Later that night, after Leas has discussed the situation with the whole group, advised the Exalted Council of what they discovered in the ruins, and made plans to head back through the eluvian the next day to pursue the Qunari, Dorian joins him in his room. The four of them—himself, Leas, Iselen, and Adhlean—share a dinner, and it would almost be domestic if it weren't for the atmosphere of palpable tension in the room. Dorian still can't take his mind off his father, the horror and pain of what has just happened taking all of his willpower to hold back and leaving him in no mood to talk. Iselen and Adhlean appear profoundly ill at ease, no doubt because of certain revelations about the elven Creators Dorian has heard some rumours of since the party returned from the ruins. Leas, meanwhile, looks even paler than ever, and he picks at his food, eating very little. There is a certain comfort to be had in each other's company, but that is all; the threat of impending doom hangs over them like a shroud.
After dinner, Iselen and Adhlean retire for the night. Leas bids them goodnight, and as soon as he has closed the door, he slumps against it. The Anchor sparks in his hand, but his only reaction is a groan.
"Amatus?" Dorian asks, stepping up behind him and laying only his fingers on the man's back.
"I'm just… very tired, Dorian, don't worry," Leas says. His voice sounds ragged, even a little slurred. "And very sick. Have been since we got to Halamshiral, actually. My stomach's been churning, I've lost my appetite, and my spells aren't as good as usual. Think it was something I ate…" He groans again and applies a basic healing spell to the Anchor. It dies down only a little, but that seems to be enough for Leas.
Despite himself, Dorian snorts. "Marvellous. Food poisoning at a time like this," he says, and Leas chuckles weakly. "What about the Anchor?"
Leas turns to face him and shrugs. "It reacted to an artefact we found in the ruins," he says as he steps past him and goes over to his bed. He promptly throws himself down on it. "It's been acting up even more since then. It's not uncontrollable, but I wish it would settle down. The pain's making it hard to focus."
Dorian follows him and settles down next to him. "Should I be worried, Leas?" he asks, though of course, he already is.
"Not yet," Leas says. "I am sick, and there's a lot going on. The thing's very attuned to my emotional state by now. I'm sure it'll be fine once this is all over and I've had some time to catch my breath." He doesn't speak as though he's entirely convinced of his own words, but Dorian nods and tries to put it out of his mind, at least for the time being.
Still, it's hard to do when Leas looks as white as a sheet, his hair is so lank and limp, the shadows under his eyes are worse than ever, and—worst of all—there's no natural smile on his face, only a worried frown twisting his mouth and an unnerving blankness in his eyes. "I'm told you found something about your gods in the ruins that you weren't expecting," he says after a moment. "How bad was it?"
Leas' eyes light up briefly. "Oh, that," he says. Then he leans his head against Dorian's shoulder. "It was… a bit out of left field, yes. The sanctuary belonged to Fen'Harel—the Betrayer of elven legend. I found mosaics that depicted him as the leader of a great slave rebellion, and the Creators as… not as gods, but as mortal mages of incomprehensible power who falsely claimed godhood and enslaved tens of thousands. A story rather divorced from all the legends I ever heard growing up, you understand."
Dorian blows out a long breath, and his eyebrows lift. He looks down at Leas, tries to read his expression for what he thinks about this, but for once, he cannot tell. Leas looks deeply disheartened, even depressed—and on instinct, Dorian snakes an arm around him, as if to bring him some comfort—but that could be about any number of things. "Meaning… what? The Dalish have been worshipping false gods?"
Leas grimaces. "That… is a possibility," he says. "On the one hand, they were real. And that's comforting. But on the other hand, they weren't real gods, and they were far more malicious than we ever suspected."
In response, Dorian pulls him a little closer into his chest. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "Are you all right?"
To his surprise, he feels Leas smiling. "Don't worry, I think I am," he says. Then he looks up and sees Dorian frowning. "Look, if it turns out to be true… that might be something to worry about. But this was a sanctuary run by Fen'Harel. This was one man's perspective. One man's propaganda, even. And the first rule of historiography? Get multiple sources. I'm willing to believe the Creators were not all what we thought them to be. I'll even accept that they were slavers; Solas told me years ago that there was slavery in Elvhenan. But I won't swallow such claims as the ones made in that ruin without further proof. So, yes, I'm fine. Because it's a claim that needs testing, nothing more."
Dorian considers this, then he slowly nods. That is a sensible enough way of looking at it, he supposes, though Maker knows it's not for him to judge. "I understand. But if you find multiple, corroborating sources?"
There's a long pause, then Leas breathes in deeply. "I guess we'll see. I'll do my best to be objective and record everything I find, for a start. Then I'll send it to my Keeper, and we can distribute it at the next Arlathvhen. What that'll mean for us, however… I don't know. Our religion is something we've always clung onto so closely, so to find that our gods were not what we thought them to be…" Leas shrugs. "I'll be okay. I've always been open to such ideas. And I needn't believe in any gods when I already believe in the world. But most of us… I honestly don't know, Dorian. It'll cause a lot of upheaval."
Dorian nods. That's all he can do. "I wish I had something I could say," he admits, "but it's not really my place, is it?"
Leas chuckles again and strokes his cheek. "No, not really," he teases. After a moment, he sighs, seems to relax, and adds, "I won't worry too much about it right now, anyway. Not in the middle of a possible Qunari invasion."
Dorian takes that as his own cue to ease up. "Fair enough. Ah, at least Tevinter and the Inquisition have something in common," he says, and Leas laughs and swats at him.
"Yes, I'm sure we'll be the best of friends after this," he responds, and Dorian laughs too. The tension in the room begins to dissipate, though Leas looks as wan as ever. The man shifts himself into his lap, snuggling into Dorian's chest, and Dorian presses a few brief kisses to his temple and jaw before Leas claims his lips for something far better.
Later, after they've finished their lovemaking and gone to bed for the night, Dorian watches Leas as he slumbers. He shifts uneasily in his sleep, and the glow of the Anchor is constant now, and even the sex was not enough to restore the colour to his face. Still, despite all of that, when Leas' unmarked hand reaches out in his sleep to grasp his, he can't help but feel some spark of hope.
He can't speak for Tevinter, but perhaps here, things will turn out all right.
In hindsight, Dorian realises, he needs to stop thinking things like that.
The next day is the Deep Roads, and it passes in a blur of water, explosives, eluvians, and more Qunari soldiers than he's seen since the last raid in Seheron he was present for. The day after that is the library, and Dorian remains behind while Leas presses on ahead, and as a result, the day passes with all the speed of a snail. If the circumstances were different, this might be the time to wonder about his father and Tevinter, but with the Qunari seeming poised to invade, his mind remains on more immediate matters.
Matters such as Leas and the Anchor.
Leas woke up on the day of the Deep Roads sicker than ever. True, he only threw up a few times and could keep down most of the water he drank. But even battle could do nothing for his colour, his step was slow and devoid of all its usual confidence, and the few smiles he offered Dorian were strained and weak. Worse, and most suspiciously, his spells were weaker than usual, as though his mana pool had suddenly shrunk for no reason that Dorian can discern. Since then, he has only got worse, and even the potions Vivienne and the healers at the palace have offered have done little to ease his sickness. It is not food poisoning, that much is clear—but what it is…
His condition is only worsened by the Anchor—which in turn is exacerbated by his condition, in a horrific sort of chicken-and-egg situation. According to the others, it has been flaring up with ever-increasing frequency, especially in the ruined library, and Leas and Vivienne's healing spells are now only just enough to restrain its explosions. Leas said nothing to him when they returned from the library though the Anchor was crackling in his hand at that very moment. But Dorian does not need to be told that it is deteriorating, that things are at last coming to a head.
What that means, he does not dare to guess.
That night, long after Leas, Vivienne, Sera, and Bull have returned through the eluvian and spoken to the council, a messenger appears at Dorian's door and tells him that Divine Victoria requests to see all of them at once, regarding a most urgent matter. Dorian barely remembers to thank the woman as he tosses his book aside and races out the door.
The lot of them gather in the room with the war table—all except Leas. "Where is the Inquisitor?" Cassandra asks while Dorian is busy reading the grim expression on Leliana's face and feeling his stomach sink to the ground.
"He sends his apologies. He was too sick to attend," Leliana says. "It is, in fact, on his account that I have called this meeting. The Inquisitor… his condition is deteriorating at a very rapid pace."
Dorian feels the blood drain from his face, and next to him, he sees Iselen grimace, looking quite terrified. "Do you mean his illness, Your Holiness, or the Anchor?" Vivienne asks.
"The Anchor," Leliana says. "Though I am certain his illness is not helping. The Anchor erupted during our meeting—I suspect this occasion was the worst one yet. It was several minutes before the episode ended, and he was in… terrible agony the entire time." She sighs, closes her eyes, frowns, bows her head, the picture of mournfulness.
Oh no…
"Well, don't hold back," Sera says, voice a little higher-pitched than average. "What're you saying?"
"I am saying the Inquisitor… Uvunleas… he is dying. The Anchor is killing him," Leliana tells them, and her voice trembles. The bottom drops out of the world, and Dorian sways on his feet, mostly unaware of the curses and soft, wordless cries and other reactions going on around him. "He showed us his arm. It is in a dreadful state. He believes the Anchor's power has spread to his elbow and will soon reach his shoulder. If this continues, it will reach his heart, and another attack would kill him. He does not think it will be long now. A day, at the most."
A day. A day. No, no! No!
"Shit. Why didn't he say something?" Blackwall murmurs.
Vivienne answers before Leliana can. "It was under control," she says, and her voice trembles a little. "The healing spells sufficed to ease the pain if nothing else. It must be because he's a dreamer. While it was under control, all his willpower and skill were enough to hold it back. But now that it is degenerating, his sensitivity to the Fade is making it worse. Maker have mercy." Her shoulders slump, and she pinches her forehead, looking as dispirited as Dorian has ever seen the Iron Lady.
A pause. "What do we do?" Bull asks, sounding equally defeated.
"Early tomorrow morning, you, Iselen, and Dorian will go with him to the Darvaarad," Leliana responds. "When you go, you must make haste. Likely you would have gone already, but the Anchor's eruption caused him to be violently sick. He needed the night to recover, though it is time he does not have." She takes in a deep breath, and her eyes seem to be glimmering, though Dorian almost does not notice over the burgeoning, all-consuming terror within him. "He believes, and I agree with him, that the Darvaarad will be the last stage. He cannot say whether he will come back alive, and tomorrow, he will not have the time to say goodbye to you all personally. So he asked me to tell you all that it's been an honour and that he couldn't have spent the last few years with finer people."
At that, Dorian can't stop the sob that falls from his mouth, though it is quiet enough that only Iselen and Varric glance at him. "Aw, shit, no," Bull moans. "Tell him it's not gonna come to that."
"I pray you are right, Bull," Leliana says softly.
"But.. what about Adhlean?" Cassandra asks. Her voice is equally quiet.
"I believe he's saying goodbye to him right now," the Divine tells her. "If he dies, then the only thing that changes is that Adhlean returns to Clan Lavellan on a year-round basis."
A very long silence, broken only by Iselen's eloquent, "Fuck."
At last, Vivienne lets out a ragged sigh. "I suppose we should all try to get some sleep," she says. "Your Holiness, shall I tell the medical staff to make ready for his return tomorrow?"
"Yes," Leliana says. "His arm will almost certainly have to be amputated if he comes back." Dorian's stomach turns over at that, and again at the thought of Leas deprived of an arm, but he says nothing, only turns and follows the others as they head out of the room. While the rest of them, even Iselen, head back to their quarters, he turns and darts for Leas'.
As soon as he gets there, he starts banging on the door. "Leas!" he shouts, but his voice comes out cracked and not as demanding or as desperate as he'd hoped.
Somehow, Dorian finds it within him to wait and remember that in his current state, Leas will not be quick to reach the door. A minute or so later, the door cracks open, and one of Leas' golden eyes peers out at him. The shadows under it are worse than ever. "Dorian?" he groans. His voice is hoarse. "It's late. I need to sleep. What are you—"
"Let me in, amatus," Dorian snaps, panic translating easily into fury—with Leas, with his father, with the Qunari, with the Anchor, with this entire wretched situation. "Now!"
Leas makes a small noise of protest, but he opens the door anyway and steps aside to let Dorian in. Dorian staggers in, slamming the door closed behind him, and then turns to face this infuriating, impossible, dying man. And dying he looks, with his skin as white as a corpse's, his eyes sunken in, his body skinnier than ever, and the Anchor pulsing steadily in his hand.
"Dorian?"
He struggles with his words for a moment, but there's no time to waste. "Leliana told us about your little… pyrotechnic display during your last chat," he says. His voice is rough. Fury turns to grief as quick as it began the more he stares at Leas. To lose him now… no, no, no. Not after everything.
Leas just looks down. He looks as defeated as Dorian has ever seen him.
"Why didn't you say something?" he demands, and his voice breaks. His breath comes unevenly, and a tremor is starting in his extremities. Everything else—his father, Tevinter, the Qunari, all of it—is being pushed out of his head by Leas and his bloody mark. Even the world now seems limited to this very room. Maker, if only it was. "I could have… I don't know, something!"
What could he have done, really? But he can't face that truth yet.
"I didn't think it would start falling apart so fast," Leas says. "I thought I could control it for longer. Obviously, I was wrong. But…" He coughs and wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead, and distantly, Dorian wonders if he is feverish in addition to everything else.
"How bad is it? No, don't tell me. Let me see."
Leas shakes his head. "The sight of my arm is not something I wish to curse your dreams with, Dorian," he says. "You've got nightmares enough."
"Let me see it," he hisses. "Fat lot of good it'll do, I know, but let me see."
They stare at each other for a moment, an unstoppable force and an immovable object. Then, at last, Leas sighs, clenches his marked hand into a fist, rolls up his sleeve, and lifts his arm, so it stands vertical in the air.
At once, Dorian wishes he'd listened.
Leas' forearm is black and rotting, the flesh wrinkled and creased worse than that of any centenarian. In places, it appears to have been sliced open and burned from within, and though these injuries are small, there is something so deeply unsettling about them that Dorian at once looks away from them. Leas' veins—all the way up to his elbow—glow the brightest green, and as the Anchor sparks, they too pulse brightly. His stomach churns as he sees the glow spread an inch past his elbow, advancing towards his shoulder. The upper arm is in a less abominable condition, but tendrils of scarring climb up from the elbow and reach past his shoulder, and observing them, Dorian knows they will be permanent.
Maker have mercy.
Dorian retches before he can stop himself and is only barely able to swallow his rising bile. "Leas—"
Leas stares at the arm for a moment before dropping it and rolling his sleeve back down. "Whatever happens, I wouldn't trade the years we've had together for anything," he says, and he manages a smile truer than any of the ones he's flashed him since they arrived here. It brings a bit of pink into his cheeks, and it lights up his eyes with all the lustre and gleam that Dorian adores. "I love you. 'Ma vhen'an, var'lath juros min'vir. Mei cor—and I'm sure you'll forgive my mangling of your native language—nostri amor hic iter perpetietur."
He says a little more, or tries to, but those words are enough to tear it. Dorian looks away, burying his face in his hands, tears flowing freely now. Our love will endure this path. "I knew you would break my heart, you… bloody bastard." The words have to climb out through what little of his throat that remains open, and they emerge strangled and broken.
In the next instant, Leas has his arms around him and is leaning into his chest. Dorian returns it, crushing him to his chest, uncaring of the sparks like knives in Leas' hand. "I have no intention of dying yet," he murmurs, while Dorian tries with all his might not to sob outright. "I survived the Blight, the Fade, Corypheus. I'll survive this, you wait and see."
Usually, Dorian would respond to that by saying that if he failed, then he would be obliged to revive him so he could kill him himself. But he's in no mood for such jests now. "I'm holding you to that," he says, and his voice is as firm as he can make it, which is to say, not much at all.
"Too much to live for, for me to want to die," Leas says. "Adhlean, Iselen, you… And nothing's ever stopped me when I had my mind to something. I intend to make sure my hand doesn't break the pattern." But his voice also cracks, and Dorian can hear the sliver of fear in it that belies his confident tone, and fresh tears fall. If Leas doesn't honestly think he'll survive… what chance do they have?
After a while, Leas stands up on his toes and rests their foreheads together. "I told you once what arasha meant. And I know what amatus means. Do you want to know what 'ma vhen'an means?"
Dorian nods.
"It means my heart, literally. More poetically, it means wherever you are, that is my home. And if you accuse me of being facetious, I swear—"
Dorian stops him by pulling him down and smashing their lips together, uncaring of the terrible angle or the renewed tears or how little time they have left or anything. Leas kisses him back at once, desperate, scrambling, holding onto every second that's slipping out of his fingers. Now he knows why a few days ago he kissed him like a man who would die tomorrow. Maybe the Anchor had been killing him even then.
He doesn't want to let go, doesn't want to lose that heat and passion and the feeling he'll never tire of, Leas' mouth on his, always gentle even now. But there's no more time, and so he pulls away after too short a moment, and Leas lets him go. "Maker, the things you say," he murmurs, and his voice is still shaking and weak.
"I mean every word," Leas says. "But that also means I'm not giving up on the whole 'come-to-Tevinter' business."
Kaffas. In all the madness of the last few days, he'd mostly forgotten about that. "I suspect that's a conversation to be had after this is over. I won't tempt fate by making plans that I'm sure the Maker will lay to waste as soon as He hears of them."
Somehow, Leas manages a laugh. "Fine by me. One more reason to—argh!" Dorian startles back, but the green sparks he spots out of the corner of his eye in the next instant tell him everything. With a soft sigh, he pulls Leas back into his chest and holds him again while Leas gasps, cries out, whimpers, and rides out the episode.
When it's over, Leas collapses against him. "Bed. Now," he whispers. "I need sleep. And I love you, I love you, I love you. Enjoy hearing me say it while it lasts, because tomorrow, I'm not sure I'll be able to open my mouth without screaming."
"Amatus…" He should say the same, but the words, as ever, stick in his throat. For a time, Dorian struggles with himself, then he gives up, removes his clothes with no real ceremony, and when they've both done, joins Leas in bed.
He remains awake for most of the night, listening to Leas' gasps and cries of pain, holding him as tight as he can, getting up to follow Leas to the lavatory and comfort him when he throws up, casting what few spells he can to ease his fever, and wondering how long they'll have tomorrow before the Anchor takes him away forever. By this point, he's beyond tears—has entered the strange realm of utter resignation. Only Leas' words, our love will endure this path, give him some flicker of hope.
And even they seem hollow.
The next morning, they get up before dawn, and they don't bother with breakfast. They pull on their armour in grim silence, barring the occasional interruption where Leas cries out or rushes off to throw up. They don't speak a word. There's nothing left to say.
They head out and meet Iselen and Bull just outside. Leas pauses for a moment, then grabs Bull's hand and shakes it; if Bull looks a little pale and red-eyed as he returns it, Dorian pretends not to notice. Then Leas grabs his brother and pulls him into a hug, and Iselen can't even pretend to hide the fact that he's already weeping.
Just outside the room containing the eluvian, however, they find their companions and the three advisors, all in various states of dress and undress. Though the veins of his arm are now glowing even through his armour, Leas manages a grateful smile, and he spends the next few minutes shaking hands and saying goodbye. Few of their group have dry eyes—even Blackwall, Vivienne, and Cullen look on the verge of tears, while Josephine is sobbing outright. Even Sera, who Leas has never been close to, gives Leas a firm pat on the back and handshake and an appropriately Sera-esque farewell. Leas responds to this with a laugh and a promise that yes, he'll get the Qunari to 'eat it'.
Last of all is Adhlean, looking more exhausted than any thirteen-year-old has the right to be. Leas kneels before him, and Dorian can't hear most of the words they speak, but he doesn't need to. He watches Leas embrace his son, listens to the boy burst into tears and plea for him to come back, and he wonders if he would have done the same with his own father.
In the end… probably, yes.
After a moment, Leas stands and proceeds through the door, but Dorian's eyes remain on Adhlean for a while. A boy so young, whose father has always been consumed by other matters, who now stands on the verge of losing him for good; a lonely and miserable teenager who shakes and cries where he stands.
"I know it hurts," he murmurs, just as Iselen and Bull follow Leas into the room. "I know very well." Much as he's tried to pretend over the past few days that it hasn't, much as he's tried to ignore it… it does. It does.
Gone. Gone forever. No chance for anything more. All that could have been, brought to an abrupt halt, the wound of betrayal healed in the same moment that a new blow rent his heart in two. His protector, his idol, his first teacher, the one by whom he first measured all others, his betrayer, his disowner, many things… and now his shield, even to the death, and his martyr.
Gone. Gone forever.
"Save him," Adhlean murmurs. "Please."
"We'll try," Dorian tells him. "I can't promise you anything else."
Adhlean nods, head drooping, and turns away. Dorian takes that as his cue to follow the others into the room and through the eluvian, entering the Crossroads one last time.
In the end, he remembers little of the Darvaarad. There is much to note there, from the painting at the top of the research tower whose style reminds him of Solas', to the astrarium and the glowing pyramid, to the letter to the Inquisition disowning the Viddasala, to how oddly weak Leas' spells are and how limited his pool of mana is, to the hordes of Qunari and Bull's look of growing desolation as he fights and kills more of them, to the dragon. But it all passes in a blur, each moment marked out only by the thing he is most focused on: the Anchor.
Contrary to his expectations, Leas has been able to speak. But his steps have slowed almost to a crawl, and every eruption drags a scream of incomprehensible agony out of his throat, almost stops Dorian's heart. This moment, then—now, he thinks every time, and ice floods his veins as if by reflex. But then, after a small eternity, Leas clambers back to his feet and carries on, and the relief that follows is warmer than the sun. Still, every eruption is worse than the last, takes longer for him to recover from, and each time, the ice becomes more and more lodged in his veins until the relief is only temporary. All they can do is drag him to his feet and whisper soothing words, and Dorian has never hated helplessness more.
Before the Viddasala, they are almost distracted by another bolt from the blue: Solas, an agent of Fen'Harel. Dorian does not need to look at the twins or hear the words they speak—Iselen's angry and disbelieving, Leas' despairing—to know how this wounds them. For a time, he forgets the Anchor as he struggles to process the revelation himself, wonders how much of what Solas told them was a lie, tries to figure out how to comfort them.
But then Leas collapses to his knees with another scream, almost bends over double as the Anchor erupts again, and all such thoughts vanish from his mind. After the Qunari have gone, but before they can act, Leas staggers back to his feet. In the dark, sweat pours down his fevered, deathly white face, and the expression in his eyes is focused, but wild in the manner of a dying man, and the sight of it chills Dorian to the bone. "Solas… is the only one… who can help with my mark…" Leas grits out, the words punctuated by gasps. "We find him… before the Viddasala does."
Usually, it is some comfort to have an end goal, a clear purpose. But not now. Now, Dorian only feels the urgent press of time, the indescribable terror that comes with the certainty that there is not enough time. "Amatus, perhaps there is something—" he protests as they head towards the eluvian, following Leas' slow and deliberate steps.
"You… can do nothing," Leas gasps. "I… am already… concentrating. All my might… all the power Solas taught me… to control… to control this. I am bending the Veil around it… as best I can." More sparks, another cry, though he does not fall. "My whole mind must be given to this… or I would have… been dead half an hour ago." And Dorian knows that he does not lie, does not exaggerate, and from this point on, he also knows there will be no relief to be had even when Leas recovers from the eruptions. The only comfort they can have lies in the one who has seemingly betrayed them. The only hope there is—but in the face of the horror before them, Dorian finds he can take no solace in it until all is over and Leas is safe in his arms again.
They stumble through the eluvian, and it is not long before Bull and Iselen spot the Qunari racing up ahead and shout out. Time is of the essence, but every step Leas takes is now slow and measured, hampered by his agony and his concentration, and as much as Dorian wishes to urge him on, he knows it would be cruel. Speed is needed—but it may well be Leas' death.
All at once, however, Leas cries out.
"It's going to… everyone back!"
Before Dorian can so much as move a muscle, however, the Anchor explodes, throwing him and Bull and Iselen down what little of the hill they've climbed. In the same moment, the shockwaves tear through Dorian, scald his skin, and rattle his teeth. They hit the ground, all three of them swearing up a storm. Above, tortured cries rise from Leas, a worse sound than even the shrieks and growls of the darkspawn. As Dorian staggers to his feet, heart pounding away in his chest, they reach a hideous pitch, almost at the limit of what people can produce with their vocal cords, surely, and then—
Then they cut off.
"Fuck!" Bull bellows after a moment of shocked silence, and the three of them tear back up the hill. At the sight before them, Dorian almost falls to his knees.
Leas, collapsed on the ground, still as a stone.
"No, no, no! Amatus!" The words come out as more of a wail than a yell.
In the blink of an eye, he's on the ground next to Leas, and he and Iselen turn him over. The sight of Leas' chest still moving up and down, the press of his fingers to Leas' pulse and the too-fast beating of his heart beneath, are no balm to the terrible panic that had exploded in him, for when Dorian looks down at his arm, the sight he sees fills him with revulsion. The gauntlet of Leas' elaborate armour is melting, perhaps even fusing to the flesh, and from the gaps in the chainmail, smoke is rising, bringing with it a most pungent aroma that causes him to retch and spit up a small amount of vomit.
But he barely takes the time to wipe it off before he's pressing his hands to Leas' chest, shaking him as Iselen does. In his terror, he cannot concentrate enough to perform the necessary spell, though it is a basic one, and so he resorts to the most pedestrian of methods. It hardly matters—Leas, for the love of the Maker, wake up! Wake up, you bastard! I'll let you fucking come to Tevinter if you just wake up!
The next few minutes seem longer than the whole of Tevinter history as Iselen and Dorian shake Leas and try to shout him into consciousness, too far gone to do anything more sensible. Even Bull is not immune to their panic, though even in his fear, he restrains himself from shaking Leas, and instead turns him onto his back and positions his limbs just so, for what reason, Dorian cannot see. Perhaps it has some effect, however, for moments later, Leas' eyes flicker open, just as Dorian and Iselen both shout his nicknames for the hundredth time.
Even when Leas' eyes have fully opened, however, he only moans and paws at the melting armour of his arm with his good hand. With the dazed look in his eyes, he seems incapable of anything else, and that does nothing to ease the racing of Dorian's heart and the horror coursing through his veins.
"Oh, shit," Bull gasps, as he examines the arm. "Fucking Anchor crap! Boss, maybe I should carry you!"
A sensible offer, but Leas, whose eyes are focusing now, shakes his head. "It'll… keep… blasting," he whispers. "You'll… be hurt… Help… me up…" Wordlessly, tears flooding down his cheeks, Iselen does so, and amazingly, Leas regrips his staff and soldiers on. His steps are even slower and more deliberate than before, and he hunches his shoulders and has to dig his staff far into the ground with every step—but he's moving.
It's not over yet. In either direction. That thought alone somehow stirs Dorian's terror to heights he'd never thought possible. He is in such a frenzy of it that it feels like there's never been anything else like it; few other things in his life could compare.
They stagger through the ruins and the eluvians, fighting the Qunari as they come across them, and Dorian hates every second of delay and every metre that still lies between Leas and his potential salvation. More often than Dorian cares to wonder, Leas weaponises the Anchor, turns it to their advantage, discharges it while he is in the middle of the fray and the attention of most of the Qunari is on him. The explosions blast them all back, kill a few, and they seem to bring Leas relief—even if that relief can be measured only in the seconds. From across the battlefield, Dorian sees his veins glowing up to his shoulder, and he knows they may have only hours to spare.
If that.
There is one moment, however, while they're fighting the monster of a saarebas, that Leas forgets to discharge the Anchor in time. Dorian feels a rush as the air around him seems to be sucked up and away from him, and he whirls around in time to see Leas being lifted into the air by the force of the Anchor. His screams ring out and pierce Dorian's eardrums, and his body thrashes and writhes and contorts. He glows green all around, while in his hand the Anchor flares up to at least several times larger than the hand that bears it and blasts out bolts and arcs of energy in every direction. Behind him, the Qunari that was attacking him stops and stares too, and for a breathless moment, everything seems suspended.
Then the energy blasts out like a true explosion, and Dorian yells as it hurtles him back. The fury of the Anchor rips through him, setting his robe on fire and causing him a dreadful agony such as he has never known. For a second, it seems like he's having a rift opened inside him. Then, as he comes back to himself, he remembers that this is only an echo of Leas' pain, though pain is undoubtedly the most inadequate word for this imaginable.
As soon as he has recovered himself, he finishes off the Qunari with a bolt of ice to the heart, then races over to Leas, who staggers to his feet, gasping and groaning. His armour is soaked in blood and vomit from when he threw up all over himself somewhere along the way, and when he looks up, Dorian's blood chills yet again, for Leas' eyes are glowing green now—not just his irises, but his whites and his pupils. There is nothing to see but magic.
"Andraste's flaming fucking sword," he gasps, along with a small collection of other, less polite curses.
But Leas only draws his spirit blade—not as steady as usual, not as strong—and hurls himself at the saarebas, and that alone reminds Dorian of the situation. So he returns to the fight, but that leaves him with almost nothing to distract him from the hatred of every moment that passes without progress, from the crystallising image in his head that Leas will soon be nothing more than a charred corpse on the ground.
They allow themselves no rest afterwards, instead hurrying on through the remaining eluvians to the wide-open space where they meet what Dorian imagines are the remnants of the Qunari. So close, so tantalisingly close, he thinks as they fight, driven into a frenzy by the pressing time and the wild hope dangling in front of them, for Leas is still alive… but perhaps not close enough. It could all still go so wrong…
Before they know it, they've only the saarebas left to deal with, again, and as they battle him, Dorian channels all his burgeoning hatred and wrath into it. He almost sees the Anchor, almost sees his father, almost sees the ones who killed him, the Qunari as a whole, the Exalted Council, anything and everything that's made the last week so hellish. He snarls and yells as he flings his fireballs and uses all his abilities as a necromancer to their best advantage; there is no grace in how he fights now, only fierce desperation and rage and a primal need to get this over with as fast as possible. Next to him, Leas fights worse than ever, his mana pool and the strength of his spells apparently reduced to those of a child's, and he sinks down further and further as the combat drags on. By the end, he is almost crawling, and Dorian has to stand guard over him to keep the saarebas from taking advantage of his weakness.
"Nothing's working on him! Use the mark!" Iselen screams after their spells have had no effect on the saarebas for what seems like a small eternity.
Leas groans, but he raises his hand without protest and aims it for the saarebas' heart. Then he discharges the energy that was already starting to sear up to his elbow.
"Dorian!"
Bull's voice snaps him out of his ruminations, and Dorian blinks as he looks up at him. "Kaffas! What is it?"
"It's been about half an hour," Bull says. He gets to his feet as he speaks and eyes the eluvian, distinctly nervous and at the end of his rope. "I think we should go. Not sure if we can leave the boss' life to a few more minutes."
"Fasta vass, we cannot," Dorian mutters. He clambers to his feet in about the same moment as Iselen. Then he grips his staff, fear already building again, and tears through the eluvian, passing through the glowing glass with a minimum of effort. What had seemed so strange and out of this world but a few days ago now is totally ordinary. Not that he thinks much of that idea as he ends up on the other side and comes face to face with a snarling Qunari turned to stone.
The sight prompts him to let out another stream of curses, and when Bull and Iselen join him, he hears Iselen emit a shout of surprise and Bull start swearing even more creatively and loudly. His voice trembles, a clear note of horror mingling with his incredulity.
Dorian allows them no time to recover from the shock. Instead, he sets off sprinting through the gardens, which would be a beautiful sight if his vision of Leas' corpse wasn't getting easier to see by the second. "Is this the point where you find a bar and you drink it?" Iselen mutters to Bull as they pick up the pace behind him.
"Yeah. Yeah, I think it is," Bull says.
The further they go with no sight of Leas, the more Dorian's panic crowds out all other sights, all other sensations. "Leas!" he calls out. "Leas, can you hear us?"
They reach the steps to the upper level of the garden and take them two at a time, or four in Bull's case. "Uvun! Uvun, ele garal! Ema sul!" Iselen cries. Whatever he may be saying, his desperation is a perfect match for Dorian's. The world blurs and almost disappears, and with every second that they hear and see nothing of Leas, his heart pounds a little faster, and he prays more sincerely to the Maker than he ever has in his life.
Bull reaches the top of the steps first, and as soon as he does, he freezes; Dorian and Iselen almost slam into him. "Shit!"
The force with which he speaks that lone word is enough. The breath leaving him in a rush, the ground falling out from beneath his feet, his heart coming to a sudden and violent halt, everything around him suspended in a single instant, Dorian peers out from around him. He sees before an eluvian of incredible size a silent, unmoving, golden body, stretched out flat on his face in a puddle of blood.
He loses all track of everything. What he says, what Iselen says, what he does—it matters not. There's only that sight, followed by the moment where he reaches the body and collapses almost on top of it, deaf to his wordless cries and Iselen's hysterical screams, blinded by the tears flooding down his face again. "Amatus," he gasps, turning Leas over and seeing for himself the total pallor of his face, an expression on it too peaceful to belong to life. "Amatus, vir mei somnia, please—!"
At this moment, Bull assumes control, knocking Dorian's hand out of the way and ignoring his shout of protest. His fingers trace up Leas' bloodied, vomit-covered breastplate to his neck, and in the next several seconds that pass, Dorian is sure his heart doesn't beat once. His hands are shaking violently, and his stomach churns. Maker, Maker, please, I beg you…
At last, Bull pulls his hand away. "He's alive," he says, and Dorian sags with relief, heart restarting and breath filling his lungs again. His vision comes back into focus, and the trembling in his hands eases somewhat.
Next to him, Iselen lets out a wordless sob. "Now what?" he whimpers.
Bull sighs and looks down. "I would normally suggest a healing spell or potion, but…" He trails off just as the stench of burnt and rotting flesh reaches Dorian's nose, causing him to retch. He clutches at Leas' arm, holds it like it could crumble at any second, and after a moment's hesitation, turns it over. His stomach churns again at the sight: the armour melted and fused to the flesh, and through the few gaps that he can see, the flesh is so black and charred that it doesn't even look like flesh. No question, it is beyond his ability—beyond anyone's ability.
"Yeah, that," Bull says. "We don't have the time—he doesn't have the time—to get his armour off. Which of you can run faster?"
They glance at each other. After a moment, Iselen sighs. "I think I am."
"Get back to the palace and warn them. If he's gonna have a chance at surviving this, he needs to be seen to as soon as he arrives. Actually, probably half an hour before he arrives, but… shit. Just go! I'll carry him!" He snaps the last words, and Iselen hesitates for the barest moment before getting to his feet and tearing off down the hill with all the speed that he can muster. If Dorian knows him, he won't slow down even for an instant, no matter how much it hurts him or how out of breath he may be.
For half a moment, as he stares at Leas' limp, bleeding form, Dorian considers objecting again and demanding that he be the one to carry him. But as quickly, he realises why that would not be a good idea. He cannot run as fast when he is carrying Leas, and they cannot afford—he cannot afford—any delay. No, better that Bull take him.
So Dorian sighs, and with still-trembling hands, he casts the only healing spell he knows that might be of any use. "That will slow his bleeding, at least for a while," he murmurs, just as Bull scoops Leas up into his arms.
"Sure thing, but he's gonna need a lot more than that. Grab his staff. Let's beat it."
As soon as Dorian has snatched up Leas' staff, they take off. Bull runs as if Leas' weight is nothing to him, and it is not long before he is far ahead and Dorian has much to do just to keep him in sight, though he runs as fast as he can. His muscles are aching, and soon, every step is painful, and they have not gone through many eluvians before he can feel a horrible stitch forming in his side. But he need only think of Leas, limp and pale and bleeding, so very vulnerable, to speed his steps again. All the while, he prays and prays, and he wonders if maybe they should have gone after only twenty minutes. If Leas dies for their delay…
Maker, he'll never forgive himself.
Back and back and back they go, and Dorian notices as little of the scenery as he did before, verdant though it is. The least that can be said is that nothing impedes their progress now, unlike before, but that is little comfort to him. He can't get the sight of Leas out of his head, and the smell of charred, rotting flesh still lingers in his nostrils. As they re-enter the Darvaarad and he almost trips over his aching, protesting feet, he considers the idea that that may well be the last sight he ever has of him, if things go badly when they return to the palace. That alone is almost enough to drive him to his knees.
As with so many other things today, it seems an eternity before they at last return to the Crossroads and race up to the palace's eluvian. Just in front of this eluvian awaits Iselen and a small team of medical staff, two of them bearing a stretcher. Vivienne is among them, and she already has a healing spell prepared. Bull sprints towards them while Dorian finally lets himself come to a halt and promptly doubles up panting. He looks up in time to see the man lay Leas on the stretcher with surprising gentleness, and the healers get to work at once. As Vivienne directs them and works her own spells, Dorian staggers towards them, but he's so out of breath that words fail him entirely.
"Do you smell that, Madame de Fer?" one of the healers murmurs, eyebrows flying up.
"I do, my dear," Vivienne says grimly. She sighs. "Get him into the infirmary. Find the surgeon. He'll be losing his forearm at the very least, and probably more than that." Before Dorian can protest, the nurses pick up the stretcher, and the whole group, sans Iselen and Vivienne, disappears through the eluvian.
She looks back at them and seems to stare pityingly at Dorian, perhaps recognising his expression. "You know this could never have ended any other way, darling," she says. Her voice is soft.
Dorian can only stare at her and shake his head. He's still too breathless and in too much pain from his stitch to say anything, though he can feel the tears leaking from his eyes yet again.
"He's in good hands," Vivienne says. "We will take care of him."
"How long will it take?" Iselen asks.
"That depends on how much we need to cut off," she responds. "Hours, at least, and he won't regain consciousness for a couple of days. I suggest the three of you go find the others and explain what happened. I'll send a messenger when the operation is complete."
Bull nods. "Will do, ma'am." Apparently satisfied that he speaks for all of them, Vivienne walks back through the eluvian, and Bull looks back at him.
"Come on, Dorian," he says, and Dorian sighs, staggers over to him, ignoring the screaming pain in his legs, and passes through the eluvian with him. Iselen follows.
The moment they turn the corner to head out of the room and back into the central gardens of the Winter Palace, they are met with Adhlean, who looks as pale as death as he stares up at them. "I saw them take the stretcher by," he says, wringing his hands. "Is he…?"
"We saved him," Dorian pants. "At least, for now."
"Now he needs surgery," Iselen adds, putting an arm around his nephew. "He might be missing a bit when we see him next."
Adhlean's face falls, but then he nods. "Well, better than him being dead," he says, and he wipes his forehead and exhales.
"Quite," Iselen says. "Now let's go find the others. We've got a long wait ahead of us."
So saying, they walk off, and Dorian heads after them. For the time being, he's too tired to think beyond his desire to find a place to sit down. After the madness and heart-stopping terror of the past too many hours, he considers that a blessed relief.
Translations
"Mei cor.": "My heart."
"Ele garal! Ema sul!": "We're coming! Hold on!"
"Vir mei somnia.": "Man of my dreams."
Elven translation taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen.