She missed breakfast.
As a habitually early riser that was immediately suspect.
They took it together, Dorian and Ellana, a few times a week. Occasionally at a table in the library, or in the great hall, but most often at the Herald's Rest. It was a ritual they'd held to since before the fall of Haven, beginning when their friendship was new and fragile and she'd yet to lend her trust to anyone. When her wrists still bore the marks of irons and her shoulders hung, heavy, with the weight of expectation. She'd seemed so alone; he could not bear to keep watching her push her food around a plate.
A shared distaste for the camp's rations got his foot in the door, and from there he was granted the chance to learn about the person behind all the fancy titles. The Herald of a God she did not follow, saviour of the damned, controller of rifts, slayer of demons, and a mystery besides. A thief, a spy, and a Dalish hunter. Far from home, with few attachments. Illiterate — but clever enough to learn.
And so dreadfully out of place in a camp full of soldiers and priests.
Slowly, and with great care, they'd built a friendship out of these regular morning meets. He'd come to look forward to them. Making a point to take the time even on their darkest days. It offered dependable routine when there was chaos, and distraction when the weeks stretched too long.
While the location changed over time the custom remained the same. She was always the first to arrive. He'd find her with a tray of fruit and bread she'd been picking at for half an hour before he even managed to drag himself out of bed and through the door.
The best was always gone by the time he joined her and she was heartlessly unapologetic about it. It'd been months since he'd had any figs.
While they ate they discussed the day's schedule, upcoming travel, judgements and meetings… but that was largely formality. The real value was in whatever fascinating rumour Dorian had managed to procure. In an age of civil war, rebel mages, and ancient evil, the world was rife with them — to say nothing of what went on in Skyhold herself. Soldiers may claim to be above the trap of gossip, but in practice were among its worst offenders. Deep in the Frostbacks entertainment was hard to come by, they had to make do with what they could get.
Others might hem and haw, feigning polite disinterest, but Ellana was always happy to listen. Her roots tied her to a small community, and small communities thrived on conversation. It was wonderfully rewarding: she was so terribly curious about everything. Moreover, she never quite grasped the custom of holding it in such a poor regard. Knowing everything about everyone seemed quite normal to someone who grew up without walls.
It made her an excellent ear.
Before each meet he scoured the yards and pored over the publications that came in with the travelling merchants, looking for hints of cult movements or thrilling tales of courtly intrigue. If he couldn't dig up anything worth passing on he'd fall back on personal stories. Old tales of conquest or some drunken mess he'd gotten himself into. Told in exchange for a charming anecdote about her own youth. That way he got to know her better each time.
Normally, she met him bright and eager… but that was rarer these days. Recent circumstance had put some pressure on him to bring his best to the table. Now he worked hard just to get a smile from her. A laugh, if he was especially lucky. They'd come so easily before.
Whatever happened between her and Solas over these last few months, she'd chosen not to share much of it. He knew very little about the whole business. From his vantage, it all seemed to be going quite swimmingly until inexplicably veering off course and crashing into a wall. Now she spent her days teetering, perilous, on the knife's edge between apathy and melancholy. Mourning the loss of something she never quite had.
As her dearest friend it was his duty to ensure she did not fall into either. She'd done no less for him in the past.
All the more reason it concerned him not to find her at their usual table.
When asked, Cabot told him he hadn't seen her all that morning, and Dorian didn't find her in the library either. Solas was even less helpful, offering only terse remark about not being her Keeper and then declining to discuss it further. After the yards and stables came up empty he'd intended to go into the tower, wondering if she wasn't still asleep, but on his way up he sighted a familiar silhouette on the battlements and changed course to meet her.
He found her standing alone staring out at mountains. Looking like a lost soul haunting the wall. A cold wind whipped her hair all about her head, turning thick curls into a tangled, wild, mess. But like the chill she didn't seem to have much care for it. She wore only a thin jacket pulled tight around her shoulders, and it made for poor winter clothes. She'd been out long enough that her cheeks and nose were pinked. Fingertips blanched white where they clutched at her shoulders.
It was freezing out here at seven in the morning. No one in their right mind would stand around unless they had to, lest they catch their death. It wasn't a terribly good sign, he thought, for her to be among those who'd invite it.
He announced himself with a quiet cough, which she acknowledged only with a brief glance in his direction. There was no smile or greeting. None of the typical pleasantries she was usually ready with.
"Enjoying a morning walk?" he tested.
That got a twitch — hardly a smile — and another glance before she turned back to the mountains. "Something like that," she answered, almost too quiet to hear.
The conversation died there.
Curiously, he followed her gaze. Out beyond the stone walls and rocky cliffs, toward distant, snow-capped, peaks that sparkled in the dawn, to where a pair of young wyverns were circling. Like most of the mountain creatures, they posed no threat to Skyhold; happy to live and let live. Most gave the fortress (and its noisy occupants) a respectfully wide berth, if they noticed them at all. And these two were far too interested in each other to care that they'd gathered an audience.
They moved like sculpture come to life. Emerald scale and silver claws gifted wings to fly. Gleaming, bright and opulent, as they circled and turned. The morning light picking highlights from their iridescent skin.
One was slightly bigger, darker, with a fringe of small horns around its neck — a female. The smaller of the two — a male — boasted a blush of reddened scale on his belly. He passed underneath his partner, twisting and snapping his tail at the apex of each spin. A design drawn in flight… but careful not to touch. Great, leathery, wings spread wide and with his forearms he pulled at the air, granting himself a burst of speed he used to curl backward and glide into another sleek pass. Then came a triumphant cry as she, too, pulled back her wings and swept in — as if to cradle him — only to pull away a second before they touched.
It continued this way; coyly. Shy and bold in turns. As one approached the other would retreat, goading its partner to follow. The larger would give chase, the smaller would reel back, then they would twist around and start anew.
A mating dance, Dorian realized. A rare sight, and beautiful to be sure. Their grace and strength made an enchanting display. Looking around, he saw that a number of other residents had gathered to watch it too. Soldiers on their way to the yard had stopped along the wall and the tops of towers. Labourers with baskets full of laundry and food leaned over the balustrade, pointing excitedly. They called it a good omen, and gave thanks to the luck it bestowed.
Ellana alone watched the dance with a distant, wistful, sort of sorrow. It wasn't hard to understand why. It was a look he'd seen an awful lot of recently.
Whatever had come of her affair burned too bright, too fast; snuffed out before anyone even noticed it began. She'd not been careful with her heart. To him, it seemed, she offered it too easily… not just to a lover. Always so eager to give herself to a cause or leap into the path of danger; ready to take the fatal blow meant for someone else.
She loved her friends. And her people. And Solas.
She fell too hard for all of them.
And was reluctant to share the story of how it'd all gone to shit, so he could only speculate on the details. Every attempt he'd made to coax it from her had gone nowhere. She was happy to tell all manner of tales from her life so long as the glimpse they offered of her was not too deep. The moment something cut too close to the quick she'd tighten up. Change the subject. Those most valuable cards she held close to the chest.
She made a fascinating puzzle and he'd told her so before: so much spunk and so little meaningful history. So open to care, but not to be cared for. Over a year he'd called her a friend and still couldn't say if she'd had family or a lover who missed her. If her heart had been wounded before. What beliefs granted her strength. Whatever broke her willingness to trust another with the delicate parts of her had happened long before he'd come along.
It was abundantly clear in times like these, when she stood punishing herself in the biting cold — with her bare feet and thin clothes, wistfully staring at would-be lovers and clearly a mess of broken heart and lack of sleep — that he thought she could really use a shoulder to cry on.
What an ill-fated pair, he thought, to have that in common.
Perhaps it's what drew them together in the first place: a mutually held aversion to intimacy. Setting them up to spend an agonizingly long year picking little threads of tenderness out of each other in bits and blobs only to have nothing to show for the effort.
It took so much out of her to hand her heart to another and look what he'd gone and done with it.
Dorian sighed. "He's not worth it, you know," he said. "Your pining."
Don't waste your time with emotionally unavailable men, he wanted to say instead. Set fire to his desk and send him to Sahrnia until you can get over him.
She must have seen it, the weight of disapproval in the tight clench of his jaw. The corner of her lips twitched, her chin lifting. It was coy — almost a smile. Then, "He kissed me," she said softly. "Last night, in the library. I couldn't sleep. I asked him for a book. I yelled at him. And then he kissed me."
It was a wholly unexpected admission. She'd never confided about such things so readily, and he could do little to hide his delighted surprise.
His brows went up. "Truly?" he blustered. As solemn as the moment felt, it was exciting that she would tell him this at all. This was progress on several levels.
That little curl of her lips blossomed into a proper, shy, smile as she tilted her head toward him. "It was wonderful. And so... passionate." Colour crept into her cheeks, turning them a dusky pink beneath a spray of dark freckles. She lifted a hand to cover it. "More so than he'd ever been before. For a moment I even thought…" There, she trailed off. Letting the implication hang, unspoken.
He grinned. "That's wonderful! Take him to bed!"
The smile dropped and she turned away. Back to the mountains. Back to the wyverns, who made love look easy.
"But instead he apologized and ran off."
"That's horrible. Throw him off a cliff."
The remark gifted her some amusement — a huff of quiet laughter — but it was gone just as quickly.
She'd never been a delicate woman, but in that moment he thought she looked it. Exhaustion carved in the lines upon her face and dark circles under red-rimmed eyes from all the nights she'd lost to heartbreak. Sallow skin, now bare, where tattoos had once proudly sat. This had stolen more than just her pride.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a sideways hug. Holding her there, tightly, so she could not shy from the comfort of a loving embrace. Slowly, gradually, she gave in — the tension bleeding from her shoulders — until she let her head fall upon his chest. They stood that way a while. In silence, watching the wyverns dance and pretending as though it was the reason they'd come out here in the first place.
The creatures teased each other. Gliding in and out like the tide. Never losing interest, yet never quite close enough to consummate the courtship.
Apt, he thought darkly.
He pressed a kiss to the top of Ellana's head and tucked it under his chin.
"It's not you, you know," he said gently. Then, less gently, "I'm not sure what in the void his problem is, because it's very clear he cares for you, but know that the problem is his and not yours. You deserve far better than this game he's got you playing with him, and if you had any sense you'd tell him where to stuff it and go find someone to treat you to the best night of your life so you never have to wonder about him again. Maker knows you need it."
That awarded him another laugh. Quiet and unsure as it trailed into a sigh. He felt her take a deep breath — shudder as she tried to speak — but the words caught in her throat.
It took several tries, but ultimately, "I love him," she managed in a whisper.
It was the first time he'd heard her say so. Perhaps the first time she'd admitted it to herself. He knew little of what dialogue they'd had with each other, before the end. It sounded like a curse: to speak it aloud gave it power and form — this truth left a scar on her tongue.
He winced. "I know you do." What pain there was in the words. "We don't get to choose who we fall in love with."
And with that, she broke.
That first sob could have cut her to her knees. Startled by its force, its suddenness, her hands leapt to cover her face in shame. But Dorian acted quickly: slid his other arm around her back and pulled her in. Turning, so she could bury her face in the thick layers of his jacket and muffle the sound.
"Come here," he urged, running a hand up her back to cradle her head. He whispered at her ear so his voice would not carry beyond their embrace. "There we go."
She'd endured so much in such a short time, between love and war, it would crack the strongest foundation. The sky had torn asunder and swallowed her whole. A yawning maw of green that turned a temple to a vale of death. She woke alone in a den of vipers — sneering and doubting — robbed of all the quiet comforts of her old life. The changed world held her hostage, forced to play games of politics and war, furious that she could not round the points of her ears on the whim of her captors. She'd done so well in spite of it all. It was too easy to forget how far she'd wandered from home.
There were few anchors left for her in this new life as Inquisitor. To love another was her port in a storm… until that, too, was lost. A final insult to bring to her to heel: that she could not keep the warmth of another. The loss of it left her bereft. Betrayed.
So she cried. And shook. And smothered her face in her hands like a little lost child. Until her hair was plastered to her cheeks and Dorian could feel the stain of tears through his shirt.
It did not last long. A few moments, at worst, before she managed to collect herself. Quiet the hiccups and the tremble in her hands. Her fingers curled around the starched edges of his lapel and drew him close, nestled deep into the pillow it made.
He wondered if she'd gone long without a friend so dear as this. Someone to lean on and share the burden. She'd been so cautious for so long. These tears were so heavy: she cried for more than just a broken heart.
They stood there some time. His arms around her shoulders and her face buried in his chest until she stood again as the fearless, unshakable, leader they all needed her to be. The one who brokered peace and fought against prejudice and had an endless supply of sarcastic remarks.
The one who'd never fall apart for something so cliché as a failed affair.
She turned her face to one side, nuzzling him a little, and took deep breaths of cold air. Slow and steady as her confidence returned. Dorian rest his cheek atop her head and ran his fingers through the tangle of her hair; a mess from the wind and tears. The silence filled with quiet hums and little gestures of affection to show his care. When he found a sodden weft of hair upon her cheek he gingerly tucked it behind a pointed ear. Taking time to flick its tip, playfully, only because she'd once told him how much she hated it.
He tested a joke. "Are you sure you don't want me to do something unseemly to him? I promise I won't kill him. Not yet anyway. Alternatively, I could give a go at making it look like an accident. Have you seen that rickety old scaffolding he uses for painting? Climbing up there day and night… it's so terribly unsteady! Someone could fall and break their neck if they weren't careful."
She made a strange noise. Something halfway between a choked laugh and a sob. Then, "No," she sighed. Her voice was still thick with emotion, but less than before. "Though if I change my mind you'll be the first to know."
"Don't forget that, my dear, because eventually I'll become impatient and take a go at him regardless. He had it coming even before all this mess. No offence to your taste, but he can be absolutely insufferable."
She laughed, and hummed a reply — neither approval or disapproval — but he'd call that a win.
"I have to go to Redcliffe," she said, after a time.
"When?"
"A few days from now," she replied. "Josephine has asked that I send her my recommendation for a party. It's not really something that needs to be in writing, but she enjoys finding opportunities to help me practice. I should bring three others, for balance, in case we're waylaid by a rift. Or bears. There's been some reports in the area. It's just political nonsense — nothing terribly interesting nor dangerous — but travel will bee a week or two if we're not delayed. We'll stay in the city a few days, then head back. It's all very mundane… yet, when I was writing it out last night I kept getting stuck on the third name. I just kept staring at the parchment. This was hours before the library."
Dorian sniffed. "You should take him."
"I was thinking about it," she admitted. "Is that terrible of me?"
"What, you? Terrible?" he said, feigning innocence. "For plotting to trap him on an escort mission that would require him to stay by your side, day and night, with the implicit purpose of backing him into a corner and demanding he stop fucking around and actually decide whether or not he wants to fuck you?" There was a brief pause. "Of course not, that's positively delightful."
She shook with silent laughter. "I am terrible."
"Nonsense — you're perfectly fuckable."
She swatted his arm, and his laughter joined her own. It was a wonderful sound. One he was glad to hear again.
"Perhaps it's a bit terrible," he admitted, after some thought. "But also understandable. To be honest, cornering him is probably going to be your best chance of getting a genuine conversation about it… assuming that's what you want. If, instead, you were looking for a high cliff and a few moments alone I'd not hold that against you."
Her fingers followed along the embroidered edge of his jacket, drawing patterns between the buttons and picking at stray threads. "I do want that, I think." Then, as an afterthought, "The conversation, not the murder," she clarified.
Dorian raised a brow. "Not too late to reconsider."
She scoffed. Paused, to think about it. "You know he'll refuse."
"Of course he will."
"He'll say I should take you instead."
"I can't possibly go — I have a million better things to do. And I hate the Hinterlands. It takes forever to traverse and there's mud everywhere this time of year. Remember the last time you dragged me along? Do you really want to listen to me complain like that again?"
She looked up at him with eyes wide and wet, but brighter than before. "Vivienne?"
"Even busier. Last week she and Josephine were all atwitter about matching the decor to those stained glass windows that just went in. They'll be putting in orders for draperies and everyone knows you're useless with colour theory. Everything you pick is brown or beige — terrible — they have to be the ones to do it. Speaking of orders: why not make it one? He can't say no to the Inquisitor. Technically, you're still above him by rank." He narrowed his eyes. "Come to think of it, have you tried just ordering him to your bed? Chop, chop. Have him make up for lost time."
The burst of laughter surprised her, and she snorted. It got him laughing too.
"Somehow, I don't think that would work."
He grinned wickedly. "Oh no? Pity, it worked for me."
She turned wide eyes upon him, looking positively scandalized — but it was all theatre. They joked this way often. And she utterly failed to hide the smile, though he knew by the way her cheeks pinked that she'd wondered these things before.
She knocked her head against his chest. Laughing, as he loosely linked his arms around her back.
"Thank you, Dorian," she said.
"Anytime, my love." He gave her a light squeeze. "Though, perhaps not on the battlements next time. The view is lovely but I may lose my fingers if we make it a habit."
She glanced at the sun behind the clouds, frowning. "I'd invite you in for breakfast, but I think it's past time now."
"The Rest is literally named for you," he said with a meaningful look, "I think breakfast ends when you say it does."