It took only two days on the road for Aldaron to regret everything he had said and done. With his emotions tempered by time and distance the Inquisitor realized that he had overreacted. He shouldn't have taken out his frustration on Dorian, and he shouldn't have been so angry at the man for trying to help. Yes, Dorian had gone behind his back, done exactly what Aldaron had told him not to, but hadn't Aldaron done the same thing before? He'd gone against Dorian's wishes to get back his birthright because he thought it was the right thing to do.

He also realized how much he'd gotten used to Dorian's near constant presence at his side, how much he had come to rely on the man. When he woke up in the middle of the night, panic tight in his chest, Dorian was always there. The man didn't even have to wake up – and unless Aldaron's nightmares turned violent he rarely did – the simple solid actuality of another body pressed against his own was enough to bring Aldaron's mind back to reality.

Not to mention it was absolutely freezing here. Winter had hit this region early and hard. Dorian would have complained endlessly, but he also would have been a warm body at night to help stave off the chill. But instead Aldaron had only his bedroll to keep him warm, and it was hardly sufficient.

Solas knew now, so there was no sense in hiding it from him. Much as he was loath to admit it at first, Dorian had been right. If anyone could help him escape from these endless nightmares and come to terms with what had happened in the Fade it was Solas. That didn't make it any easier to ask, however.

"How much did Dorian tell you?" was the first thing he asked. When it was first revealed to him Aldaron had been too angry – betrayed – to consider such a question. Now that he had cooled down he realized that he might not have the entire picture.

"Very little, in fact," Solas replied. "He told me that you have had trouble sleeping since you walked physically in the Fade, and that you have suffered nightmares, though would not tell me their form. He seemed concerned about your health."

Concerned about his health. Was he really? Why hadn't Aldaron noticed? Actually, he knew that. Aldaron had been so wrapped up in himself lately that he had barely spared a thought for Dorian's feelings. He was bad at that, wasn't he? He got selfish when he was upset, and then Dorian paid the price. Selfish when he wasn't upset, also. Since Crestwood he'd been so happy just to be happy, felt more like himself than he had since before this whole mess started, and had for the first time embraced the friendships forming around him. And he had forgotten all about Dorian, who had been the first one to worm his way past Aldaron's rigidly fortified walls to begin weakening his defenses. He had gone to the man only when there was no one else to entertain him, clung to the familiarity of his presence without engaging.

"I shouldn't have yelled at him," Aldaron said, more to himself than to Solas.

"Perhaps not," Solas replied noncommittally. "He came to me seeking a way to help you. I would be glad to offer what knowledge I have, if that's what you want."

Aldaron hesitated. This was the hard part, actually asking for help and admitting that he needed it. "I thought I would be over it by now," he murmured instead of giving a proper answer. "I should be over it by now." Everyone else seemed to be.

"We cannot control how our minds deal with such trying circumstances," Solas commented. "For some people it is easier than for others to overcome fear and grief."

And apparently Aldaron was one of the latter. "If you have any advice… I would be glad to hear it," he requested with some difficulty. He wasn't getting better on his own. Dorian was right, he needed help, but that didn't make it any easier to ask. He was still afraid of what people would think. Would they lose faith in him? Would they think him weak?

"It would help if I knew specifically what is bothering you," Solas replied. He didn't sound judgmental, but the elven mage was always difficult to read. "The nightmares, what do they consist of?"

Aldaron did not answer right away. That was the problem, wasn't it? Letting people know exactly what frightened him, like showing off all of his weaknesses to the world. "I… keep remembering what happened in the Fade," he replied vaguely. Half the truth, if even that much.

"I have read the reports," Solas nodded thoughtfully. "I rather wish I had been there as well, it must have been fascinating. Although I imagine you don't feel the same way," he added at the look of distaste that crossed the Inquisitor's face.

"It was horrible," Aldaron said quietly. Not fascinating at all. Nor anything he would wish on another person. "And… unnatural. The demon it… It wanted us to be frightened, and it knew exactly how to make it happen."

"That is the nature of demons," Solas commented. "The one you encountered was a fear demon, and an incredibly powerful one. Even the weakest of demons may have the power to influence the minds of men. That anyone without training or experience dealing with demons and spirits could resist its influence long enough to defeat it is remarkable."

"Is that meant to be comforting?" Aldaron asked, because it was not. "You're saying that if I were a mage it would have been easier? How does that help me now? I'm not a mage, and I can't go back in time to learn about demons. I do have plenty of experience killing them, however. More than some mages can claim, I imagine."

"You're correct, of course," Solas admitted, "However, the demons that emerge into our world from rifts are changed from how you would encounter them in the Fade. The Nightmare was not only powerful in its own right, but you were within its realm, thereby giving it even more power over you. Given that this is your only conscious experience in the Fade, it is quite understandable that you would be wary of the realm afterwards. Perhaps if you have more experiences from which to draw on, you would be less concerned."

'Wary' and 'concerned'. Aldaron appreciated Solas' attempts at being diplomatic, but it still felt like a massive understatement. He was not wary and concerned, he was terrified. "So what?" he asked, uncertain where the mage was headed with this explanation. "You want to introduce me to some of your nice spirit friends? Give me a nice pretty picture of the Fade to block out the one I have?"

"If that is something you would feel comfortable with, then I would be happy to assist," Solas confirmed. "It may be difficult for a non-mage to enter the Fade and retain their self-awareness, but it has been done. I could teach you."

It was an interesting thought. Aldaron considered the suggestion for a long moment. Part of him was petrified. He had no desire to ever venture into the Fade again, physically or otherwise. Even so, if he were aware in the moment that he was dreaming could he take control and stop the nightmare? What was more frightening: walking willingly into a place he feared more than any other until he learned to recognize it, or lying down to bed every night for the rest of his life uncertain whether or not he would be subjected to torture?

That made the decision easy. "How do we begin?"

Eleven days. That's how long the Inquisitor was away from Skyhold. That's how long Dorian had to wallow in his misery and heartbreak, absolutely certain that Aldaron hated him entirely and would never want anything to do with him again. Because that's what happened to Dorian Pavus, and he'd been a fool to think this time would be any different.

Of course he had been – still was – furious at Solas. This was entirely his fault, without a doubt. When he had confronted the other mage about it however, the infuriating man had only shrugged, offered a less-than-believable apology and said "I did not think he would take the news so badly." Even though that was exactly what Dorian had told him would happen.

He lasted only four days before he gave up pretending that nothing was wrong and decided that the best course of action was to drink himself into oblivion. It had always worked in the past. That was how Dorian found himself in the tavern, sitting at a table in the back corner with a bottle of brandy his only company.

He was already half drunk and well on his way toward oblivion when someone decided to interrupt his misery. "Wow, you look rough."

Dorian raised bleary eyes from the glass in his hands and looked up at the figure towering over him. "What do you want?" he demanded in annoyance. "Can't a man drink in peace?"

"Sure, if you want," The Iron Bull replied. "But you've been here two hours already. The kid's worried about you and it's starting to creep me out." He cocked his thumb toward the table beside Dorian's, where Cole was sitting staring at him from under that ridiculous hat. That was rather unnerving. How long had he been there? "So either let him do his thing or go be depressed somewhere else. It's ruining the mood."

Dorian scoffed. So that's how it was. Couldn't even drink himself to death without someone being offended by it. "Fine," he bit out, and braced his hands on the table as he stood up. He wasn't so drunk yet that he couldn't storm out of here with a little bit of dignity.

Bull sighed and put a massive hand on Dorian's shoulder pushing him back down into his chair again. "Sit down, pretty boy."

"No, I know where I'm not wanted," Dorian protested, struggling in vain against the Qunari's grasp. "Let me go you beast."

"Don't get your smallclothes in a twist," Bull said, "You know he's just going to keep following you around until you talk to him. So talk."

Suddenly Cole was sitting right beside him. The realization was so startling Dorian nearly jumped, but he managed to control himself. "I don't want to talk," Dorian bit out furiously. "And if I'm such an inconvenience I'll go find somewhere else to drown myself."

"He wants to be sad," Cole said suddenly in that strange thoughtful way of his. Dorian usually thought the boy fascinating, but when it was turned on him it was downright unsettling. "He wants to hurt because he thinks he deserves it. Why would you deserve it, Dorian?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," Dorian denied, though his heart froze in his chest. Of course he deserved it. For angering Aldaron, for going behind his back, for being stupid enough to think someone might actually like him for once in his life. When would he learn?

"Fight with Boss was that bad, huh?" Bull asked, and sat down heavily across from Dorian.

The mage glared at him. That really wasn't something he wanted to talk about. "What makes you think there was a fight? There was no fight."

"Is that why he's out saving the world and you're sitting here getting drunk?" Bull asked. "Don't worry, I'm not here to stop you."

"Good," Dorian grumbled and poured himself another glass of brandy, which he knocked back in one swallow. He was still hoping there was a way to get out of this, but in case there wasn't he was going to get drunk enough that he didn't remember the conversation.

"You didn't answer my question, Dorian," Cole said.

"I'd hoped I had," Dorian groaned and poured himself another drink. It was going to be a very long night with these two meddling in his affairs. He didn't want to talk about his love life, or lack thereof. It was bad enough that everyone in the world knew he had been sleeping with the Inquisitor, he couldn't imagine the gloating when certain individuals found out he'd gone and ruined things.

But by the time he'd emptied the bottle of brandy Dorian simply didn't have the energy to deny anything any longer. "Stubbornest, most pig-headed elf that ever lived. Sure he hates me now," the man bemoaned, leaning heavily against the table to stay upright. "You'd know," he said, turning to Cole, who had been sitting there the entire time he and Bull got drunk. Bull might not be drunk. He might be faking it. Dorian wasn't certain. "How do you read our beloved Inquisitor?" he slurred.

Cole blinked at him, and then frowned. "He's hard. The mark is too bright, blinding out everything else." Dorian scoffed. Of course. Just his luck they had the only mind-reader in Thedas and he couldn't read the one person who needed it most. "But there's so much darkness, too," the boy continued after a moment, piquing Dorian's interest again. "So much fear and doubt. What if I'm not good enough? Not strong enough?"

"Yes, that sounds like him," Dorian sighed. Then he gave up on staying upright and slumped over face first on the table. A bad decision, really, the wood was disturbingly sticky against his cheek.

"I made it worse," Cole said, voice lined with concern. "I'll try again."

"No, that's alright kid," The Iron Bull interrupted. Dorian was only half listening to them talk over his head. "I think he's had enough for tonight. Maybe tomorrow."

Tomorrow Dorian would be smart enough to do his drinking somewhere more private.

He was in the library when the horns sounded announcing the return of the Inquisitor and his companions. Unable to help himself, Dorian moved over to the window and peered out. There was a good view of the gates from his usual haunt, and he watched as the small party rode into the courtyard and the Inquisitor swung down off his hart with ease. He looked unharmed, not that Dorian had been worried. The others looked fine as well. Good for them. See, he didn't care for the Inquisitor any more than he cared for anyone else. And he definitely wasn't staring at the elf as he was greeted by his advisors, already stripping off his gloves. He certainly wasn't staring long enough to see Aldaron's eyes drift upward toward the window he was staring out of, only to quickly move away before he could be seen.

He had much better things to do than pine after a man who didn't want him. He had research to do; those books he had ordered had finally arrived. Time to pour himself into the only thing he was really good at: research. That would certainly keep him distracted well past dinner.

It had been a good plan, although ultimately a failure because it was difficult to ignore the Inquisitor when he was standing right in front of you.

Dorian wasn't certain how long he had been nose deep in ancient family trees, but when the Inquisitor showed up at his nook in the library he was bathed and changed and the light from the window was beginning to dim. He cleared his throat awkwardly to draw Dorian's attention, and the mage automatically feared the worst. This was it. This was where Aldaron politely informed him that he never wanted to associate with Dorian again. "Come to deliver the final blow?" he asked bitterly, already preparing himself for the worst.

"I'm sorry," the elf blurted out quickly, and perhaps a bit too loudly. Dorian was so stunned that he couldn't think of a single thing to say in response. "I…" Aldaron carefully lowered his voice again, shifted from foot to foot and wouldn't meet Dorian's eyes. "I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm sorry. I was… So frustrated and angry, but not at you. I shouldn't have taken it out on you, it wasn't fair. You've only ever tried to help me and I've been so terrible to you. I understand if you hate me now, I would hate me, I'm just…" his voice cracked softly and Aldaron took a deep breath before continuing, "I'm so sorry." By the time he finished his gaze was fixed firmly on the ground, he was wringing his hands and his shoulders were hunched as though he were trying to be invisible.

But Dorian still didn't know what to say. He'd spent the past several days convinced that Aldaron hated him, and he had almost convinced himself to hate the elf back. This was a shockingly different reunion than the one he'd expected and he really didn't know how to respond. Aldaron seemed genuinely regretful of everything he'd said before leaving, but he had hurt Dorian deeply. That wound wouldn't heal overnight with just one tearful apology no matter how much Dorian's heart ached to see Aldaron in any kind of pain. Maker, he was still head over heels, wasn't he?

"I'm not certain if I can forgive you just yet," Dorian replied quietly. He tried not to sound as emotional as he felt, but it was difficult. He was simultaneously relieved, angry, and confused. But this was a chance to try and fix things. He really didn't want to lose Aldaron if any form of relationship with him could be salvaged. "Although for what it's worth… I apologize for telling Solas."

Aldaron nodded almost imperceptibly. "I'm glad you did, actually," he admitted, surprising Dorian once again. "I… You were right. I need to talk about it. I was afraid of what you'd think of me, but… I'm ready now if… If you're still willing. I want to talk about it."

"I assume you've spoken to Solas already," Dorian said. He couldn't imagine what else would cause this change of heart.

Aldaron shook his head but still did not look up from the floor, "Not about the nightmares. Not really," he replied. "I wanted to tell you first. You deserve to know."

"I…" Dorian was surprisingly touched. Far from hating him and never wanting to see him again, Aldaron wanted to talk to him before anyone else? "Yes, I would like that," he managed eventually. "Very much so."

At long last Aldaron looked up from the floor and met Dorian's eyes. He relaxed visibly, the tension flowing off him like water, but continued to wring his hands. "Thank you," he said earnestly. "Can we go somewhere… more private?"

Dorian nodded and scrambled to clear up his workspace, marking his place in the various books he'd been referencing and shoving them off to the side of the table. He moved in a rush as though Aldaron would change his mind if he took too long. When he was assured that no one would come by and accidentally ruin hours – days – of hard work he turned back to Aldaron, hopeful but apprehensive. "Lead the way."

They passed the walk up to the Inquisitor's quarters in silence. Dorian was certain this was as nerve-wracking for Aldaron as it was for him, if not moreso, so he made no attempts at conversation.

When they finally reached the privacy of that familiar room the elf sat down at the far end of the sofa and pulled his bare feet up onto the cushions, hugging his knees to his chest. He looked so incredibly small and vulnerable; not at all the larger-than-life figure that led men into battle and performed impossible feats. And frightened, he looked frightened. Dorian sat down as well, on the opposite end of the sofa, and left a fair amount of space between them. He did not want to scare Aldaron off.

The silence persisted a long while. Aldaron sat motionless, stared out the windows across the room or at the rug below them, opened his mouth a few times to speak, and then closed it again. Dorian waited as patiently as he could manage.

Then finally the elf spoke, soft and hesitant. He told Dorian everything he could about the visions that had been haunting his sleep. He spoke about reliving in vivid detail everything that happened to them in the Fade. Sometimes everything was the same, but sometimes it was much worse. His companions lying dead at his feet – even those who hadn't been there – and the giant spider-like demon bearing down on him until he woke screaming. It wasn't always the Fade, though, only the violent ones. Other times his mind tormented him with images of possible future failures, where Aldaron was not strong enough to protect the people he cared about. Where his actions or inactions caused the deaths of his closest friends and loved ones – of Dorian.

Though it all Dorian remained silent and listened carefully. On several occasions he felt the overwhelming urge to reach out and embrace Aldaron, but he restrained himself. He did not want to interrupt now that Aldaron was finally opening up, but it was hard to sit by and do nothing while Aldaron bit back tears.

"And I… Just feel so weak. I feel like such a coward because I know it's not real – I know – but I'm still terrified and I can't stop thinking about it," Aldaron choked out at the end. "But I don't want anyone else to get hurt because of me. Especially you."

Dorian was glad that Aldaron was finally telling him all this. As painful as it was to here it must have been infinitely more painful to say aloud. No wonder he hadn't wanted to talk about it before. And no wonder all of Dorian's attempts at comfort had done nothing. If he had felt ill equipped to deal with all of this before, Dorian only felt more so now.

"You still believe everything that happened is your fault," he said, unsure what else could be said at this point.

Aldaron nodded solemnly, glanced over at Dorian and then back out the window. "Wasn't it?" he asked. "I opened the rift. I got us all stuck there. I left Stroud behind."

"You told me the rift was an accident," Dorian replied carefully, "Was that a lie?"

"No," Aldaron insisted quickly, "I don't know how I did it. We were falling and I just… I don't even remember what I was thinking then, I panicked."

"I don't think a single one of us would have survived that fall," Dorian told him. "Opening that rift, intentional or not, saved our lives."

"I never thought about it like that," Aldaron admitted thoughtfully.

"Yes, you opened the rift and got us stuck in the Fade," Dorian said. "But you did it to save our lives, and that worked. I'm not saying it was the best idea in the world, but it did work. We're not splattered on rocks in the middle of nowhere. So thank you for that."

"But Stroud," Aldaron protested.

"Volunteered to cover our backs, you told me," Dorian said. "And I imagine he did that to save our lives as well. I don't know about you, but I was exhausted by then. I'm not certain we could have held out against that thing for much longer. I expect he knew that, and Hawke knew that. You would be no good to the world at all if you died. We'd be right back at Redcliffe, wouldn't we?"

Aldaron grimaced at the reminder of another experience Dorian imagined he would rather forget. "I can't possibly be that important," he protested.

"Why not? You're the Herald of Andraste," Dorian praised. Aldaron gave him a withering look at the use of that title. "Yes, I know how you feel about that," he said before the elf could protest further. "The title doesn't matter, I suppose, but the intention behind it does. You are important, Aldaron," he said earnestly, and cautiously scooted closer to the elf. "This mark on your hand," he reached out and took hold of Aldaron's left hand and gently turned it palm up to see the greenish scar there. "You said yourself, you got this by your own actions. Just as everything since then has been by your own actions. No one else could do what you've done, amatus." The endearment was out of his mouth before Dorian realized what he was saying, and as soon as he did he panicked a little bit. Whatever was between them now, he wasn't certain such affections would be welcome at the moment. Just because Aldaron didn't hate him didn't mean the Inquisitor would be inviting him back to his bed any time soon.

Aldaron glanced over at him, but whether he had even noticed the term Dorian wasn't certain. He certainly didn't protest, so maybe it was alright? "Then why do I feel so…" the elf paused, searching for the right word, "Inadequate?"

"Inadequate?" Dorian repeated in disbelief.

Aldaron nodded and looked at Dorian over his knees, still hugged close to his chest. "I have no idea what I'm doing most of the time. Killing things, I'm good at that. Making important decisions, leading people? I'm terrible at it. Sometimes I think…" he stopped again and looked at his knees before continuing in a voice so quiet Dorian had to strain to hear it, "I wonder if I had died at the conclave if there would be someone more suitable in my place now."

Dorian couldn't believe what he was hearing. What an absolutely terrifying thought. That Aldaron might have died that day along with so many others, and then Dorian would never have met him. No, he didn't want to think about it, and he was horrified that Aldaron already had.

"Amatus," Dorian said seriously, and again the word came out without him meaning to. It was such a habit, and all the feelings behind it were still there. He grasped the elf's face in his hands and turned Aldaron to face him, forcing the elf to meet his gaze. "You are allowed to be overwhelmed. You're being asked to do the impossible. The fact that you manage to pull it off and make it look easy is astounding. There is not a single person in the entire world who could have done the things you have. It positively boggles the mind that you could think otherwise. Why do you think these people follow you? Why do you think they praise your name wherever you go? They trust you, Inquisitor, and they believe in you. You are a leader, Aldaron. You may not have chosen this path for yourself, but you are good at it. You care about your people, from the highest advisors to the lowest servant. You are one of the most compassionate men I have ever met. The world could do with more people like you in positions of power."

Aldaron stared back at him, wide eyes full of shock and doubt for a long moment before they filled with barely restrained tears. "You think so?" he asked quietly.

"Of course I do," Dorian said fervently. "And so does everyone else here. You are outstanding, Aldaron, and I'll tell you that every day until you believe it if I need to."

Before his very eyes Aldaron crumbled. He let his feet back down to the floor and wrapped his arms around Dorian's shoulders and pressed his face into the crook of his neck. "Ir abelas, 'ma'nehn." Elvish. That was rare. Dorian had no idea what it meant. "'Ma'vhenan… I'm sorry," Aldaron breathed. Dorian's brain finally caught up with what was happening and he wrapped his arms around the elf tightly. "I should have talked to you sooner. I'll do better next time, I promise."

"I rather hope there won't have to be a next time," Dorian murmured.

Aldaron let out the tiniest huff of a laugh against Dorian's neck, and then pulled away from him just enough to look up into Dorian's eyes. "Me too," he agreed. "I feel awful about everything I said before. Can you ever forgive me?"

Ah, the ultimate question. To be perfectly honest Dorian wasn't certain. He understood better now why Aldaron had been so reluctant to talk about his troubles, but that didn't change the past. He knew that Aldaron still cared for him, but that didn't change the week he'd spent in heartbroken misery. "The whole time you were away I was certain you hated me," he said. "I'm very glad that you don't, but I'm not certain I'm ready to forgive you for that."

"I understand," Aldaron sighed and pulled away from him, retreating back to his own side of the sofa. "I'll do anything to make it up to you, Dorian. I don't want to lose you."

Dorian didn't, either. If he hadn't known it already, this past week had made that abundantly clear. If he lost Aldaron he wasn't certain he would ever get over it. No one else would ever compare. "Why don't we start with dinner?" he suggested, "Assuming you haven't eaten yet."

"I haven't," Aldaron replied with a half-smile.

"Good," Dorian replied. "And you can get one of those expensive bottles of wine reserved for visiting dignitaries. Josephine has banned me from the wine cellar."

The half-smile turned into a full one. "I think that can be arranged," Aldaron promised.

Notes:
Ir abelas, 'ma'nehn. 'Ma'vhenan... - I'm sorry, my joy. My heart/my home.
Shower him in affections in a language he doesn't understand. Solid plan, Inquisitor.