Part Thirty-Four: Vox Populi

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Sparkler." Varric picks up the jug and pours Dorian another pint. "It was always a lot of pressure to put on a relationship. Especially considering that you're… you know, you."

"Thank you, Varric. That's tremendously comforting." Dorian takes a swallow of ale, grimaces, and takes another. As the saying goes, if you're going to be sad, you might as well be drunk and sad. Wait, is that a saying? Probably. It should be, because it's true. Also true: this ale is bloody awful.

"A week," Sera says. "Two at the outside. That's how long before Coriffyfish shows up, and you couldn't keep your trap shut until then? Just had to tell him you'd be pissing off when all this is done? Well done you. Bloody brilliant."

"That's me. Bloody brilliant. By the way, have I mentioned how glad I am to hear all of your thoughts? Extremely helpful."

"If you didn't want our thoughts, maybe you should've kept your sad little tale to yourself. Oh wait, you're rubbish at that."

"Why don't you just tell him you fucked up?" Bull suggests. "He'll probably forgive you."

"Tried that," Dorian says. "Didn't work."

Bull narrows his good eye. "Really? You said I, Dorian Pavus, fucked up, and I humbly submit myself for judgment?"

"Well, no, obviously, the language I used was a good deal more… Hold on, what do you mean by judgment? Is this a bondage thing?"

"Hey, if you can manage that, you're winning."

This is not helping. Not even a little.

"I think what you did was brave, Dorian," Blackwall says gravely. "You told the truth. I know better than most how hard that can be, and the consequences aren't always pretty, but it's never the wrong choice."

Sera blows a raspberry. "Erm, yeah it is, Thom. Because our formerly arse-kicking leader is now The World's Saddest Assassin, and our best mage is Mopey Moustache, and the two of them make me want to cry in my beer or punch someone, or cry and then punch someone, and if Corifuckus was to turn up right now we'd be properly buggered."

Dorian props his chin on his hand and gives her a sloppy smile. "Do you really think I'm the best mage?"

"All right, big guy," Bull says, pushing back his chair. "You've had enough. Let's get you to bed."

"An intriguing proposal, but I'm afraid I'm spoken for. Oh wait." Dorian laughs bitterly, but he also lets himself be hauled up out of his chair, because if he keeps laughing like this he's going to start sobbing and that would be terribly undignified.

The night air is bracingly cold, and Dorian instantly perks up, which is a shame. The alcohol dulls the edges of his hurt into something almost tolerable. Sobriety, and the cutting clarity it brings, is about as welcome as a venereal disease.

"So," Bull says as they walk. "You gonna tell me about this little errand you've got Dalish running for you in Val Royeaux?"

Dorian looks at him blankly for a moment, and then he remembers. "Ah, yes." He snorts. "A stupid idea. Don't know what I was thinking. I'd call her back if I could."

"Do me a favour. Next time you want to send one of my guys somewhere, ask me."

Dorian starts to answer, but then he spies a familiar figure coming toward them, her white skin practically glowing in the moonlight. "Back so soon? Did you find what you were—"

"Fool! What have you done?" Morrigan's golden eyes blaze, and she plants a hand on her hip in a manner that reminds Dorian unnervingly of his mother.

"It's a rather long list, I'm afraid," he says languidly. "You'll have to be more specific."

"Do not trifle with me. I speak of the Inquisitor, of course."

"Do you? How refreshing. I wonder, is there anyone else at Skyhold who would like to share their opinion on my relationship with the Inquisitor?" Dorian spreads his arms and does a little turn, addressing himself to the courtyard. "Anyone at all? Surely there's a scribe I haven't heard from yet. Or a scullery maid? Come now, don't be shy."

Bull's glance cuts from Dorian to the witch and back. "I'll leave you two to sort this out." He pats Dorian's shoulder in a manner clearly designed to drive him into the ground like a fence post. "Good luck, big guy."

Morrigan's eyes track the Qunari as he walks away. Then they snap back to Dorian, narrowing into little yellow blades of doom. "Are you intoxicated?"

"Extremely."

She clucks her tongue in disgust. "This will not do. I require your assistance."

"I'm not in an assisting sort of mood. Anyway, shouldn't you be at some ancient elven shrine?"

"We have only just returned. We made a cosy couple, the Inquisitor and I. Imagine my surprise to learn it would be just the two of us. 'Tis odd, I said to myself. The Inquisitor does not go anywhere without his pet Tevinter. It took two days to extract the truth from him."

"Which was what, pray?"

"That his fool of a lover had chosen now, of all moments, to break his heart."

Dorian swallows hard. "Did he say that?" he asks quietly.

"Not in so many words. Indeed, he spoke few words of any kind. One suspects he would have passed the entire journey in silence had he not felt sorry for me."

"Sorry for you?" Dorian frowns. "Are you all right? Is it something to do with the Well?" He's been worried about her ever since she drank from that damn thing, but if it's done her any harm, he can't see it.

"You need not be concerned."

"What happened at the shrine?"

"That is a conversation for another time. Right now, I require your assistance, as I told you." Her expression turns shrewd, and more than a little smug. "I believe I can match the power of Corypheus's dragon. But it will require me to perform a spell more difficult than any I have attempted before. I must be certain it will work as planned."

"Ah," Dorian says. "You need a spotter."

"I need no such thing," she says tartly. "I merely require you to witness the transformation and study its results. And, possibly…" She glances down and fidgets with her glove. "Help me dispel it if something does not go as planned."

"In other words, a spotter."

The scowl returns. "Very well, if that ridiculous term pleases you, a spotter. Will you help or not?"

"What, now?"

"This very moment, yes. We know not when Corypheus might show himself. I must be prepared."

"Aside from the fact that it's very late and very cold, I don't know that I'm in any condition to spot you right now."

She makes an impatient gesture. "I have a tonic that will restore your faculties quickly enough. As for your comfort, fetch yourself a warm cloak and boots if you must, but make haste. We have a long walk ahead."

A long walk? Dorian doesn't like the sound of this at all. "Just what sort of spell is this, Morrigan? What are you transforming?"

"Myself."

"Shapeshifting? How will you match Corypheus's archdemon with…" He trails off, his eyes widening. "You're joking. Fasta vass, are you mad?"

"It is neither jest nor madness. Fetch your cloak and your staff, Pavus. We must be away."

"I've never heard of such a spell. Assuming it's even possible, what makes you think you can control it?" He realizes the answer as soon as he speaks. "You're not sure you can. That's why you want to put distance between yourself and the fortress. You're afraid you'll accidentally reduce it to rubble." He laughs darkly. "Oh, this is beautiful. And what of your lovely assistant, hmm? What if dragon Morrigan decides I look tasty?"

She meets his eye. "There is a risk," she says, and it almost sounds like a challenge.

Perhaps it's the alcohol, or the knowledge that he's likely to be roasted by a dragon in the next few days either way. Perhaps it's just the aching hollow inside his ribs. Whatever the reason, Dorian decides he doesn't much mind risking death to watch Morrigan shapeshift into a dragon. In fact…

"It sounds bloody delightful. I'll get my things."