Part Sixteen: Adamant

"There must be some mistake." Dorian turns the vellum over with a frown, but no – there's his name, in the usual atrocious penmanship. One would think the ability to write legibly would be a requirement for the role of Inquisition scribe, but apparently not.

"I don't think so, ser," the messenger says. "That is, it's addressed to you and all…" She points at Dorian's name, helpfully.

"I can see that," Dorian snaps, "but the orders are wrong. At the top here, it says, Inquisitor and a small insertion force to infiltrate the fortress."

"Yes, ser, on account of Commander Cullen reckons—"

"Whereas these orders position me outside the gates. You can understand my confusion, yes?"

"Er…" The messenger glances around the library, as if hoping someone will rescue her from the angry mage. "I don't write the orders, ser. Just the messenger, you know?" She smiles nervously.

"Then perhaps you could deliver a message for me. Please ask the Inquisitor if he would be so good as to stop by when he has a moment."

"Oh yes, ser, I will do that, ser, certainly." The messenger flees, leaving Dorian to fume in his little alcove. He has half a mind to set the vellum on fire and drop it over the railing, but that would be a trifle dramatic, even for him.

The elf arrives about an hour later, looking grim and distracted. He's looked that way for days, at least from what Dorian has seen of him, which has been very little indeed. For over a week now, the Inquisitor has been sequestered with his advisors in the War Room, often into the wee hours. On the rare occasions when he does emerge, he's distant and preoccupied, oscillating between anxiety and exhaustion. Dorian hardly recognizes the laughing, light-hearted lover he spent the night with after the tourney two weeks ago. The taste of salt and juniper is still sharp on his tongue, but "Dalish Day," as the event has come to be affectionately known, seems a distant memory.

The Inquisitor sags against the bookshelf and rubs his bloodshot eyes. "You summoned me, my lord?"

Dorian winces inwardly. He has, hasn't he? He feels foolish now, but he can't be distracted by it. "I did ask to speak with you, yes. I was hoping you might help me understand this." He holds out his orders for the assault on Adamant Fortress.

The Inquisitor glances briefly at the vellum, but he doesn't reach for it. He doesn't need to; they're his orders, after all. "What is it you don't understand?"

"I've been with the Inquisition for seven months now, and in all that time, do you know how often you've gone into battle without me?"

The elf looks away. Of course he knows.

Dorian reminds him anyway. "Never. Not once. And why? Because we're a bloody good team. Always have been, right from day one. And now suddenly, on the eve of the most important battle since Haven, I'm relegated to the rear lines. Why would that be? Will you not require the skills of a mage?"

"I'll have a mage," the Inquisitor says, still avoiding his eye. "Solas will—"

"Solas." Dorian folds his arms and nods at his boots, trying very hard to keep his temper in check. "Very competent, of course. Not, I daresay, quite as in tune with your methods as I am, but variety is the spice of life, as they say."

"The thing is—"

"Ah yes, good. I'm rather anxious to hear what the thing is, because I myself am at a loss to explain it. You see, I've been doing some reading on Adamant, and it appears to be one of the south's most impregnable fortresses. It will be stuffed to the ramparts with Grey Wardens and demons, and I shouldn't wonder if Corypheus himself puts in an appearance, along with his pet archdemon. All in all, it looks as though the Inquisition is in for rather a tough go of it."

"Yes," the elf says grimly. "We are."

"And yet you choose now, of all times, to banish me from your side, as if…" Dorian trails off as the significance of the Inquisitor's words sink in. "Unless that's the point."

He searches his lover's eyes, and the shadow he finds there is all the answer he needs.

"You're keeping me out of harm's way." Dorian's voice grows soft with disbelief. "You don't want me there because you're afraid I won't come back."

"I'm afraid none of us will come back." He says it with such weary resignation that Dorian's chest aches.

There's a beat of silence. Dorian swallows past the lump in his throat. "Then we won't come back together."

The elf closes his eyes briefly, as if in pain. "I can't… I can't, Dorian."

"I don't want to lose you either. That's why I need to be at your side."

"You can't protect me. And I can't protect you."

"Maybe not, but we can bloody well try. We are in this together, amatus. Until the end."

"The end might come sooner than you think." His voice is barely above a whisper now. He doesn't want his followers to hear. Though if they know him even a little, they'll read it all in his face, pale and drawn and etched with anticipated grief. He even looks thinner, Dorian thinks, his fine features just a little sharper than they should be.

"Either way," Dorian says, "I'm going to be there, and I don't want to hear any more nonsense about you charging off into battle without me. Where you go, I go." He says this last a little more fiercely than he meant to, and a few heads turn. One of them belongs to Vivienne, who's leaning out over the railing in a pose far too casual to be credible. How long has she been standing there?

"Those are your orders, are they?" The elf rubs his eyes again, but a ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth. Under the circumstances, Dorian counts that a victory.

"No, Inquisitor, those are your orders." He hands his lover the folded sheet of vellum. "And speaking of orders, eat something, will you? You're wasting away."

The elf gives an ironic salute and shuffles off. Or starts to, at any rate – he doesn't get far before he's intercepted by Vivienne. "A word, Inquisitor?" She beckons, siren-like, toward her balcony, and they disappear through the door.

Dorian follows. He doesn't approve of eavesdropping, of course, but shestarted it. What's good for the goose, et cetera.

"…absolutely crucial," Madame de Fer's voice floats back from the outer balcony as Dorian slips through the door. "If Corypheus succeeds in raising his demon army, all is lost."

"I'm aware of that," the Inquisitor says. "I saw the future at Redcliffe, remember."

"Quite. In which case, I'm sure you'll agree that the matter is too important to allow… how shall I put this delicately?… personal considerations to interfere with military decisions."

There's an icy silence.

"Is there something in particular you'd like to say, Vivienne?"

"Only that I trust you will have at least one mage at your side, and that you will ensure he or she is the best mage for the job."

"Ah," says the elf, and there's a dangerous note in his voice that Dorian hasn't heard in a long time. "In that case, you needn't be concerned. I will certainly make sure to have the best mage for the job."

"I'm glad to hear it, my dear."

"Which will always be Dorian. Unless I require two mages, in which case it will be Dorian and Solas. Is that all, or did you wish to discuss something else?"

Another icy silence.

"I thank you for your counsel as always, Madame Vivienne." Dorian catches a glimpse of the mocking bow. "Good afternoon."

If the Inquisitor spots Dorian during his glorious exit, he doesn't let on. Vivienne, meanwhile, doesn't look the least bit surprised to find him leaning against the wall when she steps back inside. "You deserved that, of course," Dorian says languidly. "Even so, I suspect he'll be angry with himself later. If you play your cards right, you might even wheedle a favour out of him."

Vivienne makes an elegantly dismissive gesture. "My feelings are not so delicate as that, my dear."

He'll say this for her: if her indifference is feigned, it's artfully done.

"Frankly, I'm rather impressed. I didn't know he had it in him."

"Nor did I, honestly." The elf has always been fierce with his enemies, but at Skyhold, he is every inch the diplomat. Usually.

"It is a rather worrying sign, though, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"Come now. Even you, as besotted as you are, cannot fail to grasp the significance of such uncharacteristic behaviour. It would seem that our dear Inquisitor is beginning to crack."

Dorian's smile is a sheathed blade. "I'd be careful about repeating that were I you."

Madame de Fer doesn't even blink. "I have no need to repeat it, for the words have already reached their intended audience. Do with them as you will. In your place, however, I would waste no time seeking out some very strong glue." With that, she swans back out onto the balcony.

She is, Dorian thinks, the most comprehensive bitch. It should trouble him, perhaps, that a viper like that has somehow wormed her way into the Inquisitor's inner circle.

What troubles him a great deal more, however, is that she may be right.