Aldaron wasn't sure what he had expected the Fade to be like, but it probably wasn't this. And he certainly hadn't expected to find the Divine there. No, not the Divine, she was dead, but a spirit that had taken her form? Like Cole? Aldaron didn't understand what she was, nor did it matter to him as long as she continued helping them.

It was actually a relief to learn that he had not been sent by Andraste or the Maker or even one of his own gods. He'd done this by himself, to himself. The thought was simultaneously comforting and terrifying. Perhaps part of him had wanted to believe that there was some higher purpose behind everything that had happened to him since the conclave. But no, it had all been nothing but terribly bad luck.

Any sort of comfort he felt, though, was dampened by the gravity and horror of the current situation. For all intents and purposes they were trapped. Trapped in the Fade and at the mercy of an incredibly powerful demon.

The only thing that Aldaron could hope for was that he wouldn't remember most of this later, but he knew that was unlikely. This was not the sort of experience that memory blurred in time. Aldaron would not be that lucky. He kept going by not thinking about where they were, or what was happening, or anything really. Cole's fear was palpable and he wondered how this must feel to someone like him. Not quite human and not quite spirit but something in between. Aldaron could only imagine that the fear, the wrongness of this place and everything in it, were worse for him than it was for any of the others. For that reason Aldaron could not let his own panic consume him. He had to stay strong and get Cole and Dorian and all of them out of here. He pushed the fear down, pushed all his emotions aside, though it was harder now than it had ever been before, and thought of nothing except getting out of here. If he faltered for one moment he would break and he would not be able to continue.

The demon, the Nightmare, taunted them constantly, and no matter how hard he tried Aldaron kept hearing the same words over and over in his head.

"Some foolish little boy come to steal the fear I kindly lifted from his shoulders. You think that pain will make you stronger? The only one who grows stronger from your fear is me."

And it was true, wasn't it? He was just a foolish little boy. Walking through life pretending that he wasn't frightened; as though if he pretended hard enough someday it would be true. But it wasn't working. He wasn't any braver than he had been at Haven. He was still just a frightened child muddling his way through this and praying desperately that no one noticed.

"Number one rule of the Fade," Dorian's voice broke through his thoughts, the man suddenly beside him as they picked their way along the rocky ground, "Is don't believe anything a demon says. It's all lies and manipulation."

Aldaron looked over at him and Dorian didn't look frightened at all. How was that possible? How could he not be scared? Because he was a mage? He'd been to the Fade before, though not physically, and faced demons here before. Aldaron's only experience with demons was with the ones that came out of rifts, and they never talked.

The Inquisitor didn't reply, didn't trust his voice at the moment, just nodded and tried once more to put the Nightmare's words out of his mind. Lies. Manipulation. It wasn't true.

Except it was.

He shook his head and quickened his steps. Don't think about it. Just keep moving forward. Get out of the Fade, and then it won't matter.

But the Nightmare was there at the rift, unable to get through on its own but blocking their way forward. It was the most horrifying thing that Aldaron had ever seen. As soon as he laid eyes on its massive, grotesque form the elf wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and hide. Or vomit. Maybe both.

As he was trying to regain enough of his courage to even consider attacking that thing the spirit of the Divine glided forward, offered parting words that he almost did not hear, and flew straight for the Nightmare. Whether she intended to attack it or merely provide enough of a distraction for them to get past it didn't matter. There were other demons though, lesser fears and terrors. Even with the Nightmare out of the way there was no clear path to the rift. They would have to fight.

Dorian stumbled as he came out of the rift, hitting the ground harder than anticipated. He had to throw an arm out to the side to keep his balance, but managed to make himself not look too clumsy. He had emerged exactly where expected, in Adamant's inner courtyard, and took a moment to assess the situation there. Escaping the Fade hardly meant they were out of danger; the fortress had been crawling with demons when they left. There were no signs of demons now, however, though the courtyard was full of soldiers, all now staring at Dorian, Cole, and Blackwall in shock. Well, they had just walked out of the Fade; Dorian was rather shocked about it himself.

Assured that there was no immediate danger on this side, Dorian's mind turned back to threat he'd just escaped. He spun around and looked up at the rift, expecting Stroud and Hawke and Aldaron to come tumbling out of it any moment.

Any second now.

But the moment stretched on and they didn't come. Dorian waited and stared and the moment turned into an eternity as panic began to creep up his spine and clutch at his heart.

Where was he? Where was he?

No no no no no.

Not like this. Not now. Dorian had only had him for a few weeks, and he hadn't even properly understood what was right in front of him.

Please don't take him away this soon. Dorian hadn't even told him…

Maker knew why someone like Aldaron would want anything to do with someone like Dorian. Not that Dorian wasn't amazing in his own way, but no one could compare to the Herald of Andraste. Dorian had been in awe of him since the attack on Haven, possibly before that. But what could such a glorious creature see in someone like him? The Inquisitor was dazzling. Tireless, compassionate, fearless – no, not entirely fearless, but unafraid in the face of the impossible and terrified of the mundane. But also so full of doubt, so uncertain when there was no reason to be. An elf: Herald of Andraste and leader of what was quickly becoming the most powerful military and political organization in Thedas. Pride, he realized suddenly, he was proud of his lover and all that Aldaron had accomplished in such a short time.

Dorian wanted to tell Aldaron how amazing he was, but the words always stuck in his throat. He was unused to sentiment, uncomfortable expressing the depth of his emotions, petrified of the depth of his emotions.

And now he might never have the chance.

How had he fallen so far, so hard, so fast?

Aldaron might not walk out of the Fade this time. Dorian had let opportunity after opportunity slip through his fingers. Unbidden, the last picture he had of Aldaron came to his mind, the glance over his shoulder before leaping through the rift. Aldaron covered in the blood of his enemies, jaw set, hair wild, eyes black as the void, knuckles white on the hilts of his daggers, green glow around one hand. Put that on the cover of Varric's next book, that's what a hero looked like.

And Dorian might never get to see him again.

The rift flickered and Dorian's heart nearly stopped. Then Hawke tumbled out, nearly falling over when his feet hit solid ground.

And then there he was. The Inquisitor walked out of the Fade and made it look as easy as a stroll in the park. He was bloody and grim faced and the most perfect thing that Dorian had ever seen. He held his hand up and the rift closed with a snap. Dorian took two steps forward before he was able to stop himself. Don't make a scene. Not here. Not in front of all these people. But he was so relieved that he might cry, and yet terrified that he might be hallucinating - still trapped in some demon's illusion. He wanted to reach out and touch and hold and kiss and reassure himself that Aldaron was alive and whole, but now was not the time. Dorian forced himself to stay put, tense, exhausted and yet thrumming with energy. It was all he could do not to run up to Aldaron and sweep the elf into his arms and never let him go ever again. Somehow he managed.

Belatedly Dorian realized that someone was missing. Warden Stroud had not come out of the Fade and yet the Inquisitor had already closed the rift.

"Inquisitor," It was one of the Inquisition soldiers, running up to give a report as though the Inquisitor hadn't just done the impossible. Well, the impossible was becoming expected where their Herald was involved. "The archdemon flew off as soon as you disappeared. The Venatori magister is unconscious but alive. Cullen thought you might wish to deal with him yourself. As for the Wardens, those who weren't corrupted helped us fight the demons."

"We stand ready to help make up for Clarel's… tragic mistake," one of the Wardens spoke up, but whether he actually had the authority to make such promises Dorian had no idea. "Where is Stroud?"

That was the question of the hour. What had happened in there after he turned his back? Why had it taken so long for Aldaron to follow? "He didn't make it," the Inquisitor answered, voice and expression flat, emotionless. Dorian frowned. That didn't sound like the Aldaron he knew. That was the voice he used when passing judgment, when talking to diplomats that he didn't like. Dorian hated that voice.

The rest of the conversation Dorian barely listened to. A lot of talk about Grey Wardens and he really didn't care. He was more concerned about his lover and what had caused him to throw all of his walls up again and shut himself off from the world. Well, everything that had happened in the Fade, probably, but Dorian got the distinct feeling there was something he'd missed. Something important had happened in that short and yet impossibly long moment that they had been apart.

"Aldaron," he said when it seemed all the business was dealt with. The Inquisitor startled at hearing his name and looked over at Dorian as though noticing him for the first time. His face was still carefully blank, betraying nothing of what he felt. It was rather unnerving. "Are you alright?" Dorian asked and somehow managed to affect an almost casual tone in his question.

Aldaron stared at him for a long moment, and then simply nodded his head. "I'm fine," he said simply. "I have to find Cullen." And with that the Inquisitor brushed past him and disappeared into the crowd. There was no reassuring smile like Dorian usually received after a fight, no comforting words, no casual touch as the elf walked past, nothing.

It really shouldn't have hurt as much as it did.

The Inquisitor had disappeared so quickly it was as though by magic. Not to a tree- or wall-top as usual where Dorian might find him and ask what was wrong, but to actual Inquisition business. He was holed up in a tent somewhere with Cullen and Leliana recounting in minute detail what had happened during their little jaunt into the Fade. At least that was the word around camp when Dorian finally trudged off the battlefield filthy, exhausted, and more than a little annoyed.

He found the tent – their make-shift war room – and could occasionally hear voices within when they raised enough. Cullen, Leliana, Hawke, but not Aldaron. Dorian realized that the Inquisitor was probably still locked up in that little emotionless bubble that he withdrew into sometimes and was so very difficult to get him out of.

"I wouldn't risk it," Sera warned, much to Dorian's surprise, when she caught him staring at the tent as though he wanted to set it on fire (the idea had crossed his mind). "Went in there all scary Inquisitor-face. No fun like that. As like t' stab you as t' kiss you."

"What?" Dorian squawked, too tired to managed to hide his surprise at her last comment, and quick to try and play it off. "I— What are you talking about?"

"What?" the girl parroted and stared at him cluelessly, "Everyone knows you 'n him are havin' it on. Snoggin' in the library an' all that mush. Whatever, though, that's your business. I'm just sayin': don't go in there if y' wanna keep all your bits."

"I…" there weren't many things that could render Dorian Pavus speechless, but learning that his relationship with the Inquisitor was apparently common knowledge – who exactly did Sera consider 'everyone'? – was definitely one of those things. He'd tried to be as discrete as possible, and thought he was doing a good job. They barely touched in public, and had only kissed in the library one time. But despite all of his efforts was it still that obvious? "… Thank you?" he eventually finished, voice coming out much weaker than he would have liked.

Sera merely shrugged and walked away. Dorian took another look back at the tent and decided that he probably didn't want to deal with whatever was going on in there anyway. Aldaron would have to come out eventually. And Dorian really needed a change of clothes, so he turned away reluctantly and went off to find his own tent. Maker he couldn't wait to get back to Skyhold and have a bath. Who ever thought camping was a good idea?

Several hours later Dorian was in his tent, as cleaned up as was possible, examining his probably-ruined robes and wondering if Fade mud washed out. Was mud in the Fade different from regular mud? Just as he was deciding to ask Aldaron for new robes regardless – it was partly his fault they were ruined after all - there was suddenly movement at the tent opening. He looked over in time to see the subject of his thoughts duck inside. The Inquisitor had removed his armor, stripped down to shirtsleeves, and he looked absolutely exhausted.

Dorian barely had a chance to open his mouth for a greeting before he suddenly found himself with a lap full of elf and Aldaron was kissing him with a desperation Dorian had never felt before. It was shocking, but intoxicating – impossible not to respond to. His body reacted immediately, before his mind even registered what was happening, arms wrapping around Aldaron's waist as the elf pressed closer to him. When his brain finally caught up with his body, however, he realized that this was incredibly odd behavior for his lover, who had been almost afraid to touch him before.

With no insignificant amount of effort Dorian pulled away from the kiss. "Aldaron what are-?"

"Don't," the elf cut him off, pressed his face into the crook of Dorian's shoulder before the man could get a good look at his face. "Please just-," he sighed, breath hot against the bare skin on Dorian's shoulder. "I need-." He couldn't seem to finish a single thought, at least not in words. But the press of his lips against Dorian's skin, the roll of his hips, spoke volumes.

A better man probably would have pushed him away. The Inquisitor was clearly not himself. Most likely riding high on lingering adrenaline and whatever raw emotions their experience in the Fade had brought to bear. A better man would probably have pulled away and made the Inquisitor talk through his problems instead of drowning them.

Dorian was not that man. And Dorian probably needed this almost as much as Aldaron. To feel his lover's body warm and solid and undeniably real and alive after what they had been through.

So Dorian didn't push him away, he tilted Aldaron's face up toward him again and kissed him hungrily. Aldaron sighed against his lips and returned the kiss with equal fervor, clutching at him, pressing closer and rolling his hips in away that drew a soft moan from the man beneath him. Hands pulled at clothing, fumbling with buttons and buckles to get at the bare skin beneath. Shirts cast aside carelessly the pair tumbled onto Dorian's bedroll in a tangle of limbs. Their lips only parted in order to breath, and for Dorian to press open-mouthed kisses to the underside of Aldaron's jaw, his neck, his shoulders. He reveled in the soft sighs of pleasure that escaped the elf's mouth, didn't even care about the hands mussing his hair. There were already bruises beginning to form on Aldaron's arms, Dorian realized somewhere in the back of his mind, the marks of dozens of vanquished foes and a terrifying reminder that thought the Inquisitor did the impossible he was not impervious to harm.

"Dorian…" Aldaron sighed as the man sucked a much more pleasant bruise onto his collar. His hands trailed down, down, brushed along the top of Dorian's pants in an echo of his usual timidity. It was the only encouragement Dorian needed, not that he needed much in the first place, to bring his own hands down and quickly undo the ties that held Aldaron's breeches on. Pants and smallclothes were both gone in one smooth moment and then their lips met again as two pairs of hands made equally fast work of Dorian's remaining clothing.

All barriers between them cast side, Aldaron pressed up against Dorian, pulled the man closer to him. Both men moaned softly as their hips pressed together, skin sliding against skin for the first time. Aldaron hitched a leg up over Dorian's hip to hold him close, breathing out his name in a barely audible moan.

The elf was a lot stronger than he looked. Of course, with all his clothes on Aldaron didn't look like much at all; as thin as a twig and just as easily breakable. But underneath he was solid as a rock. Compact and lithe but everywhere that Dorian touched as he ran his hands over chest and stomach and thighs was firm and strong. His hands and leg easily held Dorian in place as they moved together, not that Dorian was inclined to pull away. At least he didn't pull away farther than it took to slip a hand between their bodies to wrap around both of them. The first stroke brought a gasp and a moan from Aldaron's lips. They moved together desperately, all sweat-slicked skin and grasping hands and open-mouthed kisses. Aldaron's breathing became more ragged, his moans louder and stifled against Dorian's lips and neck. The mage wasn't in a much better state, if he were completely honest with himself. They finished only moments apart and collapsed, panting in a tangle of limbs.

He must have dozed off because the next thing Dorian was aware of was waking up because it was cold and there was no lithe elven body wrapped around his to keep him warm. He opened his eyes and looked around the tent blearily. He shouldn't be upset or concerned about waking up alone, it's what he was used to, but Dorian was concerned. Because Aldaron wasn't like all of his previous lovers and if he wasn't here then something was wrong.

Shivering, Dorian propped himself up on his elbows to get a better look at the interior of the tent when there was barely any light to see by. He breathed an audible sigh of relief when he spotted the shadowy figure by the tent flap. Aldaron had dressed in just his pants and was sitting on the ground by the front of the tent, holding the flap open just enough to look out. He didn't look like he was about to bolt, but then what was he doing over there and not at Dorian's side?

"Amatus?" the man asked quietly, "What are you doing up?" It was the middle of the night judging by the stars he could see.

Aldaron turned his head slowly to look back at Dorian. It was too dark to make out his expression. "I can't sleep," the elf murmured, voice barely a whisper.

Dorian frowned and sat up slowly, "What's wrong?" he asked.

"They say when we dream our minds are in the Fade," Aldaron said breathlessly, voice trembling. Dorian wasn't sure where he was going with this, so he stayed silent and waited for him to continue. "At first I was afraid that we didn't make it out after all, that this was all an illusion… But it's not. We're here. And I…" his voice cracked, he stopped and swallowed heavily before continuing, "I don't want to go back there again. I can't-," his voice broke again and he buried his face in his hands to muffle a sob.

Dorian's body was moving before his mind was aware. All he knew was that suddenly he was by Aldaron's side and reaching out to him, a hand on his lover's shoulder but uncertain how to offer comfort.

"I can't do this, Dorian," Aldaron whimpered, words tight in the back of his throat, choked out through tears, "I'm not— I'm not a leader. I don't know what I'm doing, but everyone…" his breath was coming in ragged gasps now, he swiped furiously at the tears on his cheeks but they kept coming. Dorian didn't know what to do, he just sat close to him, rubbed his back in what he hoped was a soothing way, and listened. "Everyone trusts me, like I know best. I don't know anything. More good people are going to die and it's going to be my fault. Just like… just like…"

"Stroud's death was not your fault," Dorian insisted softly when Aldaron choked on the words, unable to get them out. It was a bad situation that couldn't possibly have had a good outcome; it was a miracle any of them made it out alive.

"It was!" Aldaron wailed, raising red, tearstained eyes to Dorian's face, close enough now that he could see properly even in the dim light. He was an absolute mess, cheeks lined with tears and eyes rimmed red – how long had he been crying? It was heartbreaking. "Someone had to cover our backs. They both volunteered, they made me choose! But how could I-? I chose at random, Dorian! I left a man to die because his name was the first one that came to mind!" That seemed to be the breaking point. Aldaron collapsed into Dorian's chest, fingers clutching at anything they could hold onto, digging in hard enough to bruise, tears hot against his bare skin.

It was then that Dorian first realized the full magnitude of the pressure constantly on the Inquisitor's shoulders. Aldaron shrugged it off most of the time, but the decisions he made daily put lives at risk. Here was a man barely out of his boyhood, who had never before spared a thought for politics, who never before had anything more pressing to worry about than where the next meal came from, who was happiest climbing trees and picking herbs. Then someone had laid the fate of the entire world in his hands like some priceless statue and said 'make sure you don't break this' before pushing him off a cliff.

"Amatus…" Dorian murmured, wrapping his arms around his lover's trembling shoulders. How could he possibly hope to say anything that would matter at this point? Dorian wasn't any good at dealing with real emotions. He found the solution to all of his problems at the bottom of a bottle of wine or in someone else's bed, and he had never really cared about anyone else's problems before. This was different, though. This time he did care; far too much, in fact. His heart ached as Aldaron gasped and sobbed and clung to him. "It's not your fault," he said, but the words felt hollow, meaningless. All the books he'd read, all the fancy words he knew, Dorian couldn't think of a single thing that would make this better. "You did everything you could. No one blames you, amatus."

Aldaron did not reply, but Dorian was certain he was past the point where speech was an option. The elf could barely breathe. Carefully, Dorian pulled him back toward the bedroll and lay down, holding Aldaron to his chest. He murmured meaningless things - endearments, reassurances – and rubbed his lover's back gently until his breathing calmed. Aldaron did fall asleep eventually, exhausted both emotionally and physically. Dorian held him close the whole time, staring up at the tent ceiling and feeling utterly useless.

He didn't fall asleep himself until much later.