"The fourth Vessel was an elf," the Dragon-Slayer confirmed, in the soft firelight that burned from Dorian's brazier, "He was born in an alienage to a devout Andrastian family. His devotion made him somewhat of a pariah amongst his peers, as I recall."

"It seems rather odd that he was so faithful. The elves haven't exactly had a fair deal since the March."

"It does. Perhaps he had made his peace with history, or his family were afraid of the repercussions. It's not clear, and perhaps not even important. Athrahel was faithful – and it led to his death."

"Athrahel?"

"The fourth. Athrahel, the erased Vessel."

"An impressive title," said Dorian as he poured more wine. Through the window he could see little else but snow and ice, but the library was warm and comfortable, untouched by the cold of the mountains. "I wasn't surprised to see that Rosaline petitioned for his reinstatement. It must have been difficult, faced with all that prejudice."

"No more so than the prejudice you faced when you joined the Inquisition," the Dragon-Slayer replied. "Rosaline had a fire. She withstood the Chantry's discrimination and overcame it, no matter how difficult the task. Once she was a Vessel, she saw no reason for Athrahel to be left forgotten. He was one of us. History should acknowledge that."

Dorian raised his glass, his chin tilted upwards with a smile. "To Athrahel."

The Dragon-Slayer raised his own.

"Athrahel."

He finished his draught before than Dorian and took the time to admire him. He had impeccable fashion sense and clearly cared about his appearance; even his hair was clipped to perfection. He carried himself as a Tevinter – poise and elegance were key – but he had the air of a more cultured man, one who had seen and done things that his countrymen would not even dare imagine. His accent reminded him of home.

"But," said Dorian once he had set his wine down, returning his inquisitive eyes to the Dragon-Slayer, "we've spoken enough about them. Let's talk more about you. Are you settling in well?"

"Lady Montilyet made a great deal of effort in the tower, and she did well. It's not too…Inquisition. It will take some time to get used to, though – a place of my own."

"I'm sure it's different to what you're used to. We've a tavern, at least, so at least you can drink yourself into a stupor if you're finding the transition difficult."

"Perhaps you and I should head there once we're finished with this research," he suggested, "I need to meet the rest of the Inner Circle. I'm curious about Cole – the demon?"

"Spirit of compassion," Dorian corrected, "but he's much more…human, now." The Dragon-Slayer's eyebrows quirked. "It's hard to explain."

"The Inquisitor keeps strange company."

"He does."

"Dorian, tell me, did you truly walk through the Fade in the battle of Weisshaupt?"

The mage squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he took another long draw of his drink. Images of the battle burned into his mind – the corpses, the fighting, the blood. He had never spoken about it, not at length, but he felt comfortable in the Dragon-Slayer's presence. He seemed a man who had seen more than his fair share of gruesome sights.

"It is," he admitted, "It was…well, terrible's not quite the right word. It was beautiful, in its way, all those mountains in the air and buildings twisted in odd shapes. Even the demons were majestic, as much as demons can be. The entire time I felt as if I were outside of my body, but right next to it, feeling every emotion through a filter. Except fear. I was very, very afraid."

"Did you meet the Divine?"

"Damien believes it was a shred of her spirit, waiting for us to come through so she could help us one last time. I'm…not sure. It could have been. It could have also been just another spirit emulating what it saw of her."

The Dragon-Slayer nodded and peered into his wine. He was quiet for a moment, before he raised his head and locked eyes with his friend.

"I never met Divine Justinia," he admitted, much to Dorian's surprise, "I was meant to. She had sent letters, written me invitations to the Grand Cathedral. She said, 'Our Fates are bound to the Maker, and his servants should be open with each other.' I don't answer summons, thought, perhaps stupidly, she would serve on the Sunburst throne for years to come. There would be time, I told myself. I admired her tenacity, her attempts to stop the mage-templar war. I was travelling to the Conclave when she died. I wanted to help her."

Dorian smiled, "You said you were in Redcliffe."

"I did. I wasn't. The Divine's cause was noble and I felt it was time we met." He swirled his drink. "Too late, it appeared."

The Dragon-Slayer seemed melancholy, so Dorian did not respond. He waited for him to speak. There was no use in interrupting another person's regret, after all.

"She was an honourable woman. She had a past, certainly – but we all have a past."

Dorian rested his glass on his knee, "Yes. We all do."

The Dragon-Slayer leaned over to set his glass on the table, but had misjudged it. As he set it down, he accidentally tipped it over and sent the wine sprawling near the books.

"Venhedis!" he exclaimed, jumping to snatch them up. "Fasta vass! Kaffas!"

Dorian was stunned. He did not even think to help rescue his notes – the Dragon-Slayer's Tevene had shocked him. His pronunciation was almost flawless, and his accent was almost authentic. It sounded as if it was his first language, even from those brief curses.

"I apologise," the man said as he set the books aside, "I've saved what I could. Perhaps the wine can be mopped up somehow? I'll help you rewrite them if necessary."

"That—that was Tevene."

The Dragon-Slayer froze. He had not realised he had slipped into it. It was a relic; a memory of the past, his past. He used it only when necessary, and even then it still caused him pain. How could he have slipped up? How could he have used it then, when all the Inquisition was around him?

"Forgive me," he said as he turned and hurried away from him, "I must go."

Dorian called out for him to wait, but it was too late. The man had left the library and was soon out of the rotunda completely, the door closing shut behind him. Dorian's call echoed in the empty walls.

As he sat down, the mage's brain tried to figure out what had just happened. That Tevene had been so clear, so flawless that he could have sworn he would have heard it out of the mouth of his own countrymen. But this was not his countryman. This was a Free Marcher, a man of great legend, a Vessel of the Maker.

But it sounded so perfect.