"I like a good reanimated corpse as much as the next man, certainly, but this is just excessive." Dorian was unhappy. He had made that abundantly clear many times over. He complained about the rain, he complained about the mud, he complained about the smell.
"You're lucky you missed the Fallow Mire, then," Varric commented. "Imagine this, but with twice as many corpses and Avvar barbarians constantly trying to kill you. Whole place smelled like rotting flesh and wet dog."
"I'd really rather not, thank you."
This was supposed to be easy. Go to Crestwood, find Hawke's Grey Warden contact, and then back to Skyhold to plan their next move. Instead they had fought their way through the walking dead, red templars, bandits, and demons. Now they were slogging through the muddy, waterlogged, dank caves below the emptied lake in search of the rift that was likely causing all the trouble.
Nothing was ever easy, was it?
Dorian was unhappy and extremely vocal about it. Varric and Blackwall were obviously miserable as well, though they were quieter about it. Aldaron felt absolutely wretched, but he did not show it at all. The Inquisitor's façade was better than the Herald's had ever been. It had to be. There was a lot more riding on his shoulders now.
"We're almost there," the Inquisitor reported, interrupting the grumbling of his companions. He could always tell when they were close to a rift. They made his hand hurt. The anchor would ache, then throb, and burst to life with that familiar green glow and tearing pain. He was following the pain like a homing beacon through the maze of passages. Surprisingly, it worked.
This rift was bigger than the ones they usually stumbled across. It had to be to be causing this much trouble. The room was already crawling with demons when the Inquisitor and his small band showed up, and more kept pouring out before Aldaron had a chance to seal the rift. By the time they cleared out the room enough for the anchor to work the elf was exhausted. He had to brace both arms on his knees to catch his breath and to keep his hand from shaking. Closing rifts always hurt the worst, and this one had been particularly bad.
"You alright, Inquisitor?" Blackwall asked from somewhere behind him.
"Fine," the Inquisitor replied. He was not injured. Nothing more than a few scrapes and bruises at least. He took a deep breath and straightened, clenching his left hand as hard as he could to try and hide the trembling. "Let's get out of here."
Finding their way out was a little more difficult than getting in. Aldaron did not have the mark to guide him this time, and he hadn't exactly been paying the best attention on the way in. But they did eventually find a ladder and a passage that lead back out to the hills overlooking the village.
It had stopped raining, and the clouds were clearing. On the horizon the last reds and oranges of the sunrise were just disappearing. Behind him Aldaron was vaguely aware of his companion's happy murmuring at the chance to dry out, and Dorian wringing out the edge of his robe.
"We should go meet Hawke, now that's dealt with," the Inquisitor said. He was exhausted, of course, but felt they had delayed enough already. Josephine would say it was rude to keep the man waiting on them any longer.
"Are you quite serious?" Dorian asked in disbelief.
"It's why we came here in the first place," the Inquisitor reminded him.
"Yes, I have not forgotten," Dorian replied, leaning maybe a little too heavily on his staff to make it look casual, "But we've also just spent all night – literally all night – fighting demons and corpses."
"Sparkler's got a point," Varric agreed. "I think we could all use a bit of rest after all this. A bite to eat, maybe some dry clothes. Hawke's been here days already, what's another few hours? He'll be fine."
Aldaron looked between his three companions, frowning in concentration. He was still trying to get the hang of this leadership thing. It didn't help that every spare moment at Skyhold was spent with Josephine or Leliana or Vivienne or some combination of the three being lectured about the ins and outs of politics and noble houses and proper behavior. It was overwhelming and confusing. He thought that getting away for a while would be a relief, but it wasn't. There was not less to think about outside of Skyhold, only different things, and it all got muddled up in his head until he wasn't sure what he was expected to do anymore.
But he was exhausted. And they were all exhausted. And maybe this was the wrong decision. Maybe the Inquisitor should not let his followers question his decisions. But Aldaron really liked the sound of a nap and some dry boots. "Alright," the Inquisitor eventually relented. "We'll head back to the fort after speaking with the mayor. With luck the scouts will have it cleaned up by now."
Of course the mayor of Crestwood was not to be found, only a letter confirming what they had already suspected. Aldaron was disgusted and horrified. How could someone willfully kill so many people? But the Inquisitor understood the man's reasoning, at least, even if he did not approve of the methods. How many innocents had died by this man's hand? Was the end result worth the cost? Such thoughts kept the Inquisitor silent as they returned to the newly captured Caer Bronach.
Their arrival found the fort bustling with newly arrived scouts and soldiers, anyone who had been in the area quickly rerouted to secure the keep until more permanent postings could be established. The bodies of the previous inhabitants had been removed, the blood washed away, and tents set up in the main courtyard. The small party must look terrible for the looks they are getting, and how they are immediately being offered food and rest. They do look terrible, actually. Aldaron is soaked to the bone, his boots caked in mud, his clothes spattered with blood or whatever demons have. Behind him the others are in a similar state, Varric is fussing over Bianca and Dorian keeps self-consciously fixing his hair. As soon as he is pointed to a tent Aldaron slips inside and is barely able to strip out of his sodden clothes before crawling into the bedroll and falling into exhausted sleep.
Unfortunately the sun was shining bright, the tent fabric not enough to keep it out, and Aldaron had never been able to sleep in the daytime. He managed only a few hours of rest before his body insisted that he should be up and doing something, not sleeping the day away. His clothes were still damp, but he pulled them on anyway for lack of anything else to wear, and left the boots sitting outside the tent where hopefully the sun would help them dry faster. Aldaron was still not a fan of shoes in general, though he supposed they had certain benefits, but absolutely could not stand them when wet. He combed through his hair with his fingers, pulling at any knots and pushing stray locks out of his eyes before stepping out of the tent.
Movement in the keep had lessened somewhat, but Aldaron could see there was still a lot of work to do to bring this place up to Inquisition standards – Cullen's standards. Aldaron moved through the camp, offering a polite smile and a nod for anyone who greeted him. He found the make-shift kitchen and stole an apple and half a loaf of bread before retreating to the battlements for the small amount of solitude they would grant.
The countryside here was actually rather beautiful when it wasn't swarming in demons and bandits. Crestwood was probably a very nice village when it wasn't struggling to survive. All of this trouble, all the people dead, because of one fade rift. It only made Aldaron more certain that he had to do everything he could to bring peace and stability back to the world.
Aldaron had already devoured the apple and half the bread when he heard someone climbing up the ladder behind him. He looked over his shoulder just in time to see Dorian's head appear over the top of the wall, once again perfectly groomed. "Ah, there you are," the man said, and pulled himself the rest of the way up onto the wall. "One would think you'd been kidnapped by assassins the way that scout was going on."
Aldaron frowned. He hadn't meant to slip off unnoticed or make anyone worry about him. "Are they looking for me? Is everything alright?"
"Yes, everything is perfectly under control. Breakfast – or lunch, I suppose – is prepared and… I see you have already found it," Dorian cut himself off when he saw the food in the Inquisitor's hand, "Marvelous. I climbed this ladder for no reason."
"Sorry," Aldaron said. He really hadn't meant to cause any inconvenience, and yet here it was. But why was Dorian here to tell him this? "They sent you to tell me to eat breakfast?"
Dorian scoffed, "Hardly. Can you picture me taking orders from a cook?" He clapped a hand to his chest in over-dramatic horror. "Rather, no one quite knew where you'd run off to, but as I am so very clever, I know that our dear Inquisitor seems to enjoy his solitude from time to time, but he is not so stupid as to run off on his own. Through deductive reasoning and process of elimination, I concluded that you had to be somewhere up here. And here you are. I was right."
It seemed like Dorian knew him better than Aldaron had expected. Or knew his habits, at least. Of course, it was not the first time that the mage had found him purposefully isolating himself. "That is… very perceptive of you."
"I am probably far too perceptive for my own good, to be quite honest. And I should be offended that you haven't noticed before," Dorian replied. "But I suppose you have more important things to occupy your mind, Inquisitor."
"Aldaron," the elf blurted out before he even realized he was speaking.
Dorian's eyebrows crept up toward his hairline. "I'm sorry?" he asked in confusion.
Aldaron tried very hard not to blush from embarrassment, or to stammer. "My name," he clarified, "Aldaron. No one says it anymore, I feel like I might forget." He had not heard it spoken aloud since Haven, and then only rarely. Now it was always "Inquisitor" or "your worship" and if he was lucky "Lavellan", but never his given name.
"Do you want them to?" Dorian asked slowly.
For a moment Aldaron does not understand the question, and then he realizes that if every soldier, every scout, every mage, every servant called him by name it would be too much to bear. He hid behind the mask of Inquisitor, and was only able to do so by remaining distant from all but a few people. The Inquisitor was not Aldaron, he was a person who was confident and brave and made decisions that impacted the world, who showed no weakness to his followers. Aldaron was a lost Dalish hunter who had stumbled into things he did not understand, who would rather be climbing trees than leading armies. "No, not all of them," the elf replied softly. "But you could."
"And to what do I owe such an honor?" Dorian asked.
The longer he was the Inquisitor, the more he feared that Aldaron was slipping away. Someday he's going to put on the mask and he wouldn't be able to take it off. He needed someone who understood, so here he was spilling his guts to Dorian for no good reason. Like always. But he couldn't say that. "We traveled through time together," he said instead, "I think that earns you something. Besides," Aldaron hesitated a moment, this really was spilling his guts and he didn't know if it was a good idea at all, "I like you."
Dorian stared at him for a moment, and then grinned the widest grin that Aldaron had ever seen on his face. "Of course, there is so much about me to like." Aldaron was unable to help the way the corner of his mouth quirked up the tiniest bit. Dorian noticed, of course, and smiled even wider if that was possible. "Well, Aldaron," he said the name in a way that made the elf's heart beat faster, "There is food to be had if you desire, everyone is rested and dry, and we are prepared to follow wherever you might lead, at your order." Dorian finished by bowing with a completely excessive amount of flourish. The sort of thing that coming from foreign dignitaries made him uncomfortable, but with Dorian still smirking at him it was difficult to keep from laughing.
"Very well," Aldaron replied, bit the inside of his cheek to try and keep his composure. "You can tell the others I'll be down shortly, and we'll head out."
"As you wish," Dorian nodded curtly and turned to climb back down off the battlements.
Aldaron turned around again and waited as long as he could manage before he simply couldn't stop the foolish grin from spreading across his face any longer.
Crestwood really was a rather nice place when it was not swarming with demons and walking corpses and red templars and bandits and dragons. And without such dangerous distractions the rest of their business in the region went swimmingly. Or at least as well as could be expected.
They met and spoke at length with Hawke's Grey Warden contact – a man named Stroud who seemed trustworthy enough. Aldaron likely learned more Grey Warden secrets than he was ever meant to know, but with the state of the world that hardly seemed important. And if Corypheus was somehow controlling the minds of Wardens then that was something the Inquisition needed to know so they could plan accordingly. It was a lot of information to take in, but Aldaron remembered it as best he could in order to report back to his council at Skyhold. There were plans to be made; it was a long journey to the Western Approach.
That was the first thing Aldaron did when they returned to Skyhold (after changing out of the clothes he'd been wearing for nearly a week, of course). After days on the road and hours in war council the Inquisitor was ready for a nap, or a really long bath. He did not appreciate being accosted as soon as he stepped into the great hall.
Aldaron had mixed feelings about Mother Giselle. She was nice, she obviously had good intentions, and she had been really very accommodating and patient while he recovered from the avalanche. But she would not shut up about Andraste and the Maker and Aldaron felt like every conversation with her she was trying to convert him.
"Inquisitor, if I could have a moment of your time?" the woman asked, as polite and modest as always, and yet Aldaron wanted to refuse her.
"What is it?" he asked instead, and plastered on his best diplomatic expression.
"I have news regarding one of your… companions. The Tevinter," Giselle said tactfully, but not without a bit of a sneer on the last word.
Aldaron was well aware that many people were distrustful of Dorian, and considering his homeland's history it was probably with good reason. But the mage had done nothing to earn such suspicion from Aldaron, and if the Inquisitor trusted him, that should be good enough for everyone else, shouldn't it? "Is that a note of distaste I detect, Mother Giselle?" he asked, trying to sound authoritative.
To her credit, the woman looked properly apologetic. "I… admit his presence here makes me uncomfortable, Inquisitor, but my feelings are of no importance. I have been in contact with his family: House Pavus, out of Qarinus. Are you familiar with them?"
Aldaron wished he could say that he was, but his conversations with Dorian had not ventured into that aspect of his past as of yet. He was aware of Dorian's time apprenticing under Alexius, and of his general distaste for Tevinter society, but little more. "I've not spoken to Dorian about much of his past," he was forced to admit.
"They've asked to arrange a meeting," Mother Giselle explained. "Quietly, without telling him. They fear it's the only way he'll come. Since you seem to be on good terms with the young man, I had hoped…"
Hoped what? That he might order Dorian to go meet with his family? Kick him out of the Inquisition and send him back to Tevinter? No doubt that was what the woman wanted. "Just what kind of 'meeting' do they have in mind?" he asked. He liked Dorian, and would like the mage to stay with the Inquisition. He would not willingly send him into a pit of vipers.
"I believe they just want to talk," Mother Giselle assured, "To understand why Dorian felt he had to come here. Somewhere private. Away from Skyhold, but not in Tevinter. You make them nervous, I think. They don't understand why he's with the Inquisition. They want him to come home."
That sounded reasonable enough. Away from Skyhold, but not in Tevinter sounded good. And as long as it was just talking… "What happens if Dorian doesn't agree?"
"Hopefully that will be the end of it. If not… Well, that is why you should be there," Mother Giselle said.
Aldaron frowned. That meant she expected they would do more than talk if Dorian did not agree to go back with his family. He didn't like the sound of that. If Dorian wanted to stay here, then he should be able to. Aldaron would not throw him out, or let anyone drag him away without his consent. But something about this didn't make sense. "Why would his family contact you?" the Inquisitor asked.
"Because they don't know you, Inquisitor," the woman said patiently. "I'm not of the Imperial Chantry, but they know what I represent. These are parents concerned about the welfare of their son. How could I not do whatever possible?" Even if it meant lying to Dorian? Tricking him? "I would speak to the young man myself, but… he does not care for me."
Neither did Aldaron, but he had to be polite and diplomatic with everyone he met, Dorian did not have such restrictions. "If you think I'm going to trick Dorian into meeting his family…"
He was cut off as Mother Giselle sighed, "I feared you might say that," she murmured. "The family retainer will meet the young man at the Redcliffe tavern to take him onward. If he truly does not wish this reunion, he can always end the matter there. I pray you change your mind, Inquisitor. Perhaps their letter will persuade you." She handed over the folded parchment and took her leave with a small bow.
Aldaron stared down at the letter for a long moment before opening it. He read it. He probably shouldn't have. These matters were probably something that Dorian would prefer to deal with in private, without so many middlemen. But he could not help himself, he was curious. Unfortunately the letter was too vague and answered none of his lingering questions. It was wrong to trick Dorian, though. He would let the man make his own decision now as to whether or not he wanted to meet his family. If he didn't, a message could be sent to the retainer in Dorian's stead.
Still holding the letter in both hands Aldaron headed to the library, when Dorian seemed to spend most of his time. If he was not still resting after their trip to Crestwood, Aldaron expected to find him there.
His instincts were correct, but Dorian was reading something, seemingly engrossed in whatever book he had picked up this time. Aldaron immediately hid the letter behind his back and hesitated. Should he interrupt? But this was important, and the longer he put it off the worse it would be.
"Anything interesting?" the elf asked as he approached, trying to sound casual.
Dorian looked up, his face solemn. "A letter regarding Felix. Alexius' son."
Aldaron felt his heart stop for a moment. This was a bad time. He should not have interrupted. He should not be here. They had not spoken of Alexius. When the Inquisitor sentenced him to serve the remaining mages (under heavy supervision of course) Dorian had been noticeably absent from the hearing.
"He went to the Magesterium," Dorian continued, unaware of Aldaron's momentary panic. "Stood on the senate floor and told them of you. A glowing testimonial, I'm informed. No news of the reaction, but everyone back home is talking. Felix always was as good as his word."
Aldaron's heart sank even further. "Was?"
"He's dead," Dorian said, "The blight caught up with him."
"I'm sorry," Aldaron said instinctively, but he meant it. He had not known Felix, met him only briefly, but he had seemed a good man, had been very brave to stand against his father the way he had.
"He was ill, and thus on borrowed time anyhow," Dorian shrugged, as though that was supposed to make it any better.
"That does not mean you can't regret his death," Aldaron said softly. He barely knew the man, and he understood that. Dorian had been close with him, or so he understood.
"I know," the mage sighed, let himself crumple a little bit. "Felix used to sneak me treats from the kitchens when I was working late in his father's study. 'Don't get into trouble on my behalf,' I'd tell him. 'I like trouble,' he'd say. Tevinter could use more mages like him, those who put the good of others above themselves."
"You make it sound like he was a better person than you," Aldaron said. Felix had seemed a good man, a very good man, but Dorian was as well.
"What a mad thing to say. Few people are better than I," Dorian made a valiant attempt at a laugh, but it faded quickly. "Very well. A better person, clearly. Not nearly as handsome." He looked down at the letter in his hands for a moment, then back up at Aldaron with a small smile, "Thankfully he wasn't the only decent sort kicking around Thedas."
The way that he said it, and the way he was looking at Aldaron, the elf wasn't entirely sure if Dorian was talking about himself, or about the Inquisitor. He definitely considered Dorian 'decent', to say the least. Just as good a person as Felix, even if he refused to believe it.
Aldaron thought he was taking the news of Felix's death incredibly well, also. Of course, it had been expected, so perhaps that lessened the blow somewhat. It still made bringing up this other letter even more difficult. Dorian was already in a bad mood, this would surely just make it worse, and that was the opposite of what Aldaron wanted. He would rather do something to cheer him up, but this had to be take care of. "Dorian… There's another letter you need to see," he began slowly.
"A letter?" Dorian asked, and seemed to push all of his sadness aside, replacing it easily with the smile and good humor that Aldaron was used to. "Is it a naughty letter? A humorous proposal from some Antivan dowager?"
"Not quite," Aldaron wished it were. That would probably have put Dorian in a good mood. "It's from you father."
The smile was gone in an instant. "From my father. I see," his voice was flat. "And what does Magister Halward want, pray tell?"
"A meeting," Aldaron said, and it was painful. This would only end badly, he was certain of it.
"Let me see this letter," Dorian said stiffly, and held out a hand. Aldaron handed it over without question. Dorian practically tore the thing open and Aldaron watched his eyes scan over the words on the page. " 'I know my son,' " he scoffed when he finished reading, "What my father knows about me would barely fill a thimble. This is so typical," he ground out, frustrated and gesturing widely, "I'm willing to bet this 'retainer' is a henchman, hired to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter."
If all the stories about Tevinter were true that would not be a surprise, but Dorian always insisted that they were exaggerations. "You think your father would actually do that?" Aldaron asked.
"No," Dorian acknowledged, "Although I wouldn't put it past him. Let's go. Let's meet this so-called 'family retainer.' If it's a trap, we escape and kill everyone, you're good at that." That was probably the only thing that Aldaron was good at. "If it's not, I send the man back to my father with the message that he can stick his alarm in his 'wits end.' "
Aldaron was actually rather surprised by Dorian's reaction. He seemed not just angry, but furious. The man had never spoken about his family before, though, so Aldaron could not help wondering why. How did he say this tactfully? "There seems to be bad blood between you and your family."
Dorian actually laughed, and Aldaron worried for a moment he had said something wrong. "Interesting turn of phrase," the mage commented. "We've never talked about my family before. They're not happy with my choices, you see, nor I theirs."
"What choices? Leaving Tevinter?" Aldaron asked. Being completely estranged like this would have been unheard of in his clan, so Aldaron did not understand how someone could be so angry with their family. There were arguments, certainly, but Aldaron had never known someone to cut all ties like this. Things were very different where Dorian came from, though, and he knew that.
"That too," Dorian said, but did not elaborate. Whatever choices Dorian had been talking about, that was not one of them. What else then? Politics? Blood magic? Slavery? That was all anyone talked about when they spoke of Tevinter. Aldaron was curious, full of questions that he knew he had no right to ask.
"Let's go meet this retainer, then," Aldaron offered. The least he could do was make sure that Dorian did not face this alone. "We can leave at first light, I'll tell Josephine." They had only just returned to Skyhold that morning, after all, he expected that both of them would appreciate a proper night's sleep in a proper bed.
"That sounds good to me," Dorian agreed. "I wonder how much my father paid this man to wait around just in case I showed?" he pondered thoughtfully, "We'll find out soon enough, I suppose."