Part Twenty-Two: Solace

Inquisitor. Beloved.

I go where he goes.

Dorian sucks in a breath. It's unnaturally loud in the confines of his helm, echoing like the last gasp of a dying man. The spirit blurs before him, her voice smoothing out into a meaningless drone as she continues to relate her tale. Telana's tale. The story of a woman who died trying to reach her amatus one last time. The others listen raptly, but Dorian has all he can do just to breathe. Her words are still lodged in his breast like arrows, buried deep.

His gaze falls to the skeleton at their feet, somehow preserved after all this time. Magic, he thinks numbly. She was a mage. The Inquisitor's mage.

Beloved. I go where he goes.

Dorian's glance strays to the elf, and it's a fresh arrow in the ribs. Can he feel it too? Does he hear Dorian's voice that day in the library, before Adamant?

Where you go, I go.

It's like staring into his future. A future he knew would most likely end in death, but this – it's so much worse than he could have imagined. Telana didn't just die. She died alone, cold and bloodied, wracked with such grief that it drew spirits from every corner of the Fade. She didn't just lose her beloved; she never even learned what became of him. Even now, nearly a thousand years later, her anguish hovers over this place like a miasma.

The elf approaches the body – and pitches onto his knees, crying out in pain as the anchor flares a lashing green. Dorian reaches for him, but he scrambles to his feet and skitters away, and a moment later, the anchor subsides. They all stand there a moment in silence. Dorian can't see his lover's expression under the helm, but he can tell from the heaving of his shoulders that all is not well. Is it just the anchor, he wonders, or the grief? Seeing his own future, perhaps, a future written in the blood of a dragon and a would-be god.

It's almost funny, Dorian thinks as they paddle back to the Avvar village. All the worrying he's done these past few months, and for what? He recalls Varric's words that day in the Dales. Look at it this way, Sparkler. Chances are neither of you will survive long enough for it to be an issue. Dorian had known even then that he was right, but he'd let himself forget it somehow. What a waste, all that grief about their incompatible worlds. What idle foolishness, wondering whether he'd have the strength to put things right back home, even if it meant leaving the love of his life behind.

Dorian isn't afraid of dying. Well… he is, obviously, but not enough to shy away from his duty. And though it might sting his pride to think he'll be forgotten as easily as Telana, he's never worried about legacy the way his father does. It's easy to let go of your place in history when your own people repudiate everything you are. But dying alone, for him but without him, forgotten on some wind-swept island… Dorian shudders, gripping the side of the boat to steady himself.

The sun is setting by the time they reach camp. Dorian is exhausted in every way, so he heads straight for his tent. He unbuckles his armour, tugs off his gloves and his boots, taking consolation in routine motions that don't require him to think.

He doesn't hear the tent flap stir, but when he turns around, the elf is there. Dorian is too heavy-hearted even to be startled. They wrap around each other in silence – not a lovers' embrace, but the desperate clinging of the drowning. Dorian tucks his face into the elf's neck and breathes deep, letting the scent of pine fill his lungs like a fresh breeze pushing away dark clouds.

He starts unlacing the elf's armour. His lover watches wordlessly, his expression inscrutable in the dim light. They've never done this before – not like this, in the middle of camp, surrounded by Inquisition soldiers. But there's nothing exciting about this, nothing naughty or forbidden. This is solace. This is air. They twine together under Dorian's blankets and comfort each other, their quiet lovemaking an unspoken promise of renewed intimacy.

Where you go, I go.

It doesn't solve anything, not really. But it gives them the strength to keep going, and right now, that's all they can ask for.

Later, as they lie in each other's arms, a breath of wind stirs the tent flap. "It smells like snow," the elf murmurs. They're the first words he's spoken in hours.

"Winter will be here soon, I suppose."

"It's already here. I can feel it."

Dorian wriggles out from the under the blankets and lifts the tent flap, and sure enough, it's snowing – thick, heavy flakes that threaten to bury them all in the coming hours. "It's going to be a cold night." Crawling back under the blankets, he adds, "At least we have each other to keep warm."

"I'm not afraid of winter," the elf says. "There's always a spring. I can already see the signs, in the birds and the burrowing animals. It's going to be a beautiful spring, vhenan."

Dorian can't help smiling. "You're quite mad, do you know that?"

"I heard a rumour."

Dorian presses a kiss to the elf's forehead. "I adore you," he says. "But just so you know, Inquisitor…" He folds the elf into his arms, brushes another kiss across his lips, and stares deep into his eyes. "If you hoard the blankets again, I'm throwing you out."