Tharin trained relentlessly.

He subjected his body through grueling trials every day. Every single morning, he showed up and sparred with Cassandra and other templars. Their fights only gained in intensity as he recovered in strength. Meanwhile, the symptoms of lyrium withdrawal became infrequent enough to be manageable. He need not rely on Cullen and Dorian to get through the day in one piece now.

In Tharin's mind was a clear purpose. Even if he was never to regain the position of leadership, he wanted to be worthy enough to contribute to the Inquisition. After all, he was the Herald of Andraste, the one everyone looked to for answers. The intensive training was in service of that goal.

Fortunately for Tharin, he need not wait too long for an opportunity to prove his worth.

"We have a dragon infestation," said Leliana impassively as she stared at the dispatch that had been delivered a moment ago.

Cassandra perked up. "Where?" she asked in a tone that could be described as giddy if it were to have originated from anybody else.

"The northeast corner of the Hinterlands, near Lake Calenhad."

Josephine chimed in, "The territory is deep within Ferelden. King Alistair should be the one to take care of it."

Leliana shrugged. "In public, Denerim says yes. In private, they insist it's our problem. The area is sparsely populated, mostly grazelands, and the only people affected by the dragon are Orlesian refugees who had been moved there by the Fereldan decree."

"Perfect. Yet another thing on our plate." Josephine rolled her eyes and exhaled.

A thin grin surfaced on Leliana's face. "Yet another feather on our cap, you mean?"

Josephine scoffed. "This is no joking matter."

"No, but I do believe this is a perfect chance to demonstrate that the Herald," Leliana gestured toward Tharin, "is healthy and back to the business of saving the world. No more reason for people to cower in fear whether it be from dragon attacks or from Corypheus."

At Leliana's suggestion, Cullen and Tharin spoke out at the same time.

"Absolutely not!" thundered Cullen.

"Yes, please!" shouted Tharin.

Their voices echoed on the vaulted ceiling of the war room. Cullen and Tharin looked to each other and turned to the Spymaster.

With his heartbeats speeding up, Tharin entreated, "I would like to go. Please send me."

Cullen's strident tone followed in tow, "I am his guardian, and I say he is not ready!"

Leliana nodded to Tharin and faced Cullen. "The Inquisition needs this. Tharin has not left Skyhold in over a month. And we are beginning to lose the few advances we have made. We need the Herald out there adventuring and saving people." Before Cullen could respond, Leliana called for a vote, "All those in favor of ending the Commander's guardianship over the Herald?"

Cassandra squeezed her lips together but raised her hand. Josephine emitted a noise of disgust before she too raised her hand. Satisfied, Leliana declared, "Three against one. I believe we have our answer. The Herald is no longer bound by the Commander's guardianship."

With a loud bang that prompted a frustrated groan from Cassandra, Cullen struck the map table with his fist. "You cannot do this! There is a reason you put me in charge!"

Leliana remained emotionless as ever. "And now, the conditions have changed. We must adapt to survive and thrive." Serene and controlled, she continued on, "Now, let us vote on the Herald's joining the expedition. All those in favor, please raise your hand."

The result of the second round of voting was the same. Reluctantly, Cassandra and Josephine threw their votes with Leliana's. Cullen took deep breaths, looking like he would explode at any minute.

But Tharin could not care less about the atmosphere of animosity in the room. Excited at the chance to prove himself, he turned to the Seeker, the Ambassador, and the Spymaster and proclaimed, "A thousand thanks would not suffice! You shan't regret it."

Cullen muttered something unintelligible.

Calmly and without a shred of remorse evident, Leliana asked, "Would you like to take a leave, Commander?"

Cullen crossed his arms and shook his head vehemently, "No, thank you. I am staying right where I am."

Leliana sniffed. "As you wish."

Cassandra and Josephine shared uncomfortable looks.

The war council dedicated the next hour on finalizing the technical details of the expedition. The three voting members excluding the Commander – a cabal, one could say – agreed to send the same retinue that Tharin used to take. This included the Herald and the Seeker, one rogue who could look after their backs against the main target's inevitable underlings, and one mage to handle magical attacks and to put up protective barriers if necessary. After some back and forths, the cabal landed on Varric and Vivienne as right candidates. That was supposed to be the end of the discussion.

But Tharin inadvertently blurted the plan to Dorian in one of their brief chats at the library and, to his surprise, the mage actually went so far as to beg.

"You know, it isn't entirely beneath me to plead. But I would rather save both of us some shred of dignity and suggest I tag along. For research purposes, of course."

Tharin could not hide his mirth as he watched the mage trying to look cool. He assented to make an appeal to the Council on Dorian's behalf only after the mage promised to replace the plush chair he had stolen – "Requisitioned," protested Dorian – from Josephine's salon. His pout was adorable.

Then the word got around Skyhold, as it tended to do, and next thing, the Iron Bull was pounding on the door to Tharin's quarters in the wee hours of the night, drunk and livid. Of course, it had to be on one of the few nights when Tharin managed to sleep without bad dreams or memories of the past stalking him.

When Tharin finally managed to answer the door, he saw the two guards cowering in the corner away from the Qunari.

It was easy to imagine Cabot booting the Bull out of the Herald's Rest in this state. The man could barely stand, his hulking figure teetering.

The Bull slurred, "Boss, how could you? You kn-know I would do anything to battle a dragon!"

Bleary-eyed and wrapped in his wool night robe, Tharin held on to a lit candlestick as he sighed. He asked with a tone that refused to mask the annoyance, "Bull. Would you please join me to take down the dragon?"

The Bull's creased, scarred face instantly lit up. He bellowed a laugh that seemed to propel all the air within his thick body and lunged at Tharin, encasing him in a tight hug.

"I knew you would make the right choice! You won't be disappointed!"

Tharin gasped for air. In between labored breaths, he rasped, "Argh, okay, Bull, okay. Please let go now. You're… squeezing me too hard."

"Oh, sorry." The Bull apologized too loudly as he retracted himself.

So, the retinue now had two extra additions: Dorian and the Iron Bull. As Tharin watched the Inner Circle members tapped for this quest assemble by the gate in the early hours of the morning, he thought that the dragon should be very afraid indeed.

He almost felt sorry for the poor creature.

"Is everyone here? My dear man, do let us depart at once. It's terribly rude to keep the hostess waiting. Well, at least in Tevinter, where we care more about proprieties."

Tharin couldn't suppress his mouth curving at the edges at Dorian's eagerness. The mage was just about ready to jump up and down in childish giddiness. It was rare, nay, impossible to see him this excited about anything that did not involve ancient history or arcane research.

True, the Inquisition had all but quelled any unrest in the Hinterlands, but they were not heading there for something as mundane as a peacekeeping mission. They were going there to take down a dragon. How could he blame Dorian for his excitement?

It was the first time anyone from the Inquisition would confront this behemoth. There have been reports of dragon activities across Thedas, even three dragons occupying the same part of Emprise du Lion. But the dragons had not trifled with inhabited settlements thus far, and Tharin had been careful enough to avoid confronting them. Until now.

Even Cassandra, whose extended family included Thedas's most famed and celebrated dragon hunters, had never directly encountered the creature in her travels and seemed genuinely intrigued by the prospect as well.

Of course, Tharin knew about her late brother, Anthony Pentaghast, from many conversations he shared with the Seeker. This was to be one more battle she would fight in the memory of her late brother, the famous dragon hunter. One more battle she can recollect with fondness. Though silently on her own, more than likely.

But now, facing Dorian's unabashed enthusiasm for dragon hunting, Cassandra was eyeing the mage with obvious disapproval. Tharin snorted to himself in hushed amusement as he subtly peeked at the two.

"Your worship."

Tharin's heart skipped a beat when he heard Cullen's baritone. He turned to where the voice came from and found the Commander in full armor approaching slowly.

Tharin wished desperately that Cullen would call him by his given name, not by that insufferable your worship now forever attached to him along with his detestable surname. Still, Cullen was here to see them off. He tried in vain to stop his face from breaking out in full smile as he casually greeted, "Cul, I'm honored you're seeing us off."

The Commander's face was a study in contrast. His amber eyes seemed to gleam at the mention of his sobriquet by Tharin, but the edges of his mouth curved down.

"Must you do this on your own?"

Tharin carefully searched the other man's face to determine whether this concern was coming from Cullen Rutherford the Commander or Cul his friend. In the end, he decided the former was enough for him.

But before Tharin could speak, Dorian interjected.

"Good morning, Commander. I see your discerning eyes have somehow betrayed you. I am sure with six of us coming at her, the poor creature has no chance in all of Thedas. You should have our Madam Ambassador plan an elaborate banquet for when we return triumphantly.

"Of course, I shall be expecting her to break out all the finest Tevene wine from the cellars. There is nothing quite like it in the south, though I do find your ales very charming in a… rustic sense."

Cullen curtly acknowledged Dorian before turning back to Tharin. "I ought to be going with you…" The Herald finished the man's sentence in his head, since you are weakened from lyrium withdrawal.

Tharin felt the hot sting of self-inflicted humiliation and abruptly turned away. Pretending to be preoccupied with stroking the steed, he tried to sound dismissive, "Yes, well, you are needed at Skyhold. I will manage, but still, thank you for the offer, Cullen."

He regretted his terse words when he turned to see Cullen blush, lay his left hand on the scabbarded sword, and rub the back of his neck. "Yes, I understand that my duty is to stay and protect the keep. Please be careful. The Inquisition cannot lose you."

It was now too awkward for Tharin to face Cullen. There was a sense of finality hanging between them that dismayed him.

Tharin could feel Dorian staring hard at his face. The mage soon huffed and got on his horse. The other companions, too, must have been watching the scene unfold closely as they mounted. Cassandra, the Iron Bull, and Varric grunted in what felt like subdued disapprobation, and Vivienne sighed extravagantly.

And so, the party departed. As the lone figure became smaller and smaller in the horizon, Tharin repeatedly looked back with a feeling that he did not relish. Not one bit.

"Your inquisitorialness."

When Varric's horse caught up to Tharin's mount, the dwarf did his best impression of a fawning noble. Apparently, the dwarf had called him three times from the back, but Tharin was too preoccupied to notice.

The Herald wanted to claim that he was coming up with a plan for the attack, but in reality, he was spacing out thinking about Cullen's disappointed face.

"What can I do for you, Varric?" Feeling a tad embarrassed, Tharin hurriedly tried to change the subject. He regretted it soon after.

"I know it ain't my business, and I usually don't like to butt into other people's lives…" Tharin could not help but audibly scoff at the dwarf's words and immediately tried to couch it by faking a coughing fit. Thankfully, Varric ignored and continued, "But why isn't Curly coming with us?"

"Why would we need him?"

"We wouldn't. I only ask because I know there is something between the two of you. I mean, was. The way you guys were at Haven. And the way you look at each other now, it reminds me of how a gaggle of Chantry sisters stare at… well… you and Curly."

"Hmm, if what you say is true, I hope Cul and I could go without those clothes Chantry sisters are forced to wear. I imagine fighting in those floor-length habits would pose quite a challenge." Tharin sniffed at his own stupid joke, but Varric did not reciprocate. He was deadpan.

Tharin exhaled frustratedly and decided to counter it with unjustified glibness. "Varric, can we have this discussion later? Maybe after we take care of this dragon, save Orlais from itself, defeat Corypheus, and after I've mastered ancient Elvish and learned to cast a spell?"

"I suppose. I'm telling you though, it's always better to talk about stuff that bothers you than to let it fester."

"So you can write all about it?" Tharin put on a shit-eating grin and Varric finally let jolly guffaws shake his short body.

"You know it. I've finished a few more chapters on your epic journey, and my editor's about to plotz from all the excitement. I will leave the more salacious bits to your imagination."

After some time during which only friendly silence hung between them, Varric started again.

"You must have seen the way Curly looks at you. The poor guy looks like he will die every time you leave his sight."

Tharin considered for a moment before opening his mouth.

"He doesn't want me, Varric."

"…Are you serious?"

"What you saw back at Haven was nothing. Cullen's told me that he finds my attraction to men… despicable. That he finds me repulsive." Tharin wrinkled his brow as he continued the recollection, "Still, I was foolish enough to ask him again if he had any feelings for me in Val Royeaux. He denied it, naturally."

Varric's innately affable face turned hard. "Are you serious?!"

"I am completely serious."

Another bout of silence filled the space between the two as they rode. This time, it had solid edges that could tear one's skin if one dared to approach. So, Tharin let it sit despite the concurrent uneasiness.

But the dwarf was brave. Or, at the least, senseless enough to approach and break that razor-sharp silence. "I don't believe that was Cullen's actual intention. Maybe he was afraid of how he felt about you at the beginning, and that's why he lashed out. But watching him interact with you now, I don't believe he finds you repulsive at all."

"It doesn't matter. None of it matters."

"Why do you say that?"

"Varric," Tharin turned his gaze toward the other man as he grasped the reins hard. The nails dug into his palms, and the Anchor seemed to fizz ominously. "You know why. I am the Herald of Andraste. I will never not be the Herald. And if you want another reason, here's an important one: I am betrothed to Adelia de Verchiel."

Varric snorted, "That, I am sure, can be dealt with once this is all over. I mean, Andraste's tits, when you finish off Corypheus, you will be the most powerful man in the world. Who's going to make you marry anyone you don't want?"

"You sound just like Cul. Ever optimistic, ever hopeful." Tharin let a ghost of a smile spread. "That scenario assumes that there is something after Corypheus is defeated. But I think there's more than a fair chance I won't survive to see that."

The dwarf froze. With his lips curled down in a pronounced frown, he admonished, "Now why would you go and say something like that?"

Tharin tried to put on a brave face. Not that it worked, he could feel. "We fight things that are beyond our comprehension. If there is any chance my friends could get hurt, I am ready to defend all of you with my life."

He loosened his grip on the reins, opened his left hand, and stared at it hard. The Anchor seemed to thrum quietly, and there was aching pain where two missing fingers were supposed to be. The phantom pain happened often now that Tharin was off lyrium. It was small enough for him to ignore, yet significant enough to be distracting.

"I don't resent or regret any of it. At least, not anymore. Getting this… Anchor. Joining the Inquisition, recruiting independent mages, fighting the Red Templars, everything. But I know I'm living on a borrowed time, because when Corypheus comes for us, I don't know if I can safeguard your future if I am afraid of dying.

"Even if Cul lied, which… Oh, Maker… Varric," Tharin hung his head low and sighed, "if you saw him tell me how he felt about what I am, you wouldn't say that."

Varric interrupted, his voice impossibly soft, "Suppose I am right."

"Suppose you are right. Even if he were only lashing out and he actually does have feelings for me, Cul deserves to be with someone who can take care of him when he falls sick, not some naïve former templar with lyrium addiction who will probably get himself killed sooner than later."

Speechless was not one of the traits Tharin would attribute to Varric, but the man looked struck. The dwarf seemed to struggle in his head, smoothing his hair absent-mindedly.

Finally, Varric spoke with solemnity that the young man hadn't heard from him since they conversed about Hawke, "Don't you think you at least owe the Commander the opportunity to choose for himself what he wants in his life?"

The Herald shook his head definitively. "No. I would rather he forget about me and find someone else. He needs to be safe and happy, and I can't give him what he needs."

Varric's voice dropped another octave, making it sound almost threatening. "You are no martyr. I don't think any of us wants a martyr for the Inquisition. And it's arrogant to think all our problems would be solved by your dying. Corypheus is death's minion, and you can't fight death with your own death. I mean, that is… That is just plain bonkers."

The dwarf was ranting. "You know I'm right. And Curly will never get over you. For Maker's sake, you saw what he looked like after you ordered him to stay. He looked like a mabari pup hit with a rolled-up parchment. Seriously, I've never seen him carrying a torch for somebody like this."

To this, Tharin simply turned and flashed a tight grin that was as sad as it was resigned. Varric seemed to wait for a verbal response but sulked when Tharin refused to give one.

"This is some maudlin bullshit, and you know it." With those surly words, Varric fell back to Vivienne and Dorian, who no doubt had been straining to listen in on their conversation. Tharin could hear Dorian grilling Varric for information, only to be rebuffed sullenly.

The Iron Bull was the only one out of five companions who was neither interested nor involved in the conversation. Even Cassandra chimed in as they argued amongst themselves. In contrast, the Bull was on his own plane of existence, whistling loudly in a happy tone.

Just marvelous, Tharin thought as he adjusted his reins and soughed.

Dorian enjoyed watching the Herald ride from the back. There was no denying that the man's broad shoulders and thick, muscled arms were pleasing to his eyes.

Too bad they were obscured by a double layer of fabric and steel. Tunic and armor could be just so cumbersome sometimes.

And every time the horse bobbed as it strode, the mage would almost, but not quite, catch glimpses of the Herald's backside bounce along with it, which was distracting to say the least. If not for Varric and Vivienne, the two most discerning members of the Inner Circle other than Leliana and him, riding alongside him, the Altus would most certainly have freely gawked at the man.

Tharin was beautiful. Dangerously so.

Add to that the fact that the Herald was kind and exasperatingly altruistic like none of the men he had gone through back in the Imperium.

First, the young man stood with the mage as he confronted his father about the deplorable past wrongs – in a dingy Fereldan tavern that the high and mighty Halward Pavus most definitely did not approve of, which tickled Dorian to no end.

And then Tharin retrieved the Pavus family amulet from Ponchard de Lieux, an opportunistic predator. He did not ask for a thing in return.

Finally, Tharin saved Dorian from a certain death on the Storm Coast when the Venatori threatened to overwhelm his detachment. True, he did berserk afterwards, killing the surrendered prisoners, but even that was a manifestation of Tharin's overprotective nature, Dorian was certain. The gesture was somewhat infantilizing, yet it also accentuated the man's bleeding heart.

Raised in an environment where give-and-take was the cardinal rule of social interaction, the Herald's comportment perplexed the Altus. How could someone who possessed that much prestige and status, if not the requisite power, be that selfless? Tharin Trevelyan was a charming mystery that a Tevinter like Dorian could never understand.

So, voilà, here was the most lethal combination concocted especially for the Altus's consumption.

As much as he enjoyed watching Tharin ride ahead and appreciated his generous spirit, however, Dorian had also made a habit of reminding himself that the man was not available.

This recognition was not a hard-earned one. The Herald's and the Commander's behaviors spoke volumes, and the mage had picked up on their relationship a long time ago. So obvious, these warriors.

Everything came together for Dorian as he recalled that day in Redcliffe when he and the Herald were sucked into a time vortex to another reality.

When they arrived at the dungeon where the Cullen of that future was imprisoned, the young man fell to his knees and cried. Granted, it was obvious that Tharin was prone to tears, but until then, his focus was solely on returning to this reality and changing the future.

It was Cullen who could make the Herald cry like that. No one else.

That realization inexplicably left a bitter taste in Dorian's mouth.

The attraction was nevertheless there, and the Altus was certain Tharin was interested in him as well, in spite of the never-ending saga that was the man's relationship with the Commander.

Not that his grand plan for himself ever included Tharin as a potential romantic partner. Ever since the Inquisition settled into Skyhold, Dorian attempted to diligently ignore his attraction to the man. But it was to no avail.

The forced chess tutelage per Lady Montilyet's sternly worded "suggestion" did not help the matter. Almost half the time was spent chatting and silently admiring each other.

Well, I am quite admirable, thought the mage.

In any case, Dorian thought that he had nipped the flirting in the bud early on. But then there were still those lingering stares he couldn't disregard. As the semiweekly chess lessons blossomed into a genuine friendship, Dorian often wondered what Tharin's luscious light crimson lips tasted like.

And watching the man endure lyrium withdrawal and pull himself up from the abyss made Dorian respect Tharin for his perseverance. Everything pointed to his wanting to be with Tharin, yet he took no decisive action to realize that possibility. Which Dorian knew was so unlike him to let an opportunity to pass by.

Okay, the giant flying monster first, Dorian reproached himself. It wasn't like the Herald was going anywhere. There was a plenty of time for the mage to act on his impulses, should he wish to. Should he deem it wise enough.

But on the other hand, those thighs… Stupidly thick and obviously pulsing with great energy, Dorian wanted to run his hands across them.

Fasta vass! Cease this instant, Dorian! Why did the Herald have to be so damn attractive riding in front of him? He was used to life in Tevinter being unfair, but this was a new low for him. It turned out, life in the Inquisition, too, could be unfair.

The Fereldan Frostback turned out to be not as tough of a foe as the companions expected, but it did have lots of hatchlings that slowed down their attacks.

In fact, Vivienne was using most of her mana trying to shield her comrades' backs from the dragonlings nipping. She groaned and complained bitterly, "This is such a wasteful use of my talent."

After ducking the dragon's advancing claw, Tharin quickly responded, "I know. Say, will you boil us some water for our tea after this?"

Vivienne was delighted that the Inquisitor was picking up humor. The man desperately needed it, what with his permanent seriousness since Haven and an absurd lack of a love life. Why, if this were Orlais, the Inquisitor would have had a dozen suitors and at least three lovers by now.

The endearingly blond Commander or the Inquisition's very own Tevinter necromancer better step up soon.

She chortled and shouted, "As long as you are aware of my sacrifice, my dear!"

There really was no point in strategizing when it came to battling a dragon. The creature was simply too gigantic for any of their normal battle formations to work. The only thing they could do was to remember what each person's basic role was.

As soon as the battle started, Tharin, Cassandra, and the Iron Bull pushed ahead and directly attacked the mother. The Qunari slashed at the dragon's face to get its attention, while the Inquisitor and the Seeker tried to disable its legs by repeatedly impaling them.

The dragon kept breathing fire, and Cassandra had to keep her shield close. Fighting with two-handed weapons, the Inquisitor and the Bull just had to endure. Vivienne wondered if the heat might be blistering their hands and thought about ways to heal them while the battle still raged on.

Varric was assisting Vivienne in taking care of the dragonlings, which she was infinitely grateful for. Someone had to deal with the small details after all, and Vivienne would have hated to be the only one working on them. When the dwarf shot a bolt through a hatchling nipping at her back, Vivienne nodded appreciatively.

Dorian was using his elemental attacks, and when he hit ice in the rotation, the dragon reacted more harshly. Vivienne was about to let the mage know when Tharin shouted, "Dorian, keep using water and ice!" The mage nodded and kept shooting at the dragon's eyes and mouth with icicles and ice glyphs.

The dragon roared painfully, and Vivienne knew they were winning.

After the half-hour mark, the Fereldan Frostback was visibly faltering.

The yellow dragon's body was rounded, as if it was in pain. The Iron Bull was covered in dragon blood and happy as a clam. He kept clobbering at its snout with his formidable maul while bellowing at an incredibly high volume.

Vivienne and Varric had taken care of all the dragonlings around the party and joined the main battle. Mirroring Dorian's moves, Vivienne conjured icicles and relentlessly lobbed them at the dragon's eyes. Varric moved his hands fast, repeatedly nocking a bolt on Bianca and shooting.

To be fair, the battle was somewhat lopsided. Six against one, even if the opponent was a giant dragon. There was no way the Fereldan Frostback would be able to focus its attacks on one target. Its concentration was too scattered for it to fight effectively.

It was then the dragon tried to move away from the warriors. It turned its head sideways, glancing up at the sky. It was thinking about flying away, and they had to keep it down here.

"Bull! Hit the squama!" yelled the Herald.

"Got it, boss!" The Iron Bull replied immediately and extended his steel maul to hit a discolored spot underneath the dragon's jaw. The dragon began to emit a piercing squeal and thrashed about but soon lost momentum. It was on its last legs, barely able to move its claws to fight off the offensive materials being thrown at it.

Dorian was sure the dragon was finished. He marched forward fearlessly, passing the Seeker slashing at one of the forelegs. The Iron Bull's back came closer and closer, until Dorian passed him too. He idly noted that the warrior seemed to be stepping backward for some reason.

With his eyes focused on the dragon's maw, the mage kept walking around it. There were tens of sharpened icicles hanging in the air, tracing his movement. When he flung the last of those icicles at the dragon's bloody mouth, it shrieked plaintively and began to crumple. The eyes lost their sheen, and their owner released its last breath.

After making sure the dragon was dead, or at least sufficiently incapacitated, the mage twirled around and gracefully bowed.

He expected to see his companions keeling over their weapons laughing. Well, maybe not that, but at least clapping, having been sufficiently impressed at his magical abilities and concurrent poise under pressure.

Instead, he saw their eyes widen in terror when he finally lifted his head. Dorian was about to taunt them when he heard the howl. The dragon was finished, but it was not done tearing through the land. The mage whipped around to see the creature's gaping mouth crashing down on him.

"Wha–"

Before Dorian could finish his exclamation, he felt an incredible force on his left side. In a blink, he was tumbling down the craggy slope toward Vivienne and Varric. He could hear Cassandra's mails clinking as she ran toward him, but she passed him without catching his fall or even uttering a single word.

When he came to a full stop, he moaned in pain and flopped on the ground like a stranded starfish. The clouds seem so carefree just floating in the sky, his dazed mind inanely observed.

"Boss!"

"Herald–!"

It was only then he heard both the Iron Bull's and Cassandra's booming voices calling for Tharin. Dorian summoned the strength to stand up but faltered and slowly collapsed to the ground.

He was rooted to that spot, helplessly observing whatever was happening around him.

He saw destruction. Pillars of steam from hot springs dotting the terrain, fire, bits of ice Vivienne and he had conjured, the dragon's body emitting foul smoke, and enormous shards of red lyrium… the standard stuff you expect at an evil dragon's lair and whatnot. But when his eyes finally adjusted, he could see next to the dragon carcass was something. No, someone.

The Herald looked small, lying prone on a large slab of boulder next to one of the dragon's claws. The Bull and Cassandra were by his side by the time Dorian realized what had happened.

He saved me, Dorian thought incredulously.

They lifted Tharin off the ground, but things did not look good. There was obviously a head laceration, a giant gash across the forehead from where blood flowed unhindered. In fact, all of his dark hair seemed to be matted with blood. The Herald's helmet and greatsword lay nearby, looking useless.

There were two elongated punctures on the breastplate, underneath which were patches of skin looking crimson. There was more blood.

His right arm was twisted at an odd angle, making Tharin look like a rag doll haphazardly thrown on the ground by a child. The left arm looked better, but there was that Anchor, still as green as ever and thrumming with magical energy. And the two missing fingers.

"Vivienne! Help him, please!" With a noticeable hitch in her voice, Cassandra pleaded.

The enchanter charged uphill toward Tharin, but her breathing seemed entirely controlled. She ordered coolly, "Leave it to me, my dear. Set him down on a flat surface. He shouldn't be moved until we've taken a proper look."

Cassandra and the Bull followed her instructions assiduously and gingerly set Tharin down on a small patch of grass. The warriors watched with their hands covering their mouths as Vivienne got down on her knees and began to apply healing spells. An eerie glow of materialized mana expanded throughout all four of their bodies, the light bright enough to render the wounded man into a mere silhouette.

With her back turned, it was impossible to see what Vivienne's expression looked like. Intense concentration, more than likely, seeing as the injuries looked severe.

Dorian once again tried to stand up, only to wobble and fall backward, hitting the ground in a manner most unbecoming of an Altus.

Dorian's vision started to blur, but he could not tell if it was from his merry trip down the hill or his tears. From this distance, it was hard, impossible rather, to tell if the Herald was alive or dead.

He had to assure himself that Tharin was alive, because Vivienne would not be treating him otherwise. The man was alive, he was sure.

"He's dying! Do something!" shouted Cassandra.

Vivienne did not utter a word. The healing continued, but her shoulders were raised, and the muscles were tense.

No, no, no, no, no, Dorian's panicked mind repeatedly screamed, thoroughly drowning out any other thoughts. His lips started to quiver, but he suppressed it. He used his staff to balance his uncooperative body, and at last managed to part from the ground.

The mage could now feel his ribcage on fire every time he breathed, but it did not matter. He limped toward Tharin, even though his vision kept getting blurred. This is all my fault, all my fault, he thought lamely.

END NOTE

Next up, the Commander's achy, breaky heart on Sunday, March 13!

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