Aldaron woke with a herd of druffalo stampeding through his skull and his mouth feeling as though he'd eaten sand. He tried to crack his eyes open, but immediately regretted it. Light was streaming in through the high windows and it pierced into his eyes like being stabbed. Groaning in misery, Aldaron squeezed his eyes shut again and pressed his face into the pillows below him. Everything hurt.
Distantly, beyond the pounding of his head, Aldaron heard someone moving around the room, and then he heard a voice from somewhere above him. "Ah, have you rejoined the land of the living?" That was Dorian's voice, which would normally put Aldaron in a good mood but right now he felt like death warmed over. He just wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Instead he pulled the pillow over his head to block out as much of the world as possible. "That bad, huh?" Dorian sounded slightly amused. Beside him the mattress dipped slightly as Dorian sat down and lifted the corner of the pillow enough to see Aldaron's face. The elf squeezed his eyes shut tighter and weakly swatted at Dorian's hand. "If you hadn't started drinking without me I imagine I'd be in much the same boat," he commented. "Come out of there."
"No," Aldaron protested. His voice sounded terrible even to his own ears. His mouth was dry and his throat raw.
"I brought you tea," Dorian said encouragingly, "As I am the most considerate and sympathetic lover the world has ever seen. It will make you feel better, I promise."
Aldaron groaned. Tea actually sounded fantastic right now, if only to soothe his throat, but he really didn't want to move. "Can't you magic it better?"
"If only," Dorian sighed regretfully, "Unfortunately I'm absolute rubbish at healing, so you'll have to make do with the tea. It does help. I know from experience. But you do have to sit up to drink it."
"Can't," Aldaron whined and tried to swat Dorian's hand away again to pull the pillow back over his face.
"Rubbish," Dorian scoffed, "Of course you can. At least open your eyes so you can look at my beautiful face."
Aldaron whined again, but did as he was asked. He was indeed greeted by the sight of Dorian peering down at him. The man had already dressed and styled his hair. How long had he been up? "What time is it?" Aldaron groaned.
"Well past eight bells," Dorian informed him, "Probably close to nine now." He pried the pillow out of Aldaron's weak grasp and tossed it aside, much to the elf's dismay. The sun was still far too bright, it made his head hurt even more. But was it really that late already? Aldaron had never slept that late in his entire life. He was always up with the sun, even when he could sleep properly. "Now, sit up," Dorian instructed, and reached for a cup on the bedside table. Aldaron struggled slightly upright and leaned back against the headboard. "Drink this. It tastes absolutely foul but… Well with how much of that Qunari swill you drank last night I imagine you've destroyed your sense of taste."
Accepting the cup that was pressed into his hands, Aldaron stared down at the steaming contents. Sitting up had set his stomach roiling, and he wasn't certain he could swallow anything without throwing up. "What is this?" he asked, trying to delay the inevitable.
"Mostly elfroot," Dorian answered. "Alright, it's entirely elfroot. You're mad about that stuff, so drink up."
Aldaron sighed in resignation and raised the cup to his lips. He downed the contents of the cup in two huge swallows. It was unbearably bitter, but soothed his throat going down. Face twisted in disgust, he held the empty cup back out to Dorian.
"I told you it was foul," Dorian said. He took the cup and placed it back on the side table. "But you should start to feel better soon. And there's more good news."
"What?" Aldaron asked, wishing Dorian had brought something to wash down the tea.
"You slept through the night," the man told him with a smile.
Aldaron stared at him for a long moment as realization slowly dawned on him that Dorian was right. It was morning now. Late in the morning. He hadn't woken up in the middle of the night, he hadn't had any nightmares. For the first time in nearly a month he had slept soundly for more than a couple hours. "I… I did," he breathed in disbelief. What did that mean? Were the nightmares finally going to stop? Could he finally go back to having a normal life? (Whatever normal looked liked since the Inquisition.) "I didn't have any nightmares," he said, a smile slowly spreading over his face.
"I'm glad," Dorian replied. He leaned forward to kiss Aldaron softly, a gesture the elf gladly accepted, disappointed when Dorian pulled away all too soon. "You taste like elfroot," the man said.
"It's your fault," Aldaron complained.
"If you hadn't gotten drunk, then you wouldn't have a hangover and need the tea," Dorian pointed out, "So I think you'll find it's not my fault at all."
"I'll remember that next time you have a hangover," Aldaron frowned and slumped down in bed again. The tea was helping a little bit, but he still felt bad. "What kind of mage can't cure a headache? Useless."
"That's not the tune you were singing last night," Dorian leered, "In fact, I remember quite a bit of praise coming from you. It's a good thing your rooms are so far removed from the rest of the castle or—," he didn't get to finish the sentence as Aldaron hit him in the face with a pillow, cheeks red with embarrassment. But the man merely laughed off the attack, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't tease while you're suffering," he said sympathetically. "Drink the rest of your tea before it goes cold." He gestured to the bedside table, where Aldaron's empty cup sat next to a small teapot that he hadn't noticed before.
The elf groaned and rolled away from him. "Just leave me to die," he grumbled.
Hangover aside, finally having a full night's sleep put the Inquisitor in an undeniably good mood for the rest of the day. He felt like a person again. Rested and happy and not broken. Normal, competent, like everyone else. Like he was supposed to be. It was a good feeling. And his good mood was apparently noticeable to everyone around him also. Dagna commented on it when he went to the undercroft first thing to see about replacing his broken dagger (apologizing profusely for its untimely demise), but he felt a bit like a giddy child as they planned out uses for the dragon bone he'd brought back. Then he spent the rest of the morning in the garden, helping the herbalist tend to the plants, something he wished he could do more often. It reminded him of home, which drove him to the tavern for lunch in search of friendly companionship away from the judgmental eyes of visiting nobles. And that, of course, only served to improve his mood even more.
It had been a good day. A very good day. The best in a long time. And when Aldaron joined his companions for dinner that evening he could hardly stop smiling. This didn't go unnoticed, either.
"I heard a rumor," Dorian practically purred as he slid into the seat beside Aldaron's.
"Was it about my love life?" Aldaron asked.
"Surprisingly, no," Dorian replied. "Rather it said that you were responsible for the… incident in Lady Montilyet's office this afternoon. I was, of course, shocked and offended on your behalf. Our dear, beloved Inquisitor would never be involved in such crass and juvenile behavior."
"Thank you for defending my honor," Aldaron said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"And?" Dorian asked, and the smile he offered in return was knowing. Damn him. Too perceptive for his own good.
Well, the others seemed enraptured by whatever story Varric was telling and weren't paying attention to him or Dorian. "And it was Sera's idea," the Inquisitor answered curtly, a little afraid of Dorian's reaction.
"With which you had absolutely no involvement whatsoever? You merely stood back and watched?" Dorian asked. Aldaron had worried that Dorian would disapprove, but the man didn't sound mad. He sounded amused.
"I carried the bucket," Aldaron admitted quietly.
Dorian let out a bark of laughter. "I didn't know you had it in you," he said. "But your secret is safe with me, amatus."
"Thank you," Aldaron smiled despite himself. It had been nice to do something fun, something childish, for a change. He felt more like himself than he had in a long time, and he was glad that Dorian didn't disapprove. In hindsight he probably shouldn't have been concerned; it was the sort of thing that the mage might appreciate.
"Though now I'm wondering if this will become a habit, and if I should be concerned for my own wellbeing," Dorian continued. "I'm also wondering what brought about this sudden influx of rebellious behavior. Not that I don't approve, mind you. In fact I think I rather like this new side of you."
Dorian likely had nothing to worry about. Aldaron would never consider doing anything that might upset the man too much. Certainly he would never dream of ruining Dorian's carefully styled appearance in public. He doubted the man would ever forgive him. But he'd had fun that morning with Sera, and he definitely wouldn't turn down the offer again. So Dorian might not be entirely safe. "Did you know we're the same age?" he asked instead.
"I hadn't thought about it," Dorian replied, "Are you?"
Aldaron nodded, "Apparently." Sera was so evasive when talking about herself that she might have been lying, but somehow he doubted it. "This is… The sort of thing I might have been doing now if… if none of this had ever happened," he commented, gesturing to the room at large. If he was back with his clan and had none of the Inquisitor's pressing worries and responsibilities. Of course, judging from the last few letters his clan was hardly living worry-free at the moment.
"Ah, feeling homesick, then?" Dorian asked sympathetically. Aldaron merely nodded in reply, knowing that Dorian understood. They were both far from home, although he imagined the Inquisition was less of a jarring change for the mage than it had been for a Dalish elf. "Shall I distract you with ribald tales of Tevinter excess?"
Aldaron chuckled softly. He knew full well that Dorian's own way to keep from feeling homesick was to tell deprecating tales of his homeland as though trying to convince himself that it was a terrible place. But Aldaron would be lying if he said he didn't find the stories terribly entertaining, although a little outrageous. "I would love that," he replied.
It was still dark when Aldaron woke, moonlight flooding into the room. He was trembling and sweating, images still vivid in his mind and behind his eyelids whenever he blinked. He felt Dorian pressed against his back, breath warm against the back of his neck and arm heavy across his waist. That was what assured him he was awake, that he wasn't still dreaming, but it was small comfort.
Carefully pulling away from Dorian, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and raked a hand through his hair. Why was this still happening? He'd thought it was over, and that just made it worse knowing he hadn't made any progress at all.
What an idiot he was. And how pathetic to still be so badly effected a full month later. Absolutely pathetic. Aldaron hung his head and took a deep breath, biting back tears that stemmed more from frustration than fear. He was supposed to be brave. 'Herald of Andraste'; Inquisitor. How was he supposed to save the world when he couldn't even save one man from one damned demon? When the memory of it and the fear of every possible future failure haunted even his waking hours?
Behind him the sheets rustled and the mattress dipped, but Aldaron was still startled enough to jump when Dorian's voice – soft and rough and still half asleep – cut through the silence in the room. "Amatus? Are you alright?"
Aldaron tried to school his expression into something more passive so that he could turn around and assure Dorian that he'd just gotten up for a drink of water, or to stoke the fire, something simple, something normal. He couldn't bear to see that worried, sympathetic expression on his face. He didn't want any more of Dorian's pity. But try as he might Aldaron could not get the mask to stick. It had been getting harder and harder to put up that careful, unaffected façade. But he'd been lax lately, letting it slip more often, allowing more and more people to see the real him.
"Amatus?" Dorian asked again when Aldaron was silent for too long. He laid a hand gently, comfortingly on Aldaron's shoulder, but Aldaron was not in the mood to be comforted.
"Don't," he said curtly, shrugging the hand away.
"What's wrong?" Aldaron could hear the concern in Dorian's voice. He could picture the exact expression on his face, the way his brows knit together and the corners of his mouth quirked down. Why was he still here? Why did he care so much? Why did he put up with so much? Aldaron was nothing but a pathetic, frightened, useless child. He was terrible at leadership, even worse at politics, and compared to Dorian he was dumb as a rock. Dorian would probably be much better at this job than he was, Aldaron realized bitterly. "Amatus, talk to me."
Aldaron shook his head, fisted his hands in the thin fabric of his sleep pants. "Just leave me alone," he breathed. He didn't want to talk about it. He was tired of talking about it, even if he'd never actually told Dorian the contents of his nightmares. Talking didn't help.
"Aldaron, please—,"
"I said leave me alone!" Aldaron snapped, voice cracking. He stood up abruptly and began heading for the balcony. He needed air.
"I want to help," Dorian protested.
"Maybe I don't want your help!" Aldaron rounded on him, fists clenched at his sides, voice thick with emotion. "Maybe you can't help me! What has it done so far? Nothing. Nothing's changed at all." That wasn't what he meant to say, not at all. He was incredibly grateful for everything Dorian had done, but he was so frustrated with himself. He felt so weak, so pathetic, and no one understood and everyone expected him to be fine. Everyone else was fine. So what was wrong with him? "This is my life now. The rest of my damned life I'll be this pathetic, useless-,"
"You're not-,"
"Don't!" Aldaron shouted. He knew what Dorian wanted to say. All those hollow reassurances he'd said a hundred times before. Aldaron may have believed them before, but not today. He felt hopeless, like there would never be any escape from this nightmare. Words wouldn't fix him. "Just… Don't," he finished weakly, and before Dorian had a chance to say anything further he fled out to the balcony, slamming the door behind him.
The chill night air hit him like a slap in the face, but Aldaron welcomed it as he gasped in a deep breath and leaned against the railing. He turned his gaze down at the fortress below him. Skyhold was silent and empty at this time of night, except a handful of guards patrolling the wall tops.
He was not outside for long before he heard the door open and soft footsteps as Dorian followed him out. "Of course I can't help if you never tell me what's wrong," the man accused.
He sounded angry. Good, let him be angry. Aldaron had had enough of concern and pity. "I don't want to talk about it," he snapped without looking up.
"Of course you don't," Dorian scoffed, "You never want to talk about it. How can I help if I don't even know what's wrong?"
"This isn't about you, Dorian!" Aldaron barked.
"You can't say that I'm not involved in this," the man protested. "I'm doing my best, but you aren't giving me much to work with."
"Then maybe you should stop trying," Aldaron bit out in frustration.
"Maybe you should stop being so damn stubborn," Dorian shot back. "You're absolutely impossible sometimes."
Aldaron spun around to face him again, "If that's how you feel then maybe you should just leave!" No, that wasn't what he wanted at all, and he could see the shock and the hurt on Dorian's face as the words hit him.
The hurt was quickly replaced by anger, though. "Fine," Dorian said curtly. "I can see where I'm not wanted. I'll leave you alone, Inquisitor," he spat the title like a curse and turned on his heel, storming back into the bedroom.
It hurt to watch him walk away. Aldaron very nearly went after Dorian, but he stopped himself. Perhaps it was better this way. Push Dorian away and go back to pretending to be someone he was not. Maybe it had been a bad idea to let him in, to let himself be himself. It was easier to have no feelings at all than to be like this. It would be better for Dorian, too, he told himself. The man deserved so much more than what Aldaron could give him. He deserved someone who wasn't broken.
He stayed out on the balcony until his teeth were chattering from the cold, and only then did he venture back inside. Dorian was gone, and with him his clothes and even the book he had been reading before they went to bed. Aldaron crawled, shivering, into the empty bed, long bereft of warmth, and wrapped himself up in the blankets. He simultaneously wished that Dorian was here and was glad to be alone. He'd have to get used to sleeping alone again. At least he wouldn't have to worry about closing the window.
Dorian was annoyed, frustrated, and hurt as he dressed quickly and stormed out of the Inquisitor's quarters. At least it was the middle of the night and there was no one around to see him. He fumed all the way back to his own room and slammed the door so loud it likely woke his neighbors. Of all the stubborn, pig-headed people in the world the Inquisitor was the worst. It was as though he wanted to be miserable, and yet he whined about it constantly. Whined about how no one could help him when the elf was too damn proud to even let on that something was bothering him. And he hid his troubles so well that half the time even Dorian wasn't certain what was going on in his head.
He had begun pacing up and down the length of the room, stewing in his anger until it had all fizzled out. Until he had gone through every insult he knew, raged against every tiny annoyance that the Inquisitor had ever caused, and decried the pride and stubbornness of elves everywhere. Until there was nothing left but the hurt; the familiar deep ache of being pushed away and thrown out by someone that he cared about and whom he thought cared about him. Only it was worse this time. Worse than all the one night stands in his past that had left or unceremoniously thrown him out. It was worse because this time he'd actually let himself believe that Aldaron wanted him.
And yet some part of him was arguing of course he wants you, it's not his fault. He's scared. He's tired. He didn't mean it.
How long could he keep telling himself that? It was true, of course, but how long would scared and tired be acceptable excuses?
Exhausted himself, Dorian flopped back onto the bed he hadn't slept in for weeks. The worst of it all was that even behind all the hurt he still wanted to help Aldaron. Because he remembered the smiles and the laughter of the day before, when everything had been fine and they had both thought him recovered.
Was that what had the Inquisitor so upset tonight? Was he angrier because he had thought this was over? The logical part of Dorian's mind wondered. Dorian had certainly thought it was over, but this thing had been haunting Aldaron for weeks, and in hindsight it didn't make sense for it to be cured so quickly.
Not that Aldaron would likely listen to anything he had to say right now. The elf had made it abundantly clear – regardless of his emotional state – that he was fed up with Dorian's shallow attempts and comfort. That wasn't terribly surprising, even Dorian knew he was fumbling in the dark. But what more could he do?
The mage had begun to drift off when the thought occurred to him and had him sitting bolt upright, suddenly wide awake again.
Aldaron was too stubborn and proud to ever ask for help, even though he so desperately needed it. So Dorian would just have to ask for him. The elf would probably hate him for it, but Dorian had already been thrown out of his bed so how much worse could it be? At least this time he would be prepared.
The hardest part was waiting for it to be a reasonable hour of the morning to call upon other members of the Inquisition. He barely managed to wait past sunup before leaving his room and heading to the library. Thankfully Dorian knew for a fact that Solas always took his breakfast in the rotunda at a ridiculous hour of the morning.
"Solas," he greeted pleasantly upon stepping into the room. Praise the Maker for this elf's incredibly predictable routine. "I was wondering if I might have a word with you."
The apostate looked positively shocked to see Dorian, which on another day would have given him no end of amusement, but today Dorian was a man on a mission. "It is unusual for you to be about this early," Solas commented. "You must be missing your beauty sleep."
Dorian ignored the dig at his habits for now. "Solas, if I were more beautiful the Maker himself would be jealous, so I must take a day off occasionally. But that's not why I'm here. I… find myself in need of your advice."
"That is even more unusual," Solas replied, raising an eyebrow curiously.
"Yes, yes," Dorian wasn't in the mood for their usual petty arguments. This was important. "Alert the Chantry, they'll proclaim a holiday. The day Dorian Pavus asked for help," he brushed it off with a wave of his hand. "If we could get on with the important business? This is a matter of some delicacy, in fact. I trust you can be… discrete?"
"Is this about the Inquisitor?" Solas asked. The surprise must have shown on Dorian's face because the elven mage continued without waiting for an answer. "The two of your have not been particularly discrete yourselves. Still, I was surprised when I learned of your relationship."
"I didn't come here for romantic advice, if that's what you think," Dorian said quickly. Not that he thought Solas had any to offer in the first place. "Rather…" he paused, considering how best to word this. "The Inquisitor has not been sleeping. Since Adamant he has been plagued by nightmares of what happened to us in the Fade. This is when he manages to sleep at all, of course, and often his fear of having another nightmare will keep him awake all night. It is effecting him rather badly. Not just the fatigue, but his emotional state has become somewhat erratic." He hadn't meant to say so much, but once he began Dorian could not stop himself. "I am concerned," what a gross understatement, and now he was pacing again, "that this may begin to effect his health. I have done all I can to help, but short of drugging him to sleep every night there is little I can think of. So I thought you, expert on dreaming and the Fade and all, might be able to help where I cannot."
"Why hasn't he come to see me about this?" Solas asked. His brow was lined with confusion, and perhaps a little concern.
"The stubborn fool doesn't want anyone to know," Dorian said in frustration, "I imagine he doesn't even want me to know, but, well, after punching someone in your sleep it's hard to deny. He's convinced himself that no one will respect him if they know he's afraid of demons the size of houses, or whatever it is that keeps him awake. Which is ridiculous, but don't try to tell him that."
"You don't know the contents of these nightmares?" Solas asked curiously.
"He refuses to talk about it no matter how often I ask," Dorian confirmed.
"Speaking about your fears is often the first step toward overcoming them," Solas commented.
"I have told him as much," Dorian grumbled, "But it doesn't change a thing." He sighed and slumped down on the sofa at the side of the room, forcing himself to stop pacing. It was so frustrating.
Still seated at the table Solas was silent for a long moment, lost in thought Dorian supposed. If Solas didn't have any answers then he really wouldn't know what to do. "If he refuses to speak of it, then that does make this more complicated. However, there may be some way to help him. You're right to worry about his health. I imagine the changes in his mood you've experienced are already a side effect of sleep deprivation. It's only a matter of time before it effects his physical health as well."
"If this is you helping-," Dorian began in annoyance, but was cut off.
"Have you considered if lucid dreaming might help?"
Dorian frowned a bit, "Can a non-mage even do that?"
"Yes," Solas confirmed, "Although it may be more difficult for him to learn. If he were able, he could change the subject matter of his dreams to something less upsetting. You've said he is sometimes afraid to sleep because of these nightmares. If he knows that he can stop them, it might solve the problem."
"That is a thought," Dorian considered it hopefully. It might work. At the moment, however, he wasn't certain if Aldaron would even speak to him.
"Or, if he would allow it," Solas continued, interrupting Dorian's thoughts, "I could attempt to seek him out in the Fade and find out exactly what is plaguing him."
"I don't think he would allow it," Dorian said regretfully. That was, in fact, the best idea yet. "I imagine he will hate me utterly when he finds out I've spoken to you at all." Not that Aldaron had given him much choice. "But I can't keep sitting idly by while he destroys himself like this."
"If this is as bad as you say it's remarkable that he's kept it hidden so long," Solas commented.
"That's what he does best: hides his feelings from the world. Our great, fearless Inquisitor," Dorian muttered bitterly. Maybe if Aldaron wasn't so good at pretending to be someone else it wouldn't be a problem. And to think, Dorian had thought the Inquisitor was finally letting down some of his walls around other people. "But I will think about what you've said," he sighed, and forced himself back up to his feet. "It may do some good." It certainly couldn't make things worse, and at this point Dorian was willing to try anything.
He was wrong, of course. Things could always get worse, and Dorian really should have learned that by this point in his life because it was a recurring theme.
It was well into the afternoon when the Inquisitor showed up at Dorian's usual nook in the library. The mage had been avoiding him all day, expecting the elf was still angry and unsure how to approach him.
Aldaron offered no greeting as he walked up to Dorian, his face carefully blank. "You told Solas?" he demanded.
Dorian was taken aback. "What-?"
"You told him about the nightmares," Aldaron accused. His voice was carefully low to avoid being overheard, but the fury in it was unmistakable. "I told you I didn't want anyone else to know."
"I was trying to help," Dorian said defensively. And he had foolishly assumed that Solas would keep their conversation private.
"I don't want your help," the Inquisitor seethed quietly. "And I certainly don't need you going behind my back to do it."
"Aldaron," Dorian began to protest, but was cut off again.
"I'll be leaving for Emprise du Lion in two days," the Inquisitor said curtly. "You are no longer coming. I'll be taking Solas in your stead. At least I can trust him to be honest with me."
And then he was gone, turning on his heel and storming off back down the stairs. Dorian could do nothing but stare helplessly at his retreating back.
Notes:
Alternate chapter title "One Step Forward, Two Steps Back".
Thanks to everyone who is still reading this because I have no idea what I'm doing. We're all flying by the seat of our pants here, both me and Aldaron.