Part Twenty-Seven: Outcast

Dorian is cranky.

How quickly things change. One minute, you're reveling in a spot of well-earned domestic bliss, lazing about and having the best sex of your life, and the next thing you know, it's Get packing, Dorian, we have another enchanted bauble to go after, and oh by the way, it's in your very favourite part of Thedas, the Hissing Wastes. Grab your staff – no, not that one, won't be needing that for a while, I'm afraid – hurry up now, no time to lose, something something Venatori world ending.

This is all her fault. The witch. Why couldn't she have just stayed in Val Royeaux, or better yet the Korcari Wilds? Instead she's wormed her way into the Inquisition – into the bloody war council, no less – and now Dorian has to help sift through the world's largest litterbox in search of some enchanted dwarven turd. He shoots a salty glance at the object of his displeasure, but she just lifts a raven-black eyebrow, mouth curved in idle amusement at this admittedly empty display.

"Dorian."

"Inquisitor?"

"Are you with us?" The elf throws a look over his shoulder, as if sensing his lover's silent rant. He is currently the slender meat in a giant man sandwich, wedged between Blackwall and the Iron Bull as they hunch over Harding's map, and it's a measure of Dorian's peevishness that he can't even conjure an amusing fantasy out of it.

Harding clears her throat. "As I was saying, we think the tomb is somewhere near here." She points at the map. "On the far side of the Sand Crags."

Dorian sighs. "There's rather a lot of sand in my crags already, and we only just got here. This had better be worth it, Morrigan."

"Have you somewhere more important to be, Pavus? The spa, perhaps?"

"Now that you mention it, my cuticles could use a little attention." He examines them with a critical eye.

"Maker's balls," Blackwall growls. "What is it with mages? Can none of you get along for five minutes?"

"Getting along is for the slow-witted," Dorian says. "A quick tongue is always more interesting. Wouldn't you agree, Inquisitor?"

The elf ignores that. "Let's get moving, everyone. We don't want Dorian to get any more sand in his crags than absolutely necessary."

They strike out, with Morrigan leading the way. She seems awfully confident of their destination, even without the map. She knows more than she's letting on, he thinks. I'll wager she'll want to keep this mysterious amulet for herself, too. Assuming they actually find it.

"'Tis most generous of you to allow me to join the expedition, Inquisitor," she says as they walk. "I trust it does not make your companions nervous, having an apostate at their side." Her tone is subtly goading, practically daring one of them to voice an objection.

Dorian is intimately familiar with this tactic. Wear your alienation like armour, and no one can use it as a weapon against you. Always better to be the provocateur than the provoked.

The Inquisitor smiles. "We're a Dalish elf, a Grey Warden, a mercenary captain, and a magister's son. I think you'll find our views on apostasy more nuanced than what you might be used to."

"Perhaps," she allows. Then, with a wry glance at Dorian, she adds, "Still, your tame Tevinter would prefer I was not here."

"Untrue," Dorian says. "I would prefer I was not here, but you are most welcome to it. Indeed, I'm particularly enjoying the effect you're having on our Grey Warden. Those tattered rags you call a top have him blushing like a schoolgirl."

"Shut it, Dorian," Blackwall growls, blushing.

Thinking she spies an opening, the witch treats Dorian to a sultry little smirk. "The Warden, but not the pampered magister's son? Do I not shock you, Pavus? Or distract you, perhaps?"

Dorian laughs. "I'm not sure which of those is less likely."

"Ah, yes. I have heard it said that Tevinter men prefer their women to be submissive. In which case, I would certainly not appeal."

What's this? Is it possible she's the only person at Skyhold – indeed perhaps the only person on Thedas – who doesn't know? "Darling Morrigan. Haven't spent much time socializing since joining the Inquisition, have you?"

"I fail to see what my social calendar has to do with anything."

"Indeed, there is a great deal you fail to see, evidently."

"Dorian…" The elf shoots a warning look over his shoulder.

"You needn't fear, Inquisitor. No cudgels here." He well remembers the scolding he received the last time he flaunted their relationship.

"Don't let him wind you up, my lady," Blackwall advises her. "It's practically a sport with him."

"Nonsense," Dorian says. "It's not at all sporting, especially with you. Like taking candy from a baby, frankly. A rather large baby afflicted with a disfiguring case of lycanthropy."

Morrigan snorts out a laugh, which seems to surprise her as much as anyone.

"I'm going to let you have that one," Blackwall says, "because I feel sorry for you."

"You feel sorry for me? Don't be preposterous."

"You were finally getting comfortable back at Skyhold, all warm and cuddly with your fancy wine and your puppy and your…" He glances at the elf, blushes, and stumbles ahead… "And now you're out here in this Maker-forsaken desert with the rest of us."

"It's true," Dorian sighs. "I will allow that I'm feeling waspish. It's filthy and windy and freezing. Perhaps we could cuddle later, Blackwall."

"In your dreams, mage."

"I'll cuddle you, Dorian," Bull says. "If the Inquisitor doesn't mind."

"Be my guest," the elf says. "Just watch out for the sand in his crags."

It goes on like this for much of the morning, at least between the three men. There's little else to occupy them on their long trek to the Sand Crags, and they trade barbs as though they're keeping score. Morrigan, however, takes no part, and when they reach the Sand Crags camp, she sits apart from the others, leafing through an old grimoire so dog-eared that Dorian suspects she's memorized every page. He knows a shield when he sees one, and he feels sorry for the witch, despite himself.

She glances up at his approach, golden eyes narrowed warily. "Yes?"

"Why don't you join us?" Dorian gestures toward the campfire, where the others are grabbing a bite to eat before they head out for the afternoon. "You must be freezing."

"I am content, thank you." She doesn't move.

"They're quite friendly, you know," Dorian says. "Apart from me, of course."

"I have no wish to interrupt the camaraderie."

"Why should you interrupt it? If they can manage a Tevinter, they can manage a Witch of the Wilds." He's not quite sure why he's doing this. If the witch chooses to isolate herself, why should he care?

Those golden eyes appraise him for a moment. "You do seem to have found a place for yourself in the Inquisition," she says in a tone of guarded curiosity. "'Tis remarkable they have embraced you so readily, in light of your background."

"It wasn't always so." Dorian shrugs. "And it's not universal. There are many within the Inquisition, including at the highest levels, who would be only too pleased to send me packing."

"But you are protected. The Inquisitor seems to favour you. Not unlike my relationship with Empress Celene, I suppose."

Dorian's eyebrows fly up, and he can't help laughing. "Do tell. And here I thought she only had eyes for Briala." When Morrigan gives him a quizzical look, he shakes his head. "You really don't know, do you?" He feels awkward now, realizing how inadvertently on point his earlier mockery was. If she hasn't heard a single bit of gossip about Inquisitor Lavellan and his Tevinter paramour, it means she hasn't a single friend at Skyhold.

Why should she? You didn't. It occurs to him – somewhat belatedly, he must admit – that they have more than a little in common, he and the witch. Both of them distrusted, leaving whispers in their wake. Sharp-tongued and razor-witted, coiled like serpents ready to strike at the slightest sign of disapproval. But instead of seeing her as a kindred spirit, he's joined in with the rest of the rabble, like a schoolboy relieved to have the bully's attention directed elsewhere.

"I owe you an apology, Morrigan."

"Indeed?"

"I've been most ungracious. It's been weeks since you joined us, and I've yet to invite you for a single drink, or a game of chess. Do you play?"

Her eyes narrow again, as if she suspects a trick. "Of what did you speak a moment ago? What is it I do not know?"

"Ah. Yes." Dorian folds his arms and shifts on his feet. "The Inquisitor and I are… How shall I put this? Our relationship is… intimate."

She blinks once. "I see." She glances at the elf, laughing with Bull and Blackwall on the far side of camp. "That is… surprising."

"Isn't it, though? A Dalish elf and a magister's son? But then, it's all rather surprising, isn't it? The Qunari and I got off to a rough start, but we get along famously now. I count among my friends a painfully serious templar and a Seeker of Truth who might well become the next Divine. On any given day I might find myself fighting alongside an apostate, an up-jumped Circle mage, an itinerant thief, a Grey Warden, a sometime smuggler, or a spirit from the Fade. I won't say we're one big happy family, but then again, I'm not sure there is such a thing."

"Yes, you have clearly made a home for yourself," she says impatiently. "You have my congratulations. Is there a point, Pavus?"

"Only that it's difficult to be an outcast when one is surrounded by outcasts. So take my advice and don't bother." He tilts his head in the direction of the fire. "Come. It's much warmer."

She sighs elaborately, as if this is all rather trying. "Very well, if that is what is required for you to leave me in peace."

The elf looks up as they approach. "Welcome," he says with a smile. "I was beginning to wonder if there was something mage-y going on I should know about."

"Not at all, Inquisitor," Dorian says breezily. "We were just talking about…" His eyes meet Morrigan's, and she arches an eyebrow, waiting to see what he comes up with. "About family," he finishes.

He feels irretrievably sappy as soon as he's said it.

And also rather marvelous.