The wait after they gather the rest of the inner circle and explain the situation is interminable. The advisors depart—Josephine and Leliana to attend to the Exalted Council, Cullen to tell their soldiers to stand down—but the rest of them remain in the war room, mostly silent. Bull, Sera, and Blackwall bring back what looks like half the stock of the tavern and distribute it amongst everyone (though Bull takes the lion's share), but apart from the drinking, the occasional murmured question and answer, the game of Wicked Grace Varric is running, and the pacing, there is little to hear.

Dorian sits and waits, and he speaks to no one. That his robes are singed and covered in blood, that his legs still ache, that he hasn't been so utterly exhausted like this in years—he notices none of these things. His mind is in whatever room where they're operating on Leas, turning over all the scenarios he can conjure up. Will Leas' illness affect the surgery? What about his blood loss? How much will they have to take off? What if there are complications? If he never wakes up? If their last moments together were nothing but one sloppy kiss and Leas barely able to speak through his pain?

Nothing will truly keep us apart. Nothing but death itself, and for as often as Leas has cheated death, once it catches up with him, there'll be nothing that any of them can do. The mere thought sets his breathing ragged again, and he snatches a nearby tankard and brings it to his lips, uncaring of whatever concoction it may contain. If it weren't for the wait itself, he would already be shitfaced, and as he looks at Bull, already a little intoxicated, Dorian feels a stirring of envy. Lucky bastard, able to block it all out like this, nothing that requires him to wait.

Not that Bull had a much easier time of it today, Dorian reminds himself, but the thought disappears as fast as it comes. When he has drained the tankard, he gets up and stares out the window, watching the sun sink below the horizon. The colours are beautiful, all red and gold and brilliant orange, and Leas, were he here, would have taken the time to point them out. See, that's nature, Dorian. Surely you can appreciate that.

It's nature that I can appreciate from the comfort of civilisation, he would have said. Not like your blasted forests. And Leas would have giggled and made some teasing rejoinder about the verdant nature of forests, the many animals and bountiful flora, and how peaceful it could be, away from the bustle of civilisation. To that, he would have responded with some pithy line about ticks and diseases and dirt, and a playful argument would have ensued from there.

Would have, he chides himself. So despairing. Just wait. You'll have that argument again. Nostri amor hic iter perpetietur. The words seem less hollow now that they've got Leas back to the palace, now that he's in surgery, but rather than use them as a touchstone—the way Leas had clearly intended for him—Dorian finds he'll only believe in them after the whole mess is over. Which… rather defeats the purpose, he supposes, but rationality when it comes to Leas isn't his strong suit.

As the sun sets, Dorian sighs and returns to his chair. Maker, he could do with some sleep, but… not yet. Even if he wanted to, he doubts he could sleep until he knows what's going on, and looking around him, he suspects the same is true of everyone else. Adhlean and Iselen look the most exhausted of them all, but they remain keen and alert in their seats, wearing identically grim expressions marred only by the slightest twinge of fear. Iselen glances at him for a moment and nods once, and Dorian returns it. That is as much sympathy as they can show each other.

He sits back, and he waits, and his stomach churns as he returns to considering the many dreadful alternatives before him.

Hours later, when the moon is high in the sky, Bull is unconscious on the table and surrounded by empty tankards, and several of them have also gone to sleep where they sit, the door opens. Dorian at once leaps to his feet, and in the next moment, Vivienne herself appears, rather than a messenger. She looks as tired as the rest of them, and her clothes are bloodied, but she carries herself in the same dignified manner as always as she takes in those of them who are still awake.

"Well?" Iselen says, as he sits on the edge of his chair and grips the arms of it. In the dark, his eyes are wide, shining with a wild, fierce hope mingled with desperation.

"The operation was a success, my dears," Vivienne tells them, and at once, Dorian closes his eyes and lets out a breath he only barely realises he'd been holding in. "A few minor complications, but nothing that we couldn't handle. We've returned him to his quarters, and he should be awake within the next few days."

"And his arm?" Dorian presses. "How much did you remove?"

She turns to him, and though she looks calm, there is no triumph in her face. "Everything, including his shoulder, I'm afraid," she says, and Dorian's heart sinks. "There was too much damage for even his upper arm to be salvaged. And he has a new set of rather extensive scars that reach almost all the way to his heart."

Oh, he will hate that, is Dorian's first thought, remembering Leas and his vanity. Something like this will no doubt strike a terrible blow to his self-image… but at least he's alive. That has to count for something. He's pulled through the fire, and for the first time in days, Dorian can breathe easy.

"When can we see him?" Adhlean murmurs.

Vivienne pauses and seems to deliberate for a moment. Then she offers Adhlean a soft smile and says, "The three of you can go to him now if you wish, but I advise against letting anyone else enter. We don't want to overwhelm him, after all. But if you go now, bear in mind that it'll be at least a full day before he wakes up, and probably longer considering how much stress his body had to endure."

Dorian rises from his seat. "All the same, I think we'll go now," he says, his voice coming out harsh and ragged. Once again, his eyes are wet, and he wipes at them hastily.

"Agreed," Iselen says, standing also. He pauses a moment then adds, "Thank you, Vivienne. For everything."

The relationship between those two has never been friendly, but just this once, Vivienne smiles. "You are welcome," she says. Then she steps aside, letting the three of them pass out of the room.

They make their way to Leas' quarters in silence, Dorian's shoulders shaking as the relief washes over them. "See? We saved him," he says to Adhlean, who looks back at him and offers a weary smile. He says nothing, however, and no more words are spoken as they walk across the grounds of the palace and into the corridor leading to Leas' room. At the door, however, they find two elves already there.

Iselen pauses. "Telahmisa? Taralen?"

The two jump and look back at them. "Ah! Iselen!" Taralen says hurriedly. "Here to see Leas, I guess."

"Yeah. You are, as well? Vivienne said nobody else could come in."

Telahmisa shakes her head and shows them a pair of bottles. "We're just dropping off some of the medicine he'll need to take," she says, while Taralen looks away and shifts on his feet. "This one will help with the pain, and this will block his access to the Fade if he needs it."

Iselen nods. "'Ma serannas. I imagine he will." Telahmisa smiles, and Taralen makes an attempt at it, but it comes out as more of a grimace. Then he opens the door, and they head inside. A minute or so later, they re-emerge and pass back down the corridor, and the three of them enter the room, Adhlean shutting the door behind them.

They step over to the bed, Dorian summoning a ball of light and throwing it up into the air as they get closer, banishing the darkness that mostly obscures Leas from sight. When at last he sees him, his heart sinks yet again.

Even now that all is over, Leas still looks ghastly pale, and in the light, his face seems almost skull-like. For a long moment, Dorian remains doggedly fixed on it, not daring to cast his eyes further down and see what he knows awaits them, but Iselen's quiet curse and Adhlean's sudden inhale force him to do so. Heart pounding away in his chest again, gut clenching and writhing, sweat building on his temples despite the coldness of the night, he looks down and focuses, and much like Adhlean, he gasps.

There's nothing there anymore. Not even Leas' shoulder. The collarbone remains, but it terminates abruptly and is heavily bandaged where the shoulder should be. The bare skin is wrinkled and covered in tendrils of pale, branching scars that extend under the duvet that covers Leas' chest. Remembering Leas as he was, recalling how he used to gesticulate with that arm, how he held it when he was swinging his spirit blade, how he would use that marked hand to stroke Dorian's hair in their quiet moments together… 'jarring' doesn't even begin to describe it. The tears spring to his eyes yet again, and he sinks into a nearby seat.

"Oh, fenedhis," Iselen mutters, and he bows his head.

"Uh, is he drooling?" Adhlean says, and Dorian briefly glares at him, wondering how he could make such a remark at a time like this, before he looks back at Leas. Focusing on his face again, he realises that the boy speaks the truth.

"That's not saliva," Iselen says, frowning. He bends over and wipes it away. "That's… some sort of liquid. Were they feeding him the medicine while he slept? I was wondering what was taking so long."

"Vivienne didn't say anything about that," Dorian comments, but then he sighs. "I suppose if they got their orders from one of the other doctors…"

Iselen nods and withdraws for a moment, taking a chair and bringing it up to the edge of the bed. He sits and lays his head on his twin's chest. "Right. If it helps, it helps. Anyone else want to sleep here tonight?"

Adhlean chuckles weakly. "Do you need to ask?" So saying, he casts off his boots and clambers up onto the other end of the bed and curls up around his father's feet. He doesn't even bother to take his clothes off. Watching him, Dorian realises he should do the same, but he's so worn out from the day's events that he finds he can't be bothered, either. If nothing else, he wants to be here when Leas awakes, even if that might not be for a few days yet.

So he brings his chair forward too, and he reaches out for Leas' hand before remembering, with a pang, that it's not there anymore. Then he sighs and lays his head down on the bed, still shaking somewhat. Sleep claims him within minutes.

Leas continues unconscious for the whole of the next day and much of the day after. While he slumbers, attended to by Vivienne, Telahmisa and Taralen (who do indeed feed him more of the medicine), and the other doctors, Dorian at last consents to go to the bathhouses, clean himself up, and change his clothes. He does all this hurriedly, however, and he doesn't even bother with his usual morning routine, even if that means that by the second day, he's got a little more stubble than usual and his hair is a complete mess. Iselen and Adhlean are at least in similar states, and they still look healthier than Leas himself, who continues to look like death warmed over.

The others pop in and out, some of them leaving little gifts and treats for when Leas wakes up (even Sera, though she has to do a lot of fast talking to convince Dorian she's not there to leave a prank for him). As the time passes, Leas' breathing gets heavier, and some colour returns to his face; in the evening of the first day, his eyes even flicker open a few times before closing again seconds later. It is slow in the extreme, a different kind of agony, but after all the madness of the last few days, Dorian finds that he welcomes it. He'll take this pain over the heart-stopping terror of not having enough time.

Early in the afternoon of the second day, Leas starts to wake up, but in his first few minutes of consciousness, he is drowsy, unaware of his surroundings, unable to communicate, and he falls asleep again soon enough. This pattern repeats many times, with Leas being a little more aware and able to stay awake just a bit longer on each occasion. Then, at last, late in the afternoon, his eyes open again, and he blinks and looks around him, then shifts his gaze to Iselen and smiles.

"Iselen, hey," he rasps.

"Uvun!" Iselen cries out. He immediately bends over him. "How are you feeling?"

Leas' smile widens, though Dorian has to crane around Iselen to see it. Adhlean scrambles around to the other side of the bed. "Tired. And still sick. But… like I've just been dunked in cold water on a hot day. I feel so good. The pain… still sick, but the pain has stopped. You can't imagine how that feels."

Iselen shakes his head. "I don't suppose I can," he says. He glances up at Adhlean, then leans back. "Look around. I'm not the only one here." Leas looks first to the other side of the bed, and he smiles at the sight of his son.

"'Ma'hallain," he says warmly. "An'eth'ara."

"An'eth'ara, Babae," Adhlean responds, dispensing with what Dorian understands are the typical elven responses to greetings.

"I'm so sorry. These last few days must have been horrible."

Adhlean nods. His eyes are wet. "Yeah, but… you're alive. That's okay. It's okay." Leas smiles a little wider, and Adhlean buries his face in his chest, prompting him to pull out his remaining arm from under the duvet and stroke and ruffle his hair. As he does so, he murmurs soothing words, and he keeps doing so until Adhlean looks up and pulls away.

"It'll be all right, 'ma'hallain," Leas tells him, holding his gaze well despite his clear weariness. "I promise."

Adhlean's mouth twitches in an attempt at a smile. "Yes, Babae," he says, then he steps back. Leas' gaze now wanders again and soon meets Dorian's.

A pause, then his smile gets only wider while Dorian's shoulders sag. "Dorian," he says. "Oh, you look a mess. Did you sleep here?"

Dorian looks at him askance. "I did, but—I look a mess! Me! Festis bei umo canavarum, what about you, you damnable idiot?" The words pour out of his mouth before he can think about them, much like lava out of a volcano, and the familiarity of them helps to ground him, to ease some of the tension in his muscles.

Leas manages a weak chuckle. "I suppose I look ghastly," he says. "No surprise. But you stayed? Thank you."

"Well, what else was I going to do?" Dorian demands, folding his arms. "You didn't expect me to remain in my own quarters while you were recovering from—" For once, he's able to jam his mouth shut before he finishes the sentence. He doesn't even need Iselen's warning look to do so.

But Leas' smile doesn't waver. "Aww," he teases. "I love you, too. And thank you, all of you. Now, what are these…?" His eyes have flickered to his bedside table, and they fall on the bottles and the gifts that the others left for him.

"Medicine and some presents, and something that'll block your connection to the Fade, if you don't want any nightmares," Iselen says.

Leas nods, but at the word 'Fade', his smile finally drops. He raises his head off the pillow, but he's only able to hold it up for a few seconds before slumping back down again. "Oh, Creators, the Fade. That reminds me. Solas… we have a very, very serious problem there."

Iselen groans. "Of course we do. How bad is it?"

"Apocalyptic if we don't do anything. He—"

"Oh, for the love of—!" Adhlean cries, while Dorian buries his face in his hands, just as exasperated. "Really?"

"Really," Leas says. He catches Iselen and Dorian's gazes again. "Listen. Solas isn't an agent of Fen'Harel. He is Fen'Harel."

A moment's pause, then Iselen jumps like he's been burned and screams, "WHAT?!" Next to him, the blood drains from Adhlean's face, and he takes a step back from the bed that seems to be almost instinctual. For his part, Dorian knows enough of Dalish legends to at least partially understand why this is such a shock to the three, but he remains where he stands, looking at Leas, waiting for more. The words will never have the same meaning for him.

Leas nods. "Yeah. I worked it out in the ruins, but I couldn't say. We had a long talk about it, but to give the quick précis, he's got his own agents in the Inquisition, he dragged the dead Qunari into the palace because he wanted us to stop the Qunari plot, he formed the Veil to free the ancient elves from the gods—the Evanuris, he called them—and, and this is a doozy… he wants to pull it back down."

That causes Dorian to jump. "I'm sorry, he wants to do what? Destroy the Veil?"

"Yes. Elvhenan was built on magic, so when he formed the Veil, it all fell to pieces. That's why we started ageing, became mortal. He wants to restore that world, but in so doing, he would destroy this one. I told him I couldn't allow him to do that, that I would show him another way. Then he took the Anchor and left, and I passed out. There's more to it than that, but…"

Iselen blows out a long breath and runs his hands over his face. "Shit," he gasps. "Shit. Shit. So our legends were half-right. He did play a part in our fall, even if…"

"Even if his intentions were good, yes," Leas says. "Please, one of you must warn the Council and the others. We've got another war to prepare for."

Adhlean whimpers, while Dorian shakes his head in stunned disbelief and tries to comprehend the words he's just heard. They spin around his head in a maelstrom, nonsensical to say the least; he cannot even begin to understand them or their implications. "Oh, no," the teenager says. "Saving the world again, Babae?"

"So it would seem. But first… the arm. That's easier to grapple with."

So it is, and isn't it a wonderful life when an amputation is an easier subject to understand? Sighing, Dorian tries to shake his head free of his whirling thoughts, and he focuses his gaze on Leas again. A mere glance at his collarbone is enough to get his lip quivering, though he tries to hide it.

"The arm, yes," Iselen says. "Or… well. How is it feeling?"

Leas sighs and makes an attempt at jiggling his collarbone. "Like there's still something there," he says. "I keep expecting to be able to twitch my fingers. But I can't. It's… disorienting. Well, let me have a look." At once, Iselen pulls back the duvet until it rests over Leas' waist. Adhlean sucks in his breath again, and on impulse, Dorian heads around to the other side of the bed and grasps Leas' hand tightly in his own.

Leas shoots him a grateful smile. Then he takes in a deep breath and looks down.

For a long moment, he continues to attempt to move his collarbone, fruitless though it may be, and after a while, he withdraws his hand from Dorian's grip and touches both the bandages and the scarred skin. With the duvet out of the way, Dorian can see that the scars extend nearly as far as his heart, and his breath catches as he realises just how close Leas had come to dying. Another half-hour, another attack, and that would have been the end of him.

All seems suspended as Leas examines the stump, everything in the world waiting on his reaction. Finally, however, he sighs and slumps back down. "Well," he says, "it doesn't hurt. Much. And I'm alive. That's something."

Iselen grimaces. "Silver linings, I guess?"

Leas laughs, but the sound is off—it's too high-pitched, too reedy. Dorian's heart clenches. "Silver linings, yes. I'm alive. That was as close as I've ever come to death. I'm… urgh…" He groans and retches, and Dorian stares at him.

After a moment, the episode, or whatever it is, comes to an end. Leas glances up at him. "Sorry. Like I said, still sick. I'm glad I didn't throw up, however—not that I had anything left to…" He sighs and shakes himself. "I'm alive. That's the important thing."

"But," Dorian protests, "are you all right?"

Leas smiles at him, and though it reaches his eyes, it still seems a little hollow, a little stilted. "I am. I'd rather be like this than dead. The rest… oh, I'll sort it out later." He yawns, not noticing Dorian narrowing his eyes at him. "There're Solas and the Council to worry about, and the Inquisition…"

"Later. Worry about it later," Iselen says. "You look like you need to go back to sleep."

"I do at that," Leas admits. "Give me some of that medicine, will you please? Both types. I don't feel like dreaming right now."

Iselen nods, grabs the bottles, and pulls their tops off, and Dorian watches as he takes a nearby spoon, dips it in the first mixture, then feeds his brother. When he takes it, Leas coughs and gags, face twisting, and afterwards, he seems a little paler than before. But once he has recovered himself, he nods, and Iselen feeds him the latter. After it's over, he lays down again, and Dorian pulls the covers back over his chest.

"Thanks," he says. "Now go on, get out of here. Find the others and tell them what I said. I'm hoping I'll be up for longer tomorrow. Come see me again in the evening if you want to." Adhlean and Iselen both nod and embrace Leas as best they can for a moment, then they leave.

"You go as well, Dorian," Leas says after they've gone. "Get some sleep. I know I've caused you such abominable stress. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," Dorian murmurs as he strokes his hair and cheek. "But… never again."

Leas manages another weak chuckle. "I'll do my best, though given what Solas is planning, that may not be possible," he says. "Well, how are you? This past week must have been hellish."

"That's one way of describing it," Dorian says. "But I'm just fine. Really. Just absolutely perfect." His tone takes on a mocking note, and he glares pointedly at Leas, who grins at him, expression sheepish.

"We can talk about it later," he tells him. "Go on, 'ma vhen'an. Get some rest. And—I was right, wasn't I?"

"Right? About what?"

Leas' grin turns into an affectionate smile, and his eyes are soft as he stares up at him. "What I said the night before the Darvaarad. Var'lath juros min'vir. It came to pass. I was right."

Dorian sighs, though he can't keep from smiling back at him. Maker, he'll live, he realises, and that alone both brings tears to his eyes and causes his smile to broaden. He kneels down for a moment and kisses Leas on the forehead, then the temple, then at last on the lips. Despite his weakness, Leas kisses back.

"You were, amatus," he murmurs as he pulls away. Leas awkwardly lifts his remaining hand to stroke his cheek, then lets him go. Dorian regards him for a moment before turning away, chest shaking, tears threatening to spill over once more, relief flooding his veins with a warm glow that serves as the best possible balm to all the terror and despair of the past week he can imagine.

Still, as he leaves, he wonders if Leas is truly as 'all right' as he claims.

The next day brings with it another flurry of activity, as Leas is called up to address the Council. (Much to Dorian's private fury; should they not give the man more time to rest?) Dorian stands in the back of the hall with the others, watching as Leas stands tall and proud before the Council though he'd thrown up into a pot not long before arriving and had had to be half-carried here. He listens to Leas give his speech, hears the sadness, even the betrayal, in every word he says—grief underlined by his ultimate declaration to disband the Inquisition.

Ah, poor man, Dorian muses with shoulders slumped once he has processed the initial shock of Leas deciding to get rid of the organisation he has so proudly led. Your organisation ruined and torn from you by corruption and betrayal, after all that you have done. A sad yet not uncommon fate. You deserved better.

More than that, he deserves better than another loss, so soon after losing his arm, only a few months after being exiled from his clan. And as the day passes by, and the days following it, it becomes clear that this is not all Leas will be losing. The others make preparations to leave; a few, such as Sera and Varric, depart right away. Iselen and Adhlean at first insist on staying with Leas, but Leas tells them to go back to the clan as soon as possible and spread the word of Fen'Harel, a request to which they reluctantly accede. Dorian would stay longer if he could, but the end of the year is nigh, and it would be best for him to get back to Tevinter as soon as possible after the new year. He does not need a pointed (if sympathetic) letter from Maevaris to tell him that.

But how dreadful, he thinks as he helps Leas get into his sleeping clothes one night, only a few days after the end of the Inquisition, two nights before he has to leave. Leas is coughing and groaning, but less so than before; Dorian hopes that is a sign that his illness is ending. Small consolation that will be, however, when everyone has left or is about to leave, and the Inquisition is gone, and his arm, and he has no clan to return to, nothing to buoy him but another potential apocalypse and a vague promise from Dorian that he can come to visit him in Tevinter, eventually. A terrible fall from grace, and judging by the grimace twisting Leas' face as he struggles, he's more aware of it than anyone.

When he's finally in his sleeping clothes, Leas collapses on the bed with another groan. Dorian sits down next to him. "Have you given any thought as to what you will do now, amatus?" he asks cautiously while Leas shuffles around and places his head in his lap. In response, Dorian runs his hands through Leas' waves, even lanker and more devoid of their typical shine than ever.

Leas sighs and closes his eyes. "I've opted to stay in Halamshiral for the time being. There's still much to do, dismantling the Inquisition, and I don't want to go anywhere, not like this." His mouth twists. "But I think I'll stay even after I've recovered. Try to keep the peace."

A pause. "Keep the peace?" Dorian prompts him.

"There's been a lot of elven servants and city elves disappearing, as I'm sure you know," Leas says, and Dorian nods. "I can make a guess at where they're going—or rather, who they're joining. You can bet that as soon as people learn about Solas and what he's planning, if they don't go into denial, there'll be a backlash. And for all I've done, the elves are still at a disadvantage. So I will stay and try to keep the bloodshed to a minimum."

Dorian cringes. "Good luck with that, amatus," he says, then adds, realising his words didn't sound at all encouraging, "I mean it. If anyone can keep the peace between our two races at a time like this…"

"Yeah. Though hopefully, it won't blow up in my face like everything else," Leas says, tone distinctly bitter. "Oh, look at us both. Off to carry out seemingly impossible tasks. Keyword being seemingly, I guess."

"And don't you forget it," Dorian tells him, hating the cynicism in Leas' words and every line of his face, all the more so because it's so very un-Leas-like. "I'll wrangle Tevinter into submission, and you'll keep the peace until it's time to deal with Solas. You'll see. You've pulled off greater miracles."

Leas blows out a long breath through his mouth. "I hope you're right," he murmurs. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't like me. It's just…"

"A lot's happened in a short time," Dorian says, stroking his hair and his cheek with a feather-light touch. "I know. I wish I could have got more time to spend with you, but…"

"No, I understand. Don't mind me." His countenance remains morose, and Dorian's heart clenches at the sight. Carefully, he lays down and pulls Leas up to join him, then wraps his arms around the man's waist. Leas tucks himself into his side, though the action seems instinctual as much as anything.

"I won't be alone," he adds after a moment. "Telahmisa and Taralen will be staying, too. We were never close, but they've been a great help throughout all this. It'll be good to have some familiar company."

"I'm glad to hear it," Dorian says, pressing a kiss to Leas' temple. "And Leliana and Cassandra won't be so far away, either. And you still have the crystal."

Leas nods. "Fully expect to hear from me every night after you leave," he says. "I'm going to miss you." His voice tightens and trembles, and Dorian holds him a little closer.

After a moment's thought, he caves and ask the obvious question, one with an equally obvious answer. "How are you feeling, Leas? I mean, really? Beneath that charming, handsome façade of yours?"

Leas grimaces again. "I was that obvious, was I?"

"Amatus, I'm a magister. Determining an act from reality is a necessary survival skill back home," Dorian reminds him. Then, trying to lighten the mood, he smiles down at him and adds, "Though, yes, you were that obvious."

His attempt falls flat; Leas only sighs and buries his head in his chest. "How do you think I feel?" he says, his voice muffled. "Adhlean and Iselen have returned to the clan for the next six months. The Inquisition is gone, and it ended with me admitting in front of half of Orlais that we were corrupt and complacent. I've got almost nowhere to go. Everyone's splitting up. You're leaving. One of my best friends is the Betrayer out of Dalish legend and wants to destroy the world, and as soon as word of that gets out, there'll be hell to pay for the elves. Which I have to stop. Much like Ameridan had to find common ground between the Dales and Orlais under Drakon, and look how that turned out. And my arm is gone, and with that comes… well, you saw how much trouble I had just getting into my clothes." His voice shakes again, and he wrenches his remaining hand in his hair. "I feel so useless, arasha. So damn helpless. And so alone. And—petty as it is—so ugly and so ruined! I know I've said otherwise that I'm all right, the way I always used to say it… but I'm not. I'm as far from all right as I can be."

There it is at last. Every time someone has asked Leas about his condition over the past few days and Leas has more or less brushed them off, Dorian has waited for the truth to emerge, and now it does. He holds Leas even closer against him and cradles him, burying his face in his hair. "Hic iter perpetitor," he says, and Leas lets out a weak chuckle. "And while I know mere words alone won't fix this, you're never ugly, ruined, or useless to me, darling. Short of an arm or not, you're as much of a marvel to me as you ever were."

Leas snuggles deeper into him. "The things you say," he murmurs, but Dorian can feel him smiling. "Such a smooth talker. As ever."

"Yes, but this time, I mean what I say," Dorian tells him. "You'll never be useless, Leas. You'll come back from this in time. And one day, when all this madness is over with, then you can come home with me, and I'll show you Tevinter in the flesh. Seeing it in dreams is something, but it doesn't compare to the reality."

"I'm sure it doesn't. I just hope you don't mind waiting."

"Never," Dorian says, after a moment of considering whether he should feign offence at Leas' doubt. "Nothing will truly keep us apart, remember? If you can employ your own sappy phrases, then so can I." That, at least, earns him a laugh, and he considers his efforts to have been at least somewhat successful when Leas removes his hand from his hair and grasps the chain that hangs around his neck.

"But not without couching it in barbs, jokes, and sarcasm," he says, and there's a hint of teasing in his voice.

"Of course not! I've a reputation to live up to. Or down to, depending on your interpretation of it."

More laughter, and when Leas looks up, and there's a sparkle in his eyes for the first time in all these days, Dorian exhales in relief. "And that is paramount! Silly me for expecting an 'I love you'." If there's a sliver of bitterness in those words, the lightness seems to drown them out, though that could just be him pretending that's the case so he doesn't have to deal with his perpetual inability to say those words. His heart clenches, and the silence that follows is both comfortable and awkward at the same time, somehow. Only then does it occur to him he has rather expertly steered the conversation away from Leas' feelings—perhaps that is why the man tossed out such a barb.

Before he can say anything, however, Leas lifts his head up onto his shoulder and catches his gaze. "What about you? This past fortnight hasn't been the best of your life, either. How are you feeling? With your father, and everything?"

Bless the man for remembering him amid his own pain, but that's not a question he's sure he can answer. He sighs and looks away. "Honestly, amatus, I don't know," he admits. "I haven't been thinking about it, not with everything that's been going on here. It still doesn't seem real. Every time I imagine going home, I still picture seeing him there, waiting in the atrium, or working in his study." He shakes his head. "I think it'll only sink in when I'm home."

Leas wraps his arm around his chest. "I understand. When my grandfather died last year, it didn't seem real until I visited the clan. Well, remember that I'm here for you. As clichéd as it sounds, if you need to talk about it…"

Despite himself, Dorian manages a vague smile. "Thank you, but you've got enough to worry about."

"So do you. You just lost your father, but you're helping me. I just lost my arm and the Inquisition, but I can still help you. Can't I?"

His smile widens. "I suppose so." Then he turns and stares up at the ceiling. After a long, mostly comfortable pause, he lets out another sigh. "I guess… I'm grateful that he sent me back south. But I'm also angry that he thought he had the right to put himself in the way like that—especially after what he did years ago." His voice shakes a little, and his hand clenches into a fist. "I'm glad that he changed, that he meant what he said. But I'm angry that he did as well. Beyond that, I don't know what I should be feeling. If he hadn't tried to change me, it would be a simple matter. I idolised him once, you know? Except now I feel I shouldn't be mourning him. Except he changed. And he protected me. Even to the death. Bastard," he finishes, muttering the last word.

After a moment, he glances at Leas and adds, "This is why I prefer to avoid dealing with feelings. Too complicated."

Leas bites his lip, clearly trying not to laugh. Once he's swallowed it, he moves his hand up to stroke Dorian's hair. "I understand. I wish I had something to say that wasn't a platitude, but I don't. All I can say is I think you're allowed to grieve for him and feel everything you're currently feeling. But you should remember the good he did as much as the bad."

"That's what's troubling me," Dorian admits. "If he hadn't changed, I could have washed my hands of him easily. But he did—this proves it. I can't forgive him, but I also can't forget this. I keep wondering what might have happened, what else he might have done to prove he'd changed. I won't get the chance to find out now. It's like…" He pauses, struggling with the words.

"Like something's ended that shouldn't have? Like you'll never get any closure?" Leas says gently.

"Pretty much, yes," he admits. For a moment, his face twists, and he lifts his hand to wipe his eyes. "Fasta vass, why did you make me talk to him all those years ago? Washing my hands of him would have been so much simpler."

Leas grasps his chin and makes him look at him. "But if he had died, regardless? Then you'd be left with a whole other set of complicated feelings, and even less closure than you have now, I imagine."

"That's true, I suppose," Dorian concedes with another sigh. Behind his temples, a headache is gathering, building, and he rubs at the skin to fight it off. "Please, let's not discuss this anymore. This past fortnight's made a good enough attempt at sucking out my soul as it is."

Leas snorts. "I'd like to see anything try to suck out your soul."

"If you had died, that might have happened," Dorian reminds him. "But then you wouldn't have been around to see anything, would you?"

This time, Leas laughs, and he lifts himself up to press their lips together. "Glad to know you haven't lost your sense of humour, at the least," he says. "And here I thought I would miss it after you were gone. I suppose I'll miss it anyway, but with the crystal… less so. And don't worry, I still remember how to use it."

"We've practised enough with it," Dorian says. "I didn't think you had forgotten."

Leas sits up and winks at him. He still looks ghastly pale and more than a little stressed, but at least some of his old humour and cheerfulness have returned to his face. Dorian considers that a victory. "Never," he murmurs. "But if you'll excuse me cutting this short… I think it's time we went to sleep. You'll need your rest, and I don't think we'll be doing a lot of sleeping tomorrow."

Now it's Dorian's turn to laugh. "Very subtle, amatus," he says, though he also has no illusions about their activities tomorrow night. "But how much do you think you can handle in your current state?"

Leas shrugs as he pulls himself under the covers, Dorian following shortly after. "When I'm ill and armless? I guess we'll see. I would like to do something special, but I guess we shouldn't push ourselves. The last thing I want is to throw up during sex."

"Yes, the very thought is appalling," Dorian agrees, shuddering. He strokes Leas' cheek and jaw, watching as a soft smile comes onto his face and lights up his eyes again. "But don't worry. I think I know what to do to make you scream in pleasure, one last time. For now, anyway."

Leas grins at him. "I'm holding you to that," he says, and he kisses him again before burying his face in his chest.

Dorian holds him afterwards, stroking his back and his hair and his arms and laying kisses on said hair. Sleep is long in claiming him, however, and it is fitful and chaotic, filled with dreams of his father and of the past week, of suggestions from figures he is next to certain are demons that Leas' illness is not entirely natural. He ignores them as best he can, but every time he wakes up in the night, the louder the thought grows.

Just the idea of a demon. Just paranoia. Nothing more, he tells himself the third time he wakes up, when the sky is still dark and moonless.

But when Leas wakes up a few minutes later to rush off to the lavatory and throw up yet again, he can't help but wonder if it really is just paranoia, and that thought comes from no demon at all.

Indeed, their last night together, they don't sleep at all, though they spend almost the whole night in bed. Instead, they alternate between making love as frequently as they can stand, talking, and eating, with the occasional dash to the lavatory so that Leas can vomit, which happens far more often than Dorian likes. Throughout the night, Leas is feverish and sluggish, and more than once, Dorian asks him if he's sure he wouldn't like to go to sleep, regardless of what's happening later. As stubborn as ever, Leas refuses him every time, and a few spells and potions seem to keep him going until the break of dawn, though that is not enough to settle the chill building in Dorian's gut.

At last—too soon—the morning arrives, and they disentangle themselves from each other to clean up, dress, and start their day. Today, Leas manages to get into his tunic without help. He still needs aid with his trousers, but they both agree that this is progress, and though he's as pale and ill today as he has been almost every other day, Leas' smile shines as bright as it ever does.

The journey will be a long one, so Dorian had judged it best to go early. As he and Leas walk through the streets of Halamshiral, just starting to wake up in the cold light of the third-last day of the year, he yawns, wondering for half a moment if he's made the right choice. Then he sighs, readjusts his grip on the bags slung over his shoulder, and tries to shove the thought out of his mind. Right decision or not—and that applies to many things grander than his time of departure—it's set in stone now. He might as well see it through to the end.

The walk takes a little longer than it should because of Leas' need to stop frequently and rest, another side-effect of his illness, which appears to have not improved at all. That sets the worry burning in his gut, the guilt—shouldn't he stay, regardless of his new obligations, and see him through this? But he says nothing of it, and in truth, they speak very little as they make their way through the streets to the gates, where Dorian's carriage to Jader awaits.

Finally, at the gates, Leas sets down the bags he's been carrying and shakes his arm. "Here we are then," he murmurs, furrowing his brow. A tiny frown mars his features, and there is no hint of amusement or joy in his face, only the same despondency that he had shown when Dorian first told him he was leaving. "I guess this is it."

"For now, amatus, for now," Dorian reminds him, reaching out to grab his hand and give it a squeeze. Leas responds, but the action seems rote, perfunctory, and his heart clenches as he pulls the man towards him. "I'll call before the day is out, I swear it."

"I had better," Leas says, sighing, refusing to meet his gaze. "Oh, 'ma vhen'an… I hate having to be alone."

Dorian drops his own bags and puts his arms around him. "You won't be," he murmurs. "You said yourself you have Telahmisa and Taralen."

Leas shakes his head. "Yes, but they've been acting… strangely for a while. We don't actually speak that much," he says, and his heart sinks all the further. "I know I won't be totally alone, that I have the crystal and can visit you in your dreams, but… It just won't be the same." His voice trembles a little, and Dorian exhales and pulls him into his chest, resting his chin on Leas' head.

"I'll try to make arrangements for you to come to visit as soon as possible. Though I must warn you they might change on a moment's notice, given the current situation. But it's something, isn't it?"

"Something." A pause. "I know I've always been one to rely on abstract ideals and optimism. I just… right now, I could use something more solid."

"I know," Dorian murmurs. He kisses the top of Leas' head and rubs his back while Leas clings to him. "This will pass, amatus. I know so many terrible things have happened to you in such a short space, but if anyone can get through this madness, it's you. Does that help?"

He can feel Leas smiling, though it is only small. "A little. Jurosan min'vir. Hic iter perpetiar."

For half a moment, Dorian wants to scold Leas for using the indicative rather than the imperative, before he remembers that the imperative mood doesn't use the first person. "That's right," he says. "Just remember that 'perpetitor'—the word I used—is in the imperative, not the indicative. I'm sure you understand what that means."

"Ah. A command."

"Precisely."

Leas chuckles, and the sound is at least somewhat genuine. "Point taken. I'll… do my best, Dorian. I promise. But you had better do much the same."

"Me? Do anything less than my best?" Dorian pulls back and stares down at him with mock offence. "Perish the thought!"

That gets him another laugh, louder and stronger, and when Leas looks up at him, some of the sparkle is back in his eyes, the way it should be. "True. I trust you, ara lath. And I know if anyone can save Tevinter from itself, it's you. Just… please be careful. The last thing I want is for you to go silent on me and for me to have to wander to Tevinter in the Fade and find out you've been assassinated."

"Believe me, I will do everything in my power to make sure that doesn't happen," Dorian says, stroking Leas' cheek and holding his gaze. "I'll check in with you every day. Or once a week, whichever you prefer."

"Once a day to start off with. But don't you start worrying if you don't hear from me every day, either. I'll be very busy once I've made a recovery… if I ever do."

"You will, darling," Dorian tells him, even as he looks at Leas' pallid, sunken-in cheeks and lank hair and feels another spike of ice in his veins. "By the time you come to visit, I'm sure you'll be as hale and hearty as ever. And then, one day…" He sighs and trails off, knowing how vague and empty the words must sound.

But Leas clings onto him. "One day. That's your promise of a future, I hope."

"Indeed, it is."

Leas stands up on his toes and kisses him. "I'll take it. 'Ma vhen'an… wherever you are, that is my home, remember," he says. "The idea of a future… I suppose I can cling onto that, no matter how abstract it is."

Dorian smiles and rubs their foreheads together, cheeks warming. "Good. And remember what I said. Nothing will truly keep us apart. We'll always find each other…"

"… Even in our dreams," Leas finishes. "Yes, I know." With that, Dorian realises just how disgustingly sentimental this entire situation is, and he shakes his head.

"Maker, the things you have me saying, amatus," he murmurs. "A few years ago, I would have choked on them."

Leas laughs again, eyes sparkling just a bit brighter, cheeks flushing pinker. "It's a nice change. You wear it well," he murmurs. "It's not 'I love you', but it's sweet."

"That can be said in any number of ways," he says. "Do you need those words alone?" As far as he can see it, his every action this past fortnight has said 'I love you'. 'Amatus' alone says 'I love you'. 'You are the man I love'—there, he'd even said it almost word-for-word when he'd presented him with the sending crystal. What difference will those three little words make?

Leas exhales. "I… guess not. But I would like to hear them one day. It would… mean a lot, coming from you. But don't worry about it, Dorian, truly," he adds, perhaps seeing the frown creasing Dorian's face. "'Nothing will truly keep us apart.' 'Var'lath juros min'vir.' That's enough for the time being." So saying, he pulls Dorian in for another kiss, and, knowing that this must be the last, Dorian returns it with all the force and passion and even desperation he can muster.

I love you. He hopes the kiss can say it as well as any of his other actions, his other words. I love you. Te amo. Lathan… Lathan ma?

When they break away, Leas takes a few steps back, as if recognising that the time has come. His smile is tearful. "I think you had better go, or I'll never let you go. Shit, this is almost impossible."

"Tell me about it," he mutters, looking away to hide the gathering wetness in his own eyes and the fact that, for better or for worse, he's relieved. Whatever they may be walking into next, whatever Solas may be planning, whatever awaits him back in Tevinter, it is at least good to know that this hellish fortnight is, at last, coming to an end. He could do with a rest, and the long journey up to Minrathous sounds like the perfect chance for one. Probably the last chance, given what he's been told about the situation in Tevinter. With a sigh, he picks up the bags he was carrying, and Leas takes the others. They head over to the carriage and hand them to the driver, who loads them on in silence. When he has done, he returns to his seat, and Dorian turns to Leas one last time.

One last time—one last time to watch him and remember him, memorise how he looks, to inhale his scent and feel his skin and his hair under his fingers. Fingers trembling, Dorian strokes his cheek and plays with a strand of Leas' hair, remembering, memorising, but he goes no further. He'll never be able to go if he does. Leas does the same for a moment, running a hand up his face and through his hair before stepping away.

"Well, then," he says. "Dar'eth shiral, as my people say. Sule tael tasalal—until we meet again."

"Vitae benefaria," Dorian responds. "Let's be off for our seemingly impossible tasks. And don't worry," he adds, smiling, "you'll hear from me tonight."

"I had better," Leas says, and just like that, there's nothing more to say, at least for the time being. Sighing again, Dorian turns and steps into the carriage and closes the door, and seconds later, the driver spurs his horses into moving. As the carriage sets off, he looks out the window, watches Leas hug himself with his remaining arm, watches him stand and stare until he's out of sight. Then he groans and rests his head against the window.

Fasta vass, but even the night, when he'll contact Leas over the crystal, seems a very long way away.