Dorian had never woken up beside someone before. At least not without a mounting sense of panic and scrambling to get dressed and get out before anyone noticed he was still there. Spending the night was not something that was done in Tevinter, especially not between two men. Spending the night implied a level of intimacy and certain emotions that the people there did not approve of. Even married couples rarely shared the same bed longer than necessary.

There was a momentary panic when Dorian woke and realized he was not in his own room. When he realized he was still in the Inquisitor's quarters, in the Inquisitor's bed, and that the sun was just beginning to rise. He sat up, instinctively moving to get out before anyone noticed. The weight of an arm slung carelessly across his waist stopped him before he so much as pushed the covers back. He stopped and he looked down at the man beside him.

Aldaron was curled up on his side, one arm flung across Dorian's body and the other tucked up against his chest. His hair was an even worse mess than usual, his face half buried in a pillow but lips parted slightly as he slept. He looked absolutely content. Unable to help himself, Dorian reached out and carefully brushed a lock of hair off the elf's face to better see what he looked like without those perpetual lines of worry and fear that usually lined his features. Perfect, gorgeous. The light touch was enough to make him stir slightly. A light sleeper. Dorian pulled his hand away immediately, but it was too late. He turned his head away from the pillow and those dark eyes fluttered open, blinked slowly. "Dorian?" his voice was rough with sleep and soft, barely more than a whisper.

"Go back to sleep, amatus," Dorian replied softly. It was still early, and the Maker knew Aldaron did not get enough sleep as it was.

Aldaron turned a bit more, took the hand away from Dorian's waist to rub the sleep from his eyes. Dorian felt the loss more keenly than he was willing to admit. "Are you leaving?" the elf asked, looking up at him. Dorian had no answer. He had been, for a moment, but now he was not certain. It was harder now that Aldaron was looking at him with those puppy dog eyes. When Dorian did not answer the elf reached out to him again, laying his hand on Dorian's arm. "Stay. Please."

Why did he have to make this so difficult? "It's still early enough I can make it back to my room and change clothes before anyone is awake to notice me leaving your quarters in the same thing I wore yesterday," Dorian tried to explain, though he doubted Aldaron would understand. Aldaron had never understood. But he also never heard the things people said about the evil Tevinter magister and how he was corrupting their pure Herald of Andraste.

"Oh," was all that Aldaron said in reply, let his hand fall away from Dorian's arm.

"It's better they don't have any more fuel for their gossip," he tried to explain. It was Aldaron's reputation he was thinking about. Just because people were more willing to tolerate relationships between two men down here didn't mean they would tolerate it in someone of the Inquisitor's standing. Or with someone like Dorian. And if he was honest with himself, Dorian was also trying to protect what little reputation he had left. He didn't know how the masses would react and he wasn't in any hurry to find out.

"You didn't seem bothered by that a few days ago," Aldaron murmured and sat up slowly.

He had said something rather flippant about it, hadn't he? "That was… before," Dorian tried to explain. When he'd thought this would be just a bit of fun on the side, maybe only a one-time thing. Easy to brush off any scornful rumors when there wasn't any emotion vested in it. It wasn't like that anymore.

Aldaron sighed softly and looked down at his lap where his hands were twisted in the sheets. "If that's what you want," he said softly, "I won't stop you."

The words twisted like a knife in Dorian's heart. He felt terrible running off like this. It was odd, he'd never felt bad about it before, but no one had ever asked him to stay before. Regardless of his feelings, though, a lifetime of experience told him this was the proper course of action. "It's better like this," he tried to sound reassuring, leaned over to kiss Aldaron on the cheek. "Besides, I'm certain you have a mountain of reports to read, and I would only be in the way if I stayed here." He climbed out of bed before Aldaron could do anything further to weaken his resolve. "How about this," he suggested as he dressed, trying to brighten the mood a little. "I join you for dinner again tonight, but this time it really is my idea and there are two glasses for the wine?"

He turned in time to see the smile quirk one side of Aldaron's mouth. "That sounds nice," the elf replied.

"Good," Dorian felt surprisingly relieved to see that smile. He didn't want to dwell on the feeling too much, however, and busied himself with pulling on his boots. "Then I'll see you this evening."

"I'll look forward to it," Aldaron said. He sounded for all the world like he meant it. He probably did, Dorian realized with a little shock. Imagine that.

Fully dressed, Dorian took a moment to tame his hair and mustache back into place before saying his farewells and stealing one last kiss before fleeing down the stairs. He hoped he hadn't lingered too long, but thankfully the main hall was devoid of activity when he peeked out the door and he was able to slip out of the Inquisitor's quarters unnoticed. That was the most important, that no one see him coming from there. If anyone saw him later – and it was inevitable that he passed a couple people on the way back to his room – they would draw their own conclusions, he was certain. But as long as no one actually saw him leave the Inquisitor's rooms in the small hours of the morning he could deny all of it. And that was something he had a lot of practice with.

When evening rolled around Dorian made his way down to the kitchens. He did not have Aldaron's skill in pilfering delicacies out from under the cook's nose, but through wit and charm and a handful of clever lies managed to procure the desired meal and even a kitchen maid to help him deliver it.

Unsurprisingly, arriving at the Inquisitor's quarters found the elf hunched over the desk in the corner of the room, papers littering the surface. Running a semi-religious international political organization certainly seemed to involve a lot of paperwork. Dorian wasn't all that surprised. He'd seen the amount of paper that crossed a magister's desk, and the Inquisitor certainly had a wider scope of influence and responsibility. Dorian did not envy him. Aldaron looked up from his papers with tired eyes and a dour expression that brightened the moment he saw Dorian.

"Is it that late already?" the Inquisitor asked.

"You're really quite terrible at keeping track of time, aren't you?" Dorian asked in reply. He set down what he was carrying, waited for the kitchen maid to set down her burden as well, and then waved her off.

"Do you always answer a question with a question?" Aldaron said.

Dorian smiled and purposefully needled him. "Would you like me to answer in some other fashion?"

The Inquisitor rolled his eyes as he set his papers aside and rose from his desk. "You're impossible sometimes."

"Only sometimes?" Dorian grinned. "I must try harder. Come. Sit, eat. Tell me all about your Inquisiting."

And Aldaron did, joining Dorian on the sofa with an exhausted sigh and gratefully accepting the offered glass of wine. His day had been long and boring, so they ended up speaking about other more interesting and less serious things.

"May I ask you something?" Dorian queried when they were halfway through a bottle of wine and Aldaron was just beginning his housecat impression.

"You ask me lots of things without permission," the elf replied.

"I suppose I do," Dorian admitted. For some reason he felt the need to ask permission for this subject. He expected it to be rather touchy. "Well, you don't have to answer, but I was wondering… You always speak as though you hate your position, being Herald or Inquisitor and all that. So I'm curious, why did you accept? You could have turned down the position, I imagine. Might have been awkward, but I doubt anyone would stop you from leaving if you'd wanted."

Aldaron did not answer right away. He stared down at the half-empty wine glass in his hand and frowned. "I don't think I could," he said eventually. "I couldn't walk away. I'm the only person who can close the rifts."

"Very well," Dorian granted. He doubted he would be able to walk away if that were the case, either. "The position, though – Inquisitor – you could have refused?"

Aldaron took a sip of wine and shook his head slowly. "I don't think so," he said again. "You didn't see… Well, maybe you did… The way people look at me and talk to me, like they think I'm perfect. I tried not being the Herald of Andraste," he said, and made a face as he said the title. "They wouldn't let me. Everyone thinks I can do anything; save the world and all that. And maybe I can, I don't know, but… I want to try. This… This isn't a problem I could walk away from, even without this thing," he glanced down at his hand. The anchor doesn't look like much when it's not closing rifts, an old scar maybe. "If there's anything I could do to make things right again, I want to do it. I've just… never had this much responsibility before."

Dorian thought he understood. Aldaron was doing what he thought was right, what he thought needed to be done to bring peace and stability back to the world, his personal feelings aside. The people wanted to follow him, so he would lead. "Well I think you're handling it magnificently," Dorian said honestly, but also in an attempt to lighten the mood. He'd known it was a serious topic, but hadn't intended to make everything so melodramatic.

Aldaron smiled the tiniest bit. "Thank you," he said, though he didn't quite sound like he believed it.

"You never talk much about before," Dorian tried to change the subject to something a little more cheerful. "What were you before you were the Herald of Andraste?"

"I was a hunter," Aldaron replied. Dorian wasn't at all surprised to hear it. The words flowed easily between them after that. The reminisced and spoke of everything and nothing, sat too close together, but Dorian did not press to move their activities beyond talking and kissing. Aldaron wanted slow, and Dorian didn't know how that worked but he was trying. He refused the offer to stay the night.

Two days later they departed Skyhold and all thoughts of romance had to be set aside.

Aldaron was pacing. He walked from one end of the rampart to the other, turned on the ball of his foot and walked back. He was restless, jumpy. Only one day. Less than one day, only a matter of hours before they launched the assault on Adamant Fortress. He was nervous, frightened.

"Please stop pacing, it's incredibly distracting," Dorian complained from where he was leaning against the stone wall nearby, backlit by the sun setting red over the desert. He was reading a book, and Aldaron wasn't sure where it had come from. "Also exhausting just to watch."

The man had showed up not long after Aldaron had climbed to the wall top in search of some privacy and open air. He felt confined in the fortress, especially when it was so crowded with people and supplies that he felt he could barely move. They were not totally alone up here, his pacing was occasionally interrupted by the soldiers on patrol, but at least he could feel the wind. Dorian – and this was quickly becoming predictable – knew exactly where to find him when he was being elusive.

"Sorry," Aldaron said, and forced himself to come to a stop a few paces from the man. "I'm just nervous." What the mage was doing here Aldaron wasn't certain. Watching him pace, obviously, but surely there was somewhere else he could be if it was annoying? Varric probably had a game of Wicked Grace going somewhere. Surely that would be better company than he was at the moment.

"I can tell," Dorian replied without looking up from his book. "Do you want to tell me the plan again? Would that make you feel better?"

He'd already told Dorian a half dozen times, been over it with his advisors at least twice that many trying to find any holes or loose ends. But it was solid. As solid as it could be, at least. Still, Aldaron began talking anyway, if only to keep himself from pacing again. "Cullen's troops will breach the walls, get us a way in and try to keep the bulk of the Warden forces occupied so we can find Warden-Commander Clarel. With me will be Stroud, Blackwall, Cole, and—,"

"Me," Dorian interrupted.

"You," Aldaron confirmed, looking up at him. "I'm hoping we can talk the Wardens into standing down, and they may be more willing to listen to one of their own. Cole has been to Adamant before; his knowledge of the fortress could be useful. And if they've already begun summoning demons then we'll need a good mage to help deal with them."

"And I am a very good mage," Dorian said confidently. "It's a good plan, very well thought out. The Commander knows what he's doing; you have nothing to be worried about."

"There are a hundred things that could go wrong," Aldaron protested.

"And a hundred things that could go right," Dorian replied. "And no way to know either way until they happen." That was true, Aldaron nodded slowly, but not particularly comforting. "So there's no point in worrying until then."

"I can't help it," Aldaron sighed. His mind had been occupied by this for days, it would be impossible to stop thinking about it until he matter was dealt with.

"You need a distraction," Dorian interrupted his thoughts.

Which was what Dorian had provided him with plenty of times before. "Do you have any suggestions?" Aldaron asked.

"The way I see it we have two options," Dorian began, "Either I begin reading aloud from this frighteningly awful book, which will likely bore you to sleep, or we go see what this place is trying to pass off as food."

"Are books and food the only things you think about?" Aldaron asked.

Dorian pretended to be offended, "I'll have you know I spend a great deal of time thinking about how incredibly handsome I am," he replied, "And nearly as much time thinking of how good your ass looks in those pants." Which made Aldaron blush and shift self-consciously. "But obviously my stunning good looks haven't served to distract you yet, so we must consider other options."

Eating was probably a good idea. He shouldn't go into battle on an empty stomach and the morning might leave him too nervous to keep anything down. He might not be able to keep anything down tonight, for that matter. This was the most nervous he remembered being in his entire life. No, that wasn't true. He'd been this nervous before closing the breach, but he'd been nauseous then too. "I should probably eat," he said absently.

"Good choice," Dorian closed his book with a snap. "Well, I may think differently once I see what sort of unidentifiable slop they're claiming is edible."

"It's not that bad," Aldaron protested. Tasteless and unidentifiable, yes, but when cooking to feed an entire army it was quantity over quality.

"Do you southerners have any sense of taste? Or has it been lost along with your ability to feel cold?" Dorian asked, beginning to lead the way back down into the keep. Aldaron took one last breath of fresh air before following him.

Predictably, Dorian complained about the food when they got it, tried to sweet talk the cook into giving them something better, failed, and ate everything he was served anyway. By the time they finished eating activity in the keep was winding down for the night. Dorian walked with the Inquisitor back to his tent and glanced around hesitantly before stealing a very quick kiss. "Don't worry about tomorrow. I'm certain everything will go exactly according to plan." Aldaron wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or not. He hoped not. Dorian was leaving before he had a chance to reply. Despite his offers the man had doggedly refused to spend the night with him since their first and only time and Aldaron didn't know why. He had seemed uncomfortable the morning after, was that the problem? Was he uncomfortable sharing a bed with anyone? Or was it only a problem with Aldaron?

The Inquisitor shook his head and slipped into his tent to try and get some sleep. That was a problem to worry about when all this was over.

The fortress was crawling with demons. They had begun the ritual already. It was too late to save the Warden mages who had already been bound, but perhaps they could prevent any more from completing the ritual. That was what drove Aldaron forward, what kept him shouting, begging the Wardens to stand down even though so few of them listened. There was no easy way through the fortress. They followed whatever path was open to them past barred doors and collapsed halls. The winding route led the Inquisitor and his companions up across battlements and through abandoned fortifications. There were demons around every corner, Wardens and Inquisition soldiers wherever he looked. They found Hawke holding back a pack of demons almost single-handedly and complaining loudly to nobody in particular about blood magic. When the area was clear enough for Inquisition soldiers to move in the Champion fell in with them. Aldaron would not protest the extra support. The whole situation was as bad as his worst expectations.

Aldaron was breathing heavily by the time they finally found their way to the inner courtyard. His hand had been aching and tingling all day and it was getting worse. He knew why, of course, and when they burst into the courtyard he was not at all surprised to see the ethereal green glow of a rift lighting up the area.

There, at the top of the stairs at the far end of the courtyard stood the Warden-Commander, beside her the magister that had fled them in the Western Approach – Erimond. They arrived just in time to watch Clarel draw a knife across the throat of one of her soldiers, too late to do anything to stop it. A stupid waste of life. But they could still stop the ritual. Aldaron leapt forward, shouted, heedless of the obvious danger he was putting himself in but desperate to stop this before it got worse. "If you complete that ritual you're doing exactly what Erimond wants!"

They had their excuses, their reasoning. Aldaron wasn't listening. Nothing was worth what this was doing to the Wardens, what this would do to the world. Let them make their excuses, let them argue, none of it mattered in the end. "You're being used," he bit out in frustration. "And some of you know that, don't you?" And they did, at least some of them did, and the others were beginning to doubt. He could see Clarel hesitate to complete the ritual, to summon whatever demon was waiting on the other side of that rift.

Erimond, however, had other ideas. "My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor!" the magister called down to him, "He sent me this to welcome you!"

The last of his words were almost cut off by the screech of a dragon. Aldaron's heart stopped for the briefest of moments as he turned panicked eyes to the sky. He remembered that sound. Coryhpeus' pet dragon or archdemon or whatever it was. It came into sight over the walls and Aldaron barely had time to leap for cover as it sent fire and rubble raining down over the courtyard.

He scrabbled to his feet as the dragon perched itself on a ruined tower almost tauntingly and gripped his daggers tight, wracking his brain for what to do. This was not something they had planned for. In the future he would always plan for dragons. Distracted as he was by the dragon Aldaron did not see what transpired between Erimond and Clarel. He heard the magister cry out in alarm and looked over only in time to see the man run away and hear Clarel's shouted order of "Help the Inquisitor!"

Having the Wardens on their side was of little comfort when faced with an army of demons and brainwashed mages and an archdemon looming in the sky. The courtyard seemed to explode into chaos the moment that Erimond fled. Aldaron moved on instinct alone, cutting his way through demons and Wardens alike. "We have to get to Erimond!" he shouted back to his companions. The magister had just pulled an archdemon out of nowhere, who knew what other tricks he had up his sleeve.

Cole was the first one at his side, "Clarel is hurting – we have to help her," he said.

"She went after Erimond. Do you know where they are?" Aldaron asked.

"That way," Cole pointed. Aldaron barely spared a glance to make sure the others were following before he took off running. Above them the dragon screeched and circled, roared down blasts of flame that had Aldaron ducking behind columns and casting fearful looks at his companions to ensure that they were still safe. A little singed around the edges – Dorian's hair was ruffled; Blackwall's shield had more scorch marks than paint – but otherwise fine.

They finally caught up to Clarel and Erimond where ruined bridge cut off the magister's escape. Aldaron was too far away to hear what they were saying, but the Warden-Commander advanced with a deadly intent, flinging spells at the man with enough force to send him to the ground. Aldaron leapt forward to intervene before she could kill him – the magister had to have information they could use, knowledge of Corypheus' plans – but the screech of a dragon, the sound of leathery wings, that shadow that fell over them froze him in place. And then he could only watch as Clarel was picked up and flung about like a rag doll before being dropped again in a bloody heap on the stones before them. And then the dragon turned its attention on the Inquisitor and his companions. And it was between them and the only route of escape. Aldaron backed away instinctively, panic rising up in his chest as he stared down the dragon – archdemon, whatever it was – once again. His mind flashed back to Haven, and that terrifying night and he felt just as terrified and just as helpless as he had then. A dragon. How do you kill a dragon?

Movement caught his eye and somehow Aldaron managed to tear his gaze away from the massive creature to look beneath its feet. Clarel was alive. Somehow. Barely. As Aldaron watched the Warden-Commander raised her hand and with what was very likely the absolute last of her strength sent a bolt of lightning shooting up into the dragon. The creature screamed in pain and lurched forward. Aldaron threw himself to the side, barely getting out of the way before the massive creature hit the stones where he had been standing. The dragon roared furiously as it scrabbled forward, away from its attacker, and off the edge of the broken bridge. Its impact had weakened the structure, though. The stones were crumbling under Aldaron's feet as he rose again. The whole thing was going down, they had to get out of here. He glanced around in a panic, but everyone else seemed to have realized the same thing and was fleeing back toward the fortress. Aldaron followed, making certain to keep his companions in front of him where he could see them. A rock gave way beneath his foot and he stumbled, reached out a hand to steady himself but there was nothing there to hold onto. He was falling. Panic seized him, clutched at his heart like a fist, sent his stomach into his throat. The ground loomed up below him and he threw his hands out instinctively for all the good it would do.

There was a stabbing pain in his hand, like closing a rift, but there was no rift to close. Then the only thing he could see was green light.

He was falling, falling.

Not falling.

And the ground was above him? And then not as he hit it hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Confused and scared and aching Aldaron staggered to his feet and looked around. This was not Adamant. That much was obvious from the first glance. There was no sign of the fortress and everything had a green tint to it, like looking through stained glass. What had happened? Where was he?

"Where are we?"

The voice came from above him. Aldaron turned to look and nearly fell over again because Stroud was standing on a wall, on the side of a wall.

"We were falling…"

He spun around to face the next voice only to find that Hawke was upside down. This was impossible. What was going on?

"No, no no no no," Cole's terrified voice broke through Aldaron's own confused and panicked thoughts, drawing his attention to the boy, who was at least standing on solid ground. "This is the Fade. But I'm stuck. I can't… Why can't I…?" The Fade? Then Aldaron had opened a rift. The green light, the pain in his hand, he had controlled the anchor, though unconsciously. But there was no sign of the way they had come through, and he couldn't remember how he'd opened the rift that got them here. "This place is wrong," Cole continued, his voice still lined with fear. "I made myself forget when I made myself real, but I know it wasn't like this."

"This isn't how I remember the Fade, either," Hawke added.

"The first time I entered the Fade it looked like a lovely castle filled with gold and silks," Dorian interjected, entirely too cheerful for the current situation. "I met a marvelous desire demon, as I recall. We chatted and ate grapes before he attempted to possess me." Aldaron startled and stared at him in muted horror that Dorian could talk about nearly being possessed as though it were a fond memory. "Perhaps the difference is that we're here physically. This is no ones dream."

That actually made sense. Aldaron had always thought of the fade as an illusion, because the was how everyone else experienced it. But there were holes in the sky letting demons out so the Fade had to be a physical place.

"The stories say you walked out of the Fade at Haven," Hawke said, and turned to face him, but the man was still upside down and it was incredibly unnerving. "Was it like this?"

Aldaron raked his brain for any memory of the conclave and what had happened to him there, but he could recall nothing. He wasn't even certain he had walked out of the Fade like everyone said. "I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "I still can't remember what happened then."

"Well, whatever happened at Haven, we can't assume we're safe now," Hawke shrugged. Aldaron wished he could be of more help. "That huge demon was right on the other side of that rift Erimond was using, and there could be others." The demon that Clarel had been summoning, halfway through the ritual when they interrupted, but still stuck on this side of the rift.

"In our world the rift the demons came through was nearby, in the main hall. Can we escape the same way?" Blackwall suggested.

It seemed the only choice unless Aldaron could figure out how to open a rift again, if it was even possible to open one from this side. He glanced down at his hand but the anchor was once again inactive. "It seems like our best option," the Inquisitor said, and turned his gaze toward the sky. He could see the rift in the distance, swirling in the dark sky like the breach in their own world. "There. Let's go."