Aldaron woke disoriented and confused, his head swimming and his mouth tasting like elfroot and spindleweed. He became aware of his surroundings very slowly. First the bed of soft furs and rough spun blankets he was lying in, then the familiar beams of an aravel above his head. Where was he? Home? Had all of this been some kind of extended nightmare? Then the pain registered; the ache in just about every muscle of his body, a pounding in his head and the more intense stabbing pain in his back and side. With weak, trembling arms he lifted the blanket that was covering him and looked down. Someone had stripped him down to his breeches and there were wide linen bandages wrapped around most of his torso.

The memories all came back to him in rush. The fight in the shrine, daggers aimed at Dorian's back, blood on his hands and fear and pain. He dropped the blanket and covered his face with his hands, sucking in a deep breath. He felt nauseous.

What had happened after that? He couldn't remember, and his mind was still muddy from the drugs. Slowly he lowered his hands and looked around again with tired eyes. He was definitely in an aravel. On a hook on the wall his daggers hung in their sheaths, his bloodstained clothing folded in a neat pile on the floor. They must have brought him back to the Dalish encampment, but where were the others? Where was Dorian? Was he alright?

Aldaron tried to push himself up, but the sharp pain in his side sent him back down again with a whimper. Moving wasn't an option, then, but he didn't want to be in here alone without knowing whether his friends were safe. Helpless and more than a little frightened by it, Aldaron looked around the inside of the aravel rather frantically for something, anything, that might help. But there was very little in here save the bed of furs he lay on and his things. The walls were lined with bundles of dried and drying plants, several jars and bottles sat out on a shelf beside a roll of bandages, but all else was shut away in the various drawers, compartments and trunks that filled all aravels to ensure their contents didn't get knocked about during travel. There was nothing that would help him get up or see what was going on outside. Aldaron didn't like that. He felt trapped, confused and scared, brought back to a half-dozen incidents of childhood injury or illness that had seen him confined just like this.

He didn't know how long he lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness. His body wanted to sleep, but his mind would not let him. Eventually he drifted back to consciousness to the sound of raised voices coming from outside.

"If everything is fine then why can't I see him?"

Dorian. That was Dorian's voice. He was alright. Instinctively Aldaron tried to sit up again, and once more the pain sent him back down, whimpering and clutching his wounded side.

"He needs to rest," someone else said, a voice that sounded familiar but Aldaron couldn't place it.

"What do you think I'm going to do, exactly? Take him dancing? I just want to see that he's alright."

There was another voice, but too soft for Aldaron to make out the words.

"I am calm!" Dorian snapped. He sounded anything but. "He's the one being difficult and unreasonable."

"Once he wakes up, if he wants to see you—,"

"If?" Dorian sputtered.

"Then you'll be permitted," the other voice continued, "For now he needs to sleep."

"I'm not going to wake him up!"

Still groggy, it took Aldaron a while to figure out that they were talking about him. Someone wasn't letting Dorian see him. Why not? He wanted to see Dorian. He wanted to make sure the man wasn't hurt.

"I'm afraid I can't take that risk. You'll simply have to wait. Now, if you don't mind, I have a patient to see to."

"I ought to-,"

"Now, now," that third voice cut in, now loud enough for Aldaron to hear clearly. It was familiar, too. Varric? "Let's not do anything we'll regret. Come on, Sparkler…" he trailed off, once more too quiet for Aldaron to make out the words.

Whatever was said seemed to stop the argument, but that did nothing to calm Aldaron's nerves. He was trapped and alone and in pain and he was scared and he wanted to see Dorian. Fortunately, he was not left alone for much longer. Toward the far end of the aravel someone pulled open the door, immediately drawing Aldaron's attention with the sound of creaking hinges and the flood of daylight. "Hahren," he breathed as the elder elf ducked through the opening, and was startled by how rough his voice sounded, and how weak.

"You're awake," Hawen observed as he climbed into the aravel, "That's good to see, da'len. How are you feeling?"

"Dorian. Where's Dorian?" Aldaron asked straight away, ignoring the question.

The Keeper frowned in confusion. "Dorian?" he repeated, "You mean the shemlen mage?"

Aldaron nodded urgently, "Please. Where is he? Is he alright?"

"All of your companions are unharmed," Hawen assured him. "The Qunari returned to your camp to send word of your injury. You won't be well enough to travel for the next several days."

Aldaron didn't care about that right now. He'd been injured trying to protect Dorian, and he needed to know that the man was safe. Needed to see with his own eyes that Dorian was unharmed. "I want to see Dorian," he pleaded, and would likely be ashamed later of how much he sounded like a child crying for his parents. "Please, let me see him."

"You're in no shape for visitors at the moment, da'len," Hawen protested.

"Sathan, hahren," Aldaron begged.

The elder elf stared at him a long moment. Confused? Concerned? Aldaron couldn't quite tell and still wasn't able to think clearly. "Very well," he relented, sounding none too pleased, "The shemlen can come in after I've checked your wounds."

Aldaron breathed out a shaky sigh, but even in the midst of his roiling emotions realized that was probably the best compromise he would get. So he did not complain as the Keeper plied him with potions and unwrapped the bandages at his waist to reveal what had been healed down to an angry red gash. "The blade was poisoned," Hawen explained as he prodded at the wound, but Aldaron was barely listening. It hurt to move and it hurt when the Keeper touched any of the inflamed red skin around the wound. "I've done what I can with magic, the rest will have to heal on its own." Aldaron nodded more because it was expected than because he wanted to reply.

The pain began to fade as Hawen's potions took effect, making him feel groggy and disoriented again, but Aldaron forced himself to stay awake as the Keeper wrapped fresh bandages around his waist. "I really do insist you rest further, da'len," Hawen said as he helped Aldaron lay down when he was patched up again.

Aldaron shook his head weakly. His body seemed to agree with the Keeper, but he needed to see that Dorian was safe before he could even think about going back to sleep.

"Very well," the Keeper sighed as he moved away from Aldaron's side. "I shall send in your shemlen companion."

Aldaron was relieved. He let his eyes drift closed as he listened to Hawen put away jars of herbs and then leave the aravel, only opening them again when the door once more creaked open several minutes later. He tilted his head up to see better and there was Dorian, silhouetted against the daylight outside. "Vhen'an," Aldaron breathed a sigh of relief that came out almost a sob as he finally laid eyes on the man. There was blood on his robes, but he didn't look injured, so it didn't seem to be his own. Aldaron reached an arm out toward him weakly and Dorian scrambled rather inelegantly to his side, taking the elf's hand in his own as soon as it was within reach. "You're alright." He'd been so scared, not knowing.

"I'm alright?" Dorian asked incredulously, sitting as comfortably as he could in the cramped space. "You're the one who got stabbed, you reckless idiot. Why would you do that?"

"They were going to hurt you. I couldn't…" Aldaron swallowed heavily against the sudden lump in his throat. "I can't loose anyone else," he finished quietly.

"Is that what all this has been about?" Dorian asked. "You've been acting… Well, I imagine you know how you've been acting."

Not like himself. Reckless and angry. Now, drugged and aching, he could no longer pretend that everything was fine. Aldaron squeezed his eyes shut and flung an arm over his face – the one that wasn't still clinging to Dorian. "I would go back in time and let all of Wycome burn if it would save them," he breathed, barely above a whisper and choked with tears.

"There are a hundred reasons why that is a terrible idea," Dorian said, almost flippantly, then paused. "And I imagine you've already thought of every one," he finished with much more solemnity.

Aldaron had. Maybe not a hundred reasons. His one experience with time travel was enough of a reason to never try it again, no matter how tempting. That didn't make the pain any easier to bear. "I wish none of this had ever happened."

"This?" Dorian asked.

"Corypheus, the Inquisition… all of it," Aldaron clarified. The lump in his throat made it hard to talk. All the medicine and exhaustion fogging his mind made it impossible to hold back the torrent of emotions raging through him. Tears welled up, choked his voice and slipped out even though he squeezed his eyes shut. "I want to go home," it came out in a choked whisper, breathless and haggard. He swiped at the tears on his cheek once to little effect, then gave up. Despite the pain it caused to move, he rolled onto his uninjured side to lie facing Dorian and rested his forehead against the man's thigh. "I want to go home." He missed his family. He missed his friends. But his family was dead and his home didn't exist anymore. There would be no going back. Not now, not ever.

Hands fisted in Dorian's robes, Aldaron finally gave in and let out the pain he'd been holding in for so long. Tears flowed freely and sobs wracked his body. He was vaguely aware of fingers threading through his hair, a hand rubbing his arm, a voice murmuring words he didn't even try to understand. Eventually the tears and the pain and the concoction of herbs he'd been fed proved too exhausting and Aldaron drifted back to sleep.

The next time Aldaron woke he was less disoriented, less exhausted, and in notably less pain. But he was once more alone.

Inside an aravel – not exactly like the ones his clan had used but similar enough – Aldaron should have felt safe, but nothing could be further from the truth. The only reasons he'd ever spent an extended period of time inside the wagons were bad. Sick, injured, confined. A scared child hiding from shemlen bandits held tight in his mother's arms, hands pressed over ears to muffle thunder in the middle of the night. Angry, locked in until you learn your lesson; raging until the anger turned to fear, let me out, please let me out.

With some difficulty, but not nearly as much as before, Aldaron managed to prop himself up on his elbows to get a better look at his surroundings. At the far end of the aravel the door was closed by not latched, standing just a hair's breadth ajar. That was comforting, but Aldaron would still rather be out there than in here. It was significantly harder to get himself fully upright. By the time he managed a sitting position - albeit leaning heavily against the wall – Aldaron was winded and the wound in his side was protesting vehemently. He was still there, just barely catching his breath, when the door opened.

"You're awake," Dorian observed from the doorway. "And making a break for freedom, from the looks of things. Can you put the escape attempt on hold long enough to eat something? At least I assume this is meant to be food."

Aldaron could barely remember the last time he'd eaten something. How long had he been in here, drifting in and out of sleep as his body healed? He was starving. "What is it?" he asked.

"Perhaps you can tell me," Dorian replied. He came over to Aldaron's side and handed him a bowl as he sat down. Aldaron shifted to sit more comfortably against the wall of the aravel and accepted it. The contents were a sort of thick soup, chunks of overboiled vegetables and meat floating in the dark broth. Aldaron sniffed it curiously, then lifted the wooden spoon set in the bowl and took a bite. The taste was so comfortingly familiar that he could almost cry. Instead he quickly took another bite, then another, wolfing down the meal like a man starving. He only managed to restrain himself from licking the bowl clean when he realized that Dorian was staring at him. "Either you were starving or that tastes much better than it looks," he man said.

Aldaron flushed in embarrassment and set the bowl down beside him. Both, really, but he doubted Dorian would agree on the second part. "It's… very Dalish," he replied eventually. "Nothing like what the cooks at Skyhold make."

"And what is it, exactly?" Dorian asked. "It looks like whatever they could find dumped in a pot."

"Yes… essentially," Aldaron replied. "It's good for when resources are low. Or for all the extra scraps that aren't good by themselves." All the bits of fat and organ meat leftover from a hunt, the overripe fruits and vegetables, the tasteless greens. And a few things that Dorian was probably happier not knowing about. Usually a sign of hard times, and Aldaron felt bad taking resources from a clan that was clearly struggling. He would make certain they were paid back multiple times over.

"So they're serving you leftovers?" Dorian asked.

"They don't have to serve us anything at all," Aldaron pointed out. He was grateful for their help, but knew they would have had every reason to refuse.

"They haven't been serving us anything at all," Dorian replied. "You're the only one they're offering food to. The rest of us are being quietly shunned. I think they're only tolerating us for your sake."

Aldaron looked over at him in surprise. "What, really?" he asked. It was clear that Keeper Hawen didn't trust the others, but did the clan actually care about his own wellbeing? The thought wasn't as cheering as Aldaron had expected. He had wanted the clan to accept him, he should be happy about it. So why wasn't he?

"Yes, really. They've been civil. And the children have become quite taken with Varric's stories, but they don't like me very much, I think," Dorian commented, and he didn't seem at all upset about it. "Not that I'm terribly surprised. I am the evil Tevinter magister, after all. They have good reason not to trust me."

"It doesn't bother you?" Aldaron asked.

"I'm quite used to being the pariah, as you know," Dorian assured. "Does it bother you?"

"I…" Aldaron started to deny it, and then stopped, because it did. That was why being cared for by the clan didn't make him happy. "Yes, a little," he admitted.

Dorian smiled softly, "I'm flattered," he said, sitting up a little straighter. "But you needn't worry about me. I suppose you're feeling better?"

"Physically, yes," Aldaron murmured. It was a simple question, but the answer was much more complicated. Nothing so far had been able to ease the ache in his heart. If anything it was worse since finding the clan. They were no the cure for his homesickness that he had hoped for. And he found that even earning this clan's trust left him feeling apathetic if they did not also trust the people he cared about.

At first he had planned on going back to his clan after this whole mess with Corypheus was sorted out. Then Dorian had happened and he wasn't certain anymore. Would they like him, would they accept him? Would Dorian like them? Would Dorian even want to meet them? But he had always wanted to see his family again, to know if they were proud of everything he had done. Now that wasn't an option. What would he do now when this was all over?

"I was wondering… what happens… after?" Aldaron said quietly.

Dorian looked confused for a moment before Aldaron's meaning sank in. "Ah, yes. After. Dreadful thing, after," he said solemnly. "Assuming one or both of us aren't killed along the way, what do you wish to happen?" he asked, but didn't give Aldaron a chance to answer before he continued. "We could go our separate ways, if you prefer. I've been a port in a storm before. I would understand."

Aldaron felt his heart clench in his chest. "Of course not!" he insisted immediately, painfully. Was that was Dorian wanted? The thought had never occurred to him that Dorian might not want to stay together when all this was through. "I want us to stay together as long as possible." He could no longer imagine a life without Dorian. Well, he could, but it was not pleasant.

The man looked startled to hear that, but in his usual fashion was quick to try and laugh it off. "You're remarkably sentimental for someone who's killed as many people as you have."

"Dorian…" Aldaron began. He thought he'd made his feelings about this very clear when he took a knife for the man. Surely Dorian could see how much he cared, or was he being deliberately obtuse?

"Stop with the calf eyes already," Dorian sighed, "I… don't know what the future holds. For us or anything. That's my honest answer. Once Corypheus is defeated, when this is over… I'd like to talk about it more. If you would."

It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. Dorian was right, of course. One or both of them might die before the end. He wanted to believe that the man was just avoiding promises he wasn't certain he could keep, but couldn't help fearing the worst: that Dorian didn't want to stay together. That all of Aldaron's issues were more than he wanted to deal with.

"What's brought on this line of questioning so suddenly?" Dorian asked when Aldaron gave no further reply.

The elf bit his lip. He hadn't spoken of it aloud before, the pain was still too fresh. "I'd always thought when this is all done," he said slowly, quietly, "That I'd go back to my clan. At least for a while."

"And that's no longer an option," Dorian finished for him.

Aldaron nodded quietly.

"I've been meaning to ask," the man said slowly, thoughtfully. "What do your people do for their dead? You have some sort of tradition? Ritual?"

"We bury them…" Aldaron said slowly, "And plant a tree over the grave."

Dorian nodded and looked up at the rafters of the aravel. "Would that help?" he asked. "We can't go find their graves, obviously, and I don't imagine we can plant a tree for every single person – not right away – but perhaps a few? For your family, at least?"

"I… I would like that," Aldaron said quietly. Perhaps it would offer him the closure he needed. He hadn't been able to see them before the end. He hadn't been able to say goodbye.

"Good," Dorian said. "Let me know what you need, I'll speak to Josephine for you about… acquiring trees… I'll even help you plant them, if you like."

"You would do that for me?" Aldaron looked over at him in surprise.

"Of course," Dorian shrugged and turned his gaze back to the elf. "You took a dagger for me. You very likely saved my life, amatus. For that I think I can bear some dirt under my fingernails."

Aldaron smiled, soft and sad, but his first smile in days. "Thank you," he said earnestly.

Dorian returned the smile, "For you, amatus, anything."

The gesture meant more than anything at that moment. Aldaron imagined that Dorian thought their tradition simplistic and silly. It likely was compared to whatever humans did to remember their dead. And Dorian would probably hate every second of planting even one tree, but he was offering anyway. He didn't know the words to convey how much it meant to him. So instead he just asked, "Will you help me go outside?"

"Is that wise?" Dorian asked, and his gaze lingered meaningfully on the bandages around Aldaron's waist.

"I hate being cooped up like this," Aldaron begged. "Please. I just want some fresh air."

Dorian sighed, "Fine, alright," he relented. "But if you hurt yourself again I'm going to be yelled at by elves and its going to be entirely your fault."

"I'm fine," Aldaron tried to assure him, though it wasn't terribly believable considering he still couldn't even sit up on his own.

"You're a terrible liar," Dorian scolded.

Even getting Aldaron into his shirt and over to the door was a feat. His legs were weak beneath him as Dorian pulled him to his feet. The wound protested movement as intensely as ever and it felt like every muscle in his stomach was on fire. He clung to Dorian's shoulders as they moved the few steps to the door, which swung open easily with a nudge from Dorian's boot. Getting down the steps and out of the wagon was even more difficult. What began as an attempt to guide Aldaron slowly down the three steps to the ground ended up with the elf practically falling down the stairs with only Dorian's arms around his chest keeping him from landing flat on his face. "I told you this was a bad idea," Dorian complained as he helped Aldaron get his feet under himself again.

It probably was, but Aldaron was happy to be outside again. He turned his face up toward the sky and smiled. "I'm alright," he said despite the pain and the fatigue, "I just need to sit down for a while."

There was a fallen log not far from the aravel, and that was where Dorian lead him, sitting them both down on it so that Aldaron could lean against his shoulder. The seat did put them in full view of the rest of the camp, however, and it wasn't long until they were noticed. Thankfully the first person to do so was Varric, unfortunately he wasn't very subtle when he spotted them.

"He's alive after all," the dwarf said cheerfully as he approached. "That's a relief. I was afraid Sparkler here was going to set the entire camp on fire when Keeper Grouch wouldn't let him see you."

Dorian scoffed, "I would hardly do anything so barbaric, but the man was being completely unreasonable."

Aldaron vaguely remembered hearing the shouted argument from before. How long ago had that been? How long had he been unconscious? "I'm sorry I worried all of you," Aldaron said.

"Ah, don't worry about it, Treehugger," Varric waved of the apology easily, "Just glad to see you back on your feet."

"What happened, exactly?" Aldaron asked. "I don't remember much after…"

"After being stabbed?" Dorian asked, and it was impossible for Aldaron not to notice how he tensed slightly. He felt bad for making them all worry, especially Dorian, but he would rather this than see any of them get injured.

"You collapsed," Varric said, "Knocked your head pretty bad and wouldn't wake up. Wouldn't get a potion down, either, to stop the bleeding. That's why we brought you here. It was closer than the Inquisition camp. You were bleeding out and Sparkler was having an absolute meltdown. I think he cried."

"I did not!" Dorian protested. But by the way his cheeks colored Aldaron thought maybe it wasn't a complete lie.

"You keep telling yourself that, Sparkler," Varric laughed. "Anyway, Tiny carried you here before going on to report what happened. This one wouldn't leave," he gestured to Dorian, "and someone had to stick around to make sure he didn't set anything on fire while the Keeper patched you up." Dorian grumbled but by now had given up protesting anything Varric said. "Speaking of," he added, looking away from them, "Here he comes now. You might want to prepare yourself for a tongue lashing while I make a tactical retreat."

While Varric did just that Aldaron raised his head from Dorian's shoulder and looked around the man to see Hawen coming their way. The Keeper did not look terribly pleased. Aldaron had a long history of angering Keepers and it didn't seem the tradition would be ending. "What is he doing out of bed?" the elder elf demanded when he reached the long where they were seated. "I let you in to see him on the condition that you let him rest."

Dorian shrugged, "Fortunately I don't take my orders from you. The Inquisitor commands and I obey."

Hawen frowned and turned his gaze to Aldaron, who wished he could sit up straight, look more like the leader he was supposed to be. "Is this true?"

"Yes, I asked him to take me outside," Aldaron said as confidently as he could manage.

"You should be resting," the Keeper protested, "You lost a significant amount of blood and there may still be poison in your body."

"I am resting," Aldaron said. "Outside. Dorian helped me, I didn't reopen the wound, and I'm already feeling much better from the fresh air." More relaxed at least.

The Keeper looked like he wanted to argue further, but could think of nothing to say against Aldaron's points. Maybe all that politicking was finally starting to rub off on him, Aldaron had never won an argument with his Keeper Istimaethoriel. Finally the elder elf spoke up again, "May I speak with you in private for a moment, da'len?"

Aldaron was surprised by the question and looked over at Dorian hesitantly. What did the Keeper have to say that couldn't be said in front of Dorian? The man returned his gaze steadily. "I can leave if you like. I assume you'll be safe here."

"I will be," Aldaron assured him. "Thank you, vhen'an."

Dorian nodded and stood up slowly, helping Aldaron to sit on the ground so that he could rest back against the log easily. Then he left them alone, out of earshot but not out of sight.

"Vhen'an?" Hawen repeated in confusion. "A shemlen?"

The word had slipped out without Aldaron even thinking about it. He froze for a moment in fear of how the elder elf would react, how his opinion might change now that he knew the true nature of their relationship. "Yes," he said slowly, but was afraid to meet Hawen's eyes. Would this be a further betrayal? Further proof that he wasn't Dalish enough? "Dorian's a good man. Nothing else matters," he found himself saying.

"You trust him?" Hawen asked.

This time Aldaron did look up, did meet the Keeper's eyes. "With my life," he affirmed.

"Does you clan know about him?"

The question sent Aldaron silent, his eyes back on the floor. They hadn't. In the scant number of letters he'd been able to send them since the Conclave he had not had the courage to bring up Dorian. There were rumors, he knew, and maybe some of those had reached his clan. If so, Istimaethoriel had never said anything about it. He had wanted to tell them, but he didn't have the words. Didn't have the courage. Just as he lacked the courage now.

"Where is your clan, da'len?" the Keeper asked when Aldaron gave no answer.

Aldaron did not answer right away. It was still painful to speak of them in any way. He swallowed heavily before speaking, and even that failed to keep the hitch out of his voice. "Dead." Down to the last child if the report was accurate, and Aldaron had no reason to believe it was not. He couldn't look up, eyes already swimming with tears that he fought to keep at bay.

"Ir abelas," Hawen replied, his voice soft and sympathetic. "I pray that Falon'din lead them safely to the Beyond."

"Ma serannas," Aldaron bowed his head and blinked back the tears. It did help, hearing someone say those words. "I… owe you an apology, hahren. I sought out your clan for selfish reasons. I thought… it might ease the pain, but that was unfair to you. I offered you aid not out of goodwill, but out of the selfish need to gain your acceptance. Your clan is not my own. I can't expect you to replace them, and I don't want to burden you further with the trouble I will bring. I'll still offer you whatever help I can. Any resources that your clan requires to see them safe I'll ensure you have. I owe you my life, that's the very least I can do."

"It is normal to make mistakes, da'len," Hawen said gently, "Especially when we are grieving. It takes wisdom and courage to admit when we are wrong. Even here we have heard tales of the Dalish elf the shemlen call the Herald of Andraste. I owe you an apology as well, it seems. I allowed my feelings for the humans and their Chantry to color my judgement of you and your Inquisition. Even if your reasons were selfish, you have helped our clan and reclaimed the sacred places of our people. I do not think another would have done the same. You do your clan proud, Inquisitor."

Aldaron bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut to keep from crying. All he had ever wanted was to make his clan proud of him. "Ma serannas, hahren," he whispered, not trusting his voice at the moment.

"You and your companions may stay with the clan until you are well enough to travel," Hawen said, as though he hadn't just shattered so many of the fears in Aldaron's heart. "I'll send your mage back to you," he added before taking his leave.

Aldaron could only nod, and when Dorian returned to his side he wrapped his arms around the man and held him tight.

Notes:
If you need me I'll be here on the floor in a puddle of tears. Emotionally exhausted from writing this chapter. The number of people who thought I was going to kill off my beloved child is shocking. How dare you.

Also now that we've learned Varric's nickname for Aldaron is "treehugger" I may write the story behind it on tumblr.

Elvish:
Ir abelas - I'm sorry
Ma serannas - Thank you
Sathan - Please
Vhen'an - My heart/home (shortened ma'vhen'an)
Da'len - Child, little one, young one
Hahren - Elder, teacher, wise person