Ma Vhenan and Amatus

Love's Loss

A flock of Orlesians huffed and puffed while stamping their bejeweled slippers for such a slight. The Inquisition soldier left to hold them back only sighed at the toothless threats a few second son diplomats could offer up. And here Dorian thought the worst part of the Exalted Council would be braving the picked over buffet courses and regurgitated vinegar they call wine. Beyond the line of complaining Orlesians and growling Fereldens stood the Inquisitor in conference with a blonde, elven Inquisition scout. He seemed fully on point, focused upon the threat of a dead Qunari flopping into the Winter Palace, while giving out orders to her and anyone else in the area. Solid as steel was the Inquisitor, with an unbreakable spine. Then Gaerwn turned away from them all and, for a brief moment, cradled his left hand to his stomach.

Right.

Dorian shouldered past the Inquisition soldiers without a thought. The move surprised them so, it wasn't until he was a few steps past that they thought to call out. "Sir! You can't be back here."

"Is that so?" Dorian said crossing his arms.

The Inquisitor looked up from the ground and sighed, "It's all right. He's with me, sort of." He grumbled the final bit of his sentence under his breath but Dorian heard it.

Smugly smiling at the soldier fading back to his post, Dorian turned to watch the Inquisitor step into one of the small roofed nooks in the area. His voice echoed out the windows and through the courtyard, speaking more orders, requesting clarification from the handful of nameless soldiers gathered around him, and in general trying to appear the unshakeable leader he'd played for the past three years.

After a rousing speech, Gaerwn's eyes drifted over the mage standing in the back before he turned to busy himself with a handful of vellum upon what looked like a wardrobe. "What is it, Dorian?" he asked, not bothering to give him any attention.

"I thought we should talk. I'd prefer alone, but that seems to be nigh on impossible with you."

Gaerwn didn't turn to face him but he did snap out of his lean. Even at a distance, Dorian watched the muscles along his shoulders tighten to stone. "Very well," he sighed and cast an eye over the soldiers caught in the middle of a lover's tiff. "Leave us."

For a moment the flock stood there, eyes wide in terror before Dorian clapped his hand twice. "Come now, you heard your Inquisitor. Follow orders, fulfill the duty, for glory and all that."

"Yes, Ser!" one snapped out not at Dorian but their real leader before each one slowly filtered out. A few took the time to glare at the magister, but he didn't care or notice. Dorian was too busy watching how Gaerwn kept sifting through papers making certain his left hand didn't glance across anything.

After the final soldier vanished, and the ornate door rattled shut, Dorian stepped forward and asked, "When were you going to tell me that the anchor's causing you pain?"

The shuffling paused, Gaerwn's back freezing tight but he didn't turn around to face Dorian. His weary head tipped lower a moment before he growled, "Depends, when were you intending to inform me about your plans to remain in Tevinter?"

He'd hoped to avoid the truth of it until the council was over, not wanting to heap upon the man's worries with Ferelden and Orlais eyeing up the Inquisition. But of course Varric and his fat lip had to flap away and reveal the truth at the most inopportune time imaginable. Dorian tipped his head back to glare at the ceiling, neither man able to face the other.

"You know I am an ass," he mumbled.

"It's your speciality," Gaerwn added, no mirth in his voice.