**ICYMI: Last episode, after sexytimes, Lavellan told Dorian he would love him forever. A distressed Dorian replied that for any number of reasons, neither of them could truly promise that. Lavellan agreed that they couldn't know what the future holds, but said that whatever happened, he would always love Dorian. Dorian mused to himself that with so much stacked against it, their relationship would always be a battle.**
Part Thirty-One: Demigod
The snow blanketing the bailey at Skyhold is already scarred and filthy by the time a familiar figure strolls through the gate, a dark beast at her side. Dorian barely has time to register their presence before Maggie spots him and hurtles across the courtyard, looking for all the world as if she intends to eat him for breakfast. She does, in fact, leap up to his chest, and Dorian would be quite cross about the muddy pawprints on his cloak, except that he is so delighted to see her that he even forgets to pretend he isn't.
"Look at you," he murmurs as he tries by turns to pat her and fend off her excited jumping. "You almost look like a proper wolf." Though her proportions are still unmistakably those of a puppy – snub nose, adorably oversized paws – she's nearly as shaggy as an adult, and putting on bulk at an alarming rate.
"She has eaten well," Morrigan says, her flinty voice tinted with smugness.
"And you?" Dorian's gaze takes in her slender form in the manner of a mother hen worried her chick isn't eating. "Still retaining your girlish figure, I see." How in the world she manages not to freeze to death in those tattered rags is a matter of considerable mystery. Dorian is a firm believer in the primacy of fashion over comfort, but no one could possibly mistake Morrigan's ensemble for fashionable.
"Is that your way of asking if I am in good health, Pavus?"
"I suppose it is."
"I am well enough, thank you. Tell me, where is the Inquisitor? He will be displeased with me, I should think."
Dorian cuts her a sidelong look. "Would it have been so difficult to ask his permission?"
"And if he refused? The pup required my assistance. I would not withhold it. 'Tis better to seek forgiveness after the deed is done than to defy a direct order, surely?"
"I'll let you explain that reasoning to him yourself." Dorian lifts his chin in the direction of the keep, where the Inquisitor is making his way down the stairs. He hasn't noticed them yet, but Maggie has certainly noticed him, and she flies at him like an arrow, nearly tackling him on the landing and making such a spectacle of her excitement that everyone in the crowded bailey stops to look. The elf, meanwhile, grins from ear to pointed ear, ruffling her fur with such boyish delight that his devoted followers are in danger of awwing themselves to death.
"The smile that lit up the world," Morrigan says dryly.
"I did warn him not to do that. Terribly undignified. No one could possibly mistake him for the Herald of Andraste just now."
She shrugs. "If his followers are prepared to overlook public displays of affection for his pet Tevinter, I daresay his pet wolf will not trouble them overmuch."
Dorian snorts softly. "Touché. And believe me, we took that to new heights yesterday. Literally." His glance strays to the balcony above, and he can't suppress a sly grin.
Morrigan arches a dark eyebrow but otherwise leaves that alone.
"At any rate, it's a good thing you're back. We leave for the Arbor Wilds at dawn tomorrow, weather permitting." Dorian hefts the vambrace he's carrying. "I was on my way to the smithy a moment ago. If you've got anything that needs repairing, I'd get it into the queue. Though"—he looks her over again, lifting a critical eyebrow—"I don't know that they'll be much help with feathers and random tat. Honestly, my dear, you look like a crow that's been half eaten by a fox."
She frowns. "You are a very smug creature, aren't you?"
"I should hope so. False modesty is such a bore." He returns his attention to Maggie and the Inquisitor. The pup has rolled onto her back, and the elf is apparently trying to decide whether he should rub her belly.
"Already she puts her training to use," Morrigan observes.
"How so?"
"In exposing the most vulnerable part of her body, she shows submission to her alpha."
"Exposing her belly shows submission?" His glance falls to Morrigan's bare midriff.
She scowls. "I see the witticism on the tip of your tongue, Pavus. If you value your health, you will swallow it whole."
"You're no fun at all." This is a lie. Morrigan is great fun. Teasing her is every bit as delightful as teasing Cassandra – and just as dangerous.
The longer the elf lingers on the stairs, the more the faithful begin to gather around. It's rare for the Inquisitor to stand still long enough for them to get near him, and the bolder among them appear anxious to take advantage of the opportunity.
"Is it true, Your Worship, that you're leaving for the Arbor Wilds tomorrow?"
Dorian doesn't see who asks the question. There's too many of them now, gathering like an audience around a dais. Too late, the elf realizes he's trapped; if he leaves now, he'll seem haughty and ungracious.
"It is, yes," he says, straightening from his crouch.
"And Corypheus? Will he be there?" A different voice now.
"It's possible."
"What about the archdemon, Your Worship? The one that destroyed Haven?"
The elf hesitates, his glance skimming the crowd as if gauging the mood.
"They are afraid," Morrigan says in an undertone. "He must reassure them, if he would have them be strong when the time comes."
"He knows," Dorian murmurs. He watches as his lover dons the Inquisitor mask, his features smoothing into a picture of serene confidence. And when he speaks again, it's in his Inquisitor voice, firm and pitched to carry. "We cannot know what awaits us in the Arbor Wilds."
All across the bailey, voices hush, every head turning. People emerge from the outbuildings and peer down from the ramparts. Even the distant hammering of the smithy falls silent.
"I know you're frightened," he says. "Perhaps I ought to tell you that you needn't be, but I know you're strong enough to hear the truth. And the truth is this: Corypheus is a wounded animal. The Inquisition has dealt him blow after blow, and what he does now, he does out of desperation. We can be proud of that. But every hunter knows that a wounded animal is often the most dangerous. There is no doubt the fight ahead will be a hard one." He pauses, gathering his thoughts. "But there are other truths I learned as a hunter. That a mother defending her cubs is the fiercest creature there is. That the strength of the wolf is in the pack. That the eagle sets his course by the heavens, and so always flies true. That is who we are. Our strength lies in what we defend, and who stands at our side as we defend it. It lies in our faith and our determination. These things cannot be defeated on any field of battle. So whatever happens in the Arbor Wilds, we will endure, and we will take the fight to Corypheus as many times as it takes to banish him from the world forever."
He's said his piece, and judging from the reaction, it's exactly what his people needed to hear. There's an energy in the crowd now; men and women glance at one another, trading looks of pride and resolve.
"Andraste bless you, Your Worship."
"We will not falter."
"Maker protect you."
"We are with you, Herald. To the end."
He receives their prayers and devotion with a grave nod before turning and heading back into the keep, Maggie in tow. Dorian knows he'll head straight to his quarters and out onto the balcony, taking a moment to breathe.
"He did well," Morrigan says. "Even better than at the Winter Palace, perhaps." She tilts her head, considering the still-buzzing crowd. "They look on him as half a god himself. How strange it must be, having a demigod for a lover."
Dorian laughs hollowly. "It is, rather. Enough to give one a raging inferiority complex, quite frankly."
"The great Dorian Pavus, inferior?" She lifts an eyebrow. "Surely not."
"It's a lot to measure up to. To be…" He winces and stirs on his feet. "To be worthy of, I suppose. To date, my main accomplishments consist of obscure research triumphs and an unmatched record of expulsions from the world's premier magical institutions."
Morrigan laughs. "'Tis a base from which to build, at least."
Into what, exactly? Dorian knows one thing for certain: He can't spend his life in the shadow of a demigod, no matter how much he adores him. He needs a purpose of his own, a life's work he can be proud of. It's what drove him to the Inquisition in the first place.
There you go again, Pavus, he thinks. Fretting about the future when it's very likely you'll be dead by this time next week.
Tomorrow, they march for the Arbor Wilds. He has little doubt Corypheus will put in an appearance, and his dragon too. That is the only future he needs to worry about, at least for now.
In the meantime, he has a vambrace to fix.