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 21

They had separated after their unceremonious arrival in a dusty storage room. Fitzwilliam needing to arrange communications and, apparently, have it out with Morrigan after their confrontation regarding the Well. They were already arguing before the others had cleared out of the room. For his part, Dorian could not stop thinking about the conversation he had had with the elf, Abelas. It had rolled about in his mind until he decided to take a lamp to the library below and see if he could not find some records to support the claims that the Tevinter Imperium had not been to blame for the fall of Arlathan.

As amazing as the library was Dorian found he preferred not to stay in it for extended periods of time. It was too dark, too dry, and too… well, too exact. The temperature never altered, it was neither cool nor warm, and the only light came from the lamp, removing his ability to tell the time by the passing of the sun. Sitting there reading for an hour felt like it had been both a day and mere moments because of the complete absence of any gauge for change. After that he had decided he would pack up the few promising tomes he had pulled down and retire to his usual spot in the rotunda library.

That had been hours ago and now the sun was setting. He'd found scraps of Abelas's truth scattered through the texts he'd gathered and poured over as the day waned. For the hundredth time he ran the meeting through his head.

"So… you're elves from ancient times? Before the Tevinter Imperium destroyed Arlathan?" Fitzwilliam asked carefully, his voice echoing around the decoratively tiled chamber. Elves behind them held drawn bows, ready to loose their arrows and strike the intruders down.

Abelas shook his head, and his words set Dorian's head spinning. "The Shemlen did not destroy Arlathan. We Elvhen warred upon ourselves. By the time the doors to this sanctuary closed, our time was over."

"Wait," Dorian interjected. "That's not right. What are you saying?" He must have misunderstood.

"You would not know the truth," Abelas said dismissively. "Shemlen history is as short as the pool of your years."

Dorian wanted to object. He had known Vintish history was more propaganda than truth but…well if what he knew wasn't the truth then what was? "What did the Imperium do then? Are you saying it wasn't a war?"

"The 'war' of carrion feasting upon a corpse, yes," Abelas drawled.

Dorian stared at the book in his hands not really seeing the letters. His head was too full of the implications of this. Until Abelas and the Well, until now the idea of going home had been a distant dream. Something he had longed for, but was ultimately a useless fantasy. Tevinter's history was too long, too bloody. There was nothing redeemable. Or so he had thought. Now, knowing Arlathan had succumbed to infighting… that, according to the texts the early Imperium had done little more than seize a fallen land… Maker, they weren't conquerors – they were scavengers. Their great legacy, the thing upon which every law and custom in the Imperium was based... it was all a lie. He had the texts, he had the proof. That ridiculous dream had just become a possibility and it called to Dorian like some mythical nautical beast luring his ship to the rocks.

Vishante kaffas, he swore inwardly. He knew what this meant and he didn't want to think about it. Of course, try not to think of it made it dominate his thoughts.

The red curtain pulled back with the gentle swish of velvet and Fitzwilliam walked in.

…

The Inquisitor approached the alcove in the library. He wasn't sure what had brought him here, now. Perhaps it had been drinking from the Well. The knowledge that floated about in his head. The power he could feel but not access. The way Dorian had sounded when he'd fainted, terrified and lost and pleading. When they had arrived back here he had had to leave the mage immediately to deal with the backlash of their mission. Arrange for the safe return of their troops and Cullen, and explain to Morrigan, once again, that he had to drink from the Well. They simply had not had time to fight the elf if they wanted to get away without facing Coryphaeus. Now he just felt like he needed to make sure all was well with Dorian. He pulled the curtain back.

Yes, there he was. In that over-sized chair, reading, just where he had expected to find him. Fitzwilliam opened his mouth to speak but Dorian looked up and beat him to it. "What happened at the elven temple... it's got me thinking. I should go back, shouldn't I? To Tevinter." He stood, and tucked the purple-covered book into the back of his belt. "Once this is all done... if we're still alive."

The Inquisitor blinked, speechless, and Dorian walked past him, gaze lingering, to the balcony. For a moment Fitz made no move to follow. The mage continued from behind him. "All my talk of how terribly wrong things are back home, but what do I do about it? Nothing." Fitz managed to turn and look at him, but he needn't have done. He could hear it there as plainly as looking – the self-loathing in his mage's voice. Dorian put his back to the banister and leaned against it. His body language was casual. From a distance an observer would think they were having a normal chat, not fighting for their future.

He wanted to smack some sense into the mage, but he was clearly already struggling. And must have been for quite some time if he had blurted it out like this. He was usually so careful with his words. Each one used to purpose, placed just so with just the right inflection. So instead of all of the things he wanted to say – like "shut up" and "stop being an idiot" and "kiss me" – Fitzwilliam composed himself and said, "You're not doing nothing Dorian. You came here. You're fighting with us."

That garnered a small smile from him, Fitzwilliam could see it shining in his eyes, sincere and real. He'd been touched by those words. After all this time he was still unused to praise. "Thank you for saying that," he said, voice full of sincere emotion. Then he took a deep breath and seemed to steel himself against what was to come next. "I want to do more than stop Coryphaeus, however. I want to save my home."

Fitzwilliam nodded. "I know that, Dorian. But I'm afraid I don't understand what this has to do with what happened at the temple."

Dorian dropped his gaze to the floor and rubbed the back of his neck. Fitzwilliam was keenly aware, in that moment, how desperately he would miss seeing that quirk of frustration from the mage. "I've been spinning that around in my head for hours," he confessed with a sigh. "We encountered ancient elves. A piece of history, something the Imperium didn't destroy. Maybe my people can atone for what we've done. Maybe… maybe there is something still left to restore." He sounded so hopeful of that. He smiled at Fitz for a moment, but it was short-lived. His next words were bitter. "And that elf, Abelas, he said the Imperium wasn't what destroyed the elves. My people would never accept that. It would reduce us to scavengers, destroy our legacy no matter how terrible. But we should accept it, Fitzwilliam. Take our history down a peg, confront the legacy hanging over us like a shroud. Maybe not all of us want to, but that could be altered. If you can change minds, so can I." He had never heard the mage speak with such conviction. It sent a shiver down his spine. In that moment Fitzwilliam believed him. Believed Dorian could actually do what he said.

But he couldn't help but wonder – how much of this plan was certainty and how much was fear. Was he just trying to run away again? Maybe he didn't feel his place here as strongly as he once did. Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe the revelation about the Lenen'hima'sa had been too much, perhaps it had pushed his limits. Fitz knew it had shaken him. It was frightening to be so dependent on the mage. "Well," Fitzwilliam said lightly, a vain attempt to restore their usual repartee. "Someone with your impeccable taste could transform Tevinter."

The mage huffed a soft laugh. "I hope you're right. You usually are." He paused for a moment, and then said in a soft voice, "It might surprise you to know you're the one who inspired me."

That was the moment when he realized Dorian was serious about this. He wasn't just considering leaving – he was actively planning on it. "You would just … leave?" The words came out heavy and shocked, as blunt as the realization had been. "What about…" He'd at least thought he'd get a say in this. Especially now with this mysterious bond of which they knew far too little.

"Us?" Dorian asked with a sad smile. Fitz nodded. Us. "Trust me, Amatus, it would give me no pleasure to leave your side." He looked at him, eyes pleading and sorrowful. They begged for understanding Fitzwilliam wasn't sure he could give. "You make monumental decisions affecting the entire world. How can I not consider some of my own?"

He felt the anger bubbling up inside him. He hadn't chosen to be the person to make those decisions. It had been thrust upon him. It was unfair to use that against him. He knew this sudden burst of ire was irrational. Logically, he had always known this was a possibility. Dorian had always loved him homeland. He'd been a man grieving for it not that long ago. And now he'd discovered it wasn't dead or lost. But this just felt so sudden. He wasn't ready. "I'm not asking you not to," he began slowly but stopped. With his growing emotional state it might be best to retreat into the semi-privacy of his chambers. He turned and walked to the stair, motioning for Dorian to follow. They walked the hall in silence, then entered the room, a room that held so many cherished memories. Tender words and lingering kisses, and passionate embraces. The door clicked, latching behind them.

Fitzwilliam moved to the corner, having spotted the decanter, and poured himself a drink out of reflex. He downed the warm amber liquid in one go and then refilled it, adding a second glass and handing it to Dorian. They were both silent for a time. Fitzwilliam, leaning against the stone wall, considering what to say next. Dorian fidgeting, resting in a half-sitting position on a corner of the desk unoccupied by reports. Finally, Fitzwilliam spoke. "Why don't I come with you?" He wanted to grimace as soon as the words left his lips. It was downright childish. He had a responsibility to the Inquisition. He had lived his life by the law that duty was something greater than he was. But he had given up so much already. Surely, he could find a way to be true to himself and his duty.

But Dorian was shaking his head. "Take you away from all this?" He said lightly, gesturing to nothing in particular. "I can't ask that of you."

It bothered him that Dorian was affecting this casual air. He could feel the tension in the mage. Something he had been feeling for days but hadn't understood until Abelas had explained the Lenen'hima'sa. He wasn't just attuned to Dorian's feelings. He was feeling them. Though Fitz knew this was painful for him, Dorian still acted as if this was nothing, simply an inevitable conversation that had finally arrived. "You're not asking," Fitzwilliam practically growled, his fingers gripping the heavy tumbler of whiskey more tightly. "I'm offering."

"Tempting," Dorian said, voice pinched with pain. Fitzwilliam could feel the sharpness of that word through the bond and it shot all the way up his spine. The mage fought against it as earnestly as any battle in the waking world, as silent struggle Fitz could feel warring within him. Dorian took a sip of the liquor and lowered the glass, hissing through his teeth on the inhale. The throbbing from earlier lessened as he spoke again. His voice was firm, not cruel exactly, but it brooked no argument, "But we both know you would end up doing it all yourself. In Tevinter I am just another outcast from a well-respected house. You are the Inquisitor. As much as watching my homeland beaten into submission would amuse me… this is something I need to do."

Fitzwilliam wanted to throw the glass at his head. Even though he understood Dorian's concerns, he would hardly just walk into Tevinter and take it over. He finished the drink and put the tumbler down before he did just as he wanted and loosed it toward the mage. Then, with a little push, he moved from his spot against the wall and turned to look out the large glass windows. "Dorian," he said slowly, forcing a calm he didn't feel. "You're being shortsighted. We just learned about this bond. We don't know what it means… what the repercussions of putting leagues of distance between us might be."

He heard the shuffle of Dorian's movements, the light clunk of the glass being put on the desk, the soft sounds of his footfalls moving closer. Fitzwilliam wanted nothing more than to embrace him, to feel the reassuring warmth that had accompanied his touch long before the Lenen'hima'sa. But he didn't, he crossed his arms and looked out over the Frostbacks instead. He could feel Dorian's breath against his neck now, but the mage did not reach out for him either. One conversation, one that wasn't even finished, and they were worlds apart.

"I…" Dorian started hesitantly. "You're right, and I'll make sure to research that while I'm here. But once we beat Coryphaeus…"

"Thought you were betting against us," Fitzwilliam said dryly. He had meant for it to be a joke, but it fell flat, sounding more like a reprimand. He hated this, he felt so immature, petulant. He couldn't keep his emotions in line. It hardly helped that he was feeling the mage's too, just on the edge of his consciousness, trying to pull him in and drown him.

Dorian sighed and then his hands were on his shoulder, turning Fitzwilliam to face him. "I knew," he began, voice tender, "that this would be hard on you. I'm sorry for that, Fitzwilliam, truly. But Tevinter needs me."

"I need you," Fitz blurted out, his voice broke under the strain of the emotion in that raw admission. "I need you by my side, now more than ever." He dropped his head against Dorian's shoulder helplessly. He felt the mage's chest bounce slightly as a small puff of laughter escaped him. He dropped a kiss atop Fitzwilliam's head, lips lingering.

"Emotional blackmail is a fine thing to pull out of your arsenal," Dorian drawled playfully, lips still resting against his hair.

Fitzwilliam lifted his head up, eyes panicked. "I didn't mean it like that, I just…"

Dorian laughed again and bowed his head to capture the Inquisitor's lips in a short kiss of affectionate apology. "I'm joking," he said when they parted. "I'll think on it. Closely," he vowed. "This is your fault, remember."

"My fault," Fitzwilliam parroted. "You keep saying that. I fail to see how."

"You inspired me with your marvelous antics," he explained with a forced smile. "You're shaping the world... for good or ill. How could I aspire to do any less?"

I had hoped we would do it together, Fitzwilliam thought achingly. I couldn't have done this without you… But he couldn't say any of that. The words would not come.

"If it means proving Tevinter can be better," Dorian continued, "that there's hope even for my homeland? I would do anything, Amatus. I would give up anything."

Fitzwilliam pulled away, breaking contact entirely. Dorian's arms fell to his sides. "Even if you don't have to?" He asked angrily. "Are you really so captivated by hurting that you would cast me aside unnecessarily?" He saw Dorian flinch at his words, his gaze drawn to the floor.

"I just don't see," he said softly, "how to make it work with you there. You have to be here to run the Inquisition, at least part of the time. It's not an easy journey. And I can't effect change from here. I…" he trailed off weakly.

"Well I can't accept that," Fitzwilliam said. "I won't. This… this isn't over," he promised. Then Fitzwilliam strode to the door, pulled it open, and left, letting it slam shut behind him. He could feel the aching on the other side of the door, where Dorian was, noticing for the first time that he could use the bond to feel the general location of the mage, like north on a compass. He tucked that thought away for later examination and continued down the walkway.

He wasn't sure where he was going until he arrived in the undercroft. Dagna and Harrit looked up as he entered but their greetings were lost on him. He moved to the dwarf. "You have a mission," he said to her. She blinked up at him, looking a bit like a startled woodland animal, but she seemed to be listening. "The pet projects you are working on with Doctus Dexsius," he said in a low voice, "I want you to start developing them."

Dagna's mouth fell open and worked silently for a moment. Finally, she managed to speak, "Inquisitor, those are theories at best. The resources needed to make them realities…"

"Are yours," Fitzwilliam assured. "No matter what it takes. I want the Transmitter and the other device working as soon as possible."

"Well," she said slowly. "The Transmitter is already working. Dexsius figured it all out in a few days. But the other device… Inquisitor it's going to be amazing! If… if it's possible."

Fitzwilliam crouched to look her in the eyes on her own level. Not a superior looking down at her, but an equal. "I've already called for the return of Gereon Alexius," he confided in a low voice. Understandably, the woman looked shocked and mildly horrified. "He will be invaluable. You heard about how Dorian and I were sent forward in time?" She nodded silently. "It's all true. Alexius did that. We'll be careful, never showing him enough of the information for him to make use of it. And he will be under strict guard. But you will have him." For all the worry in her eyes, Dagna also looked excited. She nodded. "You also mentioned another enchanter you know," Fitzwilliam said, pulling information from a conversation they had had back when the dwarf had first arrived in Skyhold. "I'm going to try to track him down. I want you to tell Leliana anything you know about… what was his name?"

"Sandal," she answered quietly. "Of course, Inquisitor."

"Good," he sighed, standing. "I'll also be sending you Morrigan's research on the Eluvians," he continued hurriedly. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you this is all need to know," he paused, waiting for her curt nod. "Good. I don't need everything functioning by the time we beat back Coryphaeus," he said, "but I will need to see results. Do you think you can handle this?"

Dagna nodded her head enthusiastically, a wide smile breaking across her face. "Thank you!" She shouted. And then she dove forward and hugged Fitzwilliam about his waist, knocking the wind out of him. He hugged her back, awkwardly, due to their difference in height, and laughed softly, feeling the weight of impending loss lessen slightly. Dagna pulled back and turned, practically running to her work station and gathering her notes before making her way to the corner room where Dexsius's workshop was located.

He walked up the long cold stair of the undercroft feeling more at ease now that he had set actionable steps into place. He was not willing to let Dorian go without a fight. This was hardly the end, of course. Even with four magical geniuses working on this, Fitz knew it was going to eat up a large chuck of his free time. Between the project, assassin training with Leliana, and the ever-present war against Coryphaeus and his agents, he was fairly sure he'd be too busy to do anything but sleep. It's worth it, he told himself. If Dagna, Dexsius, Sandal, and Alexius could make the device work… well the travel part of Dorian's excuse would fall apart. Now he just needed to address the litany of other justifications. He needed a way to convince Dorian he would be too busy to interfere with his plans. Something that would render the Inquisitor unable to "beat Tevinter into submission."

He stopped about midway up the stairway, remembering something Dorian had said ages ago, back when Fitzwilliam's training had only just started.

"I heard a little rumor about you," the mage said as Fitzwilliam approached the top of the library stair.

"Is that so?" The Inquisitor asked, amused.

"Indeed," Dorian replied. "Someone has been doing some training." His voice lowered to something that wouldn't carry. "As an assassin no less," he said conspiratorially.

"The skills are useful," Fitzwilliam said carefully, attempting to gauge the mage's feelings on the matter.

"I'll say," he said with a smirk. "With the amount of killing you do a bit of flair is a fine thing."

Fitzwilliam's mouth opened in protest. "I don't kill that many people!"

Dorian laughed loudly, drawing attention before he managed to stifle it and revert to their more convert conversation. "Sorry," he said, voice still strained with the effort of holding back the amusement. "It's just that… Are you joking, Amatus? I'm only surprised you didn't kill someone walking over here." Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes and the mage held up a placating hand. "I apologize," he said. "Making fun was not my intention. At any rate, I only meant to say that if you ever intend to make an actual profession of it, do tell me. The Antivan Crows have nothing on the Imperium. I know people. Keep it in mind."

Fitzwilliam shook his head, clearing it of the memory, and resumed his climb with renewed purpose. It was time to find Leliana.

AN: Well, I submitted my rough draft for the Dragon Age: Big Bang AND surprisingly managed to pull this together also! So, happy Friday, I guess! I have to finish the DABB submission by May 2nd, so we'll just have to see how updating goes.

Leave comments! This is an important chapter and one I struggled with writing. So feedback will be MOST welcome. Have a wonderful weekend!

~Love!