Part Twenty-Nine: Kindred

"If I am to summarize, then," Morrigan says, moving her knight to F3, "you wish to learn elven in order to impress your lover."

"Hmm." Dorian runs a thumb along his mustache, contemplating the board. "I don't think that's quite what I said. I can assure you he's thoroughly impressed with me already. My aim is rather…" He pauses, half distracted by the game and half unsure how to articulate the thought.

"Connection."

He glances up to find the witch eying him with her unnervingly keen gaze. Her mouth is curved in a faintly mocking smile, though Dorian has learned not to put too much store in that. The expression is a studied one, a confident mask behind which to conceal any number of more complex emotions. Rather like his own customary smirk, which he brandishes at her now. "Connection, yes. And dare I say, intimacy."

Sharing such details with Morrigan doesn't trouble him. Whom would she tell? As far as Dorian can see, her only companions apart from himself are the statues in the garden. Nor does he feel particularly exposed in front of her. Indeed, the deeper their acquaintance becomes, the more his attitude has tilted toward protectiveness. Morrigan's vulnerability is intimately familiar, a near-perfect echo of his own, at least before a certain silver-haired elf came into the picture.

"And if you succeed in this undertaking?" she asks in her sultry singsong. "Will he return the favour? A tongue for a tongue, as it were?"

Dorian chuckles appreciatively. "Not a bad idea. I can see many advantages to the Inquisitor learning Tevene. Of course, he'd want to pore over Venatori tomes all day, whereas I'd be pressing him to read masterworks of literature. Especially the naughty ones. The Imperium has a long and glorious tradition of deliciously ribald epic poetry. Tragically for you southerners, your pearl-clutching Chantry scholars have yet to translate the juiciest ones. Perhaps I ought to take on the project myself, as a public service."

"Are you stalling, Pavus?"

He tuts and moves a pawn. "Don't flatter yourself, my dear. Though I confess I am intrigued by your approach. You play as chaotically as my… as the Inquisitor. Down to your savage upbringing, I expect."

Morrigan lets out a dark trill of a laugh. "You have no idea," she says, shifting her tower to H4.

More than you think, perhaps. Dorian recognizes only too well the pattern of her psychological wounds, all sharp edges and gaping voids, a constellation in the shape of an abusive parent. But that is not his business. He is no spirit of compassion; he has no way to heal her hurt, any more than his own. So he sticks to simpler fare. "Can you recommend some texts or not?"

"Of course, though whether your library will have copies, I cannot say. My mother's reading list was… eclectic." She lifts her gaze again, eyes narrowed in that guardedly curious way of hers. "I do wonder, however – why go to the trouble? Are you not… intimate… already?"

A tricky question. Physically, of course, he and the elf are as intimate as it's possible to be, but emotionally… There is much Dorian holds back from his lover. Past hurts, present insecurities, worries about the future. And yet in many ways, he is the forthcoming one. The elf has been free with his love, almost frighteningly so, but little else. "The Inquisitor is… the Inquisitor," Dorian says carefully. "That title, and all it implies, is never far from his mind. The people need their saviour to be flawless and invulnerable, or so he believes, and that can be… a hard habit to break."

"Indeed," Morrigan says. "And a dangerous one."

"It sounds as though you speak from experience." Dorian pauses, the game quite forgotten now. "Tell me, what was she like? The Hero of Ferelden? Were you close?"

"We were not lovers, but…" She shrugs diffidently. "Yes, for a time, we were friends. She too was ever mindful of her duty. Convinced that to do good, she must be good, in all things. And she too nursed her wounds in private, fearing that to show weakness would discourage her allies and embolden her enemies. It led her to the brink of despair more than once." Her golden eyes appraise Dorian frankly. "'Tis what you fear, is it not?"

"No," Dorian says firmly, and a little too quickly. "You would be hard-pressed to find a more naturally lighthearted soul. Despair is not in his makeup."

"Whatever his nature before all this began, he is a mortal man. He bleeds as freely as any other. 'Twould be folly to forget it."

Her lecturing tone nettles him, even though he knows she's right. "I thank you for your wisdom, Morrigan, but you needn't fear. I don't forget it for a second."

"How could you, with what happened in the Frostback Basin fresh in your mind?"

Dorian goes very still. A brief silence settles over the board, like a dusting of snow. "What would you know of that, pray?"

"Some whispers travel far."

"And what do they say, these whispers?"

"That the truth about Ameridan dealt the Inquisitor a heavy blow. That the wound went deep, and lingered. One must ask what such a blow might do to a man's resolve."

The smile Dorian gives her is one perfected by every Tevinter Altus as a matter of survival. Polished as a gemstone and sharp as a blade, a silent threat sheathed in the finest silk. "We've been getting along so well, Morrigan," he says mildly. "It would be a shame to spoil it now."

They hold each other's gazes for a long moment. Then Morrigan inclines her head once – in acknowledgement and, just maybe, approval. "Returning to the matter at hand," she says, "your impulse to learn the Inquisitor's mother tongue does you credit. 'Tis no small gesture under the circumstances."

Dorian moves another pawn. "You refer to the fact that we're likely to be roasted by an archdemon before Satinalia?"

"A not unlikely outcome. But supposing you do escape such a fate, and Corypheus is defeated? What then?"

Dorian laughs humourlessly. He hasn't even had that conversation with his lover; he's certainly not going to have it with Morrigan. "If you're asking what the future holds for the magister's son and the Dalish hunter, I have no answers for you." None he's ready to confront, at any rate.

They finish the game – Morrigan slaughters him, again – and Dorian invites her for a drink. He's half surprised when she agrees, and he's quite looking forward to seeing the looks on the faces of the other patrons at the tavern when they arrive together. It sounds like the opening of a joke. An evil magister and a Witch of the Wilds walk into a bar…

They never get there. Instead, Dorian is distracted by a flash of silver hair in the courtyard: The Inquisitor stands with his arms folded, listening as Blackwall explains something to him. Varric is there too, and Cole, and… Maggie?

Curious, Dorian heads over, Morrigan in tow.

"I think you'll be quite pleased," Blackwall is saying. "We've made good progress today, haven't we, Maggie?"

The pup's tail swishes tentatively. She looks a little anxious, like a mageling about to face her exams.

Morrigan, meanwhile, pales with outrage. "This is the pup of which you spoke? This creature does not belong here, Inquisitor! She is a thing of the wilds."

The elf nods solemnly. "She is indeed."

"We found her in a cage," Dorian explains. "Along with the rest of her litter. The mother and the rest of the pack were killed."

"Even so…"

"The decision wasn't taken lightly, Morrigan," the elf says, a hint of reproach in his voice. "I'm fully aware of the trade-offs."

"Of course you are, Inquisitor," Dorian says. "Being that you are Dalish." He arches an eyebrow pointedly at the witch. "And Maggie is no mere pet. More like a modern-day Knight's Guardian." The others won't understand the reference, but Morrigan will.

"She wants to be here," Cole adds. "We are her pack now."

"That's right, Cole," the Inquisitor says. "We are."

Morrigan still doesn't look convinced, but she subsides, folding her arms and scowling.

There's an awkward silence. Then Blackwall says, "Right, if I may?"

"By all means," the elf says.

"Maggie." Blackwall pronounces her name so deliberately that the pup pricks her ears. "Sit."

Maggie sits.

"Maggie, come."

Maggie comes.

"Now stay." Blackwall walks away, and Maggie stays.

"Not bad, eh?" Varric says with a grin. "Took us all afternoon and a whole lot of treats, but we got there."

Morrigan is not impressed. "What good are these parlour tricks? She is not some dull domestic creature. She is a wolf, Inquisitor. If she is to be a Knight's Guardian, she needs guidance from her own kind."

The elf sighs. "What do you suggest, Morrigan? It's not as though we can turn her loose. Even an experienced adult would not survive on its own, let alone a cub."

"True enough," Morrigan says.

A shiver of magic on his skin is all the warning Dorian has before the witch disappears in a cloud of writhing purple smoke. When it clears, a black she-wolf stands where the witch once was, her golden eyes fixed on Maggie. The pup cocks her head and whines. Then the she-wolf bounds away, and after a heartbeat's hesitation Maggie leaps after her, both of them streaking straight through the front gate and out of sight.

There's a moment of stunned silence. Then Varric says, "Holy shit."

"Remarkable," Dorian murmurs. "I've heard of such magic, but I've never seen it."

The elf, for his part, is still staring at the gate where they disappeared, head tilted, brow puckered. "Did Morrigan just steal my wolf?"

"No," says Cole. "She'll be back, after she's shown Maggie how to be."

"Ah."

"You're taking this rather well," Dorian says.

His lover shrugs. "Shapeshifting is not unknown among the Dalish. And it's actually not a bad idea. I just wish she'd, you know, asked."

"I have a feeling Morrigan isn't accustomed to seeking permission," Dorian says.

"Fucking mages," is Blackwall's take on the whole affair.

"Rude," Dorian says. "Now, since I've apparently lost my drinking companion, who's up for a pint?"

Everyone is up for a pint.

"I'll say one thing," Varric chuckles as they turn toward the tavern. "That's gonna make one hell of a story."