Merciless, the fire did not spare her mortal flesh.

And while Hessarian heard over the roar of the bonfire

The cheering of his magisters, he also heard the distant

Song of the faithful mourning their Lady.

- Canticle of Apotheosis 2:10

Halamshiral, Orlais, Bloomingtide, 9:44 Dragon

Idhren woke early the following morning, with the first rays of the sun peeking around the curtains to light his suite. Beside him Dorian was still sound asleep. As much as Idhren wanted to roll over and go back to sleep himself, he knew if he did he would never wake up again in time for the council. A quick way to doom this whole thing before it even began.

So he forced himself to sit up and climb out of the warm, comfortable bed, splashed water on his face, and tied back his hair. Leaving the curtains drawn so that Dorian might sleep a while longer he dressed himself in the early half-light. Pants, shirt, jacket; but as he picked up the sash to wrap about his waist the silken fabric slipped from suddenly uncooperative fingers. Then pain shot up his arm from palm to elbow, accompanied by a flash of green light.

A short cry of alarm escaped Idhren's lips before he was able to bite it back, clenching his teeth together hard enough to make his jaw ache. He shoved his left hand into the folds of his jacket to stifle the light. Sat down heavily on the dressing bench on the end of the bed.

Not now. Not today.

He just needed to make it through a few days for this council then he would be back in Skyhold, with his books and his privacy. And all the time in the world to figure out what was going on.

Except he didn't have all the time in the world.

The Anchor's sudden flare ups were coming more frequently, unprompted by nearby rifts or magics.

As suddenly as it had begun, the flare stopped. The green glow subsided, but little shocks of lingering pain shot up and down his arm, leaving him trembling and panting.

Cautiously, he withdrew his hand from his jacket, double checking that the glow was gone and would not wake Dorian. The last thing he wanted right now was for Dorian to start worrying over him again.

But the glow was indeed gone, the mark returned to it's more familiar appearance as a sickly green scar across his hand.

Only it wasn't just on his hand anymore.

That green scar had crept down to touch his wrist, and closer to his fingers.

It certainly hadn't always been that big.

Spreading again? But it hadn't done that in three years. And the Breach was gone, had been gone years now.

Shit, he didn't need to worry about this on top of everything else. Why couldn't it just stay quiet for a few days? Just a few more days.

"...matus?"

Mumbled and quiet though Dorian's voice was, it still startled Idhren enough to make him jump. He had been so lost in his own head. Turning to look over his shoulder he saw Dorian half-awake propped up on one elbow to look at him. "Sorry, I tried not to wake you," he said, tried to sound casual and unconcerned, but worried that his voice trembled when he spoke. "You can go back to sleep."

Dorian blinked groggily at him for a moment during which Idhren feared the man saw through his facade, or perhaps had seen the whole episode. But all Dorian said was, "Good luck with the council," and then flopped back into the pillows and pulled the blankets tighter around himself.

Idhren breathed a sigh of relief. He waited for his left hand to stop trembling, and then finished getting dressed.

Only a few hours in Idhren was already growing tired of this council. It had begun pleasant enough, if dull, as the ambassadors once more expressed thanks to the Inquisition for handling Corypheus and the Breach - and the mages and templars, and the Orlesian civil war. They did not want to appear ungrateful. But ungrateful was all that Idhren could see when that list of praises was followed by an equally long list of grievances.

Ridiculous grievances, at that.

Should he have left a perfectly serviceable keep for bandits - or worse - to move back into? And if the Ferelden throne wanted it back so badly, why hadn't they bothered asking before now?

It was all so petty. All posturing.

Maker, but he hated politics.

So it was a relief, at first, when a messenger slipped in and whispered that the spymaster needed him urgently.

Until he saw why he had been summoned.

"Today just gets better and better," he muttered, staring down at the bloody body on the floor. Qunari. And a proper one, according to Bull. Vanguard soldier. That was not a good sign. "Why is there a dead Qunari in the winter palace? And where did he come from?"

The answer to that was found at the end of a trail of blood, and it only prompted more questions.

The eluvian was found in a small storage room. Stashed amidst other junk it could have been there unnoticed for years, easily mistaken for a regular old mirror until it was activated.

"Has Lady Morrigan taken up residence again, by any chance?" Idhren asked without much hope.

"No," came Leliana's inevitable confirmation. And despite her inscrutable expression, Idhren knew she must be thinking the same as he. Morrigan would never be so careless with an eluvian as to leave it open.

It wasn't the excuse Idhren wanted to escape from the Exalted Council, but it would do. The potential for Qunari invasion was a bit more urgent than political squabbles. But the use of eluvians, and the fact their uninvited guest appeared to have been fleeing for his life, spoke to something far more complicated going on.

"Well, I suppose we'd better investigate, then. Josephine can handle the council; I'll go change into something more resistant to blood stains."

"Should have known you'd find some insane way to get out of this council, Sparky," Varric said when he joined Idhren in front of the eluvian a short time later, Bianca in hand and having somehow slipped his seneschal's leash.

"Yes, I planned a Qunari invasion just to get out of politics," Idhren replied dryly. He was still pulling on the armored gauntlets that were the final piece of his armor. And to think, he'd protested packing them, thought full armor would be unnecessary. Hopefully it still would be, but that eluvian could lead them anywhere. Might step out in the center of Par Vollen for all he knew.

"Hey, works for the Qunari." The Iron Bull had been guarding the eluvian since its discovery while he waited, somewhat impatiently, for everyone else to convene.

"I don't know," Varric continued, "Stopping an assassin is what got Orlais to like you in the first place. With how they're acting now, can't say I'd blame you for wanting to jog their memories."

"I was actually rather hoping this excursion would be lacking in the blood and violence department."

"Were you, though? Were you really?"

"I certainly was," Dorian groused. The last of them to arrive and looking none too pleased about it.

"You're more than welcome to stay back and continue lounging in the gardens, ambassador," Idhren drawled.

"And let you have all the fun? Hardly."

Idhren rolled his eyes and turned to face the eluvian. "Shall we, then?"

A staggered line of red wound along the crooked paths of the crossroads and dropped them into the depths of an unfamiliar elven ruin to be greeted by two more dead Qunari. Following a trail of blood, corpses, and scorch marks - clear signs of battle - lead through a veritable maze of eluvians. Past murals that painted a picture of elven history completely counter to everything Idhren had been taught by either Tevinter or the Dalish - or by the Well of Sorrows, whispering secrets in the back of his mind but answering none of his questions.

"This doesn't make any sense," he said for what felt the hundredth time.

"Yes, you keep saying that," Dorian replied as they headed into the depths of yet another ruined tower. "I think we're all well aware at this point."

"Well, it doesn't," Idhren grumbled.

The depths of the ruins were dark. What few torches remained not rotted away by time burnt weakly and provided just barely enough light to see by. At the base of the stairs Idhren had expected to find another eluvian for them to jump through in this ridiculous chase. Instead, there was only a dark room. In the dim light he thought he could make out more frescoes on the walls, and in the center of the room what appeared like a sculpture of a tree. Some sort of magical artifact. Curious, Idhren stepped forward into the room.

A now-familiar stab of pain shot up his arm.

He gasped as the Anchor flared to life, it's eerie glow illuminating the room, almost blindingly bright for the briefest of moments. The artifact also flared briefly in response, the same brilliant veilfire green, before both settled down once more.

"Maker, what was that? Are you alright?" Dorian was already at his side as the pain faded from his arm. But his hand continued to ache, and the Anchor continued to emit a dim glow.

"Yes, I - I'm fine," Idhren was quick to insist, but his heart was racing, his hands trembling, and his voice weak. Dorian took his hand with both of his own and stared down into the Anchor with a frown, though what he hoped to find there Idhren didn't know. "It reacted to this artifact, I think."

"Or the artifact reacted to it," Dorian said thoughtfully, "Though I suppose the differentiation doesn't matter. Sympathetic magic, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," Idhren murmured in reply. Was that all it was? The Anchor reacting to similar magics? Had it been only that the past times the Anchor had acted up on its own? Earlier that morning it could have reacted to the eluvian's presence, or to its activation. On the ship back to Ferelden there could have been something in the ship's cargo. And at the dalish camp there was bound to be something ancient and elven lying around. That's all it was, then. Every time the Anchor had acted up for no apparent reason it really was reacting to something, he just hadn't known what to look for. Next time he would.

And for a while, Idhren was able to put such thoughts out of his mind. There were more important thing to think about, larger concerns than the Anchor turning itself into a dowsing rod for elven magic.

A Qunari invasion. Lyrium mining in the deep roads and gaatlok smuggled into the Winter Palace.

That was what the eluvians were for. An invasion of the south that bypassed Tevinter, the only country strong enough to stand against the might of the Qun.

And of course, the Exalted Council had turned into an absolute clusterfuck.

By the time Idhren left a final meeting with his advisors night had fallen over Halamshiral and he was exhausted. As much as he wanted to continue on, keep following the clues to thwart this new threat, a full day of politics and battle had left him drained. He stumbled out of their makeshift war room, feet dragging as he made his way back to his temporary quarters.

Dorian was already there, likely just as worn out as Idhren but certainly not showing it as he lounged in a chair by the fire, already changed out of his battle-soiled robes. He looked up as Idhren entered, a slight smile tugging at his lips as he took in the Inquisitor's haggard appearance. "You look about to pass out on your feet," he commented.

"Thanks," Idhren muttered dryly, and began stripping out of his armor.

"Now, don't be like that," Dorian said, "And after I took the liberty of having dinner brought in for you."

At the mere mention of food, Idhren's stomach rumbled, fervently reminding him that he'd barely eaten a thing since breakfast. For the first time he noticed a food service set up on a side table by Dorian's chair. His mood softened. "Thank you," he said again, more earnest this time.

"Well, if I'm to be perfectly honest it was Sera's idea," Dorian admitted. "She's a bit worried about you, I think, with everything that's going on. Your hand in particular."

Stripped down to shirtsleeves, Idhren joined Dorian be the fire. He collapsed into the matching armchair and examined the food on offer. But despite his hunger, he found he hadn't much appetite. "I'm… not certain what caused it to react in the ruins," he said honestly. The thought occurred to him to tell Dorian everything that had been going on with the mark on his hand. How today had not been an isolated incident. But no, not until he understood what was going on.

"We'll just keep an eye on it, then," Dorian said. "You'll let me know if it's anything to worry about, yes?"

"Of course," Idhren replied.

After only a few hours of sleep Idhren was up again. Sore and still exhausted, he forced himself out of bed to face another day of politics and potential invasion. Was he out of shape? Perhaps he had grown complacent over the past year of peace.

After nudging Dorian until the man reluctantly crawled out of bed himself, Idhren stretched out the soreness in his muscles as best he could. And if his left arm hurt a bit more than the rest of him, it was only because he'd been careless in his casting the day before. And if the scar on his palm looked as though it stretched further toward his wrist than he remembered, it was only his imagination.

He only needed to get through this council, to resolve this new threat, and then he would have all the time in the world to figure out what was making the Anchor act so strangely. And then he could fix it.

He could bear the pain that long.

But he could no longer keep his friends from noticing the problem.

The trail of clues and dead Qunari led through eluvians to a site that left Idhren breathless and Sera cursing. A library half in the Fade, and half destroyed because of it, that seemed a city in itself. But even in this ruined state the ambient magic was thick in the air, so strong he could nearly taste it.

So he should have been expecting the Anchor's violent reaction, yet still it caught him by surprise.

The pain came with no warning. No precursor. No slow build the way it had with rifts. It came full force, that stabbing, burning, mind-numbing agony like a red hot spike being driven into his hand and up into his arm.

He screamed. Instinctively clutched his arm to his chest and curled around it and staggered a few steps before coming to a stop.

For a moment that pain was the only thing he was aware of. It could have lasted seconds or minutes. When finally the feeling began to recede and his mind cleared enough to think again, the first thing he became aware of were hands on his shoulders, gentle but firm, holding him steady as he hunched over on trembling legs.

His left hand was still glowing. He was panting, shaking, and felt as though he might throw up. But slowly the pain was beginning to fade.

He realized it was The Iron Bull holding him up, massive hands holding him up as though he didn't weigh a thing. "That's really not getting better, boss."

"It's fine," Idhren insisted. He forced himself to stand, shaking of Bull's hands and praying the former spy would not call his bluff. "The pain's stopped."

"You're sure it's alright?" Dorian butted in.

"It just caught me by surprise," Idhren assured.

"Well it certainly seems to be reacting to elven magic," Dorian said. "This place is so steeped with it I nearly feel like we're in the Fade again."

"Ugh, don't say that," Sera complained from behind him. "Don't make this place any creepier than it already is."

Dorian ignored her and fixed Idhren with a searching look that said maybe he didn't entirely believe Idhren's assurances. Idhren wasn't entirely sure he believed them himself. Still, he held himself upright and said with as much confidence as he could muster, "I'm fine, really. I just wish it would give me a bit of warning, that's all."

"I hope it doesn't happen while the Qunari are trying to kill us," Sera muttered, "Knocked you flat on your arse, that did."

"Yes, that would be less than ideal," Dorian agreed. "Tell me if it gets worse." The man's tone brokered no argument. It was not a request.

"I will," Idhren said, knowing full well it was a lie. If he'd had his way Dorian never would have found out that the Anchor was acting up at all. Even Idhren barely knew a thing about the mark on his hand, and he'd been studying it for nearly three years now. If he couldn't figure out what was wrong with it, how could Dorian? "We should keep moving."

He would be fine so long as the Anchor could keep to itself.

Unfortunately, nothing with the Inquisition ever went according to plan.

Their small group was wildly outnumbered. He was running low on mana and lyrium, and could only imagine Dorian was in a similar state. Sera would run out of arrows eventually, and even Bull was beginning to look winded. They needed to end this quickly, and he had only one trick guaranteed to do that.

It was a terrible idea, but it was the only idea he had.

What little mana he had left Idhren channeled down his arm and into his palm. Into the Anchor.

It was a tactic he had used only as a last resort even during the war. Because even then it had been painful, risky, and unpredictable. He expected an explosion. He expected the pain that came along with it. He did not expect the magnitude.

A blast of raw Fade energy rocketed out from his hand with enough force to knock Idhren off his feet. It ripped a scream of shock and agony from his throat. Green fire scorched the air, hot wind against his skin. Fade light flooded the area as the smell of ozone and ash and charred flesh filled his nose. The blood rushing in his ears could not drown out the roar of the flames or the screams of those burned alive.

After what felt like an eternity the screams faded, and then the flames shortly thereafter, and Idhren could only look in horror at the destruction he had wrought.

He was still on the ground, his left arm completely numb up to the shoulder, on the outside of a circle of charred and melted stone littered with mangled corpses.

"Holy shit, boss."

Idhren looked up to realize that Bull was standing not far away from him, also on the edge of the scorched ground. He was a bit scorched himself, at the edges, and dusted with ash as though he'd barely been able to get out of the way in time. Guilt flooded Idhren at the thought he'd nearly caught his friends in the blast. "It wasn't meant to be that big," he said breathlessly. "Is everyone alright?" he asked in fear. "Dorian?"

"We're alright," the man's voice carried across the now-empty ground. Everything was almost painfully quiet after the deafening roar of the Anchor's flames and the screams they brought. Idhren finally spotted him, well out of the way of the blast and helping Sera to her feet. "Although a little warning would be nice next time you're considering a stunt like that."

"Yeah, give us some time to get out of the friggin' way," Sera complained. "Or maybe just don't do friggin' terrifying shit like that."

"It wasn't meant to be that big," Idhren said again. Shaking and sick to his stomach, he began climbing unsteadily to his feet. He did not make it far before losing his balance and stumbling to the ground again. With mounting horror he realized that not only was his left arm completely numb, he could barely move it.

Bull was there a moment later, offering a hand to help pull him to his feet. A hand that Idhren was reluctant to take, because it was accompanied by a knowing, soul-piercing stare, practically daring him to lie as the former spy asked, "You alright?"

There was a lie already on the tip of Idhren's tongue, but that stare made him swallow it. "I can't feel my arm," he admitted.

"That's probably not a good sign, boss."

"No," Idhren was forced to agree. It was getting worse. He didn't want to admit that it was getting worse. He didn't want to consider what that meant.

Footsteps on the stone floor announced Dorian and Sera's approach, along with Sera's colorful commentary about the now blackened ground. Idhren fixed Bull with a stare that he hoped conveyed a warning not to say anything, before turning to meet them.

"Oi, you're still glowing," Sera exclaimed before Idhren could even open his mouth. "That's not normal, is it? It shouldn't still be doing that, right?"

Idhren glanced downward and sure enough the Anchor was still alight. Dim as a candle flame.

"Effective as that stunt was," Dorian frowned as he looked down at Idhren's limp arm, "I think perhaps you should hold off on aggravating that thing any further until we know what's wrong with it. Might I have a look at it?"

They were catching on. They knew something wasn't right, and now they were beginning to think it was serious. "I don't think this is the best place for it," Idhren said, purposefully taking a step further away. That earned him an even deeper frown from Dorian. "We should head back to the Winter Palace. I need to tell the others what we've learned."

The feeling gradually began to return to Idhren's arm as they made their way back to the Winter Palace, so that by the time he stepped through the last eluvian he was left with only a feeling of pins and needles in his hand. But the glow had never diminished from that flickering candlelight, and it was not going unnoticed.

It was a miracle he managed to dodge Dorian's request to examine the Anchor again by ducking into their make-shift war room.

Dorian would ask too many questions, he knew. Too many questions that Idhren didn't have the answers for. And that he didn't want to think about the answers for.

He could only focus on one crisis at a time, and right now the Qunari threat was a bit more urgent.

"Our agents confirm there are gaatlok barrels in Denerim's palace," Leliana informed almost as soon as Idhren entered the room, still shedding the more cumbersome pieces of his armor. "And in Val Royeaux, and across the Free Marches. The Winter Palace is not the only target."

"The Qunari are one order away from destroying every noble house in the known world," Cullen said, and the weight of that realization was heavy on Idhren's shoulders.

"That power vacuum would cause chaos," Idhren realized, "Easy for the Qunari to step in take over while we fight amongst ourselves." Assassination was an old strategy, but the scope of this plan was unfathomable.

"There is a bright side," Josephine said, ever trying to find the silver lining in any situation, "Warning the ambassadors will remind them of the Inquisition's importance."

"Not when the Inquisition is responsible for the threat," Leliana sighed.

"What do you mean?" Idhren asked. "They came in through us? How?"

"The barrels came into the Winter Palace on the Inquisition's supply manifest," Leliana answered.

One of their own people was a part of this? Why? The Inquisition was meant to stop just this sort of thing from happening. "Do we know who got the barrels on that manifest?"

"Yes," Leliana confirmed. "Several of the Inquisition's elven workers have gone missing. I had their backgrounds checked. They joined after fleeing the chaos in Kirkwall."

Cullen sighed, long and suffering. "I remember when the city was at its worst. Many of the elves converted to the Qun trying to find a better life."

"And the Qunari turned them into spies," Josephine breathed.

"Then they've been with us from the start," Idhren said. This went so much deeper than he could have imagined. The Inquisition had become exactly the sort of thing they'd been formed to stop. Just another potential danger to the stability of the south, another place for spies and double agents to hide. He couldn't even trust his own people anymore. Could he even trust Leliana's information? There could be spies among her agents, feeding them lies.

As his advisors descended into petty bickering, Idhren stared down at the maps laid out before them. His thoughts were a whirlwind of doubts and fears. He had grown up with the Qunari always a potential threat, but the war on Seheron had stagnated years ago, a deadlock that would probably never end. Fighting just for the sake of it, to keep up appearances. Even after Kirkwall he had never imagined the Qun would try something as brash as this. This was a full scale invasion that no one would see coming.

How many innocents would suffer or die if the Qunari succeeded? For all their preaching, the Qun did not care about saving people, only about taking power and putting the whole world under its thumb. It was no better than any other tyrant.

So consumed with his own furious thoughts while his advisors tried to argue themselves into a consensus, Idhren was caught completely off guard by the sudden flash of green light and stab of pain that shot up his arm.

The Anchor flared again. A burst of energy and flame that swallowed his hand and flickered up his arm. The pain stabbed into his hand and burned up his veins, pulling a shout of agony from his throat.

He doubled over onto the table, deaf to the alarmed exclamations of his advisors, and clutched at his left arm.

The outburst lasted only a moment, though it felt like an eternity.

Breathless, Idhren pulled himself upright again.

He chanced a look across the table at his advisors. Their faces were drawn. Alarm, fear, concern.

He looked away again, dropped his gaze down to his left hand, still clutched before him.

It was the first time Idhren had allowed himself to actually look at the Anchor since the day began. What had once been a familiar - if somewhat unnerving - sight, a smudge of green scar tissue across his palm that was barely noticeable, had turned alien and terrifying. It had not stopped glowing since the library. Even here, with nothing to trigger it, it shone bright as a candle and cast a sickly green over everything he touched. It hurt, as well. A persistent dull burning broken by an occasional spike of sharper pain. And most frightening of all, it had spread.

Luminescent green stretched down onto his wrist, disappearing up his shirt sleeve, and tendrils of it reached out from the larger bulk, spiderwebbing up his fingers and onto the back of his hand.

He couldn't deny this anymore. Not to himself, and not to the people around him.

Slowly, the Inquisitor raised his head to meet the gazes of his advisors, each full of concern and alarm. "So… It's getting worse." It was difficult to admit out loud after so long in denial. "I don't know why. I don't know how to stop it." He swallowed thickly as he allowed the truth of the matter to finally sink in. If it kept progressing at this rate. "I don't know how much time I've got left."

A soft gasp, Josephine's hand raised to her lips, always the worst of them at hiding her emotions.

"What I do know," Idhren continued before any of them might be able to offer a consoling word, clamping down on his own fear before he could let it consume him, "Is that the Qunari need to be stopped. So we need to end this before…" before the pain crippled him, before the Anchor spread further, "Before it's too late."

"Would you," Josephine began, then had to stop to steady her voice. The concern and fear was clear on her face. "Would you like us to inform the Exalted Council of the danger?"

"Yes," Idhren replied. "They deserve to know what's happening. And if we fail… They will need to know what's coming so they can prepare."

"I will inform them personally," Leliana assured. She was so good at hiding her emotions, but even she sounded solemn, sad.

"Thank you." Idhren took a deep breath. He was glad that no one tried to offer a comforting word. He was not sure he would be able to hold himself together if they did. "And tell the others to meet me at the eluvian as soon as they can."

One by one his advisors left the room, Josephine hesitating the longest before he heard her heels clicking against the floor and the door shut behind her. Idhren remained a while longer, leaning heavily against the table. He squeezed both hands into fists, squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. He kept waiting for the pain in his hand to fade again, but long moment after long moment it remained.

He swallowed back a lump in his throat. Pressed his hands into his eyes when he felt them begin to sting.

He would not allow himself to break down. No matter how much he wanted to, he would not allow his fear to consume him. He was stronger than this.

Breathing deep, Idhren pulled himself back together. He could do this. Just a little while longer.

He scrubbed the moisture from his eyes and let his hands fall back to his sides. One more deep breath. Then he grabbed up his gloves and his staff and left to face the world again.

Dorian caught him on the balcony, a hand on his arm, stopping him before he could slip into the room where the eluvian was housed. Night had fallen and the gardens were abandoned. "Leliana told me about your little pyrotechnics display," he said. His voice and expression were carefully schooled, emotionless in the torchlight.

Idhren's first instinct was to deny it, to reassure Dorian that everything was fine, there was nothing to worry about. But he had neither the heart nor the strength of will to continue that charade.

"I knew there was more going on with that blasted thing than you were telling us," Dorian continued. "But I thought you would have trusted me enough to say something if it were serious."

"I didn't think it was… at first," Idhren said.

"How bad is it, then?" Dorian demanded.

Idhren swallowed thickly, still not fully recovered from the realization himself. "It's getting worse," he said quietly. "It's… spreading. Like when the Breach first opened and it was," he paused, reluctant the say the words as though keeping them inside would stop them from being true, "killing me."

Dorian sucked in a breath. He was silent for a long moment. "You should have told me," his voice was accusing. At least, it was trying to be. "I could have…" his voice broke, and along with it his stoic facade. He crumbled, shoulders slumped and head down. "I don't know… something."

"I'm sorry," Idhren said. Barely above a whisper. It was the only think he could think of to say.

"How long has it been like this?" Dorian asked. The anguish in his voice, on his face, was too much for Idhren to bear, Idhren had to look away. "It can't have just started. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I don't know," Idhren admitted. He couldn't pinpoint the moment the Anchor had begun acting strange. He had tried to ignore it for so long. "I didn't want anyone to worry."

"Thought you would fix it all by yourself, I'll bet," Dorian tried to joke, but there was no mirth in his voice, only pain.

"I'm sorry," Idhren said again. He didn't know what else to say. Perhaps there was nothing else. He forced himself to meet Dorian's gaze despite the pain in the man's eyes, the unshed tears. "I love you."

The next thing he knew Dorian's arms were around his shoulders, pulling him in tight, squeezing so hard he could barely breath. "I knew you would break my heart you bloody bastard," the man choked out, breath hot and trembling against Idhren's ear. "You damn fool."

Idhren's good arm wrapped around Dorian's chest. He pressed his face into the collar of his robes and breathed in deep, then let out a trembling breath. "It's not over yet, Dorian."

"No," Dorian scoffed a bitter, broken laugh. "After we stop the Qunari invasion we only have to unlock the secrets of lost elven magic. Then we'll fix you up no problem."

"See? Easy."