Disclaimer: turns out I don't own any of these characters, or the world, or any of the swearing. I'm okay with that. It's for fun, not money. Bioware does good work, they can keep it.

Chapter 4

When we get back, I need to talk with you.The words rolled around in Dorian's head. What was he to think of that? Sometimes, when the inquisitor asked to talk he wanted to be alone, to spend time with Dorian. Other times he needed to vent about proceedings in the war room or ask Dorian's opinion. Or even exchange gossip. But this time? Dorian suspected it would be slightly more serious. Maker help me.

He sat in his small room. It was a perfectly serviceable room. It had a hearth, a reasonably comfortable bed, a chair that was ugly as sin, but soft and good for reading in. Could have been warmer, better decorated, perhaps, but he had had far worse accommodations in the last several years. Not that it was hard to beat a barn or tavern room. Fitzwilliam had never come here. They met in the library, the tavern, or snuck into the Inquisitors rooms. Dorian sipped a brandy and tried not to think about that. Surely Fitzwilliam would summon him when he was ready, not come here. They'd parted to wash the travel-dust from their faces. Dorian had done so and changed out of his armor.

He swirled the glass, letting it catch the light of the fire. Moderation. He reminded himself. He wanted to drink until he didn't feel anymore, after the events of the day. Moderation. Don't give in to temptation. He called on his training as a mage. On the knowledge that temptation would always be there. On the knowledge that giving in meant death, possession, loss of self. It was always the last that got through to him. He had fought hard to keep what made him him. Left home, everything he knew. Besides, Fitzwilliam needed to talk to him. Dorian would need his full wits. The man was clever.

Dangerous. The thought came unbidden and Dorian frowned.

The knock at the door startled him and he jumped, sloshing his drink. "Come," he called, licking the amber brown liquid from his hand. He heard the Inquisitor laugh. Dorian looked up, mock-scowling. Fitzwilliam closed the door behind him.

"You can't be that hard up for a drink, Dorian," he ribbed. There was only the one chair in his room, so Dorian stood, placed the glass on the mantle and turned to face Fitzwilliam.

"Have you any idea how hard it was to find a half-decent brandy? I had to raid the storeroom!" Dorian protested. "I'm not going to waste a Single. Drop." Innuendo dripped from his lips as he licked his finger. Apparently he was set on distraction.

Fitzwilliam chuckled. "I'll have to do my best to supply better, then."

Dorian pouted inwardly. So much for distraction. "Well," the mage said, "best get down to it."

Fitzwilliam lost his smile. His face became dark, serious. Shit. "Dorian," he said, "what are your intentions after the Inquisition?"

Dorian blinked. Hard. Twice. "I'm sorry?" He said finally.

"If you… if we survive this, what will you do? Will you return home, now that you and your father are… whatever you are?" The Inquisitor clarified.

"I… I hadn't thought about it," Dorian lied.

"I have," Fitzwilliam said. "Doiran, I…" he sighed running a hand through his hair. "I'm worried about you."

Dorian blinked again. "Worried about me?" He tried to shrug it off, playfully. "I am, as always, fabulous, Fitzwilliam."

Fitzwilliam scowled at him. "I'm serious, Dorian. You… you're a bit of fluff in a breeze. You go wherever life takes you. You ran from home and you haven't stopped." Dorian looked at the floor, but said nothing. "I am afraid that without a tether, without a place you belong… you won't survive what's coming."

Dorian laughed, bitterly. "You're one to talk. You've nearly died, what, half a dozen times?"

"Perhaps you're right," Fitzwilliam admitted. He walked over and touched Dorian's hand lightly. "But there are reasons I come back, Dorian. Reasons I don't simply give in under the strain, the despair, the darkness that threatens to pull me under." Dorian couldn't look at him.

"I…" Dorian started. He hated how weak his voice sounded. "I have not the strength to go back home, Fitzwilliam."

The Inquisitor pulled him closer, embracing him, and Dorian could not stop the tears. He hated them. He hated appearing weak in front of a man who commanded armies, wrapped rulers around his fingers, and fought demons. And here he was now helping others fight theirs. But he sobbed anyway. When they parted, Fitzwilliam handed him a handkerchief. There was nothing graceful about the way Dorian wiped his face and blew his nose. He looked up to see Fitzwilliam's smile. Maker give me strength.

"You said you don't have the strength to go back home," Fitzwilliam said. The man was not going to give him a break, was he? Dorian tucked the handkerchief into his pocket and nodded slightly, urging Fitzwilliam to continue. "What makes a place a home?"

Dorian furrowed his brow. "That's a strange question," he said. "Home is Tevinter. Home is where my family is."

Fitzwilliam nodded. "I have a somewhat different definition," he said. "I think home is where you feel safe. Where you can go when the weight of the world is crushing you."

Dorian smiled a sad smile. "That was true of my father's house, once."

"For me, Dorian, wherever I am, as long as I am with people I care for, people I can trust, not just trust not to hurt me, but trust to be honest, that is home. That is where I want to be." He stopped then and placed a hand on Dorian's neck. He could feel the warmth radiating from the Herald's palm, spreading through his body, driving away the cold and the ache. Was it the mark that did it? "When this is over," he said, looking intently into Dorian's eyes, trying to tell him something beyond the words. "The place in the world I end up? That won't matter to me. I'll go wherever home is."

Dorian tried to understand what he was saying. The warmth made him relax, let him feel something. "Are you trying to tell me…" hope bubbled up in him. He squashed it out of reflex. "I understand your warning, your worship." He pulled away from Fitzwilliam. The warm vanished, the cold set in. He turned his back and stood by the fire, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

"Dorian," Fitzwilliam said, frustrated. "You are a brilliant mage. A scholar. You understand people and power in a way I admire and appreciate. But, Maker take you! You are a fool when it comes to yourself."

The mage turned, angry. "And you are the expert on me, Inquisitor?"

Fitzwilliam's eyes widened in surprise. "No, of course not I…"

"You hardly know me," Dorian finished for him. "You take me to see my father and you think you know the pain I have suffered. You think you know what makes me me. Well, your worship, I'm telling you, you do not know." Relenus.

Fitzwilliam hung his head. Dorian had wounded him. "I…" he said walking over to touch him. Touching him always helped. "I'm sorry, Fitz." He tucked a finger under the man's chin and lifted to look into his eyes. "That was unworthy."

"No," Fitzwilliam said graciously. "You're right, Dorian, I don't know you. But I want to. Kissing in alcoves, playful breaks in my chambers, those are all well and good. But you're not a toy. Not a diversion. I want to know you." He paused then, taking a deep breath, as if steeling himself to say something. "And I want you to know me." Dorian smiled softly at that. "I want you to feel safe showing me who you are. So, with that in mind," he said, pulling away with a small smile. "I've ordered a good whiskey to my quarters and some food. The fire is blazing. I've given orders that I am not to be disturbed. I'd like you to come, when you are ready."

Dorian smirked. "So forward, Inquisitor!" He drawled wickedly. Fitzwilliam mock-scowled. "I know, I tease too much." The mage smiled and nodded. "I shall… arrive." He smirked again. This was too easy. Fitzwilliam laughed. "I'll come by the servant's stair, to avoid scandal, shall I?"

Fitzwilliam smiled. "You may come to the door proper, or the stair, as you please, Dorian. I am not ashamed of you."

Dorian's heart swelled. His eyes watered. He nodded, swallowing hard. "Thank you for that."

Fitzwilliam nodded, smiled, and turned to leave. As he opened the door and walked out he called, "Don't keep me waiting."

The door closed and Dorian stared at it. "I wouldn't dream of it… Amatus," he whispered to the empty room.

VVV

Fitzwilliam paced nervously. He wasn't sure Dorian would come. Not entirely sure, at any rate. And besides that the things he planned to reveal tonight… He eyed the whisky. He could have a little, just to take the edge off. Dorian had already been drinking. It would be okay to catch up.

He strode to the table next to the couch, which he had had moved to set in front of the fire, poured some into a glass, and shot it back all in one swig. "I like a man who doesn't go halfway," an amused voice remarked. Fitzwilliam turned quickly to see Dorian standing by the inner door. "Oh," the man continued, walking forward. Did I catch you with your hand in the sweets?"

Fitzwilliam smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "Care for a glass?"

Dorian inspected the bottle, then sniffed it. "It does smell acceptable," he said, handing the bottle over. Fitzwilliam poured two glasses, then gestured to the couch.

"Couch near the fire, large pelt on the floor before it? Why Inquisitor, I didn't know you were such a romantic!" Dorian ribbed as he sat at the far end of the couch. Fitzwilliam laughed. They clinked glasses, and sipped. "Fasta vass," Dorian said, then made a very primal noise. "Where did you find such a fine drink?

Fitzwilliam smiled, pleased. "Promise not to tell?"

Dorian leaned closer, intrigued. "On my honor as a Vint," he swore.

Fitzwilliam laughed. "No good," he said. "I've known too many Vints." Dorian had the presence of mind to look shocked and affronted.

"If that will not stand, I hardly know what I could swear on," he huffed dramatically.

"You don't have to swear on anything, Dorian," Fitzwilliam said, sipping. "Your word is more than enough." He felt warm inside, and he wasn't sure if it was the drink.

Dorian smiled at him. "Very well," he said. "You have it."

"I…" Fitzwilliam drawled trying not to laugh. "Found it."

Dorian sputtered. "Found it?"

Fitzwilliam nodded, laughing. "In a derelict fort," he chuckled. Dorian looked into his glass suspiciously, as if trying to decide something.

"Did the Herald of Andraste just try to poison me?" He asked, shocked.

Fitzwilliam couldn't help it, he laughed, loud and long. Maybe it ended with a somewhat undignified giggle, but it was worth it to hear Dorian laughing, see the light in his eyes. When the Inquisitor stopped laughing he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and sipped again. "I had it tested, Dorian. I would never knowingly endanger you." He saw the mage smile and look down at the glass in his hands.

"I know," he said simply.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. The fire casting flickers of light dancing about the room. The whiskey warming them, emboldening the Inquisitor. Finally, he emptied the glass and stood, reaching for the bottle again.

"I grew up in the Free Marches," he began. The honey-brown liquid pooled in his glass. He walked over and offered it up to the mage, who lifted his glass and accepted. "My family is noble, but pretty far down the succession. Our money is mostly what keeps us relevant." He placed the bottle back and sat again, closer to Dorian this time. The couch was small. \ Fitzwilliam rested his elbows on his knees, turning his glass as he spoke.

"Growing up I knew my parents loved me. I have no siblings. They hung all their hopes for their house on me. I hid nothing from them," he said, sipping. "Nothing. When I was old enough to understand the feelings I had, I went to them. They did not make me feel like I was wrong but…" he sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "The talk I got was not about morality or the natural order of things. It was about duty."

To his left Dorian made a noncommittal sound of encouragement.

"Serving something greater than one's self was something they had instilled in me all my life. My position, our name, the weight they carried… those things could be used to affect change. To make things better for those below us. I don't begrudge them this. These lessons are something I carry with me to this day. They are part of the reason I am here. With the Inquisition." Fitzwilliam stared into the fire. Watching the flickering was soothing and hypnotic. He could almost see the faces of his loved ones dancing in them. "I was young when I told them, just starting adolescence. But I was already betrothed. Syrah," he sighed, "was the best of women. And my best friend for most of my years. We had known each other from our youth. I told her everything. She knew what I was."

Fitzwilliam sat up, turning to look at Dorian. Maker, that was harder than it should be. "Syrah… she loved me. In the truest way. And I loved her. She also had a brother, Merlot. Just a bit older than I. He was often with us. He taught me how to fight. When I was older, how to drink. How one talks to a lady. He did not know my secret. And I loved him… well I thought I loved him," Fitzwilliam said with a smile. "The exuberance of youth – feeling a strong emotion and attaching the only word we know that is as strong. I pined after him for years. Syrah knew, of course, I kept nothing from her.

"When I came of age we threw a great feast. We ate, we danced, we drank. Merlot and I… we drank more than we ever had before. And it emboldened me. Now that I was of age it would not be long before Syrah and I would wed. And before that happened I needed to tell Merlot how I felt. So I asked him to meet me in a small forgotten room in the east wing. He knew of it, we'd all played there as children."

Fitzwilliam finished his drink, placed his glass on the floor and steeled himself. He looked away from Dorian back to the fire. But he could still feel the mage's penetrating gaze upon him. "He came as I asked. The room was full of things we'd brought there over the years. Books, candles, games, papers and ink and chalk, a pile of blankets so we didn't have to sit on the cold floor. He was smiling when he came in. He mused of our childhood. Asked if I had ever… well he asked of my relationship with his sister. He didn't believe me when I told him 'never'."

"And then?" He heard Dorian ask softly from behind him.

"Then I was drunk and young and terrified. I pushed Merlot against the wall… and I kissed him. I had expected him to push me away, or stand frozen, unmoving, but he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me back. We had a night of passion. My heart felt so full. I told Syrah the next day and she smiled and laughed and was so happy to see my happiness. She still intended to be my wife. 'There are far worse things in this world', she had told me, 'than marrying your best friend'. She didn't care about the rest of it."

Fitzwilliam ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it. "You might think that the next day Merlot blamed the wine, denied me, but he did not. Syrah, Merlot, and I sat and discussed the future. His sister and I would be wed. He would be free to spend as much time as he wished in our home. Someday he might take a wife but he was not the firstborn male of his family. He could do as he pleased. We had everything figured out, a council of fools," the Inquisitor grumbled.

He went quiet then. Reliving the good had been hard enough. Could he really bare his soul to Dorian like this? I must. Dorian had to know. Fitzwilliam had to tell him.

"Syrah had a riding accident with her eldest brother," he said, choking on the words. After all these years the pain was still sharp. "They both died. My parents arranged a new marriage. Merlot had to take over as heir. He came to me and told me we must part. I balked. I bargained. I railed. Until he told me he had never loved me. That he stayed to secure Syrah's future with me. I still…" Fitzwilliam swallowed hard. "I still don't know if he meant any of it.

"I fought with my parents. I was terror to everyone I loved. For years. The night I got the mark," he took a deep breath, knowing the worst was over now. "I was in the Chantry asking for guidance. For purpose. My life felt so empty. I'd left home to find… something. And I ended up there. I still don't remember what happened after. I heard cries for help…" Fitzwilliam laughed softly. "Perhaps Andraste heard me after all. Marked me. Brought me here. To purpose."

Dorian sipped. Fitzwilliam could not look at him but he could hear him. "And you would have been okay with that?" The mage asked finally. His voice held curiosity, disbelief. "Living a lie?"

The Inquisitor turned, with great effort, and looked at him. "Dorian, I… My parents would have known, Syrah, Merlot, they would have known. I had four people who knew the truth of me, and loved me. That is far more than many people get." It hurt Fitzwilliam to say, knowing that Dorian had been searching for just such a thing his whole life.

Dorian nodded, "I hadn't thought of it like that. I suppose you would have had quite a happy life. There's that whole "having an heir" thing you would have to have worked out, but I'm sure you could have managed." A corner of his mouth went up in a playful, yet sad, smile. "So how do things stand now? It's been more than a year since you left… well, were taken, by Seeker Cassandra."

"My parents have written," Fitzwilliam said somewhat happily. "The Inquisition has been good for our family. I am still to inherit. Merlot's wife is expecting her fourth child. He is hoping it will be his first son."

"He wrote to you?" Dorian asked, surprise obvious.

Fitzwilliam laughed softly. "Hardly. My mother and father are close with his family after all. Had they a second daughter I imagine I would have been betrothed to her. I've made it clear that I will be accepting no further matches."

Dorian furrowed his brow, "And they accepted that?"

"Oh," Fitzwilliam said offhandedly, "mother will still try to play matchmaker, I'm sure. But I outrank them now. She can tell me of this lovely woman or that powerful house, but she cannot negotiate for me. I am free. And I… I don't tell them everything anymore."

Dorian put down his glass. How long has it been empty? He turned to fully face the Inquisitor. "Fitzwilliam," he said gently, "I need to know… why would you tell me all this?"

Fitzwilliam thought for a moment before speaking. "Your father," he began, turning away to look at the fire again. "When we went to see him you were vulnerable in front of me. When we came back you shared something that causes you great pain. And it seemed like when you realized that you felt as if I had something over you."

Dorian raised an eyebrow. "You're far more intuitive than people give you credit for, your worship."

Fitzwilliam smiled softly and looked back to the fire. "I wanted to balance the scales. But more than that Dorian, I…" Just say it Nugg-head. "I want you to know me. You're the first person since Syrah died… I mean, I haven't been able to trust… I…" he fumbled for the words. "You fought to keep the things that make you, you," Fitzwilliam said in a rush. "And you let me see them, sometimes. And I… I don't know where this goes or how anyone feels or if I'm a blight-blasted fool, but I want you to know me as I am, not just the Inquisitor. Not just a man you kiss in corners. I want someone who knows me."

Fitzwilliam felt a hand on his arm and turned to look at Dorian again. Maker, let the firelight hid the flush on his face. Dorian caught his gaze and looked intently for a long while. It was hard not to look away.

Finally he spoke, "take off your jacket."

Fitzwilliam blinked. Hard. Twice. "Sorry?"

Dorian laughed then, a big, boisterous sound of pure amusement and affection. "Even now," he explained, "after that confession, you are so buttoned up. Properly attired, manners on – in your own chambers, with a … companion and a fine whiskey. So, jacket off." Fitzwilliam smiled and complied, laying the jacket over the back of the couch. He felt Dorian's eyes on him, expected his sharp wit, but his next words were simple, "roll up the sleeves on that undershirt." Fitzwilliam complied. "Good, now, sit there." The mage pointed to a spot on the floor about midway through the length of the couch. Fitzwilliam stood, Dorian shifted to the middle of the couch, and he gestured for Fitzwilliam to sit. "No, not facing me, you fool," he said affectionately. "Face the fire, sit between my legs." He looked at the Inquisitor's face and laughed. "My lord, you look like a scared puppy. I promise, I will do nothing… untoward, without express permission. Now sit."

Fitzwilliam pressed his back against the couch, feeling Dorian's legs on either side of him. "You've made a mess of your hair," he said. And then Dorian's hands were touching his head. Smoothing, running his fingers through it. "I would never, muss my hair, naturally," Dorian said. Fitzwilliam could hear the smile in his voice. "But you look quite good."

Fitzwilliam smiled. "A compliment?" He joked. "From you?"

"Hard earned, I know," Dorian replied jovially. He was quiet for a long time, simply touching Fitzwilliam. His hair, his neck. It was surprisingly intimate. Fitzwilliam was actually startled when the mage spoke again. "My first love was Relenus."

"Dorian," Fitzwilliam said, reaching up to take Dorian's hand. "You don't have to…"

"I know," the mage said, cutting him off. "I wouldn't tell you such a thing out of obligation, Fitz. I want to tell you." Fitzwilliam lifted the hand, turned his head, and kissed it before releasing him. He heard Dorian make a soft sound, but that was his only reaction.

"I don't like to delve into my past," he said, resuming his touches. "Relenus was a friend of the family. He and I were close. We didn't meet until I was of age, until I was already betrothed. But that didn't stop us. Relenus, had skin tan like fine whiskey, his lips curled when he smiled…" his voice trailed off wistfully. "After my father and I had our falling out I went to Relenus. I was going to ask him to come with me.

"When I arrived he told me his family had made an unexpectedly good match for him. His house wasn't of much rank. But somehow someone had secured a great leap in status for them if Relenus would but wed a daughter. I always suspected my father had a hand in it." He paused, sad. He sighed. "It doesn't matter now," he said, touching the skin on Fitzwilliam's neck softly. "I didn't ask him to come with me," he said. Fitzwilliam could hear the ache in his voice. "I told myself it was because I wanted what was best for him. This good match, a good life. And all I was offering was the life of an outcast. But… I was scared. That's why I didn't ask. I told him I was happy for him and left. Because I was afraid when I asked he wouldn't say yes." His voice was angry by the end.

"I asked after Relenus when my father visited. He told me he's expecting his third child. Perhaps I was no more than a diversion for him after all." Dorian's forearm draped over Fitzwilliam's shoulder, fingers finding the hair of his chest through the laces of his shirt and playing with it absentmindedly. Fitzwilliam reached up, running his fingers over the soft skin on the back of the mage's hand. "It shouldn't matter," Dorian said, frustrated. "It was years ago. But nothing after that… let's just say my experiences after Relenus didn't exactly make a romantic out of me."

Fitzwilliam tugged on Dorian's arm and scooted forward. "Join me," the Inquisitor said. Dorian slid off the couch on to the floor behind him. Fitzwilliam leaned back and wrapped the mage's arms around him. Dorian hugged him from behind. Fitzwilliam hugged the mage's arms close.

They talked the rest of the night. Sharing stories and laughter. Hard moments of loved ones lost. Joyous memories of love before it all went wrong. They shifted about the pelt before the fire sometimes sitting, sometimes lying down. Sometimes embracing, other times gazing fondly.

Eventually the whiskey and the warm fire and the comfort and the night began to take their toll.

"I should go back to my chambers," Dorian said, eyes closes, nearly asleep next to Fitzwilliam on the pelt. Fitzwilliam stood without a word and the mage sat up abruptly. "Have I offended?" He asked, concerned.

Fitzwilliam said nothing. He went to his bed, stripped it of linens and pillows, and brought the pile to the fire. Dorian stood and watched Fitzwilliam make a nest there. He gestured wordlessly. And Dorian lay back down, head on a pillow, buried under a blanket. Fitzwilliam joined, facing the mage, smiling a quiet smile of contentment. Their hands entwined under the blanket and Fitzwilliam closed his eyes. He felt Dorian shift, and then felt the mage's lips on his own. The kiss they shared was gentle, fragile. When they parted Dorian kept his face close and said, "Thank you." Fitzwilliam could feel his breath on his face, warm and scented with whiskey.

"For?" The Inquisitor replied.

"I feel more… whole… right now, than I have in years," he said softly.

Fitzwilliam simply pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him and said, "You're not alone in that regard."

There was silence after that. Fitzwilliam felt Dorian's heart beat against him, his breath coming in slower increments, his muscles relaxing. And as he drifted off to sleep Fitzwilliam felt the mage nuzzle closer and say "Rest well, Amatus," before the darkness took them both to slumber.

AN: Longest chapter yet! Hope you enjoyed it. Thanks to all the people who have favorited or followed. And super extra thanks for reviewing. I don't like to ask for reviews but they sure are encouraging when I get them:) Happy Holidays!