Author's Notes: My first attempt at DA fanfiction. A big thanks to my beta reader for help and general support *high fives*

As I am

The cobbles beneath his feet creaked in broken mortar, with long stretches of stone missing entirely and replaced with foul-smelling quagmires of indecipherable filth. He fought the urge to summon fire to light his path, even as the heat grew in his chest with renewed urgency every time he slipped on the uneven ground. The capital was nothing as he imagined. The age of the place could not be denied and was never contested, but he assumed the stories of its decay were mostly exaggerations from those already inclined to disparage all things from Tevinter. Now, ankle deep in sludge and shadowed by buildings held up by the grace of the Maker alone he thought the tales were actually kind in their depictions.

An elf struggled to pull a lopsided cart piled high with nug skins. She pushed him aside with one gnarled hand, all the time cursing loudly in a voice like gravel. A few of the more colorful words sounded familiar, but the rapid-fire shouts that followed blurred together in an angry mash of unpleasant sounds. Rawley stepped aside with a shrug and a wave of his arm to allow the elf her way. His cavalier attitude only enraged her further, earning him another round of curses for his troubles. The cart lurched forward, pressing him against the nearest building while splashing sludge up the front of his cloak. The old elf woman offered a rude gesture in passing with an added mutter of 'stupid Southerner,' as she went.

"Charming," Rawley murmured, lifting his hood to cover his head.

The chance of being recognized in Tevinter was less so than in a southern city, but he was not eager to take any risks. Time marched forward as it ever did after the events of the Council. Weeks turned into months all too quickly, the reality of separation made all the more acute with each passing day. The sending crystal helped; or made things more difficult depending on the day. Shadowy whispers from afar were hardly a replacement for the glint of mischief in dark eyes or the tug of a smile meant only for him. Above all else it was the absence of his touch that set the hollow feeling in his chest sinking further still.

He would never admit to it, although he had a sneaking suspicion he didn't have to. Lying was never his strong suit, even when the person in question couldn't see his ears turn red or his eyes dart instantly down to his boots. His voice held the sadness in each word, frail from the weight of it. He didn't call attention to it, left it at the corners of long silences that said enough for both of them. He didn't have to lament the inherent cruelty of the crystal. That whispers from far away only stood as a stark reminder of the distance between them.

He didn't have to say these things because Dorian knew. He knew and yet never dragged the truth into the light; never forced the topic or outed Rawley's lies when he said he was fine. A suspicion, a long held belief deep and clawing scratched at this open denial and avoidance. Dorian didn't confront the lies because he did not feel the same. An imbalance always existed. It was there in the past with others, why would now be any different. Someone always loved more than the other. It was the way of things.

Rawley felt guilty for thinking it and guiltier still for believing it so readily. Dorian had the Magisterium to contend with. With war on the horizon and threats from within he wouldn't have time to mope and long for yet one more person to occupy his time. He was busy rebuilding his homeland, saving Tevinter from their enemies and from themselves. He couldn't begrudge him that. Things changed, time moved forward, and they with it. Change came for both of them and there was little point in fighting the current.

The proof hung at his side with a weighted creak and groan. Dagna made the contraption of leather, metal, and polished wood; with the added guarantee that he would be 'good as new,' in no time. No time, was proving far more elusive than originally anticipated. Like with his studies as a child and his more recent attempts to learn Tevene, he was proving to be a poor student when it came to mastering the use of his new prosthetic limb.

It felt heavier than he would like and the straps often pinched and rubbed his skin raw if he wore it for too long. Dagna insisted it was an exercise in trial and error; that each new calibration or fitting was just another step towards perfection. He would smile and nod, never wanting to appear anything besides grateful for her efforts. Lying was never his strong suit and he knew his frustration flashed bright and obvious across his forced smile. Guilt won out then, with his selfishness laid out plain for the world to see. He should be grateful for his life. The mark should have burned him from the inside out. Taking his hand saved his life; it was the price to keep drawing breath. He should be grateful.

The guilt squirmed in his stomach and scorched a shameful path across his skin. He tried not to dwell on it. At night, when his thoughts turned sour and the ache in his chest threatened to burst forth with leaping flames and sparks, he opened his eyes and counted the stars. The stars did not change. They were the same flickering lights he tracked as a child locked behind the walls of the Circle. He counted them then and pretended he was home, lying on the cool grass with his sister, pointing up at the heavens and naming each one. The good could always outweigh the bad if he counted enough lights.

His right hand closed around the slip of paper etched with an address. Excitement and worry fought a well-worn battle in his stomach, with the butterflies finally winning out to leave a ghost of a smile on his face in anticipation. He looked down at the paper and up at the silver tavern sign above his head. A dragon coiled around a barrel of wine with flowing letters beneath its tail. The Tipsy Dragon was in a similar state to the rest of the crumbling street around it.

He understood their shared need for discretion. They were risking enough meeting in the city limits, but he was certain Dorian would have risked a bit more for something a little less dilapidated. Raucous laughter and the bawdy melody of an indecipherable drinking song hit him like a wave as he opened the door. The mostly human patrons paid him little mind as he moved slowly through the crowd, too invested in their song and drinks to care for the appearance of a stranger. The room was dark and warm with a heavy cloak of tobacco on the air. A sturdy woman with an easy laugh and short one ear stood behind the bar, wiping a glass with a rag that couldn't possibly do anything but make the glass dirtier.

"Excuse me," Rawley said in hopes that his accent didn't draw too much attention in the crowded room.

The barmaid raised an eyebrow and listened with a growing smirk at his continued attempts and failures to communicate that he wanted to rent a room. He sighed and felt his face grow warm with embarrassment as his next mispronunciation made her snort with laughter. She held up her hands and shook her head around another boisterous laugh.

"A little far from home, aren't you?" she asked, setting the glass down to fix him with an even stare. She spoke the common trade language with a lilt and cadence that was far removed from the smooth and precise way that Dorian spoke.

"Always," he said in place of a helpful reply.

She snorted and reached under the bar, holding out a large brass key. "Your fancy man was already here," she said, continuing to hold out the key, snatching it back when he reached for it. "Rich fellah, mage robes under a cloak. Said the room was for a southerner with a scar," she said, motioning to her own chin in the same place where Rawley's old scar stretched down towards his throat. "That you, handsome?"

"Yes," he replied, lifting his chin so she could inspect for herself and to hide the blush tinting his face at being called handsome.

She made a rumbling noise deep in her throat and scratched the scared skin where her ear used to be. "Gotta admit you're not what I expected," she said, still holding the key from his reach. "Usually when one of them comes down here all sneaky it's for something worth hiding; something weird or scandalous. Not some southern pretty boy."

"Um, sorry?" he mumbled, shifting nervously on his feet.

"You do something special?" she asked, her smirk turning into a crooked grin. "What did he pay you to come all the way to Tevinter?"

"What? He didn't…wait…you think?" he stammered, taking in a sharp breath as she trailed off into a hacking laugh.

"No shame in it," she said, still laughing as he finally snagged the key from her hand.

Her laugh followed him across the crowded room as he slowly wormed his way through the loud tavern patrons. The stairs arched over the main room with a tilt to one side that was more than a little unnerving. He kept close to the wall in case the old steps decided to give up their fight against gravity and time. The key felt increasingly warm in his hand as he gripped it in lightly glowing fingers.

"What did he pay me," he grumbled, reaching the landing with a disgruntled huff.

The narrow hallway stretched away from the main room with a slow shift to the left. He was beginning to think there wasn't a single straight line in the entire capital. A faded 203 sat embossed on the old key, the numbers nearly indecipherable after years of use. He searched for the corresponding door, his annoyance only flaring when it became clear that the numbers marking the doors were in nothing even remotely close to numerical order.

"What is this some kind of puzzle?" he muttered.

It was only a moment, barely enough time to finish taking a breath. He succumbed to his frustrations and let them cloud his better judgment. He wasn't safe here. Frustrated or not, he should know better. A moment was all his attacker needed. A few seconds of letting his guard down and someone had the drop on him. Flames crackled and sparked at his fingertips, eager to burst forth and burn everything to the ground.

The cold stopped any chance of an inferno. Ice like snakes weaving their way through his veins and making him shiver. He tried to get a punch in before his chest met the wall and his right arm was held in place by a strong grip. He was about to throw his head back in hopes of catching his opponent in the face when the warm press of a mouth along his exposed throat made him shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Watching you from across the room was a wonderful kind of torture," he purred. "It gave me time to plan the best way to ravish you, Amatus."

"Perhaps jumping me wasn't the best plan," Rawley replied, doing little else to dissuade Dorian's wandering hands. "Could have…burned this whole place down."

"Mmm, I think it would be worth it, yes?" he said.

Rawley could feel the smile against his neck and turned to capture it with his lips. There were many kisses in their past and he hoped many more still in their future, but this kiss, this desperate and wanton thing was something new entirely. He felt it in the tightening grip at the base of his skull, rough fingers in his hair pulling him closer. It burned his lungs, afraid even to stop for air; as if this was all but a dream and reality waited for the moment of their parting.

"Inside," Dorian commanded.

The air seemed cold and barren without Dorian pressed against him; the crushing press of his lips still lingering like a ghost on his own. They stumbled into the nearby room. Rawley could not remember giving Dorian the key and yet he slid it into the pocket of his robes just the same. The lanterns along the walls sparked to life with a snap of Dorian's fingers, basking the small room in a dull glow that fought beyond the smudged and blackened glass. The light was enough for Rawley to see him properly for the first time that evening.

He wore a rough spun cloak over far more expensive and ornate fabrics; flashes of silver and green hidden behind dull gray. The cloak found the floor in less time than it took Rawley to even comprehend that Dorian wore it. He crossed the small distance between them and wasted no time in capturing his lips once more. The bed hit Rawley just above the knee and he did nothing to stop Dorian from pushing him backwards onto the lumpy mattress.

"Hmm, we're going to get you a shave," Dorian murmured as he nuzzled along Rawley's stubble-covered chin, paying special attention to the dip beneath his ear.

"Then shall we get you a haircut as well?" he suggested, tugging playfully on Dorian's hair, which had grown considerably in their time apart.

"You don't like it?" he asked, doing his best to sound offended. "I thought it made me look distinguished."

Dorian grazed his teeth along Rawley's left ear, taking away any real reply with a small gasp.

"Would this be part of my price?" Rawley asked, unable to keep the small hint of a grumble from his words.

"Whatever do you mean?" Dorian replied, his deft fingers already making short work of the ties and clasps along Rawley's traveling cloak.

"Your barmaid friend thought I was a prostitute," Rawley muttered, struggling to kick off his boots.

"Hmm, yes, well, she would, wouldn't she," Dorian replied with a peck of a kiss on his forehead. "It's better for us if she continues to think that," he said, the next kiss lingering and far less chaste. "Besides, you'd be a courtesan. I'm far too rich for some common street walker."

"Huh," Rawley muttered.

He felt the rumble of silent laughter deep in Dorian's chest as he pressed down against him. A smile fought it ways across his face, pushing aside the pout he was working so hard to keep fixed on his mouth. He turned away with a dramatic sigh, waving his hand in a dismissive motion.

"You couldn't afford me," he insisted, his laughter turning to a quiet moan under the continued press of Dorian's hands.

"That I do not doubt," Dorian murmured.

It seemed an eternity for those hands to find skin, calloused fingertips exploring the pronounced jut of a hip bone before tracing up along the peaks and valleys of his ribs. His skin seemed to burn with every new touch. The fire burned in his chest and pulled the air from his lungs. It was this touch he longed for on those nights when the nightmares came and the far away voice was not enough to rid them from his thoughts. It was strength and precision, every brush of skin or press of flesh a calculated movement to leave him breathless and writhing. The months seemed nothing now.

"You're skin and bones," Dorian fretted, trailing over his ribs once more. "I'll need to get you some proper food. Perhaps some of those sweet cakes you love so much."

"Yes, please," Rawley sighed, kicking off his remaining boot.

"Up," Dorian said, tugging on Rawley's cloak to free his arm from the sleeve. "You're wearing far too many clothes."

The loud clang of metal and leather, still hidden from view, set the warmth in his stomach turning to stone. The months apart were far from nothing. Change took them both and no amount of familiar touches or breathless kisses could change that. Something close to panic seized him, sending all that was good and warm scurrying to the shadows. The bad outweighed the good and stood bright and vibrant in the dim room. The murky smell of the place overtook him, the shrill creak of the bed frame, and the pinch of the leather strap around the remainder of his arm pushed aside the warmth of his hands and the sweet taste of his lips.

"S-stop," he murmured, fighting the urge to flee. "Stop."

"Amatus…"

"I just…I just need a minute," Rawley insisted, shooing away his fretting hands.

He sat heavy on the edge of the bed, his stocking feet aching from the cold floorboards beneath them. The panic lingered and the fire thrummed like a bellows in his chest. He could feel it crawl towards his fingertips until they burned red as coals. His eyes snapped shut with enough force to make starbursts flare to life in the darkness. He counted the sparks and thought of the cold; the biting, unforgiving cold of the mountains during his long escape from Haven; the cold of the Deep Road in corners that never knew the warmth of the sun.

"Breathe."

The voice came from far away. Strength and silken promises whispered through some unknown magic from a place worlds apart. Not worlds apart, no. Here. Here to see and to touch. He crossed through places old and new to get here; traveled for days to close the distance. He was far away now too and still the fire threatened to burn. Still it thrummed in his ears and beat the drums of war inside his chest.

"Breathe, Rawley," the voice murmured his name like a promise. "It is all right, just breathe."

There were strong hands on his shoulders, hands that were not there before, hands that kept him grounded, brought him back to the far away. He forced a breath in through his nose, the air instantly cooling burnt lungs. The next breath came easier, but still shook when he let it out. Dorian murmured quietly in Tevene. He wasn't certain if it was a spell or less likely a prayer, but the words washed over him like the crashing of waves. He found the same words tumbling from his lips, although the meaning remained foreign to him.

"I…I'm sorry," he said, barely recognizing the voice as his own. "I don't know what came over me."

"I have a fairly good idea," Dorian replied, his voice quiet and guarded as if speaking to a wounded animal.

"It, it was just a…a very long journey. I'm fine," Rawley insisted, leaning forward to rub his eyes.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a wretched liar," Dorian said, taking a seat beside him.

"No one seems to tell me anything different," Rawley muttered.

With the panic in retreat the cold and heavy weight of shame slithered in to take its place. He stared down at the carved wooden fingers, forever frozen in the same position, slightly bent inwards in a way that Dagna described as natural. There was nothing natural about the way it sat heavy atop his leg, like some cold dead thing he could not be rid of. Dorian sighed and slid his hand to rest beside Rawley's.

"I've seen you," he said, still choosing his words with the utmost care. "After…"

"Not like this," Rawley said, the rush of words surprising even him. "That was…it was in the infirmary. Not like this."

Dorian rose to his feet, the bed creaking in response. He took a deep breath before pacing a few feet one way and then the next. A muttered curse in Tevene fell from his lips and he smoothed out his mustache with a careful press of his forefinger and thumb. It was something he did when he was nervous, when he was stalling for time or searching for an answer. Rawley lowered his gaze to the floor as another wave of shame washed over him.

"Do you think me so shallow?"

The words pulled the air from his lungs and sent another wave crashing down before the first even rolled away from the shore. He forced his eyes up to meet Dorian's gaze. He owed him as much. Heat pressed at the back of his vision, threatening to spill forth at any moment. He swallowed and searched for the words, for any words.

"No," he said with a fervent shake of his head. "No, that's…that's not. I don't think that. I just…I didn't want…you'll see me. You'll know."

Dorian knelt before him and took hold of his face so he could not look away. "I'll know what?"

Rawley closed his eyes and swallowed back the cold, sinking fear that followed his thoughts the last few months. He didn't want to bring this into the light. It was unavoidable. He knew it. He hoped he could escape it a little while longer, but he never could. It always found him. It always won out.

"You'll see me…for what I truly am," he said in a voice no more than a whisper.

"I know what you truly are," Dorian replied, his hand lifted to cup the side of Rawley's face. "You are the man I love. Losing your hand…"

"It's not about my hand," he said, pinching his eyes shut once more. "It's…the man you…love," he said, struggling with the last word. "Was the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. I was someone…something. The mark made me something and now…now I'm…I am only me. I am no one."

Dorian's grip tightened and Rawley found himself leaning into it.

"The mark wasn't even meant for me. I didn't earn it. It was a mistake. Everything…the only thing that made me something was a mistake," he murmured, reaching up to cover Dorian's hand with his own. "I'm sorry…I don't expect you to understand."

"Rawley…"

"I'm not…magic doesn't come easily to me. You can read about something once and then there it is," he said, shame twisting his words into something hoarse and struggled. "You're brilliant and now you're a Magister and…and I don't…I know you have to be here. You have responsibilities…you have people depending on you," he swallowed and regretted his next words before they even left his lips. "But they took my hand…they took what made me something and then…you left. I needed…you were what made me someone and you left."

Arms wrapped around him in an embrace that threatened to push the air from his lungs. He buried his face into the soft fabric of his robes, breathing in the spicy tinge of his soaps and oils to find the earthier scent of his skin beneath. The raucous shouts and laughter from the tavern below hummed under the floorboards. He hoped Dorian would remain silent. That they could stay like this for a moment longer before reality dashed everything to pieces.

"The Mark was not meant for you," Dorian said. "But it found you just the same," he pulled back and tilted Rawley's chin up. "What you chose to do with that power, that is what makes you something, not the mark itself."

He held fast as Rawley tried to pull away. "Others would have let it corrupt them. Others would have garnered all that power for themselves. You chose to save the world," he leaned forward until their foreheads met. "You are kind, honest and brave…you are a good man in a world full of monsters, liars, and cowards. This is what makes you someone. That is why I love you, not because of your horrendous luck."

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he pressed it against his. "I should have stayed with you after, Amatus," he breathed, still leaning in. "I'm sorry."

"No, you had to go. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said…"

"No, you were right. I should have stayed a while longer. What would a few more weeks really have mattered to the Imperium."

"They need you," Rawley replied, trying to hide a sniffle with a cough.

"Hmm, you flatter," Dorian said, kissing him once more. "Come now, I think we both could use a bit of a rest. We had treasury talks today, hours of old men and women arguing over a few coins, positively maddening," he said with a dramatic sigh. "And I know, unfortunately from firsthand experience, that the back roads into the city are not the most comfortable way to travel. You must be exhausted."

Rawley nodded and loosened his grip on the front of Dorian's robes. "I'm sorry," he said again, his ears burning red with the shame of it. "I didn't mean to…to ruin things."

"Nothing is ruined," Dorian insisted, lifting Rawley's hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. "You won't be rid of me so easily."

Rawley nodded once more and felt something close to a smile threaten his gloomy disposition. "Will you help me with my cloak?" he asked, unable to hide a tiny grimace.

A few well-placed tugs freed his arms of the sleeves, leaving nothing left to hide behind. He watched Dorian inspect the limb with the same expression he used when pouring over a pile of books in his corner of the library. He reached out a tentative hand to test the joint at the wrist and then further up to the larger joints of the elbow. He smoothed out his mustache and crinkled his nose in thought.

"It's heavier than I thought it would be," he said with a quirk of one slender eyebrow. "Dagna built it, yes?"

"Yes, she said the weight will help me wield it better," he explained, lifting the arm and dropping it with a thud as if to prove a point.

"And does it?" Dorian asked.

"Couldn't really say," Rawley replied with a shrug.

"Hmm, right, well, it certainly looks impressive. Lots of moving parts and all, but if anyone could build you something worth having it would be Dagna," he said, pushing up Rawley's sleeve to see how the prosthetic fit to his arm. "You don't sleep in this, do you?"

"No," he said with a slight wince. "I've probably worn it for too long already."

He undid the straps, keenly aware that Dorian watched his every move. The prosthetic slid off, the warm ache of a new bruise stinging in the cold air once the straps pulled away. Dorian reached for his arm before he could stop him, his face marred with a deep frown as he inspected the bruises and patches of red where the leather rubbed away the skin.

"Unacceptable," he said with a cluck of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "How does she expect…"

"I just wore it for too long," Rawley said, hoping to put an end to his fretting. "It isn't usually this bad and Dagna said it could take a while for us to get the best fit."

"I will still write her a strongly worded letter if it is all the same to you," Dorian grumbled, shrugging out of his robes with jerky, annoyed movements. "Honestly, it is supposed to help you, not hurt you."

Rawley let him fret and complain and grumble his dissatisfactions to all who would listen. It always made him smile. Dorian could find passion and fight against even the slightest affront to his good graces. He pressed up against him once he calmed enough to lie down; the familiar press of their bodies something their time apart could not make forgotten. He rested his head against his chest with a sigh.

"You are always like a furnace," Dorian said, his fingers tracing along Rawley's shoulder.

"Sorry," he mumbled, his ears burning pink.

"Oh, no, I like it," Dorian replied, leaning to kiss Rawley atop the head. "It always gave me such a lovely excuse to search out your tent when the Inquisition dragged me to one of the South's frozen wastelands."

"I wasn't aware you needed an excuse," Rawley said, nuzzling against him.

"Hmm, I suppose not."

The quiet was peaceful now, close and intimate and of their own making. The thrum from the tavern below and the low, steady beat of Dorian's heart made Rawley's eyes heavy with the exhaustion he did his best to ignore. The years of fighting, of suspicion, and fear made moments of peace, of relaxation things to cherish; brief flashes of light in the darkness. Fingers caressed his skin, kneading sore muscles with cunning a precision.

"Do you really not like my hair?"

The question roused him from his decent into sleep, blinking back oblivion with a grumble deep in his throat. "What?"

"My hair, do you not like it long?"

"Oh, umm, no, it's fine," he mumbled, nuzzling further into the crook of Dorian's arm in hopes of hiding the unstoppable blush across his face.

"Liar," he said with an indignant huff. "I would have you know this hairstyle is the height of fashion at the moment."

"Hmm, far be it for me to have you go against popular fashion," Rawley murmured, earning a playing elbow to the ribs for his troubles.

"I would take your advice on many things, Amatus, but fashion will never be one of them," Dorian said with a curt nod. "I have however been considering shaving off my mustache…"

"No," Rawley said with a quick swivel of his chin and an instant reddening of his ears. "I mean, if you want to but…I…it suits you," he stammered, trailing off when he realized he walked right into his trap.

"I do love it when you are all commanding," Dorian whispered with a smirk and a kiss.