#pavarris

It had been almost a week since they’d begun the procedure. Keeping him unconscious and under slow, sustained regeneration spell, administering the cure, raising the amount of the purifying ingredients with every dosage – while Arathras performed the blood-cleansing rituals every few hours.

Before they began, Yevren had barely remembered what Marra used to look like before Joining. Now that old image was resurfacing and though they’d never been friends, she couldn’t help but feel moved as she watched his old colours seep back.

What were Das’s old colours? She’d never known the old Dasahngaris. She’d caught glimpses of him on better days, faint echoes of a man she would love to have known. Should they succeed… Would she even recognize him if she saw him again? Would she like him more - or less? Would he still like her? She closed her eyes and sighed, cursing herself for a fool. The moment Dorian showed up, penitent and eager to make up for the lost time, Das would take him back. Yevren had been just a temporary consolation, a wall between Dasahngaris and solitude. He may have loved her - but probably not enough to choose her over Dorian Pavus. She could live with that - or so she tried to tell herself. 

“You need some rest,” Arathras’s voice came from the door, startling her from her ruminations. Yevren smiled at him, shaking her head. “I need to be here.” The elf sat next to her and gave her a long, questioning look. “I’ve been meaning to ask, ‘Ren… This—is a lot of trouble and a lot of secrecy.” She returned his gaze, waiting. He observed, rather than asked: “You’re not doing this for Marra, are you...” She averted her eyes. “Why not? Isn’t he one of us? And you know as well as I do that this research might yet prove useful to many others.” Arathras squinted at her, eyes full of doubt. “May well be, may be. But I know you, 'Ren. This is personal. And I may not be the only one noticing – and drawing conclusions.” Yevren resisted the urge to shoot him an angry glare. But her tense silence was probably all the confirmation Arathras needed. Was he right? Was the entire Soldier’s Peak abuzz with rumours now? The only notes on the Architect’s research outside Weisshaupt had been archived at Vigil’s Keep and she had to request a copy. Was Warden-Commander Laurent getting suspicious, too? What would the First do should he learn Das Davarris was alive - and cured? She pushed the thought back. There would be a time for those concerns - but it wasn’t now. “I’m too busy to worry about everyone’s mindfarts, Arathras," she snapped back. The pang of guilt at the somewhat hurt look from her friend made her deflate a bit. Andraste’s tits, he was just trying to warn her. “Sorry. I suppose I do need some rest after all.” “Take a walk, enjoy some fresh air – and get some sleep, ‘Ren.” he said. “I’ll take care of Silas here. If there’s any change, I’ll send for you.” “Very well,” she said, standing up. “Have it your way. But if anything happens, anything at all…” “You’ll be the first to know, don’t worry,” he finished for her and shooed her out of the door.

She barely registered her surroundings as she walked across the courtyard and to her quarters, responding mechanically to the greetings of people she passed by. And as the door of her room clicked closed behind her, all the strain and fatigue finally caught up with her. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. Her green eyes bloodshot and puffy behind the spectacles she seldom took off these days, her dark complexion several unhealthy shades of ashy and her black hair dull, greasy and in sore need of brushing and re-braiding. She looked exactly how she felt. She raised a hand to her hair and made a wry face when her fingertips met the unpleasant texture. Das used to love her hair. He’d always brush and braid it for her before bed. It had helped him train and retain dexterity in his prosthetic hand, or so he used to say. It had also soothed him - the intimacy and the repetition. Much like reciting the Benedictions while fingering prayer beads, it had become a ritual to him. There used to be a quiet reverence to it. ‘There,’ he’d say as he secured the end of the braid with a leather string. ‘All done.’ And he’d kiss her hair, wrap his arms around her and rest his chin on her shoulder. And it would feel like home. The memory would reduce her to a pitiful, sobbing mess - had she not been so tired. She crashed onto her bed, not even bothering to take her glasses or her boots off, and sleep engulfed her so fast she barely felt it when her back hit the mattress.   She still didn’t feel particularly rested when the loud banging on her door yanked her awake. Judging by the volume and the urgency in his voice, her assistant must have been at it for a while already. “Lady Yevren? Lady Yevren! Warden Marra! He’s awake!”

She rushed into the infirmary, slamming the door open – and nearly tripped when Marra’s eyes connected with hers. “Lady Yevren,” he said. After months of miserable wordlessness, his old voice sounded almost surreal. His face was still pale and skeletal, but the eyes looking at her were hazelnut brown and the whites were back to their natural colour. No trace of the taint, no glimmer of that eerie blighted light.

It was an awkward conversation, as she sat on his bed, took his pulse and performed a thorough check-up, while she explained, best as she could, what was going on. “Your blood no longer carries the taint, which is good. The bad news is that your body’s sustenance and defence mechanisms are all shut off because the taint performed those functions for so long. It’s weakened your circulation system and done a lot of damage to several important organs. Your metabolism--” She paused. Marra was just staring at her, confused and dazed, the brown eyes focusing on the movement of her lips - but showing little sign of grasping the meaning behind her words. “Silas?” “Go easy on him, ‘Ren,” Arathras said. He turned to Marra and explained: “The Blight kept you going even as it was eating you up. Your body sustained a lot of damage it needs to recover from. And it needs to relearn how to function properly again. Heal - and regenerate. It’s gonna take a lot of time. And you’ll have to be a good patient, Silas. Understood?”

Over the next few days, Arathras discontinued the blood rituals and Yevren stopped giving Marra his cure. She couldn’t quite shake off the fear of a relapse, a descent back into the darkness and the Song. But that didn’t happen. Silas’s condition kept improving, slowly but steadily. On the fifth day, he seemed finally strong enough to stomach some solid food. He tasted his first bread in months - and he broke into tears over it, like a veteran catching the first glimpse of his old home after years of warring abroad. That didn’t mean Silas Marra’s struggle was over. The Blight had taken a heavy toll on him and he was never going to fully recover. But with some luck and discipline, he still had some years left in him.

And that was what she intended to write in her report for Dorian when she finally sat down to compose the first draft some two weeks after Marra’s awakening.

It should have been simple enough. Sum up her findings, give a full report on Marra’s initial condition, his recovery and his current state, include Arathras’s notes on the regenerative spells he used and the blood cleansing ritual - and her own charts and instructions on how to tweak the potion and adjust the dosages. Thank Dorian for all his help and wish him good luck. And send it all straight to Llomerryn.

But it wasn’t easy at all and she couldn’t get past the initial 'Dear Dorian’.

Dasahngaris had left a lot of loose ends. His supposed death allowed him an escape from many things. The First Warden’s punishment, the impending apocalypse, his many enemies and his many friends – and difficult confessions and decisions concerning Dorian Pavus and Yevren herself. His escape had come at a price, one that he was probably willing to pay - but Yevren loved him too much to let him. And now that Das’s condition turned out to be curable, all those loose ends and unresolved debts would inevitably start catching up with him. It meant, among other things, that he’d have to face those decisions he’d cheated his way out of. Whether to remain in Rivain - or return and fight alongside his old friends and allies. Whether to back up Divine Victoria’s Inquisition - or denounce it. Whether to join his elven brethren - or keep playing the peacemaker. He would also have to decide between Dorian and her, of course.

Feeling like she was about to sign her own death sentence, she dipped the quill in ink and resumed writing:

Silas Marra has awakened. His taint is gone – and he’s on his way to some degree of recovery. While it is too early to draw any definitive conclusions and the long-term effects of his past condition are yet to be determined and documented, I believe there’s good cause for optimism…

She kept writing and editing her report late into the night, trying not to think too much about Das, about how much she missed him, how much she ached for him and how she would never see him again; pushing away the dark, heavy thoughts about what this new-found hope would mean for him – and for her. What it would mean for them.

…

There was one last journal lying in front of Dorian on Das’s old desk. This one was different. Unlike all the others, it wasn’t Rivaini made. It looked like something you’d get in Ferelden. It was much worse for wear, too, with its covers scratched and stained with old blood and grime. Dorian stared at it, the apprehension a dull ache behind his eyes… His hand felt heavy as he reached for it. It was dated not long after Das had disappeared – or died, as the rest of Thedas still believed – and filled with portraits and sketches of old familiar places and people. Dorian recognized the gates of Wycome. The proud face of Ranna Lavellan, one of the clan’s young Keepers.   A smile spread across his face when he turned a page and beheld Varric’s smirk. A few unfamiliar faces later and Sera grinned at him from the yellowed page.

Almost a hundred pages worth of portraits with a still life or a scenery here and there, glimpses of the South, of Skyhold, Wycome, Kirkwall and the Soldier’s Peak and all the people who inhabited those chapters of Das’s life – the Inquisition agents and advisors, the Lavellans, the Wardens – the woman Dorian recognized as Das’s mother, because he had seen her sketches before… A compendium of Das’s griefs and losses. Many pages had been torn out. Of those pages that remained, none bore his own likeness. His own face wasn’t there.

He gulped down the lump that formed in his throat as he turned the last page. A folded piece of paper fell out of the journal and onto his lap. A draft of a letter. Most of it illegible, written in a hasty hand, every other word or sentence blotted out with a criss-cross of angry lines, the margins full of fingerprints – some of it old faded ink, some of it blood. The date on it barely a week after they’d last spoken – and his own name on top of the page. 'Dear Dorian, …’

He squeezed his eyes shut and drew a deep breath. It took a few beats and all his courage to peel his eyes open and read the few isolated sentences that peeked through the tangled mess of ink that covered the rest of the page.

'Dear Dorian,

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Last time we spoke you joked I was your retirement plan. Neither of us laughed because you were not joking – and you know that as well as I do. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx I love you with every drop of blood in my veins and I’ll love you on my deathbed. But I’ve found someone xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx   xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Yevren is here. You are not. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Das.

PS: Enclosed with the letter should be my sending crystal.’

Dorian’s vision began to swim as he felt a bitter, broken chuckle bubble up his throat and break into a sob, the first of many.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Soldier's Peak, 21st Cloudreach, 9:54

Dear Dorian,

first, let me thank you once again, on behalf of every Grey Warden, for all your help with our research. We've made huge progress, in part thanks to your contributions. But regular Wardens and 'Avernus's gang' are different, as you well know. Warden Marra, the last surviving 'ghoul' at the Peak, didn't respond to the treatment very well. Instead of cleansing him of the taint, the cure very nearly killed him. And for reasons I won't trust this paper with, Marra, his survival and, hopefully, his eventual recovery do matter. Few people have your expertise or the access to the resources you can provide, let alone both. More importantly, nobody else cares. Because Marra is believed to be the last surviving of Avernus's test nugs and as far as everyone else is concerned, he can drop dead and they can all heave a sigh of relief. But I can't have that. I realize it is a lot to ask, but I need your help again. Yevren.

Dorian looked at the man who'd brought the letter – a handsome dark-skinned elf in his late forties or early fifties. He was sitting on the luxurious settee on the other end of the table, smiling and sipping tea. His blonde hair was already gleaming with some premature silver and his eyes were honey and gold. The ward-protected walls of Dorian's private meeting room snugged safe and cosy around them. Ser Arainai had demanded an audience 'someplace safe'. "No unwanted ears or eyes, no eavesdroppers." So Dorian had taken him here. Here was as safe as it got in Minrathous.

"Are you familiar with the contents of the letter?" Dorian asked. "As a matter of fact, yes," the elf replied. "That – and more." There was that pleasant cadence to his words only Antivans had. "Whatever we discuss between these walls is, naturally, intended for your ears only." Dorian nodded and his head felt both light and heavy as he did so. His heart leaped in his chest and began racing. He looked at Zevran Arainai and the knowing smirk lingering at the corners of the elf's mouth only reinforced his suspision: whatever Yevren was hinting at in her letter, it had something to do with Dasahngaris. The Antivan continued: "There are at least two of them still alive. The ghouls, I mean. There—may be more. But let us all hope there are not – and that no unpleasant surprises lurk in the dungeons beneath Weisshaupt." He took another sip of tea, then met Dorian's gaze and held it. "One of the two we can account for is Marra." Mist started gathering in Dorian's eyes. He felt for the pendant on his chest, the locket containing the dead sending crystal, and clutched it through his robe. Zevran Arainai continued: "Judging from your expression, you've already guessed who the other one is. And I can tell you where to find him." "In exchange for what...?" "If you figure out how to help him, you share what you've got with Yevren. And, of course, you promise to keep the secret. A good bargain, no?" Bitterness began pooling in Dorian's mouth. "Why does it have to be a secret at all..." Zevran replied: "Hiding from the Order is one reason, protecting the narrative Leliana has spun around him is another... Especially now that she's decided to resurrect the Inquisition... As to why he chose not to inform you—you'd have to ask him, I suppose." A mirthless chuckle escaped Dorian's lips. "Oh, I will do that." He blinked away the gathering tears and met Zevran's eyes. "Very well... Tell me what you know."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1: The Red Lords

The Isanan enclave was anchored just offshore of Llomerryn. By no means the only elven enclave around, it was definitely one of the larger ones, a massive nest of ships the size of a village. In addition to three barques, Dorian counted four galleasses and about forty smaller ships of varying sizes and designs, all interconnected through a network of planks, gangways, ladders and rope bridges and abuzz with life and activity. He had little doubt that the whole floating cluster could disassemble and get into a battle-ready formation at the drop of a hat. The idea made him even dizzier than he already was. He had never expected it would be so easy to get here.

But apparently, the whole upper deck on one of the larger ships served as a bazaar and anyone with some coin or interesting goods was welcome aboard. Isanans ran the ferries and they kept close tabs on who was coming and leaving, but they turned few people away.

The bazaar was a busy, lively place, overwhelming to the senses at first. There was the silver cling of coins, chirping and whistling of birds, a volume of voices both male and female, hoarse and nasal, ingratiating and intimidating, arguing, laughing, haggling, joking, singing even, there was the squeal of a badly tortured two-string fiddle accompanied by a shawm and a couple of flutes, and hissing of oil and crackling of a hundred little fires, mewling of cats and barking of dogs, barefoot taps and heavy-booted thuds; there was the endless flow of robes and veils and flutter of scarves, ribbons and feathers, gleams of steel, glimmer of gold and silver and every other precious metal you could think of, there was dazzle of jewels and precious gems, and the stalls overflowed with all kinds of goods - from expensive fabrics and furs to leather aprons, from porcelain dolls to porcelain earpicks, from gold-inlaid sabres to fruit knives, from fine teas, coffees and tobaccos to sunflower seeds, from silk robes to chainmails... A sweet-looking little lady just a few steps away was selling hairpins and the old man next to her had a wide selection of mirrors. A glance to the right and there was an ancient woman beaming a proud smile over a display of silk pouches and purses. No matter where the gaze fell, there was some kind of invitation or temptation awaiting there.

All the noise and movement didn't help much with his seasickness. His head was spinning and his insides felt like jelly. A tall, gaunt gentleman in a silk kaftan quirked an eyebrow and offered him a mint candy as he passed him by. He must have looked horrible indeed. He was probably changing colours more rapidly than a ghostdancer changing masks. He accepted the candy with a curt nod and a 'thank you' before he drew a slow, calming breath and dived deeper. Most food stalls were concentrated at this end of the deck and the air about him grew thicker and heavier with every step he took. His stomach, raw with motion sickness and sore with nerves, leapt all the way up to his throat. He quickly steered away from the strong smell and the heat, weaving a path through the crowd, eyes wandering about. The Isanans were easy to spot. Their tattoos varied from one person to another, but they had a unifying style – elegant, minimalistic, with straight, clear lines.

It was hard to tell a fighter from a mage at first sight – but Dorian knew what to look for: patchworks of scars, rune-covered weapon handles – and the tell-tale gleam of claw-rings on their thumbs. Damned blood mages. The sight of them was giving him all the wrong chills. And it mattered not that they were nothing like the maleficar back home. A blood mage is a blood mage. And perhaps the oddest thing about their presence was how unbothered by it everyone else seemed to be. It was—unsettling, to say the least. Like an ugly, discordant background noise beneath the buzz of the bazaar.

Dorian's heart was loud and heavy in his chest and his blood's panicked roar was almost deafening behind his temples. His legs seemed to weigh a dozen stones each, while his head felt so light he'd swear it was going to float up like a soap bubble.

The sending crystal in his pocket was giving off a faint vibe, coming alive after lying cold and buried under layers of silk for many long months. It remembered its former owner, the symphony of tones that was Dasahngaris... And it was calling to him now because he was near.

Perhaps for the very first time, the reality of it all truly sank in. Das was alive. And, for whatever reason, he wanted Dorian to believe otherwise. It was—confusing. Heartbreaking. Infuriating. It hurt.

Not that Dorian couldn't think of reasons. But each theory he came up with he liked less than the one before.

Was it because of the ugly words they'd exchanged last time they'd spoken? Or was it the taint? The thought twisted a cold dagger in his gut. ~What if it's too late?~

He looked around the bazaar, eyes roaming, mind searching for pointers or clues – but the noise and bustle surrounding him gave him nothing but headache.

He turned towards the nearest red-clad Isanan. A slight, wiry fellow, armed with a large sabre and covered in scars – many of them clearly mementoes from battles both old and recent, but at least some of them must have been left by the silver claw-rings he was wearing on both thumbs. One of the blood warriors, then.

Dorian shivered at the notion and almost turned away. There must have been someone else he could talk to. But the warrior had already noticed him. "You seem lost, sir," he said, sounding almost friendly. "I'm looking for—someone." His determination started slipping. He—wasn't ready for whatever discovery he was about to make. Every conceivable possibility was frightening. "You may have to be a touch more specific, sir," the elf said. "I..." Dorian paused and hesitated, uncertain just how specific he wanted to be. "I'm looking for the Warden." The warrior's eyes took on an entirely new, sharper gleam. "Warden?" he echoed. Dorian sighed and gave the man a look. "One may leave the Order behind, but not the taint. I believe he goes by his mother's birth name now, but if dropping old names is what it takes, I'll yell his loud enough for him to hear." A sudden prickling sensation at the back of his skull made him regret his cocky tone. The blood warrior's golden eyes flashed a warning. "You won't be yelling anything, sir. And you will come with me." "Only if I get to speak with him," Dorian replied – and he didn't bother to conceal the urgency in his tone. "It is important." "I'm not in any position to promise anything. Please, sir." The elf gestured towards one of the plankways.

When they finished talking, the blood warrior who had brought him here simply nodded and returned to the bazaar. Dorian was left with the other elf – and now that he regained some of his composure, he could take a better look at him. A pair of sabres at his waist, a mess of scars on his arms and chest – and two golden claw rings on his thumbs. Fantastic. Another blood warrior. This one was younger and taller, a handsome, sombre-looking man in his thirties, eyes burning with all the hues of a sunset. "Dorian Pavus, is it?" the man asked. Dorian straightened his shoulders. "That would be me. Yevren sent word, I take it?" The elf replied: "She did, a while ago. We expected you sooner." Dorian looked away and at the horizon. "There were—loose ends that needed tying up." The other man raised an eyebrow. "In the senate?" "In the bloody lab," Dorian snapped back. Then he continued, more calmly: "Do I get to know your name?" "Ah. Do excuse my manners. You may call me Sevarras." "Well, Sevarras... What now?" Dorian asked, as calmly as he could. "I won't leave until I see him." Sevarras's silence lasted too long for comfort. When he finally spoke, he didn't meet Dorian's eyes, staring instead somewhere past him and off into the distance. "Are you quite certain you're ready for what you're going to find here?" Ready? Kaffas, no. Dorian was anything but that. "It doesn't matter," he replied. The blood warrior sized him up, a touch of doubt in his eyes. "He may not want to speak with you."

Dorian heard himself let out a relieved giggle, felt his heart drop half of its weight. Sevarras's eyes narrowed at him.

Dorian composed himself. "As long as he's in any condition to sulk, there's a good chance I'm not too late." "Sulk?" Sevarras let that word slip out like a bite of something too disgusting to swallow. "You may regret that choice of words yet, Magister." He extended his arm, inviting Dorian to follow. "Come with me."

After two more plankways and one more embarrassing bout of seasickness, they arrived at one of the smaller boats, to a locked cabin. Stares, muffled voices and curious children followed them all along, but Sevarras did a good job of shielding Dorian against most of it. "Do they know who I am?" Dorian asked. "No," Sevarras replied as he took out a key and unlocked the cabin door. "Most of them don't even know who Cirro really is." "You mean they have no idea he was the..." Sevarras shot him a warning glare: "Watch your mouth. And get in."

As soon as they entered, the stale air engulfed Dorian like a mouldy blanket. A layer of dust covered every surface, including the bed, the large wooden chest, the only chair, the stack of books and journals on the desk, the mirror on the wall and the old coat on the hanger. Even under all the dust and despite what mould and rats had done to it, Dorian recognized the coat immediately. That ugly, sturdy thing, made of bear hide and designed to protect its wearer from the Fereldan rain and cold. It only made sense Das would have no use for it here. Dorian stepped closer and reached out. The leather was still a familiar texture beneath his fingers, though much drier and hardened from long neglect. Memories flooded him at that touch, shards and splinters of countless moments involving that coat and the man who used to wear it - a cacophony of echoes, images and recollections... Something stung in his chest as he pressed his hand against his mouth trying to stifle a sob, all too aware of Sevarras's eyes burning a hole through the back of his skull. He remained like that for a while, motionless and silent, gripping at the old, brittle leather, chest so tight it rendered him breathless, tears burning behind his closed eyelids and at the back of his throat. Finally, he found his breath and his footing again. He stepped away and towards the desk. He picked up and opened one of the journals – to find a moon illuminated seascape with ghastly shapes lurking beneath the waves. Das's style had evolved a bit – but not beyond recognition... The same flowing, nervous lines, the same restless energy, the same use of contrasts and gradients... But if this was his cabin, where was he?

A cold claw closed around Dorian's heart as he slowly turned around and met Sevarras's eyes – his entire being one big, quivering question mark. The elf's response did placate him somewhat: "You'll have to wait. I don't think he'd appreciate a surprise visit." "That's—only fair, I suppose," Dorian said. "Shall I wait here?"

"Yes," Sevarras replied. "I'll send someone over with something for your seasickness." He turned to leave but paused as he was reaching for the door handle. "Any words for Cirro?"

Dorian reached into his pocket. "Just this..." He took out a round locket on a white gold chain. "Please, don't lose it. It's—precious. He, of course, may do with it whatever he pleases. It's his to keep or bury or toss away." Dorian clasped the sending crystal on his own chest as he handed the other one to Sevarras Isanan. The elf received it with a knowing gleam in his eyes and a dip of the head. Then he left. …

The old healer who'd brought him medicine for his nausea had left a while ago and though whatever she'd given him tasted like floor rags and rotten wood, it did pacify his stomach a bit. Sevarras hadn't been very specific when he'd told him to wait. It could be minutes before he returned. It could be hours. Dorian had no way of telling.

He finally spoke when they walked through the gate and onto the Skyhold bridge: "I never took you for a gossip, y’know." "Dear Inquisitor, there's a reason why they say 'gossipy as a robed Mother'." "I'll be sure to keep that in mind," he mumbled. "I said I wouldn’t repeat the rumours, Your Worship, and I never have,” she said. “But I assure you, there are others spreading them even as we speak. You shouldn't encourage them." He snickered. "And how exactly do you suggest I go about doing that?" She hesitated for a beat. "How true are those rumours?" "I'd say that's between me and Dorian, Mother Giselle," he replied. She sighed. "I see." "No!" He stopped in his tracks. "No Giselle, you don't." He didn't raise his voice – but anger and frustration were breaking through. "Maker's bligh..." "--Maker’s blessed gaze, Inquisitor." “Not now, Giselle!" She fell silent and regarded him, a touch of apprehension in her eyes. "This... THIS..." He shoved his marked hand in front of her face. "It's cost me a lot, y'know. It's cost me a home and a family and a heartbreak. And some bonds I'm trying to establish here are too... Too precious to me for you to—to sneak in and try to unravel them behind my back! You could have spoken to me. You should have spoken to me. I thought we were friends," he said. "Blighted mercy, even after you set me up to become a bloody Inquisitor... I thought we were friends."

Giselle's eyes widened for the briefest of moments before she composed herself enough to better conceal her surprise. Not once had it occurred to her to think of their relationship in those terms. But such was the disposition of the Inquisitor. He saw friends everywhere. He scoffed and turned away, fixing his eyes on the horizon. "Well, shove a haft up me arse and call me a tool," he said, sounding and looking utterly defeated. "Please, inform the rest of your gossip circle that who I spend my free time with or how is my business. Have a good night." The sense of betrayal dripping off each softly spoken word burnt Giselle deeper than she'd expect or care to admit. "Inquisitor!" She called after him as he walked past her and back towards the gate. He wiped his eyes before turning to face her. "What?" he barked out. "Please. Try to understand my concern. A Tevinter..." He sniffled and let out a bitter chuckle. "Is it the same sort of concern that informs the scandalized gasps of 'sure the Maker wouldn't send an elf in our hour of need'...?" Giselle averted her eyes. She had no answer to that – and the weight of Lavellan's gaze was suddenly a trifle too much to endure. "You said you didn't know Dorian. I don't remember ever seeing you trying to get to know him, y’know. How ‘bout that? Something to mull over, maybe?” He shrugged. “Anyway... As I said... Goodnight."  

Giselle remained standing on the bridge long after the Inquisitor left and the sun disappeared behind the Frostbacks. She didn't even register the cold until one of the guards walked over to her and offered her his cloak. "Everything alright, Mother Giselle?" She nodded and smiled, albeit unconvincingly. "Yes. Yes, it is."

…