, it seems my entreaty that you use your influence on the Inquisitor for my benefit would have been useless, even had you agreed. What happy chance that we have both stumbled our way into another opportunity, mn? A second Inquisitor, a second possibility. A It seems you are much more intimate with this one, no? Quite lucky for us both.”

Dorian groped for Ryn’s arm, and pulled him back. “I forbid you to have dealings with this man,” he said.

Ryn’s smile faltered. “Whatever is the problem?” he asked. “This is important to you, isn’t it? Leliana was sure of it.”

“How do you think it will look?” Dorian asked. “I help raise a second Inquisitor to power, then seduce him and use him to run my errands for me? The evil Vint behind the throne, pushing around his stolen power?”

“You seduced me, is it?” Ryn looked far too amused.

Dorian said, “Stop that.”

The elf sobered in response. He regarded Dorian seriously for a moment. “No one will think that,” Ryn said at last, gently, like talking down a wild halla.

“You’re wrong,” Dorian said. “Everyone will think that. Suddenly you’ll become the weak-willed puppet of the wily magister, helpless to his whims. You’ll lose all the standing you’ve managed to build!”

The smile was gone now entirely, replaced by a frown. Ryn lowered his voice. “No one will think that, Dorian. And if they do, I don’t care. Josephine will keep anything like that from happening. This is important. I want you to know – “

“I don’t want it,” he said. “Not at the price he’s asking. Not at any price.”

“Dorian!”

He had already pulled his arm from the elf’s and was contemplating walking away.

It buzzed in his head. He was – was anger the right word? Anger at Ryn seemed an impossible thing. The elf, standing before him, confused and impossibly beautiful, even now. Impossibly perfect – impossibly everything Dorian had ever ached for. No he had fought too hard, suffered too much to have him. But he was angry. In that other world, Ryn had dealt with the insufferable Ponchard. He had gone behind his back to plot this – here, and likely in that other world, too, and that snake, that bastard Ponchard was there, waiting to take advantage. The idea of Ryn being used against him - !

“He’s manipulating you,” Dorian said through clenched teeth.

“This is important,” Ryn insisted, and, still frowning, turned back to the Orlesian. He said, “Let’s talk.”

--

They finished up their business in Val Royeaux before the week was out, and left the city sooner than intended. Research on Calpernia, a few trade agreements that required an Inquisitor’s personal oversight – then they were done, back in the saddle, and on their way to find the other Hawke.

There was a lingering chilliness between Ryn and Dorian that none of the others seemed quite willing to question. The two still shared a room at the hotel – and when they left, a tent on the road, but flirting and conversation between them had all but halted, and there was no doubt the early retirement from the city had to do with some unknown spat.

“Of course I feel fine,” Ryn met Varric’s roundabout inquiry with a patient, if tired smile. “It was silly to think it would take that much time to begin with. I can’t afford something like a vacation right now; there’s far too much to do. In any case, if I’m away from Skyhold too long, Rellana’s libel to turn it against me.”

“Not funny,” Varric said.

Ryn said, “I’m not in a joking mood.”

Still, the road from Val Royeaux to the small village where Leliana’s people had tracked down the other Hawke was a lonely one, for more than the two involved, for Ryn’s attempts at cheer were lackluster at best, and Dorian seemed so moody and intent on sulking that even Fenris was giving him looks. Ryn still sat into the night, talking elfy things with Solas while Fenris pretended not to be listening on. Dorian still spent hours debating literature with Varric. But something was off.

Val Castel was a speck of a town not even listed on most maps, two days ride from Montfort. A charming little place, the green of its public square was dotted with sheep, and every window box was bright with flowers. Most homes had a white silk ribbon pinned to the front door, as a sign of mourning for their deceased empress.

Heads turned to watch the procession of strangers as they passed.

“Hawke? Yeah, he’s right outside the north side of town. Watch for the dogs. Aggressively friendly, they are. Better than their master, anyway. But they might knock a slip of a knife ear like you flat on his ass, see?”

Ryn thanked the farmer politely, despite the moniker, and they turned their horses northwards.

“Maker,” Varric laughed. “I don’t know why I’m nervous.”

Chapter Text

Before they set out for Val Castal they woke to snow on the ground – a light dusting, only, enough to make the horses stamp friskily, their breath a heavy fog. As they prepared to leave camp, Ryn’s buckskin had sniffed around his pockets looking for treats, making the archer laugh for the first time since Val Royeaux.

When he mounted up, Varric tried to convince himself that it would be a good day.

Unfortunately, he knew how prone he was to lying.

For all that he knew this whole mess had been his idea, the dwarf had begun to find himself confronted with mixed feelings regarding their little venture. For one – even Varric could see how irresponsible it was to be taking Ryn from his duties to the Inquisition. Even if this matter of the other Hawke was little more than a short detour squeezed in among the many other things Ryn wished to see to while in Orlais – adding, at most, a few days to their trip – the fact remained that Varric was allowing his concern for Kirkwall to interfere with Ryn’s duties just as the elf was beginning to make a real impact on the mess Rellana had created.

Secondly – secondly, there remained the not insignificant matter of Jax’s memory.

Varric and Jax had not been friends by any stretch of the imagination. Jax had been a violent, petty, childish monster – the kind of man who took not only pleasure but amusement in the suffering of others. Jax had dangled the promise of his affections over Anders every time he wanted to get his way, then snatched them back the moment it would hurt the most. He had spent days chortling over what the Qunari would do to Isabela after he turned her in. He was even worse about what he had done to Fenris. Merrill – Maker Varric had begged her to see the evil in Jax, but she’d thought she could change him, and he was changed, but only when she was watching.

Varric had helped create that mess.

Oh, no, he knew enough to know he wasn’t responsible for whatever it was that had twisted itself up in the warrior’s mind, whatever brought him to get off on the suffering of others – but Varric had brought Jax to the money and power and fame that had ultimately made it impossible for him to quietly die the kind of nasty, obscure, messy death that men like Jax Hawke deserved. Instead of ending a nameless, bloated corpse floating face down in the sewers, Jax became the Champion of Kirkwall.

There was history there, as Varric had said, even if there had never been friendship – and looking up Jax’s long lost twin bore the dangerous chance of causing history to repeat itself. Would he, Varric wondered, find himself once again unleashing a monster onto the face of Thedas? What if Jax had been the good twin? Jax – Corypheus – Varric was developing a dangerous habit.

“You look ill,” Cassandra told him as they passed through the town. Varric wondered if it was his guilty conscience, or if she really did sound accusing. When he didn’t answer her, the Seeker made a sound of annoyance. “I told you not to eat so much last night. Orlesian food is too rich, and you are just a little dwarf. You must listen to me next time.”

Varric muttered, “Yes, dear,” and received in response a satisfyingly annoyed look.

Ryn stopped to ask a farmer for directions, and Varric tried without success to keep his jittery hands still.

“Hawke?” the farmer asked. “Yeah, he’s right outside the north side of town…”

Fenris was watching him knowingly as they made to move on, and Varric forced a laugh. “Maker,” he said, “I don’t know why I’m nervous.”

--

A dog followed the stranger as he stepped out onto his porch, and to Varric’s immense relief, the other Hawke bore only the slightest physical resemblance to his unlamented twin. That made things easier, somehow. He was darker, and for all that rumors that he possessed his family’s affinity for magic, he was actually more heavily muscled than his warrior brother had been. He was clearly a man who had spent his life working with his hands. That could be a good sign, Varric thought.

In fact, the other Hawke seemed to invoke Bethany’s ghost more than Jax’s, unless Varric’s wishful thinking was clouding his judgement. He stood tall and broad and frowning, yet it was Bethany’s gentle amber eyes Varric saw – an echo of the sweet doomed girl lost that terrible day at the Gallows.

Hawke wore faded flannel, and his beard was neatly trimmed, and his appearance did not scream mysterious apostate twin of the Champion of Kirkwall as much as Varric had expected it to, and that helped, too, even if he did still look fully capable of dispatching any unwanted guests with a minimum of fuss.

He said, “Inquisition, is it? I’m afraid I’m not interested in cults, and Andraste can suck my toe.”

It was Jax’s voice, almost perfectly. A ghost speaking through his broad-shouldered stranger, though he seemed so far to lack Jax’s snide, petty humor. Varric saw Fenris give a little jerk of surprise; he gave a little woozy himself.

“You’re definitely a Hawke,” Varric mumbled, and the other man’s frown deepened. It might have been intimidating – except Jax had been at his worse when he was smiling.

“We haven’t come here to recruit,” Ryn assured him.

“No?” Hawke asked. His eyes scanned their group. They had left the soldiers back at their base camp, but Ryn, Dorian, Fenris, Solas, Cassandra, and Varric, all armed and travel worn, were perhaps a bit much to accept for a believable social call.

“Your lawyers sent me,” Varric said, and Hawke immediately looked as if he was contemplating going inside and slamming the door in their faces. Varric quickly lifted his hands. “All right, if you want to be picky about the details, my lawyers sent me. Varric Tethras, at your service.”

“You’re Varric Tethras?”

“Does my reputation proceed me? Well, shit.”

Hawke dropped his arms and reached to open the door. He said, “I think you’d better come in, after all.

--

The cabin matched the man who owned it – coarse and rugged and decidedly Fereldan. The neighbors probably hated it. The mabari walked ahead of them, wagging its stump of a tail, and flopped into a pet bed with two more dogs. They grunted at this intrusion.

Hawke paid the little drama no mind. He tossed another log onto the fire and put the kettle on. He said, “You’ll have tea,” as if they didn’t have any choice in the matter. Looking at his biceps, maybe they didn’t. He sat himself down on the raised stone hearth, elbows against his knees, and he looked at them expectantly. It would have been comical to watch how they all scrambled to find chairs, had Varric not found himself doing the same.

He ended up at one of the benches at the table, along with Cassandra, Dorian, and Solas, two on each side. Ryn sat in a well-worn chair by the fire, not far from Hawke. Fenris looked stiff and uncomfortable when he realized the last surface left was the unmade bed. He sat very gingerly on the corner and looked ready to bolt.

Hawke said, “Jax is dead.”

“Someone sent word?” Varric asked, even as he wondered who would know to. He hadn’t heard back from Merrill yet, and wasn’t even sure his letter had reached her.

Hawke said, “No, but that’s why you’re here.”

“Good guess,” Varric said, and there was a long beat where nobody spoke.

Hawke fished a pipe out of his pocked. His calloused fingers turned it carefully, thoughtfully in his hands. “I read your Tales of the Champion,” he said. “Carver, Mother, Bethany – do you have the slightest idea what it is like to learn your family’s fate from the hot new novel everyone is passing around? All rendered in exquisite literary detail.”

“Hawke – “

“I didn’t think they survived the Blight. To learn I could have had years with them – to wonder if it might have made a difference, if I’d been there – “

“Bethany tried,” Varric said. “She sent letters to Redcliffe, before she wound up in the Circle.”

He nodded as if this did not surprise him, and slowly began the task of piping his pipe. He lit it with a small, impressively controlled burst of magic from the tip of his thumb, and sat back against the warm stones of the hearth.

“I’m only surprised to receive the courtesy of learning about Jax,” he said. “It’s the estate, isn’t it? Bastard forgot to leave me out of the will?”

Varric shifted. Ryn spoke before he could answer.

“I take it you didn’t get along with your brother?” he asked. “Did you have a falling out?”

“We fought, after father died,” Hawke said. “Jax didn’t like the way I was doing things. Thought I was trying to take over running the family. Mother was never a good mediator, and it escalated. When he threatened to call the templars on me, I left.”

“That sounds like Jax,” Varric said. “That’s when you went to Redcliffe?”

Hawke nodded and smoked in silence for a moment. The pipe’s rich aroma slowly filled the cabin.

“Carver and Jax ran off to join Cailan’s army, and I tried to get mother and Bethany to come out and join me. They didn’t have any protection anymore, and my brothers weren’t sending enough of their wages home to support them. The trouble was, I didn’t have enough to move them on my own. I had almost saved up enough by the time the Blight hit.”

“And then you lost contact with them.”

“Lothering was destroyed and the undead were marching on Redcliffe. I left, looking for help – but by the time I got back, it was gone, too. The so-called Hero of Ferelden left it to its fate.”

“He’s a cousin of yours, isn’t he?” Fenris asked. He watched the mage sharply. When Hawke glanced at him, he was silent for a long time before answering.

“Sethran Amell. You can see why I’m not keen on accepting anything that comes from my family.” Hawke watched the kettle for a moment, the steam beginning to rise from the spout. His voice was thoughtful. “We’re a cursed clan,” he said. “If I’m the last of us left, then so be it. I’m not interested in the Amell estate – or anything else Jax earned himself in Kirkwall. I doubt he came by any of it honorably.”

“Would you consider making a donation of it, then?” Varric asked. “To the city of Kirkwall? There’s a lot of people you could help – a lot that Jax did wrong you can help make up for.”

“And you just happen to have the paperwork ready, I wager?” Hawke sounded more amused than annoyed. He shook his head and rose. “All right. I’ll sign whatever you want.”

--

It was done with remarkably little fiss. Hawke barely glanced at the columns of figures that made up his brother’s fortune, signing them away to a city that he’d never stepped foot in without a moment’s hesitation or regret.

It was Ryn who lingered, thoughtful, on the porch when the big apostate walked them out.

“I think you should join the Inquisition,” he said.

Hawke’s dark eyebrows rose. “What happened to not recruiting?” he asked. “Anyway, I don’t believe in the Maker anymore. What do you think I care about a heretical upstart branch of the Chantry?”

“Probably about as much as a Dalish elf does,” Ryn answered with his troublesome little grin. “I don’t believe Rellana is the Herald of Andraste any more than you do – but the Inquisition is helping people. We’re going to restore order. You couldn’t save your family, and you couldn’t rescue Redcliffe – but if you join us at Skyhold, I promise I will put you to work.”

The offer clearly surprised the large mage. After a moment, he said, “Well, now I understand why they sent you.”

“Are you saying you’ll do it?”

“I’m saying I’ll consider it.”

Ryn looked pleased – a welcome difference from the quiet gloom that had followed him since Val Royeaux.

Ryn said, “I’ll tell my men to watch for you.”

--

“Well?” Fenris asked. “Was he the same, or wasn’t he?”

Dorian had to tear his eyes from Ryn and really concentrate to understand the elf’s question. They were back at camp, the night pressing in against the light from their lanterns and fires. Ryn had received correspondence via raven from Leliana – probably about that blasted amulet, damn the stubborn bastard. Dorian wouldn’t be surprised to find it waiting on his bed when they got back. Well, he wouldn’t thank him for it. Ryn would be lucky if he didn’t throw it out the window – well, not out the window, that would be wasteful, but he certainly wouldn’t wear it, and –

“Hawke,” Fenris pressed. “Was he one and the same with the man you knew in the other world?”

“Well, I never met him, did I?” Dorian asked, to the elf’s annoyance.

“You said – !”

“I saw him in passing, and I read about him in a book. I never exchanged so much as two words with him.”

“But - ?”

“Does he look as if he could be the same man? Yes. Near as I can recall. Can I tell you for certain he is? No – and I wish you’d stop pestering me about it. You were going to kill him, weren’t you? What happened to that brilliant plan?”

Fenris stared at him a moment, then pushed up from his seat, storming away with an impressive stream of profanities in Tevene. Dorian let him go. Whatever interest he had in extending the olive branch of friendship to the former slave, he wasn’t in the mood tonight. Honestly! He didn’t know what Fenris expected him to do about it!

--

In the morning, Dorian failed to take Ryn’s announcement of a change in their plans with anything resembling grace.

“Emprise du Lion?” he demanded. “Are you mad? Whatever for?”

They were in the tent they yet shared, despite their spat, and all the cold nights following, wherein they slept with their backs to one another and did not touch. Dorian was at the wash basin, half dressed and deeply engrossed in his morning beauty routine until he overheard Ryn briefing Harding on their new destination. It should have been amusing to see a man so concerned with his appearance with his face half covered in shaving cream, but instead Ryn felt a pang for all the quiet intimate mornings they had shared before.

It would be so nice to make up, but the sillier Dorian got about the amulet, the more Ryn found himself digging in his heels. He could be stubborn, too – and if Dorian wanted to continue to be so willfully blind toward the message Ryn had been trying to send, Ryn wasn’t going to spell it out for him. Honestly, the man could be so exhausting!

“Leliana sent word last night,” Ryn told him, which somehow prompted a sour – disappointed? – look. “Our scouts have found evidence of a quarry – “

Dorian had already turned back to the mirror. “Oh, why should I even bother listening?” he asked. “You’re going to do what you like anyway.”

Ryn frowned at his naked back, at the leanly muscular planes on his shoulders and arms. He resented that he was so physically tempting even when he was being so annoying. Ryn said, coldly, “Sorry to be such a disappointment, Dorian. Harding, let’s step outside.”

She gave him a concerned look as they stepped out into a day made brighter by the sun reflecting off the snow. The men had been hard at work striking camp, and there was little case of it left now. Ryn and Dorian’s tent was the last left standing.

“Trouble in paradise?” Harding asked, and Ryn shook his head.

“Leliana is supposed to be sending additional men,” he said, continuing the conversation as if they hadn’t been interrupted, “But I’m concerned with the ramifications of having so many people away from Skyhold while Rellana is there, so it won’t be as many as we might like.”

“We’ll manage,” Harding said, “But you should know – I think most of us are ‘your’ people by now.”

“Glad to hear it.”

They discussed a few more details, stepping aside when the Inquisition soldiers tasked with striking camp came to claim the tent. Dorian was routed with the usual drama and Ryn, still annoyed with him, struggled not to be amused. He’d managed to finish dressing, but there was shaving cream on his neck.

“If we requisition another ten tents we should be in good shape,” Harding said, “But I’m concerned about the conditions in Emprise du Lion. My men have reported word of a massive amount of snowfall. The river’s frozen.”

“Perhaps we should also requisition skis.”

“You jest, but it isn’t a bad idea.”

Across the camp, the members of Ryn’s personal party were almost ready to set out, their horses saddled and packed, their breakfasts nearly over. Ryn watched Fenris stiffen, something catching his eye. After a moment, Varric turned, then rocked up on his toes. He shielded his eyes with his hand, struggling to see.

“I’ll trust your judgement,” Ryn told Harding, and then excused himself, striding forward to meet the others. It didn’t take long to spot what had drawn their attention – the other Hawke, riding up to their camp on a big black beast of a horse, a trio of dogs on the steed’s heels.

Ryn smiled.

Chapter Text

The elf who called himself Solas had been unsurprised when Rellana proved herself a match for all of his basest expectations regarding modern elves. Lovely and charming when she wished to be, there were few who remembered the terrified girl she had been in Haven. Her intentions had started out good before they crumbled away under the weight of fear and posturing, grasping greed, and selfishness. Solas had witnessed the same sad story many times, and here it was again – the ghostly hand of his people, making the same mistakes they ever did. There was nothing worth preserving in these modern elves; Rellana was proof of that, even if a part of him would regret her loss, would miss the flattery of her attention. He knew what he must do.

It could not be said that there had not been times in which he felt a stirring of something like fondness for Rellana, despite her faults. She was like a child, lashing out because she was incapable of understanding the complexities of the world around her. The temptation was there, in her pretty eyes and curling hair, the desire to gather her close and expose her to all the hidden things. She could be taught.

Even still, when she perished with the rest of this terrible world, it would be no great loss. There would be others.

So Solas did not expect to be surprised by one of the so-called elves of this place. He had considered Rellana to be ample evidence of everything he already knew.

Emprise du Lion was in a worse state than the reports quietly filched from Ryn’s papers had led Solas to anticipate. The people were desperate, starving, and there was no evidence that the Inquisition had previously sent aid. The plight of a small, mostly human village wasn’t flashy enough for Rellana, and so it seemed she had chosen to ignore it.

Almost as soon as they had arrived, upon seeing the state of Sahrnia and the people within it, Ryn had sent word to Skyhold that their stay would be longer than anticipated. He coordinated their people into two groups – one to repair shelters for the town’s citizens, another to hunt for food.

The impressive thing was not that he had the idea, but how his people rallied to it. Even Hawke, the newest of their number, did not balk at the order. He picked up a hammer without comment or argument and within a day had charge of a group of workers making twice as much headway as they had before, despite the fact that, for all he was supposedly a mage, the other Hawke used muscles and not magic in his building. Whether by order or curiosity, the former slave Fenris seemed to shadow his every move, wary and distrusting as he worked silently at the man’s side.

With the construction efforts left in such hands, Ryn was able to spend a deal of time out hunting and gathering, finding supplies for the town even in winter’s freezing grip. The Orlesians here had mostly relied on shipments from outside for the food and supplies they needed, as well as small, personal garden plots by their houses. Few knew how to survive without those things. Ryn took with him anyone who was willing to learn, teaching them how to hunt and track and find food and herbs and if he felt hesitation over it, he did not show it. These were people suffering, and so he would not stop until he had helped them. Solas knew that the humans would not remember this favor once they were recovered. If Ryn knew it too, it did not stop him.

Had he been able to focus solely on this work, Solas thought it likely Ryn would have had the village functioning again very quickly; however, there was more at stake here than mere starvation and exposure.

There were dark rumors in the air. Solas found out after the fact that Ryn had spent an afternoon meeting with a chevalier named Michel de Chevin in private. When Solas later managed to slip into the Inquisitor’s tent in the search for information, it was to find a large map drawn out in the center of the room, with several markers on it to indicate things like hunting, red lyrium outcroppings, rifts, logging stands, and the mines.

“The mines have to be my primary concern.”

Straightening from his examination of the map, Solas tried not to let on that he was startled by the voice. He turned to face Ryn as if believing himself to be in possession of the right to invade the other elf’s space without permission, and smiled coolly, even as he opened himself to the Fade. Just in case there were…objections.

Ryn let the tent flap fall closed behind him, without calling for guards. His expression was thoughtful as he moved deeper into the tent, and he was frowning – though at the map, not at his intruder.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Ryn said. “I had hoped to be able to speak with you next.”

“Yes, I – I was told you were expecting me.”

If Ryn knew Solas was lying, he showed no indication of it. “There is a demon in the Keep,” he said, “But I can’t worry myself about him until I stop the red lyrium coming out of those mines – and I can’t do that until I’m confident of Sahrnia’s recovery.”

“Do you have cause to suspect you won’t survive the exchange?”

“I have cause to suspect Rellana won’t finish my work if I’m taken out of the equation too soon.” Ryn’s eyes lifted from the map to Solas, and after a span of silence a smile began to play at the corners of his mouth. “I appreciate that you aren’t attempting to claim otherwise.”

“I thought it would be discourteous to.”

Ryn nodded. He said, “I plan to take a small group to the mines at the end of the week. We’ll strike the Keep after, if we succeed, before they have time to prepare.”

“And my part in this?”

“I’ve marked the locations where my scouts have reported rifts,” Ryn said, with a gesture at the map. “Rellana won’t want to help out here, but I’ve given them a start. If I fail, I will need you to ensure that Rellana closes these rifts. It’s the bare minimum – and she listens to you.”

“Only the humans should be affected by these rifts.”

“They’re still people, Solas.”

He bowed his head, and pretended to be studying the map again. Rellana was easier to influence, to guide and manipulate, yet it disturbed him to think she might regain sole control of the Inquisition.

The realization was quite surprising.

Ryn was watching him with the full intensity of his intelligent eyes and his strange, funny charm, that inborn spark that could not be taught and which Solas had never expected to encounter within a modern elf.

“Solas?” Ryn prodded.

“Yes,” Solas answered. “Of course.”

--

Fenris had come to an abrupt stop the first time they came across the caged villagers in the mine. Choking, gagging on the memory of iron around his throat, the half-remembered, reoccurring dream of following Danarius out of some filthy tavern, his head down and his world shattered, as Jax Hawke watched on, snickering, gloating, and amused. The world around him felt faded, slow. The snow, cold bite of air, hum of red lyrium. The other Hawke moved forward to strike the lock on the cage with the butt of his staff, and he seemed more like an illusion than reality.

“-nris? Fenris.”

The feel of a hand on his flesh snapped him back to reality. He had lost time. The other Hawke wasn’t at the cage now, but standing before him, expression concerned, hand gripping his arm.

“Fenris, are you all right?” he asked, in Jax Hawke’s voice, and Fenris ripped his arm violently away.

“Don’t touch me,” he snarled, and Hawke’s hands lifted in surrender.

“I apologize,” he said, which only made Fenris more furious.

He was too aware, then, of everything around him. Blood on the snow, hum of lyrium. Hawke’s three mabari, sniffing around in interest. Varric, pretending he wasn’t watching. That strange boy, Cole, gaping at him with an open mouth.

“We should move on,” Fenris said, without accepting the apology. Hawke didn’t argue.

--

There were more cages, more prisoners. When Fenris’s group met back up with Ryn’s, there were grim, determined faces all around. Ryn had blood on his forehead, and he was all out of arrows; the knives at his hips were bloody. The persisting chill that had lingered between him and Dorian seemed to have melted, as if they had forgotten their petty argument in t he face of more serious things.

“I’m going to take the Keep,” Ryn announced grimly, without preamble. “Today. Now. Anyone who needs to go back to camp, feel free to do so.”

He didn’t wait for arguments, and for once there were none coming. Even Dorian fell in line, he and Cassandra following the Dalish lad’s lead, having seen too much to be willing to delay another moment.

“They are using their prisoners to grow lyrium,” Cassandra explained as they walked. “They are not merely forcing them to mine if, but to grow it, burrowed within their flesh.”

“That has to be agony,” Varric said, with a glance at Fenris, which the elf ignored.

“It is monstrous,” Cassandra answered.

--

Dorian had never seen Ryn in such a state of quiet rage. The deeper they ventured into the mines, the more they discovered, the quieter his lover grew.

There was no mercy in the way Ryn dispatched their enemy, and nor should there have been. He was not cruel – there was never such a thing to be found in him – but he left no room for survivors in his march through the mine, not a moment spared for his usual diplomacy and reason, his second chances.

It was clear that this truly was a war, even before they reached the Keep, before Ryn had the mages blow the gates off their hinges.

As he had at Adamant, Ryn seemed to throw himself into the thick of the battle without concern for his own safety. His arrows long gone, his knives flashed silver, his lithe body moving, quick and athletic, and unlike at Adamant it wasn’t worry which Dorian felt fighting beside him, but pride.

Dorian couldn’t have said what marked the difference. Certainly there was nothing that had made Adamant any less important or worthy than their battle here. Maybe it was simply that he had come to resign herself to Ryn’s recklessness, his seemingly insatiable drive toward martyrdom. It hardly mattered, did it? Dorian would not allow harm to come to him as long as he was where he could protect him – and Dorian wasn’t going anywhere.

They made a good team, fighting together. They were doing good things. Ryn wasn’t Andraste’s chosen, and yet he still had the power to shake the world.

Ryn wasn’t tempted by the demon’s deal. By the time they reached Imshael, they had seen too much. Ryn didn’t give him time to finish speaking. Fenris wasn’t far behind.

When the Inquisition’s banner at last flew over the Keep, Dorian caught the smile on his lover’s face – tired but triumphant, satisfied in doing good. It took two steps to reach him. Dorian caught Ryn’s face in his hands and he kissed him, and he kissed him, and he kissed him.

--

Ryn winced a little as Dorian cleaned and wrapped the wound on his forehead, but really he was being a remarkably well-behaved patient, given that his sole mission in life seemed to be bringing Dorian vexation.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Ryn said, “But does this mean you like me again?”

They were still in the Keep, having moved their camp there after their victory. All of the linens they’d found were currently being boiled in a large pot in the courtyard, so their camp pallets would have to continue to do, stretched out side by side across the large wooden four-poster bed in the room Ryn had claimed. It was late afternoon. Ryn hadn’t asked, but rather had seemed to assume Dorian would be staying with him – and so his question caught the mage off guard for a moment.

“Well,” Dorian told him after a beat. “It isn’t as if you should feel free to press your luck on the matter, but you should be well aware I’ve never stopped liking you.”

“I should, should I?”

Dorian had only just begun to frown at him when Ryn leaned forward. Dorian wasn’t certain which was more distracting – the soft brush of Ryn’s lips against his lips, or the warm, welcome pressure of his hand upon his thigh. What Dorian was certain of was that he’d missed him, terribly.

“What do you think of my Keep?” Ryn asked, softly. There was promise in his half-lidded eyes that set Dorian’s blood afire. “I’m accumulating quite a collection, don’t you think?”

“Bother that,” Dorian said, pressing forward to catch his lips again. “I don’t give a damn about any of it.”

Ryn laughed. He was smiling as they kissed, smiling as he drew Dorian down with him, onto the pallets, and in that moment, Dorian counted himself a fool for ever arguing with him in the first place.

--

“Dorian?”

“Mmn?”

“You do know that I’m in love with you, don’t you?”

It had grown dark as they reacquainted themselves with one another, and now only the flicker of firelight lit the room. Dorian had been drifting, heavy and content and almost asleep, and when Ryn asked his question it was done so quietly and so casually that it took Dorian a moment to even understand what it was he’d asked.

“What?” Dorian asked, and then, as the words began to register, “No. Wait. What?”

“Dorian,” Ryn began, laughing, as if he thought he was being teased, but then Dorian was struggling to sit up, disentangling himself from the elf’s limbs, summoning a mage light so he could see Ryn’s face. Ryn winced at the sudden bright flood, and whereas generally Dorian might have apologized, now he didn’t think to.

“Say it again,” he said, as his heartbeat pounded in his ears, and Ryn frowned t him.

“What do you think that whole mess with the amulet was?” Ryn asked.

“Not that!” Dorian said. “Obviously, not that!”

“Dorian…”

“Amatus, I swear, if you don’t say it again this instant - !”

“I’m in love with you,” Ryn said again, frank, matter-of-fact, and Darian stared.

“Just like that,” Dorian said, in wonder. “Like it’s easy.”

“It is easy,” Ryn said. “Even when you’re insufferable, it’s easy.”

“I am never insufferable.”

“Is that so?”

“Say it again.”

Ryn shifted, sitting up, reaching for Dorian’s hands and holding them, firmly. “You look half-panicked,” he said. “Do you want to bolt, now that you’ve gotten what you wanted, or do you think I’ll take it back?”

“You know very well it’s the latter,” Dorian said. “For how long? Since when?”

“Skyhold? Maybe a little after? I knew for sure by the time we left for Orlais.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I was trying to show you.”

That amulet. That fucking amulet.

“Dorian, you look terrified.”

“I am terrified.”

“Why?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t a clue.”

“Shall I say it again?” Ryn offered. Dorian’s hands in his own, he kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him. “I love you,” he said, again and again, and slowly the mage’s mouth melted against his, and he let himself be pulled back down to the bed, and they didn’t speak again for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

The other Hawke asked, “May I intrude?”

Fenris answered, shortly, “No, you may not.”

The mage didn’t answer. He kept his distance, too. For a long moment, Fenris thought the man might have left entirely, yet when he finally chanced a glance back, Hawke stood there still, just on the edge of the ring of Fenris’s firelight – close enough to make it clear he wasn’t simply skulking around, yet far enough to make it clear he hadn’t invited himself into the elf’s space.

He could stay there all night, for all Fenris cared – and he didn’t care about that golden-eyed glare, either, nor the stubborn set to that strong square jaw. He definitely didn’t care – about, or for – those broad shoulders, that trim waist, or those big hands.

“All right,” Hawke said, at long last. “But I’m going to say one thing, whether you like it or not.”

“You try my patience,” Fenris warned.

“You need to get out of here,” Hawke said.

That surprised the elf. He found himself reaching for his sword, rising from his fire – but Hawke made no move whatsoever, neither to come closer nor retreat. It didn’t matter. For a skilled enough mage, the signs of a coming attack didn’t need to be blatant.

“If the lyrium in your skin gets infected with this red shit, your life is over,” Hawke said. “We both know it. So why are you here?”

“I serve the Inquisitor.”

“You would do better service away from his side where there’s less threat to you, than losing yourself to this. Don’t make an irreversible mistake just because you don’t like who the advice came from.”

It was hard to listen to what he was actually saying around the familiar tones of Jax’s voice. It didn’t help that, half shadowed, he almost could have been him. Fenris felt his lip curl into a snarl. The only thing that held him back even remotely was the fact that even at his worst, Jax had never sounded so hard. Jax joked. Jax was petty and cruel, and he dug into the softest parts of you he could find. This Hawke sounded – annoyed, yes, but also concerned.

Jax wouldn’t have been out there rebuilding homes day after day, either, or going off with the hunters to look for game, or gathering herbs and winter roots in the forest, or – this Hawke had made himself useful to their efforts every moment since he had joined them, with a firm, gentle way that Fenris didn’t trust. In a man who wasn’t a Hawke, it would have been admirable.

But Fenris knew better.

“Ryn seems to have a good head on his shoulders,” Hawke said. “I’m sure he can find a place for you that lets you help without exposing you to red lyrium. I would have asked, but – well, you’re capable of doing that for yourself. I just wanted to…to offer my advice. Unsolicited as it may be.”

“What does it matter?”

“I think it would be a waste to throw your life away after everything you’ve accomplished.”

“Everything I’ve - ?” it dawned on Fenris, slowly, the cold realization, memory of the conversation in the man’s cabin. He felt his own voice grow cold. “That’s right,” he said shortly. “You read Varric’s book.”

“You escaped a second time.”

“…I had help for that.”

“You should be doing something with your freedom.”

“I am.”

Hawke didn’t answer for a moment, his gaze steely, his frown set. Fenris expected a battle – if not of steel, then of will. To be honest, he had been expecting it, even anticipating it, wanting it. He needed it – needed something to tie this Hawke to Jax, to soften the infuriating impressiveness of him. He’d slipped into the group like he belonged, and that was offensive. He did thorough work without complaint, could be trusted with any task set to him, could make good, solid decisions on his own, and he acted fairly. That was worse.

So it was more annoying when the mage backed down so easily. “You’re right,” Hawke said, “That was an unworthy statement. You are doing something spectacular with your freedom. Something I doubt many others would do, given your situation. My apologies.” He gave a little bow, which was also annoying. Everything about him was annoying. “Can I share your fire for a while? I feel we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“The wrong foot?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve had to work past the impression Jax left on people.”

Fenris turned back to his fire and scowled at the flickering flames. “I don’t care what you do,” he said. Reluctantly, he claimed his seat again, though he kept his sword. He was still stiff, on edge, but Hawke took his sitting as an invitation. He came around – sitting not beside Fenris, but across from him, the barrier of the fire left between them, which made it a little easier to breathe. It was annoying he had thought of that, of Fenris’s comfort. He had even brought his own flask and dinner bowl, so there would be no expectation of Fenris playing host.

“I think we’re down to the last box of roofing nails,” Hawke said conversationally. “I’m not sure if they will be enough to finish the job here. Maybe if we’re lucky.” He spooned up a generous mouthful of his dinner, potatoes and carrots and shredded elk meat fitting in a tower atop his spoon, and took a bite.

“I will never fall in love with you,” Fenris told him.

Hawke choked on his heaping mouthful of stew. “Um,” he hacked, intelligently.

“I want that to be clear between us.”

“I – I wasn’t aware that was on the table,” Hawke wheezed.

“Good,” Fenris said. “Because it isn’t.”

“I…was talking about roofing nails.”

“Just so long as we understand one another.”

“I don’t…does that mean something different in Tevinter?”

It was amusing, seeing such a large and powerful man look so confused and lost. Something in Fenris relaxed a little. He picked up his bowl again.

--

Solas received word from Rellana.

The odd thing was, he decided to share it with Ryn.

“She asks that I meet her forces in the Arbor Wilds,” the mage said, shoulders square and posture almost military-like as he handed the letter to the younger elf. Ryn had only just sat down with his dinner when Solas invited himself to approach the Second Inquisitor’s table. He glanced at Dorian – watching curiously, an unopened bottle of wine in hand – before he rose to reach for the overstuffed envelope.

“You don’t need permission to go, Solas,” Ryn said. He opened the letter and tried to scan through it quickly for the relevant information, only to find it burdened with a slush pile of embarrassing endearments, personal antecedents he was sure Rellana would not want him knowing, and one rather detailed depiction of a naughty dream the Inquisitor had supposedly had. “Surely you know tha…that doesn’t seem anatomically plausible.”

“Apologies,” Solas said, “Page seven.”

Ryn raised a brow, but flipped through the thick stack of parchment, skimming past words like moist and tumescent until he located the part of the letter actually of interest. Solas showed absolutely no concern or embarrassment for having inadvertently shared the rest.

“It was my hope that you and some of the others would see fit to come along,” Solas said, when it was clear Ryn had found the right place to begin reading. “While the Inquisitor neglects to say just what it is her forces have discovered there, I thought…well, I know you have been concerned, perhaps even putting off your return to Skyhold, in case she has left some nasty surprises in wait for you there. If you meet up with her on more neutral circumstances, perhaps you can avoid any underhanded tactics she may have dreamed up.”

“Loyal man,” Dorian mused. “Have you changed sides, then?”

“I do not have a side,” Solas answered. “Save, perhaps, my own.” His voice was much chillier addressing the Tevinter than it had been when speaking to Ryn, but the elf thought better of commenting.

“Still,” Ryn said instead. “This is a very generous thought. As much as I appreciate your candor, you know she won’t be happy when she learns of it.”

Irritation flashed over Solas’s face, quickly smothered into a more neutral expression. “Consider it repayment,” he said. “Your help locating relics of my people has been invaluable. My ties to Rellana are my own concern – suffice it to say, I would be displeased with myself if I allowed your kindness to be returned with treachery. I have not found many men who display your level of honor. And while I can only guess as to what Rellana’s forces may have found in the Arbor Wilds…perhaps it will prove of interest to you, too.”

“I do think my heart will melt,” Dorian said.

“No one is talking to you,” Solas answered.

Ryn hardly noticed the exchange, his mind working quickly to think through the current situation – calculating the number of men he would need to leave at the Keep, and how much work there was left to be done destroying the red lyrium mines and repairing the village. Almost absently, he refolded the letter, smoothing its creases carefully before he offered it back to the other elf.

“I would need…two days, I think. Is that too many?”

“No, I think that will be fine,” Solas answered. “Rellena’s entourage always adds at least that to any travel times. I doubt she would continue on without me once I promised to join her, in any case.”

“All right,” Ryn said. “I’ll start thinking about who to bring along.”

Solas inclined his head, tucking the letter into some interior pocket of his clothing.

“Was that weird to you, too?” Dorian asked, when he had gone. “Dear Maker, I was worried his sour face would curdle the wine…”

--

It was blessedly silent while they ate. Hawke thrown off balance was more palatable than Hawke standing there so large and powerful and serious and…

It didn’t matter if he seemed decent. Jax had, too, once. But something about watching the big mage strain to avoid meeting his eyes was pleasing. Fenris had embarrassed him. It made his stew taste better.

“You haven’t used any spells,” Fenris said, breaking the silence at last. He kept his own gaze locked on the other man; it was past time for someone else to have to deal with discomfort. “Outside of battle, that is.”

“Is that…wrong?”

“I’ve never met a mage before who didn’t take every opportunity to flash his power.”

“I don’t need to prove anything,” Hawke said.

“We would have been done faster had you not insisted on doing everything by hand.”

Hawke shifted a little, his big shoulders tense. He shrugged, a little. “Magic is a weapon, not a tool,” he said. “You met Bethany, didn’t you? Did she misuse her magic?”

“…not that I recall.”

He nodded, as if it was the answer he had expected to hear. “Our father taught us to respect our power,” he said. “It isn’t a toy, and it isn’t to be used frivolously.”

“Why not?” Fenris asked, silkily.

Hawke did meet his eyes, then, and he frowned. “Every time a mage opens himself to the Fade, he opens himself up destruction,” he said firmly. “It isn’t a game, not a party trick to be taken out and shown off at every opportunity.”

“But doesn’t it feel good?” Fenris asked. “Doesn’t it make everything just so much easier?”

“No,” Hawke said. “I’d rather I was born without it – but that isn’t a thing I can change.”

“You could be made Tranquil,” Fenris said, jabbing, not-so-delicately.

Hawke said, “I’ve thought about it.”

That surprised Fenris, startled him into silence, staring at the man across the flame. Hawke shifted a little, and took a breath, and set his bowl aside.

“I know mages hurt you,” he said, and Fenris smiled.

“And I suppose I am to believe that you would not?”

“If I thought I was losing control – if I thought I would become a threat to others, rest assured, Fenris, I would turn myself over to the templars in a heartbeat.

“How noble.”

“It isn’t… you don’t leave a naked blade on the ground in a room full of children. Magic is dangerous. Power corrupts. If I can’t be responsible with what I’ve been given, I shouldn’t have it. That’s all there is to it. Bethany believed the same.”

“Yes,” Fenris answered, softly.

Silence fell heavily between them, punctuated by the pop of the fire and the occasional scrape of wooden spoons against wooden bowls. Starlight dotted the cold sky overhead, and music and laughter drifted on the chill wind. Their quiet was out of place within a rowdy camp still celebrating the acquisition of Ryn’s new Keep. The firelight plucked at Hawke’s features – the warm honey of his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders, the careful strength of his hands.

If Fenris had found himself, over the course of their brief journey in one another’s company, at all drawn to this man – and, it was important to note, he hadn’t – it wouldn’t have been his fault. It wasn’t merely that he gave the right answers to the wrong questions. It wasn’t even that godlike physique. That damned Dorian Pavus, he would be the one to blame, were such an asinine situation to occur, which it wasn’t. Pavus had been the one to fill his mind with such nauseating trash and nonsense. In love with a  Hawke. Bah. Pavus was a ridiculous person, and he made everyone around him ridiculous, too. Ridiculous by association. More the fool Fenris for every entertaining the conversation in the first place. There was no reason save sheer stupidity that Ryn’s shit taste in paramours should cause anyone else to make their own, equally terrible, decisions. It wasn’t as if such foolishness was contagious.

Anyway, what did it matter if Hawke just so happened to be a very attractive man, with a very healthy view on the dangers of magic? Lots of people were attractive. Fenris could admit to noticing a handsome man every now and again. Of course Hawke’s biceps were distracting. They were too large not to be. It would have been senseless for Fenris to pretend otherwise. It was Hawke’s fault, if anything, for being so distracting in the first place.

It even would have been forgivable – reasonable, really – had Fenris once or twice considered sleeping with Hawke, if only to get this inconvenient fascination he felt out of his system, and to prove Pavus wrong. Two very understandable, very good motivations. Casual sex was a thing Fenris had dabbled in, having won his freedom for the second time. It didn’t happen often, and he didn’t really enjoy it much, but Fenris had certainly stumbled his way into a bed or two since Danarius’s timely death. He could always just sleep with Hawke. That would settle it, wouldn’t it? There was nothing like a man’s red, straining orgasm face to take all of the mystique out of a flirtation. (That Fenris hadn’t flirted with Hawke was beside the point.) Fenris didn’t really care for sex, anyway. It would just be a means to an end – satisfy a curiosity, scratch an itch, and give him a few months free of distraction.

Maybe that was all there was to it. It had been more than six months since Fenris had last found release with another person, and, disappointing as that last jaunt had been, his body was merely ready for another. Pavus’s inane talk had merely set for him a direction in which to search for his next indulgence. Fenris had found happiness in his freedom, and he didn’t need anyone else, certainly not a Hawke. He wasn’t interested in love. Once his body was satisfied, his mind would be set free again, and he could go on with his life unburdened by fairy tales of alternate timelines where he found his peace within the arms of a mage.

This – this was all nothing more than that ghastly primal itch. Inconvenient, annoying, poorly timed, but easy enough to remedy.

Even now, Fenris could feel the weight of the other man’s gaze. Hawke’s eye often fell on him when he didn’t expect it would be noticed. (Never mind how often Fenris had chosen to tag along behind him, wordless and glowering, making himself as unpleasant as he possibly could, in the hopes that the man right reveal his true colors at last.) Funny that Fenris hadn’t thought to question whether Hawke might want to sleep with him, instead merely taking it for granted that he would. Men almost always wanted Fenris – particularly mages.

“Do you think I don’t notice your staring?” Fenris demanded. Hawke looked startled, then abashed. His smile was unexpectedly boyish across the firelight, incongruous in his strong, stern face. It wasn’t endearing.

“Am I that obvious?” the mage asked.

“Painfully,” Fenris snarled.

“Sorry,” Hawke said. He stirred his stew, and then he set it aside again. “It’s funny,” he said. “Did you know – you’re the one I wanted to meet, when I read Varric’s book?”

“Am I?” Fenris asked, his voice cooling. “A book full of the details of your family’s murders and your brother’s misdeeds, and I was your takeaway?”

“It wasn’t an easy book for me to read,” Hawke said. “But – yes, in a way. I admired you.”

“And now?”

There was a flash of a grin, and Hawke’s big shoulders lifting in a wry little shrug. “You don’t disappoint. Even if I think you’d like to wear my entrails as a garland.”

“Hm,” Fenris answered him, then, “Fine.” He rose, scraped the scraps from his bowl into the fire, and set it down where it could be found again in the morning. “This only happens once,” he said. “You keep your hands to yourself, and you do what you’re told.”

“W – what?” Hawke asked.

Fenris pushed open the door to his tent, and looked back at Hawke expectantly. “Well?” he asked. “Do you want to come in, or not?”

Chapter Text

Somehow, bafflingly, this only happens once became twice became three times won’t hurt became….fuck, had Fenris lost count over the course of the last two days? Surely it wasn’t as high as seven.

It was easy to scowl when he saw the big mage marching toward him, a stubborn set to his jaw, his big shoulders tense. Scowling Fenris could deal with. Wanting to rip a man’s clothes off with his teeth he was not quite prepared to examine.

“What the bloody hell are you thinking?” Hawke demanded as he approached. A few heads turned; the Keep’s courtyard was full, and had been all morning, as Ryn prepared to break part of his company away to head to the Arbor Wilds. It was remarkable to see how quickly the area around him cleared out when people realized who the target of Hawke’s question was. He didn’t need to be a mage – he was big and intimidating all on his own, even without the bladed staff strapped to his back.

“I’m thinking that that is less a greeting than it is an excellent way to start a fight,” Fenris answered.

“You’re staying here?” Hawke demanded.

Fenris raised a brow.

Hawke, angry, was an interesting sight. The way he held himself, like he wanted to rip you to shreds but wouldn’t but wanted you to know he could. The blaze in his honey colored eyes. He was even larger, somehow, angry, and Fenris’s body did not have what one would usually consider an appropriate response to that. He should be angry or at the very least annoyed. He should not be excited to find this hulking specter of a man looming over him. Fenris lifted his chin and pressed his lips thinly, determined not to let it show.

“Is this because I asked you to leave?” Hawke demanded. “You’re going to stay – you’re going to put yourself at risk - just to spite me?”

“I think you’re overestimating your importance in my life.”

“You won’t leave the Inquisitor’s side for anything, and now, suddenly, you’re going to stay behind and oversee fence placement?”

Fenris looked at him blandly, too surprised for anything else. “What do I know about fencing?” he asked.

“Exactly! What do - ?”

“Are you ready to go, Fenris?” Ryn asked, possibly the only man in Thedas with enough lack of self-preservation to interrupt such a heated discussion when Hawke looked so very ready to set something on fire. Fenris turned his attention from Hawke as if the mage did not exist. At least, that was the impression he hoped to give. Ryn wasn’t the only one who could pretend not to notice how small an elf was beside Hawke’s…Hawkeness.

“I only await orders,” Fenris told him.

“Good,” Ryn said. “I hope to set out within the hour. Hawke, do you have everything you need?”

Hawke stared at him. It was amusing to witness the sight of such a man standing agape as he put things together. “Fenris is coming to the Arbor Wilds?” Hawke asked at last.

Ryn blinked at him, those big purple eyes that hid such intelligence behind their apparent guilelessness. He smiled as if he hadn’t noticed a thing “Well,” he said, “I could hardly do without him, could I?”

“But Varric said…” Hawke stopped, his expression clouding over. “I am going to kill that dwarf.”

“Cassandra will tell you to wait in line.”

If Hawke heard, he didn’t give any indication of it; the man had already turned away, and was stalking back through the crowd of waiting horses and soldiers busy pretending they hadn’t heard or seen a thing. The two elves watched him go in silence for a moment. Fenris did not look at his ass. He didn’t.

“Maybe he got ahold of some bad porridge this morning,” Fenris said, mildly, before Ryn could ask what was going on.

“I do hope he doesn’t actually kill my dwarf.”

“We can find another.”

“This far from Orzammar?”

Fenris fought a smile. He liked Ryn. It was refreshing, liking someone. He could count on one hand the number of people he could say that of. That was what had had him sticking to his side, when it would have been much less trouble to stay on the ship with Isabela. Less trouble – but less interesting, as well.

Friendship with another elf had seemed a strange and alienating concept. Friendship with a Dalish even moreso. Ryn had yet to wave his lack of proper elfishness in Fenris’s face, though – nor to show him the pity that so many others did. Fenris could pick out the particular expression that meant Creators am I glad I’m not that poor sod from miles away, and Ryn hadn’t worn it – not once in their association. What bits of his people, his culture, his heritage Fenris had managed to gleam from him had been offered without judgement or prerequisite. Pointing out his lack of connection to the elven people was a futile effort with the little Dalish, anyway, much as it had been with Merrill. Contrary to so many others of their kind, both individuals were so eager for the kinship of their species that it didn’t matter what a person’s upbringing or history was to them. If they had pointy ears, they were Elvhen.  Fenris was free to ignore as much of what Ryn offered as he wished. At the very least Fenris knew with a kind of solid certainty that had he a need to talk about his lapse of judgement with Hawke – and he didn’t – he would probably be able to stand to have the conversation with Ryn. But he wasn’t going to need to.

And the Maker knew he didn’t want to start a precedent. Horror of horrors – what if the little Inquisitor took it as invitation to discuss his own baffling romantic entanglement? (Not that there was anything romantic about periodically jumping on Hawke’s cock. It was a need, more persistent and inconvenient than usual, and Fenris was in control.)

More soldiers were creeping back into the courtyard now that the commotion was over – double checking harnesses, and bags, saying their goodbyes to those who would be staying behind. A surprising number of villagers from Sahrnia had come to see them off.

“Any word on just what it is we’re walking into?” Fenris asked. Ryn shook his head.

“I haven’t heard much from my spies. Leliana is keeping a pretty tight lid on whatever it is they’ve found. I do know that Rellana’s called up a large number of troops for this,” he said, “But that makes sense, given the terrain.”

“Does it?” Fenris asked. “I’m not familiar with it.”

It was easy to admit such a thing to Ryn, and even the tell-tale darkness that flickered through the other elf’s gaze at even such a subtle reminder of where it was Fenris had come from was bearable.

“Ir abelas, I’m only familiar with stories, myself,” Ryn said. “It was our land once. Some think our people hold out there, still. Those who venture within the forest rarely return. It’s odd for Rellana to throw such numbers at tall tales of a haunted wood. The number of reports I must be missing is…worrying.”

Fenris didn’t bother to correct Ryn on his use of our. The little Dalish would only have pretended not to hear him. He seemed to suffer from selective hearing loss, from time to time.

“She won’t have managed to turn things against you,” Fenris told him. “She isn’t clever enough.”

“Pretty to hope so.”

Fenris didn’t offer to kill Rellana. He considered it understood that the offer was on the table – and unlike Ryn, he wasn’t as concerned with whether they managed it before or after Corypheus’s defeat. Ancient or no, surely one magister could die just as easily as another, given enough effort. Fenris hadn’t been there when he was freed from his chains, but surely if anyone but Jax had tried to put him down, they would have succeeded.

Rellena had more than worn out her welcome.

“You’re putting a lot of trust in Solas’s reports,” Fenris said, instead.

“You don’t like him,” Ryn glanced at him, grinning.

“I do not share your illusions of a happy elf club, no.”

“He helped Dorian, in the other world,”Ryn said. “He wants to stop this madness as much as any of us.”

Fenris opened his mouth to comment, when a commotion across the way drew both of their attention. Fenris wanted to ignore it. It was Hawke – again, the man was exhausting – but this time things had nothing to do with him.

Cassandra was throwing flatware at him, and he was walking very quickly, trying to get away. The bright purple barrier that followed him was what drew the most attention; he didn’t seem to notice when it knocked over items or people or annoyed mules.

Cassandra was following, wrapped in a sheet, her arms full of kitchen supplies.

“This really is the most unusual day…” Ryn said.

Something about his voice brought Cassandra from her rage back to reality. She stopped, noticing for the first time where she was, as Hawke ducked into a covered wagon nearby. There was a crash as his barrier hit something within.

Her face was the most interesting shade of crimson as Cassandra gathered the bedsheet closer around herself, and lifted her chin. She met the stares in the courtyard coldly, regally, until all but the boldest looked away.

Ryn was the only one who didn’t seem to see anything out of place.

“Inquisitor,” she said. “Whatever that…that filthy apostate says, it is not true.”

“Is that so?” Ryn asked mildly.

“Varric was – he was helping me look for ticks,” she said.

“I wasn’t aware they were a problem when there was such heavy snowfall.”

Her face grew brighter. “They were…snow ticks,” she said. “And that…that Hawke, he did not knock.”

“I will have a chat with him,” Ryn said.

She nodded, slowly. “Yes,” she said. “See that you do.”

She swept up the end of the bedsheet like the train on a ballgown – a talent Fenris suspected the warrior would be incapable of replicating, were she actually in a ballgown – and swept away, proud and mortified, all at once.

Ryn pursed his lips. He said, “This is going to be a longer venture than I had anticipated.”

---

“ – never heard such an inhuman screech in my life – and, mind you, I’ve had tea with demons. I look up, and there she is, ass half-covered, chasing Hawke with a frying pan – a frying pan, Maker’s word! – and there’s Varric, the nakedest, hairiest creature I’ve ever seen, scuttling away in the opposite direction, and - ! Oh, amatus, I gather you’ve heard the story?”

“No, no, not from this side I haven’t.”

“But you seem so much less than enamored by my fantastic storytelling. The soothing timbre of my voice should hold you positively spellbound. Don’t you like me at all?”

Ryn looked up, quickly, but Dorian was playing with him, pouting, batting his lashes. He had dressed up for the road, in layers that could be removed as the weather got warmer, most notably a fur coat that looked so soft and warm and comfortable that a part of Ryn wished there was time to climb into his lap and share it. His eyes, freshly lined with a thick layer of kohl, were almost as striking as they had been to him the first time Ryn saw him, when he had been a bearded wild mage caught setting fire to corpses in the woods.

He felt warm, looking at him. The knot that had formed in his belly when they had entered the room seemed to tighten.

“I’m thinking about other things,” Ryn admitted. “I’m sorry.”

“You have something more amusing to think about than the sex lives of your friends? Imagine that.”

Ryn smiled at him, then glanced around the room again. They had only spent a few weeks in the Keep – certainly not long enough for it to feel anything like home. Ryn hadn’t thought to add any personal touches to their room, hadn’t thought of it as more than a private place to lay his head, and make love, and plan his next move – but seeing it packed up had stirred something in him.

The Dalish took their homes with them. They didn’t leave them behind. This wasn’t home, didn’t feel like it. But it did feel as if he was abandoning something important.

“There’s still so much left to do here,” Ryn said, looking at the mattress, stripped bare that morning as his things were packed. “The people here are still at risk, because we couldn’t close the rifts without Rellana. Most of them have roofs over their heads – but there isn’t enough food to last out winter. And if the templars return…”

“Amatus,” Dorian said, “You’ve given them hope.”

Chapter Text

They had come out for her. Not for Ryn. Not for his rebel Inquisition. Rellana had pulled the string and her toy soldiers fell neatly into place – lines of chevaliers in their gleaming armor, Inquisition boots stamping down the overgrown mess of the forest floor. She had done this, her army swollen and full while her rival toiled in some obscure nothing of a town at the edge of the map.

It amused her, this idea of invading her people’s ancestral lands with her human soldiers. They were tools, and too foolish to know it. She saw no reason not to use them as she saw fit. When she lifted her people back to their rightful place, it was the humans who would serve.

The lost Temple of Mythal. Rellana almost salivated at the thought; she was giddy with it. The sounds of explosions in the woods, felled trees, and clashing soldiers were greater than the finest opera to her ears. She would raze these Wilds, burn them to the ground, if need be, and when Solas returned to her side she would present him with all the secrets and riches of their people. She would do it alone, prove that she was truly a force to be reckoned with, and he would love her for it.

Corypheus was almost an afterthought, if even that, when compared to the gleaming allure of this eluvian the witch Morrigan spoke of. Rellana still wasn’t entirely clear on what one was or what it did or how it worked, but she knew that it was old, and powerful, and hers.

Seated in a comfortable camp chair in the quiet shade of the forest, Rellana let her gaze fall on her fourth and most useful advisor.

Morrigan was her ace, her secret weapon against Ryn. That Rellana had largely ignored her until she came forward with something useful was strategy, not oversight. Ryn hadn’t known about her, hadn’t met her, hadn’t worked his oh so charming manipulations on her. It left Rellana to accomplish so much at a comfortable distance from his interference.

Rellana wasn’t above learning her people’s secrets from a shem. Only a fool overlooked a tool because she didn’t like its shape. Once she had what she needed, Morrigan and her creepy son could be silently removed from the picture, anyway. The Iron Bull already had his orders to deal with them. Rellana would be the sole keeper of the Elvhen secrets they unearthed here, with Solas a far but respected second, and they would make the shem world burn.

“My dear,” Vivienne said, intruding on her thoughts just as Rellana had begun to picture the scope of the palace she would build, the gleam of the jingle bells in the jester’s costume Ryn would end his life in, the cheers of the crowd as her enemies’ heads were mounted on her wall.

Rellana frowned at Vivienne.

“Don’t you think it’s time we set out?” Vivienne asked.

“The soldiers will clear the path to the temple for us,” Rellana said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s what soldiers are for.”

Vivienne had spent too many years in Orlais to allow her thoughts to display themselves across her face. She smiled, and nodded. “Excellent, my dear,” she said. “And what do you plan to do when you lose this frightful army you’ve created? One mustn’t be too careless with one’s toys.”

“I’m more than my army, Vivienne.”

“As you say,” she said with a laugh, and excused herself, leaving Rellana to stew over the question of whether or not she was being mocked. Vivienne was powerful, influential, and most importantly of all, utterly loyal. Rellana planned to keep her when the day of her ultimate ascension came – but maybe it was time she receive a small reminder of her place. Rellana settled back in her chair, mood no longer quite so pleased.

Shemlen couldn’t be trusted. That was the way of the world. Even as she sat back, she imagined the bile on the tongues of every tight human cluster in her camp. Gaspard and his cronies – she had given him a throne! Did he not realize she could take it away? The soldiers, forgetting that their Maker had chosen her. Her so-called advisers, who had forgotten that she made them, she made the Inquisition, built it from nothing. Bull had caught Cullen in the act of sending word of their march to Ryn. He’d caught Josephine doing the same a day later. Neither knew their missives had been intercepted by her pet. Neither suspected they would be taking a Qunari axe to the head just as soon as she could get back to Skyhold and arrange an appropriately impressive trial. Her brute would enjoy himself – and Rellana already had an outfit picked out.

Rellana had let fear consume her. She had let herself stumble over her doubts. But this – this army amassed at her call, the victory at her fingertips, the wealth of elvhen knowledge just waiting for her discovery – this proved her power, her worth, her divinity. It wasn’t worth thinking about how badly the Fade had rattled her. What did it matter that she had left an ally to die? That a powerless Shemlen god had not, in actuality, chosen her? She was Rellana, the true Inquisitor, the future Queen of all elvenkind. The secrets of the Arbor Wilds were her birthright.

Fortified, Rellana pushed up from her chair. She squared her shoulders and prepared her smile. She would take a turn about the camp, her armor glittering, her chin held high. A firm hand was all that leadership required. Her accomplishments were proof of that. There was more to come, once she controlled this eluvian. She could be a beloved, benevolent queen one day – but not before she secured her crown.

The Iron Bull shadowed her steps, walking behind and to her right, her hulking champion, her silent threat. Shemlen bowed as she passed. Injured soldiers reached out to brush trembling fingertips along the hem of the white silk robe she wore over her armor.

“Herald,” the said with reverence, and she rewarded them with her smile, red lips in a white face, a porcelain doll no enemy could break.

The Orlesians had a way of insulting without seeming to insult. Curious phrases, backhanded compliments. Rellana enjoyed it, when it wasn’t directed her way. She had begun to try her hand at it, enjoyed the thought of besting them at their Game. Her turn about the camp left her so cheered that she found herself approaching her advisors, taken with the fancy that she might drop some subtle little hints as to their coming fates – hints they would not understand until they were already in chains.

They did not notice her approach.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Cullen said, low, under his breath. He held a spyglass to his eye, and some visual tension fell from his shoulders at whatever it was he saw. At Josephine’s curious urging, he handed the gilded cylinder to her. “Something got through.”

“This…no, this is terrible!”

“Terrible?”

“Where are his armies, his wardens, his elves?” Joesphine asked. “We made it clear what he would find here. Why, he hasn’t even brought a quarter of his forces!”

At Cullen’s gesture, she handed the spyglass back. As he took a long look, his initial joy quickly bled away. “Even if word reached him late, why would he reach coming here without numbers?”

“Perhaps whatever reached him failed to explain the severity of the situation?” Joesphine wondered. “Rella outnumbers him too greatly; she will not be able to resist taking advantage of the situation once she knows he has arrived. Better he had not come at all.”

“I don’t like it,” Cullen agreed, “But if Rellana gets her hands on whatever it is in that temple, it might not matter.”

“I will have a runner sent,” Joesphine said, twisting her hands. “Perhaps Ryn has time to retreat before she has word of him…”

“Or circumnavigate the army, and reach the temple ahead of Rellana.”

“Should we attempt to slow her down?”

They were turning. Rellana fell back before either of them could see her. Hiding behind a solder’s tent, she made eye contact with Bull. She waited for her advisors’ footsteps to fade away before she spoke.

“Get Vivienne and Morrigan,” she ordered. “We’re taking the temple now – and then we put an end to this rebel Inquisition.”

--

Ryn didn’t need Josephine’s runner to see the problem before it arose. An army on the horizon, not the simple scouting expedition he had planned for. Inquisition banners mixed with the lion of Orlais to create a force that far outstripped the measly numbers Rellana had had the patience to gather at Adamant.

And Ryn had walked right into it.

Solas cursed, quietly and colorfully, next to him. There were quite a few elven words Ryn wasn’t familiar with, which would have been interesting, under other circumstances.

“Amatus,” Dorian’s voice was low and measured. He approached slowly, as if facing a wild animal. He already knew what the hunter was thinking. “Surely even you must see the folly in continuing from here. Rellana has too much of an advantage; if she catches you on the field you’re done for. No treaty in the world will hold that spiteful bitch when she holds such numbers.”

“We must fall back to Skyhold before we are discovered,” Cassandra said. “We will have walls, and time to gather your people. Whatever Rellana finds here, we can take when she returns.”

“You’re talking war,” Ryn said. “Within Inquisition ranks.”

“Do you doubt she would try it?” she pressed. “Do you think for a moment you would be safe walking into her camp? That she would honor the treaty your First made her sign?”

“Unfortunately, I do not,” Ryn said.

“Andraste’s ass, but that’s a relief to hear,” Varric said. “Now if you could manage not to sound so sad about it, I could sleep a little easier at night.”

Ryn didn’t answer, his eyes on the distant camp. Rellana had the high ground, and she had the numbers. She was here to fight Corypheus’s forces, but she would not be able to pass up the opportunity to repay what had happened at Adamant. Her pride would never let her miss the opportunity to wrest control of the Inquisition back from him. Not if he was foolish enough to hand it to her like this. His window of opportunity to retreat before she saw her chance was brief, perhaps even already closing.

Ryn had not a trace of magical affinity, but he could feel it here in the Arbor Wilds, feel pieces of history his people were missing, the pulse and pump of the elven heartbeat. Even still, it wasn’t only his life he was risking. He resolved himself to turning his men back.

And then the runner found him.

--

Dorian knew all hope was lost the minute he heard the words: Temple of Mythal.

The real damning thing was, it was difficult even for him to argue against it.

Something was there. The runner didn’t know what, only that Corypheus wanted it – and so did Rellana. Solas was no help in solving the mystery, either, having clammed up the moment the revelation was made. The fact remained: a weapon that would help Corypheus would serve no better in the hands of the other Inquisitor. Nothing that important, that potentially powerful, could rightly be entrusted into her hands. What would it matter if they reached Skyhold and gathered their men, if Rellana gained herself some ancient super weapon that made it all useless?

Damn it.

Ryn looked at him, and Dorian could see the apology in his wonderous purple eyes. What was more, he could see the regret, the resolution. He had promised to stop trying to martyr himself – they had both come to the conclusion that today may be the day he broke his word. Dorian felt his throat closing up.

He watched the effort if took Ryn to speak as he gathered his companions to him.

“A small force may be able to slip past Rellana’s forces without notice,” he began, and not even Dorian questioned why it had to be him. A Dalish elf, at home in the wilderness, a skilled and experienced scout, hunter and tracker – he could go places few others could manage, and he could do it quickly. Dorian’s heart twisted, throbbed. He tried to fill his eyes with him, and he could not get enough. He willed that time should stop and time proved, as usual, disobedient. “I can take one person,” Ryn said. “Any more and I think the advantage is lost. I think it needs to be Solas.” He looked to the mage.

“You will take me,” Fenris insisted, his voice firm. Dorian had been about to say the same.

“Solas’s knowledge will be invaluable in the temple,” Ryn said. “I won’t know what I’m looking for, where to start.”

“Then your party will number three,” Fenris said. His lips twisted with something bitter. “I know a thing or two about moving undetected – and I do not trust Rellana’s pet mage.”

“Do you think to insult me?” Solas asked.

Fenris ignored him. “I will not slow your endeavor,” he pressed

“We will be four,” said the pale blonde soldier beside Dorian, whose presence Dorian had not even noticed, and promptly forgot.

Ryn was nodding.

“Four, then,” Ryn agreed reluctantly, and Dorian’s mind automatically corrected the number back to three. “And in the meantime, I want the rest of you to return to Skyhold as planned. Gather my forces, prepare for – for whatever comes of this. If we fail here today, it will be up to you to keep Rellana in check.”

“Anyone else miss when it was only the ancient crazy darkspawn magister we had to worry about?” Varric asked.

When their meeting broke, Ryn allowed Dorian to pull him aside. He didn’t want to look at him. Dorian’s hands shook when he listed them to cup the elf’s face. Even still, Ryn’s gaze slid away.

“I expected forces,” Ryn said, a little softly, a little lost. “A scouting expedition, maybe a few extra soldiers. I miscalculated.”

Dorian ignored his words.

“I’ve come so far to find you,” Dorian said, instead, and his voice broke, and he didn’t care. Ryn’s hands were so warm when they lifted to cover his own. His eyes, so elusive, more blue than purple in this moment, were wet. He pulled Dorian’s hands from his face, and squeezed them so hard it hurt.

“You’ll find me again,” he said, with cheer neither one of them believed. “One way or another.”

“Amatus,” Dorian said, a little desperately, though there was nothing else to say. He couldn’t bear that he was not going with him, but he saw why he should not, why his presence would hinder, more than help. They had to be able to move quickly, avoid notice, claim the prize before Corypheus or Rellana, and get back again just the same. Adding another man to their number – a man who had spent his life in libraries and bars and strangers beds, at that – would only increase the risk. “Don’t die,” he said.

Ryn said, “I’ll do my best.”

Chapter Text

Perhaps it was an unusual sentiment for a Dalish, but Ryn had never dreamed a day would come when he would have the privilege of seeing such a sight with his own eyes. The Temple of Mythal. A secret hidden deep within the cool green shadows of the Arbor Wilds. A part of him regretted that his clan was not there to see it with him, that Keeper Deshanna had died before they had even a clue of its existence. He would not even have begrudged Rellana this experience, had she not been using it to put them all in peril. What Dalish – what elf – wouldn’t be humbled by the magnitude of this discovery? He wished he could enjoy it more.

They had faced very little challenge in making their way to the temple – either from Corypheus’s forces or Rellana’s – but then, that was the purpose in taking such a small group. Even had Rellana spotted his people’s approach and sent out soldiers to look for them, they would have been hard to find with so much noise and destruction going on around them. Ryn had instructed his people to move quickly, but to make their retreat known. If Rellana had spotted them, let her see them retreating.

Both Solas and Fenris were far more skilled with moving quietly through the forest than Ryn had dared to hope. They had managed so well, in fact, that Ryn could pretend they might even succeed, giving him mental space enough to appreciate, if only for a moment, that they now stood before the gates of history itself.

A pity there was little time for reverence; they had made good time, but Rellana and Corypheus were both ahead of them.

The ruins leading up to the temple proper were beautiful and wild, overgrown, an aching echo of a time no living elf would know, but would forever long for, no matter if they were Dalish or city raised. It was the one thing that truly held them all in common, that yearning that yet united the Elvhen soul. Ryn laid a reverent hand along the flank of one of the two wolf statues that guarded the temple gates, and he wondered if Rellana had spared herself even a moment to appreciate the enormity of where it was she stood. He pitied her, because he knew she had not.

Then he took a breath, and continued on.

Almost immediately, they found signs of battle. A large scorched area, bodies – elven, it seemed, and fresh, though they couldn’t get close enough to get a better look. Across the bridge, Corypheus’s archedemon threw itself against a large, magically sealed door, screaming in fury.

Corypheus cross the bridge behind it.

“There are minor entrances, beyond the central vestibule,” Solas said, low, after a moment that was filled with a strange hesitation. “I’ve…seen something similar. In the Fade. Come, it should be this way.”

“Step carefully, everyone,” Ryn cautioned.

Keeping low, Solas led them along to the right, where a tunnel cut under the body of water that protected the temple. With one last glance at the darkspawn magister and his fearsome dragon, Ryn ducked into the entrance.

“Vishante kaffas,” Fenris swore under his breath.

The ceiling was low, and frequently released cold drips down their collars. There was no way to traverse the path standing upright – whoever bypassed the temple’s main entrance this way would be entering Mythal’s sanctum at a bow.

“There would have been rituals, rites for those seeking to gain Mythal’s favor,” Solas volunteered, there in the dark and the cold, once they had gone far enough that the sounds of the archedemon’s fury had dulled to nearly nothing. “Those who would have utilized this path would have been seen to be too low to deserve that honor.”

“It is the slaves’ entrance,” Fenris said darkly.

“…perhaps,” Solas allowed, after a moment.

Ryn paused only once, hearing sounds of battle somewhere to his right, just on the other side of the wall. They were past the moat now, somewhere within the temple. The path had begun a steady incline, and soon the bent position from which he was forced to walk would create a terrible ache in his back.

“She did not observe the rituals,” Cole whispered in the darkness. “She kills the old ones as she goes.”

Solas paused for only a moment, as if listening. Ryn could not see him, but he could feel a sense of weight as the mage said, “So she does.” He sounded only resigned. Tired, even.

They emerged at last from the darkness into a narrow corridor, lit with veilfire upon a careless wave of Solas’s hand. The walls were rugged and undecorated, meant for only the lowest of eyes. An ancient broom stood gathering cobwebs in the corner. Ryn only took as long as he dared to stretch out his back before he moved toward the brightness of day at the end of the corridor, where it ended in small, undecorated balcony. Below, there was a large room with yellow tile. Rellana and her party stood below, ringed by elves in gleaming armor. Before he could think better of it, Ryn found himself drawing closer to the stone railing, unable to help himself.

He caught just a little of the conversation. Ancient elves spelled to slumber until it was time to rise again in defense of the temple, dwindling numbers, an eternity of servitude, a well – and Solas hissed and drew him back, urging him to keep moving.

“We can get ahead of them,” he whispered, “But we must make haste. If it is truly the well they have come for, then we cannot waste time.”

You know about this well? Ryn wanted to ask, but the question died on his tongue; as he glanced back, hungry for another look at the other elves, he was in time just to see a bolt of magic from Rellana’s staff strike one of the ancients, leaving him smoldering.

“Quickly!” Solas said. As the sounds of battle picked up, he broke into a run.

--

The temple’s service halls were narrow and labyrinthine, poorly lit, and covered in a thick layer of dust. Everyone remembered Cole was there, briefly, when it set the spirit to a fit a sneezing. He was forgotten again just as quickly, a niggling tickle at the back of Ryn’s mind, a whisper amid the screaming of his thoughts.

His own lungs protested the dust. Running was difficult, and Solas would not slow down. He had gotten ahead of them, and twice now Ryn had feared losing sight of him as he vanished around a corner.

Then, abruptly, they were outside again.

“There!” Solas said, and pointed.

They had emerged on another balcony, and there before them stretched a green and wild garden. A deep pool in the center led to a raised platform upon which there was a second, smaller pool, this one perfectly circular. A series of mirrors ringed it.

“So,” Solas said, staring at it. “Mythal endures.” He shook himself, as if coming out of whatever thoughts he had took effort, and turned to them, looking to Fenris, then Ryn. He opened his mouth as if to say more, then stopped himself, and shook his head. “Come, lethallin. I am afraid there is no avoiding what is to come.”

The sounds of fighting did not reach here, into this inner sanctum. Still, awe caused Ryn’s voice to stay low as he followed the other elf down a wide set of stairs. “It seems like such a waste,” he said, unable to keep the frustration from his voice. “Rellana and Corypheus – how much have they destroyed in this venture? She’s killed those elves.”

“Yes,” Solas said, “And if she finds us, she will kill you as well.”

“We could have learned from them!”

“They would not teach you.”

“It is the way of elves,” Fenris said, with disgust. “Letting each other rot. You can’t be surprised.”

“I can be disappointed.”

The warrior had no reply for that. He drew his sword as they walked, and he moved with the steel naked in his hand, his eyes scanning their surroundings for threats.

There seemed to be no way to move from their path to the well, on its higher platform, but when they were close enough, Solas did some sort of spell, and steps appeared, climbing to the top.

“You will soon stand before the Vir’abelasan,” Solas said gravely. “The Well of Sorrows. It must be what they seek. There is nothing else that would be so devastating for either to possess.”

“It’s…water?” Ryn asked. He earned a disapproving sidelong glance.

“Every servant of Mythal, reaching the end of his life, would have made the journey to this place to impart his wisdom here,” Solas said. “It holds the secrets and the knowledge of all who came before.”

Ryn stopped, overwhelmed by the implication. “…oh,” he said.

“Oh, indeed,” Solas said, and did not sound pleased.

“You’ll drink it, then?” Fenris asked, suspicious.

“Not I,” Solas said gravely. “One of you. But be forewarned – there is a price to such a boon. Whoever partakes of the Well of Sorrows will become tied to Mythal. Irrevocably.”

Fenris made a disgusted noise.

They were only halfway up the stairs when a large crash pulled their attention. Calpurnia and her mages – and following quickly on their heels, Rellana and the Iron Bull. Solas turned, and took the final steps at a run. Ryn followed – coming up short when they found their path blocked at the top by another of the ancient elves in the strange, gleaming armor.

“You must let us pass,” Solas said.

“I will not allow the sanctum to be despoiled,” the elf said. “I will sooner see the Well destroyed than used by the unworthy.”

Ryn could hear fighting down below. It was only a matter of time before they were joined by Rellana.

“We’re out of time!” he said.

Solas spoke, then, something brisk and desperate in Elvhen, too much and too fast for Ryn’s limited vocabulary could keep up with. The man hesitated.

“All that we knew, all that we are, will be lost forever,” he said.

Ryn glanced back at the courtyard below, in time to see Bull’s massive battle axe take Calpurnia through the chest.

“There are other places,” Solas said. “Other duties. Your people yet linger. Please stand aside!”

Running feet – the sound of battle over – a bird’s wings flew overhead and abruptly materialized into a human woman Ryn did not know. Rellana was on the stairs.

The elf saw her coming.

With a wave of his arm and a great gust of magic, he pushed them all aside and turned to the Well. As Solas cursed and pled with him in Elvhen, he lifted his arms and began to summon his power. The waters stirred.

- And stopped, as the human woman threw herself at him, and plunged her blade deep into his heart.

“Now, lethallin!” Solas shouted, but Ryn was already on his feet, already moving toward the Well. He could hear Rellana behind him.

“No!” Rellana screamed.

She crashed into him, sending them both deep within the Well’s depths.

--

There was darkness, and whispers, and power.

Maddening, the questions, the movements of the waters. Shadows, darkness, color, light. Questions, questions, questions.

“Give me what I want!” Rellana demanded.

And the power of the Well, be it spirits, or memory, or the gods themselves –

Rejected her.

--

Rellana came out of the water screaming. Her hands like claws, she grasped at the quickly-dissipating liquid, felt it become vapor, blown so easily away on the wind, however she stomped, and screamed, her curls in her eyes, her robe ruined.

Ryn lay in the Well, unconscious but breathing, and with a cry of rage she drew the knife from her belt, and threw herself at his helpless form – only to find her way blocked by a wall of muscle and lyrium and fury, Fenris, blade drawn, inserting himself before the prone elf.

“He ruins everything!” she screamed, and tried to push past him, only to be stopped again, gasping for breath at the sudden feel of a vice gripped ‘round her heart. Glowing and fierce, Fenris’s hand had somehow penetrated her chest.

It was only a moment. A terrifying, painful, sickening moment – and then a spell from Solas tore them from each other, sent Fenris sliding back in the empty well, as Rellana, shaken but unharmed, fell to her knees, grasping her chest, fighting for breath.

“He – ruins – everything!” she panted, looking up at him, pleading, and saw the conflict on Solas’s face, and realized, too late, how Ryn had gotten word of their march on the Wilds. “You?”

She stared at him. He had no answer.

A cry of frustration across the courtyard broke the moment. Corypheus had found them. His face distorted in rage, he was flying toward them at terrible speed. Rellana scrambled to her feet.

Fenris was still glowing – though it was no longer his lyrium brands but Ryn, thrown still unconscious over his shoulder. One of the mirrors that surrounded the Well had also begun to glow.

“The eluvian!” Morrigan said.

And they ran.

--

They arrived in Skyhold, bursting through the mirror in one of the dusty unused chambers off the Garden. Rellana first, then Morrigan, Bull, Vivienne, Solas. Fenris came last, Ryn still over his shoulder. The moment they were through, the glow winked out.

Tears pricked at Rellana’s eyes. Her heart ached, for more reasons than one. Fenris, looking between Rellana and her people, stayed near the mirror, wary. His distrust extended to Solas as well, it seemed, who stood in the middle, hesitant, to claim a side. Even if Solas had been more willing to make his allegiance a firm thing, they would have been outnumbered.

“Guards!” Rellana called. “Guards!”

And for the first bit of fortune she’d had all day, the ones that came were hers.

She said, “Arrest them.”

Chapter Text

Rellana was having a good week.

What did the rejection of Mythal mean if the so-called goddess wouldn’t even step in to protect the one she supposedly chose? Rellana’s soldiers had made the arrest without difficulty, and in the time that passed since her return from the Wilds she had come to see how very useless Mythal’s blessing truly was.

Fenris had wanted to make a fight of it, to be sure – something Rellana definitely wanted to avoid after her brush with his special abilities at the Well. He had been outnumbered, but he had been considering it – until Solas stepped in. If she could find a way to harness his terrifying power for herself, she would. It was on her mind for the future, anyway. In the meantime, whatever trouble the former slave might have further provided post arrest was mitigated quickly when a new soldier to Skyhold came forward to offer his services – he claimed he was a former Seeker. Dismissed from his order in disgrace some years ago, he said he had found new faith in Rellana, and pledged himself to her cause. Like Cassandra, Gereld had a certain talent for manipulating the lyrium in a person’s blood.

Fenris was no trouble at all after the situation was made clear to him.

Solas Rellana had placed under house arrest. A chain around his ankle kept him bound to his desk, with plenty of room to move around to reach the privy or his bed. He had been cooperative enough, if infuriatingly mild in his responses to her. Rellana had hoped he would offer her some explanation to his actions, perhaps fall on his knees and beg for her favor, her forgiveness. Instead he had become coolly polite, even formal.

“Do you think my patience with you will last indefinitely?” she’d demanded at last, to which he’d raised a brow.

“Throw me in the dungeons if you like,” he’d answered, impassive.

But, Rellena was having a good week.

Rellana had recalled her troops from the Wilds immediately upon her return, and Skyhold lingered in a kind of limbo until their return. There had been some nervousness that Ryn’s troops might arrive first, but luck was with Rellana. When her soldiers came at last, more than two weeks later, they filled Skyhold with their banners and their devotion. They praised her victory in the Wilds, they worshipped the ground she walked on. There were reports of bands of soldiers in pockets around Skyhold, but they would never be able to take the fortress now that she held it. Rellana ordered them hunted down and obliterated.

And then, fortified by her people’s love, Rellana made the move she would have been too afraid to make on her own, however she dreamed of it.

--

Rellana chose a gown the color of blood. Silk, form fitting, it flowed, liquid, over her curves. She paired it with a cloak of white wolf fur, and her curls spilled from a towering crown of gold and ruby. She had Solas’s shackles moved from his desk to her throne so he could watch the trial and be reminded of her glory and her power. She knew the image she made, reclined regally on her throne as her rival was dragged in chains down the length of the great hall and pushed to his knees before her.

“Truly,” Rellana said. “There is no greater pleasure than seeing one’s enemies brought low.”

Ryn shook his head. He said, “I’m not your enemy, Rellana,” and his voice was thick, his movements unsteady.

Rellana laughed.

To think – she had been afraid to venture to the dungeons to see him in the weeks following her return from the Wilds. Mythal had chosen him, after all, hadn’t she? Rellana had had night terrors of walking down to the cells to find him aglow in godly power – or somehow whisked away entirely, the cell locked securely behind him, as if he’d never been there at all.

And yet, here he was, kneeling before her in chains, his hair limp and filthy, lip split, one eye swollen shut. He’d always pretended to be so humble, but Rellana had ordered her guards to teach him the true meaning of humility. He favored his right side, as if some ribs might be broken. Two of his fingers jutted at odd angles. He certainly wouldn’t be drawing a bow anytime soon.

Her one complaint was that Ryn could still look at her so directly – that he wasn’t cowering, begging, pissing himself in fear of her.

She pushed herself up from her throne.

“I’ve had a letter from your fellow traitors,” she said, approaching him. She curled her nose delicately at the smell. He was wearing the same leathers he had been when they’d taken him, the worse for wear after two weeks in a dungeon cell. “An offer to rejoin our ranks in return for your safety. A united Inquisition, to put an end to Corypheus once and for all. But we’ve already tried that, haven’t we?”

She looked for a spark of hope at her words, a hint of hunger. She wanted him to try to bargain.

Silent, Ryn simply regarded her.

Rellana circled him, slowly. Her Inquisition was watching, and she knew he could see how her numbers had swelled, even in the time since her return. She wanted to make the trial good for them. She wanted them to see the power they supported, to live in fear and awe of her.

“I thought I might send a piece of you back in response,” Rellana said, conversationally. “Something to help your friends remember you by, hm? Maybe one of those pretty, pretty eyes. Or perhaps those fingers. They do look like they’re bothering you.”

“How considerate,” Ryn answered evenly.

Rellana frowned, crossing in front of him. “Oh, I know. Here’s an idea: how do you think that nasty vint you fuck would feel if I shipped him his favorite piece of you?” she nudged him between the legs with one satin-slipper-clad foot, and was rewarded with a response at last as he closed his eyes and took a breath.

“Rellana,” he said. “Is there a point to this?”

She leaned down to him. “You took my soldiers,” she said. “You undermined my power. You betrayed our people, and the future I’m building for them.”

“The world is burning,” Ryn said. “And you’re using it as an excuse to bolster your vanity.”

“I’m building an empire,” she began.

“People – are – dying!”

Rellana drew back at the vehemence of his voice, the fire in his eyes.

“Stop posturing!” Ryn said, and Rellana felt the press shem eyes around her, the audience she had insisted on witnessing not a groveling, defeated enemy, but their hero receiving a dressing down from a pathetic scrap of rags. “Stop pretending!” he said. “You want to be a savior? A source of hope for the hopeless? Stop thinking about yourself!”

The hall had been quiet, but now, slowly, it was beganning to stir. People exchanged glances, murmured to one another. Rellana feared she was losing them.

Rellana drew herself up, retreated to her throne as proudly as she could manage.

The distance helped with her perspective. Ryn looked pathetic there on the ground before her, beaten and chained, filthy and stinking. She could see how the weight of his chains bore down on him, see that his injuries caused him great pain. She remembered him as he had been with the clan, laughing with the other hunters, the darling of the community.

His eyes blazed with furious fire.

“I am the chosen of Andraste,” she said. “The Maker’s sacred herald.”

“Bullshit,” Ryn said. “You’re a cut-rate mage on a power trip, and you’re hurting people.”

Rellana nodded, and seated herself again, regally, atop her throne. She waited for the hall to grow silent again, for the murmurs to stop. She waited for Ryn’s shoulders to slump with weariness, his strength reaching its end. She waited until that fire dimmed, and his dark head finally bowed. Only then did she speak.

“You see?” she asked at last. She spoke quietly, forced the room to listen. “You can be as defiant as you like. At the end of the day, the power of the Inquisition is mine. As it always should have been.”

“Creators have mercy on us all,” Ryn said.

Rellana smiled. “Quite,” she said. “Ryn of clan Lavellan, I sentence you to death. Do you have anything else to say before I claim that pretty, pretty head?”

“Yes,” he said softly, defeated at last. It took tremendous, obvious effort for him to lift his head again. “Yes, there is one last thing.”

“A plea for your life?”

“For just a little longer, yes.”

Rellana laughed in delight. She drummed her heels against her throne. “Wonderful!” she said. “Get on with it then. Tell me, why should I spare you even a second?”

“Because,” Ryn answered. “I know how to defeat Corypheus.”

--

The guards were none-too-gentle with him as they shuffled Ryn back to his cell, half-dragging him when his legs gave out halfway down the first set of stairs. His vision swam, and Ryn knew consciousness wouldn’t stay with him long. Everything hurt; oblivion would be welcome.

But not yet.

He could see Fenris in his cell, watching, waiting, a caged panther awaiting opportunity to strike. The guards at their card table, laughing, trading smokes and erotic cards for wins. The soldiers tossed Ryn back into his cell with little fanfare, and it took everything he had just to roll onto his back after he fell. Darkness spotted his vision.

Only after the guards were gone did Cole creep forward from the shadows where he had been waiting.

“I told them what you said,” the spirit offered.

“Good,” Ryn breathed. “Thank you.”

Cole fingered his knives, watching the guards in the dungeon beyond, head tilted as he considered. “Are you sure I can’t…?”

“No,” Ryn said. “Not yet. Not unless we have to.”

His head tilted again. “Fenris doesn’t like his cage.”

“Thank him again for me.”

Cole squatted beside him. He reached out to touch the bruising at Ryn’s eye. Ryn didn’t have the energy to flinch. “Dorian wanted to send a healing potion,” he said, “But I knew you wouldn’t take it.”

Ryn chuckled, because it was the only thing he could do.

“He says you’re crazy, and he hates you. But he doesn’t mean it,” Cole said. “He said if Rellana doesn’t kill you first, he’s going to do it himself. He doesn’t mean that either. He’s a very strange man.”

Ryn was still smiling when darkness claimed him at last.

--

Rellana was glad that Josephine and Cullen had slithered away before she had called her forces back to Skyhols, really. It meant that the last rats had been ousted, and that when she gave orders she could be certain they fell only on loyal ears. Traitors could be dealt with later; the fact she had Ryn was proof of that.

She’d had him cleaned and put into fresh leathers before being brought to her this time, but there was no audience watching, and she didn’t want to endure the unwashed smell in an enclosed space.

They met in the war room, where Rellana had recently had a second throne installed at the head of the table. Her inner circle was present: Leliana, the Iron Bull, Vivienne, Morrigan. She’d had Bull bring Ryn personally, to avoid involving soldiers with unproven loyalty. As an extra precaution, she’d had Fenris brought, along with his handler, Gereld, too. What Ryn lacked in self-preservation, he made up for in his silly sentimentality when it came to others. Better to have someone on hand if he needed to be persuaded to behave.

Every day, her troops outside swelled – but how the ranks of the trusted had dwindled! It was good. Rellana had her numbers, and she had her power, and no snakes lying in wait to watch her fall.

Rellana had hoped that Ryn would resist talking. It was his only leverage keeping him alive, after all – and she would have liked the excuse to have him questioned. But he was, unfortunately, very forthcoming about his information.

Rellana hadn’t ordered it, but when they had cleaned him up, someone had also bound and bandaged his broken fingers. His borrowed leathers were a poor fit, but with his injuries tended and his hair clean and braided back, he almost looked like himself again – a fact Rellana found very disconcerting, however quietly he stood, his head bowed as Rellana went over the plan with her people.

She decided that his execution would be the finale of her victory celebration once Corypheus was dead.

Rellana was only taking a small force with her back to the Arbor Wilds – only those in this room, in fact, and they would be leaving under cover of darkness. She had had a cart prepared with locks to transport her prisoners safely. At the altar of Mythal, they would entreat the goddess for the manner with which they should defeat Corypheus. Ryn claimed that the voices of the Well had told him this was what needed to be done. If he was lying in the hopes of making an escape, Rellana would have enough brawn to hold him in check, and Fenris as insurance should he stop being cooperative. By taking such a small group, and moving in secrecy, Rellana cut out the possibility that some soldier might report their actions to the other Inquisition. The last thing she needed was interference now.

It was the perfect plan, the culmination of all her planning, all her work. With Corypheus dead, Rellana wouldn’t only be the Herald of Andraste, but the savior of the entire world. Solas would forgive her, once he saw her vision fulfilled. Ryn would die. And Rellana would build an empire to put even Arlathan to shame.

She could hardly wait.

Chapter Text

The wheels creaked as the prison cart came to a stop in the grassy clearing. The cart had been affixed with two cages inside, uncomfortably sized, so that those within could neither stand nor sit comfortably – never mind lay down. It also grew very warm in there during the heat of the day. Rellana very generously allowed them buckets for their waste (which frequently tipped over when the cart met uneven ground), and a brief walk twice a day, in the morning and at night, but the journey undoubtably made for an unpleasant two weeks for the occupants, and Rellana was just fine with that.

The cart shook as first Bull, then Gereld, went in to retrieve the prisoners. Rellana suppressed a smirk at the sight Ryn made, his leathers stained with sweat and worse things, hanging off a body that had lost quite a bit of weight over the course of his imprisonment. His hair hung limp and greasy in his eyes. Most of his injuries had begun to heal, leaving his face a mottled mass of yellows and greens. By the time they returned to Skyhold, Rellana’s soldiers might have a fresh canvas to work with.

Fenris had fared much better, under Gereld’s watch, but Rellana let it be for now. He was under control, which was what mattered until she could find the right spell to make his powers work for her. In any case, she didn’t dare get too close. She remembered his hand around her heart too well.

“There’s your altar,” Rellana said, indicating the ancient, overgrown statue of Mythal, currently under careful examination from Morrigan. “Show me why I’ve spared you this long. Summon her, if you can.”

Ryn lifted his hands, his wrists still tightly chained, the skin below rubbed raw. “May I have these free?” he asked, thrillingly cowed. “Just for a little while.”

“No,” Rellana said. The word brought her immense pleasure. “You can manage on your own.”

Ryn nodded, and glanced around the clearing, filled with horses, with Rellana’s companions. If he was looking for compassion or escape, he would be sorely disappointed. Rellana smiled.

“Get on with it,” she said. “Or I’ll have you killed right now. Maybe Mythal likes blood sacrifice.”

Ryn nodded, and he began to approach the altar, pausing only once to glance back. “Rellana,” he said. “Don’t you care at all about where it is we are?”

“Our gods are dead – and history should stay in the past,” she said. “There’s only pain and humiliation there. The only thing I care about is the future I’m creating. If you could only see… but, never mind. You aren’t capable of it. Hurry it up, before I grow bored. I’ve been kinder than you deserve.”

--

We few who travelled far

Call to me and I will come

Without mercy, without fear

Cry havoc in the moonlight

Let the fires of vengeance burn

The words blurred as Ryn’s eyes struggled to focus. He had never felt so utterly weary. There wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t ache, or stink, or both. There were so many pieces on the board now, so many lives at stake, so many things that could go wrong. His head swam with the immensity of it – or maybe that was the exhaustion. His people should have moved on Skyhold by now, but there had been no word. An attack on such a fortress would never succeed without help from the inside – had they planted enough? Cole had left them a week ago, and had not returned. Fenris could have escaped, but he had stayed, had suffered this indignity, because Ryn had asked him to. Would it all be for waste?

Ryn looked at Mythal again, and for a moment he felt an inexplicable wave of comfort and peace wash over him. For just a moment, his thoughts, and even the voices that now filled his head, grew quiet.

The temple of Mythal had been a place of justice, but this – this was a place of communion. A place Ryn’s ancestors would have come to speak to Mythal directly. If he called to her, the voices whispered, Mythal would come.

Ryn called.

--

Only Morrigan dared approach the altar, drawn to it, as if unable to help herself. She was at Ryn’s side when the wall of dust swirled up, or fog, something thick and concealing. Something –

“Wait!” Rellana realized, too late, that it was happening, cutting her enemy off from her sight. Ryn, Morrigan, and the altar were all obscured before she could stop it, or jump in with them, and when she tried to get closer, an unseen force held her back. Rellana shrieked in frustration and began to gather a spell, reaching deep for the Fade. She would blast her way in before she would let Ryn get away with whatever trick this was!

Before she could loose the nasty thing she had made, Vivienne stepped in her way.

“Is this not what he’s come here to do, my dear?” she asked, and had the nerve to sound annoyed. Rellana snarled in fury, and considered blasting the other mage, just out of spite.

“What if it’s a trick?” Rellana demanded.

“A trick?” a terribly familiar voice asked, from the entrance to the clearing, somewhere behind her. “Oh, no. And here I thought the only trick was out here. I do hope they don’t steal my thunder, as they say.”

“Pavus?” with slow, dawning horror, Rellana turned.

The Tevinter Altus strode into the clearing like he owned the place – his chin held high, his staff aloft, glowing with power, his arms outspread. His eyes were fierce, and furious, and bright. Behind him marched soldiers in Inquisition regalia, with Inquisition banners, and this time they were not Rellana’s men.

Rellana didn’t think. Her first instinct only to act, she gathered the power she already held, pulling deep from her connection to the Fade – only to grunt in pain and surprise, struck by a sensation not unlike running into a brick wall at high speeds. It left her gaping, gasping, clawing at a connection to the Fade that was just, suddenly, gone. Looking around for help, there was none to be found. Vivienne looked at her coolly. Fenris was, somehow, unshackled. Beside him –

“Gereld?”

“Afraid the name is Rylen,” Gereld said. “And while we’re coming clear, I guess I should also confess that I’ve never been a Seeker, even a disgraced one; my friend here’s been faking the whole time. Funny enough, I was a templar, once, though.”

Rellana was still gasping, still grasping in desperate futility for the Fade he had blocked her from, when an arm slid around her from behind, and she felt the kiss of steel against her throat.

“I think it is past time you stand down, Inquisitor,” Leliana advised, her voice low and intimate near her ear. “I think you should know – only your mercenary stands with you here. Do you pay him enough to throw his life away on nothing?”

Even as she said it, Rellana saw it. Leliana had been the one to suggest they travel with such a small group, that Rellana leave behind the soldiers who would have helped her now. Vivienne was smiling, pleased. She greeted Pavus with an incline of her head. Only the Iron Bull seemed surprised at what was happening, hesitating, his axe in hand.

The smoke or fog or whatever it was before the altar began to clear. For a moment, Rellana saw three figures standing within the haze, and her heart leapt, then sunk. If the gods were real, if Mythal was real, what would they think of Rellana’s words about the Maker? A part of her yearned, suddenly, for things long gone – for the songs of her people around their campfires, the stories the hunters told, the smell of their food, the safety of an aravel, all the little comforts and peaceful moments she had so hated because she always wanted more – and then the mist cleared, and there were only two people standing there. Morrigan stopped short when she turned and saw that the clearing had filled up behind them. Rellana felt the loss, the fact Mythal had been there and she had not seen her. Her cheeks were wet.

“It seems the times have turned,” Morrigan said, glancing at Ryn. “I care not which side holds the power. I came here for reasons of my own, and have already suffered enough surprise for one day.”

“Go on, Morrigan,” Ryn said, with a nod and a gesture, and she became a bird, and was gone. Ryn’s hands were free now, his shackles lying forgotten in the grass behind him. His face, mottled and bruised as it was, yet seemed to glow with the light and excitement of his encounter with the goddess.

He smiled as he took in the sight of the clearing, and some weight of worry fell from his slender shoulders.

“Dorian,” he said, and his voice was warm with pleasure and surprise. “I thought for sure it would be Cassandra.”

“Yes, well, look at me, volunteering to lead soldiers, or something. The world is just full of these little surprises, isn’t it? I love it to tiny bits.”

“I’m thrilled you made it.”

They had reached each other, each wearing a ridiculous smile, Pavus’s only tempered when he lifted a hand to Ryn’s face – not touching, just hovering over his skin, then dropping to Ryn’s hands, lifting them to examine the raw mess the shackles had made of his wrists. “Amatus,” he began. Vivienne came forward, interrupting.

“Yes, that. Allow me, my dear. It’s been bothering me for ages.”

Ryn closed his eyes as her magic enveloped him in a soft glow, pain fading to relief, and Pavus’s gaze fell on Rellana. The look was hard and displeased and, worst of all, dangerous.

She should have just let him go, when he wanted to leave. She should have – should have –

“My, oh, my, but it’s been a busy month, hasn’t it?” Pavus asked, and Rellana might have squirmed, but Leliana’s blade bit a little too close for comfort. Gerel – Rylen – still held her blocked from the Fade, and she had never been so helpless.

“I did what I had to do.” Rellana pushed the words out. She tried, as hard as she could, to keep her voice strong, even as she knew the tears on her cheeks shamed her. They wouldn’t understand. They would never understand. She wasn’t a child, crying over her defeat. The tears were for something else, something she had lost, without knowing its value. Ryn hadn’t begged, and so she wouldn’t either. Was it true, that the only one who stood by her was the one she was paying? What of the love, of the worship she had gained? “Leliana,” she croaked. “Leliana, you know the Maker chose me.”

But the Maker was not here, and Rellana had turned from her own gods. Leliana laughed.

“Yes,” the redhead answered. “The Maker does enjoy his terrible little jokes, it seems.”

“It appears I am not the only one who harbored a contingency plan.”

Rellana’s heart leapt as a line of soldiers parted, and Solas walked through their number with something of a haughty swagger, as if his usual tattered clothes were made of the finest silk. She had a moment of joy, of hope, before his eyes passed over hers impassively, and moved on to Ryn.

“It seems it’s a day for surprises,” Solas said. “Inquisitor.”

Ryn answered with a grin and a shrug. “We couldn’t be certain whose side you were really on.”

“Ah,” Solas said, and shook his head. “I believe I’ve made it clear. I’m on my own side. However, if you will allow it, I should like to see this matter through to the end.”

Ryn opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, a draconic shriek filled the air.

“Time to sort all that out later, I think,” he said. “For now, I have one more matter to attend to. Does anyone have a spare bow?”

“…it that a dragon?” the Iron Bull asked.

“It’s the guardian of the Altar of Mythal,” Ryn answered. He flexed his healed fingers experimentally as a soldier rushed to bring him a bow and quiver. He smiled as he accepted them. “We’re going to make friends,” he said.

--

In the month that Ryn had been in Rellana’s hands, his half of the Inquisition had been hard at work. Cole had been instrumental in the plan, passing messages back and forth as they worked out what it was they wanted to do. Every day, a few more of Ryn’s people slipped into Skyhold – including Rylen, posing as former-Seeker Gereld in order to ‘handle’ Fenris and prevent Rellana from doing anything more extreme in attempt to contain him. Once Rellana and her party was well away from Skyhold, Inquisition troops on the outside were to give a signal, and those on the inside were to let them in. It was unclear, yet, if there had been battle.

Ryn had not wanted to be the cause of an outright war within Inquisition ranks, and had hoped to avoid bloodshed. He hoped it had gone as smoothly as the rest.

So much could have gone wrong. Ryn’s friends and advisors had not liked his plan, had not liked leaving him vulnerable for that long, even with Fenris and Rylen close by. There had been so many contingency plans in place to get Ryn out – bloody plans, reckless plans, plans that had, more than once, come very close to being enacted, only for Ryn to insist they give it a little more time. He could take a beating or three, if it meant sparing lives. If Rellana had truly tried to enact his execution, however, all Void would have broken loose.

In his time away, the small unit that Ryn had led into the Arbor Wilds had more than tripled in size. He had more soldiers on the way – his wardens, his elves – but most of his forces would have been hiding in the wilderness outside Skyhold, waiting for the signal to take it. Those that were here were preparing themselves for a different sort of battle – the final push against Corypheus.

There were cheers when they rode into the camp. Dorian had given Ryn his cloak, but even still the little Dalish didn’t exactly look very heroic, thin and wan and stained and exhausted, clutching the cloak around his ill-fitting leathers. He rode as if he needed to be tied to the saddle, as if at any moment exhaustion might win out. But the cheers went up for him anyway. His face was shining, his smile stirring. Dorian suspected that there wasn’t a man or woman there who wouldn’t consider it an honor to die for him, who didn’t see his arrival as some small, spectacular miracle.

Save for Rellana, of course.

Fenris had wanted to stuff her into the same stuffy stinking prison cart she had made him and Ryn ride in. When Ryn had refused, and had the cart set on fire instead, Fenris had taken the opportunity to snap Rellana’s ornate staff over his knee instead, as consolation. The looks he cast Rellana’s way made it clear that he would have rather it had been her spine.

“Thank the Maker you’re alive,” Cullen greeted, as they reached the center of the camp. Dorian was sure he only caught Ryn’s momentary unsteadiness as he dismounted because he was watching him so intensely. “We’ve been tracking Corypheus’s troop movements, and,”

“Patience, Commander,” Leliana chided. “The Inquisitor has had a very hard time. Let him sleep, first.”

“Corypheus is more important,” Ryn began, but no one would hear him. Cullen clasped him companionably on the shoulder. Cassandra threw herself bodily at him into a forceful hug, heedless of the filth and the smell. They weren’t the only reunions going on, either; Dorian caught a brief glance of Fenris, his mouth set in determination as he dragged Hawke into a nearby tent (that was definitely not Hawke’s.) Someone had taken Rellana off, and Josephine had quietly pulled the Iron Bull aside to see about renegotiating his contract with the Inquisition. Solas stood watching the fuss made around Ryn for longer than Dorian would have expected.

Ryn was the flame, the light they all floated to. They basked in him, as they had in that other world – a world that was at last beginning to fade from Dorian’s memory like a dons dream.

This world was home.

--

“Is this tent taken?”

Dorian looked up, and his heart did something strange at the sight of Ryn in the warm lamplight. Someone (probably Josephine) had finally broken up the love fest to help him find a bath and some clothes, and Dorian had retreated to somewhere he could process the day in privacy – and now Ryn stood before him looking soft and touchable in a fluffy robe, his wet hair loose around his shoulders.

“I’m afraid it belongs to the Inquisitor,” Dorian said, closing his book. “Frightful fellow, I hear. Seven – eight feel tall. Razor sharp teeth. Amazing ass.”

Ryn’s smile was so soft and fond that it broke Dorian’s heart. He still looked tired, and pale, and thin, and despite Vivienne’s healing, his wrists would bear the scars left by his shackles for the rest of his life. But he was also the most beautiful sight Dorian had ever seen.

“I’d wondered where you went,” Ryn said, watching Dorian approach.

“Everyone else wanted their time with you,” Dorian said. “And I don’t like to share.”

“How much trouble am I in?” Ryn asked.

“I’m too pleased to see you for that.” Dorian closed the distance between them, and then Ryn was in his arms at last. The little archer clung to him with a strength that surprised him. Ryn was shaking.

“I was scared,” Ryn confessed, something Dorian wasn’t sure he ever would have expected to hear from him before. “I wasn’t sure it would work. I wasn’t sure I’d make it back. And I wanted to. I wanted to make it back.”

Dorian kissed his forehead, and he gathered him in more tightly to himself.

“I was sure,” Dorian said. “This world isn’t as cruel as all that. Not with you in it.”

Chapter Text

They defeated Corypheus.

Ultimately, ironically, the terrible ancient darkspawn magister was to be but a footnote in the history of the Inquisition. Once he was gone, and they didn’t risk tempting fate, more than a few people even went so far as to admit that Rellana, and the damage she could do had she been allowed to continue wielding power unchecked, had been more frightening to them than a monster they could not so easily understand.

Rellana, necessary to the battlefield due to the presence of the anchor, did make one last attempt to wrest power away, to swing the pendulum once more to her side.

Corypheus was a smoking pile of rags when Rellana raised her staff, alight with a viciously verdant glare that lit up the sky and signaled the troops down below, and those who still bore her loyalty turned on their fellow Inquisition soldiers. Then Rellana turned her magic on the others, sweeping it out in a wide, burning arc that pushed Ryn and the others violently away from her, perilously close to the edge of the platform.

And with a snarl, she drew a dagger, and threw herself at Ryn.

Later, they would learn that it was Solas who spread the words of discontent throughout her followers, who used the distraction of soldiers battling soldiers who wore the same uniform and pledged loyalty to the same Inquisition to, for unknown reasons, take the shattered pieces of Corypheus’s orb and slip away without a word to anyone.

Later, they would learn how he had come to Rellana while she was imprisoned in her quarters in the Inquisitor’s tower, and shown her the secrets of blood magic, so that she could bolster herself for one last push – how he had promised her her just rewards should she succeed, and she had taken it for a declaration of love, a promise of the kingdom they would build. He had left without awaiting the results of the outcome. His objective had not been Rellana’s power, or Ryn’s death, but merely a screen of chaos to shield his actions. That revelation was what would finally take the fire from Rellana, later.

They would learn many things, later – but in that moment, there was only Rellana, lit by the sickly green glow of the anchor, blood trailing down her arm, dark curls a tangled riot. Bolts of lightning lashed the sky, and a spell struck Ryn that left him writhing in pain, struggling to wrestle her off of him as she threw herself at him with her knife in hand.

He took the knife in the shoulder as the spell struck him again, blinding him with pain. He wasn’t aware of the others, struggling against Rellana’s force spell to reach him.  The blood pounded in his ears more loudly than the thunder, than Rellana’s shrieks. He had received healing, but he was still weak from his weeks of captivity, and that spell stole what strength he had left, and it was all he could do to keep her nails from his eyes. He cried out as she yanked the knife from his shoulder. She held it aloft, glowing with power, and he felt his life draining as she used his own blood to fuel her next spell. Blackness spotted his vision.

Then Cassandra forced her way past the barrier, and slammed herself, bodily, into Rellana.

After that, Ryn was told, things were easier. He lost consciousness, and didn’t see how the soldiers on the battlefield lost their will to fight when the power in Rellana’s staff winked out – how some green haze fell from their eyes, and they lowered their weapons, confused. When she realized Solas was gone, Rellana herself…broke.

After he awoke and received some measure of healing, Ryn, stupid, stubborn, self-sacrificing Ryn, walked the camp and the battlefield for hours, speaking to the soldiers, thanking them, checking their wounds, letting them feel seen. Toward the end, Dorian had to support him, but Ryn would not stop until it was done.

Nevertheless, there were still – and would always be – soldiers and civilians who believed that Rellana had been sent by the Maker and embraced as a sister by Andraste herself. There would always be those who would resent the man who stole the Inquisition, and those who supported him, no matter how many blankets Ryn delivered to the needy, how many roads he cleared of outlaws, how many homes he helped repair.

Ryn went from the battlefield to a meeting with his advisors, and he stayed locked up with them for hours.

“I should kill you myself,” Dorian scolded, later, when he finally emerged, haggard and exhausted and smiling and wonderful. “It would save me the grey hairs you’re determined to cause.”

“But think of how distinguished you’ll look!” Ryn answered, and his voice was raw, and Dorian had to practically carry him off to bed, and force him into a day of rest.

A week after the battle with Corypheus, Rellana and Ryn signed a second treaty in Skyhold’s great hall, witnessed by the whole of the Inquisition, and every foreign dignitary who could make the journey in time. Rellana wore a grey dress and another obnoxious crown, and dull-eyed and flat-voiced, she read to the assembly the speech Josephine had prepared declaring the Inquisition united, naming Ryn a brother of her heart, and urging her remaining followers to hold the peace.

For months after the battle, Rellana was still attending official affairs, with the former Left and Right Hands of the Divine never leaving her side. She had her gowns and her crowns and her jewels, but she spoke rarely, and the decisions that came down from the Inquisition seemed to be worded more carefully than they once had been, their effects more helpful, less self-serving. Gradually, Andraste’s holy herald retreated from the public eye, sending representatives in her stead as she began appearing in public less and less, though the Inquisition continued, even doubled down on its good works, and if some people wondered at Rellana’s long absences, they had to admit that they quite liked the new humility the Inquisition possessed.

--

“Are you certain you want to do this?” Dorian asked, tugging on Ryn’s hood, straightening the edges of his cloak. “It won’t be easy, or pleasant, you know. Tevinter. You won’t be treated well.”

Ryn wore a troublesome look that said his lover’s warnings were falling on deaf ears. “Perhaps not easy,” he allowed, pushing up on his toes to lean in toward the mage. “But pleasant all depends on whether or not you do that thing I like with your tongue tonight. And as for being treated well…”

“Vishante kaffas,” Dorian couldn’t help but to chuckle, despite his attempt to be stern. “You are a vile torment,” he said. “Yes, very well, if you insist – but don’t distract me. Ryn Lavellan is abandoning his work to follow me to my homeland. I need to be sure I’m not hallucinating.”

“I can still oversee Inquisition affairs from a distance,” Ryn said, settling back on his heels again, his head tilting thoughtfully. “You’re right about the change the Imperium needs. You’re going to do important things, Dorian. I want to be there to see it happen.”

“You want to stick your nose in it, you mean,” Dorian said. He was still both thrilled and terrified by the fact he had lost this argument, and Ryn would be coming with him.

Rellana was the face of the Inquisition. She was the hero who had saved the world, Andraste’s holy herald – and not a single person who mattered would follow a single one of her orders. Confined to the Inquisitor’s tower save for supervised excursions when the Inquisitor simply must be seen, she had been reduced to nothing more than a figurehead, a puppet.

Dorian knew that with the infrastructure they had in place, Ryn could pull Rellana’s strings just as easily from Tevinter as he could from Skyhold. He knew it was safer, even, kept Rellana more cooperative, if Ryn kept his distance.

But it gave him a thrill, anyway. The audacity of returning to Tevinter in victory, followed by the man he loved. The man who loved him, wholeheartedly, and without reservation.

Dorian did kiss him, then, quickly, impulsively. Ryn was smiling when he drew back.

“We’re changing the world, Dorian,” Ryn said, a light in his eyes. “This is all because of you. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than by your side.”