Dorian loved the colour of the Dragon-Slayer's eyes. Perhaps he should have focused more on his research, but he found himself admiring him as the rider leafed through the pages of an Imperium peer journal. Concentration was written all over his face, as if his life depended on those little footnotes, the names of the Old Gods, the Pentaghasts. Their Calenhad interpretation was still to arrive, courtesy of the Iron Bull, but he drowned himself in what little they and the creature research team could pull up about dragons in the mountains.

"The Avvar will know more," he murmured, half to himself, "I'll have to see if I can make contact with a Thane."

"Or," Dorian ventured, "you could ask Damien if he'd use some of his connections. He does know a few Avvar holds."

The Dragon-Slayer looked up and smiled at him, though it was thin and weary. He had been pouring over notebooks for days; Dorian had had to force him to rest, and often he had returned to the rotunda before first light. In the light of the braziers the dark crescent moons under his eyes were like shadows, deep and ominous, shadowing his fight against sleep.

"Perhaps we can do that in the morning. It's quite late."

"I've still some more to read," the rider replied as he returned to his notes, "Go and sleep, Dorian. There's no reason for you to be up as well."

He closed the journal he had rested on his lap and leaned forward to his friend, "This won't disappear overnight."

"No," he chuckled, "That's why it must be done."

"Hm."

Dorian sat back in his chair. He tented his fingers, crossing one leg over the other with a charming if sly smile. "Perhaps you'd prefer a different bed. Mine is excellent. Goose-down, Tevinter silks. I had it imported, on the Inquisitor's coin of course. Certainly better than the one you have in the tower, if you've a mind to see."

The Dragon-Slayer chuckled, "You're trying to tempt me."

"Is it working?"

He rubbed his eyes, trying to urge the sleep from them. "This is too important to wait."

"Perhaps I'd understand if you told me what exactly we're looking for."

The rider paused and looked at his friend. He had told the Inquisitor he would not reveal his theory to anyone, but with Dorian he felt…safe. If there were one person in the hold he would tell, it would be him. After all, he had sat up with him night after night, researching what little information the archives held. He dropped the quill in his hand and sat back, clasping his hands together, his face unreadable.

"Tell me, Dorian – what do you know of Great Dragons?"

"Ancient High Dragons that pre-date the rise of modern society."

"Correct," he said, "But some are thought to pre-date the Neromenians themselves. These are creatures so intelligent and powerful that a single one could wipe out half on Thedas. I've never encountered one. It's believed by most that they're either extinct, or no dragon has lived long enough to reach that stage."

"But…"

"But this soldier…it worries me. High Dragons have large harems, yes, and it's not unheard of for those harems to house drakes at different stages of life, but these wounds were so varied – I've never seen it so apparent. Perhaps it's just a High Dragon nearing its clutching, but I won't deny that there's something there. Something that feels strange to me."

"Do you believe it's a Great Dragon? If so, that's a monumental discovery. The implications behind it—"

"It would be terrible for all of Thedas," the rider interrupted, "and it must die. The problem is that there's so little research available in terms of academics; most of what can be learnt is based on legend, and then we have to contend with embellishment, flourish, outright lies muddying the information pool. It's a difficult position we find ourselves in."

"Is that the reason you've been reading up on the Old Gods?" Dorian asked. He had noticed some 'forbidden' literature at his desk once, though he had tried to hide it under more accepted resources.

"I thought perhaps I could compare the Old Gods to the legends and see if it would lead me to more," he explained, "but so far it hasn't helped."

"The Qunari tale, then?"

"In the Qun, it's taught that Calenhad gained enormous power through drinking the blood of a Great Dragon. According to them, this is how he was able to secure so many victories. I want to read the story and see – however small the chance – if I can pinpoint the exact location this dragon was found. Perhaps there will still be remnants of it, if it has any truth at all."

Dorian tilted his head, his lips pursed and a thoughtful expression on his face, "It's not much to go on."

"No, and even the rumour of a Great Dragon would cause mass panic. This must be kept a secret, Dorian, at least until we know more."

"If it's important to you, I won't mention it," the mage said, "but you should tell Damien. He's seen more than his fair share of impossible things. This would just add to the list."

"Once I can confirm it, he'll be the first to know. Until then it would be an unnecessary burden."

"Another that you shoulder alone."

The Dragon-Slayer rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat. Dorian had read some of his entries in the Vessels' journal; he often spoke of the burden placed upon him at so young an age, to tout the Maker in every word he said, every decision he made. It was an intimate view of the man, and Dorian appreciated the trust that he had put in him – even if he was concerned.

"Well, it's late and I'm exhausted," Dorian stood, "The offer still stands, if you'd like."

He smiled, "Not tonight. Another time."

He moved to leave, but as he passed the rider reached out and gently clutched his forearm.

"I mean it, Dorian. Not tonight, but soon."

His eyes were sincere and full of promise. The mage felt his heart soften at the sight of them. He leaned in, softly pecking his lips as his hands slid along his shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze.

"I'll hold you to that," he said, before he stood and left towards the stairs. The Dragon-Slayer watched him until he had disappeared out of sight. He wanted so much to abandon his notes and follow, but there was too much to do – too much at stake if even a fraction of his theory was true.

So he returned to his work.

The hour was late. It was soon to be dawn, and the Dragon-Slayer had not yet retired to bed. He had found himself reading reports of odd seismic activity in the mountainside, and when he had stolen a map from Helisma's table he could start to section off the exact areas that were affected. He used several red pins tied off with twine – the parts of the Frostbacks that he thought were most likely to see more of the quakes, and in the middle he drew a large question mark, hoping that perhaps it meant something more.

"Are you still awake?"

The voice startled him. The rider went to stand, half-unsheathing a blade, before he realised Cole was standing sombrely near the door, as quiet as a mouse.

"Cole," he breathed as he sat back down, "I didn't hear you come in."

"No one ever does." He replied. "I heard you. You're very loud."

"I wasn't doing anything."

"Great wings in the dark, a river flowing too fast, a man with a boy's face, larger than he is, fighting against a current of prayers and duty…"

"Dorian warned me you might do that," the Dragon-Slayer rubbed rhythmic circles into his temples.

"He likes you. Very much. But he doesn't know all of you. Not yet."

He sighed, "Enough, Cole."

"It can be hard, to let people remember you. I can help. Wishing for something that can never be, stealing kisses under the raven's eye – what's in a name, what is my name?"

The spirit paused and looked at him, his arms crossed as he lowered his head. The brim of his hat covered his eyes.

"I know your name, Fabriel," he said, "Does it help?"

The rider was stunned. He had not heard his name in years; and even then he could only remember his mother calling for him in the madness, screaming at him to run. He felt his fists tighten, and suddenly he was on his feet, stealing towards Cole with a fire in his eyes.

"How do you know that name?!" he demanded. The spirit did not flinch from him, though he seemed surprised.

"I heard you," he said.

"I haven't spoken that name in two decades," he replied. "Where did you find it?! Tell me."

"I heard you," Cole asserted, "You want to forget, but you can't. It's the buzz in the back of your mind, screaming out, crying for light. It remembers you."

The answer was unexpected, and immediately his anger dissipated and the Dragon-Slayer felt himself deflate. He sighed and shook his head.

"Don't repeat that name again," he said. "That life is gone. It's dead."

"It doesn't care. It wants to live." There was a pause. "I won't tell."

"Thank you."

The Dragon-Slayer put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing and shaking it gently as he bowed his head. The sound of his name had brought a flood of memories with it. When he spoke again, his voice was choked with tears.

"Thank you."