Dorian leaned his shoulder against the casing surrounding the Inquisitor's door, asserting enough presence to warn off any unwelcome visitors but trying his hardest not to draw attention to himself. Always a difficult task, he thought, but even in his mind, the remark felt joyless and shallow at best.

He pressed a handkerchief absently to his jaw, rubbing off the crust of blood that tracked the now healed cuts that had run from his jaw to ear less than an hour before. It still hurt in the way all recently healed wounds hurt, the new flesh soft and pink, and cowering in remembrance. Still, there would be no scar, and with that threat put safely aside, his recent wounds truly were the last things on Dorian's mind.

His other hand ran careful, worried fingers over a roll of paper, unfurling it between thumb and forefinger before releasing it to curl back in on itself. He knew what it said, knew more importantly what it signified, but he could not decide what to do with it now that its message had been passed. He would prefer to burn it, honestly – it would not take more than the thought of heat to set the scrap ablaze – but that was not his call to make. Still, he thought as the paper curled back together, it would be quietly satisfying.

One of Mahanon's guards – the one Dorian had needed to physically restrain in order to stop her checking in on the Inquisitor – shot him an ugly, hateful look which Dorian returned easily enough. He wasn't sure giving the Inquisitor space right now was the best choice, but what else could they do?

Bull might know – and more to the point, Bull would probably be able to brave the Inquisitor's wrath and come out mostly uninjured – but the Iron Bull was out in the field along with most of the rest of the Inquisitor's inner circle. Which left Dorian, and, he supposed Sera, and Maker's tits, he wasn't the right choice for this. What does one say when their friend has lost everything?

The door at Dorian's back creaked, sliding slowly, and Dorian caught himself to avoid visibly stumbling. He turned, surprised, and met Mahanon's eyes.

"Oh," the Inquisitor said, low and soft and empty of all inflection, "I was coming to find you. To apologize."

"There was no need," Dorian said.

Mahanon's eyes dipped slowly down to Dorian's fist, seeing the roll of paper caught in his fingers. Dorian flinched, and for a moment he expected the same anger he had witnessed in the library – the unexpected metamorphosis of mild mannered passivity into animalistic rage that had caught him so off guard – but the Inquisitor simply raised his eyes back to Dorian's face, considering. Dorian hastily tucked the roll away in a pouch on his belt.

Mahanon stepped back, pulling the door open wider in clear, but almost unwelcome, invitation. Dorian grit his teeth and crossed the threshold.

They climbed in silence to the Inquisitor's quarters. Words rose in Dorian's throat only to be bit back by scathing, angry doubt. What was he supposed to say? What could he possibly have to give the Inquisitor in a time like this? His face slid into a grimace, hard, angry lines tracking across his brow.

Dorian almost ran into the Inquisitor's back when he stopped at the top of the stairs.

"Can I see," the Inquisitor asked, and Dorian, for the life of him, could not understand what the man was asking. His confusion must have shown, because Mahanon slowly raised a hand to Dorian's cheek, moving to cup his jaw.

And Dorian jerked away – couldn't help it – as a flash of those fingers bent into claws stuttered across his mind. He regretted it before he had even finished moving, but Mahanon's hand dropped away. Something – something – crossed the Inquisitor's face, but it settled to nothing.

They stood, alone and silent, in the room.

"It's fine," Dorian forced out. Everything was terrible, and he, somehow, bless him, was making it even worse, "I healed it. No horrible facial scars for me, though at this point, I should get one just to match the rest of the Inquisition. It's practically our uniform."

That got nothing out of Mahanon. He continued to stare, blankly, and worried at his lip.

Dorian blew air out of his nose sharply in frustration. He had been right in the first place – clearly Mahanon needed some time alone. Or, perhaps, he simply needed somebody other than Dorain by his side.

"I can leave, if you want," he said, reaching a hand out like Mahanon was some skittish dog and Dorian was offering his scent. Ridiculous. "I don't know what you need."

Mahanon's eyes swung to the door before moving back to Dorian's face. He said nothing.

"I don't know what you want," Dorian said, a little desperately.

And Mahanon laughed. It wasn't high or strained or even hysterical – just hearty, rich amusement. It was, perhaps, the worst sound Dorian had ever heard.

"I don't want anything," Mahanon said, a strange smile on his face, "I don't need anything. It's…"

He trailed off, looking almost confused. "I don't…" he tried again, his face blank and emotionless despite the smile that still marred his features. "I don't matter," he said at last with a shrug, smile dropping away.

Something sunk in Dorian stomach, cold and heavy. "Of course you matter," he said, sharper than he intended.

Mahanon did not look put out. He shook his head. "You don't understand. There's nothing. I'm nothing. And this isn't about me – I don't matter."

Dorian stepped forward, reaching out to grip Mahanon's shoulders. The Inquisitor did not move – did not mind. He barely seemed to notice.

And Dorian didn't know what to say. There were too many ways to respond to that, the words piling on top of each other in his mind. You're the Inquisitor, he thought. Of course you matter. But no, wrong. Try again. You're allowed to grieve, he tried, and it was the right sentiment, but the wrong time. They were words that he wanted to say – they were true words, for what that was worth – but unprompted, they felt weak and flaccid. If not you then who? They're gone, but you're still here.

Dorian grit his teeth, bowing his head to shadow his eyes.

"What do you want?" He repeated, desperately.

Mahanon pulled sharply out of his grip. "What I want," he said with an edge, "does no one any good. What I need isn't a blighted option. Everything I have – everything I have ever been – is gone, and the worst damned part is that you're somehow making this about me."

Dorian looked up to find the Inquisitor fierce and blazing. "Dozens are dead. Do you understand? Do you know what this will say to every other clan –and rightfully fucking so. My clan –" Mahanon's voice broke, and he jerked his head sideways. With a deep inhale, he tried again, "My clan tried to work with humans. They tried to work with the Inquisition. They thought…maybe this time would be different. Maybe somebody just had to take the first step. And fucking shems framed them, and hunted them, and killed them, and now everyone will know what happens if you give a human an inch.

Mahanon's lips were pulled back into a snarl, his sharp canines bared and glinting. "What I need," he said, the furrow around his mouth trembling, "is to go home. What I want is to hurt every last one of you on my way there."

The words sat heavily in the air.

Something knocked at the window, a sharp, small sound tapping against the glass.

And Mahanon laughed, snorting awfully as tears began to track their way down his face. "Dread wolf fucking take me," he said, collapsing to the ground and burying his face in his knees. Dorian looked sideways towards the window, catching the glint of red feathers as a bird launched into flight. Carefully, cautiously, he moved towards Mahanon, settling down to kneel by the elf.

"But none of that matters," Mahnon said to his knees, voice thick. "None of that helps. Going home isn't something I can do any more. There's nothing left there. And if I can't want anything and I can't need anything, then I'm nothing. I don't matter."

He lifted his head off his knee, looking up at Dorian. "Do you see?" Mahanon said, simply.

"No, I don't," Dorian said. "Your logic is terrible."

Against all odds, Mahanon smiled. The right words then, Dorian thought. Best to keep at it.

"Did it help? Clawing up my face?" he said, feigning bitterness, "My remarkable face, I might add. Did biting me make you feel all better?"

Mahanon's eyes went wide. "I bit you?" he asked, voice small.

The elf had actually bitten Helisma, sinking his teeth into her wrist as she tried to pry the elf off of Dorian. Still, best to keep this focused. He would apologize to the Tranquil personally later on.

"Sunk your teeth right into my hand," Dorian said instead. "I write with this hand, you know. I do a few other things with it, too. I rather like it, if we're to be honest."

Mahanon looked small when Dorian looked back his way, his wide, expansive anger sinking in on itself until the Inquisitor practically cowered. Maker, Dorian hoped he was doing the right thing.

"Did it help?" Dorian asked, trying to sound certain.

"No," Mahanon said, quietly. "No, Dorian, I'm so –"

"Then it must not be what you truly want. If it actually helped, Inquisitor, I'd turn the other cheek and let you have at it, but it doesn't. On this, I suppose you are right.

Dorian sighed, sitting fully on the floor. "People are terrible. No, no, they are – you're right about that. As acting representative, I'm entitled to judge them as harshly as I want. But hurting the people here at Skyhold – the people who respect you and need you – won't make anything better. And if you left, it would hurt them."

"I'm not a child," Mahanon said, turning his face back to his knees, "You can make a point without being a condescending prick.

"My mistake."

They sat there together, not quite comfortably, but at least without the anger that had heated the room only moments before.

Dorian hesitated, and then, in one movement so that he could not talk himself out of it, he wrapped an arm around Mahanon and pulled him close so that the elf's head rested against his shoulder. He felt Mahanon tense, heard his breath still, and then Mahanon rolled into him, pressing into Dorian's shirt and holding on tight. Dorian was terrible at hugs, especially ones that lasted more than a few seconds, but he gripped at Mahanon, offering all he could.

Uncomfortable with the continued silence, Dorian found he couldn't stop himself from speaking. "As for what you need, however, there are things that we can do. If you need to go to Wycome, then we'll hit the road the moment the others get back. We'll probably run into Cullen half way there. We'll do whatever you want."

"I want them to burn," Mahanon said, muffled by Dorian's high collar.

"Then burn they shall," Dorian said, forcing out a laugh. "You're good at that. And I'll happily take part, if you'll have me. You know how the light off of still-smoldering corpses suits my complexion. Besides," he slowed, letting some of the cold in his gut cool his words, "they'll deserve ever second of it.

Mahanon made a humming sound of agreement.

"And you're not…" Dorian said, voice guttering. "You are absolutely not nothing, and not realizing that is a rather major oversight, Inquisitor. You are remarkable, and you care so deeply, and I know that's hurting you now, but it's important. It's not wrong of you to care, even when it hurts."

With that, there were no words left to be said. Dorian couldn't help feeling that he'd stumbled somewhere – that perhaps his logic wasn't flawless either – but with Mahanon lax and breathing softly against his shoulder, he concluded that it must not matter much in the end.

Something caught the corner of his eye, a glint of red somewhere out the window, but he turned, and it was gone.