**In better days, this chapter wouldn't come with a tag. But since I know many of us are under a lot of stress right now, a mild warning: If you're feeling a little fragile today, you may wish to put this chapter off for another time. Stay well out there.**

Part Thirty-Three: Precious

Dorian hasn't seen the elf in four days.

Not properly. A glimpse here and there, of course. As a flash of silver hair crossing the bailey below his window in the library. As a streak of blue silk vanishing through a doorway in the main hall. He's heard his lover's soft tenor floating up from Solas's chamber below. But that's as close as he's gotten. Each time he hears footsteps on the stairs to the library, he glances up from his book, and for a fleeting moment, his traitorous heart conjures the illusion of those blue-green eyes, that secret smile that belongs only to Dorian. Each time is a fresh disappointment, another stone added to the pit of his stomach. He read somewhere that certain birds deliberately swallow sharp stones to aid their digestion. He's doing the same, he supposes, each little disappointment grinding against the others, helping him to digest the painful truth: The elf isn't coming. Not today, and maybe not ever again.

You have only yourself to blame. Why couldn't he have just kept his mouth shut? Corypheus is coming for them. Their remaining lifespans can probably be measured in days. What in the Maker made him think now was the time to inform the elf of his future plans?

I should go back, shouldn't I? To Tevinter. Once this is done. If we're still alive.

He can still picture the stunned look in his lover's eyes. As if he'd just found a knife in his belly, and Dorian's hand on the hilt. "You would just leave? What about…?"

"Us? Trust me, amatus, it would give me no pleasure to leave your side." But…

Dorian had done his best to explain it in terms the leader of the Inquisition would understand. The elf had sacrificed so much to save the world. Now it was Dorian's turn to sacrifice, to try to save his homeland from itself.

The elf offered to go with him. Dorian made a joke of it. We both know you'd just end up doing it all yourself. The truth – because you'd most likely be horribly murdered and/or used in ritual sacrifice – did not seem like the right note to strike.

The surrender was graceful, even for a man made of grace. "If that's what you need to do."

Dorian had forced a smile. "There you go, breaking my heart." And it did break his heart. To meet so little resistance, after everything they'd shared… It wasn't what he expected, but it was probably for the best. At least they could take comfort in each for a little while longer, until Corypheus was defeated. That's when the real heartbreak would hit, but that pain could be deferred.

So he thought, at any rate. But now, four days later, it's clear he misjudged everything about that encounter, and Dorian is beginning to wonder if he'll meet his Maker without ever holding the elf in his arms again.

Footsteps on the stairs. Don't look up, Dorian tells himself. There's no point in torturing himself with foolish hope. It's not him. If it were, you'd never hear him coming. Don't. Look. Up.

Dorian looks up.

It's not him.

It's one of Leliana's messengers, on his way up to the rookery. Dorian's gaze follows him dully, and a moment later the spymaster's voice floats down from above.

"Have you informed the Inquisitor?" Her words are unusually clear. She must be leaning out over the railing directly above Dorian's nook.

"I did, yes. He was remarkably stoic, considering. It was a little unnerving, actually."

"Did the Commander give an estimate of when our forces will arrive?"

"The day after tomorrow. But from what it says here…"

"Yes. Wycome may fall before then."

Wycome? Dorian sits up a little straighter. Isn't that the Marcher city that was being poisoned with red lyrium? From what little he knows of the affair, Clan Lavellan is still there, protecting the city elves from reprisals.

"If the Marchers attack with a force this size…" The messenger sounds uneasy. "The Inquisitor's clan…"

Dorian's blood runs cold. In a heartbeat, he's on his feet and taking the stairs two at a time. The messenger whirls around at the sound of his boots, but Leliana doesn't look at all surprised to see him.

"Can I help you with something?" she asks blandly, hands folded behind her back.

"Let's skip the charade, shall we? You know perfectly well why I'm here. Is there nothing to be done?"

"Nothing."

"Are they all in the city? His entire clan?"

"His entire clan. His keeper. His sister. Everyone he has ever known or cared for in this world, at least before coming here. If our forces don't get there in time, they will all die." She delivers the words ruthlessly, her gaze pinning him like an insect to a board. It was no accident that he overheard, Dorian realizes. She wanted him to hear.

He feels sick. "How long has this been going on? Why didn't you tell me?"

Leliana glances at her messenger, and he withdraws without another word. She waits until he's out of earshot before turning back to Dorian. "It is not for me to inform you of the Inquisitor's business," she says coldly. "And if you wanted to be there for him, perhaps you shouldn't have told him you were leaving him on the eve of the final battle."

He stiffens. "I did no such thing."

"No? You didn't tell him you'd be returning to Tevinter without him?"

Dorian doesn't bother to ask how she knows. Half the ears in this building probably belong to her. "I am not leaving him. We will be apart for a time, but that's hardly—"

"Take comfort in your semantics if you like. It's been days since the two of you last spoke. That should tell you everything you need to know about how he understands the matter."

Heat flashes to Dorian's face. Anger? Humiliation? Even he isn't sure. "My relationship with the Inquisitor is my business."

"No," she snaps, "it is not. It is the business of this entire fortress, and you well know it." She shakes her head and looks away. "I am partly to blame for all this. I knew you would be a problem. From the moment you arrived, I knew it. I saw the way he looked at you. The way you looked at him. I should have taken care of it there and then. Seen you onto a ship, or to the bottom of the sea. But I was sentimental. And here we are."

"Which is where, exactly?"

"I don't know. He does not confide in me. He does not confide in anyone but you, not truly." She fixes him with her cold gaze once more. "Which is why you will go to him now, Dorian Pavus, and you will beg his forgiveness, and you will see him through whatever comes with his clan. Because if they are slaughtered and he is left with no one in this world, not even his self-absorbed peacock of a lover, he will crumble. And then we are all doomed."

Dorian wants to argue. To tell her to take her threats and insults and shove them up her arse. But his anger doesn't matter right now, nor his pride. She doesn't matter. So he turns away without another word, following the spiral stairs down and down.

He crosses the main hall in swift strides, only to hesitate outside the Inquisitor's door. He promised himself he wouldn't do this. If his lover needs space, it isn't for Dorian to breach it. But Leliana is right about one thing: The Inquisitor shouldn't have to face this alone.

He finds the elf on the balcony, of course. Maggie lies at his feet, unusually subdued. She raises her head at Dorian's approach, tail thumping tentatively, but the Inquisitor doesn't turn. He stares out over the mountains, hands propped against the rail.

Dorian has no idea what to say. Where does he even begin? "Are you all right?"

The elf turns, and his expression is perfectly serene. "I'm fine, thank you. Is there something you need?"

Dorian sighs. "You've been avoiding me."

"I'm sorry about that. I wasn't trying to be dramatic. I thought it for the best."

"Maker's breath, don't be sorry." Dorian steps to his lover's side, eying him with concern. "Leliana told me about Wycome. You must be beside yourself."

"There's nothing I can do about it, so there's no point in worrying."

Dorian stares at him in consternation. But your sister. Your entire clan… He doesn't say it aloud. It would only make things worse. "I'm here for you," he says instead. "Whatever you need."

Something unreadable passes through the elf's eyes. He looks away, leaning on the railing once more. "Thank you, but I think it's best if we just carry on as we are."

"Carry on as we are? Not speaking, you mean?"

"We're speaking."

"Don't be glib. You know perfectly well what I mean."

He sighs. "I'm not sure what you're looking for here, Dorian."

"I told you. I want to be here for you."

"I appreciate the sentiment. But the best thing you can do for me is to be ready for Corypheus. That's all that matters right now."

"Amatus…"

"I'm not your amatus anymore."

The words sink like a stone to the bottom of a very deep well.

It takes Dorian a moment to find his voice. "Of course you are," he says.

No response. An airy silence hangs over the mountains. Somewhere nearby, a raven caws.

"This isn't what I wanted," Dorian says roughly. "When I said I was leaving… This isn't what I meant."

The elf's brows draw together, as if he's staring at a puzzle he can't solve. "I don't understand. What did you expect would happen? Did you want me to beg you to stay?"

"Perhaps I did," Dorian says. And he hates himself for it.

"What would it have changed? Redeeming your homeland is an admirable goal, Dorian. You have the strength and the talent to do it. Why would I stand in the way of that? After everything you've done to support me here, how could I not do the same for you, in whatever form you asked it of me? You asked me to let you go. That's what I'm doing." There's no anger in his voice. Hardly any emotion at all. A little unnerving, the messenger had called it. The man has a gift for understatement.

"You have every right to be furious with me…"

"But I'm not. Truly. I'm proud of you, Dorian. What you're planning to do is very brave, and I know how hard it was for you to tell me what was in your heart. Your timing leaves a little to be desired, but I'll manage."

Still in those perfectly measured tones. But Dorian sees the way he's gripping that railing, as if his life depended on it. "This thing you do," Dorian says. "It's not healthy."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do. You stand there cool as you please, as though you're not screaming on the inside. But I know you, amatus. I know how much you love your sister. Your clan. I know how deeply you…" The words stick in his throat; he swallows past them. "You're hurting. Let me help you."

Blue-green eyes meet his, and it's like looking into a cracked eluvian. "I can't. If I open that door even a little…" He shakes his head and turns away again. "I don't dare, not now."

"But—"

"Please, Dorian." He shuts his eyes, gripping the railing so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

Dorian stares at him helplessly, but there's nothing more to be said. Except perhaps... "I'm sorry. So very sorry, my love."

On his way out, Dorian's glance strays to the bed, and a flash of gold catches his eye. An amulet hangs from the candle stand on the bedside table; even from here, Dorian recognizes the intertwined halla horns. It's the Dalish promise necklace they found in the Emerald Graves. Dorian didn't even realize he'd kept it, and the sight of it hanging there, beside the bed, almost breaks him.

He makes it to the bottom of the stairs before the ache in his throat becomes too much, and he has to brace a hand against the wall for support.

The irony of it all washes over him, as bitter as bile. From the start, he's never really known what to do with this thing. A relationship? A healthy relationship? The elf's love was a gift too precious to imagine, unlooked for and undeserved, and he's lived in fear of the inevitable moment when it would be taken from him. But that's not what happened in the end. The precious thing wasn't taken from him. He broke it.

Of course he did.

Dorian sits on the bottom stair and rests the back of his head against the cool stone. On the other side of the door, he can hear the main hall going about its business. Upstairs, the wind whistles between a gap in the stones. Here, in this in between place, he is alone.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he lets the tears come.