Chapter 6, In which Cole tries to help

It was reassuring to be back in the tavern. Dorian would never, ever admit it, but he had missed the raggedy, crude comforts of a Fereldan pub, with the background noise of chattering voices and clattering tankards, every once in a while silenced by Maryden's songs, the late afternoon sunlight splitting the dust in the air. The south had evidentlyruined him already.

Slavery. It's such a normal thing, you do not question it.

He winced, and was suddenly glad for the awful quality of the… liquid in his tankard. It had been another of important life lessons he'd learned early: if you're in a lousy mood, blame in on the terrible quality of your alcohol.

Father, did you hear? Felix had come in late that day. Ultistis is selling his their slaves for blood sacrifices, they're on the market today. Did we not need an archivist?

Alexius had dismissed the thought. We've got enough in the library, filius. I hardly want to fill that drunkard's pockets with more money.

But it's such a waste! They're well learned, he could get three times as much for them, he's just-

A man's addiction is his own business, he remembered his own voice chiming in. But I can think of more fun ways to spend gold than to fund Ultistis' liquor.

Such a silly episode, that. Altus Ultistis had died of white poppy overdose not three months after this, a cautionary tale that Dorian's father had not omitted to point out in a preachy voice. Until now, Dorian had never once wondered what'd happened to the slaves.

Ultistis had been far too preoccupied with his own addictions to practice any blood magic; very likely that his slaves had been just tending to his mansions and libraries, cleaning the occasional vomit from the master. Until, one day, the debts had got too deep and they'd been sold one by one and drained for blood.

How had he never thought about that before? Ah, yes. He'd been too preoccupied with his own persecutions. His father hadn't approved of the kind of sex he liked.

The beer was not helping.

Varric's rambling tale had ended a while ago, Dorian realised, and the dwarf was now just looking at him intently. He scowled, taking another sip from the tankard. "Apologies, my friend. I was just composing an ode to this beer in my mind. What rhymes with disaster?"

"Master, blaster, taster, plaster, caster, past her," recited Varric without a second thought. "Poetry is easy, Sparkler. You should try putting it in prose."

"A curious argument. Most would argue it would be the other way around."

"Most are tragicizing idiots thinking big words make them artists. Put something in plain speech, see if it still works. Then make dramatic poetry out of it, be my guest."

"I shall try, then. What do you make of the following: This beer sucks balls."

Varric laughed, his eyes crinkling sincerely. "Best poetry I've ever heard."

"Varric?" asked Dorian, unexpectedly even for himself. "When you compose your stories, does the hero ever end up being the villain?"

The dwarf's eyes fixed on him, his grin fading. "Happens. Something on your mind, Sparkler?"

"Even if not by outright villainy, but rather… an error of judgement so grand it seems to have spanned his entire life? A lack of empathy, or compassion? A profound misunderstanding about the nature of the world and people, breeding horrendous hurt not by the way of ill intent, but an accident? A hurt he might not even remember?"

"…Maker's flaming asscheeks." Varric stared at him.

Dorian slumped on the table, hiding his face in palms. "Irrelevant. I'll have another one of those atrocities. This time, you can top it up with rat poison to improve the taste."

"Gnawing, gushing guilt, greed guides governance. The comfort of memories is denied to me, for now I understand. Like Felix understood."

They both jumped. Cole stood next to the table, staring at Dorian intently. "Finding fault in freedom, a festering wound. Free, but what value does it have in a slum? When you look at me, do you just see a thing?"

Dorian flinched. "Don't. Please don't."

Cole's odd, disjointed face crinkled in confusion. "I want to help."

"You can't."

"I lacked compassion," announced Cole softly. "I failed to see their souls. That they had souls. Normal, common, but Felix knew. Felix cared. Felix could."

Varric looked between them, an expression of supreme discomfort on his face. "Hey, uh, kid. Is Red back in Skyhold already? Thought you were told not to come back until next week."

Cole smiled. "I made the raven forget."

Dorian felt the panic rising in his throat. He couldn't look Lavellan in the face. Not right now, not in this state of mind. "Take him away, Cole, please."

"You do not want to see him, but you want nothing else," said the spirit softly. "The creasing vallaslin. He made you think before Cassandra did."

"Cole, I-"

"I didn't see them. They suffered under me, and I didn't even see them. Maker help me, I am my father."

No.

No. No. No. No.

The wave of nausea rose up to his throat.

"Kid," said Varric in a hard voice. "You can stop now."

Cole's face crumpled in an utter lack of understanding. "It's so loud. The mind screams and sobs and seethes. Solitude strengthens sorrows, but he sends me away?"

"Hey, Fancypants!" Krem called from the door, and it took all the strength Dorian had ever amassed to look at him with a collected expression. "The Inquisitor's coming. Figured you might want to know."

Not now.

He stood up. "Of course he wouldn't ever ride back in without a fanfare, the showoff." His voice did not waver. He kept his head stiff and still, a Tevinter altus he was. The heir to House Pavus. An engineered perfection.

Not another word, Cole. The spirit looked at him helplessly, a pained expression on his face under the hat, but he kept his mouth shut. Dorian walked out of the tavern; only one set of footsteps followed, but he did not doubt Cole would be watching too.

The timing was perfect. It would be. The Inquisitorial hart trotted into the courtyard with a familiar proud swagger, every inch the revas it was named after. On his back, face beaming, red locks burning in the golden sunlight, rode the Herald of Andraste: chin tilted upwards to greet the colossal shape of Skyhold, the narrowness of its towers in the sharp angle of his ears. A creature of pride. Dorian would often wonder whether he had made a deal with the demon when he'd let himself be kissed.

Fenriel complained about being so far from the forests, sometimes. Oh, the magnificent fool; he did not understand. Wherever he went, the wilderness followed. He carried it proudly on his forehead, each branch of blood writing a timeless tree.

Despite the freezing numbness of his mind, Dorian's heart sang.

Behind the Inquisitor, a small grey mare carried his unassuming hahren, Solas looking as simple and meek as usual. Bull was walking from the other side, his steps easily matching those of the horses; putting him on an animal would make him slower, he'd argued, and no-one had been daring enough to contradict him. Quite rightly so, too, if the view was anything to go by. The third horse, presumably Cole's, was unsaddled and unmounted; nevertheless, it walked on in a very purposeful manner, seemingly more aware of what to do than the other animals. Knowing Cole, it probably did.

Cheers and greetings sounded around them; the Inquisitor remained suspiciously well-liked for a godsent leader, and Bull was a fixture of every barrack in Skyhold and beyond. Between the two of them and Dorian himself, they might have represented a significant percentage of Skyhold's main crushes. Lavellan's face was bright in reddening sunlight as he smiled and made small gestures of recognition at his people, but his gaze was searching; then it found Dorian, and the light of his eyes could put the brightest-burning spells to shame.

"Vhenan!"

Dorian flinched. The nausea returned even stronger, coupled with a feeling of self-hatred he recognised all too well. Worry crossed the Inquisitor's face, but before he had a chance to speak, a familiar voice rang through the air-

"Inquisitor! You're earlier than we expected you!"

The three advisors were walking out of the main entrance, descending the wide stone staircase; Josephine first, slightly fussy with her mandatory pad, then Cullen with his feathery mane floating in the rhythm of his steps, then Leliana, calm and collected behind them, a hood slipped slightly lower than normal. Lavellan waved at them, spurring the hart to walk on.

Then, behind Leliana, walked Hawke and Fenris.