Dorian's endeavour to research the ruins had borne no fruit. There was little information on them, and Leliana had not yet found a decent source to acquire more material. He sent letters to his lover from the outpost; the couriers often delivered three or four between them a day, and Fabriel felt himself grow more and more restless the longer the mage was apart from him. He started to send little packages of sweets at sunrise as a consolation for the miserable cold, and to let him know that he was thinking of him.

The Inquisitor denied his appeals to be sent ahead. He cited health reasons, and that so far none of the researchers had come across trouble. "The soldiers are enough," he told him, but it did not comfort him. It had been almost two weeks since Dorian had left Skyhold, and he would not sleep peacefully until he had returned. His disturbed rest concerned Solas as it meant both that his injuries healed more slowly, and that he could not exercise nor develop his newfound talent. Instead, he trained the soldiers in techniques to repel drake attacks. He was a strict leader, commanding footwork, timing, posture – and the men listened, even amidst their exhaustion.

He was in the courtyard that evening. The low-lying winter sun had all but set and the sky was coloured a beautiful amber-red, but despite the waning light soldiers trained near the gates, practicing the few techniques that he had shown them. The Dragon-Slayer walked between them, barking out instructions, criticisms, praise. His words spurred their struggle on.

"Fabriel," said Solas as he approached from the stairs, "This must end. You need to rest."

"I am resting," he replied.

"This is not resting. This is preparation for war."

"Now, now, apostate; our dear Dragon-Slayer is just prepping the men for the worst. It's a necessary evil."

Vivienne had observed the session that day, and found herself quite impressed with the traveller's attention to detail, his command of the soldiers in so short a space of time. He had an advantage, of course – as the Vessel, people were bound to hear him – but to do as he ordered was a different matter. When she had seen Solas approach she could not resist but to include herself in the conversation.

"This doesn't concern you, Enchanter." The elf rebuked her, and he did so in a manner that was meant to shut her out from further comment. But of course, Vivienne had no intention of submitting.

"If the Vessel's theory is proven true and we are dealing with a dragon so ancient as to be forgotten entirely, we'll need our soldiers on top form."

"Then send for Cullen. These are his men."

"The Dragon-Slayer is a part of the Inquisition now. They are our men. If he has the skills needed to help them survive, it is his burden to teach them. He understands the meaning of duty."

Solas turned towards her, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes stern, but before he could reply Fabriel quickly waved for silence.

"Enough!" he declared. "No one needs to hear two seasoned war veterans bickering like children."

"It's not bickering, my dear, merely a disagreement. That tends to happen when more than one person is included in discussion."

"I do not recall including you, Enchanter," Solas noted. The Dragon-Slayer let out an exasperated growl and made as though to return to his duties. "Fabriel, this cannot continue. You must accept your injuries and allow yourself time to heal."

"I'll rest after Dorian's come home." He replied, and then vanished into the mass of sparring soldiers. Solas and Vivienne watched them for a moment more, the elf unsatisfied and the enchanter enlightened.

"Ah," she said at length, "So it's not duty that drives our dear Vessel, but love."

"Do you not ever tire of your own voice?"

"No, I find it quite delightful. This does, however, pose a problem. Dorian could be needed in that system for weeks more, and if his paramour is finding it difficult in his absence—"

"I've no desire to discuss this with you."

Solas started towards the stairs, but Vivienne followed. She continued as they went, much to the elf's annoyance.

"Desires mean little," she said, "We must have a plan in place if the Vessel continues to push himself past his limits. The results could be a great deal more than undesirable."

"Coming from a woman who just argued that he should be pushing himself," Solas pointed out.

"Merely testing his loyalties, my dear. You've seen the Game, understand, at least to some extent, its moves. One must play the devil's advocate at times to see underneath the disguises we don."

The pair started up the final set of stairs towards the main fortress, and Vivienne hurried her pace to reach Solas' side. Once she had, she caught his arm to halt him.

"Solas, you must know that your recent confession has made its way through the Inner Circle. If people were to discover that the Dragon-Slayer is potentially elf-blooded, he stands to lose much of the respect he's cultivated."

"Of course," he said, "because humans can never see past one's heritage. Fabriel has burdened himself for two decades with protecting the innocent, losing much of his own life to ensure the lives of others. But no, it's not his actions that define him, but his blood."

"I cannot deny that that will be true for the majority. I can only assure you that that's not the opinion of all – it's certainly not mine. The Vessel has proven himself countless times and for that he has my admiration."

"Why are you telling me this, Vivienne?"

"Because, darling, the Dragon-Slayer is walking a fine line already by not denying his relationship with Dorian. If word were to somehow get out about his uncertain parentage, it could have disastrous effects – more so if he were unable to aid in the battle against whatever lies beneath our feet."

"The Inner Circle would not spread that information."

"Not intentionally, no. But do you trust all in the Circle not to blurt it out at some point in conversation? Sera in a drunken haze of lunacy, or Cole in one of his ramblings?"

"I…suppose not, no."

"Then we must do what we can to mitigate those effects."

"I understand. But you yourself saw how stubborn he is. He won't listen to reason."

"Then we must do what we have to in order for him to rest."

Solas' eyes narrowed and his brow lowered, distrustful of her tone. "What are you suggesting?"

"I would normally say that we should write to Dorian and unleash him on his paramour, but in these circumstances that's not an option – in a place as delicate as the ruins, unnecessary concern should be avoided. I can have a powerful sleeping draught prepared by tomorrow evening. It's guaranteed to work, but we will have to trick the Dragon-Slayer into drinking it."

"That's your solution? To drug him?"

"We can debate the ethics at a later date – now is the time for action. We cannot allow for him to continue the path he's on. He will suffer for it."

"Careful, Enchanter. You almost sound as if you care about him more than just his use as a potential weapon."

She smiled softly, "I assure you, this is a decision based purely on pragmatism."

Solas looked at his son in the courtyard below. Fabriel was once more calling out orders, and like spirits the soldiers moulded to his will, changing their direction, flow, and styles as and when he commanded it. It was as seamless as a well-practiced dance. He watched as their heads weaved to the beat of the fight. But the rider seemed tired; there were dark crescent moons under his eyes, powdered with a hue of purple, and every now and then his hand clutched as his stomach and he showed an imperceptible wince.

"Very well." He said. "I admit that not much else can be done. Fabriel is refusing reason and we must take matters into our own hands."

"I'll begin the draught right away. We must ensure he drinks it at full potency."

The Dragon-Slayer felt no lonelier than he did when he returned to an empty tower, and so he spent all of his free time in either the Rest or the rotunda. He was often without company, but the presence of the people around him and the hum of conversation sometimes distracted him from his thoughts.

He had dismissed the soldiers and returned to the rotunda that night, where he intended to read a letter sent by Dorian and comb through his research of the mountains. But when he entered into that low-lit hall, he found Solas waiting from him.

"Fabriel," he said, and seemed delighted to see him, "I was about to retire, but would you like some tea?"

"Isn't it unwise to drink tea before bed?" he asked as he approached.

"I won't pour myself some. I detest the stuff. I have some juice I prefer. Come, sit with me."

The rider sat in the chair opposite him, admiring the frescos that surrounded them as Solas went about preparing his drink. While he was preoccupied with them, the elf shielded one of the cups from his sight and emptied a small purple vial into the hot water. It glowed a deep magenta for a moment, then faded. He felt a little stab of guilt while he quickly slipped the vial into his pocket.

"I trust the training is going well?" he asked as he passed him his tea. The Dragon-Slayer's nose wrinkled.

"Their form leaves a lot to be desired," he said, taking the cup, "but they show promise. Drakes will have a difficult time overcoming them."

"At least there are some small consolations."

"Not yet. They will find it difficult, but not impossible. More training is needed. I would rather work them until their feet bleed than be lax and send them to their deaths."

"A wise decision, though I imagine some will not fully appreciate it until after it saves their lives."

Fabriel nodded as he sipped his tea, and his attention returned to the frescos on the wall. Solas noticed his staring.

"Ah, my work," he said. "Forgive the idiosyncrasies – it had been a long time since I painted anything."

"These are yours?"

"Yes. It's the Inquisitor's tale. These are his victories. I made them in my free time, usually after a battle. Damien is quite inspiring."

"As I've heard," Fabriel said. "I'm surprised at how typical he is, after all the stories."

"I imagine it's the same for those who meet you, Fabriel. Those stories paint heroes, not flawed people rising up in troubled times, shouldering the weight of war and sacrifice so that others can rest easily. They leave much of the tale out, to inspire, to mollify. In the end, there are no real heroes – just people who were in the wrong place at the right time."

"That's…a comforting thought," he said, and Solas saw his eyelids seemed heavier, his movements more laboured. His guilt increased incrementally the more he saw the draught's effects. "I've often felt out-of-place as the Vessel—Venhedis."

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"I'm just suddenly…so tired."

"Perhaps it's best you retire. We can continue this conversation another time."

"I—I have to read Dorian's letter. It's important."

"It can wait until you're rested."

"No, it's about the…ruins…"

Fabriel's head crashed on to the table with a loud thud, and he was asleep. Solas immediately rose to his feet and quickly checked his son, ensuring that there was no damage, as above him Vivienne appeared in the library from a side door.

"Did it work?" she called down once she noticed them. Solas looked up.

"Yes," he said, "though I fear our timing is as impeccable as ever."

His sarcasm caught her off guard, and soon she found herself hurrying down the stairs, meeting the elf at his desk as he propped Fabriel's head up with his cloak.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Just before he fell asleep, Fabriel mentioned Dorian had sent him a letter."

"One of multitudes, I assume."

"Yes, but he said it's about the ruins – and that it's important."

"Oh." Her expression changed, "That…does change things. Very well. We shall have to read this letter ourselves."

"First drugging him, now invading his privacy. I'm starting to feel as if this was not the wisest course of action."

"Hindsight is an irritating little creature. But we have no choice. Better to risk the Dragon-Slayer's ire than leave matters to Fate."

"Of course." He said, though he did not sound convinced. "We must move him first. We cannot leave him to sleep here."

"Why ever not?"

"It's not comfortable." His answer was short and firm, and Vivienne understood that she would not talk her way out of it. Instead, she decided to point out the obvious.

"The Dragon-Slayer's not exactly a light man, Solas. What do you suggest?"

"That you hold his legs and I hold his shoulders."

She sighed and conceded. "Fine. I suppose one must see things through to the end."

"Let's just hope your draught is as effective as you claim."