Two days they had been in the Emerald Graves and from the moment they had stepped into the forest the Inquisitor had been distracted. Not distracted like he'd been in the Plains – angry and reckless – rather, he moved through the trees sometimes as though in a daze. That Aldaron loved trees was no secret from anyone, so Dorian had expected a little bit of odd behavior when he first set eyes on this place, but this was not the same. It was like Aldaron wasn't paying attention to his surroundings at all. He kept staring up at the canopy as they walked, craning his neck to look up at the sky until he tripped over a rock or a root and his attention was roughly brought back to earth. Five minutes later he was staring up at the sky again. When the paths took them close enough to the massive trunks he would reach out, let his fingers graze over the bark and slow his steps for a moment for pulling himself away.

It was different from his usual fondness for nature. They had been to large forests before, seen some rather impressive trees in their travels and Aldaron had never behaved like this before. But Dorian was having a hard time puzzling out what was different about this place. Why had it effected his lover in such a way?

Of course, those thoughts were reserved for when they weren't being attacked by Freemen, or Templars, or bears, or demons. Which was not very much time at all.

Aldaron's distraction thankfully didn't extend into battle. When they were attacked his focus returned and he was all business. But as soon as it was over and he'd cleaned off his daggers he was back to staring at everything like a child on Satinalia morning.

"Why do they call it the Emerald Graves?" Dorian asked while they were walking. On their way back to camp after routing out what was hopefully the last of the lyrium smugglers in the area. "Did they bury people here?"

It got Aldaron's attention. The elf lowered his gaze from the leaves and slowly turned toward Dorian, eyes wide and full of melancholy. That was when it clicked, and then Dorian couldn't believe it had taken him two days to put the pieces together. The Dalish planted trees on their graves. "Are all of these…?" he asked hesitantly.

"Probably," Aldaron's voice was soft, wistful. "Most of them from the Exalted March."

Dorian suddenly felt horrified. They were walking through a graveyard. Each tree a tombstone. No wonder Aldaron was acting so strange. To have just lost his own family and now be walking through the graves of his ancestors. Dorian couldn't even imagine what that felt like.

"Wait, are you saying there's actual graves here?" Varric asked. "I thought they were just being poetic. Orlesians do that."

Dorian waited for Aldaron to answer, but the elf just turned away and kept walking, eyes on the path ahead. Left it to him, then. "The Dalish plant trees to mark their graves."

The silence that followed was pointed and deafening until finally it was broken by Varric muttering a single word. "Shit. And the Orlesians build their summer homes out of them," he observed. "That's the kind of symbolism you usually only see in fiction."

"Suppose it explains why he's not climbing any of them," The Iron Bull commented.

It was rather unusual for the Inquisitor to go more than a few days without climbing something. Aldaron hadn't been up a tree since before he was injured, so it really wasn't all that surprising. More surprising was that he hadn't attempted it despite the lingering injury. And it was lingering. Dorian had been watching him like a hawk since they left the Exalted Plains. Aldaron insisted that he was fine, but he still favored his uninjured side, he stretched more than usual after a day on horseback, and Dorian had seen him press his hands against the small of his back, wincing, when he thought no one was looking.

He wanted to say something. He wanted to ask; he wanted to demand that Aldaron let one of the Inquisition's healers take a look at that wound. There had to be one somewhere in this Maker forsaken forest, he was sure of it.

But he knew Aldaron well enough now to know that the elf would deny any discomfort. He would deny and then he would get angry if Dorian pressed the subject. Either the pain would go away, or sometime in the next few days or weeks or months it would become unbearable and the Inquisitor would be forced to address it one way or another. Dorian was hoping for the former.

The worst of it all was that Aldaron did not allow himself a moment of rest. If they weren't tromping about the forest killing random strangers and breaking into some Orlesian noble's summer manor, the Inquisitor was pouring over the reports that came in every day by raven from his advisors. The day's correspondence was handed over as soon as they walked into camp after a long day of hiking and murder, and Aldaron immediately began reading. He would sit himself off to the side and read until someone brought him dinner, then he would read while he ate, and he scribbled messages and orders in return late into the night, sometimes writing the same letter three times before he was certain his words would be understood.

Dorian was familiar with Aldaron's workaholic tendencies, and he knew the Inquisitor was trying to coordinate the movements of two separate armies, not to mention the scouting parties. He was the Inquisitor; he couldn't exactly not give orders to his army while it was on the move. But that didn't make it any easier when he was trying to sleep and Aldaron was sitting up in their tent poring over reports by candlelight.

Aldaron's insomnia had never completely gone away, so Dorian was used to falling asleep before him, but most of the time Aldaron at least made an effort to sleep at a reasonable time.

"Amatus… Go to sleep," Dorian mumbled in complaint. It had to be midnight and the elf was still sitting there with a single candle. The light and the sound of shuffling papers kept waking Dorian up – usually a sign that he'd fallen asleep in the library again.

"I need to finish this," Aldaron replied without looking up from whatever he was writing. "Am I keeping you up? I can go outside."

"No, you need to sleep," Dorian sighed. "The ravens can't go out until the morning anyway."

"And they need to go out first thing so they can get to Cullen," Aldaron said.

This was an unwinnable argument. The birds could wait a couple hours, but Aldaron would never admit that. With a flick of his wrist Dorian snuffed out the candle, ignored Aldaron's annoyed scoff, and grabbed his lover by the back of his shirt, physically dragging him down to the bedroll. As he fell awkwardly to the ground at Dorian's side the elf let out a yelp of pain. Dorian released him immediately, eyes wide. "Are you alright?" he asked in alarm.

Aldaron hissed softly and shifted to a less awkward position. Lying flat on his back he pressed a hand to his stomach. The left side, just above his hip. Where he'd been stabbed. "I'm just… still a little stiff."

This time Dorian did not buy it for a second. "You've been stiff for a week." Sitting up, he pulled Aldaron's hand away from his side and pushed up the elf's shirt. Aldaron protested indignantly but was ignored as Dorian flicked the candle back to life so he could take a look at the injury. Unfortunately - although expectedly - there was nothing to see. The only thing on Aldaron's stomach was a scar, a line of still-pink flesh to mark what had been a gaping wound.

"See?" the elf said sternly, and slapped Dorian's hands away, "It's fine. Just sore."

"You said it was from inactivity," Dorian accused. "That you just needed exercise. What have we been doing the past several days if not exercise?"

Aldaron pursed his lips, "It's just a little sore. I'm fine."

"You're not fine!" Dorian exclaimed. If he were a better healer he could have caught this earlier. He could have done something about it whether Aldaron liked it or not. But no, this wasn't his fault. Aldaron should have had a healer look at it ages ago.

"It hasn't stopped me from doing anything," Aldaron protested, and rolled away from Dorian before sitting up again. "I can still fight. I'm not going to lie around like an invalid. The Inquisition needs me."

"And what use will you be to anyone when you collapse?" Dorian demanded. "The Inquisition needs you whole, not handicapped and afraid of moving too quickly because of the pain. Don't think I haven't seen you," he added quickly before Aldaron could deny.

The elf at least had the sense to look ashamed by the accusation. "There's still not time to sit around and recover," he said stubbornly.

That was probably the closest he would ever come to admitting that anything was wrong. Dorian would take it. "You could at least have a healer look at it," he said, voice softening somewhat.

Aldaron sighed. His shoulders slumped in defeat, he hung his head and raked a hand through his hair. "Fine," he mumbled. "In the morning."

"Of course in the morning," Dorian scoffed. "You need to sleep, I was entirely serious about that."

"I have to finish these reports," Aldaron protested, but it was much weaker than before.

"They will still be there in the morning, amatus," Dorian reminded him gently. "The world won't end if you take a break for a few hours." The elf did not say anything, but looked hesitantly at the pile of parchment on the ground. "You won't be any use to anyone if you work yourself to exhaustion. Come here, amatus." He held out an arm and watched as Aldaron tore his gaze away from the reports before moving into Dorian's arms. The man smiled, feeling victorious as he pulled Aldaron down onto the bedroll beside him. "Besides, you're not allowed to be the Inquisitor at night, you know that."

Aldaron's shoulders shook slightly with silent laughter. Another victory. "Of course. I forgot."

Dorian pulled a blanket up over them and snuffed out the candle again. "I'll forgive you this time," he murmured. "If you go to sleep."

"I am," Aldaron mumbled. He shifted to get comfortable and lay his head on Dorian's shoulder. The man stayed awake until he heard his lover's breathing turn slow and even. Only then did he close his eyes once more and allow himself to fall back to sleep.

In the morning Aldaron rushed to finish up the orders he needed to send while eating breakfast. His handwriting was even worse than usual, and he hoped Josephine wouldn't see any of this because she would be so disappointed. The whole time Dorian watched him impatiently, ensuring that Aldaron didn't even think about avoiding the healer that morning. So when his papers were handed over to the scouts to be sent off by raven Aldaron knew there was no avoiding it any longer. Feeling like a shamed child, he approached the camp healer and the pair ducked into a tent for privacy.

"What's the prognosis?" Dorian asked as soon as Aldaron stepped out of the tent after the healer.

The healer was a very nice woman. One of the mages recruited from Redcliffe posted here to keep on eye on the scouts. Perhaps not the best healer the Inquisition had to offer, but more than capable. She had been in the Inquisitor's tent for less than an hour, poking and prodding and only scolding him a little bit for not taking better care of himself. At Dorian's question she gave Aldaron an uncertain look, silently asking if she was allowed to say anything. Aldaron just nodded. She would likely explain better than he could anyway. "He has a fair amount of internal scarring. Certainly nothing life threatening, but if left untended the pain will remain and the stiffness may get worse."

"It can be treated, then?" Dorian asked.

"Yes, and quite easily," the healer replied. "Though it would not be a problem at all if he had a healer examine him regularly while the injury was healing." Her gaze slid toward the Inquisitor and he looked up at the sky. "A wound like that generally cannot be healed fully with only one treatment. I've broken up some of the scar tissue, and his body should begin repairing itself now. I'd recommend seeing a healer every few days to ensure it's healing properly."

"I'll make certain that he does," Dorian promised. Aldaron wasn't looking at him but he could hear the accusation in Dorian's voice.

"Very well," the healer replied, some confusion in her voice. Perhaps she didn't understand how serious Dorian was. There was no doubt in Aldaron's mind that the man would hound him mercilessly if he went more than a day without seeing a healer again. "Inquisitor," the title finally forced Aldaron to look at her again. Thankfully the woman only offered a small bow before turning to leave.

"Thank you," Aldaron said after her. And then he was left alone with Dorian. The mage's gaze was critical. Aldaron could not meet his eyes. "Is this where you say 'I told you so'?" he asked.

"Apparently I don't need to," the man replied dryly.

Aldaron shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. He did not like fighting with Dorian, and it seemed like every time it happened it was his fault. And he did know this was his fault. Dorian was right – Dorian was always right – he should have seen a healer sooner. He really had thought it was nothing in the beginning. And maybe a part of him had wanted the pain because it was something to feel other than grief and rage. He was lucky the problem wasn't anything serious. "I'm sorry," he eventually managed to say.

Dorian sighed, "At least you're not at risk of dropping dead on the spot," he said. "But you need to take better care of yourself."

Aldaron just nodded mutely. There was nothing he could say, no argument to defend his actions. It was just so much easier to pretend nothing was wrong and hope all of his problems went away on their own. And there was too much else on his mind, so much that needed his attention. There was no time for the Inquisitor to take a break; not to mourn his family and not to recover from an injury.

"Are you alright?" Dorian asked softly.

The man had been asking the same question at least once a day since they'd left the Dalish camp nearly a week ago. Aldaron never had a clear answer for him because he was never sure if Dorian was asking about his injury or his emotions. Either way the true answer wasn't something he wanted to give.

"I'm not talking about your injury this time. You've been very quiet the past few days," Dorian continued when Aldaron gave no answer. "I'm rather ashamed it took me so long to figure out why."

So it was time to talk about that, then. He supposed if they were going to have a heart-to-heart about everything wrong in his life it might as well be now. Aldaron shrugged with one shoulder. He wasn't upset that Dorian had taken so long to figure out why this forest bothered him. He was, sadly, used to it. Humans didn't stop to think about elves. Dorian was getting better, but he still had a long ways to go. "I've been doing a lot of thinking."

"That can be dangerous," Dorian commented. "What about?"

"My clan," Aldaron answered softly. Dorian did not have any smart comments to say about that, it seemed. Aldaron wasn't certain he wanted to talk about this, but maybe it would help. "I thought… Somehow that Keeper Hawen's clan could replace them. But they can't. Of course they can't. They aren't the same at all."

"How do you mean?" Dorian asked.

Aldaron frowned for a moment as he tried to decide how best to explain it to someone who knew next to nothing about his people. "There's very little communication between clans; because we move around so much and because larger groups draw too much attention. So they're all very different. We have the same gods, we tell the same stories. To an outsider we probably do all look the same. But… This clan builds their aravels differently because the terrain is different where they live, and that clan makes their clothes differently because of their resources or the weather. One Keeper favors tales of Ghilan'nain and the clan reveres her most, another Keeper prays most often to Andruil." And judging by the look on his face, he'd lost Dorian. "The clans are different because of where they live and the people in them. Do you see?"

"I think so," the man said thoughtfully. "Human cities are much the same way. If you go from Minrathous to Qarinus, for example, you're still in the same country, the people still speak the same language, but the atmosphere is different."

"Yes, like that," Aldaron nodded. He'd been to only a few human cities, but even he could see the difference between Val Royeaux and Halamshiral.

"So you were unhappy because that clan was different from yours?" Dorian asked.

"Not unhappy," Aldaron was quick to say. "But… disappointed, maybe. And it forced me to reconsider some things. Clan Lavellan was my family and I loved them. No one could ever replace them, but I don't think I want that anyway. They're gone, but… I still have people that I care about. I still have the Inquisition… I still have you," he turned toward Dorian and offered the man a small, crooked smile. "You're my clan now; all of you."

Dorian stared at him for a long moment, expression unreadable. He was silent for so long that Aldaron began to worry that he'd said something wrong. He'd meant it as a compliment, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd had a cultural misunderstanding. Then finally Dorian had a reply. "Varric is going to be furious he missed such a beautiful speech and now can't use it in the book we all know he's going to write about you."

Aldaron felt his ears go red and he shoved Dorian's shoulder nearly hard enough to send the man to the ground. "We were having a moment, and you've ruined it," he complained, but he was smiling.

Dorian laughed aloud as he righted himself, "I'm sorry," he chuckled. "That was unworthy of me. However, it… means quite a lot that you would think so highly of me – of any of us," he continued seriously.

"Is that so surprising?" Aldaron asked. He thought his feelings for Dorian, at least, were obvious by now even if he did not speak them aloud.

"Perhaps not," Dorian admitted, "But I'm unused to such syrupy declarations. I confess I don't quite know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Aldaron murmured. It was enough that Dorian knew, he didn't have to return the sentiment.

"I can't pretend to fully understand how much your clan meant to you," Dorian replied carefully, "Quite a lot, clearly, but… I've never had a terribly good relationship with my family, as you know."

"I know," Aldaron sighed.

"And if I learned anything from our short stay with that other clan, it's that I know absolutely nothing about your culture," Dorian added. "You don't talk much about… elf things."

"Elf things," Aldaron repeated dryly. All the vocabulary in that pretty head and that was the best he could come up with?

Dorian favored him with an equally deadpan expression. "You'll have to forgive my lack of tact on the subject. My chief sources of information on the subject are you and Solas, and he's not terribly forthcoming unless you want a lecture on why Arlathan was the greatest civilization to ever grace the world. I have at least learned that anything written about the Dalish in a book is at best exaggerated and at worst an outright fabrication. I'm working under the assumption that everything I learned before meeting you is entirely false."

"Well," Aldaron commented, "That's progress, I suppose. Why the sudden interest?" Not that he minded. Actually, he was happy that Dorian was showing an interest in his culture. And happy that he'd asked instead of relying on the untrustworthy information in books.

"Why shouldn't I be interested?" Dorian asked in return. "I happen to be sleeping with an elf, and yet I realized I know very little about his culture."

That was hardly surprising. Aldaron didn't talk about his people or his culture very often. But no one else seemed at all interested. Even Solas did not care for the Dalish. He was so used to being constantly surrounded by human culture and smothered by Chantry teachings. His beliefs were written on his face (quite literally) clear as day, and yet some people still acted surprised when he expressed them. He was glad that Dorian was interested, and he would eagerly tell the man everything he could. "What do you want to know?"

"Let's start with this," Dorian said, brushing a thumb along the dark lines inked on Aldaron's cheeks. "Why do you have a tree tattooed on your face? I assume it's not just because you love them so much."

"It's not a tree," Aldaron protested.

"Amatus, have you ever looked in a mirror?" Dorian said, lips quirking in amusement. "It's a tree."

It was a tree, Aldaron was forced to admit. But it wasn't just a tree. "It's… complicated." How did he even begin explaining the vallaslin? There was so much meaning behind what humans often considered simple tattoos. Did he explain only that he had symbols representing Mythal marking his face, or try to explain the significance of vallaslin entirely? How much did Dorian need to know? How much did he want to know?

"Well, we have a long day of travel ahead of us," Dorian hummed thoughtfully. "Perhaps that will be enough time to explain it?"

"You want me to talk to you about tattoos all day?" Aldaron asked incredulously.

"If necessary," Dorian replied. "I can think of many worse conversation topics."

Aldaron couldn't help being surprised. Dorian actually wanted to know about his people. Humans were never interested in learning about the Dalish unless to talk about how savage and uncivilized they were. Even Dorian hadn't shown more than a passing curiosity before now. Had spending time with a clan changed that? Had Aldaron changed that? "It probably won't take all day," he said eventually.

"Oh good," Dorian chuckled, "I was afraid I might get bored."

Aldaron rolled his eyes, "The others are probably waiting for us."

"That's the glory of being in charge, isn't it? Everyone has to wait on you," Dorian grinned, but turned and began walking toward the horses, where Varric and Bull were indeed waiting for them. They were leaving the Emerald Graves. He would miss this place. Maybe someday, when he was not tasked with saving the world, he could come back here. Aldaron took one last moment to look around the camp and up at the canopy far overhead, and then he followed after Dorian.

Notes:
I want to apologize for not updating last week. Real life showed up and bit me in the ass. I discussed it briefly on tumblr. To make up for it, I slapped together a playlist of some of the music that inspires this fic. There is a link and tracklisting post on my tumblr, erandir . tumblr . com.