The news spread through camp like wildfire, started by a scout who came running down from the mountain pass panting and stumbling through the snow. They found the Herald. He was alive.

Everyone wanted to see for themselves if it was true. There was a lot of jostling and cheering, at least until they actually saw him. Rather, they saw Cullen and they saw the limp body in his arms. The sight stopped Dorian dead in his tracks the same way it had stopped so many others. Lavellan certainly did not look alive. The elf was unconscious, dead weight as Cullen carried him into the camp. The Commander was shouting for a healer, a surgeon, anything. For the first time in his life Dorian wished he was less good at blowing things up and significantly better at putting them back together. As it was he would probably do more harm than good considering Lavellan's delicate condition. The elf's yellow hair was tinged red on one side, his lips and fingers purple, his skin was almost as white as the snow, which made the branching tattoos on his face stand out in even starker contrast than usual. And he looked so small, like a child. Dorian stared until Cullen disappeared into a tent closely followed by Mother Giselle and a mage Dorian did not recognize. That had to be the healer. He hoped they were good.

The tent flap swung closed and Dorian continued to stare even as Cassandra took up a guard outside and glared hard enough to send most of the onlookers shuffling away. He felt useless and had since escaping Haven on the tail end of an avalanche. Dorian was rubbish at this whole survival thing, and if he'd thought his cabin in Haven was cold the tents were infinitely more so. He had also had to share a tent the night before with Varric which was an experience to say the least.

The tense atmosphere that had lifted briefly at news of the Herald's survival settled over the camp again. Yes, he was a live, but for how long?

There was no further news beyond 'yes, he's still alive' for a full day. Dorian wasn't the only person who kept looking over at that tent every few moments, but he liked to think he was somewhat less obvious about it than everyone else. Of course, after proving himself utterly hopeless at camping, and with at least half the population still actively avoiding the "Tevinter magister", there was little else for Dorian to do but sit around and wait for news.

Late in the afternoon that next day the tent flap opened and the Herald emerged. He was clearly still weak. He walked slowly, Mother Giselle hovered at his side but did not actually offer any help, didn't even touch him. Just there to make sure he didn't faint and bash his head in on a rock. Someone had washed the blood out of his hair, but his face was still ashen and he was dressed in the same weather beaten and bloodstained clothes they had found him in.

The Herald made his way across the camp slowly, waylaid every few steps by someone coming up to greet him. They all bowed their heads respectfully; some clasped his hands in theirs. The Herald received them all with a polite smile and nod, but he was obviously quite worn out from his miraculous return to life. Why were they all bothering him? Couldn't they see he was tired? What was he even doing out of bed?

Meeting with his council, it turned out. That was where his slow, halting walk led him eventually; to the make-shift table where the four heads of the Inquisition had been arguing for the better part of the day. Dorian was too far away to make out anything they said unless the argument got particularly heated. The conversation grew hushed as the Herald arrived and leaned heavily against the table. They all seemed calm and relieved for the first time Dorian had seen since the attack.

So it seemed the Herald of Andraste did more than show up and wave his hand at rifts. Well, he also faced down Archdemons and talking darkspawn monsters. And rose from the dead if one believed the gossip around camp, but Dorian was not that stupid. His survival might be somewhat miraculous, but Dorian did not believe for a second that he had actually died. (Not unless you counted all those horrible seconds before he'd been found when Dorian did actually think the elf dead and buried under half a mountain's worth of snow. Dorian wasn't counting those; he was pretending they never happened.)

Whatever the Herald had to say did not last long before Mother Giselle was rounding him up again like a stray child and ushering him over to the nearby infirmary to lay down again. Good. He obviously needed more rest.

Seeing him up and about, weak though he was, took a weight off Dorian's chest that he had not even been aware of. At least not consciously aware of, because if he was honest with himself he was not hanging around here watching the elf's tent for hours just because he had nothing better to do. But seeing him alive and awake and moving under his own power was a huge relief, and Dorian no longer felt the need to sit around watching and waiting. He had his answers. Lavellan would be fine.

The Herald's report of what had happened at Haven spread through the camp quickly. If they were trying to keep things quiet they were doing a rather terrible job. More likely the spread of news was intentional. Dorian heard it from Varric, one of the few people not actively avoiding him and still his slightly unwilling roommate. Dorian was used to people avoiding him, but when he heard who this Elder One claimed to be it all made much more sense. One of the magisters who had breached the Fade a millennia ago. Dorian might have laughed except that the look on Varric's face was dead serious and more than a little worried. Also he didn't believe Lavellan would lie about this. He got the impression that Lavellan lied about very little. Save perhaps his self-assurance. Although Dorian could not imagine facing down an Archdemon and coming away without a boost of confidence, so perhaps that issue was solved.

Dorian was certainly more than impressed by everything he had seen the Herald do. Although he had been a little skeptical at first – back in Redcliffe the elf had seemed more like a frightened deer than a leader of armies – but after watching him at Haven there was no doubt that Lavellan had it in him. There was also no doubt that the people here cared about more than the mark on his hand. The worry and fear and utter despair in the camp when all thought him dead made it perfectly clear how much the people cared for their Herald.

Lavellan might doubt himself still, but Dorian certainly did not.

They were up and moving first thing in the morning, everyone packing up and breaking down tents for their journey to… well Dorian wasn't actually certain where they were going. The Herald would lead them; that was the word going around. Lead them where, no one seemed to know. That didn't engender a lot of confidence, but it was better than freezing or starving to death here. And he didn't think the Herald would take them wandering aimlessly through the wilderness. The elf had to have some destination in mind. Dorian hoped it was out of these wretched mountains. Maybe somewhere warm. A man could dream.

The going was slow and miserable, slogging through snow and over rocks for nearly three full days. Dorian had just about given up hope of ever having dry socks again when he crested a rise and saw it there in the distance. Sitting atop a pinnacle of rock and framed by the higher peaks behind it.

Skyhold.

Dorian wasn't much for southern architecture (drab and inelegant, function over form, nothing like home), but after four days in tents and snow that grey stone fortress was the greatest thing he had ever seen.

Night had fallen by the time the last of the refugees filed across the bridge and in through the gates. They set up camp in the courtyard. The fortress had certainly seen better days. Many of the structures looked ready to collapse any moment and no one wanted to risk going inside in the dark.

Dorian didn't know where the Herald and his advisers had disappeared to, and at the moment he didn't care. He was just glad to be out of the wind and the snow of the mountain passes. It was still cold here, but the walls sheltered them from the worst of the winds and the ground was mostly devoid of snow. He threw himself, exhausted, down onto his bedroll and was asleep in moments. Maybe by this time tomorrow he would have a roof over his head again. That would be proof the Herald worked miracles.

By the time he woke the next morning – and of course he had overslept rather significantly – all the camp was in a commotion. People were milling about everywhere, seeming in a much improved mood for having found this place. He imagined the day would be spent scouring the keep, ensuring the structure was fit for habitation and planning the necessary repairs. He wondered where he would fit in in all that. Manual labor was not exactly his strong suit. Not to mention he was still being pointedly shunned.

That was when he spotted the Herald for the first time in days, mounting the stairs up toward the main hall. Someone had scrounged him up some new clothes. They were hideous, but it was entirely unfair how good they made his legs look. Absolutely criminal. That's Andraste's chosen prophet, Dorian, stop staring at his arse.

What stopped his staring was unfortunately not his own willpower, but the gathering crowd, the whispered gossip. The Herald would lead the Inquisition now. Officially.

He found himself rather embarrassingly cheering alongside the soldiers and the commoners, and he felt something – pride? – swell up in his chest as he watched the Herald take up that ridiculous sword. That thing was nearly as big as he was. Poor elf looked like he could barely lift it, but it painted an impressive picture and obviously had the desired effect.

"Your leader! Your Herald! Your Inquisitor!"

The responding cheer was deafening.

Inquisitor.

Aldaron had accepted it, but he was nervous. The people were overjoyed. He no longer doubted their faith in him, though he worried it was misplaced. A Dalish elf leading a human religious movement. Someday historians would laugh about it. He was determined, though, to make sure he did right by the people here. They wanted him to lead, and they trusted him, and he would not let them down. It was him their enemies wanted, after all. It would be cowardly to make someone else take up the title of Inquisitor, to make someone else fight his battles for him.

Skyhold was magnificent. Even in its current state of disrepair and neglect the fortress was impressive.

It was the second day since the Inquisition's arrival. Repairs to the main structures were already underway. Everywhere soldiers and scouts and merchants and mages alike were clearing debris, inspecting walls, setting up scaffolding. Absolutely everyone was lending a hand somewhere. It was inspiring.

The Inquisitor, of course, was above such work. Or at least that was the impression he got. He had made his rounds, checking in on every endeavor, talking with the handful of people he was beginning to consider friends. But if he ever offered to lend a hand he was turned away. We have everything under control, Inquisitor, don't mind us. Surely you have more important things to worry about.

Not really.

So Aldaron explored. He wandered the courtyards, climbed the battlements, cautiously looked into the crumbling towers. This was his castle, apparently, though the concept of owning a place was completely foreign to the elf. He had never stayed in one place long enough to consider the location home. Home was where the clan was. Thinking of them tore painfully at his heart. There had been only one message from them back in Haven, inquiring about his health. How would they react when they learned he had been made Inquisitor? Would they be proud of him? Were they still safe in the Free Marches? The clan of the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor. That was too much recognition; it was dangerous for Dalish elves.

His thoughtful explorations eventually lead Aldaron to… what did shemlen call places like this? A library? That sounded right. Aldaron had never seen so many books in his life. Where did they come from? Had they all just been here? He paused at the top of the stairs and looked around the circular room. Every wall was lined floor to ceiling with shelves. They were not all full, but it was still an impressive number of books. He saw a few people milling about, scanning through the tomes, piles of books on tables and on the floor.

He saw Dorian.

In the midst of everything else he had almost forgotten about the man. There were too many other things to think about. But seeing him now, Aldaron was happy. He had been happy to see all of his companions alive and well after such a harrowing experience, but he was lying to himself when he thought this was the same feeling.

He had just opened his mouth for a greeting, but Dorian spoke up first. "Brilliant, isn't it?" the man asked without looking away from the shelf he was perusing. "One moment you're trying to restore order in a world gone mad. That should be enough for anyone to handle, yes? Then, out of nowhere, an Archdemon appears and kicks you in the head." Well that was certainly one way of putting it. " 'What? You thought this would be easy?' 'No, I was just hoping you wouldn't crush our village like an anthill.' 'Sorry about that. Archdemons like to crush, you know. Can't be helped.' Am I speaking too quickly for you?"

Aldaron realized he must look as stunned as he felt. He'd been a little overwhelmed by Dorian's diatribe and let his mask slip. Why did this always happen around Dorian? "I was distracted, that's all," he said, trying to look less like a slack-jawed idiot than he felt.

"Distracted? By my wit and charm?" Dorian sounded so pleased with himself. "I have plenty of both."

"It's nice to meet someone so aware of their talents," Aldaron blurted out, and regretted it immediately. That was supposed to be something diplomatic, like Josephine always wanted him to be, but what came out was not at all what he'd intended.

"I'm a man of many talents, what can I say?" Dorian just laughed, though. If anything, he seemed flattered. Comforting to know he hadn't messed up too badly. But Dorian sobered quickly. "I always assumed the 'Elder One' behind the Venatori was a magister, but this… is something else completely. In Tevinter, they say the Chantry's tales of magisters starting the Blight are just that: tales. But here we are. One of those very magisters. A darkspawn."

Aldaron might not know very much about Chantry teaching, but he knew the story of how the Blights began. He was surprised – though perhaps he shouldn't be – to learn that Tevinter's Chantry was telling a different story. "Who does the Imperium say started the Blight?" he asked curiously.

"You know how it is. 'Not us.' " Dorian said, and made a frustrated noise. "They say darkspawn were always there; magisters and the Blight aren't even related. Is that a surprise? No one wants to admit they shit the bed." Aldaron frowned a little at the analogy, accurate though it was. "But if Corypheus is one of the magisters who entered the Black City and he's darkspawn… What other explanation is there?"

So the Imperial Chantry lied to hide their mistakes. Put in that light it really was not surprising at all. He wondered how many people actually bought their version of the story, though? Had Dorian? Was that why he was so upset? "Why does that make you angry?" Aldaron asked.

"Because the Imperium is my home," Dorian replied, and Aldaron watched all the anger drain out of him in an instant. "I knew what I was taught couldn't be the whole truth, but I assumed there had to be a kernel of it. Somewhere. But no. It was us all along. We destroyed the world."

The expression on Dorian's face absolutely broke Aldaron's heart. He imagined learning something similar about his own people, and how painful that would be. He wanted to say something that would make the man feel better. "You didn't do anything. Those men did. A thousand years ago." Pretty words, just like Josephine had been teaching him. Pretty but empty.

"True," Dorian admitted, "Except that one of them is up and walking around right now. Not to mention I have idiot countrymen who would happily follow him down that path again." He sighed, composed himself again, and looked at Aldaron with that stare that saw through him so easily. "No one will thank me, whatever happens. No one will thank you, either. You know that, yes?"

Of course he knew that. Everyone outside the Inquisition hated him, Aldaron knew that. The Chantry, the Templars, Corypheus. Whatever the history books wrote about him, he would either be the Dalish elf that mucked everything up, or the hero whose race was conveniently never mentioned. But he wasn't doing this for them. He was doing this because he couldn't stand back and watch the world fall apart without doing something to help. And he could help. He could help more than anyone else. "That's not why I'm doing this."

A smile tugged at the corner of Dorian's mouth. "I knew there was something clever about you," he said knowingly. "All I know is this: Corypheus must be stopped. Men like him ruined my homeland. I won't stand by and let him ruin the world."

They were of a similar mind on that much. Dorian had always been vocal about his distaste for the Venatori, but perhaps Aldaron had been a little worried, somewhere in the subconscious back of his mind, that he wasn't so very different from his countrymen. Now he had no such doubts.

Dorian looked away from the Inquisitor then, back to whatever he had been doing before, but almost as an after thought looked over his shoulder again. "Oh, and congratulations on that whole leading-the-Inquisition thing, by the way," he said, turned away again before he could see the pink on Aldaron's cheeks.

"Dorian," the elf said before the mage could leave entirely.

"Yes?" Dorian stopped again and looked back at him once more.

What had he been planning to say? The words suddenly all stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard and forced himself to calm down, forced the mask back into place. He had to say something, though.

"Have you been to see Alexius?" Aldaron asked, and cringed inwardly in regret. Dorian was already in a bad mood from their conversation, surely he was just going to make it worse.

He knew they had dragged the magister out of Haven and had found a suitably secure location for him here in Skyhold, though from what he knew the man had made absolutely no attempt to escape. They were going to ask Aldaron what to do with him soon. Probably as soon as anyone could spare a thought from making sure Skyhold was actually habitable. He had not forgotten that the man had once been Dorian's friend, and that would make things difficult. What Alexius had done in Redcliffe was horrible, but if Aldaron understood correctly, the man had really only wanted to save his son. He had been scared, and he had made several terribly bad decisions as a result. Aldaron knew the feeling.

Dorian hesitated before answering, and did not meet Aldaron's eyes. "I saw him before they locked him up. He looked… despondent. Broken. Not the man I remember, nor the one I want to."

Aldaron nodded in understanding. He had not known Alexius before, but Dorian seemed to have had a high opinion of him at one point. That had to count for something.

"I suppose the Inquisition will judge him eventually," the man continued thoughtfully. "I wonder if there's any chance they'll show him mercy." Dorian had to know Aldaron would be the one to make that decision, yet he was speaking so impersonally. Was this his way of asking for mercy without having to outright say it? "He hardly deserves it, but for Felix's sake, I can't help hoping there's something left of the man I once knew."

Aldaron chewed the inside of his cheek but forced his expression to remain calm. It was true, Alexius had tried, and very nearly succeeded, to kill him. Someone else might have put him to death immediately. But there had been enough death already. "The decision won't be made lightly," the Inquisitor assured him.

Dorian turned toward him and offered a small smile. "That means quite a bit, coming from you," he replied.

Aldaron swallowed heavily over the sudden pounding of his heart. He hoped that whatever decision was made, it was something Dorian approved of. He regretted bringing up the topic now. The pain in Dorian's voice when he spoke of Alexius was so obvious, and Aldaron did not want to cause him any further hurt. There were more important considerations than Dorian's feelings, though, and that made the decision harder than ever. "I should go," Aldaron said, before he wound up making promises he could not keep.

"Naturally," was all Dorian said before Aldaron fled down the stairs, mind racing.