Semper ad Meliora - Chapter 14

Title: Semper ad Meliora
Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Rating: Mature/Explicit
Pairing: Dorian Pavus/Idhren Lavellan, Idhren Lavellan/Tainan Lavellan

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Chapter 14 - In Your Heart Shall Burn</u>

In your heart shall burn
An unquenchable flame,
All consuming and never satisfied.
-  Canticle of Threnodies 5:5

Haven, Ferelden, Solace 9:41 Dragon

The sky was calm for the first time in months. Above Haven the clouds no longer roiled in an angry green vortex. The sky was gray, as clouds were meant to be, with the promise of rain or snow in the near future, but for now calm and peaceful.

Below, all of Haven was in celebration.

The Breach was closed; the Herald of Andraste had delivered them from the end of the world. The town was full to the brim with cheer; laughter and music and the roar of bonfires outside the walls. Idhren watched it all from a distance. He was glad that it was over - the Breach and all the trouble it had brought - but he could not bring himself to join the celebration. He should. People invited him whenever they passed, or at least paused to give their thanks. But Idhren was not in the mood for celebration. He was fresh out of good cheer.

The sky was calm, the world was saved, but what did that mean for him? He could leave the Inquisition, presumably. They no longer required the mark on his hand to fulfill their duties. He wondered if the Breach had closed all the other small rifts as well, or if they still lingered. Likely they would find out in a few days when scouting reports began to flow in.

But if Idhren could leave, where would he go? Clan Lavellan awaited his return. He had fulfilled the mission they set him on, and then some. He had fulfilled his obligations to the Inquisition. They could find some other way to seal any remaining rifts; they could find whoever had started this and see them brought to justice. They didn't need Idhren for that. Could he really go home? Did he even want to?

What awaited him in the Free Marches except an even more glaring reminder of what he had lost? The rest of the clan would grieve along with him, of course, but would that make it any easier?

It wasn't the first time that Idhren wondered how things would have been different if Tainan were here. They befriended others so easily. Far more easily than Idhren ever had. Would they have gotten along with the devout Andrastians that ran the Inquisition? Or would they be just as annoyed as Idhren. Would they have been more willing to help, would they feel less trapped? Idhren would feel less trapped if Tainan were here, he thought.

In the village streets people were dancing and singing, praise and raucous laughter filled the air.

Idhren was as miserable as he could ever remember being. He could return to the Free Marches, to the clan, but it would not be the same. It would never be the same. He could stay here, and let these people continue to parade him about as a prophet to a god that Idhren still wasn't certain he believed in. Neither option was very good. Either way Idhren would be miserable. At the moment he could not foresee a future in which he was happy again.

Watching the people celebrate was painful. So many of them had lost something because of the Breach or because of the war, and still they were able to be happy. Why couldn't Idhren be happy? He was jealous. He wanted to be able to put this grief aside and join them, but it gnawed at his heart and the back of his mind and would not let him go.

He still didn't know who or what had caused the explosion. He didn't know why Tainan had died. The Maker was not giving answers. Idhren had tried asking. The Maker never gave him any answers. Then again, neither had the elvhen gods. It seemed he was forsaken by all higher powers, if they even existed.

Idhren shook his head and turned, intending to leave the sidelines of celebration and hole himself up in his room, drown himself in alcohol and forget.

He had taken no more than two steps when the alarm sounded.

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Haven was lost. There was no other way to interpret the situation. The army that had swarmed down on them from the mountains had overrun the lands surrounding the town walls even before the dragon - archdemon, whatever it was - appeared. It was a miracle that anyone had made it to the Chantry hall safely, and now the women and children of the Inquisition were cowering in the basement somewhere awaiting another miracle.

And everyone was looking toward the Herald of Andraste to perform it.

But Idhren was not a miracle worker. He wasn't certain he was even a prophet. But the Elder One and his army of corrupted templars wanted him. Maybe if they had him everyone else would have a chance to get away.

Dorian watched the small party by the chantry doors as he paced back and forth across the floor. Behind him he could hear the crowds gathering at the back of the Chantry, ready to make their desperate escape as soon as the enemy's attention was pulled elsewhere. Beyond the walls he could still hear sounds of fighting, occasionally broken by an explosion or the earsplitting screech of a dragon. And by the front doors four members of the Inquisition readied themselves for a suicide mission.

Idhren stood just before the door, staff upturned in his hand as he inspected the blade for chips and dull spots. His coat was spattered with blood, his boots caked in mud, his gloves singed slightly from casting barely controlled spells. Not far from him Cassandra checked over her equipment as well, Varric fiddled with his crossbow, and Blackwall shifted from foot to foot in agitation. Everyone else was being ushered toward the back of the hall and out toward the path that Roderick said would lead them to safety. An uncomfortable, tense silence loomed over the small group at the Chantry doors as they prepared to face the enemy one more time. One last time.

Dorian couldn’t stand it. With quick steps he walked up to Idhren, right up into his personal space. “You can’t possibly think this is a good idea,” he protested in a hushed voice.

“It’s not a good idea,” Idhren agreed. His voice was hard and he didn’t take his eyes off the blade of his staff as he wiped it clean of blood. “But it’s the only one we have.”

“It’s suicide,” Dorian argued, trying to keep his voice low enough that he wouldn’t be overheard.

For a brief moment Idhren’s hand stilled, then he tucked the cloth into his belt and righted the staff again, testing its weight in his hand as he checked the focus at the top. “Maybe,” he agreed again. His face was blank, his voice emotionless and resigned.

“You can’t do this,” Dorian hissed.

Only then did Idhren take his eyes off the staff and look up at Dorian. Though his expression was neutral those eyes held such a resigned despair that Dorian had difficulty meeting his gaze. “Someone has to. Might as well be me.”

“Idhren,” Dorian protested.

“Go with the others,” the elf interrupted, nodding toward the back of the hall.

“Idhren,” Dorian said again, this time it came out sounding more like a plea.

“I won’t let anyone else die on my watch,” Idhren said firmly, but that despair was still in his eyes. “I’ve already lost too much.”

Dorian suddenly realized what was happening. This was a suicide mission, and that was exactly why Idhren had agreed. He wanted to die. “You don’t have to do this,” Dorian begged.

“Someone has to,” Idhren said again, “So everyone else can escape. No one else has to die. Nothing else matters.”

“You matter,” Dorian insisted. “You’re the Herald of Andraste.” And so much more, but Dorian couldn’t bring himself to say it. Too many years in Tevinter spent hiding the truth, too many people hurt when he didn’t hide it well enough. And people hurt when he hid it too well, a little voice in the back of his mind pointed out, chief among them standing in front of him walking willingly to his death.

“I don’t want to be the Herald of Andraste,” Idhren said wearily. “I just want…” He never finished the sentence, but Dorian knew what he meant: his Dalish lover, his family, everything the world had stolen from him so senselessly. He looked up at Dorian with such anguish, and Dorian couldn’t let him leave thinking that no one in the world cared for him, wouldn’t be able to live with himself if Idhren died without knowing the truth. He clamped down the panic that clawed at his heart, ignored a lifetime of conditioning, grabbed Idhren by the collar of his shirt, leaned down and kissed him square on the mouth.

It was not a good kiss. It was hard and awkward, all lips and teeth and bumping noses. Idhren smelled like blood and lyrium and ozone. When Dorian pulled away the elf’s violet eyes were shot wide, his mouth agape. He was shocked, confused, a little bit scared, and at the very bottom of it all the tiniest bit happy. “If you don’t make it through this,” Dorian told him, “I’ll kill you myself.”

And Dorian was gone before he managed to come up with any sort of response.

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They watched from afar as the dragon descended upon Haven. Dorian stood amidst crowds of soldiers and civilian alike, lining the ridge above the town as they watched it burn. And then watched as the Herald of Andraste buried it in snow. The avalanche roared down the mountainside and consumed the town like a tidal wave. The Herald along with it.

There were shouts of horror and dismay as the remnants of the Inquisition watched their base and their hope swallowed by the snow.

The wind began to pick up.

Cullen shouted orders to the soldiers that were still well enough to walk and fight, rounding up their scattered numbers, regrouping. Got them all moving further into the mountains.

The Herald's sacrifice would be in vain if they did not live to fight another day.

An hour later a scout shouted up from the back of the line and Cassandra, Blackwall and Varric came staggering up the mountain path after them. For a moment hope bloomed in Dorian's chest, but it died just as quickly. There was no sign of the Herald of Andraste.

Idhren was under all that rubble somewhere.

It began to snow.

They made camp on the other side of the ridge to take stock of what little they had managed to save in the midst of their flight. What bits of food and herbs had been stored in the Chantry, a few things that people had managed to grab on their way out. Not enough tents. Not enough blankets. Not enough anything.

Dorian spent the rest of the night huddled beside a campfire along with numerous others trying not to think about how damned cold it was. Trying not to think how much colder Idhren would have been under all that snow.

It was still snowing when dawn broke.

A group of scouts went down to look for signs of the enemy. They returned with more tents, a couple of pack horses that had spooked and run before the fighting began and wandered back when it was calm again, hungry and tense, and more blankets and firewood scavenged from the Chantry. They brought no news of the Herald.

----------

The pain woke him. It started in his left arm and then seeped out through the rest of his body. His hand felt like someone had tried to rip it off, his shoulder burned like fire. Mind blurry, Idhren struggled to open his eyes and figure out where he was, what had happened. He was cold and everything hurt.

Finally getting his eyes open he realized first that he was lying on the ground, in a puddle of melted snow and mud in some sort of cave. He raised his head and looked around, but could make out very little in the gloom. Then he tried to move, and immediately regretted the decision. The slightest jostling of his left arm left his shoulder screaming in pain and him gasping for breath on the ground. When the pain finally subsided enough that he could think straight, Idhren used his other arm to roll himself over onto his back. It still sent waves of agony shooting through him, but the position was at least more comfortable than lying face down in the dirt. With trembling fingers he reached over to touch his shoulder, wincing and gasping as he tried to assess the damage. Dislocated? He hoped that was all.

But he couldn't move like this. He couldn't move his arm, he couldn't get up. Gritting his teeth, Idhren laid his right hand over the injured shoulder and pulled what little shreds of healing magic he could manage. He was weak, exhausted, his skill at healing was weak to begin with, and he was scraping the dregs of his mana reserves now.

What he wouldn't give for some lyrium.

He focused on numbing the pain, fully aware that he would never be able to heal the shoulder with magic. Not in his current condition. Probably not ever. It worked, though. The pain subsided slowly, draining away from his shoulder until it was only a dull ache. It still hurt, but if he could just... How was this meant to work?

He grabbed onto his arm just below the shoulder and pulled. Even with the numbing effect of his magic still suffusing the area the pain was almost blinding. But he grit his teeth, whimpering, and continued until he felt the joint pop back into place. Letting out a relieved sob, he collapsed back onto the ground to catch his breath.

Idhren had no idea how long he lay there. He stayed long after his breathing had returned to mostly even. His arm hurt less now, but it still ached fiercely. And his hand was the same as ever. When he tried to lift his arm it felt weak, his hand shook uncontrollably. The mark was alight with an angry green glow. He remembered vividly the agony of that thing trying to rip it off him. Like it was trying to rip Idhren's heart out through his arm.

He never thought he would be happy to see this thing on his hand, but he was.

And that creature. Idhren squeezed his eyes shut as he remembered, finally, what had lead him to this situation.

Magister.

His mind kept repeating the word over and over; it was the only thing that he could focus on.

Corypheus, the monster had called itself. A darkspawn monstrosity from ages past. One of the magisters out of Chantry legend who had crossed the Veil and breached the Maker's Golden City, unleashing darkness upon the world.

Idhren could have almost laughed at the irony of it all. Here he was on the other side of the world, as far from Tevinter as it was possible to be, and he was still being tortured by a magister.

But he didn’t feel much like laughing right now. It would probably hurt too much if he tried, anyway.

With the pain subsiding now gradually the cold began to seep in. It started where his back lay against the frozen ground, melted snow slowly soaking through the leather and cloth of his bloodstained armor. He realized that beyond the shaking his fingers were stiff and frozen, his hair damp and icy. If he stayed here he would very likely freeze to death.

Funny, how hours ago he had willingly walked to his death, welcomed it. Now he lay here fearing that inevitability. He really was a coward.

He also needed to tell the Inquisition what they were up against.

With a deep breath that made his ribs protest, Idhren began the arduous process of getting himself upright. He made it to a sitting position before having to stop, arm wrapped around his ribs. Before, the pain in his arm had drowned out everything else, but now all his other hurts were making themselves known. At least one rib broken, he expected. Breathing hurt, but he could breathe, so there was no immediate danger from that. His left arm was still weak; moving it still hurt something fierce. He expected the damage to his shoulder was more than just dislocation.

After catching his breath he struggled to his feet, wavered for a moment, lightheaded, and paused to catch his breath again. His legs, at least, seemed to be no more than bruised.

He was in a cave of some sort. Or perhaps one of the old mining tunnels that ran through the mountains around Haven. There was only one way to go. Wherever he’d fallen through had been sealed up once more by falling rocks and snow, but the rest of the cavern seemed intact. So he started forward on unsteady legs.

Thankfully, though the ground was not exactly even it was clear. From somewhere ahead he could feel the tiniest hint of a breeze, so there must be an opening somewhere. What he would encounter once outside was another question entirely. The last thing he remembered Haven had been overrun with those monstrous things. Templars corrupted by red lyrium. Just like the people he had seen in that horrid future in Redcliffe. He had no way of knowing if any had escaped the avalanche that last trebuchet had brought down onto the village, he could only hope that he'd buried all of them.

Just walking left him winded. He clutched his left arm against the side of his body, and it helped somewhat to brace his ribs but everything ached so much it was little relief. And he had no energy to attempt any more healing magic. His staff had been lost in the confusion somewhere, likely now lying under a ton of snow and lost forever.

But any prayer he sent out that his progress would be unhindered went unanswered. The Veil in Haven was now even weaker than with the Breach. After so much death and destruction it was unlikely to be otherwise. So it was little wonder that there in the old mining tunnels, which had likely seen their own share of grief, Idhren encountered a pair of wandering spirits. Barely more than wisps, they floated aimlessly in a larger cavern and did not yet notice his presence. They would the moment he tried to pass them, however, and Idhren was in no shape to fight even the weakest of spirits, should they prove hostile. Hostile was very likely.

The mark on his left hand throbbed, as it had been doing since he woke, and Idhren suddenly remembered the small experiments he had been doing with it's power every time his mind began to wander and alcohol did not seem the answer. Even the tiniest bit of magic fed into the mark resulted in an explosion exponentially more powerful.

Said explosion always hurt like mad, and it was uncontrollable at best.

Well, his options were to face these two wisps with nothing but a hope and a prayer, or to do something incredibly stupid and reckless.

He went with the latter.

Gathering what little mana was left in his flagging body, Idhren struggled to lift his arm just enough to point his hand vaguely in the spirits' direction. Then he channeled his power down into the mark and braced himself.

The resulting explosion was like ripping a hole in the veil anew. It knocked Idhren off his feet and left him lying on the ground staring in horror at what he had done. It was as though he had created a new rift in the air, only it was smaller than those created by the Breach and, as he watched, it sucked the wisps back through before slamming itself closed with a deafening crack.

Idhren sat on the ground and stared at the empty space in the air where that miniature rift had appeared and disappeared all in a matter of seconds, and at the now empty cavern before him. His arm was on fire from the exertion, but in his shock he barely noticed it.

That trick might come in very handy, if he could learn how to control it better. Or at least do it without rendering himself practically crippled in the process.

At least he had some manner of defense should he encounter anything else.

Not that Idhren knew where he was going. He only knew that if he stayed here he would freeze to death. If he continued onward he might freeze to death anyway, but at least this way he was trying. If he could just get outside to see the situation. Maybe the Inquisition had left some sign for him to follow. Maybe they had sent people back to look for him. They had to know. He had to tell them.

Another fucking magister.

The breeze grew stronger the farther Idhren walked, until by the time he found an exit to this tunnel it was nearly gale force winds. And one look outside told him why. However long he had been lying there unconscious had been long enough for the light snow that had been falling before to turn into a raging blizzard. Even standing in the relative shelter of the cave mouth the wind bit through the tears and gaps in Idhren's armor, piercing into his already frozen body and practically down to the bone. He wrapped both arms around himself against the chill, but it did little.

He would freeze to death if he stayed here, but now it seemed just as likely he would freeze to death no matter what.

That was not at all how Idhren had expected to die. Not the way he wanted to die. But he did not have enough energy left for any more magic, even the tiniest of warming spells. In desperation he might make the mark explode again, but he did not want to risk tapping the very bottom of his reserves unless he had no other choice.

Staring out into the wall of white before him Idhren wasn't certain what he should do. He still hurt all over. He was so cold his teeth were starting to chatter no matter how hard he tried to clench them shut. He was so exhausted he could barely see straight. He could barely think of anything beyond his immediate survival. How was he supposed to find what was left of the Inquisition like this? Why had the Maker saved him from the Breach just to let him die here? Why save him from the avalanche just to let him die here?

Because the Maker hadn't done anything, Idhren's mind supplied easily. The Maker had nothing to do with any of this, no matter what people like Cassandra said.

Was there even anything outside of this cave to find? What choice did he have? Freeze to death here, or freeze to death somewhere else? Neither of those options were any good. So maybe he should just lie down here. Fall asleep, maybe. At least then he wouldn't be aware of his end when it came.

Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled. The wind shrieked down the tunnel.

If he stayed here he would die. If he left he might die.

If he stayed here the magister won.

Idhren took one step forward, and then another. He wasn't even certain why he was bothering. Dead here or somewhere else, Corypheus wouldn't care about the specifics. But somewhere in the very back of his mind there was still the tiniest shred of hope. Hope that someone was looking for him, waiting for him. And the niggling determination that if he somehow managed not to die he could find Corypheus wherever the magister was hiding and kill him with his own two hands if he had to.

Pure spite drove him onward. Magisters had done enough to him already. Idhren would not let them win again; he would not let them torment him anymore. He had sworn that to himself when he left Tevinter, and he would not go back on that promise.

What Corypheus wanted was wrong. Pure evil, maybe. But more than Idhren wanted to stop him from tearing open the Veil once more, he wanted revenge for himself. Everything that he had suffered since the conclave was Corypheus' fault. Tainan's death. Idhren had never had anything to blame before, but now he did. And his grief turned to anger in his stomach, boiling and burning hot as fire, driving him onward through the snow, though the wind nearly knocked him down and the drifts reached sometimes above his knees.

He struggled on through the blizzard even when he could no longer feel his fingers or his toes or the tips of his ears; when the snow, melted by his body heat, soaked through the layers of armor and even into his gloves and boots. The wind snuck through any gaps in his clothing and stung his eyes but turned tears to frost on his eyelashes. Everything around him was white and howling wind and freezing cold. Cold. So cold.

Even when the snow stopped falling and the wind began to calm Idhren was so frigid it was barely a relief.

A slick patch of ice and Idhren’s body was too sluggish to react. He fell hard to his knees, tried to get his arms out to catch himself, but couldn’t move fast enough and instead landed jarringly on his shoulder. Pain spiked through him, drawing a cry from his chapped lips.

For a moment all he could do was lay there, shivering and gritting his teeth. Then he struggled back to his feet, only to fall again after taking only a few steps. It wretched another pained shout from his throat, followed by a ragged sob.

He was so tired. Everything hurt so much.

He didn’t even know where he was anymore, he could have been walking in circles this entire time for all the good it had done.

The next attempt to get to his feet was even less successful than the last. He managed only to get to his hands and knees before his left arm buckled under his weight. He landed straight onto his injured shoulder and the side of his face.

He couldn’t go on anymore. His body was too exhausted. The pain was too much. So he just lay there, in the mud and the snow. He could barely keep his eyes open, and eventually gave up trying. He had no idea how long he’d been walking, it felt like a lifetime of nothing but cold and pain. So when darkness finally enveloped him, Idhren welcomed it.

----------

Pain woke Idhren again. The pain of blood rushing back into his frozen extremities like knives in his veins. A higher part of his mind would have realized it was warmth coming back to his body, but Idhren was half delirious with exhaustion still and his mind ran on pure instinct. He gasped, and immediately tried to pull himself away from the source of the pain, which was of course impossible.

A hand gently touched his brow, brushing strands of damp hair off his face. Idhren flinched and whimpered. “Hush, my dear,” someone murmured from above him, voice gentle and soft, “You are among friends.”

Idhren opened his eyes, but found it nearly impossible to focus on anything. The world around him seemed a blur of light and sound. He opened his mouth to try and speak, but could not form words. The only sound that escaped his lips was a ragged groan.

“You need to rest,” the voice continued. The hand moved to stroke his hair softly, and he was vaguely aware of the warm tingle of healing magic beginning to flow through him. “I’m sorry, my dear, it will be easier for all of us if you are asleep for this.” Idhren struggled to keep his eyes open, but it was impossible to fight against the magic in his condition, and in moments he was unconscious again.

----------

He was vaguely aware of someone singing. A soft, gentle tune. Slightly sad.

He was burning up. Too hot and too cold at the same time. Something was weighing him down. He moved to try and push it away but his arms felt like leaden weights at his sides, his legs, too. But it was too hot, he felt trapped.

The singing stopped.

Idhren's eyes struggled to open. Someone moved to stand over him. Red hair in the firelight.

"Tai...?" the word croaked from his chapped lips, hurting his throat in the process. The sound did not even reach his own ears.

The figure above him made a soothing sound, but if there were words involved Idhren did not understand them. He blinked slowly, trying to bring the figure into focus, but his mind was swimming and everything was somewhat surreal. Too bright, hyper focused and yet indistinct at the same time.

"Tai..." he tried again, managed more than a whisper, though his voice was rough and painful. He was too hot, struggling again against whatever was covering him. A low, keening moan escaped his lips as he squeezed his eyes shut again. "Carus..." this time the word came out as a plea, a whine. He couldn't focus, he couldn't think.

Something cool and damp on his forehead, soothing the heat in his body, but only slightly. He tried once more to move his arms or his legs, but managed nothing. Why was he being restrained? He was scared. "Tainan," he gasped again, once more opening his eyes to try and see the figure beside him.

Red hair, gentle hands.

"I'm sorry." A soft voice, but the voice wasn't Tainan's. A woman. An accent.

Where was he? "Tainan?"

"I'm so sorry," the voice said again. The coolness on his forehead disappeared, and he whined at the loss of the only comfortingly cool thing in his world at that moment. But it returned a moment later, cold and damp and soothing, drawing a relieved sigh from his lips. "Rest," the voice urged softly. Careful fingers ran through his hair briefly, a hand rested on his shoulder.

Idhren fought once more to bring his vision into focus, but he could not. His vision blurred even more, blinking sent a tear rolling down the side of his face. "Please." He didn't even know what he was asking for. Comfort. Anything.

"Rest," the voice urged again. Idhren found it hard to ignore. He was tired. He was confused.

The singing started again. His eyelids were as heavy as his limbs. He couldn't move them. Couldn't move anything. Couldn't think.

Eventually, he knew only blackness again.

----------

The next time that Idhren woke he was no longer cold or hot, and the pain had dulled to an ache that suffused his entire person, but could be ignored. He was aware of lying on something soft, and of a heavy, rough blanket laid over him. Somewhere nearby a fire burned, crackling softly and filling the air with the smell of smoke. Slowly, he cracked his eyes open, squinting in the dim light for a moment before he was able to focus. He was in a tent, laid out on some sort of cot. His fingers and toes no longer hurt, and when he tried to move them there was still a lingering stiffness in his joints, but they seemed functional. His shoulder, likewise, ached but a slow attempt at shrugging left him no more pained than if he had overworked the muscles there.

Where was he?

Idhren turned his head to try and get a better look at his surroundings. The tent he was in was surprisingly large, with space for the cot he lay on, a chair, and a tiny fire burning in a ring of stones on the ground. No wonder it was so warm in here.

"Oh, you're finally awake." A voice sounded from the end of the tent, drawing Idhren’s attention, and he strained to lift his head to see who it was. The chantry woman he had met with in the Hinterlands - Mother Giselle, he thought her name was - let drop the tent flap after she entered. "I'm glad to see you awake, and I'm certain that the others will be happy for the news as well. You have been asleep the past three days. First Enchanter Vivienne is a remarkably skilled healer, but you were in quite a state when they found you."

Idhren's mind was slow to comprehend the words, still muddled by sleep. Three days? "Where...?" he tried to ask, only for his voice to crack as his throat, dry and rough with disuse, seized up.

"Careful, child," the Mother murmured, coming quickly to his bedside. She took up a pitcher from the floor beside Idhren's cot and poured water into a small bowl. With her help, Idhren was able to drink down half the contents before his throat stuttered and sent him coughing again. "There we are," she murmured, setting the bowl aside for now. "You are with the Inquisition," she explained, letting Idhren lay comfortably again. "We are camped in the mountains perhaps a day's journey from Haven. The scouts found you two days after we left, lying in the snow. The Maker certainly watches over you, child."

Idhren wasn't so certain about that, himself. He still remembered the pain and the cold and the exhaustion, and thought it was not at all a blessing. If the Maker were watching over him, He should have saved Idhren from that suffering in the first place. "I..." Idhren tried to talk again and found it slightly easier this time. "I need to tell..." he stuttered. He needed to talk to the others. They needed to know what they were up against, what the enemy was planning.

"Hush, child," Giselle soothed, laying a hand on his forehead. "There will be plenty of time for talking later. You need your rest."

Idhren shook his head, dislodging her comforting hand in the process. "No," he protested weakly. somehow, he managed to get an elbow under himself and made an attempt at getting upright. "I need to... the magister…” He was having trouble getting his thoughts in order. He only knew that he needed to tell someone – Cassandra – about Corypheus, about what he was and what he wanted.

“You are hardly in any shape for that right now,” Giselle said, her tone equal parts scolding and sympathetic. She placed a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back down onto the cot. Idhren tried to resist, but he was too weak. “I will tell the others that you are awake,” she offered, rising from the chair when she was certain he would not attempt to rise again. “But for now, you need rest.”

Idhren wanted to argue. It was too important to let this wait for too long. But if he couldn’t even fight back against an old woman he really was in no shape to be getting up and walking around. So he stayed where he was as she left his bedside and disappeared through the tent flaps again.

He relaxed back onto the cot, but he doubted he would get much rest. He was not tired, per say. His body was still weak, but he had apparently been asleep for at least three days. His mind was restless.

So much had happened. Tainan was gone. Now Haven was gone. All because of one man's hubris and greed.

The tent flap pulled open again, letting in a draft of cold mountain air. Idhren lifted his head from the pillow. He expected to see Mother Giselle again, so was quite surprised when Dorian's silhouette filled the entrance instead.

The man looked a little worse for the wear. Rather like he had after Redcliffe. His hair was no longer perfectly coifed, though it was clear he had made an attempt. His clothing was dirty as well, mud around the bottom edge of his robe and caked onto his boots. After letting the flap fall shut again he merely stared at Idhren for a long moment. And Idhren stared back.

"You are alive," he said eventually, and sighed in relief. "I almost didn't believe it when they said they found you."

Idhren could hardly believe it himself, if he were being honest. "You..." he tried, but his voice was still rough. He could barely manage more than a whisper.

"They wouldn't let anyone in here except that Revered Mother, the First Enchanter, and a couple other healers," Dorian said as he made his way over to the bed. "The rest of us just had to take their word for it that you were still alive. I think some people had started to doubt." He stopped by the bedside and looked down at Idhren. So small and vulnerable, lying there practically drowned in blankets. "And aren't you a sight," he breathed, falling into the chair that Giselle had occupied not long before. "They haven't really bothered to clean you up, have they?" he asked. With one hand he reached out toward Idhren, and then stopped himself. "Do you mind?" he asked hesitantly.

Idhren wasn't certain what the man intended, but he shook his head, not trusting himself to speak just yet.

Dorian gave the tiniest quirk of a smile as he reached out. His fingers laced through Idhren's hair, combing it gently and smoothing it all to one side, revealing the fuzz of stubble on the other. "There, much better," he nodded to himself, withdrawing his hand. "Can't have the Herald of Andraste looking a mess, even on his sickbed."

It was such a silly thing to be concerned about, but Idhren appreciated the gesture all the same. "Thanks," he managed to croak out.

"You're welcome," Dorian replied. "You sound awful, by the way," he commented, and looked around a moment before spotting the pitcher of water on the floor. He picked up the same bowl Mother Giselle had used and topped it off. "I'm certain you're entirely aware," he said, leaning forward to help Idhren sit up enough to drink some more. "And given what it must have taken to get here I can't be at all surprised. I am very glad to see you alive, though. I thought..." the man cut himself off as Idhren pushed the bowl away from his lips weakly. He had drunk all that he thought he was able at the moment, and the cold water continued to do wonders soothing his throat.

"What... happened?" he asked weakly, voice trembling as he lay back down.

"You dropped half a mountain on Haven," Dorian replied, "You might remember that part. We all thought you'd buried yourself along with it."

"I did," Idhren confirmed. "Fell... cave, or... something."

Dorian raised his eyebrows as he looked down at Idhren. "Well, you're just full of miracles, aren't you? I couldn’t imagine someone with greater luck."

Idhren frowned. He didn't believe that. Not entirely. He was lucky to be alive, certainly, but terribly bad luck had put him in this situation in the first place. He shook his head and looked away from Dorian. He didn't feel lucky at all. He never had.

"Sorry," Dorian murmured in the silence between them. At least he seemed to realize that he had said something wrong. “I suppose it doesn’t feel that way for you.”

“No,” Idhren confirmed. He had lost everything except his life. That felt the opposite of lucky. “Don’t think… Maker likes me.”

“Well don’t tell the Inquisition that, the whole thing will crumble,” Dorian chuckled.

Idhren frowned. The sentiment was not as comforting as Dorian probably meant. He was a symbol to them, his own feelings on the matter were unimportant.  “Not true,” he protested weakly, though the longer he was awake the more he could feel his voice returning. Hopefully the rest of his body would follow suit.

“Well, you haven’t been out there the past few days watching everyone run about like chickens with their heads cut off,” Dorian slumped back in the chair. “No one can agree on what to do now. They can’t even agree on whom to put in charge.”

The sound that escaped Idhren’s throat couldn’t exactly be called a laugh, but it was trying. “You think… I’m in charge?” he couldn’t believe that.

Dorian shrugged one shoulder. “I think you’ve got more influence than you realize,” he replied.

Idhren didn’t know if he believed that. But he had decided, somewhere in the blizzard between the grief and the rage, that he would be whatever the Inquisition needed him to be. He would do whatever he could to help.

“I…” Dorian started, and then cut himself off, hesitating a moment before he began again. “I cannot think of a tactful way to put this, so you will have to forgive me. It’s only… That is to say…” Dorian Pavus stammering, at a loss for words. Idhren never thought he would see the day. “Before you left on that suicide mission…”

Oh.

Idhren remembered suddenly. He had been so focused on what came after that he had forgotten. The feel of Dorian’s lips against his, and the shock of it. “You kissed me,” Idhren said weakly.

To his surprise, Dorian actually flushed. “I did,” he confirmed, “That is… Yes. Yes, I did do that.”

“Why?” Idhren asked.

“Venhedis, do I have to spell it out for you?” Dorian said in exasperation. It had taken all of Dorian’s courage just to do the thing, and that was with the pair of them facing imminent death.

“Please,” Idhren replied. He had not meant for it to sound so much like a plea. But his life was falling out from under him and he was tired of playing these games with Dorian. His entire life had been one big disappointment, a tale of getting his hopes up only to have them ripped asunder. He couldn’t deal with that anymore.

“I realize it was completely inappropriate,” Dorian said, dodging the question again, “And for that I apologize. I don’t entirely know what I was thinking,” he said, “Except that, well… The situation was quite dire and you… You looked like you wanted to die,” he said painfully.

Now Idhren had to look away. He had wanted to die, part of him still did. He had lost everything good in his life. And for what? If he was, in fact, the Maker’s chosen, then Idhren didn’t want to believe in Him anymore. All the Maker had ever given him was pain and suffering. Tainan was a child of the Creators, a gift to the world, and the Maker had taken them away.

“Idhren,” Dorian said softly. Hesitantly he reached out and took the elf’s hand in his own, holding it tightly.

“I just…” Idhren’s voice quivered when he managed to make it work, “Wanted to see them again… I wanted to be happy again.” Everything since the Conclave had been a nightmare. Part of him had wanted to go find Alexius and make him turn back time – against his own better judgment. A greater part of him had simply wanted it to be over, so he could pick up the pieces of his life and try to move on. His heart ached that even after all these years Dorian still couldn’t give a straight answer, still dodged away from every opportunity Idhren gave him. Even though he wasn’t in any shape to be returning those affections.

After all these years, after finding Tainan and forgetting about Dorian completely in the interim, Idhren still wanted the man to want him. Even though Idhren wasn’t certain he wanted Dorian himself anymore. Pathetic.

“What changed?” Dorian asked quietly, pulling Idhren back out of his spiraling thoughts, and forcibly pulling the conversation away from his own feelings. “Why go through all the effort to get here?”

Idhren didn’t have to think about that. Blinking away tears the wetness in his eyes he focused instead on the bitter rage bubbling low in his gut. “It’s a magister.”

“What?” Dorian asked, not comprehending.

“The Elder One,” Idhren explained, and let out a weak, disillusioned laugh. “He’s a fucking magister.”

Dorian’s expression twisted into one of confused horror. “That creature?” he asked. He had only seen the thing from afar, but it certainly hadn’t appeared human. “Vishante kaffas, what did he do to himself?”

“I’m not sure even he knows,” Idhren murmured. “He was… raving like a madman about… about becoming a god, and the Golden City. I think…” he had to stop because it was too absurd. Except he had seen the creature, listed to its ravings and seen its power. “He was a Magister Sidereal.”

"That's impossible," Dorian breathed, shaking his head.

"It's what he believes," Idhren replied, and turned his gaze to the fabric of the tent above his head. Whether it was true mattered less. The creature believed himself one of the magisters who had broken into the Golden City thousands of years ago and brought the Blight to the land. Idhren hoped it wasn't true, but he could not discount the possibility. The creature was unlike anything he had ever seen or heard about.

Dorian fell silent.

Outside someone pulled the tent flap aside, letting in a burst of cold air as they stepped inside. Idhren lifted his head again to see Vivienne de Fer standing at the entrance and looking as though she hadn't been stranded on a mountainside for the better part of a week. There was no mud or dirt on her clothing, save her shoes, which was unavoidable, and her appearance was perfectly coifed as always. How she managed it, Idhren would never know. Her eyes landed first on Idhren, and then narrowed when set on Dorian. "What are you doing here?" she asked

"Keeping our dear Herald company," Dorian replied, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. "And assuring myself that a very old, very dear friend is actually alive after everything he's been through."

The words had bite, but if Vivienne was affected she did not show it. "Well, now you've seen him," she said curtly, "But his condition is still fragile, and it would not do to excite him so much."

"Excite him?" Dorian asked, "We were having a perfectly civil conversation. He's well enough to do that, I should think."

"Let him stay," Idhren said from the bed. He didn't like how they were speaking to each other. He didn't like the way that nobility spoke to each other in veiled insults. He much preferred blatant insults. And he still didn't fully trust the First Enchanter.

"My dear," Vivienne sighed, coming over to the side of the bed. She towered over Idhren even when he was standing, and did so even more now. "It was quite touchy with you for a long while. A miracle that you survived at all, I should say. You still need quite a bit of rest, I wouldn't advise company."

Idhren frowned. He tried to glare up at her but the effect was lessened by the fact he still couldn't even sit up. "Don't talk to me like I'm a child," he protested. "Mother Giselle said I was asleep for three days. That's enough rest for me. I want to know what's going on. I need to talk to Cassandra." Those were words he had never expected to say out loud.

"There will be plenty of time for that when you are well," Vivienne tried to console him.

"There's no time," Idhren snapped with as much force as he could summon. "You don't understand. That thing... They need to know. We need to plan." It was too much for his body to handle at the moment, and set him into a weak coughing fit.

Vivienne reached out to him, but Dorian beat her, laying a hand on Idhren's shoulder. A gentle, comforting gesture. Without even thinking it, Idhren turned his face toward the man's hand. His eyes trailed from Dorian's fingers - nails cracked and dirty - up his arm until finally finding his face again and meeting the man's eyes. Dorian understood why this was so important, why he couldn't wait until he was well again. "I have to tell them."

"I agree," Dorian replied. He tore his gaze away from Idhren's to look at Vivienne, "He's well enough for a conversation now, and this news really shouldn't wait. Unless you think it unimportant to find out who opened the Breach and why? If you would be so kind as to fetch Cassandra for us, it would be much appreciated."

Telling Vivienne to fetch someone else, as though she was a servant, would be the height of insult to any nobility. Indeed, the First Enchanter's mouth hardened to a firm line and she spoke. "Mother Giselle has already gone to inform the Herald's advisors that he is awake. I am here to check on the state of his health, which I have been tending to since he was found, as you well know."

"Do I know that?" Dorian asked in surprise. "I haven't been allowed within ten feet of this tent since he was brought here. It's almost as though you people don't trust me."

"The Herald's health was fragile," Vivienne defended. "He was close to death when he was brought to me. It was of utmost importance that the other healers and myself attend to him."

"Don't fight," Idhren interrupted, before Vivienne could continue or Dorian could find a comeback. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Dorian's face, even when the man was turned away from him. It wasn't the first time that Dorian had stood up for him, or tended to him when he was hurt, and it really should stop surprising Idhren at this point. "Dorian stays."

Vivienne looked down at him. She looked as though she didn't entirely trust his judgment, but eventually she nodded. "Very well, if that is what you wish. I would very much like to check on the state of your health, however."

"I won't get in your way," Dorian said with a roll of his eyes. He took his hand from Idhren's shoulder, and the elf was unsurprised at the loss he felt when it was gone. He tried to ignore it. Dorian stood from the chair and retreated to the far side of the tent, where he crossed his arms and watched as Vivienne took up the same seat and began her examination.

Another day passed before Idhren was well enough to walk and leave the tent. Someone found a cloak that would fit him - a bit small actually, and Idhren suspected morbidly that it belonged to a child who no longer needed it - and he wrapped it tightly around his shoulders against the chill as he took his first steps outside the tent and into the Inquisition's make-shift camp.

It wasn't much. Tents and other makeshift shelters dotted the area. It wasn't any larger than any of Clan Lavellan's camps, though far less organized. These were not people used to living on the road. Idhren spoke in depth with all the heads of the Inquisition about what had happened at Haven. About Corypheus and what he intended. There was still little plan on what to do next other than get out of the mountains.

Haven was lost. They needed to find somewhere new for the Inquisition to call home. Somewhere safer and more defensible. Solas, apparently, knew of such a place.

The Inquisition was little more than a long, winding trail of refugees working their way through the mountains, avoiding the easy route where the enemy might think to look for them. The Herald of Andraste was meant to be leading them, but Idhren took many days to recover from everything he had been though at Haven and afterward. The first day on the road he couldn’t even walk an hour without needing to rest. He had pushed his body past its limits to get through the blizzard. Although Vivienne and the other healers had been able to mend his broken bones, the soreness in his joints and muscles lingered. But Idhren did lead them for all the time that he was able, walking near the head of the line for an hour at a time. Always just behind Cassandra or Cullen or The Iron Bull, anyone whose greater strength and bulk broke through the virgin snow to ease his passing.

The Maker should have chosen someone taller. Idhren was ill suited for this role. No matter which way he looked at it he was a bad choice. Bound to be the most disappointing prophet the world had ever known.

When he could walk no further Idhren stopped, caught his breath as he looked back at the long line of refugees and watched it stream past him until Mother Giselle, or Vivienne, or Josephine showed up to take his arm, feigning fatigue themselves so they might support him without arousing suspicion. The Herald of Andraste needed to look strong for his followers. So they would not lose hope. Because hope was all that was keeping them going at this point.

For days they wound through the mountains, following no known road as they headed northward. Each morning saw Idhren stronger, able to walk on his own for longer.

A week in Idhren was hopelessly lost, and he was beginning to wonder whether Solas actually knew where they were going or not. But then he crested a ridge and there it was, sitting on an outcropping amidst the snow-capped peaks in a patch of sunlight as though it had been placed there by some divine hand.

Skyhold.