Dorian coughed, trying to get the cloud of dust and grime out of his lungs. Before he'd even managed to take his first shaking breath, however, he was struggling to his feet, uncaring that his staff had snapped in two or that something was wrong with his left ankle. All that mattered was the Inquisitor.

"Mailani!" he croaked as he forced his way closer to the cave-in. Behind him, he heard the others stirring, but he didn't bother looking back. All that mattered was the Inquisitor. "Lavellan!" he tried again, a bit louder this time, and finally remembered that he was, in fact, a mage. The thought was followed by a sputtering wisp summoned from the Fade, whirling around his head to provide a feeble light.

There.

Thank the Maker for that Dalish scarf she wore - it was like a beacon of green and gold in the darkness of the old Tevinter ruin around them. With faltering, fumbling steps, he moved towards it, ignoring the pain, the possibility of a further cave-in, of anything that got between he and his best friend. His only friend.

The sputter of green light almost made him cry - if the Anchor could light up, it meant she was alive. Closing the remaining space between them, he fell to his knees and took that glowing hand in his, trying to pour what little ability he had for healing into the Inquisitor. "Mailani," he breathed, "I'm here. I'll protect you."

At the sound of his voice, her head turned, and Dorian paled as he saw what had happened to her face. Blood covered the side of it, drenching her hair, and the top of her head was misshapen, crushed askew by an unseen force. "D-Dorian," she mumbled. "C-can't see you."

No, no, no! The tears came to his eyes unbidden, and he squeezed her hand all the more tightly. "The others will come," he promised. "Solas will be able to help, I know it, and Iron Bull can-" He looked down her body, and began to tremble. Her body disappeared at about her waist, hidden under a pile of rubble made of stones large and small. She'd always been nimble, but never physically strong - not that even Iron Bull would have held up well against a half ton of rock. "He... Bull can lift everything away, I'm sure of it."

"Dorian," she said, and the mage quieted. His hand squeezed hers so tightly now that his knuckles were white. "Dorian, I'm sorry."

That... wasn't what he'd expected to hear, and it wasn't welcome - not at all. He shook his head. "No. You'll be fine. The others will come."

"Sorry," she whispered. Her head shifted slightly, then relaxed, lolling limply on the ground, and the bright green of her hand flickered, then went out.

"No, no, no!" But he couldn't deny it. No necromancer could deny the dimming of the eyes, or that last indrawn breath. Yet before he could even think of anything else, before he could cry or rage or attempt to bring her back, his world suddenly turned gold, then white, and then green before everything whirled away into a cloud of blackness.

His last thought was merely the hope that perhaps, this time, he would not awaken.

Dorian awoke to pain. He wasn't even aware of the groan he made as he curled up on his side, or the fact that he was on a bed, or the hand that landed on his shoulder. All he knew was that his hand felt like large shards of crystal had been shoved into it and were being moved by someone for nefarious purposes of their own. Vaguely he was aware that someone was muttering nearby, that the words were what he'd come to recognize as elvish, but he could make no sense of either the speaker or the words which were spoken.

When the hand moved from his shoulder to touch the source of his pain, he instinctively rolled away, crying out in protest. "Veshante kaffas!" he swore. "Go away!" It was like someone had gripped his head with a massive set of iron tongs and was slowly closing it, crushing him as they did so.

The muttering finally ceased, but Dorian almost didn't even notice because the horrid pressure and pain abruptly switched off, as if he'd been removed from a fire.

With a gasp, he rolled onto his back and panted heavily, trying to make sense of what was happening around him. Finally the fact that his name was being spoken, over and over again, penetrated his senses, and he forced his eyes to open.

"I see you have returned to us," a familiar voice said in an equally familiar detached manner. "It is good to see you awake again."

"So-Solas?" he breathed, eyes sagging shut once more. Dorian had no energy, nothing left but the barest amount he required to breathe and force out the elf's name. Well, and perhaps one other elf's name. "Mailani?"

He felt a hand land on his shoulder once more. "I'm afraid not, my friend," Solas said softly, and the detachment was gone, replaced by something so subtle it was hard to call it simple sorrow. Whatever Solas felt at the loss of the Inquisitor, it was, like the man himself, complex and deeply felt. "Sleep. The Inquisition needs you now more than ever."

Wha- The darkness rose even before he could complete the thought.

The pain was less the next time he awoke, far less like crystals shifting under his skin and in his bones and more like simply being stabbed in his palm by a dagger. Again the hand claimed his, again elvish soothed the pain away, and again Dorian fell into dreamless slumber. It wasn't until he awoke the third time that he was able to move, was able to open his eyes and see the world for more than a bleary second or two. He didn't move, though, and simply lay limp on the bed as he struggled to reconcile what he remembered with his strange awakenings.

Again a hand fell on his shoulder, but when he turned his head to look, fully expecting Solas, he instead found a far more severe face awaiting him. "Lady Cassandra," he murmured, then gasped as his hand twitched in pain.

"Just relax, Dorian," Cassandra said in a hushed tone. "Solas said that it might hurt for a while yet."

"What might hurt-" He grunted as another stab went through his hand, and this time he managed to lift his hand and look at it, expecting to see it ruined by the cave-in. Instead, he stared, dumbfounded, as his hand suddenly lit with a familiar green flame, and an itching arose in the back of his mind. "What- No, no, no, this is Mailani's mark, she-"

"-is dead," Cassandra said, the finality in her tone brooking no argument. "Iron Bull and Solas managed to pull you out, but your hand was already like that when they found you."

Dorian shook his head, ignoring the way the movement made the room spin. "She'll come back, just like she did before." Anything seemed more likely than Mailani being dead. "Corypheus couldn't kill her at Haven. I won't accept that she's gone!"

I'm sorry...

He paused, looking around warily. "Did you hear that?" he whispered.

Sorry... An echo, a whisper, a sorrow, a memory... Or was it something more?

"I heard nothing, Dorian," Cassandra said with a weary sigh. Her face was tight and drawn, the circles under her eyes deep and dark. "All I know is that somehow we now have an Inquisitor who is even less popular with the Chantry and the people of Thedas than a Dalish elf was. The Herald of Andraste is dead, and in her place we have a mage from the Tevinter Imperium. At this rate we'll be lucky if even Leliana and Josephine can win us any support at all."

"I could have sworn I heard- Wait." Dorian blinked and looked up at Cassandra. "New... new what?"

"You bear the mark now, Dorian. The Anchor is yours. You have... further to go to gain everyone's trust, but you are the Inquisitor now. Or at least, you have the right to earn the title, just as Mailani did." Cassandra patted him on the chest, then rose to her feet. "Sleep now. I'll have some food and water brought up to you."

Dorian would have objected, but the swaying of the world had been steadily increasing as Cassandra spoke, and his eyes fluttered before falling shut.

The last thing he heard before he fell into slumber once more was, I'm sorry, Dorian.

This fic arose out of a personally assigned exercise: write a fic about a non-canon ship and try to explain how it could work outside the game mechanics. So this fic started as a 'what if' blurb for the Cullrian (Dorian Pavus x Cullen Rutherford) ship.

This will be a sloooow burn fic, and likely long. I have trouble with short, honestly. There will be angst, hurt, comfort, humor, and lots and lots of hand touching along the way. (I like hand touching, okay?) It won't always be what is expected. But it will be a wild and, eventually, steamy ride, I promise you that.

Please let me know if you like this concept!