Updated: 11/21/2018 quite a bit changed so it may be worth a reread.

He was falling. No. Floating? Like the rocks above, hanging weightless against a sickly green sky.

Lavellan thrashed in panic, struggling for the nearest solid object and found himself slammed against it. Black rock, cold to the touch and smooth like someone had cut it to shape.

He groaned and sat up, ran a hand down his aching ribs and tentatively checked his spine. Nothing broken but many parts bruised.

He righted himself. Or, at least thought he did.

He was standing but his hair and clothing didn't seem to be following gravity's rules, flapping around his thin form as if he were hanging from a tree.

Where in the void was he? And what was that noise?

Scuttling, scratching sounds, like things scrambling over rock. Lavellan stole a glance behind him and immediately regretted it. Fifty paces back the stuff of nightmares… his nightmares. Hundreds of scurrying legs and glistening eyes rolling in a sea of swollen, hairy bodies. Spiders… it was always fucking spiders.

He fled. No time to think. Better not to think. Of their jaws snapping, poison like acid dripping, no way he could kill them all. Every spell thrown over his shoulder drained him, slowed him down. His lungs burned, hands numbed from lightning and fire. His knees threatening to give… If he fell now would he fall upwards?... or was that downwards like his clothes and hair seemed to think it was? Would it mean escape either way?

He caught sight of a light in the distance and veered towards it. Closer. The shape of a person silhouetted against the glare. A crooked staff in their hand. He shouted to them. A warning, a plea for help, anything to get their attention. The figure turned and the elf's heart stopped.

Harsh green light seared across Inquisitor Lavellan's squinted eyes. He was trying to rub the images of a nightmare away and it took his sleep addled mind a moment or three to realize the light blinding him was coming from his own left hand. He groaned with every fiber of his being and threw the covers to the side.

He wasn't in the fade, he was in Skyhold and laying in a bed so soft it felt like the mattress was trying to swallow him. And while there might have been spiders hiding in the nooks and crannies of his over-sized and needlessly opulent room, they weren't the size of boulders and probably weren't intent on rending him limb from limb. At least, he hoped not.

With a shiver he set bare feet on cool carpeting and tried to tame the writhing mass of hair clinging to his face, shoulders and every other surface it could get its static filled tendrils on. The fire in the grate across the room was nothing more than embers and a glance past the balcony railing revealed a still star studded sky. He knew from a life time of rising early and sleeping outside that he still had an hour or so before sunrise would set the mountain crowned horizon alight. Which meant he was up earlier than he wanted to be. It also meant that Skyhold's kitchen would already be filled with people.

Stiffly he pulled himself up off the bed and began stretching. An unpleasant task to be sure, especially where the fresh scarring on his back was concerned. Courtesy of a twelve foot fall on to a pile of smoldering wood, Lavellan doubted they'd ever fade completely. But he'd settle on not feeling like an elder every time he moved.

Only when he could bend and reach without wincing did he wash up and dress, a familiar black-blue coat thrown over his shoulders.

As predicted, the kitchen staff bustled long before dawn. There was dough to knead and bake, meats that would be slow roasted all throughout the day, things to mash and things to slice and at the center of it all stood the chef Greer. Eyes of a hawk in a wide face, mirth crinkled at the corners and off-set by rose cheeks beneath a dusting of russet freckles. She was short by the measure of humans and curvy in every regard. And the moment she saw Lavellan's waifish shadow darkening the door to her her face split into a grin.

"Come to pilfer the pantry again Your Worship?" She asked with her tongue between her teeth. She had a bowl of soaking apple slices in one hand and a flour coated rolling pin in the other. Around her, half a dozen bodies moved like bees in a hive, only with a lot more chatter. They ranged in age, size and race. Greer only cared about how fast they moved and how well they listened.

"Not entirely. Why?" Lavellan stepped in and around an over laden Dwarven lad with potato sacks thrown over each shoulder.

"Cause it's too early for breakfast to be done yet and I'm already missing a whole wheel of cheese and more than a fair bit of crushed mint." She sat her bowl aside and pulled another one closer across a freshly scrubbed counter-top.

"I'm reasonably sure that wasn't me." Never one to stand idle, Lavellan rolled up his sleeves and took to the growing pile of dishes in need of scouring. Those he passed gave him cheerful and brief 'good morning, Your Worship,' 's which he returned, making sure to put a name to each face. He might not have been able to remember the name of everyone who came and went within the fortress, but he could certainly try.

"Of course not, but for the life of me I can't remember who took them." Greer stopped long enough to develop a frown-line across her brow but shook it off, returning to rolling out pie crusts and flouring her rolling pin. Lavellan said nothing though he made a mental note to ask a certain spirit about the incident later.

They chatted back and forth for a while, Greer happy to have an extra set of hands to help prepare the morning meal and Lavellan just pleased to be doing something that didn't involve long meetings or mountains of paperwork. It also did wonders for clearing his earlier nightmare from his mind.

By the time breakfast was prepared and those on meal duty came in to retrieve their food laden trays, Lavellan was no longer hungry. Benefits of cooking he supposed, you got to nibble and taste every dish long before it hit a table. Back with his clan, it had been much the same. Though he hadn't been allowed far from the Keeper's side.

Lavellan left the kitchen with a small human girl trying to sneak napkin-cradled sweets into the pockets of his coat. Lilah, her name was, her father one of the soldiers he'd rescued from Avaar in the Fallow Mire. No more than twelve years with a smudge of frosting across her nose and a mischievousness that would likely never leave her eyes. Lavellan adopted an air of absolute obliviousness as she ran giggling back inside, pleased with her 'prank'. The day was certainly looking far better than it had an hour or so before.

There were many more people awake and about when he mounted the steps to the ramparts and spied another familiar face. Scout Harding had her feet propped up on a parapet and was watching the sun climb over the snow capped peaks. She still wore her Inquisition uniform but her hair was loosed from its bun and her bow and quiver were leaning against the stonework. Coupled with the lazy lean of her chair, it was perhaps the most relaxed Lavellan had ever seen her.

"Scout Harding, fancy meeting you up here." Lavellan did his best not to sneak up on people who had been trained to act on instinct first. A fair few barely dodged throwing knives, fists and notched arrows as well as apologetic scouts had taught him that one well enough.

"Inquisitor," she greeted with a broad smile and curt nod. "Just got back in from Val Chevin, it'll take a day or so to resupply so I figured I'd relax for a moment."

"I'm reasonably sure you've earned more than a moment at this point." Lavellan took a position that was half lean half sitting on the parapet next to where she had her feet, completely unbothered by the dizzying drop mere inches away. "So what does Sister Leliana have you looking for in Val Chevin?" He fished the bundle of cookies from his pocket and offered her one.

"Mostly tracking enemy movement." The offered sweet danced through her fingers before it landed in her mouth. "This Corypheus guy really likes elven ruins it seems. Every time we intercept one of his runners there's some new location to check out," she finished around a mouthful of bredele.

"Take it there's some near Val Chevin then?" It was no secret that the Inquisitor had something of an interest in lost elven heritage. As a Dalish Keeper in training prior to the Breach, it wasn't all that surprising.

"Not sure yet. The letters we found didn't mention any success in finding the temple or what ever they were looking for but Lady Nightingale has the full report. I could probably get you a copy if you want." Harding leaned a little closer, her eyes fixed on the cookies in his hand. "May I?"

"Help yourself," Lavellan handed them over and watched them disappear in seconds. "And thank you for the offer but it's not necessary, I'm sure it'll end up on my desk along with all the other paperwork." He pushed himself away from the wall and stretched until his back cracked. "Which I should honestly be getting back to. Thanks for company Harding."

"Anytime Your Worship. Especially when you bring cookies." She sent him off with a wave and Lavellan resigned himself to a day of ink stains and paper cuts.

He really was fetching.

From the sultry curl of mustache gracing full lips to the way the mid afternoon sun would play through the sable locks curled just across his brow. And the spill of those same golden rays down one side of his sculpted face? Highlighting in such rich detail that his skin practically glowed bronze? Perhaps it would not have been so unbelievably unfair if that were the end of it. But no, there was always more. There was the languid way he rested in his worn wing-back chair, ankles crossed out in front of him, his masculine jaw resting on agile fingers with some dust ridden tome in his lap. He even made the simple act of working the kinks from his neck appear refined and elegant. A human, from Tevinter no less, really had no business being so damn attractive.

But that was Dorian in a nutshell wasn't it? Defying every expectation pinned to him with effortless grace and mocking eyes. A mage so unlike any other that Lavellan was tempted to coin a wholly new word just so people would never confuse the two. For Dorian was flare and fire in equal measure. To see him in a fight was to know the beauty of flame in more forms then the Inquisitor could even name. Dorian knew it of course, every spell was a show whether it was lighting a candle with a snap of fingers or torching a hurlock at fifty paces. The man exuded charm like most people breathed and his laugh was like velvet on the spine.

But the most surprising thing Lavellan had come to learn about the Inquisition's oh so lovely altus was that he was an excellent listener and a caring soul beneath that wit and smirk. Not that Lavellan had spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about the sweet curve of Dorian's lips or anything…

The elf himself, was lounging on the three inch wide railing that overlooked the entirety of the tower. It was the perfect spot really, sitting to the side meant that were Dorian to look up, Lavellan could feign interest in the birds nearest him or in Solas' paintings. Or if he was feeling particularly motivated, he could even chat with Leliana… given that this level was all hers anyway.

"You could go speak with him."

Little over a month since the fall of Haven and Leliana had already stuffed the place with cages, perches and birds to go with them. And that wasn't counting the scouts that were constantly running up and down the narrow stairwell. The elf wondered if Leliana had that as part of her recruitment regime, all applicants must be able to jog up and down stairs with the utmost efficiency. Still, it was a prime location for her, suited almost suspiciously to her needs. From here the Inquisition's spymaster could hear all and see all in a manner of speaking, and it was she who now addressed him from behind her surprisingly empty desk.

"I will, in a bit." He shifted slightly to the right, until the post he leaned against was no longer pressing directly on his spine. Haven had done a real number on his back and it made his old favored slouch not nearly as comfortable now. Yet, with one foot on the rail itself and the other serving as balance, this was about his favorite seat in Skyhold. Mostly because if people thought he was speaking with the Nightingale they tended to leave him alone. Well, as alone as one can be with a dozen cawing ravens hanging feet from you. "Besides I did actually come up here to speak with you, not just to oogle."

Though it was difficult, Lavellan did finally pry his attention away from watching the book-absorbed altus enough to regard her fully. Leliana on the other hand continued to read the report she'd been handed just as Lavellan had first taken a seat on her rail. It was part of why he'd indulged himself his rubbernecking, turning a polite wish to not interrupt her into an advantage.

"You should have said so then. I'm not so busy that we can't speak." She cast the page down with a heavy sigh, leaning back in her chair with a weariness that ran right down to the bone. Not that she'd say it of course. Oh no, Leliana played everything close to the vest to the point where most of it was probably under the vest… maybe under her ribs too. But that didn't mean she had no sense of humor, or that she didn't enjoy teasing in her own way. As her eyelids closed for a moment and her head tilted to rest against the back of her chair the ghost of a smile tugged the sides of her mouth. "Besides, you should learn to carry a conversation with someone while watching another. It could be of great use to you."

"You'll have to teach me that one. You know, sometime inbetween saving the empress and tracking down the grey wardens." Lavellan let his weight tip to his right and gravity to pull him from the railing into a fluid stroll. Practice had perfected that little move and one of these days he was going to try it out on an audience. A very specific one. But not right now, now he had an ex bard to look after. One that he owed a great deal to. "If we both give up trivial things like eating and sleeping I'm sure we'll have the time."

"Hopefully before we set foot in Halamshiral," she chided with a cluck of her tongue and twist of her accent. "Give such long looks in those halls and all of Thedas will know who our Inquisitor pines for. Very dangerous knowledge in the right hands." Her left eye opened just enough so that Lavellan could feel the sharpness of the look.

"First, I do not pine, I was admiring. Pining implies intent and intimacy. Things I should get to enjoy before I'm accused of them." Lavellan's mock indignance tasted almost real and earned him a 'hmph' from Leliana. "And second, I just don't see a point in trying to hide anything from you. Too time consuming." He let a shrug roll through his shoulders as he took a seat on a clear corner of her desk and folded one knee over the other. "Everyone else though? Not even a challenge, except for maybe Bull. But he watches Dorian just as much as I do so maybe he'll be too distracted to notice?"

Leliana just slowly shook her head and let her arms rest across her lap. They wouldn't discuss the dark circles both of them wore just beneath the eyes. Nor would the subject of Redcliffe or Haven be brought up beyond status reports and a planned memorial. Words would after all, do no good for either subject so what was the use of asking now?

Lavellan had once… on the second night after they'd arrived in Skyhold. He'd climbed all those stairs with honeyed wine (though he couldn't remember why he'd thought to bring it) and found Cullen and Leliana exchanging barbed words. He'd asked then, a hand on her shoulder, words meant to soothe her misplaced guilt. And it had seemed enough, she'd let him take the list of those they'd lost. His argument that he should be the one to write those letters, had met with no resistance. But as he'd noted time and again, the Nightingale played everything close to the vest.

"Good, glad we agree. Now, scout Charter said you had word on my clan?"

Midnight battlements and no rest for the weary. Lavellan stared down into the dizzying depths of the valley below Skyhold and noticed none of it. Too up in his own thoughts to concern himself with frozen slopes and shadowed lake no matter how picturesque they might appear in pools of clear starlight.

No, his mind was in his pocket, folded between the creases of a letter. The same place it had been since Leliana had passed him said letter and he had read said letter, running the maze of Keeper Istimaethoriel's deft penmanship and the meaning therein. That had been hours ago, and he'd somehow made it down from the rookery, through the main hall, up onto the ramparts and all the way to the top of an empty tower without a single person interrupting him. Lavellan would have been amazed were he in any state of mind to notice it.

His fingers were numb against the rough stone, too long in the gelid air, not enough layers between his skin and the night's chill. He hadn't even grabbed his coat and as his stomach was quick to remind, he hadn't eaten since breakfast either. Too busy chewing on a single line "The raiders are well armed and heavily armored, and they come in numbers our hunters cannot match."

He folded his arms, worried his lower lip and unfolded them again, rapping his knuckles against the stone until they threatened to bleed. And when that brought no more answers than the last time he'd done it, he paced. Ten strides left, ten strides right. Careless fingers running through his mane of mist-gray hair, eyes fixed forward and seeing only the weather beaten stone he tread on.

"Now there's the look of a man who could use a drink."

He really was rather odd.

Slender slip of a man from sharp ear tip to nimble footfall. If the maker had truly chosen him then the design had been one of acute angles and keen edges. His piercing eyes had gone wide for a split second and then narrowed the next. Even with the softening of shadow across high cheekbones and pointed chin the herald looked wild. No more tame than the mass of hair trailing to his hips and near writhing in the stiff breeze rising from below. Of course startling him probably hadn't helped.

Not that Dorian had planned to. He'd been positive Lavellan would have heard the creak of his weight on the ladder rungs or when he opened the door before that. The fact that he hadn't? Disturbing.

Lavellan killed the sparks crawling up his finger tips with a shake of his hand. It took a bit longer for his shoulders to come down out of their squared stance and for him to straighten out of the half crouch he'd slipped into. "Apologies, I didn't hear you come up."

"Yes I'd gathered that much already. Though it is nice to sneak up on you for once instead of having it the other way around." Dorian tried desperately to keep the note of humor in his voice from turning smug. It would be terrible to sour the moment by gloating too much. A compromise then, he strolled past Lavellan until he reached the other side of the roof, dusted off a likely spot against a parapet and sat upon its edge. A fold of his arms, a finger along his jaw and the look was complete. Perfectly casual, a take it or leave it invitation.

Lavellan had of course watched him the entire time, something Dorian had been counting on. With an archdemon-wielding ancient darkspawn running amok in the world, few things could be considered certain. But the herald's gaze lingering on him whenever they were alone? Always. The man was not exactly subtle when there was no one around to put a show on for.

Not that Dorian minded, Lavellan was utterly discreet at all other times and it was awfully nice to be admired so thoroughly. But Dorian wasn't going to tell him that. Oh no, he rather preferred to be the chased party and there were unspoken rules about telling your pursuer that you enjoyed the attention. They might become complacent or think their prize easily claimed. He couldn't let that happen now could he? That and it might be a bit early to assume he knew the mind of the Inquisitor.

But now was not the time for such musings, as something was clearly eating Lavellan from the inside out. The man had after all, walked right past him in the library without even a polite hello or good afternoon. Even after ogling him from the rookery. Oh yes, Dorian had noticed that too. One of the first lessons he'd learned when it came to surviving Tevinter politics. The art of noticing someone noticing you without letting them know that you've noticed. And he'd picked the Inquisitor's pattern out pretty quickly. He'd watch for a bit, stop by the researcher's alcove to collect their latest finding or give them something new to work on and then eventually 'wander' Dorian's way for a chat.

But when Dorian had stood from his chair, intent on finally saying something so lascivious that Lavellan would have no choice but to completely gobsmacked? The elven mage had strolled right past him without so much as a glance, his nose buried in a thin sheet of parchment. Dorian would have merely thought the man busy were it not for the tremble of his hand and the worry clear as day on his face. The same worry still dancing there, just beyond the mask he was trying to hide it behind.

"Well you do make the most interesting noises when you're startled," Lavellan countered. But the ease with which he normally spoke was missing, chased off by the strain still pushing him off to one side while he fidgeted with a sleeve. "It makes it hard to resist."

"I suppose I might forgive you that. I am after all, irresistible in many ways." Perhaps he should just ask. Or at least offer the man a reason to get off this blasted roof. How could he stand being out here without a coat? Had he been out here all this time? How was he not freezing already? "And I would happily tell you all about them if you'd care to join me for a drink."

Lavellan stiffened further, casting his gaze over his shoulder and then to the floor before shaking his head. "I'd make for poor company at the moment."

"Nonsense," Dorian pushed a little harder. "In fact I insist." He'd steer the man down to the tavern physically if he had to. Or perhaps throw him over a shoulder, he did after all, look like he weighed less than the staff he carried.

Lavellan's hands went up in defeat and as if to add insult to injury his stomach growled like a disgruntled cat.

"And food I suppose. Can't have you drinking on an empty stomach, you'd be no use to anyone come the morning."

The Inquisitor simply groaned at that, quite content to not speak of it at all as he followed Dorian back down the ladder.

"So you're worried you made the wrong choice?"

Dorian was reclining in a plush, lowback chair with a glass of mulled wine in one hand and a platter of fruit and cheeses in front of him. Across the table slumped the Herald.

"Mmm. Worse than that," Lavellan admitted, rolling a plum back and forth across his upturned palm. He'd eaten enough to appease his stomach but only just. He wasn't even looking at Dorian while he spoke, feet propped up on the nearby railing, gaze lost somewhere out in the rest of his room.

"How so?" When Dorian had suggested grabbing something to eat and more importantly, to drink, he had meant at the tavern. He hadn't pictured raiding the kitchens in the dead of night nor that he'd be invited up to the Inquisitor's private quarters. Yet that was precisely what had occurred. And here he sat, on a narrow balcony set into the wall above the Inquisitor's bed trying to suss out the root of the Herald's problem. well, one of them at least.

"Several things if I'm honest. But mostly the fact that these 'bandits' are so well armed and seem fixated on my clan." Lavellan sipped at his wine absently, his mind a million miles away.

"Because it might indicate they're more than simple thugs," Dorian surmised, though he'd suspected it far earlier when the Herald had first told him what the letter was about. "And if that's the case then it becomes a question of why."

Lavellan inclined his head in affirmation and sank lower in his chair.

"And the answers to that question are all terribly grim I take it?"

Another nod, this time with a grimace as Lavellan elaborated, "If they aren't bandits and the attacks are deliberate then the most reasonable assumption is that the clan is being targeted in an effort to get at the Inquisition. Which means my family is in danger because of me. Just like all those we lost in Haven."

There it was, a glimpse of the real panic shadowing his face. No wonder the man had paced for hours if these were the thoughts running through his head. Dorian sat his glass down and carefully chose his next words.

"And unlike Haven, you can't be around to drop a mountain on the villain's head should things 'go south', as they say."

"Not unless you know some spell that allows me to be in two places at once."

"You never know, if travelling through time is possible then who's to say duplicating a living being isn't? But sadly no, I have no such trick up my sleeve."

"Of course not. You'd have to actually wear sleeves first wouldn't you?" Lavellan had meant to lighten the mood and failed. Wincing at the bitterness of his own voice he pulled himself up and sat both fruit and cup back on the table. Dorian didn't deserve the ire Lavellan felt for himself. "Ir abelas…"

But Dorian waved what he was sure was an apology away. "I don't speak elven but I can guess. And you should be, calling into question my perfect sense of fashion? The most grievous of crimes, people have been stripped and flogged for less I'm sure."

Lavellan scoffed and rolled his eyes but he also smiled so Dorian took it as a victory, at least for now.

"Though if I were you, I'd be more concerned about what Leliana's going to do to you." Dorian feigned contemplation just as he saw Lavellan's brow arch in question. "For doubting her abilities of course. A bard is known by their reputation after all. So implying you alone could do a better job then all her agents in Wycome combined is bound to ruffle a feather or two."

"I suppose you're right." Lavellan didn't look entirely convinced, in fact he appeared to deflate a bit. Elbows on the table, one hand over the other with the nail of one thumb inbetween his teeth. "But if the course is wrong. If Leliana's people do fail or don't get there in time. If it is because of my involvement in the Inquisition… It won't be like Redcliffe, no magic amulet to send me back if things don't work out."

"That's a lot of if's you realize," Dorian was quick to point out, "And I'm a little concerned with your lack of confidence in your own judgement." He gestured to the room around them and more specifically to Skyhold as a whole. "From what I understand of it, you had this all fall in your lap. Yet here we all are, a motley band fighting for a common cause and under a single banner. Your banner. If you don't trust your own judgement then at the very least you should trust mine. I do after all, have excellent intuition."

Finally he had managed to coax a full smile out of the elf. A little shaky around the edges but there and that would have to do seeing how late the hour was. Wouldn't do to be seen leaving the Herald's chambers after the sun rose, people might talk.

"And on that note my dear Inquisitor I think I shall take my leave. I'm an absolute terror if don't get my beauty rest." Dorian stood, smoothed invisible creases from the leather he wore and made to move past Lavellan's chair.

A journey interrupted when Lavellan's hand alighted on his forearm and the elf caught him with those helio blue eyes of his. Even seen through the sweep of eyelash and from the side, they were something. Dorian didn't quite have a name for that something, striking was close but too impersonal as were the half dozen other words that came to mind as he waited for the Inquisitor to say what ever it was he'd stopped him for.

"It's Cey," he stated finally, and when that earned him a look of confusion he continued, "my name, it's Cey. Everyone here calls me something different. Herald, Inquisitor, Boss… your Worship is probably the most unsettling… but no one uses my name. I'm beginning to wonder if anyone even knows it."

Dorian looked down at this man who some would consider blessed, Maker sent, more legend than flesh and saw what no one else was allowed to, uncertainty... raw vulnerability naked in his eyes. He wasn't sure what had convinced Lavellan that he was the person to confide in. Honestly wasn't sure what to even say to that, intimacy that didn't involve a lot more skin wasn't really his area of expertise.

"Doesn't Varric call you Scarecrow?"

A laugh then, soft but needed as Lavellan's hand fell away and that terrible pleading in his eyes sank back down. "Yes he does. I can't imagine why." No longer holding on to something living, Lavellan's hand seemed lost, a flighty little bird finally settling on that red silk scarf he always wore. That at least brought a sense of calm over him. Dorian would have assumed it was a token of home if he hadn't recognized the serpents embroidered on it to be of Tevinter make. From a lover then? Perhaps someone the Herald had lost at the Conclave?

"Indeed, it's such a mystery." Dorian said it to stop the onslaught of silence and to distract himself from further speculation.

"Thank you by the way. I'd forgotten how helpful it can be to just talk."

"Think nothing of it. But next time let's start earlier in the day shall we? We could do so over a game of wicked grace or something. You can get what ever you need to off your chest and I can take all your coin. Everybody wins."

Lavellan smirked at that and it was oddly devious. "Now there's an idea." He stood then, bowing in mock formality. "Until the next time then Lord Dorian Pavus. I bid you a good night."

Not to be outdone, Dorian returned the gesture with added flare just because he could. "And to you Lord Cey Lavellan," adding a "well, how ever much of it remains," as he straightened and headed for the stairs.