The sun was barely a glimmer of red over the mountaintops when Dorian rolled out of bed. It was an absolutely criminal hour of the morning, when no sane person should be awake. Then again, Dorian had slept little the night before. He had spent most of the night awake and staring at the ceiling while his mind quite uncooperatively went over every horrible thing that could happen that day. When the sky began to lighten he gave up trying to sleep (they were set to leave soon anyway) and resigned himself to facing the day, whatever horrors it might bring.

By the time he made his way down to the courtyard, stifling a yawn and doing his best to ignore the nervous roiling of his stomach, the Inquisitor was already there, dressed for travel and stroking the nose of that enormous deer creature he insisted on riding. Beside him, a scout in Inquisition armor held the reigns of Dorian's horse and another, both already saddled and ready.

"I wasn't aware we would be having company, Inquisitor," Dorian commented, his voice a hollow attempt it's usual silvery tone.

The Inquisitor – Aldaron, he corrected himself somewhat giddily – looked over his shoulder to meet Dorian's eyes in a way that made the man's stomach flip with a completely different sort of nerves. "Cullen insisted," he explained.

It was nearly a full day's ride to Redcliffe if they had no delays. The roads out of the mountains were generally well traveled by Inquisition troops, and with relative peace brought back to the Hinterlands their trip would probably be uneventful. The Inquisitor can face down monsters and demons, but he can't take a day trip without supervision. Ridiculous. Or maybe it was Dorian they didn't trust. That seemed more likely. Did they expect this was all an elaborate rouse to kidnap the Inquisitor and spirit him away to Corypheus' hideout for a slow and painful death? Actually, someone probably did think that. Dorian wouldn't be surprised.

"Well, the more the merrier, as you Southerners say," Dorian replied, despite not finding anything merry about it. He expected this entire trip to be dreadful. The one bright point was supposed to be getting the rare chance to spend time with Aldaron. The elf was so stuffy around Skyhold. All straight backed and serious faced; never smiled, never laughed. But Dorian was beginning to figure out that if you got him alone, the Inquisitor let down his walls a bit. Dorian had even managed to get half a smile out of him once, a fact he was very proud of.

"We should be going, Inquisitor," the scout interrupted, and pushed reins into Dorian's hands, watching him with narrowed eyes. She clearly did not like him much, perhaps one of the conspiracy theorists herself. Well, he supposed they had to send someone who wouldn't hesitate to knife him in the back at the slightest hint of blood magic.

"Of course," the Inquisitor nodded. "Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Dorian replied. Could one really ever be fully prepared to meet their family's hired goons? Probably not. And Dorian was quite convinced that the 'retainer' was just that. His father wasn't stupid enough to think that some paper-pusher could convince him to run back home.

He was right about the trip being uneventful. They ran into no trouble on the road, save a short delay for a farmer to drive a herd of sheep across the road. Didn't even stop for lunch, just travel rations and a flask of wine that Dorian probably drank a little too quickly. His mind kept coming up with new and unique ways this meeting could go horribly wrong. He vacillated between burning anger and gut-wrenching nervousness. Anger at the fresh reminder of everything his father had done to him, a lifetime of disappointment. Nervous that they would walk into a tavern full of mercenaries ready to knock him over the head and drag him home so his father could finish what he'd started. But if that happened, at least the Inquisitor was here. Aldaron would have his back, right? The elf had gotten himself out of worse situations than that.

By the time they rode into Redcliffe village in the mid-afternoon Dorian was really wishing for some more wine. Or something stronger. He dawdled and delayed, saw that the horses were tended, suggested that they go shopping. The scout – he never had gotten her name – was glaring at him, but Aldaron was being infinitely patient. At least Dorian liked to think he was being patient. That was sort of the same face he always had in public; emotionless and unreadable, but pleasant enough that his silence wouldn't be considered rude.

Dorian could not delay forever, though. Eventually he had to face this. He marched up to the tavern door with determination, then faltered as he reached for the handle.

"Wait out here," the Inquisitor was instructing their stalwart chaperone, "I'll call if we need you."

"Of course, Your Worship."

Dorian did not need to look to know that she was still glaring at him suspiciously.

"Let's go, Dorian." Aldaron's voice brought him out of his momentary stupor. The words were an order, but the tone was gentle. Dorian grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open.

As soon as he stepped inside he knew that something was wrong. "No one's here. This doesn't bode well." His eyes darted around, expecting someone to leap from the shadows at any moment. He almost wished they had, because the voice he heard next simultaneously sent a chill down his spine and reignited the furious anger he'd felt upon first reading that letter. "Father."

He should not be here. This was too personal, too private. Aldaron felt like he was intruding. It wasn't really his business, was it? He should probably go, leave Dorian to speak to his father in private. But he didn't. The man was so obviously nervous the whole trip to Redcliffe, and then the raw emotion in his voice, the way he kept glancing at Aldaron. He understood now why Dorian seemed to see through him, to understand him so well. Dorian wore a mask, too, albeit one less rigid than the Inquisitor's. Dorian hid behind his narcissism and his carefree good humor while the world fell down around them. Now he was letting Aldaron see behind to the betrayed and heartbroken man inside. Just like Aldaron had shown Dorian in Redcliffe, and in Haven.

He couldn't just abandon him. Not even after things calmed down. Aldaron just retreated to the far side of the tavern and tried not to eavesdrop while Dorian finally spoke calmly to his father.

It probably wasn't his place to push them to talking as he had, but family was very important where Aldaron came from. Before all this, the clan was all he knew. Now he had been away from them for months, the longest he had ever been away from his family, and it was possible he might never see them again. The thought tore at his heart, and he wouldn't wish the same pain on anyone. Maybe someday, when the wound was less fresh, Dorian would want to reconnect with his family. Aldaron wanted him to have the chance, at least.

He kept an eye on the two men at the far side of the room and tried not to be obvious about it. It felt like ages he stood there, hovering by the window and glancing over at Dorian every few seconds. Finally the two men stepped apart, shared a few last words, and then his father left, letting the door swing shut behind him. Dorian stayed where he was for a long moment, staring at the closed door, and then sat down heavily at the nearest table.

Without thinking, Aldaron left his spot by the window and went to his side. He knew that none of this had been easy for Dorian, and he wanted to help, but he didn't know what to say.

"He says we're alike, too much pride," Dorian murmured before Aldaron could even open his mouth. He was staring down at the wood of the tabletop, apparently deep in thought. "Once I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now I'm not certain. I don't know if I can forgive him."

"He tried to… Change you?" Aldaron asked hesitantly. It was wrong to pry, he knew that, but he wanted to understand. What had Dorian's father done to drive his son away like this?

"Out of desperation," Dorian replied with a sigh, and looked up at Aldaron. "I wouldn't put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away. Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside. He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me… acceptable. I found out. I left."

Aldaron could not hide his shock. He would resort to blood magic just because his son wouldn't marry who he wanted? Of course he would, the Inquisitor reminded himself, this was Tevinter they were talking about. "Can blood magic actually do that?" he asked instead, because it seemed less offensive, and because he really didn't know. Aldaron understood very little about magic, and even less so about blood magic. That was probably common knowledge by now.

"Maybe," Dorian shrugged with one shoulder. "It could also have left me a drooling vegetable." His eyes drifted back down to the tabletop. "It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal." He still sounded so broken up about it. Aldaron found the idea absolutely horrifying. No wonder Dorian wanted nothing to do with his family, if this ritual could have killed him, or worse. "Part of me has always hoped he didn't really want to go through with it. If he had…" Dorian continued softly. "I can't even imagine the person I would be now. I wouldn't like that Dorian."

Aldaron doubted that he would, either. Just another arrogant, bigoted Tevinter noble; exactly the sort of person Dorian hated. Maybe he shouldn't have made him come here. Maybe it would have been better to send the man away without talking to him. "Are you alright?" Aldaron asked earnestly.

"No. Not really," Dorian replied, much to Aldaron's surprise. Dorian obviously wasn't alright, but he had never expected him to admit it. Then he pushed his chair back and stood up. "Thank you for bringing me out here. It wasn't what I expected, but… it's something." He turned and looked at Aldaron, a wry, self-deprecating smile on his lips. "Maker must know what you think of me now, after that whole display."

"I don't think less of you," Aldaron was quick to assure him. He doubted there was very much that could make him think less of Dorian, especially after all this. He thought Dorian was… incredibly brave, and one of the most determined people he had ever met. "More, if possible."

Dorian looked surprised to hear that. He let out a breath of laughter. "The things you say," he murmured, shaking his head.

"I mean it," Aldaron insisted. He thought the absolute world of Dorian. No one else in the Inquisition seemed to understand him the way Dorian did. They all had such expectations of who and what he should be. No one else tried to get to know the man behind the Inquisitor. Only Dorian. And now, or perhaps from the start, he wasn't so afraid to let Dorian in. He wasn't afraid that Dorian would think less of him if he knew that inside the Inquisitor was frightened and confused and so out of his element that sometimes he felt like he was going mad. Dorian would understand. Because Dorian was the same way, wasn't he?

"My father never understood. Living a lie… it festers inside of you, like poison," Dorian sighed. Aldaron liked to think he understood. The Inquisitor was not him, but was slowly taking over every aspect of his life. It wasn't exactly the same, certainly, but perhaps it was similar enough. "You have to fight for what's in your heart," he said with determination. The determination that had drawn Aldaron to him in the first place.

"I agree," the elf murmured, and took a step toward Dorian to… he wasn't sure what. He just wanted to be close to him, suddenly. Touch him, hold him. Because he understood, and Dorian understood. His eyes met Dorian's and suddenly he knew exactly what was going to happen. His heart leapt in his chest, his breath caught in his throat, and then Dorian's lips were on his, hands on his waist. Aldaron's body moved without thinking, pressing closer to him, arms moving up around Dorian's shoulders, fingers carding in his hair. The man's lips were soft against his own and his mustache tickled. It was strange, but he liked it. He liked it a lot more than he would have thought. If he had thought about kissing Dorian before, that is. Which he definitely hadn't. At all. Ever.

Okay, maybe a little. Once.

Dorian pulled away much too soon for Aldaron's liking, and left the elf somewhat dazed. The man certainly knew how to kiss. Not that Aldaron had a lot to compare it with.

"I see you enjoy playing with fire, Inquisitor," Dorian's voice was barely above a whisper, low and breathy and accompanied by a smirk that made Aldaron's stomach do back flips. His brain had stopped working, he couldn't think of a single thing to say in response. He wanted to kiss him again, but Dorian was already stepping away. "At any rate, time to drink myself into a stupor. It's been that sort of day." He was already heading for the tavern's untended bar. "Join me, if you've a mind."

Aldaron watched him until the sound of the door opening pulled him back to the present. "Your Worship?" They must have been suspiciously quiet in here for too long. He turned slowly toward the scout in the door, still somewhat dazed. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," the Inquisitor answered automatically. Everything was more than alright. Heat was suddenly rising to his cheeks again, his ears burned. "I think we'll be staying the night. If you could find us some accommodations? Nothing fancy, but a proper bed would be nice." If Dorian truly intended on drinking himself into a stupor, and Aldaron wouldn't blame him right now, then he did not want the man sleeping on the ground in a tent. He imagined that would only make the hangover that much worse.

The woman nodded curtly and left, letting the door fall shut behind her. When she was gone Aldaron turned back toward the bar. Dorian had found a bottle of something amber colored and was pouring himself a liberal serving.

Now able to think clearly again, Aldaron hesitated. They had kissed, but what happened now? What did it mean for them? Aldaron did not have a lot of prior experience in relationships to draw from. Would this change things? Was Dorian expecting anything? Aldaron chewed the inside of his lip in concern for a long moment before slowly making his way to the bar and sliding into the seat beside Dorian's. The man looked over at him while he took an experimental sip of his drink. Then he reached across the bar, plucked up another cup, and poured Aldaron a drink as well.

"What are we drinking to?" Aldaron asked. He picked up the cup and sniffed at it – whiskey – then took a small sip. It wasn't pleasant.

"Warm family reunions," Dorian replied, tapping his cup against Aldaron's. The elf didn't reply, but took another sip of his drink out of respect. He certainly understood why Dorian was in a bad mood, why he was probably drinking to forget. They sat in companionable silence for a while, Dorian drinking, Aldaron turning his cup around in his hands.

"Now that you know all of my darkest secrets I think it's only fair that I learn some of yours," Dorian spoke, to break the silence before it became awkward.

"What do you want to know?"

"Tell me about your family," Dorian requested, much to Aldaron's surprise. "You've met mine, dreadful as it is, I hope yours is rather more cheerful. You're… Dalish? Is that the correct word here?"

"Dalish is the correct word everywhere," Aldaron told him, and frowned a little. What sort of question was that?

"Ah, my apologies," Dorian said, ducked his head shallowly and stared down into his cup. "We don't have Dalish clans coming north. For obvious reasons." Obvious reasons indeed. Reasons that they had notably avoided talking about before. The reasons for that were probably obvious as well. Aldaron did not want to know. He was probably happier not knowing.

"You want to know about my family?" Aldaron asked, quickly changing the subject before it got any more awkward. Not that the subject could be avoided forever, but Aldaron was happy to live in ignorant bliss for a little longer.

"Yes," Dorian replied with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm. Probably just as eager to change the topic of conversation. "All the sordid details. Mother, father, hoard of intolerable siblings?"

"I have one sibling," Aldaron told him, watching as Dorian topped off his drink. "A younger sister. She's twelve. Wanted to apprentice with the craftsmaster when I left, but she's probably changed her mind again by now. She can never stick with anything more than a couple weeks, it drives the Keeper insane." He smiled a little at the thought of his family, his clan. He missed them terribly, and wondered what they were doing now. There was little news out of the Free Marches and he didn't have much time for letter writing.

"You should do that more often," Dorian commented.

"Do what?"

"Smile," the mage clarified. "It suits you far more than that dour expression you usually wear. Yes, that's the one," he said, a little disappointed when the smile faded again.

"I suppose I haven't had much to smile about lately," Aldaron admitted. He had spent a long time being frightened and confused, and while the fear had lessened somewhat as he grew more familiar with the role he'd been thrust into, he was still wildly confused about a lot of things. Politics, mostly, and etiquette. Things that had never mattered before.

"That's a pity," Dorian replied. "It's a very nice smile. I'll have to work harder to see it more often."

Aldaron thought he probably would not mind if Dorian did. Generally he did find it easier to smile in the man's presence. It was easier to relax around Dorian. But he didn't know how to respond to such a statement, and before he could think of anything the tavern door opened again, interrupting his train of thought.

"Inquisitor?" the scout who had accompanied them this whole way interrupted.

"Yes?" Aldaron prompted, turning to face the woman.

"I've spoken with the tavern's owner. He says we can use the rooms here. The… Magister paid to have this place cleared out through the end of the week. We don't need to pay," she informed him.

Aldaron wondered idly how much it cost to rent out an entire tavern for a full week. Probably a lot more than he could guess. "Pay him for the night anyway," the Inquisitor instructed. That would be the polite thing to do. "And for the drinks," he added, nodding toward the now half-empty bottle of whiskey. Dorian was making quick progress.

"Of course, Your Worship," the scout answered curtly. "Will you need anything else?"

"Are the horses taken care of?" Aldaron asked.

"Yes, they are in the village stables. Your hart, too. I'm assured they'll be well tended."

If there was one thing that Aldaron liked about suddenly being a very important person, it was having someone else deal with things like this (strange as it was to have people waiting on his beck and call). Of course, a lot of the trouble he'd had dealing with innkeepers and stablemasters in the past had been because he was an elf. Now he probably wouldn't have the same problems. No one would dare call the Inquisitor a knife-ear; question his integrity or his ability to pay. "Thank you," he said honestly, "I think we'll be alright from here. You can… do whatever you like. We'll head back to Skyhold in the morning."

The scout nodded and gave a small bow before disappearing again. Aldaron had no idea where she was off to, but didn't care much, either. There was plenty of Inquisition presence in the area, he was not concerned for his or anyone's safety in Redcliffe. They would all be fine here for the night.

Aldaron had never seen anyone drink this much in his life. Of course, alcohol was not terribly common among the Dalish. When you live on the road you tend to carry only the necessities. Alcohol was made in small batches and saved mostly for celebrations. Casual drinking was rare, and certainly never to the extent that Dorian was currently enjoying. The man had gone through almost an entire bottle of whiskey by himself, and then a bottle of wine. Aldaron had been nursing a single glass of that whiskey the entire evening. He could feel the effects already - the slight buzz that made it harder to concentrate but easier to smile - but Dorian could barely sit upright anymore. When the bottle of wine was empty and the man stood up in search of more he nearly fell over. A hand on the bar top and the other on his chair somehow managed to keep him upright, also Aldaron's hand on his arm.

"I think you've had enough for tonight," Aldaron said, rising from his seat as well. "Let's get you to bed while you can still walk."

"Walking is overrated," Dorian complained.

"I can't carry you up the stairs, you're taller than me," Aldaron pointed out. Dorian sighed melodramatically. "Come on," the elf said, and pulled Dorian's arm around his shoulders as he began leading him toward the stairs.

"Yes, Your Worship," Dorian chuckled, and stumbled after Aldaron as he was pulled across the tavern floor. It was no easy task. There were chairs in the way and Dorian did not seem capable of walking in a straight line. He leaned against Aldaron probably more than was necessary, pressed a little too close to the elf's side to be considered appropriate.

"Do you have any idea how amazing you are?" Dorian's words were somewhat slurred and he leaned heavily on Aldaron as they reached the top of the stairs. "You don't, do you?" Aldaron didn't know what to say to that, so he stayed silent as he led Dorian to the closest room. He still didn't think he was anything special, despite all the evidence to the contrary. "Lord Inquisitor Lavellan," he slurred dramatically, swept his arm out to the side for added effect and nearly lost his balance. Aldaron pulled him back upright and through the door. There was only one bed in the room, but that was fine, he just needed to get Dorian into it. "Whole world bowing at your feet, but you…" he interrupted himself with a short laugh, "You don't even realize, do you? How much they all adore you." They were almost there, only a few more steps, but Dorian had stopped dead. With a hand on Aldaron's cheek he turned the elf's face toward him so that Aldaron had no choice but to meet his gaze. "How much I adore you." Before he could even process the words Dorian was kissing him again. His lips tasted like whiskey.

"You're drunk, Dorian," Aldaron said breathlessly when they parted.

Dorian smiled, "I am," he agreed, "I should be so more often. You should, too. Maybe… you'd smile more."

"You should go to bed," Aldaron mumbled, looking away as he felt his cheeks heat up.

"Will you join me?" Dorian leered and pulled the elf against his chest. Aldaron did not resist, but he blushed brighter and his ears burned. "When you blush your ears turn the most adorable shade of red, did you know that?"

"Dorian—," Aldaron did not get a chance to finish his stammered protest. Dorian pulled him toward the single bed and dropped back onto it, still holding Aldaron to his chest. He really should be resisting more than he was. He didn't want… Well, he did, but… He didn't know what he wanted, he was overwhelmed. This was all going much much too fast. He was too nervous, he wasn't ready. "Dorian," he protested again, pushing away from the man's chest. "You're drunk. You need to sleep."

"I will sleep," Dorian promised, and to Aldaron's great relief the man's eyelids were already drooping. "You should… stay."

"Dorian…" the words died on Aldaron's tongue. Dorian was already asleep. Aldaron pulled out of his slack grasp and scrambled away. In his rush the elf fell straight off the bed with an undignified thump and landed flat on his back, where he remained unmoving, staring at the ceiling while he waited for his heart to stop racing. This was a bit too much all at once. He liked Dorian, felt comfortable around him and felt like Dorian understood him better than anyone else here. That was what frightened him, actually. He liked Dorian too much.

Aldaron rolled over and climbed back to his feet. He needed fresh air. He needed to think.