So this was the infamous Herald of Andraste. He was not exactly what Dorian had been expecting. An elf, yes. That was the first thing all the rumors said. To think the Maker would send a wild Dalish elf to do his work; scandalous. Ears and strange tattoos aside, though, Dorian had still expected someone… older? Taller? More imposing? More confident to be sure. The Herald looked like a skittish animal, all wild yellow hair and black eyes and nervous fidgeting. Was this really the one who had stilled the Breach in the sky? If Dorian had not just seen him seal the rift here with his own eyes he would not have believed it. It did beg the question, though: how much political power did the Herald of Andraste actually have? Did the elf do anything but show up, look pretty, and wave his hand at rifts?

Not that he wasn't good at the whole rift thing. Fascinating ability, that. He was good at killing demons, too. Dorian had seen him with those knives, fearless and brutal, a completely different person from the uncertain man who had spoken to him after the battle.

Dorian pondered this curious dichotomy while he followed the Herald his band of misfits back to Haven. (Sweet Maker but it was cold. People actually lived here by choice?) The Herald was quiet the whole trip, spoke very little to any of his companions and kept mostly to himself. Maybe he was just uncomfortable around humans (and the dwarf), which was not terribly unusual for an elf.

Yes, that must be all it was. Just xenophobia. Completely understandable. Dorian did not think about it again until they were back at Redcliff castle days later and everything went terribly, impossibly wrong.

Wrong from one perspective at least. To think that Alexius had actually made their theory work. Astounding. They had actually traveled through time! He had to get his hands on those notes. But now was not the time to admire that. The Herald looked confused. Of course, he could not expect a non-mage to understand such complex magic. Maybe he was talking too fast.

"Is that even possible?" the elf had asked. A week ago Dorian would have laughed and called it impossible as well, but here they were.

Dorian looked to the elf and saw something that made him pause. The Herald was frightened. He was trying very hard to hide it, and doing a passable job, but there was a light in his eyes that belayed the calm expression on his face. The great Herald of Andraste, supposed savior of the world, was terrified.

"Don't worry. I'm here. I'll protect you," Dorian blurted out.

I'll protect you.

Someone else might be offended at the notion of needing protection, but Aldaron just felt… relieved. This situation was beyond his ability to comprehend or to deal with on his own. You cannot stab a magic spell and the mark on his hand only seems to do one thing: close rifts. And really, he wanted someone to look out for him for a change, instead of expecting him to solve all their problems.

Dorian might be all talk as far as he knew, but well so was Aldaron. Besides, there was really no other choice but to trust the mage. It was that or resign himself to being stuck here. Wherever here was. Whenever, if Dorian was right about Alexius' spell.

Aldaron still could not wrap his mind around the idea that someone would alter time just to be rid of him. No, maybe that he could understand considering how important everyone thought he was. What confounded him was that it was actually possible. Time travel.

And Alexius knew what this thing on his hand was. It had to be some sort of magic, then. A tool made by this Elder One he had mentioned. If only Aldaron had been able to get him to talk more. Maybe he could have finally understood what was going on. Or maybe he would have just been more confused.

It was all too much to take in. His mind was reeling and he could barely focus. Why did everything have to be so complicated and… magical? Thank goodness Dorian was here so at least one of them knew what was happening. Aldaron would just try not to appear too stupid and useless in front of him.

First they had to get out of these dungeons, though. Figure out where - and when - they were. The tight quarters were starting to make him feel claustrophobic, and the red lyrium growing out of the walls made him nervous.

Aldaron moved frantically through the halls, Dorian silent on his heels as they passed empty cells and increasing amounts of red lyrium. He had no idea where to go, but doubted his companion had any better ideas. Upward upward, follow any flight of stairs you find and eventually you'll be out. That plan worked for a while, until the obvious way forward was barred. Aldaron did not pause long enough to think about it. If he did, he might start to panic. There had to be another way, so he turned instinctively down one of the other passages.

He wished he hadn't.

They found Cassandra and Varric first. How long had they been down here? And what had been done to them? With horror Aldaron realized that the red glow on both of their faces was not from the torches or the red lyrium on the walls, in was coming from within. Further down the hall they found Grand Enchanter Fiona. Or what was left of her. Aldaron felt sick. How was she still conscious when she was more lyrium than person? What sort of person let this happen? Or subjected someone to this torture? He swallowed heavily to keep from vomiting. The poor woman did confirm Dorian's suspicions, though. They were a full year in the future. It seemed impossible, but it was not the first impossible thing that had happened to him. Varric was right, everything that happened to him was weird.

Weird and terrible.

This place was like a nightmare and it only kept getting worse the closer they came to their goal. It was like that horrible day on the mountaintop again, when the sky had exploded and left its mark on him. He moved with a single-minded focus, because if he stopped to think about it the sheer hopelessness of their situation would overwhelm him. The mark hurt like it had not since that day. Don't think about it, don't think about it. Just keep moving forward, find Alexius, reverse the spell, stop this from happening. Everyone was dead or dying, Fiona practically a part of the walls, Varric and Cassandra half-mad from the red lyrium, Leliana tortured and he did not want to think what else they had done to her. What about everyone else? What about Haven? And Creators, the sky.

There was no sky. Only the Breach.

He could feel the mask slipping, cracking. He was losing his grip on that carefully constructed façade in the face of all this madness. He tore through the castle blindly, trusted Dorian's words to the letter though he had no reason to. No reason except that Dorian said he could fix this and it was the only option available. He dared no think what would happen if Dorian was wrong.

Varric, Cassandra, Leliana, his friends. (When had he started considering them friends?) Was this the future they all had to look forward to? Aldaron found it hard to believe that his presence was the only thing keeping the world from ending. He was only one person. Even with this thing on his hand, what was he supposed to do?

If not for Dorian, Alexius would have succeeded. Thrown into the future all on his own, Aldaron would never have made it back. He was no mage; he did not understand anything about magic. He would have been stuck here in this nightmare, this future that was beyond redemption.

He watched them die and the mask shattered entirely. He cried out, tried to go to them to protect them and only Dorian's hand on his arm and the sensible words in his ears held him back. There was nothing he could do to help except go back and make sure that none of this happened in the first place. Then they were thrown through time again. It left Aldaron staggered and reeling and confused, no less so than the first time. Looking around, he found they were still in the throne room but everything was changed, back to the way it had been before. The way it should be. And there was Alexius. Aldaron tensed and reached for his daggers, expecting another fight, but it did not come.

The magister surrendered without a fight, all the fire gone out of him in an instant. Aldaron was actually relieved, because he was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Can they go back to Haven now and sleep for a week?

No such luck.

Human royalty. Aldaron scrabbled to school his expression, to put the mask back together and present the confident and reasonable Herald he knew they expected.

It felt like everyone was looking at him.

Everyone was looking at him. They wanted him to… Oh, good. He looked between the king, the Grand Enchanter, and Cassandra, but none of them gave him any indication of what he should do. They were really letting him make this decision on his own? Why? He was not remotely prepared for this.

They had come here to get the help of the mages, however. So the answer seemed simple enough, really. "We would be honored to have the mages fight at the Inquisition's side." His voice sounded much more confident than he felt, and not nearly as exhausted. The mask was firmly in place again. Creators willing, it would remain that way.

When they arrived back in Haven, however, it was clear that not everyone was happy with his decision. Word had already reached the village, but none of the sentiment reached Aldaron's ears until they were in the chantry. Cullen was furious, Josephine was none too happy, either, and Cassandra and Leliana were impossible for him to read. He had clearly done the wrong thing, so why hadn't anyone stopped him? Cassandra was there. Cullen was right, she should have intervened. He wasn't fit for making these kinds of decisions. And now everyone was angry and it was his fault.

It was a struggle to keep his expression neutral while his thoughts spiraled into despair. Why had anyone thought it was a good idea to put him in charge of anything? He was pulled out of those thoughts when Dorian interrupted the circular arguments and announced his intention to stay. Aldaron stared openly. Even after everything, he had expected Dorian to leave when it was all done, so he was surprised, but pleasantly so.

"You're staying?"

"Oh, didn't I mention?" Dorian asked, smirking as he met Aldaron's eyes, and it was hard for the elf to keep from smiling in return. Surprising, he had not felt the urge to smile in weeks. "The south is so charming and rustic. I adore it to little pieces."

Aldaron felt so relieved he barely registered the rest of the man's words. The whole time in that horrible future Dorian's presence and his unfailing confidence had been the one thing holding Aldaron together, keeping him focused and preventing him from spiraling into hopeless terror. He needed that.

"There's no one I would rather be stranded in time with, future or present." The words were out of Aldaron's mouth before he even realized he was speaking them. For a moment he was horrified, embarrassed, then Dorian laughed.

"Well, let's try not to get stranded again anytime soon."

Aldaron could not sleep. This was becoming normal. When the pain from his marked hand kept him awake he was in the habit of wandering the cold empty paths outside Haven's walls. It was well past midnight, not a soul was awake save the guards on the walls, and they paid him little mind. Tonight it was more than just the pain keeping him awake. Aldaron was exhausted and exhaustion was usually enough to help him pass out for a few hours, but every time he closed his eyes his mind replayed what he had seen in Redcliff. That other Redcliff. He wondered if he would have nightmares about it forever.

He stopped at the stables and leaned against the fence, looking in on the horse that Dennet had given him. It was dozing in the way that horses do, and opened its eyes briefly when he walked up, snorted at him, then closed its eyes again. Aldaron held his hand out, murmuring softly in elvhen as he stroked the animal's soft nose.

"Can't sleep?"

Aldaron startled so bad he jumped and spun around. How had he not heard someone come up behind him? But it was only Dorian, standing a few paces away looking as startled as Aldaron felt and holding his hands up placatingly. "I come in peace."

Aldaron relaxed, but felt suddenly foolish. "Sorry," he replied, reigning his emotions in again. "I didn't hear you approach."

"No harm done," Dorian assured, and lowered his arms to wrap them around himself against the cold. "I'm apparently more stealthy than I realized. I'll try to be more obvious next time."

Next time? Aldaron was not sure he wanted there to be a next time. He was not sure he wanted there to be this time. The whole point of coming out to the stables in the middle of the night was to be alone. He was glad that Dorian had decided to stay with the Inquisition, but that did not mean he wanted the mage to be with him all the time. Dorian had seen though his mask once, but he was not ready to take it off entirely, not willingly.

"What are you doing out here?" the Herald asked.

"You may not have noticed, but it is absolutely frigid here," Dorian said, and sighed dramatically, "And that… cabin" he said the word like he wasn't sure it was the correct one, "they've given me is draftier than a barn."

That did not answer the question. "You thought the actual barn might be warmer?" Aldaron asked, perplexed.

Dorian let out a bark of laughter. "Hardly," he replied, "Though I would not be surprised. No, I stepped out for more firewood and what should I see but the Herald of Andraste wandering the village like a lonely ghost. I thought to myself: what in the world is he doing out in the freezing cold so late at night? And now here I am, asking you what in the world are you doing out in the freezing cold so late at night? Not collecting firewood, I gather."

"No," Aldaron replied, and turned his gaze back to the dozing horse. Had Dorian really followed him all the way out here just to ask why he couldn't sleep? Why? The man was obviously freezing. And what did he care if Aldaron wasn't sleeping? No one else did.

If Dorian was expecting more of an explanation he was disappointed. The silence between them stretched on and on. Speechless. Aldaron had not thought it was possible to render Dorian speechless.

He heard the crunch of snow behind him, and then Dorian was standing at the fence beside him and staring at the dozing horse, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. He had to be absolutely miserable out here, what was he doing? "So, does the Herald of Andraste suffer from insomnia? Or is there something else that has driven you out into this Maker-forsaken cold?"

Dorian might be far more perceptive than he let on, Aldaron realized. He glanced down at his marked hand, gripping tightly to the fence to keep from shaking. No one was allowed to see such weakness. But he was beginning to realize that Dorian would not leave until he got an answer. The man had offered an easy out. Insomnia. No one here had known him before, they had no reason to think it was a lie. Part of him wanted to tell the truth, though.

"I can't stop thinking about what we saw in Redcliff," Aldaron said. It was only half the truth.

"Ah," Dorian nodded sagely. "It was… quite memorable, I'll grant you that."

That was putting it mildly. Everything they had seen, that possible future, he could not allow that to happen. Seeing what would happen if they failed, however, only made the task ahead that much more daunting. "I can't let that happen," the Herald said quietly. "It's so much more than just a hole in the sky now. This… Elder One… I have to stop him."

"I agree," Dorian replied. "I don't envy your position, Herald, but you are not alone. The people here seem very capable. And of course you have me now," he added with a grin, "This improves your odds immeasurably."

He had known Dorian for less than a week, so why did he trust this man? There was no reason to. No rational explanation as to why Dorian's presence made it so easy for him to relax, why a simple smile from the man made him feel like maybe this was all going to work out after all.

I'll protect you.

The man probably hadn't even meant it when he said that. A joke to cut the tension, to ease his fears, to earn his trust. But Aldaron wanted so badly for it to be true. There was so much that depended on him, was it too much to ask for just one person to have his back?

"Can I tell you a secret?" Aldaron asked.

"You can," Dorian replied. "It might not be a very good idea, but I certainly won't stop you."

"I have no idea what I'm doing," Aldaron blurted, then let out a bitter laugh. It actually felt good to say it out loud, like a weight lifted off his shoulders. He needed to say it out loud. The words came suddenly in a rush, and he was unable to hold them back even if he had wanted to. "I'm making it all up as I go along and pretending, but I don't know what I'm doing. I don't even understand what's happening most of the time. And no one cares at all! They don't care about me. They don't need me. They only need this thing on my hand. They wouldn't care about me at all if I didn't have it.

"They want me to be some savior, but I don't actually matter at all, just this thing. This damn mark. I don't even want it!" His throat was tightening; he had to stop now before he broke down crying in front of this man. What would Dorian think of him then? What must he think of him already? Now that he knew the Herald of Andraste was just an ignorant knife-ear. Aldaron forced his mouth shut, bottled up his emotions again and squeezed his eyes shut, ready for the laughter and was bound to come from the man sitting beside him.

The laughter did not come.

"Well, if you've got that all out, shall I tell you a secret as well?" Dorian asked. His voice remained as light and carefree as it had ever been, as though he had not just listened to Aldaron pour his heart out. Slowly, hesitantly, Aldaron opened his eyes again and raised them to look over at the mage. "Neither does anyone else."

Aldaron stared at him as though he had grown a second head. That probably would have been less shocking, actually.

"Look around," Dorian gestured blindly to the camp, silent though it was this late at night, and to the Breach in the distant sky. "Do you think anyone really understands what's happening? Even that Solas fellow probably doesn't know half as much as he thinks he does. In fact, probably less than half, he seems to think he knows everything about everything."

That couldn't be right. Everyone else seemed so confident and sure of themselves when they made plans and discussed politics. They all spoke with such authority. Then again, hadn't he been doing the same thing? Hiding behind his mask, the persona of the Herald that he had built up, and pretending to be brave and wise.

"You think so?" Aldaron asked, and hated how his voice betrayed his emotions so easily. He sounded like a frightened child. He was a frightened child.

"What? Do I think Solas is full of shit?" Dorian asked, purposely misconstruing the question and smiling to himself. "Don't get me wrong, he is a very talented mage, for an apostate, but honestly. You don't find him the least bit… pretentious?"

"No more so than you," Aldaron replied dryly.

"Was that a joke?" Dorian let out a bark of laughter and grinned. "The Herald of Andraste has a sense of humor after all. Alert the Chantry! I'm certain they will revoke your title immediately."

If only. "I think they would have already if they could," the elf replied, and felt the faintest of smiles tug at the corner of his mouth, barely a twitch of the muscles, but it was more than he had smiled since the conclave.

"Ah, I suppose you're stuck with it, then," Dorian replied, and shrugged.

Aldaron supposed he was. He stared into Dorian's face searchingly. Looking for… something. He did not know. Some reason why this man could read him so easily. Whatever he was looking for he did not see it then. "We are heading to the Storm Coast tomorrow," he said, "To meet a mercenary company. Something to do while we wait for everything to be sorted with the mages." He hesitated a moment before continuing, "You are welcome to come, if you would like."

Dorian nodded slowly and hummed thoughtfully. "As tempting as the offer is, the sea and I are currently not on speaking terms, so I will have to decline the offer. Perhaps next time."

A mix of emotions swirled through Aldaron's chest. Disappointment, relief, resignation. He did not understand any of them. "Next time, then."