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Chapter Text

"And just where do you think you're going?" Dorian asks, as the Inquisitor rushes by his alcove in the library without so much as a glance. "No shameless flirting today?"

The man stops in his tracks, cracks a smile, steals a kiss. "I promise to shamelessly do anything you want me to when I return," he answers. "But I've got to go. I've got to grab a new sword and some new armor from the Undercroft before I do anything else, and at this rate, Bull is liable to up and leave without me."

"Really, where are you going?" Dorian asks again, because this is weird. In all the time since Dorian joined the Inquisition at Redcliffe, the Inquisitor has never not brought him along. They've been at each other sides for every fight, at every turn: Alexius's time spell, the Fade, the Winter Palace and everything in between.

"We're going after the High Dragon in Crestwood."

"We?"

"Leliana's research says it's resistant to electricity," comes the clarification. Obviously, Dorian's powers lie mostly within the realm of electricity.

"So I'm not invited."

"I'm taking Bull, Blackwall and Vivienne with me," he explains. "Vivienne's the most skilled with healing spells."

"I understand," Dorian replies, and he does. Taking him along would be pointless if the dragon is immune to his abilities. At least Vivienne might be able to do some damage to the thing when she's not busy with keeping everyone on their feet. "Do be careful, Amatus. I rather like you in one piece."

"Always," he assures the mage, doubling back for another long, slow kiss full of promise. "Nothing could keep me from you."

"Boss!" The Qunari's impatient shout echoes from below, shaking the wooden floor beneath their feet. "Come on, we've got a dragon to kill!"

The Inquisitor heaves a heavy sighs, "he's going to be impossible, isn't he?"

"You should have told him you were going nug hunting."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time."

Dorian laughs, hopes that next time he'll be able to join the fight, "Go."

Chapter Text

By the time Dorian finally takes his leave of the library, with a stiff neck and the echo of elegant script on old paper still blurring in and out of his vision, Skyhold has fallen dark around him. Solas is nowhere to be found as he descends the spiral stairs to the atrium, and the throne room is eerily vacant and dim (empty of the gaggles of people who are constantly milling about there, as well as Varric and Vivienne, both of whom have also evidently taken their leave) as he makes his way across the hall to the entrance to the Inquisitor's chambers. That hall, which seems to be perpetually under construction, is pitch black and freezing and only memory gets him to the last door and up the stairs.

The room, he discovers, is empty.

It's been empty, at least of its main inhabitant, for nearly two weeks now, given the Inquisitor's dragon hunting mission in Crestwood. It's been a long two weeks, and Dorian has gotten very little sleep in that time, worrying over the Inquisitor.

But, even lit only by the pale glow of moonlight through the large windows, it's clear that the Inquisitor has not returned to his quarters since his return to Skyhold this afternoon. Probably off celebrating with Bull in the Herald's Rest, Dorian figures, or else he's trapped in the War Room with Cullen, Josephine and Leliana discussing the politics of the Inquisition or planning the next move they'll make against Corypheus.

Nonetheless, he's too tired to make his way back to his own rarely used room, so he'll just stay. It's not like he doesn't have an open invitation to stay here. Hell, more than half of the books piled by the desk in the corner of the room are texts he's working through - keeping them here prevents other inhabitants from wandering off with them, he's learned. His armor and staff are here, tucked away in the closet along with the Inquisitor's great sword and dragonscale armor - though those are likely being looked over after the dragon. Even the runners knows to find him here, it seems, as Leliana and Cullen have both sent people for him while he was comfortably sprawled out in the Inquisitor's bed in the early hours of the morning.

So, he strips down (a task which requires some dedication, given the sheer number of buckles involved) and settles into bed, where the blankets are thick and warm, to combat the ever-present chill in the air that he swears he will never grow accustomed to, and he sleeps.

When he wakes, it's to find that he's no longer alone.

Whatever had been going on in the War Room (not the Tavern, Dorian decides, given the lack of the overpowering smell of alcohol), must have finally come to an end.

"Was hoping you'd be here," comes the Inquisitor's tired voice, as he climbs into bed and curls himself around Dorian, bare limbs tangling together.

"Where else would I be?"

His bedmate presses kisses along the back of his neck and shoulder, pulling him in close, "I missed you."

Dorian laughs, "I noticed."

"I had to share a tent with Blackwall," the Inquisitor says, "I didn't know anyone could snore so loudly."

More laughter, and Dorian rolls to face the man for a proper kiss. "Serves you right."

"Ah, that's right. I have some shameless flirting to make up for, don't I?"

"You might," Dorian agrees, "Though I believed you promised 'shameless whatever you want,' at the time, actually."

"Well," the Inquisitor grins, shifting until he's trapped himself under Dorian, and claiming kiss after kiss "if I promised..."

Chapter Text

You lie awake in the pre-dawn darkness of Skyhold's tallest tower, the pink and yellow beginnings of the sunrise are only just starting to creep over the mountain peaks on the horizon, so your quarters are still dark, lit only by the dim green glow that radiates from the mark on your hand. It's still quiet, too early for even the earliest of rises, too late for even the latest to bed. Dorian is sleeping soundly beside you, sharing your bed more often than not these days, and the two of you are so entwined that it's hard to tell where you end and he begins, the sheets a tangled mess between you. It's perfect.

Unfortunately, it's the last morning you'll have like this in quite a while, as tomorrow marks the start of a lengthy trip to the Hissing Wastes, and Dorian won't be accompanying you.

Dorian shifts a little closer to you, and you curl your fingers around his and settle in, perfectly content to stay like this as long as possible because you're going to miss it.

Normally, Dorian's with you when you leave Skyhold, and the two of you have shared a tent since long before you ever got together. You're so used to him being there, at your side, when you fight that something feels like it's missing when he's not. Vivienne is just as good, but it's not the same.

Eventually, as you drift in and out of sleep, the sunlight slowly stretches its way through the grand windows, creeping closer and closer to the bed. The sounds of morning are beginning down below, as well, the crows of roosters and the clacking of hooves, the chatter of the kitchen staff, moving about early to prepare breakfast for the castle, the clank of armor as the soldiers trade posts.

It will rouse your bedmate soon enough, you're sure - assuming no one comes looking for you before then, to summon you off to some last minute meeting about the upcoming journey - and another chaotic day with the Inquisition will commence. Then everyone will be out of bed, back into the chaos of Inquisition life - researching ways to defeat Corypheus, debating the best strategies, organizing troops and supplies, sending out scouts and messengers and spies, planning the next move.

But perhaps you have overestimated Dorian's level of consciousness. You feel the man shift at your back, pulling away from the shared warmth. A chill settles in where he'd been pressed against you.

You want to move, to reach out to him and drag him back down. You want to convince him (probably won't take much convincing, really) to just stay in bed with you for as long as possible today, because it's going to be weeks, maybe months, until you see each other again. You want to pull him in for a long, hungry kiss and go from there.

But something stops you.

"I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified," Dorian says, with a slow, shuddering breath.

The words are whispered, and so quiet that you're sure that he never meant for you to actually hear them, but you have. Has he been awake as long as you have, worrying over this like you've been worrying about being away from him?

He reaches out for you, and a shaking hand lands on your shoulder. You turn toward him, your hand reaching out to cover his, but when he realizes that you're awake, that you heard, he pulls away, moves away.

"I don't know why I said that," he admits, and even though he doesn't go far, the distance between you seems insurmountable in that moment, like you could never hope to reach him where he sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

Sometimes you wonder what happened to him to make him think the way he does. You know his history with his father, what he tried to do to Dorian, but there's something more, you're sure. Maybe one day he'll tell you.

What makes him so sure that he's not worth loving, that no one ever could?

"Hey," you start, escaping the tangle of blankets and sliding up behind him. You curl your arms around him, pressing a series of long, lazy kisses against his neck and jaw, finally finding his mouth, as you pull him back down. "If it helps," you say, just as quietly as Dorian's own words had been, "I know that I'm in love with you."

You do, Maker, you do, more than anything, and maybe one day he'll believe that.

Chapter Text

Of all the places he's followed the Inquisitor, Dorian thinks, Emprise du Lion has to be his least favorite.

Which is saying a lot.

The Storm Coast had been wet, but at least it had been warm. The Fallow Mire had nothing going for it, the godforsaken pit of mud. The Hissing Wastes were little more than a vast, empty desert wasteland slowly cooking him from the inside out. But Emprise du Lion is bloody cold, colder than he's ever been, and there's no relief from it, won't be until they take Suledin Keep.

Short of the Fade or the ruined future Alexius had thrown them into, he'd take anywhere else.

The tents are the only thing keeping him from freezing to death, and he makes eagerly for the one he shares with the Inquisitor the second he gets the chance. They've just finished clearing out a Templar encampment and making camp for the night. It's been a long day of fighting and they'll be back at it tomorrow. He'll take whatever reprieve from the cold he can get.

He passes by Sera, but the mischievous glint in her eyes give him pause, and he notes the ball of packed snow in her hands. Uh oh. "Don't you dare throw that snowba-" Dorian starts to protest. His warning comes too late, though, as the projectile has already been launched in his direction. It makes contact right on target, the cold snow sliding down his robes most unpleasantly. "Damn it!"

Sera's doubled over, cackling with laughter. "You should see your face!" she manages, and Dorian rather hopes her face freezes that way.

"Hilarious," he grumbles, just as another projectile sails over his head and nails her in the back. He smirks as she bolts upright in surprise at the unexpected attack. "Now that," he concedes, "that was hilarious."

"Who threw that!?" She demands, whirling on him, already armed again. With no other obvious targets, she launches that one at him, too, and this handful of cold snow explodes in his face. Ugh.

"It wasn't me!" He protests, brushing as much of the damned snow off of himself as possible.

"I don't see anyone else around, do you?"

It's true. Iron Bull is somewhere nearby, scavenging up some food for them all, and the Inquisitor wandered off to go gather some of the plentiful crafting materials they've found here.

But the Inquisitor must have finished with his task, because he comes out of nowhere, an arm curling around Dorian's waist, hauling him back the way he came, behind a well-placed drift of snow, where a stockpile of snowballs waits. "Come on," he says, passing one to Dorian before launching another at a protesting Sera, "you know I hate to fight without you at my side."

And Dorian, already cold and wet and miserable, can do nothing but agree. He fires his snowball and smirks in satisfaction when it nails her in the ass in her attempt to dive for cover of her own. "Unfair!" She shouts, already firing back at them. Their cover is better, though, and they're firing twice as often, so she ends up hit far more often than either of them - a fact which Dorian greatly appreciates - and things are well-skewed in their favor as the battle rages on.

Until Iron Bull returns. Dorian doesn't see him until it's too late, until he's already thrown the snowball that smacks into the Qunari's broad chest. There's a hulking bear over Bull's shoulders, which only makes Dorian's mistake all the more daunting.

"You'll pay for that, 'Vint," Iron Bull assures him, walking through the field of play to set dinner aside before he joins up with Sera.

Things go bad quickly after that.

The snowballs that the Iron Bull sends at them are more like snowboulders, and he quickly figures out just where to throw them to obliterate their defenses, leaving them scrambling for fresh cover as the over-sized snowballs continue to rain down upon them. They can hear Sera laughing herself silly, even more so when one of the shots trips Dorian up and sends him sprawling all over the Inquisitor, pinning him down into the snow and severely hindering their escape plans. The Inquisitor spins as they go down, so Dorian ends up more or less straddling him when they land, half buried in snow. They've both long since gone numb to the cold.

"I think we've been bested, Amatus," Dorian supplies, removing his elbow from the Inquisitor's ribs.

"It looks that way," the Inquisitor agrees, looking up at Dorian with a grin on his face, the likes of which Dorian has never seen in their time together. He likes this side of the Inquisitor, it's one he doesn't often get to see. They spend so much of their time focusing on the Inquisition - the battles, the planning, the traveling - that there is little time for anything normal, let alone anything fun like this. "This is a battle I think I can stand losing," he says, waving a hand in surrender. "You win!" He calls out, loud enough for Sera and Bull to hear. He sits up slowly, still half-trapped under Dorian. "We surrender!"

There are triumphant cheers from across the clearing and one final, extra large snowball comes hurtling toward them. They take the hit with grace, and Dorian can't bite back the laugh when he sees the snow sticking to his lover's face, frozen into his beard and his eyebrows. "You look ridiculous."

"As do you, Dorian," the Inquisitor replies, a hand coming up to brush the gathered snow from his mustache. It trails over his lips, too, and the cold of his touch makes Dorian shiver.

He leans forward, steals a quick kiss. His frozen fingers curl into the Inquisitor's snow-damp hair. "That's more than enough of the cold, I should think," Dorian says, claiming a long, slow kiss this time. "Perhaps we should go warm up in the tents, celebrate our near-victory?"

"I like that plan," the Inquisitor agrees with a grin.

Dorian stands, offers a hand to his lover and heads for their tent. They ignore the catcalls from Bull and Sera and duck into the relative shelter the tent provides, already struggling to strip out of snow-soaked clothes, a task made all the more complicated by their cold-numbed hands.

The warm blankets call them closer, limbs tangling together under the heavy covers, sharing kisses and touches as well as body heat until they're both more or less thawed out. Then there's warm clothes and warm food and warm ale, before they all turn in for the night.

It was worth it, Dorian supposes, as the Inquisitor sleeps soundly beside him with a faint smile still on his face. And maybe Emprise du Lion has it's upsides, after all - maybe the cold isn't so bad when you have someone to warm up with afterward.

Chapter Text

Dorian has spent the better part of the last several months working on something special.

It's required a great deal of secrecy on their many journeys. He's subtly chatted up most of the merchants at the various market stalls they happen upon - which always seem to be in the most dreadful of places. He sources a schematic for a very impressive pommel from a man in the canyon in the Hissing Wastes. He talks a grumpy old lady with an even grumpier Mabari hound into selling him the plans for an equally robust haft in Suledin Keep in Emprise du Lion. The design of the sword itself he works out with Harritt and Dagna in the Undercroft, crosses that off the list of things to do.

From there, collecting the masterwork materials needed to craft the weapon is another monumental task. He gathers a carefully planned amount of various fade-touched materials that will leave the greatsword's wielder as protected as can be – offering speed and strength and defense all at once. Some he accumulates as stealthily as possibly on their missions, others he purchases from all sorts of traders and dealers when he can get away from the Inquistor long enough to do so without arousing too much suspicion.

And then there are the materials for the runes. He's found a way to apply more than one to the sword and he talks Dagna into perfecting them, crafting superb runes that will provide as many benefits as possible. Those supplies, too, are costly and difficult to source, but he finally gets his hands on them all.

No doubt some at Skyhold think he's up to something nefarious, but that could not be farther from the truth. He shrugs off the wary glances from Vivienne and Mother Giselle when they catch him lurking about or sneaking supplies from his hoard down to the Undercroft and continues his planning.

Until, finally, it is done.

When the weapon is complete, he is eager to gift it to the Inquisitor.

The Inquisitor returns to his chambers from the War Room after a long day of going over reports about Corypheus' latest movements and discussions about the moves that need be made to secure more allies in the fight against him. Dorian is waiting for him there, the gift wrapped and laid across the bed.

"For you, Amatus," he offers.

Perplexed, but clearly interested, the Inquisitor unwraps the sword, and is immediately awed by it. The greatsword is gorgeously designed as well as practical and it fits perfectly in the man's hands like it was meant to fit there. It's accented with the same color the Anchor gives off, that brilliant, blinding green. "It's stunning," the man says, sweeping Dorian into an appreciate embrace and an even more enthusiastic kiss.

They name the sword Dragonfall, though they are both sure it will easily slay a lot more than dragons on their journeys. With any luck, it will slay Corypheus, too, and free the world from the danger of the Rift. With any luck, it might let them live to see the end of the Inquisition, and let them live some semblance of a happily ever after.

Chapter Text

Dorian comes up with the idea early in the morning, long before the Inquisition's troops are up and moving for the day. The Inquisitor is still asleep beside him in the tent they share and it is easy enough to rouse the other man to present him with what Dorian imagines is a solid plan.

"Let me wear your armor in the attack today," Dorian starts, when his bedmate seems awake enough to listen. "They'll think we're focusing on the main gate, the Inquisitor and all his forces. You can take a few soldiers, loop around the back, take out the Fade Rift that's giving them power and claim the Keep before they even know you're not on the frontlines as usual."

But the Inquisitor gives him one long, hard look and closes his eyes again. "Not a chance."

"Look," Dorian continues to argue, "We can besiege this damn tower for the next half a year, losing men and supplies and allowing Corypheus to grow stronger all the while, or you can agree to do this and we can end it today!"

"We can fight our way in the front gate. We've fought through everything else."

This is true. They have. They've tackled every obstacle this battle against Corypheus has forced them through. But, "There are too many of them - Templars and Venatori, both infected with red lyrium and a Rift in the middle of it all, feeding them all more power, releasing more demons every day. We need an edge, something to give us the upper hand."

"They'd know it wasn't me."

"How?" Dorian challenges. "They've never seen you without your armor in the month we've been here. How could they know it's not you? Blackwall, even Cassandra, would be better options, I suppose, they're both closer to your size than I am, they're both warriors, like you, but they're back at Skyhold. I doubt Iron Bull or Varric could pass for you, so you're left with me. We're close enough, and your armor is bulky enough to hide the differences between us." Dorian isn't finished yet, though, "I know how you move, I know how you fight. I can fool them long enough for this plan to work."

The Inquisitor reaches out to him, a hand dragging over Dorian's face to cup his cheek, pull him in for a kiss. "This plan of yours has been tried before in our history, you know," he argues, though he has to know that Dorian is well aware of the old texts to which he is referring, given that there isn't a book in Skyhold's ever-growing library that the mage hasn't thoroughly examined. "It has not typically ended well."

"Let me do this," Dorian pleads. "We need to take the Keep. You know as well as I do that the longer we spend here, the more Rifts open elsewhere, and the stronger Corypheus grows."

Reluctantly, the Inquisitor agrees.

Dorian suits up in the Inquisitor's armor, carefully buckled into the brilliant dragonscale, every piece of which is heavily enchanted with all manner of runes to protect its wearer in battle. Meanwhile, the Inquisitor dons another set – this one enchanted plate mail scavenged from a mission they'd completed in the Frostback Basin. The armor is much subtler than the dragonscale, it will allow the Inquisitor to blend in with the rest of the soldiers, move through the crowds without drawing undue attention to himself.

That done, their focus turns to weapons. Dorian sets his lightning staff aside in the safety of their tent and claims Dragonfall, the sword he'd had crafted as a gift for the Inquisitor several months ago. He'd made sure it was as strong as it possibly could be for all the battles it would face, had it enchanted as powerfully as Dagna could manage in order to protect the Inquisitor should he not be around to watch his back. The bulky weight of it feels strange in his hands, but the distinctive sword has to be with him for this plan to work. With any luck, though, the Keep will fall before today's skirmishes get too involved. Without his usual weapon, though, The Inquisitor, turns to his old greatsword, Starfang, which he pulls from the stash of spare armor and weapons.

"You ready?" The Inquisitor inquires when the two of them are as prepared as possible. Bull and Varric are waiting just outside, already informed of the details of the plan and ready to go. They will stay with Dorian and provide cover while the Inquisitor and a few other less distinct soldiers circle around toward the Rift. "I will say, as much as I do not like this plan, you do look astounding in my armor."

"I look astounding in everything, thank you very much," Dorian quips, claiming a quick kiss before they separate for this mission. He much prefers fighting alongside his Amatus, but it must be done. "I'll see you inside the tower, then."

"Indeed," the Inquisitor agrees, stealing one last kiss, too, before he slips out of the tent and disappears into the crowd. This leaves Dorian to join the Qunari and the dwarf in their more noticeable roles.

"Hope this plan of yours works out better than it has before, Sparkler," Varric says, leading Dorian into the chaos.

"Me, too."

Soon enough, Dorian finds himself in the middle of the day's battle, trapped amidst a storm of casted spells and swinging blades, arrows whipping through the air, but he is unable to do much of anything that isn't avoiding attacks. Iron Bull is charging into the frontlines of the fight, toppling through the lines of shields and armored soldiers defending the gate. Varric's up high, shooting into the chaos Bull's attack has spawned, taking out man after man while they're distracted. He longs for his staff. Normally, he'd be casting spell after spell over those he's set to aid, shooting off healing enchantments towards Bull and his Chargers, firing off damaging lightning attacks when he has a chance, seeking out the Inquisitor in the mayhem. But, the Inquisitor is nowhere to be found.

If nothing has gone awry, it shouldn't be much longer before Dorian's distraction pays off. By now, the Inquisitor should be inside, working his way up to the Fade Rift at the top of the tower.

Speaking of, however, the latest demons to leak out of it are fast approaching. Nearly a dozen enemies have made their way into the fray, flanked by a number of Red Templars. On a quick survey, he spots two Pride Demons, a Terror Demon, even an Arcane Horror, along with the usual barrage of walking corpses. The Templars seem to be steering the demons in his direction, likely intent on loosing them upon the Inquisitor. This is a problem, though, because he is not the Inquisitor. He does not have the Anchor to weaken them, nor the skills needed to wield the bulky greatsword he carries. He doesn't even have his magic to fight them off. And, he realizes now, he's short on cover, as well. He sees that Iron Bull has been drawn off, pinned down with Krem and a few other Chargers some distance away. Varric is busy trying to remedy that situation, at the moment, and likely doesn't have much focus left to defend Dorian, too. So, he's on his own.

He hefts the sword, swings it not terribly gracefully and at least manages contact with the nearest corpse, dropping it in one lucky strike. Hardly anything to celebrate, though, when so many others are still coming at him.

Just then, from above, the Inquisitor sets off the Anchor, sending out a brilliant flash of green light as both the Fade Rift and the demons weaken. Some of the lesser ones die, but the strongest power on, surging forward as the Inquisition soldiers start to realize what's happening. A wave of excitement builds among them. More of them have begun to notice the deception, as well, and several try to cut in on the remaining demons in Dorian's defense. They manage to whittle off one of the Pride Demons, but more Templar's are edging in, too.

Iron Bull breaks in, trying to wall off Dorian from the hoard, but the Qunari isn't quite fast enough. An arrow slips between the gaps in the dragonscale plating, where the pieces don't fit together quite right on his frame, and the projectile pierces his shoulder. Another, fired almost immediately after the first shot, glances off his neck as he turns to face the Templar archer. Blood spurts from the wound and the world blurs out of focus, though Dorian catches sight of another flash of green as he falls to the sand.

Dorian wakes well after the day has ended. Wherever he is, the sun has clearly already set. When he finally manages to focus, he realizes he is no longer in the tent beyond the battle lines. He is inside, settled on an actual bed. He is no longer wearing the Inquisitor's dragonscale armor, either. Now, he's dressed for bed, instead, both his neck and shoulder are thoroughly bandaged, and his arm has been immobilized against his side. He is tired and sore, and even the small task of sitting upright leaves him strongly considering going back to sleep.

"Ah," comes the Inquisitor's voice from somewhere behind him. A candle lights, the flickering glow coming closer as do the familiar footsteps of his lover. "You're awake. How do you feel?" He asks, "should I send for the healer?"

The tower, Dorian realizes. They're in the tower. They took the Keep. The plan worked. "I'm fine, Amatus," he assures the Inquisitor. He reaches out with his good arm, pulls the man to him and holds tight, breathes a (slightly painful) sigh of relief. "We did it."

"We did," The Inquisitor agrees, pressing a kiss to the crown of Dorian's head. He wraps himself around Dorian and carefully settles down beside him in bed. "You certainly had me worried, though. I thought I'd lost you, for a moment."

Dorian clings to the other man. "Not today," he says. He doesn't quite have the energy to put his thoughts into words right now, and his mind is foggy from whatever potions the healer used when patching him up, but he can offer that much, at least. And it could have been worse, Dorian knows. Those old stories in those old books in the library. Those stories did not have happy endings. This one almost didn't, either, he is well aware. It still might not have a happy ending – Corypheus is still out there, there are still battles to come, there is still a war to win. But, they will fight them all together.

Chapter Text

You're settled in the little nook of the library that Dorian usually occupies, working your way through an absurd number of old texts sent over to Skyhold from some of Josephine's contacts in Orlais. You're hoping for some little scrap of information, something that will offer some explanation of the anchor or the rift or anything about the chaos your life has become lately. But the pages are all scrawled with fancy, elegant script and you're not great at deciphering it; before too long your eyes are strained and they hurt almost as much as your head does, but you cannot bring yourself to put the books down. The progress is slow and not all that illuminating. But there's nothing else to do right now – you're between missions, waiting for intel and supplies before you set out once more.

"Okay, that's it," Dorian's comforting voice breaks the silence of the library, startling you out of your vacant state, eyes moving over the pages but not absorbing the words. He slides up to your side, a hand settles on your shoulder, and it's only then you realize how long you've been in the same position, how tense you are. "I'm rescuing you."

"From…?"

He slams the book shut, pries it away from you and tosses it atop the pile of them still waiting beside the chair.

"Hey!"

"How many times have you read that same paragraph? Because I counted at least seven. The book will still be there in the morning," he assures you, and his voice drops to something gentle, coaxing, "Come with me, Amatus."

With a sigh of resignation, you follow, letting him lead you by the hand.

You realize how late it's gotten, the sun long since set, and the dark halls you wander through are vacant now. He steers you through the castle to your quarters and you glance longingly at your bed as you pass, but he does not stop there any longer than it takes to grab a blanket from atop it. Instead, he leads you out to the balcony.

"Sit," Dorian requests, and you do as he asks, settling on the stone without question. The night air is chilly, but he wraps the blanket around you and kneels behind you, his hands land once more on your tense shoulders and you groan in relief when he works his magic on you, working out the stress and knots, pressing kisses to your neck until you're boneless and malleable in his hands. "Feeling better?" he asks, arms wrapping around your body, letting your warmth sink into his chilled skin.

"Much," you answer. You lift the blanket in invitation and he moves to sit beside you, wrapped up with you. The two of you are bathed in the light of the bright, full moon overhead. For this moment, you are unconcerned with the weight of your responsibilities – Corypheus, the Inquisition, the Rift. Just for a moment, there is nothing but you and the man you love under a sky full of stars and you revel in it, breeching the scant space between you for a kiss. "Thank you," you say, your forehead still pressed against his.

"You're welcome," he answers.

Chapter Text

It is late by the time Dorian finally abandons his work in his little nook of the library, eyes weary from so long spent staring at the pages in the dim light. He makes his way through darkened halls of the castle toward the Inquisitor's chambers as he does most every night these as of late.

He fully expects to find his Amatus soundly asleep in their bed already (he certainly should be at any rate, after a long day of training). He's as quiet as possible in his ascent to the room, eases the heavy door open just so to keep it from squeaking on its hinges. Minds his feet on the uneven stone steps. But some shadowy movement in the moonlight catches his eye before he reaches the top, freezes him in place.

Something is wrong.

Someone else is here.

It only takes a second for the scene to register.

The Inquisitor is not soundly asleep, not at all. In fact, it appears as though he is fighting for his life. He is struggling against the intruder braced behind him, against the fine cord wrapped tight around his neck – it keeps him silent, fighting desperately for any bit of breath he can manage. Flailing wildly to try to make noise some other way, clawing at the would-be assassin's arms, his face, anything he can reach.

Dorian has no real plan when he acts, but the instinctive bursts of magic he fires off do the job swiftly enough. The intruder drops to the ground with a strangled cry of pain, and with that, his hold on the garrote falters. He rushes to his lover's side, pulls the cord away and throws it aside as if it were some poisonous serpent. "Amatus," Dorian breathes, his hands careful of the bruised, bloody mess the thing has made of the vulnerable flesh of his neck.

The Inquisitor is still sucking in frantic, painful gasps of air, one hand clinging to Dorian as the fogginess of near unconsciousness fades away.

"You're okay," Dorian tells him, eases him through several steady breaths until they come a bit easier for him. "I've got you, you're okay."

The Inquisitor nods, calmer now in Dorian's capable hands. Still, he glances at his assailant with wary eyes. An assassin sent to kill the only one who can stop Corypheus. Sent by whom? The Venatori? The Red Templars? Someone else?

But that is a question best left to the others, Dorian knows, for if he is left alone to question the man who nearly stole his Amatus from him, answers will not be the thing he wrings from the foolish soul presently unconscious before him, only blood and screams. Just for good measure, he fires off another burst of magic – best to make sure the monster stays down.

He helps the Inquisitor back to bed – now, he can see the signs of a struggle; the intruder must have struck while he was asleep, pulled him out of bed by his neck as they fought. He can't imagine the terror of being snapped back into reality to that thing around his throat.

"Thank you," the Inquisitor chokes out in something that's barely a whisper, his voice wrecked by the weapon. He reaches out, like he wants nothing more than to pull Dorian close and block all of this out for the night.

But that is not an option just yet.

Still, it does not stop Dorian from claiming a desperate kiss of his own, lips lingering for a beat too long as he allows himself this moment of relief because he knows as soon as he sounds the alarm, they will be swarmed by the others in response to this new threat – a healer to ensure no damage has been done, a jailer for the would be assassin, the rest of the Inquisitor's various companions and advisors all barreling in to work out how the hell the bastard made it in, what is means. He wouldn't be surprised if the whole of Skyhold is involved by the time the dawn comes.

"Always, Amatus," he whispers as he pulls away.