Part Thirty-Two: Dragonslayer
Dorian is still dreaming about the Temple of Mythal.
It's the same every night. They're standing in the Petitioner's Chamber. It smells of decaying leaves and the unmistakable tang of blood. Half a dozen sentinel elves are arrayed behind them, armour gleaming, bows taut, faces obscured within their hoods. Abelas glares down at them from the mezzanine, as if he might see into their souls through looking alone.
It's just the two of them. Dorian and his amatus. He has a nagging sense there should be others with them, but he can't quite recall. He can feel the magic of this place thrumming along his skin, lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. It's unlike anything he's ever felt before, and he's thrilled and terrified in equal measure.
His lover is thrilled too – at first. He asks one question after another, eyes bright with wonder, soaking up every bit of knowledge the ancient elf is willing to share. Dorian, meanwhile, listens in astonishment as Abelas obliterates the cornerstone of the imperial legacy with a single sentence.
The shemlen did not destroy Arlathan.
He likens Dorian's ancestors – his smug, supremacist ancestors – to carrion crows feasting upon a corpse, and Dorian isn't sure whether he ought to laugh or cry.
But all that is forgotten a moment later, when the Inquisitor implores the ancient elf to share his wisdom with their people.
Abelas sneers. "Our people? The ones we see in the forest, shadows wearing vallaslin?" He stabs a contemptuous finger at the Inquisitor. "You are not my people."
They're the cruelest words he could have chosen. Worse than anything the Nightmare said to them in the Fade. Dorian sees his lover stiffen, a spasm of confusion and pain crossing his features before he masters himself. It's heartbreaking, and Dorian doesn't even try to hide the fury in his eyes when he looks back up at Abelas. Not that the sentinel gives one shiny fuck.
Suddenly Morrigan is there, and Maggie too, and they're both full-grown wolves, teeth bared and snarling, their yellow eyes fixed murderously on Abelas. They bound up the stairs to the mezzanine, and the sentinel flees deeper into the temple.
At this point, Dorian realizes something isn't right. He's fairly certain this is a dream – which would be a relief, because that would mean Abelas isn't real and he didn't just say something horrible to the man he loves and also the entire history of his own people wasn't a giant lie.
They follow their sentinel guide through the inner sanctum – she's not bothered about her boss being chased by wolves, apparently – and it's the most hauntingly beautiful thing Dorian has ever seen. An ancient elven shrine, intact. He can't even imagine what must be going through his lover's mind. His lover, who is fascinated by all things arcane. Who's spent years penning a history of the elves – half of which, he must now suspect, is wrong. The Inquisitor drifts through the glittering chambers in silent reverence, craning his neck this way and that, reaching out with his fingertips to brush the iridescent tiles. He lingers before the mosaic dedicated to Sylaise, his hand straying to the vallaslin twined over his left eye.
You are not my people.
Solas is watching him too (when did Solas get here?) and even he seems to understand the cruelty of Abelas's words – to any Dalish, but to this one in particular. Several times, he seems on the cusp of saying something, but he doesn't. He probably suspects any words from him would ring hollow, given the contempt he himself has shown for the Inquisitor's people. Go with that instinct, Solas, Dorian thinks, fully aware that he's displacing his anger and not at all troubled by it.
When they reach the Well of Sorrows, they find Abelas hemmed in by two very cross-looking wolves. They're crouched low, ears flat and eyes blazing, muzzles drawn back over gleaming white fangs. The Inquisitor calls them off with a soft whistle, and though they both cease their snarling, Morrigan continues to prowl around the sentinel in a slow, menacing circle.
A tense negotiation ensues. Abelas would like them to go away, despite the fact that this will almost certainly result in Corypheus claiming the well. Morrigan, who is human again, wants to drink from it. Bull thinks the Inquisitor should do it. The latter, to Dorian's astonishment, thinks the well ought to be destroyed.
These are all terrible ideas.
Abelas relents – drink from it if you must, et cetera – and turns to go. At which point Dorian finds himself making a similar plea to the one his lover made earlier.
"The Imperium went to great lengths to expunge elven history. You might be the last to know the truth."
The sentinel's amber eyes fix on him. "Would the 'elves' of your lands listen to the truth?"
"They might. Would it hurt to try?"
"It very well may, shemlen, yes." He turns away again. Conversation over.
Anger flares in Dorian's belly. "That's it, then? It might destabilize the status quo – a condition, I feel compelled to point out, that is perfectly horrible for thousands of elves – so best to leave things as they are? What rubbish. You don't give a damn about those elves or anyone else. All you care about is a past that's been dead for a thousand years."
Wait. He didn't say that. He'd wanted to, but he didn't dare antagonize the sentinel at that critical moment, when it seemed they'd finally persuaded him to stand down.
But here, in the dream, he says it, and the ancient elf turns back to him. "Why should I care for them, shemlen? What are they to me?"
"People. They are people, and they are suffering."
"Because of your kind."
"Yes, because of my kind. Because of people exactly like me who've spent their entire lives looking the other way, even though they know deep down it's wrong. They tut over their news pamphlets at the latest atrocity and feel smug and self-righteous in their disapproval, but they don't lift a finger to change it. It's so much easier to go on as you always have, safe in your little bubble. But if someone were to burst that bubble… If it were no longer possible to just go on as you always have, swaddled in your delusions of grandeur and entitlement…"
The sentinel's amber eyes bore into him. "It sounds as if you know what must be done. Why look to others to do it?"
The question catches Dorian off guard. He tries to respond, but his throat forms no sound. And then he realizes it's not Abelas speaking to him, it's Solas. The apostate waits for an answer, eyes piercing, brows drawn severely, but still Dorian can't find his voice. He turns to the Inquisitor, but his lover's face is oddly blurred. And not just his face; his entire body is faded, like a painting bleached by the sun, and as Dorian reaches for him, he vanishes.
That's when Dorian wakes up.
Sweating, heart pounding – and for the past two nights, with a lump of grief in his throat, which only tightens when he rolls over and looks at his sleeping lover.
Because the sentinel in his dream is right. Dorian knows what must be done. It's the only way to stop the nightmare – in his head, and in his homeland. He's known it for a while now, ever since that night by the fire after they'd freed the slaves.
Whatever promises we make to each other, that dragon will always lie between us.
Dragons can be slain.
He knew even then what the price would be if he chose to take up that sword, and it's nigh-on unbearable. But if he's not willing to pay it, is he really any better than the rest of his countrymen? All of them soporati, sleepwalking through life because it's so much easier than fighting for what's right. Dorian has already blown up his life once because he refused to live a lie. That was for selfish reasons. If he flinches now, when it really matters…
The elf is sleeping on his side. Dorian curls up against him, fighting down the urge to cling so tightly it will wake him up. "'Ma vhen'an bellanaris," he whispers. "Whatever comes."