Part Seventeen: Strong glue
"I admit that I would have chosen differently," Cassandra says in her usual clipped tones. "I am not sure the Wardens deserve another chance, and they are still vulnerable to Corypheus. But it is not the first time I have had reservations about the Inquisitor's decisions, and his judgment has proven sound so far. Maker willing, it will prove so again."
"And in the meantime, nobody's got to answer for it." Sera scowls into her tankard of ale. "Hundreds of throats cut, and those that did the cutting, or just stood around with their cods in their hands while it was going on, get to just walk away like nothing ever happened. Not saying he was wrong, but it's shit, yeah?"
Dorian looks up from his own empty tankard, fully aware of the dark glint in his eye. He's been listening to his companions analyse the Inquisitor's decision for an hour now, masticating it over and over like a ram chewing its cud, and he's had enough. "I expect Stroud felt he answered for it in the end," he says tartly. "Or have we forgotten him already?"
"But that's the point, innit? He's not the one who did the throat-cutting. He shouldn't've had to pay the price."
"And the Inquisitor shouldn't have had to send a friend to his death, or been the one to decide the fate of every Grey Warden in southern Thedas, but such is life." Dorian pushes his chair back. "Excuse me, everyone, but if I have to go round on this carousel one more time, I'm going to be sick."
The sun is setting as he steps outside the tavern. It's been a long day of travel back to Skyhold, and he briefly considers turning in for the night, but instead, he heads back to the main keep. The Inquisitor is probably still shut up with his advisors, debriefing them on the events at Adamant, but Dorian will wait for him for as long as it takes. His amatus needs him.
He enters the keep just in time to see the elf disappear into his quarters - pursued by Solas, who's crossing the hall in long, angry strides. He's been waiting to pounce, apparently, and now is his chance – or so he thinks.
Dorian cuts him off so abruptly that they almost collide. "No," he says firmly.
The apostate glares at him. "I beg your pardon?"
"Not now, and preferably not ever. I can easily guess your sentiments on the events at Adamant, and I'm quite sure the Inquisitor can too. You needn't feel compelled to voice them."
"And you needn't feel compelled to interfere," Solas says coldly. "Indeed, it astonishes me that you would feel entitled to do so."
"You mistake obligation for entitlement."
"You are obliged to prevent my speaking with the Inquisitor?"
"Under the circumstances, yes. And since I'm educating you on the finer points of social interactions, allow me to add a few words on the subject of empathy, a concept with which you seem particularly unfamiliar. The Inquisitor has just emerged from the Fade – the Fade, Solas – where he was hounded by demons, forced to send a good man to his death, and rather unceremoniously informed that he was not, in fact, delivered by Andraste herself, but was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time, despite which he is still expected to save the world. More than enough for a fellow to be dealing with, yes? What he needs right now is support and compassion, and if that is somehow beyond you, you might at least have the decency to hold your sage advice until he is capable of receiving it in something resembling a constructive manner."
Solas continues to glare, but he subsides somewhat. "Presumptuous though you may be, perhaps you are not wrong. There is wisdom in waiting for the emotional impact of these events to diminish before discussing the matter further."
"Yes, well done, you've got this empathy business down pat."
He leaves Solas to his disapproval and heads up to the Inquisitor's quarters. He's not surprised to find the elf out on the balcony. He's braced against the railing with both hands, eyes closed, looking for all the world like he's about to be sick. "Sorry," he says distractedly when he notices Dorian. "I just… the walls were…"
Wordlessly, Dorian wraps himself around his lover, and after a moment, the elf's breathing steadies.
What a hypocrite you are, Dorian thinks. Berating Solas for his lack of empathy, when a few hours ago you were nattering on about the Liberalum, as though that's what matters right now. Everyone has their own way of dealing with a harrowing experience, he supposes. Dorian's coping mechanism of choice used to be alcohol, followed by sex, preferably in that order. Then Alexius taught him to seek solace in something more constructive – namely, research. Thus, Dorian had gone straight to the library upon their return to Skyhold, determined to turn up something useful about Corypheus's lineage. But when the elf came to see him, it was like ripping a bandage off a gushing wound. Neither of them was ready to confront what had happened in the Fade, and the conversation had ended up being thoroughly unsatisfying for both of them.
Dorian is determined to make up for that now. "Are you all right?" he murmurs.
"You already asked me that."
"Yes, but this time I'm ready to hear your answer. Really hear it, I mean."
"I… don't know, to be honest. What about you?" He turns around, blue-green eyes searching Dorian's. "You went through it all with me. Are you—?"
"Don't do that," Dorian says gently. "It's not necessary."
"Do what?"
"What you always do. Put someone else's worries first. We are talking about you. And it would be perfectly understandable if you were not all right."
A ribbon of wind darts up the ramparts and whistles between the crenels, tousling the elf's silver hair. His gaze is so faraway that Dorian is fairly certain he could leave and the elf wouldn't even notice.
You're cocking it up, he thinks. He has no idea how to do this. How to be what his lover needs.
"Did you believe it?" the elf asks finally. "Deep down, did you truly think I was chosen by Andraste?"
"I did," Dorian says, half surprised by his own answer. "I still do."
He shakes his head. "Cassandra said the same thing. Why not just accept the truth? You were both there. You saw the evidence with your own eyes." He drifts back inside and drops onto the bed, folding his arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling.
Dorian tuts and starts unlacing his lover's boots, which have already left a dusting of dried mud on the bedclothes. "Were you raised by wolves?"
"Halla," the elf replies absently.
"You're right," Dorian says, tugging off a boot. "We have seen the evidence. We've been seeing it for months. What the spirit showed us… your memories… that's only part of the picture. It might not have been Andraste who delivered you from the Fade, but look at everything you've achieved since then. Is it so hard to believe people would see the hand of the Maker in that?"
"If you see the hand of the Maker in my fumbling and groping, I'm not sure what to say about your god."
Dorian straightens with a sigh. "Really, amatus, dangling a sentence like that in front of me in the middle of a serious conversation is terribly cruel. It's like balancing a juicy bone on the nose of a dog and telling it to stay."
That earns him a smile, at least.
"Where were we? Ah yes – fumbling and groping. Is that truly what you think you've been doing?"
"For the most part, yes. It's one thing when I'm sitting in that chair." He waves vaguely in the direction of the main hall, where he sits in judgment. "I have the luxury of time. I can consult my advisors if I need to. But out there, in the field, when there isn't a moment to lose… Sometimes I feel as if I might as well toss a coin."
"What nonsense. There's nothing the least bit arbitrary about your decisions."
"No? Hawke or Stroud?" He mimes flipping a coin. "It could have gone either way."
"But it didn't. You asked Stroud to stay behind. Why?"
"It was one of them or all of us. There was no time to think."
"But you did think. I watched you, amatus. I saw the struggle in your eyes. That was no knee-jerk decision. You weighed your options, awful as they were, and you chose. So tell me – why Stroud and not Hawke? You had your reasons. I'd like to hear them."
He scowls. "Why? What's the point of thrashing it out now? It's done."
"Because I think you'll find that you considered a great deal more in that moment than you realize." Dorian sinks onto the bed. "Shall I help you get started? You understood Stroud's desire to atone for what his fellow Wardens had done."
The elf sighs and rubs his eyes. "It was more than that. Hawke felt responsible too, but it wasn't just about one man. The world still needs the Grey Wardens, but if they're going to rebuild, people need to believe in them again. Starting with the Wardens themselves."
"They needed a hero, and you gave them one."
"He gave them one. His sacrifice reminded them what the Wardens once were. What they can be again."
"Whereas Hawke's sacrifice would have come just as dear, but bought very little. And besides…" Dorian hesitates, but he can't help giving voice to what he saw in that moment, when the elf spoke Stroud's name. "Hawke will make a fine Inquisitor if you fall," he finishes softly.
The elf sighs again. "Was it that obvious?"
"I saw it in your eyes. And much as it pains me to admit it"—and it does pain him, so much that his breath catches—"you were right to take it into account."
"I'm sorry," the elf says.
"I'm sorry too." Dorian pulls off his boots and stretches out beside his lover, and for a moment they just lie there, contemplating the ceiling. "It rather convincingly proves my point, though, doesn't it? In the space of a few seconds, you weighed not only the lives of two men, but the fate of the Grey Wardens and the Inquisition as well. And then you made a choice."
"But was it the right one? And who am I to make it, if I'm not Andraste's chosen?"
"Never mind that. The Herald of Andraste was left behind at Haven. You are the Inquisitor now. And if you went out this very moment and canvassed every man and woman at Skyhold, you would not find a single soul who thinks it should be anyone else."
The elf swallows hard, blinking rapidly at the ceiling. Then he blows out a long, shaking breath. "Well. One soul, at least. Vivienne isn't my greatest admirer just now."
"Don't be absurd," Dorian says. "Vivienne doesn't have a soul."
The elf snorts softly, and Dorian rolls onto his side and gathers him close.
"Or if she does," he goes on, "it's not her own. That's probably how she survives, come to think of it. Have you ever seen her eat? I'll wager she sucks the souls from the husks of small children. Like eating an oyster. Though I'll say this for her: as diets go, it's very slimming."
The elf is properly laughing now. "Stop. I feel guilty enough as it is." He burrows in closer and lets out another sigh, this one a great deal more relaxed. "Dorian?"
"Mmm?"
"You're very good at this."
"Am I? For Maker's sake, don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain."
There's a pause. He rolls over and looks Dorian in the eye. "A dog with a bone on its nose?"
"Honestly, there were a hundred ribald jokes I could have made. Literally, a hundred."
"It's quite an image, though, isn't it? What would you think about me getting a dog called Dorian?"
"I'd kill you in your sleep."
"Fair enough." The elf rolls back over and nestles in again, and within minutes, his breathing has smoothed out, his narrow chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Dorian listens to his lover sleeping peacefully, and he feels the tension go out of his own shoulders.
Well, well, Madame Vivienne, he thinks. I do believe I've found that strong glue.
