Part Ten: The price
The Qunari ruins the ambush, snagging his horns on a branch and alerting a nearby sentry. The scout dies before he can give the alarm, brought down by one of the Inquisitor's daggers, but it's too late: The commotion has drawn the attention of the guard at the gate, and it's on.
Dorian counts four pouring through the gate and three more on the ramparts, plus however many are still holed up inside the fort. He takes a heartbeat to situate each of them, and then he unleashes his power, targeting the nearest guard. Frost tingles along his fingers as he draws on the Fade, first pulling, then pushing until a layer of ice bristles over the man's armour, slowing his movements. The Iron Bull can take it from there; Dorian's attention is needed elsewhere. The Inquisitor and Cole are both locked in one-on-one battles, leaving them open to the archers on the ramparts. Dorian closes his eyes briefly, mutters a word, and sets the wooden palisades on fire. That certainly gets everyone's attention, and now a great brute of a knight comes lumbering out of the gate, trailed by a pair of flunkies.
They're closing fast. Dorian fans his fingertips, letting the energy build, and with a gesture, sends a flash of lightning sizzling toward the flunkies. It strikes one and arcs to the other, leaving them gasping and twitching. They're easy prey after that, and the rogues are on them like wolves. Six dead on the ground now, and the smell of roasted flesh from the ramparts. That leaves only the man they came here to kill, the lumbering chevalier with the greatsword. He charges the Inquisitor, winding up for a blow that will scythe through the elf like ripe wheat if it lands.
Which it almost certainly won't. The elf is far too quick, at least most of the time. The Qunari is there, and Cole too. But Dorian isn't taking any chances. He slams his staff into the ground and pulls once more, compressing, weaving, the air glittering with frost as the spell coalesces around the charging chevalier. Bull throws himself into a counter-charge, readying his maul as the enemy's armour begins to cloud over with ice. Even now, Dorian doesn't spare the power, gritting his teeth with exertion as he binds it into a burning vortex of cold. By the time the Qunari's blow falls, the chevalier is as brittle as porcelain, and he explodes into tiny sparkling shards of fuck you.
There's a stretch of silence, interrupted only by the cheerful trill of birdsong. Dorian tilts his head, considering the pile of ice crystals at their feet. "Who was this again?"
Bull snorts out a laugh. He assumes Dorian is joking. The Inquisitor, meanwhile, eyes him through the slats of his helm.
"You're fast today, Dorian," Cole says brightly.
"Somebody put his shit-kicking boots on this morning," the Qunari agrees, giving Dorian's shoulder an appreciative thump that sends him staggering.
"Yes, it's amazing what a little concentration will do." Dorian leans on his staff as a wave of light-headedness washes over him. "You might consider trying it next time we're attempting to sneak up on someone."
"You'd better sit," the Inquisitor says, gesturing at one of the massive tree roots sprawled behind them. "You're exhausted."
"I'm fine."
"Sit. Bull, you and Cole do a sweep inside the fort. Make sure there are no surprises."
"You got it, boss."
The elf waits until the others are out of earshot. Dorian can't see much of his face, but there's no mistaking the wry curve of his mouth beneath the helm. "Do you ever actually listen to the briefings?"
"It depends what I had for breakfast."
"You have no idea who that was, do you?" The elf gestures at the melting bits of chevalier.
"Does it matter? He was trying to kill you. Now he's a refreshing meal for the local wildlife."
"I appreciate that, but it wasn't necessary. The three of us had it well in hand."
"Forgive me, but I have no intention of trusting your fate to a spirit that talks to goldfish and a man who can't keep his own horns from becoming tangled in the shrubbery."
"Dorian." The elf sighs. "This can't go on. I know you want to protect me, but I can't have you using three spells when one will do. You'll burn yourself out, and then you'll be no good to anyone."
"Nonsense. I'll still look dashing."
"Hard to look dashing when we're dragging you back to camp on a litter because you're too exhausted to stand."
"Oh, I don't know. I rather fancy being borne about on a palanquin. I'll eat grapes and wave to the commoners."
The Inquisitor yanks off his helmet and gives Dorian an exasperated look, and for a moment Dorian is transported back to that day in Redcliffe, in the chantry, when he'd laid eyes on the fabled Herald of Andraste for the first time. He'd been exhausted then too, completely spent, beating the demons back with his inert staff like some squire practicing with a polearm. The Inquisition had arrived just in the nick of time, routing the demons and sealing the rift, leaving Dorian to catch his breath and quietly congratulate himself on still being alive. A pair of arresting blue-green eyes had assessed him from behind a mask of steel. Then the Herald had lifted his helmet free, and Dorian lost his breath all over again. He wasn't sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn't the most beautiful man he'd ever seen, and it snatched the carefully prepared speech right off his tongue. Then, of course, he'd done what he always did when flustered, which was to become an obnoxious caricature of himself. The Herald was not amused.
"Are you even listening to me?" The Inquisitor is not amused.
"Were you talking? I'm sorry, I was distracted."
"Dorian…"
He levers himself up with his staff and meets the elf's eye, serious now. "You listen to me, Inquisitor, and listen well. I am your loyal servant, and I will follow your orders in all things – except this. Out here, I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, whether you like it or not. That is the price."
The elf knits his brow. "The price?"
"For my heart, you stupid man! You cannot ask me to love you and then expect me to risk losing you."
The Inquisitor stares at him, a confounding brew of emotions churning behind his eyes. He starts to say something and stops. Then he stabs a finger at the still-sparkling pile of metal and meat. "His name was Augustin," he growls, and stalks off to find the others.