Chapter 8. Epilogue, in which the Inquisitor is not impressed, and the benefits of a good title are discussed

It was only his luck, Dorian mused, that the most dramatic story to have ever been written about him just had to happen during the worst hair day possible. He really should have made sure that when people from that crater described him in their tales, they should know to add the moustache.

The masons were already at work in the courtyard. Chargers were helping out, Dalish especially useful in making the heavy stone float around. (Magic? What magic? I'll smack ya in the face and then you'll see magic.) Solas was very likely going to have a heart attack once he saw the destruction of his dreamy castle in the sky. Once he was anywhere to be seen, that is; he'd been suspiciously absent since their arrival. Dorian checked the tower several times, and he was never there.

Then again, he had graver things to worry about than one hermit's antisocial habits.

Josephine had not given him the expected scolding, instead just announcing in a tired voice that she would update him as the crises were being managed. Dorian presumed it was out of pity; if seeing him get halfway-to-disembowelled was only fractionally as traumatising as it'd felt, it was a decent enough hypothesis. He was grateful for the small mercies; between the revelations of slave ownership, blood magic, and a shouting match with a powerful ally, the telling-off he had escaped would have been of truly epic proportions. He did not envy the ambassador her job. Not one bit.

Not that he was getting out of it entirely unscathed. Lavellan had refused to talk to him. Come upstairs when you're ready, he'd just said, and Dorian's heart had sank.

Dorian hated Talks. Oh, he could talk all day; his gift of the gab was of truly extraordinary quality, and he fancied himself a splendid conversationalist any day of the week. But the Talks were another thing entirely.

He sighed, something heavy dropping into his stomach, and knocked at Lavellan's door. It gave way without clicking.

Fenriel was sitting on the balcony, cross-legged and still, breathing in the mountain winds. Dorian knew he did this to calm down. He quietly closed the door behind him and wordlessly dropped on the floor next to his lover, calm and quiet enveloping him for the first time since he'd sat down with a book. On the day the party had left for Stormcoast.

He nudged Lavellan's slouching shoulders. "Bad form."

"Best I can do right now," sounded a clipped retort, and Dorian fell silent.

For a long moment, they both sat apart, facing the steep slopes of the mountains and breathing in the cool, crisp air of the northern wind. He didn't dare look at Fenriel's face, instead focusing on his long, slender hands resting on his knees. Once, when they'd met, their fingernails had always been dirty and bitten, cut short for comfort and little else with regard to grooming. Over time, Dorian had taught him the leisure of proper nail care, painstakingly filling each one into an even almond shape and removing the obstructing cuticles to reveal their proper slender length. Those were a pair of beautiful hands; they were as much Dorian's as they were Fenriel's.

It was a comforting thought, even as his heart was beating uncomfortably fast. Ah, at least it's beating at all.

Finally, Fenriel sighed and turned to face him. "Humour me, vhenan. Imagine yourself in my shoes for a moment. You leave your home in a fairly stable shape, with your lover insistent that he would rather stay behind and catch up on reading, rather than sleep on hard wet surfaces for days on end." That much was true. "You indulge him. You have a week of travel, closing rifts and ploughing through demons, and then you head home, confident that your lover would welcome you back happy and well-rested."

Well.

"Instead, he is not happy at all! He is clean-shaven and half-bald-"

"Now that's low, amatus."

"-and he speaks in a strange foreign accent," continued Fenriel without blinking. "Then, out of a sudden, someone tries to kill him before your eyes, and not only does he not fight back, he steps into death himself! And as you step in to avenge him, he intervenes again, claiming himself to be deserving of that assault. He makes himself into a guilty man. He is given a sentence."

All pretence of casualness was now gone from Fenriel's voice. "He admits to blood magic in front of a crowd. He admits to owning slaves. Later, you find out that he's insulted one powerful mage that does not take insults well. Does he have a death wish, you wonder? Does he just hate himself this much?"

"Amatus."

"I am not done. Does he simply refuse to be helped, even faced with overwhelming odds? Does he not realise that all decisions he makes, ever since you bonded, are not his alone, but for the both of you? Does he realise the consequences should he die?"

Dorian felt a dull ache in his chest. "If you're looking for a sorry, just say so. I'm afraid I've exhausted my limit of impromptu apologies for the time being."

"No." Fenriel shook his head helplessly. "I'm trying to make you understand. And doing a lousy job at it, evidently."

"I… do understand, amatus."

"Do you?" Fenriel turned to look him straight in the eye. "Do you understand how it was to watch you inches from death, knowing that any word I said could kill you? Knowing that you thought you deserved it? Hear you apologise to your killer?!"

To his terror, Dorian noticed tears in Fenriel's eyes. He reached out, and the elf fell into his embrace gracelessly, the impetus of his jump knocking them both over. The red curls filled his vision, a warm shivering body clinging to him for dear life. "Why do you hate yourself this much?!"

"Amatus," whispered Dorian helplessly, unsure what else he could say. Some things in his past… it was a relief to have the judgement.

He took a moment to consider how to phrase the difficult, heavy thing he was going to say, suddenly understanding Fenriel's initial silence. They clung to each other on the hard stone floor of the balcony, the wind swishing above them.

"You need to accept this," Dorian said quietly, once his head was clearer. "I have done some terrible things in my life, amatus, you know that. And I regret them." Do you just see a thing? "But it's not enough to just say that I was a different person then. Because the point I'm in… the privilege of being here, being powerful and knowledgeable, being… with you… I have got here because of the misery of others." Elves. Slaves. The poor. Little Wolf, the greatest prize of all. "And all my life, I refused to see it. I see now."

Fenriel stilled in his arms. "And so, Fenris…"

"It's the least I could have offered, set against a lifetime of persecution. Maybe it meant something, or maybe it did not. It's for him to decide."

Fenriel propped himself up on his elbow, staring into Dorian's eyes. "Is this about the argument we had?"

"Part of it. But not all."

"Do you hate yourself?"

A frank, open question, but Fenriel did not ask other kinds. Dorian's first instinct was to scoff and dismiss it; but he let the words hit him, wash over him, resound deep in his miraculously intact chest, before giving them the weight of consideration their deserved.

Fenriel's face was clouded with worry.

"No," Dorian said finally. "I don't. I hate some things I've done and some things I've lacked, and I hate them very, very much. But I have the potential to do better. And I don't deserve to die."

"It's funny," said Fenriel in a small voice, still staring at him. "Part of me still wants to strangle you. Hate you for letting yourself get so close to death completely willingly. But another part… may actually be proud."

Dorian reached out to kiss him. The elf allowed him, closing his eyes under Dorian's lips.

They were still for a long moment, letting the tensions lower, breathing them out into the mountain winds, dispersing under the open sky.

"You know what that means, though," Fenriel said after a while, his voice going slightly lower, into more purring registers.

Dorian arched an eyebrow. "Oh? Do share your thoughts, o Lord Inquisitor." His hand cupped Fenriel's narrow cheek and skimmed up to stroke the sensitive ear. If the heavy part was over with, Dorian hadn't seen him for a while…

"I'm not taking my chances with you anymore, vhenan. Whenever I leave now, no matter how hard and wet the ground… I do not leave you behind."

Dorian groaned. On the other hand, he thought, he probably deserved it.

-/-

His chest was probably fine, but Dorian decided not to take any chances. After all, it would be terribly inconvenient if a heroic death of the eaten-by-a-dragon kind would be interrupted by something as trivial as internal bleeding. His battle medicine could only go so far, so the only logical choice from that point on was Solas; it had taken Dorian ages to actually catch the moment in which the elf had slipped back into the rotunda.

"A powerful magical signature," Solas said, his hand coated in a warm green glow that seemed eerily familiar to Lavellan's rift magic. It lied flat against the left side of his chest, checking and testing. "The lyrium warrior must be a force to be reckoned with."

"I am very impressed, as long as he hasn't left any of that force in my flesh."

"Still, one could be forgiven to be curious…" Solas' eyes glimmered with a green tint. "How was he persuaded to spare you? The intent here had been very much to kill, I presume."

"Dear Solas, you must be the only person in the entire Skyhold not to know. I would almost love to keep it that way, the precious state this is. How did you miss the explosion anyway? You had ridden off just moments before."

Solas' expression crinkled in subtle distaste. "I, ah… dislike large impromptu gatherings. Surely you understand, Master Pavus, how overwhelming they can quickly become."

"Some more than the others, evidently." Well, here's the evidence for the antisocial hermit.

"Why did you survive, then?" asked Solas again, his tone docile, but Dorian could sense that for once the elf was well and truly curious. He would not usually bother repeating anything.

"Oh, you see: upon seeing me, the elf was so struck with my dashing good looks that he vowed to capture my heart in any way possible. Only after he had been persuaded that it is no longer in my chest but rather, in fact, already in the Inquisitor's possession, did he finally agree to withdraw."

Solas raised a single eyebrow.

"Or rather this is what would have happened in the perfect world."

The hermit had quite an impressive deadpan, Dorian would give him that. "In our lousy world, however, where the gods of fortune still remain too stingy to afford me as a scriptwriter, I apologised to Fenris. That, coupled with some emotional support from the Champion of Kirkwall, seems to have done the trick."

"The Champion. How interesting," said Solas in a contemplative voice. "And she would have her lover forgive a slaver?"

Don't do it for him. Do it for yourself. "I am explicitly unforgiven, but she did manage to convince him not to gut me. I'll take the small smiles of fortune wherever I can."

"And did the Champion of Kirkwall happen to use any magic at all during the encounter?" asked Solas again, uncharacteristically unfocused on the healing, and it was now Dorian's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"My, my, Solas. You seem fixated on our lady Hawke. I'm not sure where all those questions come from, but I'm certain it's a very interesting place indeed."

Solas gave him a patient smile. "During my journeys to the Free Marches, I watched the duel with the Arishok in the Fade. What I saw impressed me deeply. I am curious if I have missed a more real display, that is all."

"I have terrible news for you, then," allowed Dorian, only slightly disappointed. It would have been nice to see Solas actually care about something or someone for once. His monastic discipline was grating Dorian's sensibilities. "There was plenty of frilly spells going around, including a rather deadly version of our humble caged lightning. That's the one that busted a hole in the courtyard, if you haven't noticed. I've never seen magic like that."

"Ah. A shame, then. I would have enjoyed seeing it," said Solas, his voice impeccably casual. The green glow faded from his hands as he stepped away from Dorian. "You are perfectly fine, Master Pavus. The lyrium left no marks save a signature. If anything, it'll make you more energised. Thank you for answering my questions, too, I am now decided on what to dream tonight."

"My thanks, Solas." Dorian gave a little bow, and to his surprise, the elf gave a perfectly appropriate bow back. Probably seen it in Tevinter, through the Fade again. "Watch out, though, so that your dreamy haze does not become your only life!"

The elf chuckled softly. "That's very kind of you to worry, Master Dorian, but this is now very unlikely."

As Dorian climbed the spiral staircase, he considered the potential hidden meaning in the elf's words; but, insignificant as it could have been, it eluded him. It's probably nothing, he concluded.

They were sitting in the Herald's. It was good to do that again without the looming threat of disembowelment. Maryden had retreated upstairs, claiming she was writing (kaffas, I do wonder what about), and so Varric, Bull, Dorian, and Cole were sitting at the central table she'd vacated, each nursing their own pint. Dorian was pretty sure that Cole's was filled with milk.

There was a pile of papers in front of both Varric and Dorian, the dwarf doodling carelessly on the scrolls. Dorian was pretty sure they were important.

"So, Tale of the Champion, Hard in Hightown, Swords and Shields…" Dorian said pointedly. Varric grinned at him.

"Could've sworn you're angling for something here, Sparkler."

"Cut it, dwarf. I have suffered enough of your writing to know exactly where the inspiration comes from. I know there will be a story out of this whole dreadful affair, and I want in."

"I want in, he says."

"Fifty percent of the royalties, and I will give you my inner monologue to write down."

The dwarf's eyes glimmered. "Twenty."

"Oh, don't be insulting. Twenty will not cover the beer bought during writing, never mind the trauma of actually having to drink it. Forty-five. "

"Monetise the meaning, milk the mischief, but he really only wants the title," announced Cole, and Dorian leered at him disapprovingly. Varric snorted.

"Thanks, kid. Thirty, and you get to choose the title."

Dorian tsked. "I'm fairly certain there are laws against this."

Bull laughed, his booming voice making several patrons on the other side of the Herald's jump up on their seats. "Ha! And there are laws against being a little bitch, and yet here you are."

"Better a little bitch than a massive tool, my mother used to say," retorted Dorian easily. "Listen to this, my dwarven wordsmith: Dorian Pavus, the Extraordinary Antivan. Doesn't this just roll off the tongue?"

The dwarf looked sceptical. "Dunno, Sparkler. It's bit longer than my usual style."

"And the tale has no Antiva," added Cole very seriously. Bull laughed at that again.

"Kid's right, you know. For all that yapping you did around about being Antivan, you didn't do shit of proper undercover work. Shame I haven't been around, instead of the ambassador. Would've taught you all sorts of Ben'Hassrath tricks."

Dorian shuddered at the thought. "Thank the heavens you haven't been around, then."

"Aw, Vintey. You're hurting my feelings."

"How do you know the elf anyway?" Varric asked, crossing something out on the parchments. It looked something like Change of Heart Down South. Dorian rolled his eyes; the dwarf would be hard-pressed to find a worse title.

Bull hummed thoughtfully, a slightest smirk on his lips. "Ever told you I was stationed in Seheron? Couple years before the Inquisition, we were close to catching the main stronghold of the Fog Warriors. Siege of Seheron, they call it.

Varric's eyes widened. "Wait, Tiny, you were in the Siege of Seheron?"

"Yep. Got a lightning to the head that day. Never connected the dots 'til now."

"Wait," protested Dorian, waving his hand. "Little context here? Nor all of us are well-versed in Qunari battle history, you see."

"Hawke and Fenris were in Seheron before coming back here," said Varric. "Fought off a shitton of Qunari. Fenris became something of a demigod for the locals, too, if I got that right. Long story short, Sparkler, seems like you're not the only one who's had bad blood with the elf."

"Nah." Bull waved his enormous hand, nearly hitting Cole. Without looking, the spirit leaned out to avoid the smack. "That was Arvaraad business. I have no beef with the elf here, long as he keeps his shiny handsies out of my friends."

"Hey, if Mr. Tevinter here can escape unscathed, I think we have nothing to worry about." Varric scratched out another botched title. Dorian leaned in to read it.

"Skyhold: Tevinter Showdown? Are you quite serious?"

Bull cocked his head. "Sounds good to me."

"Because you, my friend, are a bloodthirsty beast." Bull looked positively flattered. "That will just not do. You need more finesse in it. It's a dramatic, poignant story of self-realisation."

"Sparkler, half of it is just running around pissing people off."

"That's to keep the masses entertained!"

"Well, doesn't that go just great with your newfound proletarian spirit."

"Dorian Pavus, the Extraordinary Antivan," enounced Dorian perfectly. "Or the deal is off and you can go ask Solas for his inner monologue on the matter. I know from a first-hand source that the poor soul has managed to miss all the fun."

Varric looked unconvinced. "That won't look good with my standard lettering."

"Oh, I can take care of that too. I have an impeccable sense of aestethetics."

"Like you took care of your Antivan hair?" snickered Bull. Dorian cast him a thunderous glance.

"It's. Growing. Back."

"He thinks it's a fitting title," said Cole, casting a secret smile at Varric. "He's just annoyed he didn't come up with it himself."

Varric put up his hands. "Seriously, kid?"

Dorian grinned, setting the parchment down in front of him. It was gearing up to be a splendid collaboration. "Dorian Pavus, the Extraordinary Antivan. Let's see. Dorian Pavus prided himself on being a bookworm first and an ass-kicker second…"

-/-

Before they left to Adamant, Dorian had just one more thing to do.

Hawke was turning the heavy box in her hands. "I, uh. He won't take that, Dorian."

"He doesn't have to. I just needed to offer. It would be his decision before mine."

It took a while to put together this much money; Dorian was not earning that much as a mage of the Inquisition, and he'd vehemently refused to use any of his family wealth. And the price of manumission wasn't exactly affordable; if it were, the point of the system would be lost. But finally, the gold in the box was enough to set every slave in his house at least legally free.

"If there is any better way to invest this…"

Hawke shook his head. "That's super nice of you, Dorian, but I don't think Fenris wants anything to do with you or your money. The whole point is that people can't be bought."

Dorian threw up his hands. "I know that! Obviously!" He drew in a long breath, calming himself down. Hawke might have had a point. "I'm trying to atone, here. You can tell me if it's bad. But Maker dammit, I'm trying."

Hawke flashed a toothy smile. "I know. It's kinda endearing to watch."

Dorian rolled his eyes. "Alright. I'll take the money back, then. Put it in the trust that will go into immediate effect on all, ugh, assets I own, and then on all family property as soon as it is passed down to me. If there will be anything at all, the way our relationship is these days. Would that be acceptable?"

Hawke eyed him up and down, those unreal blue eyes shining in a way that sent shivers down Dorian's spine. A Champion of Kirkwall, huh. "You're actually a decent man, Dorian Pavus."

Dorian feigned offence. "Do not say that out loud again. My reputation will be utterly ruined."

But it did feel extraordinarily good to hear it.

fin.

Epilogue, in the voice of Fenris:

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

(Maya Angelou, Still I Rise, 29-43)