Part Thirty-Five: The hourglass empties
Dorian has a headache.
Not one of those dull, hover-in-the-background things, either. A splitting headache, the kind that feels like a tiny dwarf is perched inside your skull with a hammer and chisel and a comprehensive list of every unkind thing you've ever said about dwarves, and he's exacting his vengeance one hammer stroke at a time. The little shit has been at it for hours now, with no sign of letting up. Maybe the cold is keeping him awake. It's certainly keeping Dorian awake, despite the fact that the moon set hours ago and it's probably closer to dawn than dusk, and still they're trudging through the snow.
"Vishante kaffas. How much farther do you mean to drag me?" They're the first words he's spoken in over an hour, and it took some effort to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth.
Morrigan glances over her shoulder, her features barely discernible in the gloom. "I can still see the glow of the fortress," she says, inclining her chin in the direction from which they've come.
"Of course you can. It's perched on top of a bloody mountain. It's miles away."
"The distance is irrelevant. We must be out of their sight, and they of ours."
"Remind me again why we couldn't bring horses?"
She clucks her tongue. "Fool. Assuming the dragon could resist the temptation to eat them, they would go mad with fear."
"The dragon. You mean you?"
"Let us hope so. But as I told you, there is a risk. Shapeshifting always involves a certain… dilution… of one's humanity. The faculties of a sentient being cannot easily be accommodated in the mind of a beast. I know what to expect from a wolf or a raven, and I have learned to adjust. But I have never assumed the form of a dragon before. Who can say what impulses rage in a creature of such raw might? And then there are my own impulses. Power can be intoxicating to even the most disciplined mind."
Dorian scowls. "You're not filling me with confidence."
"You were properly warned, were you not?"
"That is yet to be determined. Warned and properly warned are not quite the same." Dorian huddles deeper into his cloak, pulling the fur-lined collar tight around his neck. "I do hope it's worth the risk, to both of us."
"As do I," she says with a solemnity that is not at all reassuring.
"Does the Inquisitor know what this spell entails?"
"Yes, though I am uncertain how he feels about it. He was, as always, difficult to read." She shakes her head. "Inquisitor Lavellan keeps his own counsel, does he not?"
"He certainly does," Dorian murmurs.
There's a pause. Morrigan cuts him a sidelong look. "Why did you do it?"
Dorian sighs. It was only a matter of time. He's surprised it took her this long, frankly. "What exactly is it you think I did?"
"Did you not tell him you were leaving him?"
"No. Yes." Dorian rubs his eyes, mentally cursing tiny dwarves and their vindictive little chisels. "It's complicated."
She doesn't respond, clearly waiting for him to elaborate.
"I told him I would be returning to Tevinter when all this is done, assuming we survive. It didn't occur to me at the time that he would hear that as I'm planning to leave you, at least not permanently. I thought of it as a temporary rupture. An obstacle we would have to find a way to overcome. It wasn't meant to be the end of the road."
"Why not simply allow him to accompany you?"
"An elf? In the Imperium?"
"'Twould no doubt be dangerous, but the Inquisitor seems quite capable of taking care of himself."
"Perhaps, but it's more than that. My goal is to reform the Imperium from within. Forcing it to change from without would never work. But that's exactly how it would be perceived if I were to arrive in Tevinter with the leader of the Inquisition at my side. At best, I would be seen as a puppet of a foreign power; at worst, as a traitor outright. Even moderate voices would be suspicious of me, and rightly so. I would be worse than ineffective. I'd be toxic. Any initiative associated with my name would be doomed before it began."
Morrigan hums thoughtfully. "I am no student of politics, but your analysis seems sound."
"Politics is in every drop of my blood. I know what I'm talking about."
"Even so, your timing…"
"Ah, yes, my timing." Dorian laughs bitterly. "Atrocious, isn't it? All because of a silly nightmare. I'd been dreaming about the Temple of Mythal, you see. Over and over. I thought, I'll just get this off my chest and the dreams will stop."
And so they have. In their place are dreams about his lover, a pitiless, unending montage of memories that plague him night after night. Instead of waking up in a panic, he wakes with tears in his eyes – that, or a raging erection. The Nightmare itself couldn't have tortured him more effectively.
"I'd take it back if I could," he says roughly. "Every word."
"Perhaps you will yet find a way to undo what you have done. But for now…" Morrigan slows, turning to face Skyhold. "We are out of sight of the fortress at last."
"Thank the Maker." Dorian unhooks his staff from his back, pausing to blow into his hands before readjusting his gloves. "Now, what exactly is it you need me to do?"
"Watch. Study. You have fought many dragons at the Inquisitor's side, have you not?"
"Entirely too many for my liking."
"The form I assume must be correct in every particular. Not only in how it looks, but how it moves."
"Easy enough."
"If the dragon does not render correctly, or if I appear to be struggling in some way, I may need to you to dispel the enchantment, if you can."
"A good deal less simple."
Her golden eyes fix on him. "Most importantly, we are here to gauge how much of me remains within the creature I become. Am I able to recognize you? To understand your words and intentions?"
Dorian laughs darkly. "And if you're not?"
"Then you will most likely die. But take heart: The rest of us will not be far behind you. Because if I cannot master this spell and match Corypheus's dragon, we are all doomed."
"Darling Morrigan, remind me never to let you give an inspirational speech to the troops."
She ignores that, giving him a long, penetrating look. "Are you prepared, Pavus?"
Dorian bites back a sarcastic reply. The time for glibness is past; he needs to focus, for both of their sakes. Closing his eyes, he draws a deep breath, centring his thoughts. "Go."
The air around him ripples, sending waves of static over his skin, lifting the hairs on his arms even through several layers of clothing. He keeps his eyes shut, feeling the movement of the Veil, searching for snags as it flows between his fingers, but it's smooth as silk. Then a blast of warm air rushes over him, and when he opens his eyes, he finds himself nose to nose with a dragon.
His knees turn to jelly, and he takes an involuntary step back, his heart thudding in his ears.
Get a hold of yourself, man.
Swallowing hard, Dorian meets the dragon's eye, searching for some glimmer of humanity. That golden gaze is like a mirror, but the fact that she hasn't bitten him in half yet is a promising start. The warmth of her breath enfolds him; he can hear her lungs filling and deflating like a bellows, each exhalation stirring his hair, rippling over the fur trim of his cloak. "All right," he murmurs in his most velveteen voice, as though he's soothing a spooked horse. "Let's get a look at you, shall we?" He backs away slowly, never taking his eyes from hers, fingers clenching and unclenching around his staff as he fights his body's quite sensible instinct to run.
He walks around her in a slow circle, mesmerized. He's never had the luxury of doing this before, at least not while the creature is alive, and the thrill of being so close to something this deadly is intoxicating. The glittering scales, the massive expanse of wings, the double ridge of spines running along her tail… She's magnificent, and as the fear recedes, envy rushes into its place, so powerful that his teeth ache. To be a dragon, even for a moment... Never before has Dorian coveted another mage's power so fiercely. It's not just the power, or the beauty; it's the sheer awe of it, the sense of being in the presence of a goddess.
So, Pavus, you are Tevinter to your core after all. The thought brings a wry smile to Dorian's lips.
But he's not here to gawk. "Everything appears to be in order," he says. "Now, can you understand me?"
The great head swings in his direction, but the only response is a low rumble, which could mean just about anything.
All right, let's try this. Slowly, his hand only slightly shaking, Dorian reaches for the dragon's snout.
Golden eyes narrow, and the dragon rumbles again, an unmistakably irritated sound. She's in there, all right.
"Kaffas, woman, throw me a bone. When am I ever going to get this chance again?"
The dragon blows out an impatient breath and lowers her head, and Dorian pats her nose.
"You seem safe enough. Now." A slow smile spreads across his face, and though her reptilian features don't move, he senses her smiling back at him. "Let's see what you've got, shall we?"
Dawn is breaking by the time Dorian and Morrigan walk through the gates of Skyhold, both of them still smiling like the cats that got the cream. Indeed, they look so pleased with themselves that tongues might well be wagging later, but Dorian can't bring himself to care. His veins are still buzzing with energy, so much so that he probably won't even bother trying to sleep. All he needs is a wash and a little something to eat, and he'll be ready to face the day.
So he thinks, at any rate, but when he steps out of his quarters a little while later, he senses immediately that something is wrong. People are rushing around the bailey like ants with the nest kicked in, their faces etched with fear. The alarm hasn't been sounded, so they're not under attack... Instinctively, Dorian glances up and sees traces of a familiar toxic green threaded through the clouds.
No. Not yet. It's too soon…
He races for the wall walk, but he doesn't even get halfway up the stairs before he sees it, a writhing gyre of energy that seems to suck the very lifeblood from the earth below.
The Breach.
"He's here," Dorian murmurs. "It's here."
He feels strangely calm. The buzz of his experience with the dragon is gone. His headache is gone, and his hunger. There's only one thought in his mind, and before he even fully processes it, he's running for the keep.
Varric is slinging his crossbow over his shoulder as Dorian rushes in. "Where is he?"
Wordlessly, the dwarf points at the Inquisitor's quarters.
Dorian bursts through the lower door without any clear idea of what he's going to say, but he has no time to think: the Inquisitor is hurtling down the stairs, armour gleaming, eyes blazing, his fine features a mask of resolve. He's so beautiful it aches, and Dorian freezes at the bottom of the stairs. "Amatus…"
The elf takes the last three steps in a single stride, grabs Dorian's face with both hands, and kisses him.
Dorian makes a small sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a sob. He clutches at his lover, kissing him so hard it hurts, both of them pouring a thousand burning words into a single moment of stolen breath.
The elf pulls back and holds Dorian's gaze. "Whatever you want to say to me, it can wait."
"But it can't…"
"Yes, it can." His eyes are fierce with determination. "We will survive this. I swear it. Now get your armour and meet us in the Undercroft."
"You want me at your side?" Dorian can barely choke out the words.
The elf's hands still frame his face, and he rests his forehead against Dorian's. "Always, 'ma vhen'an."
And then he's gone, sweeping past Dorian and out the door. Dorian calls his name – his given name, that he only ever uses in private – and the elf turns. But the words die on Dorian's lips. There's too much, and not enough time. Not anymore.
"Hurry," the elf says, turning back toward the Undercroft. "It's time to end this."