Redeemers

by RikkiTikkiCathy

Dorian and Fitzwilliam had come to Tevinter to effect change, to redeem his homeland. They'd expected double-dealings, the drudgery of politics, and bloodshed. It was the rest of it that was giving them trouble. The world was changing. Could they change with it? Or would it tear them apart in the process? Part 3 of the Makers series

9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Ataashi might have been out of breath when he clambered through their bedchamber window, and out of time to see to the cut on his hand, and maybe a little drunk. But none of those things could chase his smile away.

He moved to the side of the bed to stand before the tall looking glass there. Slowly, one at a time, the pieces of his assassin blacks fell away. First the gloves, revealing his marked hand and then, with a hiss, the one which had been cut. It really was very shallow, more annoying than anything. The vest came next - the one which had, until recently, harbored important papers. He smirked, thinking on the snarky elf he had reluctantly left behind. Feladara could probably make better use of the information anyway.

He continued, bit by bit, thinking back fondly on their night. Feeling proud of what they had accomplished and grateful he had a chance to show Feladara a bit of kindness he'd clearly not seen in a long while. His lips quirked ever-upward. The night had felt so genuine, so honest. He felt so much like himself.

Finally naked he turned to the mirror. This was always the last part, looking at his face and removing the assassin from it. But this time he found no glimpse of the hardness in his eyes, no dangerous bite in the white of his teeth. The mask had fallen away hours ago. He'd just been Fitzwilliam. A delighted laugh bubbled up inside him and he let it free even as he turned to look down at the bed.

His eyes fell to the elaborate costume laid out for him and the laughter died, strangled in his throat by the reality of the outfit represented. The rest of this night would be spent on Dorian's arm, a vapid, brainless arm-sweet. Something pretty to flaunt and distract with. A tool. He sighed, his mood darkened as put on the clothing.

White trousers, well-fitted, satin. Shirt, brilliant white and silver and cream, the breast spattered with glistening clear stones and shimmering pearls. A long white jacket with tails that swept behind him like a train. Sandals, to give the illusion of wearing shoes.

He stood before the mirror, clad in an outfit which was worth enough to feed a village for a year, his face expressionless as he lifted the last piece - a beautiful feathered mask. It was white, like the rest of his costume with a beak and little jewels decorating about the eyes. He secured the tie at the base of his skull, the bird resting atop his head. In the mirror it looked like a down wig. He reached up, lowering it. In the looking glass his smile glittered to life, his eyes lost their intelligence, the mask settled.

And then, the feathered one followed.

They'd made quite the entrance. Of course they had. How could they not with Dorian making certain every element of their costumes drew the eye as effortlessly as if they'd arrived to the Ball sans all clothing instead. Fitzwilliam had known, the moment he'd spied his own costume spread out over the bed waiting for his return, that Dorian's costume would put the elegant beauty of Fitzwilliam's outfit to shame. Oh, the sharp spike of lust he'd felt as Dorian first turned to greet him with a wide, pleased smile and looking nothing short of magnificent in an outfit so similar to his own, save for the brilliant colours. How the heat coiled low in his gut at that way the deep purple trousers clung to every long line of Dorian's legs, how the cut of his coat - in an emerald hue that should look garish against the purple and yet looked everything but - emphasised the broadness of his shoulders and the trimness of his waist. How the tails, much like his own, trailed behind him only they glittered with sapphire and gold and that same deep purple lending Dorian an elegance Fitzwilliam could only hope to achieve. And from beneath the feathered mask, sapphire blue threaded with gold, Dorian's eyes burned with an answering heat as he swept them over Fitzwilliam from his feathered head to his sandal-covered feet.

A Peacock - Fitzwilliam had laughed then, delighted at how pleased Dorian seemed with himself at his design coming to fruition. Delight he found suddenly quicksilver in his grasp, slip-sliding away as he realised what his own costumed represented. A white Peacock. Something supposedly rare and beautiful yet all Fitzwilliam saw was a thing devoid of colour. Glittering and shining and unique when stood all on it's own but when compared to the stunning riot of emerald, sapphire, violets and golds Dorian wore, Fitzwilliam faded to the background. Just as he was supposed to. Compliment but never outshine, direct attention to Dorian but always downplay his own importance, his own brilliance. What all at once reminded Fitzwilliam of Dorian's societal genius, left him with a bone deep ache as the ties of this mask he'd agreed to force upon himself tightened just that little bit more. A noose of his own making, strangling him. With every party, every pretty but empty smile Fitzwilliam tripped over weights willingly tied around his ankles even as Dorian began to take flight. When Dorian started to soar, would Fitzwilliam remain a withering tree rooted to the ground? Not now, not with the memory of flight still singing in his veins - the rooftops of Tevinter spread out before him and the snap of a red braid like a beacon to the freedom they offered. Fitzwilliam refused to allow this place to clip his wings.

Fitzwilliam watched his lover work the room, something glorious in the way he navigated the tangled hedge maze of polite compliments and thinly veiled threats, words dripping with poison delivered with a smile and a kiss to the cheeks. Even the thread of irritation thrumming across the bond sung with a measure of delight if plucked just so and Fitzwilliam knew, despite the dull drudgery of endless parties and meetings and senate forums, something in Dorian had come to life here in Tevinter. His cause...what was supposed to be their cause filling him with a sense of purpose and determination, with a drive that Fitzwilliam struggled to maintain, given the many masks, the many roles he had to play. Tonight, clad in finery so carefully chosen by the man he loved to further a plan Fitzwilliam had insisted he be a part, all he managed to summon was a bitter resentfulness that tasted like bile at the back of his throat.

He needed a distraction, his thoughts leading him down a dangerous path and making it all the more difficult to plaster that inane smile across his face. A glass of wine to hide the irritated slant of his frown then, Fitzwilliam pressing it to the delicate crystal and disguising the downward tug of his mouth as a unimpressed comment on the quality of the wine. He held it there until he could summon the smile back to his carefully bored features, taking another sip before lowering the glass. Rolling the finely crafted stem between thumb and forefinger, he watched his mage from across the room.

Dorian moved to speak to yet another man with a face Fitzwilliam ought to remember but found, tonight, he just didn't care enough to. A pulse of determination, a thread of concern and a sparkle of mischief - all tangled together with the warmth of Dorian's affection brushing against Fitzwilliam as the bond broadcasted his lover's current state of mind. This man who's name escaped Fitzwilliam was someone Dorian wanted to talk to then. Gaining the man's attention was not just making nice or showing a polite face - that would account for that thread of determination. Dorian wanted to make an impression, wanted whatever he said to linger in the man's mind longer than the duration of their discussion.

The caress of Dorian's concern was clearly a response to Fitzwilliam's obvious unease and irritability - some of that twinkle of mischief as well. Fitzwilliam felt lips twitch for the want of his first genuine smile of the evening and sent what he hoped was gratitude minus the aggravation that dogged his heels before he'd even stepped foot in the ballroom.

His current mood robbed him of the usual delight in watching Dorian in his element, instead the quickest way to sour his mood further - trapped as he was in this endless loop of banal conversation, glasses of wine and vapid smiles without any way of enjoying himself and keeping character at the same time. Fitzwilliam turned his attention to their surroundings, the ballroom a swirling palette of colour as the costumes all danced together in shades and combinations almost impossible to imagine. Everyone in the room doing their best to outshine the others without seeming too desperate to do so. To appear effortless in their brilliance and spending coin enough to feed family upon family living in Tevinter's slums.

He'd seen some of those families tonight, seen the effects of poverty written all over the faces of those children he'd helped Feladara free earlier in the evening. As each display of wealth and excess swept past him, Fitzwilliam could hardly bite back the swell of anger nor the want to bark out in his fury to these arrogant, pompous, heartless pieces of shit who cared only about their status and maintaining their place in a city dying beneath their golden clad feet. He felt the bite of fine crystal in his too tight grasp, accompanied by another - more insistent wave of concern from Dorian - and forced himself to reign in his anger. Feladara had unleashed something in Fitzwilliam, something raw and honest and he was struggling to box it back up within the package surrounded in the pretty wrapping he needed to present to Tevinter's elite.

This was the long game, Fitzwilliam needed to remind himself. Tonight's victory against the slavers may have felt greater somehow, felt more important when faced with the endless reminder of how little those who made the decisions in this place cared about what went on outside their own little circles. But in the end, it was only a tiny ripple in a much larger pool and no matter how good it felt to do something he could see had an impact it just wasn't enough on it's own. He'd promised Dorian that he could do this, that he could step back and allow Dorian to go about reforming his homeland, to play the role Dorian needed him to play for their plan to work. Fitzwilliam had crafted most of that plan himself. He knew what was required of him. He had to pull himself together, had to smile and get on with it.

Finding no reprieve to the increasingly darker mood within contemplation of the swirl of colourful costumes, Fitzwilliam looked instead to the magic lending to the decoration of the ballroom. The ceiling glittered with a galaxy of bright stars, a full moon hanging heavily in the dark of the night sky and Fitzwilliam could almost believe it to be an open roof if not for the slight flicker as the magic thrummed with a strange kind of pulse - a clock ticking uneven staccato, a skipping heartbeat. It reminded Fitzwilliam of the eerie green that sometimes caught the light when Cole disappeared within the Fade in his version of Shadowstep. That wavering light that drew attention to the otherworldliness, to the unnatural. The illusionary magic lost it's charm when one could see the artifice in the artistry. Fitzwilliam's lips pulled up into a decidedly nasty smile. Vanessah must be positively seething inside, to see such a sorry display of the form of magic she prided herself on its mastery. Obviously, to ask someone else to perform the delicate magic when she clearly had the greater skill was an intended slight. For what, Fitzwilliam didn't know but found himself strangely curious about. And, if he was to be honest, perversed delighted. There was only so many passive aggressive comments delivered in that carefully dismissive, disinterest tone that Fitzwilliam could bare without developing a modicum of ill will. He wasn't feeling all that inclined currently to pretend, at least in his own mind, that Vanessah Pavus didn't grate on his nerves from time to time. Just another person whom he had to please - only this one he was a great deal more invested in succeeding in doing so.

He huffed, drawing the gaze of a nearby woman dressed in something opalescent and swirling about her like a thousand gossamer wings. A flicker of recognition and she moved to draw closer, a bright smile on her perfectly painted lips looking just as false at the twinkling lights overhead. The man at her side, a Magister of some minor family - important enough to have a seat in the Magisterium but not enough for Dorian to have drawn Fitzwilliam's attention to his affiliation - smiled with far more teeth. A harmless carpet snake in a pit of vipers, longing for more poison to his bite. Hoping to cosy up to the Inquisitor and leech away at his influence - if not Fitzwilliam's own then the kind that came due to his association with Dorian. Tevinter's Black Sheep and Rising Star one and the same.

"Inquisitor." The woman trilled and Fitzwilliam grit his teeth behind the somewhat shakier version of his empty but vaguely charming expression. "How fortuitous to catch you unattended this evening."

"Is it?" Fitzwilliam tried for bored and came off belligerent. Her smile wavered. "I didn't know you were looking for me, Lady….?"

"Colubris," she clearly didn't like not being instantly recognisable. "You of course would know my husband."

"Would I?" Fitzwilliam smiled blandly, inwardly cursing at his inability to affect that kind of glittering, easy charm he needed to. He honestly just sounded downright bratty. "I'm sorry, I find myself at a loss to recall you at all."

Now his smile wavered, disappearing almost entirely. Later, Fitzwilliam would wince at how easily he drifted off into his own head while the pair spoke to him - enough that it was clear they could easily sense his disinterest long before they made their excuses and let him be. Right now, however, he breathed a sigh of relief as they walked away. He could feel Dorian's probing curiosity, the flicker of amusement at Fitzwilliam's downright grouchiness still tangled together with that thread of concern. He glanced up, finding Dorian with ease as the bond thrummed steadily between them and the eye-catching beauty of his figure in that costume renewed the simmering heat of Fitzwilliam's earlier desire. The wry amusement he sent back helped ease Dorian's concern once again and he only just managed to disguise the shiver the answering lust sent shuddering down his spine. Fitzwilliam could see the barely imperceptible twitch of Dorian's lips and knew that almost smile was just for him.

Another circle of the room, to give Dorian time to finish with his current conversation and then Fitzwilliam could anchor himself with even just the slightest touch of his lover's hand and the sound of his voice. For now, Fitzwilliam felt the want for some more wine. Perhaps another glass would help do something about the downward turn of his lips.

It was honestly a shame the lovely feathered mask didn't cover his mouth. Fitzwilliam struggling with more than just that vapid smile, especially after a night where he'd had a taste of freedom once again. A sharp stab of longing for that dingy, dive of a tavern with the wicked impishness of Feladara's eyes watching him from across the table lanced through Fitzwilliam. As soon as a slave walked by, he deposited his empty glass and snagged another, taking several long swallows. The slave, a little thing who had probably been a city elf, or perhaps just too young to have received her Vallaslin when she was sold into "service" was of house Tenebris. Her outfit matched all the other slaves, but there was no mistaking the sparkling metallic black of her collar – pitch with slightly lights swirls, like smoke curling in the night. He longer to thank her, but his eyes had already lingered too long. He was supposed to be upholding his reputation as a party-monger. He replaced the now empty glass on another slave's tray whilst picking a new one. To his left he spotted Dorian eyeing him, obviously now finished with his conversation.

He flashed him a smile and a lingering look that he was sure the mask did nothing to disguise. It even drew a few whispers. He tried his best not to scowl, gripped his glass as a means of suppressing several obscene gestures, and sauntered back over to stand at his lover's side. Sadly, that also meant standing at Dorian's mother's side as well, now standing as she was beside her son.

"Your mask is crooked, Inquisitor." Vanessah's voice held little but vague disappointment and great disinterest and Fitzwilliam felt his smile slip further still. She had not even bothered to turn to look at him as she spoke but Fitzwilliam felt the loss of the small shred of her attention all the same. Felt the sting of her clear dismissal as she turned to address Dorian. Just as she knew he would. "Must you dress him in something so complicated, Dorian? He does look as if he's suffering a great deal under all those feathers."

Dorian opened his mouth to answer for him but, for once, Fitzwilliam cut in on his own. "I imagine I'm much more comfortable in my costume than you are in yours, Magistra Pavus." His lips curved into a smile and he let the subtle double meaning slip in. He'd noticed he wasn't the only one affecting airs which didn't come naturally. He lifted his glass and bowed his head slightly, punctuating his words.

Only the slight narrowing of her eyes betrayed her irritation - own mask crafted with a tenacious elegance found in all her illusionary magic. Even with the shimmering golden swirls curling about her features, disguising them in an beautiful shift of light, Fitzwilliam would be hard pressed to decipher the true nature of her feelings if he wasn't paying attention. She quirked the arch of a fine sculptured eyebrow, the flat line of her mouth lifting in an empty smile that left Fitzwilliam feeling smaller than if she'd directly reprimanded him for his words. Perhaps, any other day, he'd smile politely in return and do his best to smooth any ruffled feathers. Tonight, Fitzwilliam found himself spoiling for a fight.

He'd only managed to open his mouth on a vitriolic comment involving her magic when he felt Dorian at his elbow and a strange mixture of bemusement and mild panic blossoming through the bond - stronger now Dorian's hand rested against his arm. "I'm sorry, Mater but I've spied some people I've been eager to introduce Fitzwilliam to. Would you excuse us?"

"It might be best," Vanessah inclined her head, still that carefully crafted smile curling her lips. "If you keep the Inquisitor away from the wine for a time. He seems to have lost the ability to pace himself."

Fitzwilliam laughed and it rose and fell like a bird with a broken wing. "Thank you for your concern, Magistra Pavus but I find myself more than capable of managing my own affairs." Dorian's hand on his arm pressed with more insistence and Fitzwilliam allowed himself to be tugged away. But not without one final parting comment, Fitzwilliam raising his mostly empty glass towards Vanessah in a toast. "I forgot to mention, your costume is lovely. Dorian tells me such fine illusionary magic is difficult but you do it with such flair. Such a shame they didn't ask you to do the spellwork on the ballroom this evening."

Dorian cursed beneath his breath and finally succeeded in towing Fitzwilliam away. With the heat from Dorian's hand seeping past the glittering costume, Fitzwilliam sighed happily and went willingly. He'd missed his lover's touch even in the short handful of moments that had kept them apart so far. He smiled, despite the tangled emotions that poured from Dorian as he lead Fitzwilliam away from his mother, away from the party enough to seclude themselves in a slightly quieter corner.

"As entertaining as it is," Dorian began, head dipped to bring his lips close enough to whisper without being overheard. That ever-present thread of concern from Dorian that Fitzwilliam couldn't seem to soothe, no matter how he tried, took some sting from the words huffed against the shell of his ear. "to watch you trade thinly veiled insults with my mother, I'm certain you'd agree the middle of a masquerade is probably not the best place to do so."

Maker, but he was feeling petulant tonight. Perhaps – and he shuddered to think it – Vanessah was right. He'd slow down on the wine. If he was feeling the desire to lash out at Dorian of all people something needed to change. He could hear the worry in Dorian's voice, see the concern in his eyes, feel his anxiety and confusion, but all he wanted to do was pull away from him and go somewhere else. "I suppose," he said reluctantly, "baiting your mother might be unwise. I'll try to make nice." Why did those words feel like bitterness on his lips. He would do anything for Dorian. Wouldn't he?

He shook his head banishing the thoughts as he did so and trying on a smile. This one was genuine, unfurling as his eyes dipped to take Dorian's costume in once more. "You look incredible, by the way."

The anxiety and confusion didn't disappear but it did ease, enough that when Dorian smiled Fitzwilliam could feel the echo of his delight and amusement outshone any lingering concern. The low hum of approval and the slow burn of heat in Dorian's gaze did wonders in letting Fitzwilliam push aside his foul mood - if only for a moment. "As do you," Dorian murmured, all too pleased with himself. "Of course, I knew the moment the idea for the costumes came to me that we would. I've an eye for these things, after all.

"And I'm sure no part of you was appreciating the thought that I would come home in my … "night gear" to change into this," he laughed gesturing at himself with the wineglass. "Quite the contrast. Very clever. I imagine you are all manner of pleased with yourself." It was hard not to push closer to the mage, to bury his head in the crook of his neck and breath him in until the party faded entirely. Just the two of them now, at least. He let his fingers reach out and linger on Dorian's sleeve. Anyone looking over would see his admiring the stitching or some other banality, but he could feel Dorian's warmth. It helped clear his head.

"Perhaps the image of you shedding all that dark leather and suede and changing into something bright and shining did have some appeal," Dorian agreed, moustache twitching with his smug little smirk. Fitzwilliam wanted to kiss to that crooked quirk of lips. "Both for the lovely contrast and the thought of you shedding clothing in the first place."

"Thinking of that often, are you," Fitzwilliam asked, smirking. "I'll admit, I'm having some thoughts in that vein myself…" he trailed off, leering at Dorian and feeling heat coil low in his stomach. "Are you absolutely sure we need to attend this function all evening?" The smolder and regret in Dorian's eyes answered for him and Fitzwilliam found himself sighing heavily. "Fine," he pouted. "We'll stay at this fabulous party, and look dashing, and I will be bored but," he poked a finger into Dorian's chest and twisted, rumpling the deceptively delicate fabric. "You owe me a private dance when we're back home."

"I agree to your terms," Dorian purred, lifting Fitz's hand and pressing his lips to knuckles in a brief brush. He felt the thrill of it, though even if anyone saw it would hardly set tongues wagging any more than they already were. It had more to do with receiving Dorian's affection in a place where he was usually denied it than it did with the exhilaration of getting caught. And then, sadly, his warmth vanished and they turned back to the event.

Crystaline glass now nothing more than a prop with a few sips of red left in the bottom, Fitzwilliam began making his rounds. It was the usual milling of people who were important, and people who thought they were important, all trying to lord over one another. As much as he disliked these events he had to admit he was good at navigating them, moving about the room in a deliberate meander, searching out the best bits of gossip and plotting, dribbling his own into the mixture with a tone of practiced disinterest.

Nothing terribly interesting was happening at this event, though he did note Dorian had finally made his way to the youngest Vestinus. They were talking avidly, though quietly and a bit out of the way. Fitzwilliam was loathe to admit it, but he was moving a bit less gracefully than usual. The combination of the fight, the tavern, and the wine might have been too much after all. He mustered his considerable will power and sidled up near them, not actually joining their conversation, just hovering on the edges of it, looking bored.

"The...mishaps have decreased slightly since I heeded your warning." Always so earnest, in posture and in speech was young Vel and Fitzwilliam - despite his increasingly foul mood - found it easy to be amused at how he swayed closer to Dorian with wide eyes too open for the world of politics. At least, without the guiding hand of those far better suited for easy smiles while wanting to strangle whomever they were listening to. Fitzwilliam snorted - Vel's hero-worship was recognisable and, he thought with a decidedly lewd smirk on his face, the young Magister would welcome Dorian's 'guiding hand' with great enthusiasm. Fitzwilliam shook his head, clearing away the wicked thoughts and tried to focus more on a conversation he wasn't interested in - despite the discussion of information that might prove useful in the future.

"...without using any magic that I usually find more difficult to use." Vel was saying, voice pitched low and for Dorian's ears only. "And there have been whispers…"

"There are always whispers," Dorian chuckled, sipping from his glass, but clearly drinking nothing. "But I take it you've been hearing more about others having similar problems?" Oh, Dorian was enjoying this. And who could blame him really? The Vestinus boy had a crush on Magister Pavus. Fitzwilliam let his lips tug up at the corner. Vel nodded and Dorian continued. "I have an… acquaintance arriving in the city soon. I'll confer with her. Until then, pass the word to anyone you can trust. It didn't come from me, naturally," Dorian winked and Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes despite his amusement. "The fewer injuries that come of this issue the better."

Vel bobbed his head in assent, paused for a moment and Fitzwilliam could almost see the thoughts organising themselves in the young Magister's mind as he considered what he wanted to say. Good. At least, despite all his earnest enthusiasm and idealism he recognised the advantage in choosing what information to reveal and who to trust. Despite Dorian's clear investment in the young man and his ideas, his policies and his politics, Vel would do well to learn information wasn't to be freely given in places where many ears could hear. The small smile on his lips turned up at one corner, crooked and - Fitzwilliam was honest with himself, just a touch besotted - as he thought of what the elf would have to say about his thoughts. Some sly comment about how freely Fitzwilliam himself gave away information no doubt.

Fitzwilliam blinked, once again dragging his attention back to the conversation and away from the clouded, meandering nature of his own thoughts. Maker but it was getting harder to focus on anything.

"...heard him speaking to an associate. The problems are far reaching - not just limited to the city." Vel was saying. "He'd not long return from Vyrantium and the same occurred there. Whispers of...the same kind we are hearing here."

A sound of frustration muttered into a goblet. "Well, I suppose it was too much to ask, after all. Well done, Vel." Dorian smiled at the boy, something tinged with pride. "I'll be over for dinner again soon, yes?"

Their conversation over, Fitzwilliam closed the gap and slide up to Dorian. "Magister Pavus," he purred, smiling warmly at Vel and affecting that lilting, half-drunk voice he often used at these events. "Are you leading this fine young man on?" He leaned forward, closer to Vel. "I have it on good authority the Magister is taken," his voice came out in a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't be taken in by his many, many charms."

Vel's smile was bashful and his flushed cheeks endearing and it took a great deal of willpower not to point both out for comment, though Fitzwilliam's eyes were all too knowing if the young man's slight cough was anything to go by. "Good evening, Inquisitor Trevelyan." Vestinus offered politely, bobbing his head in a short bow and, surprisingly, meeting Fitzwilliam's gaze steadily - despite his clear embarrassment. "I won't take up anymore of Magister Pavus' time if you require him."

His smile shifted from its teasing to something more affectionate. "I'm afraid I do, Vel of house Vestinus," he bowed his head slightly. "But I do hope you ask him to dinner again, he had such fun." And then, just because it was fun and he wanted to, we winked at the boy and watched his cheeks flush red.

"Yes, well." Vel was clearly flustered but there was something considering in his gaze as he regarded Fitzwilliam and for all his scattered thoughts, he couldn't think what it was that could have inspired that look on the young man's face.

"We will arrange dinner soon, Vel." Dorian said, smooth voice belied by his hurried movements as he hooked his arm through Fitzwilliam's and did nothing short of tow him away from his new ally. "I think the Inquisitor could do with some air."

Fitzwilliam blinked, allowing Dorian to lead him away with a great measure of confusion as to why they were in such a hurry. "Eager to take me away from prying eyes, Serah?" he purred, pressing closer enough to feel the heat of their bodies as one continuous line from shoulder to hip.

"Keeping you from revealing yourself." Dorian's voice pitched low with frustration and concern. "Vel knows your voice and there was something in the manner he was studying you that looked far too much like recognition for my liking. How much have you had to drink to not to notice that?"

"He knows the assassin's voice," Fitzwilliam sighed, rolling his eyes again. "And I haven't had that much to drink that I'd miss being made." He tore his arm out of Dorian's grasp. "I don't need you to manage me, Dorian." He sighed, aggitated and feeling the warmth of the drink despite how little he had consumed. "I"m going to mingle. You… do whatever it is you do."

He drained the last gulp of wine from his glass as he walked away. Things were going a bit fuzzy, after all. What he wouldn't give for a cool glass of water. The hum of conversation turned into a low buzz as he continued his walk, not really focusing on anything as it all began to blur together. He dared a hazy glance at his lover, who looked after his departure with confused eyes, the muddled bond flooded with too many emotions to pick out. Fitzwilliam shrugged, a careless gesture that had concern and hurt drown out the rest for the barest moment, before he turned a made for the closest window so he could look out into the night. He wanted to cast his eyes on something other than this blighted party.

Dorian watched Fitzwilliam's retreat with a mixture of emotions, eyes drawn to the less than graceful stagger as he wound his way through the crowd towards the large, open windows running the entire length of one side of the ballroom. No matter what his lover said, there was something concerning in how he swayed about in a manner Dorian could tell was not an act, not part of the disguise he wore along with his costume. Fitzwilliam was drunk. If not for his lack of grace, the tell was in his shifting behaviour - from clear irritation and belligerence to an unrestrained sensuality that lent far more intent and heat behind his flirting than Fitzwilliam usually displayed where eyes could see. He was losing control in a place where sharks circled, waiting for a single drop of blood to begin their feeding frenzy and Fitzwilliam's actions were about to provide the food. What in Andraste's name had driven his lover to drink enough to throw caution to the wind like this? Dorian didn't want to think that Fitzwilliam was lying about how much he'd consumed that evening but what else could he do? Words did not mirror actions and left Dorian completely adrift as to what to make of Fitzwilliam's entire behaviour so far - what to do about it.

The bond was a fuzzy jumble of half formed intentions and emotion - that alone was enough to have Dorian heading towards the slave's entrance to the ballroom in search of some water. He'd disguise it in a wine flute if he needed to but Fitzwilliam need to partake of something non-alcoholic before he did something that neither of them could deal with.

He ducked inside the low door, ready to make a hasty journey down the stairs to the lower kitchens and fetch the drink himself, when he heard whispering. It wasn't uncommon for the slaves to talk with one another, especially at big events like this where several of the great houses would bring their slaves together to attend the party, but this went beyond the usual "how is so and so" and "any good gossip" - there was something conspiratorial about the hush of their voices. So, Dorian halted in his steps and waited, listening as they spoke.

"Three Magisters from three different houses have mentioned issues with their magic." A tiny thing with long dark hair said, Dorian barely able to hear her whispered words. "Another two families are making plans to visit the lower marketplace for more 'assistants' for their households."

The boy, head bent close to keep his words as quiet as possible scoffed - a defiance in the sharp, slant of his mouth very rarely seen in household slaves allowed anywhere near an event such as this. Dorian had seen them beaten for expressions even a fraction of what the young elvhen lad displayed. "Assistants." he practically snarled. "Call them what he says we should. Sacrifices."

Dorian's eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. This...what was this?

"House Gratian has purchased three new slaves in the last fortnight. Not long after the whispers began. I've managed to speak to Ahven who has passed word to Aora. She will take the information we gather here tonight to Lethanavir when she next speaks to him."

"And I will meet with him at the week's end with the shipping manifest I stole from Cadius' desk."

"You don't call them Master or Mistress anymore." A small smile. "Lethanavir would be proud."

Sacrifices? Stealing shipping manifests? Passing information?

All at once Dorian was back in time. The Winter Palace and the assassination attempt. The intricate network of Briala's elves… her spies. And here it was again, elves risking life and limb, in the most literal sense, to pass information from the empire's most influential families to Lethanavir - whomever that was. He was torn between waiting to hear more, and fleeing before he was discovered. But, if he was honest, there was little chance Dorian Pavus was going to give up any chance to gather more knowledge.

"The others will leave what they have gathered at the drop to be collected." The young lad was saying to his fellow slave? Spy? Dorian wasn't certain he could call them simply one or the other. "Has anyone managed to get close enough to Pavus to gain anything?"

"Lethanavir said to be wary of the younger Pavus." She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder and Dorian shrunk deeper into shadows of the doorway, certain for a moment he'd been discovered. He breathed a sigh of relief when it was clear she was simply nervous. "To listen if we got close enough to but to otherwise stay away."

"I don't understand." He was shifting, agitated. "If there's anyone we should be keeping our eyes on it's Pavus and his Inquisitor. Especially since those in the household still follow with blind obedience to their Master and Mistress."

A decidedly sly smile curled on the young woman's lips and all at once Dorian felt a shiver of unease shudder down his spine. "Don't worry about the Pavus'. Lethanavir is looking after them personally."

Now he wasn't sure staying to hear more was the right choice. The knowledge he had gained was going to eat at him, keep him up at night, and drive him to find out anything he could about whomever this Lethanavir was. This unknown danger who was turning the slaves of Tevinter into a network of spies.

He could not longer remain hidden in the shadows of the doorway, too much already in his mind with his concern for Fitzwilliam to add more. Later, when all was well and they were home, Dorian could think on this Lethanavir and the new threat he posed. Straightening, he strode out of his shadows and said simply. "I require water."

To their credit, they barely jumped - and that itself was concerning - before the young woman inclined her head in response, refusing to meet Dorian's gaze just as a good slave was always trained to do. "Right away, Master Pavus." She scurried off into the kitchen, leaving the young man behind.

"Is there anything else you require?" He asked, eyes cast to the floor and so different from the spitfire of an elf Dorian had just witnessed.

"No, thank you… what is your name?" Dorian asked, trying to find some balance between imposing master and sympathetic activist.

"Lehel," the slave said softly.

"Thank you, Lehel," Dorian said, inclining his head slightly. "I merely require some water. There is a bit too much imbibing going on this evening."

The slip of a girl was back faster than he could hardly believe, with a silver goblet filled with water. He smiled at her cleverness. "And your name?" he asked.

She blinked up in shock a few times before she remembered to cast her gaze to the floor and answering, "Rill."

"Thank you, Rill," he said warmly.

"If you don't need us for anything else…"

"No, go about your work. I'll not keep you any longer." Dorian could hardly reconcile the differences between the two whispering elves from before - with determination and fire in their eyes and small frames - to the two timid, hesitant creatures before him. The dissonance made him more than a little uncomfortable and he found himself relieved when they, with two low bows and quick feet, disappeared into the kitchen and returned to their duties.

He moved back through the low doorway and into the ballroom, eyes sweeping for Fitzwilliam, praying he hadn't been gone long enough for him to get into more trouble. Blessedly, his lover was where he had left him, looking out the window into the dark of the city at night. Dorian strode over and offered him the goblet. "Here," he said softly as he exchanged the crystal for the silver. "You'll feel better."

The bond was still fuzzy, evidence of Fitzwilliam's compromised state, but he took the goblet with a spike of guilt and gratefulness. "I'm not trying to manage you," Dorian said in a low voice that had to replace the touches he longed to use. "I'm just worried." But Fitzwilliam wouldn't look at him, just stared out the window and sipped from his silver and looked sad and lost. It broke his heart.

"I'm going to get back to the party," he sighed, once more fighting the urge to run his fingers through his hair. "I'll finish the rest of my business as quickly as possible, I promise. So we can go home." He managed and encouraging little smile but all he pulled for Fitz was a nod. Aching, he went back to making the rounds. Suddenly he was very ready for this night to be over.

How many more of these people was he going to have to talk to? It seemed every time he managed to wriggle free of one, another caught him in a snare. It had now been much too long since he had left Fitzwilliam by the window. He needed to get him back to manor. He didn't care what the Inquisitor said, he knew something wasn't right… hadn't been right for a while.

And honestly, how was he supposed to focus on votes and favor buying when he had stumbled upon a ring of spies? That was just asking too much. This was boring. He wanted to start researching, gathering information, ferreting out this new threat. But, instead, he kept his expression smoothed, almost bored, and gave the very important people what they wanted.

"So," Dorain drawled, gesturing with his wine, "I suppose I could agree to back your vote in the upcoming senate meeting." The magister across from him looked pleased. And while that was all well and good he wasn't entirely thrilled about the vote. It wasn't going to hurt anyone really, it was just asinine. As if they needed more taxes on silk, really. It would, however, be good to be owed a favor by house Sisenna, however.

He was just turning away and making his excuses when he heard Fitzwilliam's voice cutting through the haze of politicking. "Don't you fucking dare," he was spitting in a low growl. Dorian crossed the few steps between them, the bond positively vibrating with rage. He put his hand on Fitz's shoulder and tried to sooth him. He didn't even so much as look toward his arrival.

"What's going on here?" he asked, attempting to infuse some mirth into the situation. "Cadius," he nodded to the magister Fitzwilliam was glaring and snorting at like an angry bull.

"This piece of filth," Fitzwilliam growled, "struck that servant for spilling a drink. On the tray." Dorian looked to the side to see an elf with a red mark on her cheek, eyes cast to the floor. It took effort to still his expression, eyes wanting to widen in recognition at the sight one of the slaves he'd eavesdropped upon earlier. "Not even on him mind you, that would be vile enough. Just on the tray. He struck her and threatened to have her sent to be an assistant."

Dorian felt sick. They knew what that meant. Everyone knew, though they pretended not to - the man had threatened to have her sent to be used for blood magic for spilling a bit of liquor.

"She's a slave," Cadius spat. "That drink was worth more than she is. And she wasted it." Fitzwilliam's hand was fisted in the magister's coat before Dorian could move to stop him.

"Inquisitor," Dorian grit though his teeth. "Don't you think now is hardly the time for this." The people around them were starting to pay attention. What was wrong with him? He watched as Fitzwilliam's eyes focused and unfocused.

"If you touch her or any servant at this party again," he mumbled, dropping his voice low and leaning in so only the very closeby could hear. "If I get any word of her going missing, any harm befalling her or any slave you can claim even a tenuous connection to, I'll find you and end you."

Dorian grabbed his wrist and tried to pull the magister free. It was not easy work. Fitzwilliam had a deathgrip on the man, a wicked flash of white teeth appearing when he saw the fear in Cadius' eyes. "Fitzwilliam, enough," Dorian demanded, pulling harder. He released the man with a bit of a shove, tuned on his heel, and stormed from the ballroom.

Behind him, Dorian could hear his mother already setting things to rights despite the fact that this wasn't her party. He'd have to thank her. Later. Right now he had to follow Fitzwilliam before he got into any more trouble. He left the room as calmly as he could manage. After all, it would not do to make any more of a scene. If needs be he could rush around the halls until he caught up with his quarry.

It didn't take much. Fitzwilliam was pacing to and fro just outside the main doors. Dorian grabbed him by the elbow and began dragging him along the hall. "We're going home," he said softly.

The walk was brisk and silent. Fitzwilliam's emotions through the bond flitted between livid and ashamed as they made their way back to the manor. Once the door had swung closed behind them and they were safely within their sitting room Dorian made to confront his lover, spinning only to find what appeared to be a very drunk Inquisitor slowly, and awkwardly, pulling off every piece of his costume. To his credit, he did seem to be trying to remove it without damaging anything, however his moments were less than graceful - Void, they were less than coordinated. His fingers kept slipping dumbly until, finally, he turned to look at Dorian with those blue eyes, all softness and confusion and longing.

"Help?" he whimpered, before he accidentally breathed in a mouthful of feathers and began sputtering on them.

"Oh Amatus," Dorian sighed, the pitiful sight before him doing a great deal to cool his ire with Fitzwilliam's abysmal behaviour that evening. It did nothing to ease the concern. Three large strides and he was at his lover's side and beginning the process of untangling cloth and feather from where they'd seemingly trapped Fitzwilliam inside. "You're in a state, aren't you?"

"You're in a state," Fitzwilliam drawled, attempting something that might have been a leer had it not been ruined by a series of short sneezes caused by the down tickling his nose. Dorian sighed and continued his efforts, managing to liberate his lover from the mask and his jacket before Fitzwilliam started pawing at him in earnest.

"Stand still." Capturing Fitzwilliam's hands was a far easier task than it should have been - all of those lightning quick reflexes turned fumbling and awkward under the effects of however many glasses of wine Fitzwilliam managed to throw back before Dorian had to drag him home. As soon as he'd released wandering hands, however, they were pawing at Dorian once more and doing their best to remove the twin to Fitzwilliam's own mask. With just as much success as he'd had with his own, all those drink-dumb fingers managed was to get in the way, Dorian huffing as he tried to divest Fitzwilliam of his clothes and fend off greedy, groping but ultimately graceless hands. "Do you want to be free of your clothing or not?" Dorian finally snapped, some of his frustration leaking past the concern in his tone.

Fitzwilliam wilted under the harshness of his tone, hands dropping to his sides limply. Dorian supposed he should have felt poorly about it, and he did a bit, but mostly he was glad to be able to accomplish the goal of removing the majority of the offending articles. When he had set them aside, and pulled off his own mask, Dorian tucked a finger under Fitzwilliam's chin, lifting it until those sad eyes met his own. "Now," he sighed softly, pressing a light kiss to the corner of Fitz's mouth. "Exactly how much did you have to drink? How much of a hangover should I expect tomorrow."

Earnest, open eyes looked up at him innocently." I promise," he slurred, "I only had a couple of glasses."

Fitzwilliam was keeping many secrets at the moment, apparently for Dorian's benefit, but he'd never outright lied to his face about anything when asked a direct question. Even with all evidence to the contrary, Dorian still couldn't shake that indomitable faith that his lover was telling him the truth. That he would continue to tell him the truth - as much as he could while keeping to his 'no assassin talk' rule - when Dorian asked it of him. "This does not seem like only a couple of glasses, Amatus." He hesitated, knowing he could ask but might not get a sufficient answer. Most probably wouldn't. And yet, Dorian found himself unable to ignore the prickling at the back of his mind that events before the ball might have lead to Fitzwilliam's current state. "And before the Ball?" He rested a palm against Fitzwilliam's cheek, thumb stroking over the two flushed pink of his cheeks, and examining those wide eyes. The pupils were round black disks ringed with blue, focus hazy. His breath caught at the sight - a simulacrum of lust that felt...off...to someone who knew what true desire looked like in his Fitzwilliam's gaze. He needed more information. "A stop at the tavern perhaps? Have you eaten anything since you left today?"

Those hands returned to their efforts, fumbling with bright fasteners. "I did stop at the tavern, but it was only for a little while. I don't… remember… when I ate." His voice became even more unfocused, his thoughts seeming to meander about Dorian's obstacles, determined to get him out of his clothing. "I'm sorry," he purred, leaning forward to press sloppy kisses to the exposed curve of Dorian's neck. "I didn't mean to embarrass you." Dorian grabbed the hands and tugged them away only after they'd managed to get the top of his jacket open. Fitzwilliam winced, his marked hand flinching in Dorian's grip. The lips, however, were a little more difficult to dissuade.

Dorian put his hands on his lover's shoulders and shuddered for the sacrifice he was about to make. "You know," he said slowly, "I think there's a bit of fruit and cheese left over from my meal today. Stay here."

A whimper trailed after him as he retrieved the tray. A moment later he was placing it beside Fitzwilliam who, as Dorian suspected, dug into it with gusto. This fingertips were soon stained by the cherries and berries, little splatters of juice dotting the sparkling white costume like blood. Ah well, it was only cloth, and now Fitzwilliam was suitably distracted - he set about examining him. No matter what the Inquisitor said, he knew something was wrong.

He cast his eyes over Fitzwilliam's body, what he could see at least with the barrier of cloth between his eyes and skin. Other than the flushed cheeks, the dilated pupils and the ravenous hunger - all which could be explained away by too much drink and too little food - Fitzwilliam wasn't showing any outward signs of harm that Dorian could see with eyes alone. His examination progressed to gentle but firm touches, not enough - Dorian hoped - to pull Fitzwilliam's attention away from the food. He kept the sweep of his hands to a professional touch, distance required to search for anything to explain his lover's current state even though his body still hummed with the want to touch Fitzwilliam. Happily eating away, Fitzwilliam still leant - almost kittenish - into Dorian's hands and the flicker off those wide eyes held more than a little heat as they tried to capture Dorian's gaze. As soon as his hands were free again, they'd be reaching for Dorian and he'd be dodging them once more to try and get to the bottom of what was going on. Another distraction then.

"Tell me about your evening, Amatus." He injected as much levity and mild curiosity in his voice as he could manage. "About your handsome elf."

"We freed a bunch of slaves," Fitzwilliam said excitedly through a mouth full of food. "Children! They were very cute. We should have some. Children, not slaves."

A dark brow quirked at that. "Ah yes, the return of your fascination with our physically impossible love children," he drawled. "It sounds like an exciting night. Was there much fighting?" It seemed wiser to steer back toward the pertinent information, even if that comment had a lot of potential for teasing. He'd pocket it for later.

Mouth busy with chewing, Fitz nodded vigorously until he could swallow. "There were blood mages, and warriors, and rogues, and secret reinforcements. F-the elf," Fitzwilliam stammered, "was very fast, but he got caught when I had to run from a blonde rogue - his daggers were sharp. But I got back in time to help the elf!"

Dorian latched onto that last piece of information, hands still against Fitzwilliam's shoulder. "His daggers were sharp?" Voice even, tone mild - Dorian couldn't afford for Fitzwilliam to run off on another tangent or lose the thread of the conversation entirely in favour of trying to rid Dorian of his clothes once again. This, he thought furiously, is why all this secrecy is dangerous. "How sharp were they?"

Finally, slowing down, eating food at a regular speed and with a bit more manners, Fitzwilliam shrugged. "Dull daggers hurt a lot more. He must have taken good care of them." Dorian searched for wounds again but only found the splatter of fruit juice.

"Fitz," Dorian said slowly. "Did you drink an elfroot potion?"

Ruffled cinnamon hair fluttered as he shook his head. "Nope, you said not to unless the alternative is dying. It was just a scratch."

A low sound of sheer frustration slipped past Dorian's lips, his concern fuelled anger getting the better of him. "And just how did you know how sharp his daggers were, Fitzwilliam? You seem remarkably unscathed for someone who's had intimate understanding of another man's daggers."

Fitzwilliam held up a single white-gloved hand and turned the palm to face Dorian. He popped one last berry into his mouth and then sighed contentedly. "It was just my palm," he said, listing to the side a little. "I bandaged it. It was hardly bleeding."

Gaze narrowing on the now revealed palm, Dorian realised the growing stain on once pristine, white gloves belonged to more than berry juice. Snatching up Fitzwilliam's hand, fingers looped about his wrist in a firm grip to keep it still, Dorian wasted no time in pulling the white cloth of the glove free. Any other time the wince and the whimper spilling past Fitzwilliam's lips would draw him up short, gentle his hands and inspire soothing words cooed against his lover's skin. Now there was only urgency and anger, Dorian unsure which fueled his movement more as he flung the bloodstained glove aside and unwound the bandage.

What he saw had the breath rushing from his lungs just as surely as if Fitzwilliam had fisted that hand and punched him with it. The cut was small and only sluggishly bleeding. Alone, the injury would seem innocuous enough to an untrained eye and Fitzwilliam's dismissal of it wasn't entirely foolhardy. At the time, Dorian reasoned, it wouldn't have looked like this and for a lover unconcerned with telling Dorian about every little nick or scratch - believing himself invincible when wearing his assassin garb and disappearing into the night - hardly worth consideration. But now...Dorian's heartbeat thundered painfully inside his chest, the echo off it rattling in his skull. That tiny wound was yellowed with rapid infection, the edge blackened with immediate onset necrosis. Poison.

"You should have told me about this." Dorian grit out through clenched teeth, panic swelling as he took in the sight of the rapidly darkening flesh about the small wound. This was beyond him - he couldn't fix this. "You should have told me, Fitzwilliam."

His lover listed to the side again, only this time he didn't catch himself. He stumbled, falling back on the couch. "Doe," he managed in a pained whimper. "I don't feel well." Shit. Everything in him wanted to stay and care for Fitzwilliam, and he might have, had the bond not suddenly gone fuzzy. This close, with Fitz awake, it should have been clear as a bell, and echo to his own, but was… muffled. The way it would get when one of them fell asleep.

Dorian ducked his head, dropping a kiss on Fitzwilliam's brow, only to find it heated. Fever. "Shit." He straightened torn between action and inaction. He wanted to save the man he loved but if he was going to do that he had to put his pride aside. This was beyond him. "I love you," he said gruffly. "Don't you fucking die, Fitzwilliam."

He turned on his heel and ran. It was time to get his mother.

Her smile felt brittle by the time the last of those close enough to hear Fitzwilliam's minor tirade had been fed the correct lines, seen the required smile and listened to the patently false laugh of amused affection. Oh to find a moment alone where smiles could fade and she could reassemble the illusion into something that felt less reminiscent of the incompetent display decorating the ballroom that evening. Vanessah inclined her head as yet another sycophantic idiot made a thinly veiled comment about The Inquisitor. Obviously he was working far too hard to truly enjoy all the evening had to offer and oh they hoped he slept well enough to feel refreshed in the morning. She wanted to strangle the next person who spoke to her but the smile never wavered, the smooth cadence of her tone never faltered. Fifteen more minutes and she would locate Halward in whatever corner he'd scurried off to and make their exits. There were words she needed to have with their son about his bedmate and what a mess his kind of behaviour had left in it's wake.

It was fortuitous that she'd moved to the edges of the room, pretending to seek out her husband whenever anyone inquired, but truly just tired of milling about in the thick, because she spotted something out of the corner of her eye. A familiar figure, so known to her that she didn't even need to look at his face, approached her from the side. She had to admit, she was not best-pleased with her son.

When he was a step away she turned to greet him, a cool smile already on her lips, a cutting remark on her tongue, ready to reprimand him for the extra work she had had to do, when she saw his face. He looked terrified. Frightened, and lost and desperate. She didn't wait for him to come to a stop. She grabbed him by the elbow of his jacket and marched them from the room. Halward was on his own.

Once they were cleared of the room, doors closed and Dorian trembling under her touch, she urged them onward as swiftly as they could go. "Whatever has happened," she promised, "whatever went wrong, we will fix it, Dorian." She gave his arm a little squeeze and left no room for argument. "Spare whatever breath you have left to tell me what happened."

The journey was made brief by virtue of them practically running back to the manor. Dorian had been deliberately vague. Oh there was an obsessive amount of detail about the wound, the poison, how long it had been in the Inquisitor's system, anything that might be pertinent to treatment. But he dodged her every attempt at discovering how the simpering troublemaker had managed such a wound.

Heavy doors banged open as they flew through them and into the sitting room. She could see Trevelyan collapsed on the couch and moved toward him. He wasn't unconscious, not strictly, but his eyes were dilated and staring off into nothing. His breathing was labored, and his muscles seemed to be seizing. No tremors, yet, but everything was tight, rigid. She knelt beside him.

"Without knowing what the poison was," Vanessah lifted the wounded hand, cradling it in both of her own as she took in every detail of the wound. "We cannot assist the magic through non-magical means. I will need to leech the toxin from his body before we can use any form of poultice or potion to begin to heal what has been damaged already." She lifted her gaze, sympathy for her son if not for his lover in the curve of her gentle smile. "Gather everything you will need, Dorian, to do your work and I will do mine. We will save him."

Dorian ran off to their bedroom and Vanessah set to work. They'd have to move him to the bed soon, but not yet. If they lay him down right now it would easy the path of the poison to his heart, drastically narrowing the window they had to remove enough of it to save him. So she closed her eyes, and called on her magic.

Healing magic and illusion magic had a lot more overlap than most people thought. The first step, especially, was essentially the same - reach out with your magic and find what already exists. With illusions this meant taking stock of the lighting, what particles were in the air, if there was a breeze, and so on. With healing it was searching out what should be there, what isn't there, and what shouldn't be there. Depending on the poison with which the Inquisitor had been inflicted those things would vary wildly. She closed her eyes and opened her senses to the process.

She hissed when she saw what was happening. The toxin had all but stopped the bleeding, which was bad. Very bad. It kept the wound from being one of too much concern but bleeding would also have allowed his body an outlet for the poison, keeping it from his heart for far longer. Because the capillaries were essentially cauterized by the toxin no healing could take place there. Assisted by another attribute of the poison, the flesh had begun to decay. She couldn't heal that, it would have to be cut away. There was, at least, the hum of energy around the wound that indicated the body was trying to heal it. Useless, just now, but vital for later.

Stock taken, Vanessah set about stalking down the toxin, following through his body to its farthest reaches. It took a long time to get to the end, it was so dispersed already, that when she arrived it was much nearer to his heart than made her comfortable. There was no time to do this delicately. She took a deep breath, wrapped her magic about the poison, and with steel will and considerable strength, she started wresting it for control.

Perspiration dripped down her brow by the time she had leeched enough of the toxin to stop its spread. There would be more to do, more to take from the Inquisitor's body before she would be sure he would survive, but for now she could take a rest. She blinked her eyes open, the back of her hand sweeping sweat and hair from her face, and looked up to find her son looking down on them, face twisted with half a dozen kinds of worry. She managed a watery smile.

"Doiran," she said only to find her voice rough with exertion. "Take the inquisitor to bed. Strip him and begin cleaning his hand." Hope lept into his eyes and it hurt her. "There's still poison, but no immediate danger." She struggled to stand and Dorian was at her side in a shot, a hand on her elbow and the small of her back, helping her up. "I think I'll steal a bit of clothing, my dragon," she smiled, patting his cheek. "This costume is… burdensome."

She waited for her son's nod before dismissing herself to his bedchamber. She didn't care, really, what she wore, as she stripped out of the costume, as long as it weighed less than this. Heavy as it was she didn't dare drape it over the privacy screen so she left it puddled on the floor, listening as Dorian carried Trevelyan in and settled him on the bed. She pulled a pair of trousers and a shirt from the wardrobe, sliding them on without care before moving to the bed.

As good a healer as any non-mage, her son had cleaned the wound thoroughly. The Inquisitor, now shirtless and tucked into the bed, had a hand free of puss. "I'll have to cut away the rot," Dorian said. HIs voice was tight and her heart ached for him. It only bolstered the anger she had for his lover. "Best do it when you're done, though," he continued. "Even if you have nothing left to heal the wound. I'll do my best and then the medicines will have to complete the work."

Lips lifted in an approving smile, Vanessah patted her son on the shoulder. "Wise," she said. "Now, bring me a chair and I'll see about the rest. And extra blankets on him. Let's see if we can't get the fever to break."

Time passed in a blur of doing. She couldn't spare focus to catalog the goings on around her. She remembered only the task and breaks from the task - and the broken whimper that pierced the air when her son had to cut into his bedfellow's hand. Still, she had enough to rid him of the poison, and mostly heal the new wound. It meant he'd be healing for weeks instead of months and without losing and of the muscle mass of his palm. It had been a close thing and if she'd had the energy left she would be writhing with the heat of her anger.

As it was she was exhausted, ready to seek out her own bed and sleep for days. But she couldn't, not yet. Not until the Inquisitor woke and she had words with him. That much, at least, she had strength enough for. So she sat, and sipped the tea her son had brought her, and waited for the blighted Inquisitor to rouse.

Awareness came with the feel of a cool, slightly damp touch to his forehead and the soft sounds of breathing. Fitzwilliam sighed softly, that touch soothing and wonderful against skin that felt too flushed, too clammy to be at all comfortable. Prying his eyes open took effort, the lids heavy and stubborn in their refusal to acquiesce to Fitzwilliam desire for some sense of where he was. What had happened? The last he remembered was the room spinning, his stomach rolling and the plush cushions of the couch against sweat damp skin. Now there was that gentle touch and, he realised as he shifted slightly, the tangle of sheets around the lower half of his body.

"Wha…?" He managed, throat thick and hoarse. He coughed and suddenly there was the rim of a glass pressed to his lips.

"Just a sip." Dorian. Fitzwilliam resisted the urge to gulp greedily and did as instructed. The water was chilled and blessed relief against the scratch of his dry throat. He whimpered out his protest when the glass was pulled away, Dorian offering a soothing sound in apology as that cool touch returned to his forehead. A damp cloth, Fitzwilliam realised, after a moment.

"What happened?" The words finally made their way past lips, his question going unanswered as the cloth was removed from his forehead. "Doe?"

"I'll change this water." Dorian's voice was strangled, clipped tones bit out and more so than before Fitzwilliam did his best to pry his eyes open to determined the source of his lover's distress.

"Do stop shifting about." Vanessah's calm voice reprimanded and Fitzwilliam stilled immediately but did not stop the struggle to open his eyes. "Dorian will return when he is ready. For the moment, lay still."

Fitzwilliam sought out Dorian through the bond, wincing when he met a tangled ball of emotion he couldn't - especially with his mind still hazed with sleep and lingering pain - begin to decipher. And then, with sudden clarity, Fitzwilliam remembered. He recalled waking earlier, when the fever first broken and he managed to fight off the last remaining vestiges of poison to drag himself into awareness. Remembered the panic in Dorian's beautiful eyes replaced for one moment with a look of sheer relief before something shuttered in his gaze and he'd stepped aside at his mother's request.

Reaching out, Fitzwilliam sent his apology along the the thread of the bond in one ache of longing and regret. Like a door slamming in his face, Dorian shoved Fitzwilliam's presence away and the sudden force of Dorian's dismissal pulled a whimper from his lips.

"Are you in pain?"

"Some." He needed to open his eyes, needed to emerge from this fog and stay awake long enough this time to put things to right. With a final concerted effort, Fitzwilliam pried open his eyes and tried to bring the room into focus. Their bedroom, their bed and Vanessah sitting at his side and reaching for his hand. "Not much?" Fitzwilliam wasn't certain what pain there was supposed to be. "I...don't remember how much there was before."

"Do you remember what happened? You've been poisoned." Vanessah didn't wait for his answer. "You fainted and Dorian came to fetch me since you'd been disinclined to tell him you'd been injured and the poison had progressed further than he was equipped to deal with alone. Do you remember this?"

"Yes." Fitzwilliam mumbled miserably. The second time waking was no easier than the first.

There was nothing motherly in the way Vanessah cradled his hand in her own, in the soft touch as she examined the now healing cut on his palm. Not now, not for him. It was a healer taking final stock of her patient before retiring for the night, making certain the magic had done it's job - professional pride and nothing more. Fitzwilliam stared down at the top of her dark head, those disheveled, silver streaks wisping at her temples the only signs remaining of the efforts she'd undertaken earlier. He'd not even seen her leave to freshen up, too distracted with staying awake. Too lost to watching Dorian's empty stare disguise the tumultuous tumble of emotion coursing through the bond - so strong Fitzwilliam's head ached with more than the lingering pain from the poison. A harsh dissonance had vibrated over that strung tight thread. Dorian's distance had not gone unnoticed, Fitzwilliam eyes pleading for forgiveness, his heart screaming it through the bond and receiving too many emotions all once to decipher as Dorian stayed on the other side of the bedroom. Fitzwilliam had not long stayed conscious after that, falling into darkness with the image of Dorian's blank gaze imprinted on his mind.

As Vanessah busied herself with her final inspections, Fitzwilliam latched onto Dorian's presence once more in desperation - a man stumbling about in the dark denied light to guide his way. Dorian didn't push him away this time and his presence grew nearer. Fitzwilliam knew, without any hesitation, that maelstrom of feeling would soon give birth to words Dorian had been keeping inside for too long now. And Fitzwilliam promised himself he would listen. This time he would.

"The wound is healing." Vanessah broke the silence in measured, even tones. Placing his hand against the sheets, she moved away to gather the array of bandages and jars Dorian had left behind in his haste to vacate the room. "The threat from the poison is over. You'll be confined to bed for a time to regain strength."

"Thank you, Magistra Pavus." Humbled by her actions to save him, Fitzwilliam could not chase the meekness from his voice.

Silence was his only response. Once again judged and found sorely lacking, Fitzwilliam received no further attention from the Pavus matriarch. Vanessah didn't look towards the bed again as she glided across the room towards the bedroom door. Shame blossomed hot across his cheeks, knowing this time he had earned her eternal disappointment. Fitzwilliam dropped his gaze to the bed, worrying at invisible threads while he lost himself in the chaos of his own thoughts. So lost, he startled when Vanessah's voice once again broke the silence.

"Dorian would not tell me how you came to have such a wound on your person." Fitzwilliam raised his gaze only enough to be pinned in place by the cold ice of Vanessah's stare. "Even when the knowledge could assist in saving your life he would not tell. I do not know if it was because he too lacked the knowledge or if you've sworn him so desperately to secrecy he would lose himself to terror rather than betray your confidence."

"I…"

"You keep a great many secrets, Inquisitor." Her voice allowed for no interruption, the restrained fury contained in the sharp line of her mouth cutting Fitzwilliam's words off so thoroughly he felt the sound die in his throat. "I will offer this warning only once. If those secrets do any further harm to my son, his love for you will no longer protect you."

She did not wait for a response, dismissing Fitzwilliam with a single glance and the sight of her turned back as she strode out the door. He dropped his head into his hands, misery written in even line of his hunched shoulders as Vanessah words echoed in his head over and over.

"Mater left, I see."

Fitzwilliam's head snapped up, hands falling to his lap as he gazed up at the sight of his lover. Dorian looked a picture of exhaustion. Hair a disheveled mess, clothing a crumpled, wrinkled mockery of the once pristine costume and with the heavy, dark bruising about his eyes that came from lack of sleep. Heart an ache he couldn't rub from his chest, Fitzwilliam reached up to try and banish it all the same. Dorian's eyes tracked the motion but he lingered by the doorway no matter how Fitzwilliam begged with his eyes for him to draw closer.

"Doe, I…"

A single hand halted his words, just as effectively as Vanessah's cold voice. Dorian's raised palm asked for silence and Fitzwilliam helpless to deny him - not after tonight - gave it.

"Not yet, Fitzwilliam." Dorian sounded just as exhausted as he looked, the smooth honey of his voice a raspy gravel that only added to Fitzwilliam's rising guilt. "I need to be angry with you and if you speak to me right now it'll flee in seconds through sheer relief to hear your voice."

Lips closed with something that was almost relief. Nothing he said would make up for this. So, instead, he sat silently and felt the roil of emotions as Dorian attempted to sort them enough to decide where the tirade would begin. Given how long this task was taking, it seemed there were a great many things he wanted to say.

In all honesty, Fitzwilliam didn't remember much of what had transpired. He recalled arriving at the room, eating some food, talking with Dorian. Then he felt sick and Dorian left. He didn't recall him coming back, with his mother in tow, invading their quarters. Didn't remember being moved to the bed, even. After Dorian's abrupt departure the next thing he could recall was an exhausted looking Vanessah giving way for Dorian to set about slathering his palm with poultice. He wasn't sure what had happened, but he could guess - something had gone wrong on the mission tonight. The blade, that superficial cut… there was poison. And because he had gone out after, arriving back at the manor late enough that he had to ready alone, no one knew there was so much as a chance of danger.

Dorian had almost watched him die. He deserved whatever was about to come out of his lover's, tightly drawn lips.

"Tonight," The silence broke with a soft voice and still Fitzwilliam flinched like it had shattered with a shout. Dorian still hadn't moved from where he haunted the doorway. "You almost died. Would have died had it not been for Mater. I had to watch you dying, literally powerless to stop you, because of a seemingly insignificant cut on your hand you failed to pay due attention to."

"I-" his voice was so soft. Not weak… ashamed. "I didn't know." It was a poor answer, not nearly enough, and he knew Dorian wouldn't let him get away with it. Still, he didn't know what else he could offer. Apologies were not going to suffice. Nothing would.

"Didn't know or didn't care?" Still Dorian refused to draw closer and Fitzwilliam felt the small distance stretch into miles. The stranglehold of control over his voice might as well mark Dorian a stranger, if not for the bond bridging that seemingly insurmountable space between them. "Too high on racing about with your elf to pay attention, to think. Too used to keeping me in the dark to consider any injury worth mentioning."

Fitzwilliam's brow furrowed. "This isn't Fel's fault," he said before he could think, acting defensively when his brain was too slow to plot a head. "He didn't know I was injured." It was the wrong thing to say and as soon as the words were out he was ducking his head, biting his lip to keep any other folly from sliding free.

"Didn't he?" Would Fitzwilliam flinch with every soft word from Dorian's lips? "I'm sorry, you'll have to forgive me as I speak following assumptions as I have no idea what transpired tonight. Other than poison induced ramblings as you started to fade in front of my very eyes." Arms folded against his chest, Dorian would look the looming aggressor if Fitzwilliam didn't know just how defensive that posture truly was. Holding himself together, protecting himself from further hurt. Protect himself from Fitzwilliam. "A supposed partner not bothering to check for wounds? Do you keep him in the dark as well? A need to know basis? I'd say that was wise considering the elf probably orchestrated the attack and you were too blinded by lust and too used to being in control of every facet of information to consider it."

"Okay," Fitzwilliam huffed, eyes shooting up to meet Dorian's glare. "That's enough. I'm not an idiot. You said to be wary, I am wary. Of course I didn't tell him I was hurt. Didn't tell him where I had to run off to either. So maybe stop blaming the convenient target and put your ire where it should be - this was my fault. Take it up with me."

"I know it's your fault." Dorian snapped, finally some of the rage Fitzwilliam could feel leaking into his voice. "It's your fault for trusting the elf. It's your fault for believing yourself invincible. It's your fault for thinking yourself above everyone when it comes to your endless planning and grand schemes. It's your fault, Fitzwilliam, for forgetting we're a partnership in favour of chasing after another one."

"Dorian…" his voice broke around the name. Maker, was that what Dorian thought? "I-I didn't know that's how you felt." He looked down and to the side, feeling, for the first time that thread, under all the pain and worry, of longing. "I have been unworthy of you, Serah." His throat felt thick with emotion, with guilt. He didn't know what else to say.

"Almost every night," Dorian turned his head, the rough gravel of his voice cracking and Maker, it broke Fitzwilliam to hear the same thread of pain in that voice just as potently as it ached along the bond. "You dress in your costume and dash off to play at being something you've hardly trained to be. You won't tell me where you go, you won't tell me what you do and you expect me to find the same delight in your grand adventures as you do." Fitzwilliam watched the subtle flex of muscles as Dorian hugged his folded arms closer to his chest, the ache in his heart only growing when Dorian faced him once again and all Fitzwilliam knew was the agonised fear in those ever-changing eyes. "A thousand grand schemes you convince me I need to trust you with just so I can do what I came here to do without having to make the heartbreaking decision to leave you behind. I've done it, Fitzwilliam, despite the fear it brings. The anger. I trusted you to be safe."

A trembling breath and Dorian shook his head. "And because you don't trust me in return tonight I almost lost you."

Wetness pricked at his eyes, shame and guilt and pain rubbing together discordantly in the bond as he struggled to find the words. If Dorian knew what he was up to, under the guise of Ataashi, people could use it against him. Plausible deniability had seemed the safest choice. But now he was forced to wonder - safe for whom?

Fitzwilliam had nearly died, the man he claimed to be shielding was hurting, had been hurting. This didn't work anymore. And pretending it did, or it would, would only drive that wedge deeper. It wasn't worth losing Dorian over.

"I did this," he said slowly, still too cowardly to meet Dorian's gaze, eyes looking just a bit off center. "To protect you. Clearly-" his voice faltered on a small wet gasp, all broken and aching. "Clearly I failed. So tell me what you need of me, Doe, and I'll give it to you. I don't want this."

"Release the stranglehold of control you have on any and all information. You can't keep believing you've the right to keep people in the dark - keep me in the dark - out of some noble but controlling need to protect." Dorian took a step forward but refused to release himself from the cage of his own arms, Fitzwilliam longing to set him free of that instinctive need to protect himself from the hurt Fitzwilliam was causing. He wanted those arms to want to wrap around him - not keep Dorian distant and so far away. "I want you to trust me to take of myself, to take care of you just as you wish to do the same for me. We," Dorian's voice shuddered and suddenly he was there at the bedside, thumb and forefinger grasping at Fitzwilliam's chin and refusing any attempt to dodge their gazes from finally meeting. "We are supposed be a partnership. I want you to stop being the Inquisitor, being the Assassin and be my Fitzwilliam again."

Tears fell and he wasn't sure when they had started. Somehow Dorian had seen down into him, found the dissatisfied soul of himself, and pulled it free. All the resentment he had for his mage for making him play this part, all the longing he had to be himself… he melted away in the face of that honesty. Dorian hadn't forced any of this on him, it was all his own making. Dorian didn't need him to be anything but himself. How Fitzwilliam had convinced himself otherwise was beyond him. His chin quivered as he wept, too exhausted from healing and emotion to control himself. Though he failed to find words he forced his head, still in Dorian's firm grasp, to nod.

And then Dorian was crawling onto the bed and wrapping him in an embrace just the wrong side of too tight for all it's desperation but Fitzwilliam could not finally a single part of him that cared. He melted into Dorian's arms and clung almost as desperately, tears hot and wet against neck and the bared skin of Dorian's shoulder. "You've almost broken yourself." Dorian whispered, voice wet with tears. "You were well on your way to doing your best to break us, Fitzwilliam. Even if I didn't lose you tonight, it would have been some day further along the path you were so determined to take us." He pressed a shuddering kiss atop Fitzwilliam's sweat-damp hair, another against his temple. "You can't keep doing this. We need to find another way."

More emphatic nodding, more breath that was too hard to draw in. That was all he was capable of for long moments. Finally, he forced himself to speak, no matter how small and broken he sounded. "I promise," he whimpered. "We'll find another way. Together. I won't keep you in the dark any more."

Dorian maneuvered them to lie down, still clutching Fitzwilliam close as he shifted them about on the bed and for that Fitzwilliam was pathetically grateful. He felt fingers begin to thread through his hair, the gentle, soothing motion drawing forth a shuddering sigh as he tried to twine himself as completely as he could within Dorian's embrace. "Promise me something, Amatus." Dorian murmured, solemn weight to the request even as he nuzzled his nose against Fitzwilliam's temple.

Fitzwilliam nodded, feeling sure he'd agree to almost anything now that he could feel Dorian's warmth again. Now that he knew he had not yet been doomed to a lifetime without it. Though, admittedly, he felt a bit of dread as he waited for the request.

"Investigate the elf." Dorian lips whispered over Fitzwilliam's hair as he spoke. "I know you lead with your heart and I trust your instincts. But…" Dorian sighed. "Something isn't right here and I cannot shake the feeling that he is a danger to you that you just can't see."

"I'll start investigating him in earnest," Fitzwilliam vowed. "I'm not the only one with good instincts. If you feel like something is wrong, it probably is." He burrowed closer, remaining purposely ignorant of the fact that they were already as close as they could be while still wearing clothing. "If you don't trust him, that's more than enough reason to find out more." And he meant that. As much as he trusted Feladara, as willing as he was to put his life in the elf's hands… well, there weren't many people he'd trust with Dorian. He'd do it for his mage if not for himself.

"Thank you." Dorian murmured and Fitzwilliam felt the overwhelming gratitude for his easy acceptance flood the bond with warmth. "I would not deny you your attractions, your flirtations, Amatus. I know you feel...drawn to him. Still, I cannot shake this feeling and I need to know you've taken steps to protect yourself as determinedly as you want to protect me."

He has my number there, Fitzwilliam thought with a small smile. He was used to putting everyone before himself. He was unused to this idea that protecting Dorian meant taking care personally. "I'll admit," he said slowly, cheeks already heating. "I've been acting a bit like a love-sick adolescent. It's time I start using my considerable intelligence. I'll find out what I can. And I'll be more open about my assignments. We work better together, anyway."

He felt the soft breath of Dorian's huff of laughter. "Moon-eyes I can handle and should my fears be shown to be unnecessary, I will listen to your awestruck voice for as long as you wish to regale me of tales of your handsome elf. But." Dorian dropped another kiss atop Fitzwilliam's hair. "we are partners first and foremost and you are right, we work better together than we do apart. Or with kind-hearted fools making all the plans, thinking they need to control everything to keep everyone safe."

"Fool indeed," Fitzwilliam admitted. He let himself melt into the heat of Dorian's body pressed to his own. "Doe," he said softly, words somewhat muffled by his steadfast refusal to pull his face out of Dorian's chest. "This was awful, and I hated it. But I feel… lighter, now. And less distant than I have in… in a long while."

"I as well, Amatus." His mage squeezed, hands smoothing over hair and skin as the bond transmitted Dorian's contentment too. It was only with the absence of it that Fitzwilliam could see how tangled up Dorian had been as of late, and he couldn't help but notice he'd been suffering from the same ailment. It had been hard to see as it happened, each little stone of responsibility weighed almost nothing, but one by one they had amounted to a smothering mass, something that kept his burdened and unable to reach Dorian the way he used to. Now? Well, now he finally felt free.

And, more importantly - he didn't feel alone.

Authors' note:

E: This...this thing was an absolute monster that fought every step of the way. Serious amounts of tea were consumed to wrangle this chapter into submission. I may have, on one occasion, thrown something.

R: Only the one occasion? I guess I win that account then. I threw at least a few pens. And once, a cat. She was fine, it was just from in front of my computer to the floor. But really, why do cats do that? Anyway, yes, much tea, and throwing, and hair pulling. Not the fun kind either. The kind that leaves it a ratty mess.

E: Do we need to put a disclaimer on this that no cats were harmed in the making of this chapter? I feel like we need to.

R: It'll be fine. Shhhh. Well, anyway, I suppose we should warn them that updates aren't going to be as… 'timely' as they once were. When I started writing the Makers series chapters came in at about three thousand words. That's shorter than the average short story. I could manage one of them a week. Toward the end of Birthrights and the beginning of Redeemers I was averaging about six thousand words.

But now, NOW, my illustrious co-writer has come along and, as usual, tossed everything up in the air in a beautiful sprawl. We're writing well over ten thousand per chapter now. In fact, this one comes in at almost fifteen thousand. So, in an effort to not be entirely stressed out and going any more crazy than we already are, we're just going to post them when they are done. Because, let's be honest, all of these chapters are going to be monsters. I guess what I am saying is… We'll make it worth your while?

E: What can I say? I like to keep you on your toes, oh co-writer of mine. We will definitely make it worth your while though, readers. I promise. There's some very interesting plot lines coming up and the bigger chapters will definitely make up for not getting them on the regular. Next chapter especially - the return of some familiar faces, the beginning of the investigation into Feladara, Skyhold *grins*

R: She's teasing you, my darlings. You have my sympathy. It's something, with which, I am all too familiar. She's a wicked, lovely, mischievous woman. But yes, we do have a few conversations planned. It's time for Fitzwilliam to talk to his spies. That means a trip back to Skyhold, and Leli, and Bull, and Sera, and even the B team (that's our friends in Adjustments ;)). I think you will find, if you enjoyed Birthrights, you will be as happy as we are to see old friends once more.

E: And while the Inquisitor is away, the elf will play. So there is definitely many, many things to look forward to!

R: That's it for us, I think. But lest I be remiss in my manners: A very happy holiday to you, no matter which you celebrate. I hope your time is filled with loved ones both blood and chosen, games, and smiles, and laughter. And, as it is unlikely there will be a new chapter before then a Happy New Year! Also… this marks a year since I posted Birthrights. Holy moley. Wow.

Anything else, my love?

E: Well what can I possibly say after such lovely holiday well wishes?

R: "What she said"?

E: *grins* That's what she said.

R: Oh lord, we have to stop now. Or this is going to get /really/ out of control. *laughs*

E: See you next chapter, dear readers! ;)