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Chapter Text

Dorian looked up from his book. There went the Inquisitor again, scurrying across the library. Up to Leliana's little crow's nest. Back carrying - was that a bag of severed fingers? - for the Tranquil. Towards the stairs, stopping, turning on his heel and ducking through another door, moving stiffly in the starched beige tunic that someone - he wasn't sure whether Cassandra or Josephine was to blame - thought was an appropriate outfit for the leader of the Inquisition.

Skyhold was so labyrinthine, he could have been going anywhere. Dorian had only bothered to memorise how to get between his bed, the tavern and the library. And where to stand in the reading nooks to put himself out of Leliana's view, although he was certain she had her ways - with the Venatori hounding them, perhaps she'd trained her damned birds to read, just enough to make sure the dangerous Tevinter infiltrator wasn't studying illicit blood magic.

Right on schedule, Lavellan walked back into the library. Dorian leaned against the bookshelf and looked back to his work, pretending not to notice as the elf's zig-zagging eventually brought him to Dorian's corner.

"Dorian."

He looked up. Lavellan's expression was resting in a frown, as usual, his rift-green eyes dimmed to hazel in the library's low candle-light. His hands, though, he fidgeted with, smearing black ink from his palm to his fingers.

"Inquisitor," Dorian replied, spreading a smirking mask across his face. "Something terrible seems to have happened to your mark."

Lavellan's face froze for a moment before his eyes fell to his hands. He heaved a tired sigh and wiped his palms on his tunic, leaving black streaks across the beige.

"It was my to-do list," he muttered, still loitering just outside the nook.

"Oh dear, I suppose there's nothing else to be done today, then." Still holding a book with the pretence of doing something, Dorian used his foot to pull out the chair at the study desk. He thought he caught a hint of a smile on Lavellan's mouth as he crossed to sit down. Lavellan immediately slumped back, leaning his blonde head against the bookshelf and stretching his mud-caked boots across the floor, taking up a surprising amount of space for such a short elf.

"So, are these little check-ins on your to-do list?" Dorian asked, loudly turning a page he hadn't read.

"Oh, I was... just passing," Lavellan replied vacantly.

Dorian found himself looking down at Lavellan's face in profile, the bumpy curve of his once-broken nose, his closed eyes, the branch-like tattoos that spread along his cheekbones. Lavellan sunk his chin down towards his chest and seemed to doze, then bolted upright as he caught himself.

"Wait, there was something," he said quickly, unbuttoning his cuff and rolling his sleeve up. More scrawlings in Dalish script. Dorian burst out laughing and Lavellan stopped to look up at him. "What?"

"It seems Josephine is rubbing off on you," Dorian said, trying to wipe the smirk off his face and failing. "Perhaps you should start carrying a journal and candle as well."

"Well," Lavellan said, trying to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his pointed ear but only succeeding in smearing more ink around. He jabbed a finger at one of his illegible sentences. "Leliana asked that you use less hot water for your baths, the kitchen needs it."

“That’s what our spymaster asked our great leader to tell me?” Dorian replied. "Really, Inquisitor. You Southerners' insistence on holing yourself up in such inhospitably cold and draft-ridden keeps is rather a problem for those of us used to a warmer climate."

Lavellan sat forward and lifted his chin. “I’m sure you can come to some sort of compromise,” he said, failing to hide the fact that he was smiling by inspecting his filthy nails. “You could share your bath with Leliana’s crows, perhaps.”

“Is the Herald of Andraste teasing me?” Dorian said in feigned shock. “Surely not.”

Lavellan put his chin in his hand and smiled up at Dorian. “Surely not.”

“My lord,” a hurried voice said. Lavellan’s face hardened again and he sat up straight. It was a young woman dressed in a blue cloak with an Inquisition clasp, one of the messengers. “Lady Montilyet has called a briefing in the war room.”

“Of course,” Lavellan replied. “We’ll be down shortly.”

The messenger bowed awkwardly and passed on, up towards Vivienne’s pretend little First Enchanter’s study. Lavellan stared into the distance, fingers tightening in his lap.

“…Lavellan?” Dorian said.

The elf lowered his head into his hands, seeming all at once small again. Dorian’s mind raced for something clever to say that would fill the silence that spread out from the Inquisitor.

“No rest for the wicked, I’m afraid,” Dorian eventually decided on. He regretted saying it as soon as he closed his mouth. Lavellan nodded slowly, lowering his hands, and staggered to his feet.

“Let’s hear what’s on fire this time,” Lavellan murmured, stalking away from Dorian across the library once more.

---

Inquisitor Lavellan and his advisors stood at the head of the table, the rest of his so-called “inner circle” clustered around on chairs that had become more and more uniform over time as Josephine’s orders from Val Royeaux arrived. Sitting at the far end of the room, Dorian felt like a naughty schoolboy hiding at the back of class so the tutor wouldn’t notice he was scribbling and light his quill on fire to get his attention.

“It’s the perfect occasion for an assassin,” Leliana was explaining, her hands poised over a miniature replica of one of Empress Celene’s pleasure palaces. Dorian was trying to decide if Cullen or Josephine was more likely to have miniature building as a hobby. He might try to get a closer look. If it was filled with perfect miniature furniture, it would be Josephine.

“Can’t we get her to call it off?” Lavellan sighed, leaning his knuckles on the table.

Cullen, standing to Lavellan’s side, gave Josephine and Leliana a rather pointed look. “I’ve been wondering that myself.”

“An insecurity about her ability to protect her own court would… suggest weakness,” Josephine replied, flourishing her quill.

“And given her precarious position due to the ongoing civil war…” Leliana added, gesturing to what Dorian assumed were more adorable miniatures.

“Right,” Lavellan grumbled.

“I’m still working on procuring an invitation,” Josephine said. “But we need to start preparations as soon as possible.”

Lavellan squinted at Josephine. “What sort of… preparations?”

Josephine began to pace around the table, her pearly teeth emerging in a delicate smile. “The Grand Game can be… very dangerous, even for those who have played it all their lives. Every word, gesture, expression will be scrutinised. If you are to attend without making obstacles of the nobility at every turn, you must be able to play it.”

“I would like to think that our deeds speak for themselves,” Lavellan said with a frown.

“Our deeds will be what gets us through the door, despite the court’s… distaste for both the Inquisition, and for you specifically,” Josephine replied. Its distaste for elves, she meant. Not that Dorian’s homeland was any better. Well, that wasn’t quite the way to put it. Considering that his homeland was definitely worse, was perhaps more accurate. “Unfortunately,” Josephine continued, “they will not get us much further.”

“That gives us a month to train you in the etiquette the nobility would expect of an emissary,” Leliana said. “Your appearance, your manner, your speech, your movements. Knowledge of history, heraldry, Orlesian court dances. You will not be able to get anywhere near the Empress if you are blunt with her, or walk into the Winter Palace with muddy boots.”

Lavellan’s eyes fell to his grubby fingers, his stained tunic, indeed to his muddy boots, and he clenched his hand against the table. Dorian’s heart sank as he thought of how exhausted Lavellan had looked before they’d come down here. Running around Skyhold dealing with the Inquisition’s affairs, squabbling Templars and gaping holes in the sky, and now he would be learning to smile prettily for people who would still call him a knife-eared heretic apostate once his back was turned.

“Fortunately, you are well-equipped with tutors,” Leliana added. “Myself, Josephine and Vivienne are well acquainted with The Grand Game, and of the rest of your companions, Cassandra and Dorian have experience of other nobility.”

“What?” Cassandra managed to say while Dorian was still blinking. “Stop laughing, Varric,” she hissed.

“I’m not laughing, Seeker,” Varric lied.

Leliana caught Dorian’s eye and gave him a smile so placid he knew there was death behind it if he didn’t agree to help. He looked to Lavellan, who was staring blankly between himself, Cassandra and Vivienne.

“You’ll be fine, darling,” Vivienne piped up, thankfully drowning out the sound of Cassandra and Varric sniping at each other. “I’ve never had a student completely embarrass themselves at court.”

“Well, that fills me with confidence,” Lavellan replied. He met Dorian’s eyes. Dorian supposed he should say something, given that everyone now seemed to be looking at him.

“And if you do embarrass yourself terribly, I am not above throwing a drink over one of the Empress’ handmaidens as a cunning distraction,” Dorian found his mouth saying. Lavellan smiled a little, at least.

And as Leliana and Josephine began to talk about the specifics of who would tailor the Inquisitor’s outfit, who would be responsible for teaching what, Dorian found himself hoping Lavellan was thinking the same thing he was: It would only be a month, for better or for worse.

Chapter Text

Lavellan didn’t come by the library the next day. Dorian found himself actually making some progress into the research on Tevinter houses and Venatori agents he was allegedly carrying out. This was probably the longest he’d actually spent reading since he arrived at Skyhold. Certainly since he’d received the letter about Felix. So, surely that meant he deserved a break. Gathering his papers, he stepped out towards the library balcony and leaned forward, seeing if he could spot Leliana looming down from her perch. Only the crows, and a rather startled pair of the spymaster’s messengers, who immediately scrambled to look like they were doing something useful. Dorian supposed there was only one thing for it, then. Off to the tavern.

Dorian took the long way down, to avoid running into whatever the hell it was Solas did down there. He and Lavellan seemed to communicate entirely through notes passed back and forth through the Tranquil. He could only assume they were on opposite sides of some sort of horrific Dalish cultural schism that wasn’t to be mentioned to outsiders.

The keep’s main hall was still full of scaffolding, and every so often dust would shower down from the movement of the construction work above. Dorian liked to think he got out of the way more often than he didn’t. He crossed the courtyard through the briskly cold air, aware of the silence that opened and closed behind him. People generally didn’t like to look at him – Skyhold was full of templars, and it was generally fairly easy for people to identify him as being from the Imperium. It was at least better than it had been just after Haven, with all the new recruits flooding in keen to fight the ancient Tevinter Darkspawn and apparently assuming it was him.

At least the embarrassingly named Herald’s Rest was fairly close – temptingly close to the library, he’d felt some weeks. Something told him that the tavern’s name was Leliana’s doing. The wooden sign showed a luminous green Andraste, in the Fereldan style, holding the artist’s interpretation of the Inquisitor as a vague figure with a blanket draped over him. Dorian supposed it was difficult to imagine Lavellan sitting to have his portrait painted for a tavern sign. Dorian had been standing underneath it when Cassandra and Leliana brought Lavellan out on to the keep steps to announce him as the Inquisitor. From the trapped animal expression on the elf’s face when he turned around and realised there was a crowd there, Dorian didn’t think Lavellan had been entirely aware of the situation.

Dorian passed through the doorway into the tavern’s warmth. There were a few dozen of Cullen’s soldiers crowding around the place, apparently on a break from training. Dorian spotted Blackwall sitting at the bar by himself, and decided he could do worse for company.

“We’re not doing this again,” Blackwall said as Dorian approached, turning to point a gloved finger at him.

“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” Dorian replied as he swung his legs over the bar stool.

“Last time I agreed to drink with you, you gargled three pints of that disgusting dwarvern cask ale that Cabot was selling for cheap before it went off, and I had to carry you back to your room.”

“I was doing him a favour, really,” Dorian replied, staring at the back of the bar instead of glancing at Blackwall while he racked his brains for what exactly he’d said or done after pint two. It couldn’t have been too embarrassing; he was sure the gossip would have gotten back to him if it had.

“One drink, Dorian. I mean it,” Blackwall said.

“Fine, fine,” Dorian said, holding up his hand to signal Cabot over. He felt a nausea rise in the pit of his stomach as he inhaled the stench of the ale Cabot was pouring further along the bar. Ah, some of it was coming back to him now. He remembered wriggling out of Blackwall’s grasp so he could vomit in the doorway of the quartermaster’s warehouse. He also remembered slurring a threat to set Blackwall’s pack on fire if he told anyone about the incident, which he apparently hadn’t.

He ordered a glass of one of the spirits Cabot kept behind the bar instead. “Yes, the red one. Surprise me.”

He returned Blackwall’s wary gaze with a raised eyebrow as he watched the Warden sip his half-empty cider. Cabot slid the glass of gleaming red liquid across the bar.

“Tried that before, have you?” Blackwall asked.

“Should I have?” Dorian replied. He raised the glass to his lips and realised why Blackwall was starting to chuckle. He gripped the glass hard to keep it from shivering out of his hand as his body registered the drink’s vegetable bitterness.  He exhaled slowly, trying to cool the prickling of the lingering aftertaste. “It’s fine,” he said, lifting the glass for another sip and struggling to look back at Blackwall with a straight face.

“You must have burned your tongue out long ago if you think that’s a ten-minute drink, Dorian,” Blackwall laughed.

Dorian wasn’t entirely sure why he decided to respond to this by downing the rest of his drink. There were questions he could have asked himself, like what he hoped to accomplish by making an ass of himself in front of Blackwall again. He was currently still sober, relatively speaking, even if he could feel the glimmering of the haze beginning to seep in at the corners of his brain.

“Do bring me another, Cabot,” he called down the bar.

“Dorian,” Blackwall said, laying his hand on the bar. Dorian reached over him to fold a coin into Cabot’s palm. “Bring him some water, will you?” Blackwall added in Cabot’s direction.

Dorian snorted irritably.

“There’s no hurry, Dorian,” Blackwall said. Dorian avoided meeting his eyes, having taken enough of a glimpse at the serious expression the Warden was trying to catch him with. “Pace yourself.”

“Or what, you’ll tell the Inquisitor?” Dorian snarled, thudding his empty glass down harder than he meant to. “That’s what everybody around here seems to do when they need a problem solved, and apparently I’m a lot of problems.”

“Dorian,” Blackwall said, lowering his voice. “Don’t make a scene you’ll regret later. A lot of soldiers like a drink, but some of them worry me. And you worry me, Dorian.”

“I can handle myself, Blackwall.” He slammed his second drink back and got to his feet. His stool clattered to the floor, and he decided it would be marginally less embarrassing to pretend that was on purpose. “Well, if you won’t let me relax here, perhaps I’ll return to my own quarters and drink the wine from my trunk,” he said, realising as the words came out that he’d missed ‘glib’ and hit ‘angry’. Half-storming and half-staggering, he picked his way back across the tavern, feeling his face grow hot from the eyes upon him. This time, nobody had any problem looking at him.

“Dorian,” he heard Blackwall sigh, his heavy footsteps beginning to follow him.

Dorian strode towards the keep steps, and looked up just in time to stop dead. Lavellan and Josephine were coming the other way. Josephine gave a little wave. They’d already seen him. Lavellan was completely blank, and Josephine had that nervous, tooth-flashing grin on her face that seemed to only come out when a negotiation had gone horribly wrong.

Blackwall fell in beside Dorian, and they exchanged muffled glares. A truce, in front of the Inquisitor. Dorian folded his arms tightly. He had acted like an idiot. And what, because he was bored?

“We… decided to start from the beginning,” Josephine began to explain as she drew closer. “Inquisitor Lavellan has been studying the intricacies of appropriate greetings. I thought perhaps this would be a good opportunity to practice.”

She looked between the three of them, clasping her hands so tightly her nail beds began to turn pink.

“I’ll lead, if nobody else wishes to start,” Dorian said quickly. He stepped forward.

In a formal occasion, he was supposed to look the other person in the eye while doing this, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it to Lavellan. As if he would somehow be able to tell he’d almost gotten into a shouting match with one of his other companions over his drinking problem from looking at him closely enough. He dropped into a low bow, and twirled his hand.

“Inquisitor Lavellan, a pleasure to meet you,” Dorian said, keeping his eyes on the ground.

“Ah, very interesting,” Josephine said. “Dorian, if you could please hold yourself there. I know a greeting does not normally take so long. Thank you.”

Josephine’s feet turned towards the Inquisitor, and she continued to chatter. “Now, Dorian has bowed very deeply, but will not look at you. Do you remember what this might mean?”

“Perhaps he has something in his eye,” Lavellan replied dryly.

“Inquisitor, please,” Josephine pleaded. “Your serious answer.”

Lavellan sighed, and began to recite. “If he bows deeply it’s a sign of great respect, but if he avoids looking me in the eyes, he’s either demonstrating to me that he’s hiding something I may wish to ask after, or to others that his respect isn’t genuine.”

From the silence, Dorian supposed Josephine was still waiting for something. The grass was still green, and Lavellan’s boots were still caked in mud.

“The ambiguity about whether it shows closeness or distance is what makes it either a faux pas or a suitable move,” Lavellan finished.

“Very good, Inquisitor,” Josephine replied. “Now, how should you respond to this?”

“Does it really matter if he’s not looking?” Lavellan replied.

“Ah, but others will be looking,” Josephine said.

“Fine, fine.” Lavellan’s muddy boots strode out of view, and then returned.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Inquisitor, I’d rather like to stop bowing,” Dorian said.

“Shame, all of this great respect was such an improvement on how you normally speak to me,” Lavellan replied.

“I can give you a reminder, if you are stalling because you have forgotten,” Josephine offered.

“No, I’m certain I remember this one,” Lavellan replied.

And he ducked into a low bow, sweeping one leg back and bringing a fist to rest on his torso. “Lord Pavus, such a pleasure to meet you too.”

“Completely wrong,” Josephine said. “But certainly spirited. If the occasion ever calls for a combination of a lady-in-waiting curtsey and a military greeting, you will certainly have that covered.”

Dorian drew himself back to his feet, and Lavellan followed. Lavellan tried to meet his eyes. Looking at him perhaps a little too closely.

“I need to go,” Dorian said. He turned towards where his sleeping quarters were, and caught sight of Blackwall as he did. That look he was giving him. It was… a pitying look.

“Perhaps you could join us tomorrow,” Lavellan said quickly.

“We had hoped to establish the basics before we asked yourself and Cassandra to assist us,” Josephine added. “But you would be most welcome if you have the time.”

Dorian moved his face into a smile, fairly certain he’d managed to hit ‘glib’ this time. “I’m sure I can make time in my incredibly busy schedule to help the Inquisitor learn which spoons he can use to be rude on purpose.”

“Now, Warden Blackwall,” Josephine said. Dorian took this as his excuse to actually leave, despite Lavellan gesturing with his hand for him to stay. He didn’t exactly trust himself today.

Josephine continued speaking as Dorian strode towards his quarters. “How would you greet someone of a respectful position, but with no ties to the nobility?”

Chapter Text

I was uncertain if you'd had occasion to visit the guest dining room previously.

Josephine

Dorian's feet traced the elaborate directions Josephine's messenger had shoved under his door at some point in the last twelve hours. His eyes were still dry and his head still pulsing from the bottle of cheap Antivan Red he'd followed through on the threat of consuming the night before.

The guest wing was in remarkably good condition, if still sparsely decorated, considering that Dorian was aware of at least one gaping hole above a ravine on the keep’s lower levels. Harritt had shrugged and put a plank over it. Dorian supposed the room with the hole wouldn’t do for the self-important dignitaries Josephine was likely to host here.

“This is ridiculous, Josephine,” Lavellan snapped. Ah, Dorian supposed he was in the right place. He pushed open the door to the guest dining room with a slow creak. Lavellan was sitting at one of the quartet of square tables laid out around the room, Vivienne draped over a chair to his left and Josephine hovering over his shoulder. Lavellan was gripping a hand-length silver implement that ended in a spiralled hook. “What is this? Is this a knife?”

“It is a lobster pick, Inquisitor,” Josephine replied.

Lavellan sighed heavily and stared at the pick as Dorian strode across the room. He barely looked up as Dorian took a seat across from him.

“Really, Josephine, you told me you were covering the basics and yet here you are showing our dear Inquisitor thirty obscure weapons with which he could be murdered,” Dorian said, gesturing at the pick. “It’s a rather nice size for hiding in your sleeves, isn’t it?”

“It rather depends on the sleeves, my dear,” Vivienne replied.

“My family had one in our silverware drawer,” Dorian continued. “An embalming tool, I believe – a gift from a visiting Mortalitasi.”

“Dining etiquette is very serious in Orlais, Dorian,” Josephine said quickly, folding her hands over her ledger. “Leliana’s people are working to discover what will be served at the ball, in case any of it should pose any particular challenge. But in the first instance we must familiarise the Inquisitor with all potential utensils.”

Lavellan stayed silent, the silver implement pulled flat against his palm. Dorian wasn’t sure whether he was listening to Josephine or considering gouging his eyes out with the alleged lobster pick. Eventually, he sighed. “Please tell me Leliana does not have spies working solely on the Winter Palace’s menu.”

“Not solely, no,” Josephine replied. “They are dedicated to the Winter Palace and the Orlesian nobility’s movements, in general.” Her mouth moved in a tight smile. “…There may be one solely dedicated to the menu.”

Lavellan lowered his head into his hands.

“We need to evaluate which dishes might be most easily poisoned or contaminated,” Josephine added quickly. “As well as our more… decorative concerns.”

“I don’t understand,” Lavellan said, voice still muffled by his hands. “This can’t be the most important thing we could be doing.”

Dorian wanted to tell him that it wasn’t. That they could scrap all of this, and he’d make the wrong bows and eat with his fingers and the court would shrug and move on. Josephine and Vivienne weren’t saying anything either. They all knew it. Frivolous as it was, high society was unforgiving. Lavellan took his hands away from his face, letting the lobster pick clatter to the table. Josephine flinched, and Dorian saw her grab her own hand back from dropping to snatch it up before anyone noticed, the way she would if this wasn’t all practice.

“Perhaps you could pass me off as an eccentric,” Lavellan said quietly. “Like Cassandra.”

“Cassandra is…” Josephine began. She took a deep breath. “Cassandra is a known eccentric. She has titles, she is distantly in line to a throne, she is the former Right Hand of the Divine. These accolades would allow her relatively safe passage through court, as long as she is merely attending and not seeking favour. You… do not have these luxuries. Many still view you as an upstart, a heretic, and you will be attending seeking to get close to the Empress. That is what I meant when I said your title will not get us further than the door – there are too many who will not view it in such a positive light.”

“Perhaps we could tell them he’s Dalish nobility,” Dorian suggested, watching Lavellan’s face as he stared at the constellation of cutlery spreading out before him. “They’d hardly know the difference.”

“Even if I was, that wouldn’t matter to shem, would it?” Lavellan spat. Nobody could disagree and be truthful. Lavellan leaned back in his chair and half-covered his face again, fingers resting over the crook of his nose. “I was my clan’s First,” he murmured. “I… I mattered.”

Dorian wanted to be the one to say something, to comfort him. But his cleverness dried up in his throat.

“There are still people displaced all over the Hinterlands because of the war,” Lavellan rambled, voice cracking. “There are corpses coming out of the water in the Fallow Mire. There are rifts all over the Storm Coast. Surely doing anything to help people would be better than this pointlessness.”

“What you must understand, my darling,” Vivienne said carefully. “Is that the pointlessness is the point. The ideal Orlesian courtier is nonchalant, he moves through these complexities as if they are air, as if they are effortless to him. He memorises the order in which one needs to reach for eight courses of cutlery because memorising such a thing is a trifle to him, even if it is not.”

Lavellan stared at the ceiling.

“Many of my students ask the questions you have. Why are we doing this? Perhaps if you remain in the court, you will come to acquire a philosophical stance on why such things are important, as I have. But I have asked all of the young Circle mages that I have tutored for their first appearance at court to put the why aside. The why does not matter for now, only the appearance of knowing the why.”

“I still don’t understand,” Lavellan repeated. Josephine was getting that sinking-ship fixed grin on her face again.

“Inquisitor—” Josephine began.

“I need a break,” Lavellan said quickly. He jumped to his feet and headed for the door.

“Inquisitor!” Josephine called. Dorian held a hand up as the door swung shut.

“Let me speak to him,” Dorian said. “As the person who has spent the least amount of time this morning explaining the difference between a pastry fork and a salad fork to someone who has spent the past six months being told the fate of the entire world rests on his tiny, handsome shoulders.”

Josephine nodded, eyes lowered. Dorian turned to leave.

“Dorian, wait,” Josephine said. “You are his friend, yes?”

“I suppose I am,” Dorian replied, stopping with the door held half-open.

“Have I been pushing him too hard?” Josephine asked, eyes pleading. “This is all happening very suddenly.”

Dorian paused. “We’re pushing him to pretend to be someone he’s not because it will stop people from making his life harder,” he said, hands suddenly itching, fingers tapping impatiently on the door. “I don’t think the issue is how quickly he’s being pushed.”

“We’re not transmogrifying him,” Vivienne sighed, running a stray finger over the lip of one of the table’s four drinking glasses. “You would both rather he be upset now than put himself in danger at the court, am I correct?”

Josephine nodded. Dorian didn’t.

“This medicine, however foul, may save him from the knife in a month’s time.” Vivienne gave an unnaturally warm smile as Dorian reached for the door handle. “Do remember that, my dears.”

Chapter Text

Lavellan was on the ramparts when Dorian found him, the mountain wind ruffling snow through his ash blonde hair. His shoulders were hunched up around his ears, and he held his clasped hands close to his mouth. Dorian could hear him murmuring to himself as he climbed the last few steps, and then he opened his hands beyond the battlements, releasing a scattering of purple petals. They spiralled away in the wind, and as the lavender flecks became indistinguishable from the great white drifts that blew across the Frostback Mountains, Dorian took the last few steps to the Inquisitor’s side and rested his elbows on the cold grey stone.

“You know, you’re an awfully hard man to track down when you put your mind to it,” Dorian said. Lavellan smiled tightly, still looking out across the mountains, but shifted his shoulders, braced his closest hand against the battlement.

"The library was busy," Lavellan replied. Dorian had indeed checked there first, feeling rather foolish when he’d turned the corner and found their usual meeting place empty. "...And I needed some time."

Lavellan sighed, his sharp breath coalescing into a puff of vapour in the cold. Dorian waited.

“I know they mean well,” Lavellan said, eyes dipping. “Josephine wouldn’t be so serious about this if it didn’t matter. But it’s… I could say that this isn’t me, but my idea of what I can do has been… changing recently.”

Lavellan drew his hands in closer to the warmth of his chest, running his thumb over the half-gruesome and half-rugged raised scar that marked the anchor.

“I didn’t want to go to the Conclave,” he said, still rubbing the scar. “But my Keeper insisted. She thought a sympathetic Dalish presence would ensure we weren’t forgotten, and was too old to make the trip herself.”

“Because you were her First,” Dorian said. Lavellan nodded. “I’m not quite sure how to imagine you before all of this,” Dorian added, shifting so he was facing Lavellan. “You had been with the Inquisition for months when we met at Haven.”

“At first, I just wanted to go home,” Lavellan said. He wrung his hands, brows lowered. “I suppose by the time you met me, I’d accepted that I was staying. And that no matter how many times I said I didn’t believe, it was too useful for the Inquisition to position me as Andraste’s Herald.”

“Sadly, Inquisitor, your repeated denials and charming sincerity only serve to give the impression of a holy servant’s humility,” Dorian replied. He couldn’t pretend that he felt differently. It seemed the perfect joke for the Maker to play on the worst parts of the Chantry, to package the solution to the world’s ills into the form of an unkempt elven mage who worshipped his own gods.

Lavellan smiled, at least. “I wish it didn’t.” He leaned against the battlements again. “Living with my clan was different,” he continued. He frowned, suddenly. “I suppose that’s what Solas doesn’t understand.” Whatever Solas didn’t understand, Dorian hoped it was juicy. “Following the Dalish ways isn’t about knowing the deepest secrets, it’s about practicing our traditions. Together. Even the elves from the Alienage understand that, clustering around the little they still remember.”

“That’s part of what a First does, actually,” Lavellan added. “The Keeper remembers our ways, and passes them on to her First and Second. I was apprenticed to her to learn magic, but also to learn our people’s rituals and history. In practice I was a healer, mostly.”

“Ah yes, I can picture that,” Dorian said. “It would explain why you have such a terrible habit for taking on other people’s problems.” And apparently I’m a lot of problems. Dorian tried not to frown, his embarrassing outburst from yesterday coming back to haunt him.

“I’m not that bad,” Lavellan laughed.

“I’m afraid you are, my dear Inquisitor,” Dorian replied. He folded his arms and leaned against the battlements. “It’s why you need me, unfortunately. Someone has to say no.”

Lavellan rested his scarred hand on the battlement and sighed.  “You might be right.” A door creaked shut further along the ramparts and a pair of Cullen’s soldiers passed them, patrolling the fortress walls.

“In all seriousness, I’m going to need all of you at the ball, assuming Josephine does get us invited,” Lavellan said. “Without my clan, my differences aren’t so obvious. I can follow our ways in secret, like my people have often done when we’ve lived with Andrastians. But that doesn’t make me the same as them. It doesn’t make me anything like the human nobility.”

“Inquisitor,” Dorian said softly. “Do you want to know what the point is?”

Lavellan raised his eyes to meet Dorian’s, cautiously. “The point?”

“Of the Orlesian court. Of the games, and the complexities, and the table settings,” Dorian said. Lavellan waited.

“The point is humiliation,” Dorian said, voice turning hard. “Oh, the trappings are different in the Imperium. Bloodlines, breeding and genealogical charts. But they are not made to raise, Lavellan. They are made to keep you sneering at those below, to fear your peers doing the same to you should you, in some way, fall.”

“Speaking from experience?” Lavellan said, the bridge of his nose creasing in concern.

“As I’ve said, Inquisitor.” Dorian smiled bitterly. “There is a reason I left.”

He leaned away from the battlements. “Certainly, if you, as Josephine would put it, play well, it could be exhilarating. You really felt like you had the power to change things. Not, in reality, as great a power as you might have imagined, of course.” Dorian sniffed dismissively. “Tevinter is stagnant, and I can hardly imagine Orlais being an improvement. After all, when Alexius still seemed to care, the only efforts of his that were accepted by the Magisterium were calls to give the Circle more funding. But it’s power, nonetheless. Each incremental victory a triumph, each tiny setback a tragedy.”

He rubbed the depression at the base of his finger, still lingering from where he’d worn Alexius’ signet ring for years. A sign of the Magister’s favour, bestowed on his most talented research assistants. Dorian had developed a number of rather effective dramatic flourishes with it. Shifting his glass of wine or his staff to the hand that wore it to ensure that whoever he was speaking to realised he was wearing it at precisely the right moment.

“…Was this supposed to be reassuring?” Lavellan asked.

“In a very bleak way, I suppose it was,” Dorian replied. “The Inquisition will be entering at the very bottom rung of the court, boosted perhaps by curiosity about you and your abilities. We can fail, certainly. The entire court can be assassinated and the continent overrun by Darkspawn, etcetera. But you cannot fail as a noble would. You cannot jeopardise a land dispute by failing to show proper deference to a distant cousin of the Empress.”

Dorian looked back across at Skyhold’s keep. “Lavellan, as I understand it, none of this would be here without you. I can’t pretend this will be pleasant. But after everything you’ve survived, I can’t imagine the Winter Palace being the thing to stop you. Just know that we’ll be here for you, helping Leliana spread nasty rumours about anyone and everyone who slights you.”

 “…Thank you,” Lavellan said quietly. “That means a lot to me.”

 “Now, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, lowering himself and flourishing his hand in a mocking half-bow. “What do you say we leave this frostbitten balustrade and go somewhere warmer?”

 Lavellan laughed and began to walk towards the stairs, as the snow flurried on across the mountains beyond.

Chapter Text

Dorian winced in the brightness of the early morning sun as he arrived at the training yard, five minutes late. The Rivaini White he'd split with Varric over Wicked Grace after walking Lavellan back to his quarters had not been any kinder to his constitution than the red from the night before. He had been hoping to sneak in unnoticed, but Josephine waved him over in such an obvious way that Lavellan and the rest of his inner circle turned to look at him.

Most of them, at least. Cullen was at the other end of the yard running drills for soldiers, Leliana was likely running the Inquisition while they were all down here, and he could only imagine Sera's response when she'd been asked to participate in a courtly dance class. Lavellan was standing in the middle of the line, hands clasped stiffly behind his back.

“Oh, Sparkler, someone should have gotten an earlier night,” Varric laughed. The bastard didn't seem hungover at all. On the other hand, Dorian had finished Varric’s shot of the disgusting red spirit as well as his own after the dwarf had declared it literally undrinkable.

“This is actually entirely on purpose,” Dorian said as he strolled to join the end of the line. “The ideal Orlesian courter is nonchalant were your words, I believe, Vivienne – surely by arriving late, but not so late that I miss anything, I give the impression of being so busy and important that I have only just managed to fit you into my schedule, without quite lapsing into outright rudeness.”

“He's not wrong,” Vivienne mused, arching one of her brows. “Sadly, Dorian, over-explaining your alleged intentions has rather spoiled the effect.”

“Anyway,” Dorian said quickly, deciding he’d best end this discussion before Blackwall said anything in front of the rest of them. “I think we’ve held dear Josephine up enough with talk about me, and while I’m flattered, I’m certain she’d rather continue her briefing.”

“Thank you, Dorian,” Josephine said. She straightened and adjusted the sheets in her ledger. “And thank you to all of your for coming,” she said, smiling up and down the line. “I thought we would try something more... practical today.”

Dorian tried to focus in on her, despite the clanging of training swords ringing all too loudly in his head.

“As Skyhold does not have a ballroom, Commander Cullen has kindly given us the use of a corner of the training grounds for dance lessons,” Josephine continued, gesturing proudly around the square of dusty courtyard she'd had cleared of weapon racks and wooden mannequins.

“So...” Varric said, spreading his hands. “Any particular reason you needed so many of us for this, Ruffles?”

“There is actually a very good reason for that,” Josephine replied brightly. “The majority of Orlesian court dancing is in sets – the Inquisitor may be dancing in a pair, but there will be other pairs on the dance floor to keep in time with.”

“And although the Inquisitor is somewhat more... athletically inclined than my usual charges, it's still rather important to get used to the movement of the crowd,” Vivienne added, circling to join Josephine. “Making a wrong step is a faux pas. Making a wrong step on to the hem of an influential dowager's floor-length dress will tie the Inquisition's entire diplomatic staff up for the rest of the evening trying to make amends, and still end in a duel.”

Dorian bit his tongue on a comment about how he’d rather like to see that, actually.

“Duelling is also on the itinerary,” Josephine added quickly, looking to Lavellan with a nervous smile. “Though I expect it will... not be needed.”

Lavellan stared blankly at her. “...Let's hope not,” he replied.

“Anyway,” Josephine said quickly. “I’m going to line you up into pairs, and then we can practice some basic steps and sequences.”

She walked to the far end and sent The Iron Bull to stand opposite Vivienne.

“Are all of the dances for pairs?” Lavellan asked. “Most of the festival dances back home are… more communal.”

“All of the dances you’ll be participating in, my darling,” Vivienne replied, smiling as the hulking qunari awkwardly took his place opposite her. “There are show dances that might be choreographed for any number of people, but these are generally the purview of professional entertainers or members of the nobility who wish to show off a particular talent.”

“So, we shouldn’t expect the Inquisitor to be asked to dance for our entertainment?” Dorian asked.

“Not at court, no,” Lavellan replied flatly.

“I cannot imagine that accomplishing enough to compensate for the risk of it going wrong,” Josephine replied. Solas and Cole shuffled into position together. Maker, Dorian had forgotten he’d seen Cole in the line. Well, better Solas than him. It was difficult to imagine Cole moving, let alone dancing.

“If we send the Inquisitor, or anyone, to perform an Orlesian dance, they would be judged very harshly for any mistakes,” Josephine explained. She sent Lavellan to stand in the middle of the formation, and Cassandra shortly afterwards. The Seeker looked rather unhappy about the whole situation. Or, Dorian supposed, that could just have been her face. “If they performed a different dance – a dance in the Dalish tradition, for example – it would be seen as a statement. In that particular case, a sign of favour to Ambassador Brialla, which I would advise against committing to in such a public manner.”

Josephine paused, looking between Dorian, Varric and Blackwall. She motioned for Varric and Blackwall to join the line as a pair, then stepped up to Dorian.

“Dorian, will you demonstrate with me?” she asked. “I assume you are familiar with at least the basic steps.”

“I’m rather expensively acquainted with them, yes,” Dorian replied. Much as they sneered at the particularities of Orlesian frivolity, his parents had still paid whatever it took to ensure he couldn’t embarrass them. “Though you must understand that most of my experience ‘at court’, if you will, consists of standing by the drinks table making snide remarks.”

“That will have to do,” she replied. She set her ledger aside. “Maryden, please, music for a beginner’s basse-danse sequence?”

The bard began to strum her guitar, a repeating set of eight chords. Dorian remembered standing in an empty hall with seven other Magisters’ children listening to a not-dissimilar eight chords, and knew that they would mutate into something far more complicated in a few lessons’ time. Josephine led Dorian in front of the Inquisitor and turned towards the keep, so they were standing in a cross with Lavellan and Cassandra at the centre. With obstacles on every side of him, Dorian supposed was the intention.

“Dancing pairs in Orlais would generally be mixed-sex,” Josephine said. “Although if there are an uneven number of dancers, same-sex dancing is acceptable. We have… more men here presently, as you may have noticed. Men in mixed-sex pairings will typically lead, in other combinations it is up to the participants who leads the dance and who follows. Regardless, the partner who leads stands on the left to begin the dance.”

Josephine held her left hand up, and Dorian mirrored with his right. “Now, there will be dances where you need not even touch, but for the basse-danse touching the palms flat together is generally a safe position,” Josephine explained.

“Even if you’re dancing with a particularly scandalous individual?” Dorian asked with a grin.

“I’m afraid even pulling back to the fingertips won’t help if the individual is as scandalous as you suggest,” Josephine replied, demonstrating by lifting her palm. She began to move in time to the music. Her left foot forward and to the left, her right foot to meet the heel. Her right foot forward and to the right, her left foot to meet the heel.

“After all,” Josephine continued. “Even in the most conservative dance, one can still exchange longing gazes across the set.” Dorian mimicked her steps, slowly moving forward across the training yard. Four steps for four repeats. He had to stop himself from raising his arm to twirl her, knowing that this dance would eventually grow flourishes. They reversed the steps, back to where they started.

“So, what… would be a scandalous position?” Lavellan asked from behind them.

“Well…” Josephine started. She looked up at him, eyes apologetic. “Dorian, do you mind if I demonstrate?”

“Scandalise away, Ambassador Montilyet,” Dorian replied.

“Firstly, as I said it depends on who you are dancing with. But generally, the closer you dance, the closer you are suggested to be, whether romantically or in the sharing of secrets – the ballroom often offers a strange kind of privacy, given that one cannot easily follow to eavesdrop,” Josephine explained, looking over her shoulder to Lavellan. “A more intimate grip than the dance requires, for example…”

From where their palms were pressed, Josephine laced her fingers through Dorian’s, her neat nails pressed firmly against his knuckles while he kept his fingers spread. It reminded him of dancing with Magister Maevaris late on in the night, when she would insist that even if he wasn’t dancing with the eligible respectables his family had chosen for him, he should at least enjoy himself. And she would lace her fingers through his in the same sisterly manner, and they would cut across the floor between sets.

“Is it more of a scandal if you’re left unrequited?” Lavellan laughed.

“One partner keeping their hand open does provide an ambiguity, if required,” Vivienne suggested. “Perhaps that the person with the tighter grip is merely a nervous dancer, or that the open-handed partner is out of time and needs a firmer hand to prevent them from dancing into the next set.”

“It would still be rather rude of me, wouldn’t it?” Dorian replied. He met Lavellan’s eyes and smiled crookedly as he closed his fingers over Josephine’s. The Inquisitor blinked nervously.

“One can also stand closer than necessary in dances that require the partners to face, or turn further than expected.” Josephine continued. Dorian took his eyes off Lavellan’s and turned back to watching her.

“For example, if one is supposed to turn at an angle to one’s partner as so,” Josephine said, tilting herself into a three-quarter turn. Dorian stepped to mimic her, laced hands still gripped to form a triangle. “But moves as so…” she took a further half-step, so that they would be almost be facing if he mirrored her again. “It has a similar suggestion of intimacy.”

“For all of the talk I’ve heard of Orlesian decadence, this seems rather… tame,” Lavellan said.

“Don’t worry Inquisitor, Ruffles has given me permission to teach you Rivaini bordello dancing once you’ve got the basics down,” Varric piped up.

“I have not!” Josephine exclaimed. She released Dorian’s hand and turned to face the rest of the dancers, smoothing her outfit as Varric stifled a laugh.

“Light flirtation and a hint of risqué scandal are tools used by most courtiers, as appropriate to the court and the individual,” Josephine explained. “But… do think carefully about it, as an outsider. Leliana and I will provide further guidance when we have a better idea of the guest list.”

“Very carefully,” Vivienne added. “Keeping to the basics shall not raise you, my dear, but more importantly it will not shame you. For your first appearance at court, failing to make an impression is preferable to leaving a bad taste.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be getting a second chance if I don’t make an impression,” Lavellan sighed. He raised his hand, and gestured for Cassandra to join him. “So I suppose we should get started.”

Josephine nodded, and turned back to face the keep. Dorian raised his palm to meet hers, and the eight chords started up again. Dorian glanced over his shoulder at the Inquisitor. His arm raised, mouth tight in concentration.

Left, and follow. Right, and follow. The rabble and crashing of the soldiers’ training replacing the buzzing chatter of the ballroom, their feet shuffled quietly across the yard.

Chapter Text

“And the three individuals I already spoke to you about?” Dorian asked, trying to get some grip on Leliana's expression beneath her hood. She turned suddenly, alert, as the Inquisitor emerged from the spiral staircase and into the tight corridor at the top of the spire that Dorian had found himself housed in. Lavellan froze, one hand resting on the banister and the other clutching a book, surprised eyes darting between them.

“I didn’t realise you were busy,” Lavellan said quickly. “I’ll come back later.”

“Hang on,” Dorian replied. “I believe your spymaster is almost finished with me.”

Leliana’s shadowy eyes swung back to Dorian. “We have been following your leads. I believe we will be making a decision on how to pursue them soon.” She handed back Dorian’s papers, minus what he’d tried to scrounge about Calpernia for her, and turned to leave, nodding at the Inquisitor as she passed.

“I had hoped for a break after this morning’s dance lesson, but apparently I’m rather in demand today,” Dorian said as the spymaster’s footsteps slowly echoed down the tower. Or as she doubled back to eavesdrop on the Venatori poison he was dripping into the Inquisitor’s ear despite the intelligence he appeared to be providing, he supposed. He folded his arms and leaned against the doorway to his quarters. “Now, what petty errand brings the Inquisitor to my door this time? I know you couldn’t possibly be taking a rest, it wouldn’t be seemly.”

“I’m actually supposed to be studying heraldry this evening,” Lavellan said, smiling awkwardly and holding up the book. “If it wasn’t too much of an imposition, I thought you might help me.”

Had they been in the plausibly deniable library, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He didn’t want to play games with the Inquisitor. But as much as he joked about it, he knew how it might look. The Inquisitor taking his own secret counsel with someone of Dorian’s reputation, both the true parts and the false parts.

“I am of course at your absolute command,” Dorian replied, smirking to hide his caution. “But really, Inquisitor, after all that talk of scandalous positions this morning, you’re visiting the quarters of a notorious Tevinter decadent for a private lesson. What will people say?”

Lavellan’s anxious energy dissipated, expression retreating into a resting frown. He shrugged. “I’m already here, Dorian. If we’re to play the Grand Game at Skyhold too, they’ll already be talking.”

Dorian imagined that Lavellan knew what he was doing, was well aware that he was flirting horrendously with Dorian and that people might notice. If he didn’t, Dorian knew he should deal with it for the sake of the latter. But he wasn’t ready to disabuse himself of the fantasy of the former just yet.

“I suppose you might as well come in, then,” Dorian replied. He stood aside and gestured through the doorway to his quarters. “You may even learn something.”

“How very generous of you,” Lavellan said, eyebrow raised. He passed into the room, and Dorian closed the door behind them.

“I’m not sure whether I should be insulted that they decided I should sleep in the tower,” Dorian commented, talking through his nerves as Lavellan glanced around the cramped, cluttered room.

“Yes, I can definitely imagine you in the barracks instead,” Lavellan replied, casually sitting on the edge of Dorian’s bed. It was no bigger than one of the soldiers’ bunks, and piled with enough colourful blankets to make sleeping through the tower’s night-time drafts tolerable.

“Oh certainly, I’m not complaining about having my own quarters,” Dorian continued, stepping over a stack of books to grab the chair from his study desk. “I’m certain that the more superstitious of our soldiers are just as glad of that as I am. But really, it’s as if someone heard of the white spires of Minrathous and got rather the wrong idea about how I might like to be kept. I’m not a bird.”

“And how might you like to be kept?” Lavellan asked, suddenly taking a great interest in running his fingers along the lettering on the cover of his book.

“Lavishly, of course,” Dorian replied. He found a space in the floor for the chair, and sat down opposite Lavellan. “I should like a more comfortable bed, a personal library, and a larger window, preferably with glass in it this time.” He motioned to the tall, thin archer’s slit in the wall. “This is absolutely useless for reading. I am faced with covering it and having no light at all, or leaving it as so and suffering the breeze. I expect I shall burn the entire keep down with candles at this rate.”

“So you don’t want me to ask Harritt to put a plank over it?” Lavellan replied, trying and failing to hide his glint of amusement.

“I’ll consider it and let you know.” Dorian said, resting his chin against his curled fingers. “Now, what was it Vivienne dragged you off to learn after your dance lesson?”

“Etiquette,” Lavellan replied. “Did you know that thirty people died in a fire at a ball in Val Blanc during the reign of Emperor Judicael II because none of the nobles wanted to be seen to be the first to leave the party?”

“Ah, burning to death in all of your finery, another grand Orlesian pastime,” Dorian replied. “I hope dear Vivienne doesn’t intend for you to partake in this one.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I’ll be taking a step back if Leliana’s spies suggest that’s going to be one of the activities,” Lavellan replied. He turned the book over in his hands and sighed. “Vivienne says I’m picking things up rather quickly, but I’m not sure whether to believe her. I think she’s trying to be encouraging after yesterday.”

“I don’t think you’re doing quite as badly as you think,” Dorian said. “I saw you dance this morning, you acquitted yourself rather well.”

“I enjoyed myself more than I expected,” Lavellan said. His eyes fell to the book. Dorian read the cover at an angle – a College of Heralds’ arms registry, presumably vetted by Leliana and Josephine to ensure there were no amusingly out of date pre-civil war land attributions.

“Sadly, Inquisitor, no matter how entertaining I may be, memorising Orlesian heraldry is destined to be a rather dry affair,” Dorian said. “At the very least, I can offer you a glass of wine.”

“I’m sure wine tasting is somewhere on Josephine’s syllabus,” Lavellan replied, his smile mischievous.

Dorian swung his legs over the side of his chair and strolled to the chest of drawers, swiping the wine glasses that rested on top of them.

“Dorian, are those from the tavern?” Lavellan laughed.

“Yes, I’m sure Leliana spotted them too and will be sending agents in the night to reclaim them,” Dorian replied. “I’ve had a bottle of Tevinter Red rattling around my quarters since we arrived at Skyhold,” he continued, pulling out the drawer where he kept the decent alcohol. One glass, this time. He would rather not get embarrassingly drunk in front of the Inquisitor. “I was saving it for a special occasion, but I will settle for not drinking it alone.”

Lavellan took the glass from Dorian’s hand carefully, fingers brushing. Lavellan smiled privately, but said nothing. Dorian lowered himself down next to the Inquisitor on the bed, as the Inquisitor flicked past the index to the first page of illustrated crests.

“I think I’ve seen this one before,” Lavellan said, carefully pointing at one of the coats of arms as he sipped his wine. A gold lion on a purple shield.

“You probably have,” Dorian replied. “This is the Valmont coat of arms, the crest of the Empress’ family.” His finger moved across the page, finding another shield. Quartered green and yellow, with a bronze chevalier crouching between two bronze beasts. Dorian found it to be a rather gaudy crest, even by the standards of Orlesian heraldry. “This is the de Chalons coat of arms, Duke Gaspard’s family. At the very least I suppose you should remember these, anyone wearing the colours or symbols is telling you rather obviously whose side they’re on.”

“So, will your family be in here?” Lavellan asked.

“Possibly,” Dorian replied, finding himself frowning at the thought of them. “Tevinter has its own heraldic college, but I expect this will still list some of the more powerful families outside of the Orlesian system. From Ferelden and the Free Marches, and so on. I suppose it depends how important my father cared to make himself look to outsiders.”

Dorian took a long drink of wine as he pulled the book across to his lap and turned to the next page. “I did once have a rather handsomely decorated genealogy chart of my own extended family, with portraits and such. I left it behind, however.”

He didn’t tell Lavellan it was one of the many objects he didn’t have the opportunity to retrieve from his family home when he fled. He supposed he’d have left it, anyway. He was certain his father would have had more use for it. A portrait of the Dorian Pavus he’d intended to have as an heir, unstained by the disappointing reality of the son he’d ended up with.

“You seem like you regret it,” Lavellan said, green eyes watching him carefully.

“I wouldn’t have had a use for it in the South,” Dorian said dismissively, turning another page. “The Dalish don’t have heraldry, do they?” he added quickly, partially because he was curious and partially to say anything before Lavellan could make another attempt at an emotionally honest question.

“No, not really,” he replied. “Every clan has different banners for their aravel, but they’re… well, for the aravel. You wouldn’t pass them down one family line. I suppose it would be closer to the way some of the settlements we’ve visited have banners.”

“I suppose Orlesians use their heraldry for both,” Dorian explained. “Some of the symbols you’ll see on the shields refer to their territories, the way a Tevinter coat of arms might refer to the family’s historical magical innovations. And some Orlesian territories use family banners as their flags.”

Lavellan leaned in closer, shoulder pressing against Dorian’s as he squinted at the book. Dorian turned the pages and explained what he remembered, and found even his head spinning under the dreadful minutiae as the night closed in.

“Truthfully, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, when the time finally came to close the book over. “When Vivienne claims she remembers all of these, I think she’s lying. Nobody outside of the College of Heralds itself has any use for distinguishing between the near-identical crests of separate bastard lines each granted minor titles by their fathers a century ago.”

“You’re probably right,” Lavellan replied. He drained his glass and got to his feet, dangling the book from his fingertips as he stood. He circled Dorian’s room, laughing tipsily as one of the candles snuffed out, casting the room into darkness.

Neither of them said anything for a while. The faint squawking of Leliana’s crows drifted across the courtyard.

“I suppose I shouldn’t keep you too late,” Dorian said. “I imagine that you have to wake up at some ridiculous hour to lounge on the pedestal at the morning chant while pilgrims kiss your hands and feet.”

Lavellan snorted and roamed back towards the door, neatly returning his empty glass to the top of the chest of drawers. “I’m having a check-in about our troop movements with Cullen, actually,” Lavellan replied. “But I suppose he might kiss my hands and feet if I ask him nicely enough.”

Dorian chuckled as he stood to open the door. Lavellan’s soft mouth curved into a smile, barely perceptible in the room’s dimness. “Goodnight, Dorian.”

He left.

Dorian put the room back together. The chair back under the desk, the bed re-made even though it was still fairly neat. Dorian put his face to the thin stone window, gently tickled by the breeze. In the low flicker of the guards’ torches, he watched Lavellan cross the courtyard and disappear into the keep.

Chapter Text

Dorian could tell that Mother Giselle was trying to get his attention. The way she’d find herself accidentally standing in the way of his usual path to and from the library, her mournful eyes flitting away after having obviously been looking out for him. Well, he had dodged her the past few days and he wasn’t going to stop now. He strode past her at a distance, towards the gaudy throne at the far end of the hallway.

Not that Dorian wasn’t curious about what she could possibly want him for. It was no secret that he made the Southern Chantry types uncomfortable. We were wondering, could you publicly denounce the Black Divine as a representative of your people? Perhaps he’d indulge her the next time he was bored. But he’d woken to another summon from Josephine, and supposed that it would throw her entire meticulously planned day into disarray if he hurled her note in the fire and spent the day heckling the soldiers and gambling instead.

That, and he could only assume it was something to do with Lavellan and the Winter Palace. Dorian assumed nothing terribly disastrous could have happened overnight, but he still felt a rather embarrassing knot of worry tugging at him.

He swung open the heavy wooden door to Josephine’s reception room and strode through.

“—please assure the Bann we will see to his request,” Josephine was saying, flourishing a sealed letter towards one of her messengers. As the messenger slipped past him, Josephine raised her head.

“Ah, Dorian, thank you for coming,” she said, smiling brightly.

She propped her clasped hands on her desk. The candle on her ledger was melted down to a wax lump, and her desk was scattered with white squares of paper. Dorian raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I see something has been keeping you awake,” he said.

Josephine reached to tidy the papers closest to her. “I… need your help,” she said.

“Yes, clearly,” Dorian chuckled, crossing to sit in the ornate wooden chair across from her. The vastness of the scrap pile seemed to grow as he approached. There were scrunched up balls of paper peppering the floor and shelves behind her. “Whatever have you gotten yourself into, Lady Montilyet?”

Josephine looked at him very seriously. “I have been thinking about what the Inquisitor said yesterday,” she said. “About how he will not have a second chance if he does not make a good impression at the Winter Palace.”

Dorian straightened. “Yes, I recall,” he replied neutrally. “Is there a problem?”

“Not a problem, per se. At least, not a new one.” Josephine continued. An amused flash of her teeth. “I thought back my own debut at court. I went to a girls' finishing school in Orlais, and our formal dinners were very competitive. I was barely scrutinised at my first court, by comparison.” She spread her hands. “So, I was considering how we might create a gentler introduction for the Inquisitor – give him a chance to practice what he is learning without the same potential to fail.”

“Please tell me you aren't considering sending him to a debutante ball,” Dorian replied. He recalled being dragged to one such occasion by his family. The young lady in question - clearly from a talented enough magical family for his father to bother putting in an appearance at her introduction to court - grimacing from under a dozen elaborate layers of ruffled silk and tulle, far more in the Orlesian fashion than anyone present would care to admit it had been borrowed from.

On being presented to her, Dorian had told her that her dress looked like the cornice in the Magisterium debate chamber. He remembered her father being strangely pleased with the comment, while she had glared through her fixed grin.

“I… did think about it,” Josephine said shiftily. “But it is the wrong time of year.”

She straightened, and clapped her hands together.

“I thought that, instead, we might arrange a mock-salon,” Josephine said. “Where the Inquisitor will have the comfort of knowing he is surrounded only by his trusted companions, while being able to practice speaking to the role they are playing.”

“I am unfortunately familiar with the concept,” Dorian replied, leaning back in his chair. “Or at least, tea parties with the other Magisters’ sons that would be pored over in excruciating detail afterwards.” His eyes fell to her papers. “So these are – what, menus?”

Josephine smiled tightly. “They are… notes for the fictional court attendees the Inquisitor’s companions will be playing. It... got more complicated the more I thought about it. In reality, the history and connections between different individuals and factions within court can be... intricate, and fabricating them will take a lot of time and effort.”

Saying nothing, Dorian swiped one of the notes, leaning back to dodge Josephine's grabbing hands as she lunged across the desk to take it back from him.

“Dorian!” she yelped. “They’re not finished!” He stood, and strolled across the rug. Josephine's ledger clattered to the ground as she leapt out of her chair to chase him.

“Recent dwarvern exile betrayed by one of their two noble siblings, and unsure which. Seeking new alliances above ground, with mining connections on offer.” Dorian lowered the sheaf of paper and leaned against the fireplace. “Oh Josephine, this is delicious. Did Varric help you come up with these?”

Josephine came to a halt a few steps away from him, catlike eyes narrowed. “I... may have taken some inspiration from his work for some of the roles. I intend to consult some of our companions for accuracy.”

Dorian moved his arm as if to raise the paper out of her reach, but let her grab it from him. “I'm wondering why you've come to me for help, then,” he said.

Josephine tucked the note back into her pocket. “You cannot tell the Inquisitor about this,” she said, pointing at him for emphasis. “About what I am about to ask you, or the… court secrets you have already uncovered.”

“For seeing how this turns out, Josephine, you have my word,” Dorian replied, smiling broadly. “What have you decided I should pretend to be? Someone exceedingly handsome and exceedingly dangerous, no doubt.”

“As someone familiar with the manners, I thought you should play one of the higher-ranking nobles in attendance,” Josephine replied, pacing back to her desk. “But it’s not your character that I need to ask your advice on.”

Dorian followed, returning to the seat opposite her.

“Although this is a practice, the Inquisitor will need to learn how to watch for danger,” Josephine sighed. “At the Winter Palace, he will be hunting one of Corypheus’ spies while he navigates the Grand Game.” As she spoke, she shuffled a half-dozen cards into a stack and placed it neatly in front of him. “I need you to help me choose which character should be the Venatori agent, and help me come up with any clues it might be useful for the Inquisitor to watch for.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t simply asked me to play them,” Dorian said, voice harder than he intended. He took the stack of cards from the table.

“There are a few reasons for that,” Josephine replied. A bard, a chevalier, a recently widowed noble. “Firstly, I have written a lot of your character’s backstory and it would not make sense. They have other secrets I will be asking you to conceal, and the additional element of him being a spy would distract from them. And secondly.” He glanced up at her. Josephine’s eyes wavered like the flame of a candle. “I know people have said that about you. You shrug, but it is a hurtful accusation when you have done so much for the Inquisition. I would not have it whispered that I gave you such a role as a passive-aggressive statement of distrust.”

Dorian lowered his eyes to the cards, then back to Josephine. He wasn’t quite sure what to say. “I… appreciate that,” he said quietly. He shuffled the cards, and pressed the stack back towards her. “Take the top card, and make them the agent.”

Josephine took the card, and looked at him carefully.

“It could be any of them,” he replied, folding his arms. “Most people work with the Venatori because they don’t feel they have as much power as they deserve. Others…” He rubbed the base of his empty signet ring finger. “The ones who work directly with Corypheus have likely been promised something, and what that something is doesn’t need to be possible. Curing the blight, raising the dead, or indeed turning the clock back on an entire country. What joins all of them, true Venatori or no, is that they are all willing to crush lesser people beneath them to fix this great mistake of fate.”

Josephine’s quill made a few small, careful etches on the paper.

“…A sadly not uncommon trait in the nobility,” she said.

Before she could say any more, the door to the main keep banged open. Josephine almost dropped her quill in fright. Dorian turned in his chair to see Cullen and Leliana, with Lavellan slamming the door behind them.

“Inquisitor, I can get a message to my agents near Wycome quicker than you will be able to ride there,” Leliana was saying. This argument, apparently, had barely made it out of public view and certainly wasn’t going to make it into the War Room. “A rift so close to Redcliffe, however, requires your personal attention.”

Lavellan’s palm spread across the door, mark glittering with anger. Dorian stood, pushing his chair back across the stone floor. Lavellan’s nostrils flared as he breathed deeply, eyes still on Leliana, forcing the mark to calm down.

“I can’t abandon my clan,” he spat.

“You aren’t abandoning anyone,” Cullen said firmly, raising a hand. “The Inquisition will give them all the help they need. You don’t need to be there in person.”

“…I can see that I don’t have a choice, then,” Lavellan said bitterly. He lowered his hand, fist clenched. Dorian felt as if he shouldn’t be seeing him like this, accidentally intruding upon his private anger.

“I should, ah, leave,” Dorian said, smiling politely at Josephine, who was quickly piling her notes into her drawer in case Lavellan crossed the room. “We’ll finish this another time, Ambassador.”

Lavellan didn’t look over, kept staring at Leliana. But he held up a hand as Dorian hurried for the door. “Tell the others to get themselves ready to travel,” he said, the voice of his friend disappearing behind the commanding tone of the Inquisitor. “We’re setting off for the Hinterlands in the afternoon.”

Chapter Text

The Inquisitor was wearing his travelling leathers the next time Dorian saw him, already astride his horse. He wore a bandage over the hand of his left elbow-length glove, hiding where the mark had repeatedly burned through it. By the time Dorian had spent enough time around him to notice, Lavellan had given up on repairing it, the uncovered hole ringed by the tatty fragments of mis-matched cloth and leather patches.

“This better be a big rift, Dandelion,” Varric had called. “Think of all the dance lessons you’ll be missing for this.”

“Lady Montilyet has actually charged me with continuing the Inquisitor’s various lessons while we’re afield,” Vivienne piped up, letting or forcing Iron Bull to help her up into her saddle.

Lavellan still wasn’t saying much. His brows were tight and his face serious, still wearing the hard mask of the Inquisitor. “Are we ready, then?” he asked.

When nobody objected, he nudged his horse into a trot, Cassandra riding beside him.

Dorian cringed when he saw the throngs of people lining the path between the courtyard and the gate. The amount of fanfare the Inquisitor's followers still managed to whip up whenever he arrived or left continued to be somewhat awkward for everyone involved. Lavellan kept his head down while Cassandra guided him through the crowd. Dorian supposed that in her previous occupation Cassandra, despite her apparent short temper, must have acquired some talent for giving polite placations to the people who came to weep, prostrate themselves and hold up their children for the Southern Divine's blessing while still keeping the procession moving at a decent pace.

Cullen, Leliana and Josephine stood by the gates, grim-faced. Leliana leaned forward to exchange a few words with the Inquisitor, but between the distance and the noise Dorian couldn't make out what either of them were saying. He waved lazily at Josephine as he passed, the ambassador's fingers gripped so tightly on her ledger that her knuckles had turned beige.

“Try not to wreck the place while we're gone, will you?” he said with a wink. Josephine laughed nervously.

“No promises,” Cullen replied.

Dorian laughed and rode onwards. As their little group cleared the bridge, the sky and snow stretched out before them. They left the safety and rabble of Skyhold behind, the wind turning chill without the keep’s walls to protect them.

“I'll take point,” Lavellan said from the front. Before Cassandra could finish making her grunt of objection, he had pulled his faded red scarf over his nose and mouth and cantered on ahead.

Dorian supposed he had a choice. He could ride back here, gazing tragically at the moody figure in the distance, tuning out the laughter and tale-swapping of his companions and wringing his hands like a sailor’s wife staring out at the sea. Or he could satisfy his nosiness and find out what in Thedas that argument had been about. He circled around the outside of the group, keeping his eyes forward as he passed Blackwall. Dorian hadn't spoken to him since he'd made an ass of himself, and he wasn't intending to as long as the Warden kept pulling that we need to talk, son expression.

Dorian dropped in next to Cassandra, who barely tried and ultimately failed to hide the disgust on her face. Dorian flinched, but quickly covered with a smile. After what Josephine had said to him this morning, he had briefly let the fact that not everybody trusted him leave his mind.

“What do you want, Dorian?” she asked, exasperated.

“I just thought you'd be happier if our dear leader wasn't taking point by himself,” Dorian replied breezily.

She eyed him suspiciously. “How kind of you to come with such a practical interest, instead of more nonsense.”

“Harsh words, Seeker,” he replied. “Would you say that I irritate you more or less than Varric does?”

She glared, and then sighed. “You are both valued members of the Inquisition,” she said through gritted teeth, conjuring in Dorian's mind the image of Josephine trying to teach her not to be rude to allies that got on her nerves. Leliana imploring her not to punch a particularly annoying petitioner to the Southern Divine in the mouth when it would be far more effective to smile as they left and stab them later.

“So charming of you to say so, Cassandra,” Dorian replied. “Anyway, I shall leave you in peace, as I'm sure we both want.”

He tugged the reins of his horse and left Cassandra behind, closing the distance between himself and Lavellan. The elf didn't seem to notice him approach, still staring grimly forward with that ragged scarf pulled over his face. He looked like a particularly beautiful highwayman, his short blonde hair tousled by the wind.

Dorian had occasionally had romance novel fantasies of being waylaid and kidnapped by such a figure while staring out of the window of his family's carriage, trundling to or from the country home of one of his father's political sponsors. After debating whether to put him up for ransom, the bandit king would become enchanted by such a pretty, quick-witted and powerful creature, and they would come together to change Tevinter forever, etcetera.

The carriage rides, and the fantasies, stopped when his presence as a representative of his father's legacy became more of a liability than an asset. The great shame of House Pavus, the end of his family branch.

“Are you in the mood for some witty repartee, or are you quite enjoying staring broodily into the distance?” Dorian asked, wearing a smile. Lavellan quietly turned his head, and reached to lower his scarf. Dorian had expected his face to be pressed into some sort of snarl, but he looked… well, he looked sad.

“I could probably do with some company,” Lavellan replied, offering a limp smile.

They rode in silence for a moment, Dorian's tongue feeling heavy. “I suppose you don't have such heated arguments with your spymaster every morning?” he asked.

Lavellan shook his head, mouth softening.

“Now, if you would rather think about literally anything else, I can rattle off lewd, amusing tales of my college days in Tevinter from now until nightfall,” Dorian said. He stopped to gather himself, glancing at Lavellan. “Or, you can... tell me what's on your mind.”

Lavellan lowered his eyes. The horses clomped through the snow, the mountains towering on either side. “We received a letter from my clan this morning,” he said quietly. “They’re being stalked by bandits. Leliana is suspicious – my people aren’t exactly known for their wealth, so for the same group to pursue them for weeks is... strange.”

“And you want to go to them,” Dorian said.

Lavellan nodded, fidgeted with his grip on the reins. “I know it's... not practical of me,” he said. “Leliana isn't wrong. It's far away, and her birds are faster. She could have an agent in place by this afternoon, and I wouldn't be there for weeks. That's why Keeper Istimaethorial asked for... my Inquisition's help, not mine.”

“But?” Dorian replied.

Lavellan's hands settled, his fists clenching. “But I should be there. Until the Conclave, this was the life I had pledged myself to. Protecting our clan, healing our wounded. To lose a First…” He furrowed his brows. “If I had simply died, it would have been a tragedy. Instead, the Conclave made me into a ghost. I can see my duties to my people, but I can’t do anything to keep them.”

Dorian could feel his face soften, watching Lavellan ride with his shoulders so tense they almost touched his pointed ears.

“Lavellan,” Dorian said. He knew he should say something. Something reassuring, perhaps. But he didn’t know what. He was far better at being drunk and amusing than he was at being honest. When Dorian looked at Lavellan, he saw a mirror of his own bloody pride, his own bloody grief. Wishing he could have stayed behind to be there for Felix when he died, even knowing he’d left because the Inquisition needed his warning and he wouldn’t have made it in time with Felix in tow. “I wish you lived in a kinder world. One that wasn’t putting you in this position. Where Corypheus summered in a beach house, perhaps, and you could go back to your people while he and the other decrepit walking corpses enjoyed the season. Or where the rest of us didn’t need you at all, and you could have lived your life roaming idly through forests in the dappled spring light, or any of those other rather romantic images you seem to conjure when you tell me about your clan.”

Dorian turned his eyes back to the road, afraid he was beginning to seem far too emotional. “In this rather crueller world you find yourself in, however,” he said. “I’m rather selfishly glad that we have you. Your people will understand that keeping the world from being turned into a lovely paste by an ancient Darkspawn is something you do for them, too.”

“You know,” Lavellan said quietly. “When my clan first made contact with the Inquisition, I wanted to ask them to join us. Keeper Istimaethoriel refused my request before I could ask it – the clan would continue to live freely rather than come to Haven,” he said. “I was so afraid that they would be in danger, and then after what happened at Haven I was… relieved. I understood the wisdom of what she’d done, both in preserving our ways and preserving their lives.”

Dorian watched from the corner of his eye as Lavellan took a ragged breath.

“I miss them, Dorian,” Lavellan murmured. “I miss them, and there’s nothing I can do for them. There are people I said my farewells to before I left for the Conclave that I will never see again. To let Leliana handle this… it feels like I’m abandoning my responsibility to them. How can I forgive myself if anything happens, if I could have done more and didn’t?”

If they had been anywhere more private, Dorian would have reached for him. Put a hand on his shoulder, for as long as he could risk without upsetting his horse.

“I don’t know,” Dorian replied, mouth flat. Thinking of his cheery goodbye to Felix, his empty promise that he’d return with the Inquisition. But things hadn’t turned out that way. “Assuming we survive this, I think we’ll have a lot of reasons to ask that question.”

Dorian lifted his head towards Lavellan, who was nodding silently.

“But I know this, Inquisitor,” Dorian said. “One person here has personally closed the hole in the sky, stopped the red templars, and put up with my dreadfully dull heraldry lessons. That’s you, by the way.” Dorian tried to smile, but faltered. Tried to joke, but didn’t. “So please don’t say you’re not doing enough, Lavellan. Sometimes, you seem like you’re going to shred yourself into teeny tiny pieces trying to fix the world.” He smiled now, grimly. “To play to your worst habits, I’d like you to know I’d be rather upset if that happened.”

The corner of Lavellan’s mouth twitched, something approaching a quiet smile. “We wouldn’t want that.”

“Your problem, Inquisitor,” Dorian continued quickly, easing himself back into a jovial tone before he said something foolish or saccharine. “Is that you’re far too useful. You should try being a selfish, purely ornamental layabout such as myself sometime, life is far less stressful when nobody needs you.”

Lavellan turned to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of a horn. The call to stop to give the horses a rest. Lavellan lowered his head, apparently rather flustered, and pulled the scarf back over his nose and mouth. His green eyes met Dorian’s, and he turned away.

Chapter Text

By the time they stopped, they'd ridden within sight of Lake Calenhad. Exhausted from the trek through the mountains, most of their party had retired early. Tiny clumps of frost drifted across the lake's vast skin, dark shapes against still reflections of the pink sunset sky. They looked, Dorian thought, like pond scum. He took another swig of his wine. He knew it was too damn cold to be out here, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn in yet. Instead, he sat under a tree that looked out across the distant lake, legs draped over the roots and a book spread out on his lap.

Given how dire the Inquisition’s library could be about matters of arcane interest, he had been wary of bringing any of the more useful tomes he was using for his research on the road, where they were liable to have their pages nibbled by rats, their spines scorched by demonfire, and then finally be hurled into a bog in an attempt to distract the undead.

Not that he was still sore about what had happened to the Liber Ivonis. It was only very difficult to get hold of a decent copy outside of Tevinter.

Dorian sighed. He had come out here to read cheap paperbacks and drink until it got too dark to read, not mourn lost books, and he was damn well going to get on with it. He flicked back to where he’d left off.

“Did you borrow that from Cassandra?” a voice asked.

Dorian looked up with a jump. Lavellan was lounging against a tree, hidden in the low light. He laughed, the bastard. “I thought she hadn’t finished that one,” Lavellan continued, smiling innocently as he crossed to sit next to Dorian.

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re in a better mood this evening,” Dorian said. He paused, debating whether to save face in front of the Inquisitor by hiding the fact that he was reading a romance novel. But he needed to know. He flourished the cover of To Catch a Heart. “Please tell me Cassandra is genuinely reading this.”

“Well, the cover is the same colour,” Lavellan admitted, leaning in for a closer look.

“Red and gold apparently convey romance and luxury to the discerning reader,” Dorian replied.

“No, it’s definitely this one,” Lavellan said, frowning so terribly seriously as he squinted at the book. Dorian found himself smiling. “She seemed very embarrassed that I caught her reading it,” Lavellan continued. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.”

“She may murder you for this,” Dorian replied.

Lavellan stretched out against the tree, almost lying down, his head at about the level of Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian offered the Inquisitor the bottle of wine, which he took a mouthful from.

“I thought it might give you something in common,” Lavellan said.

“You want me to be friends with Seeker Pentaghast?” Dorian asked, face contorting in mock offence.

“She’s not so bad, when you get to know her,” Lavellan replied.

Dorian gave Lavellan a pointed look, his memory of Cassandra’s disgust puncturing the warm atmosphere. “How long did it take for her to decide you weren’t a heretic?”

Lavellan sat up a little. “A few months, at least,” he replied. He pensively clung to the wine bottle, slowly turning it in his fingers.

“So, tell me,” Dorian said, holding the book up to catch Lavellan’s attention. “I assume Cassandra told you what this is. What would be the Dalish equivalent? You don’t have commercial publishing, obviously.”

“Well, we tell each other stories out loud,” Lavellan said with a shrug. “Some of them had grand, tragic romances in them. It wasn’t uncommon for people to make copies of their favourite stories by hand. And when we would meet other clans at larger gatherings, some of us would meet to trade stories.”

“Inquisitor, you’re giving me the impression that your clan was full of naughty teenagers swapping dirty stories,” Dorian said with a smirk.

“It’s not dirty, Dorian,” Lavellan laughed. “Stories are important, and some of those stories had… relationships in them, and some didn’t.” He leaned back against the tree, eyes bright. “The Second of Clan Alathiel was an amazing storyteller. I would beg her to bring me copies of her work the few times a year I saw her.”

Dorian wanted to say so much to him. Ask if stories were all he exchanged at these meetings. To pry into his youth to discover if there had been someone there who played the same role Rilenius had played for him. Find out his secret shames and selfish desires.

“You really must show me your treasure trove of raunchy literature sometime,” Dorian said.

“In keeping with my people’s traditions, it would be best if I read it aloud,” Lavellan replied, gazing irritatingly innocently out towards the lake.

“Will you be sharing it with everyone, or shall I be receiving a more intimate reading?” Dorian asked.

“Generally, I would only read to you alone if I was courting you,” Lavellan said.

Dorian felt his face grow hot, and forced a laugh.

“Perhaps I’ll read it at the Winter Court,” Lavellan said quickly. His smile flickered, and he sighed. “I suppose I would have to get it back first,” he said.

Dorian took another swig of wine, trying to appear as casual as he could. “Ah. Because many of your belongings will still be with your clan.”

Lavellan nodded. Dorian paused, watching the Inquisitor’s gently melancholy expression, and offered him the wine. “Have you… heard from Leliana?” Dorian asked.

Lavellan propped the wine against the tree roots and reached into his jacket pocket, producing a wad of papers. A crisp white envelope fell into his lap as he rustled through them and unfurled a weather-bitten scroll.

“Leliana’s agent is on their way and should arrive tomorrow,” Lavellan read. “She’ll send me another update then.”

“And… how are you feeling?” Dorian asked. Lavellan folded the letter back up and stared at it.

“I’m doing better,” Lavellan replied. “I’m trying not to think about it.” He picked up the square envelope and pressed his mouth into a straight line.

They were somewhere more private now. Dorian reached out, and put his hand on Lavellan’s shoulder.

“Dorian,” Lavellan said quietly, the envelope dangling from his fingers. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Dorian’s heart caught in his throat. “Well, I suppose you should tell me them.”

Lavellan lifted his green eyes to meet Dorian’s, brow creased and mouth soft. He took a breath. “Mother Giselle gave me a… letter about you before we left this morning,” he said.

In an attempt to hide his embarrassment, Dorian snorted irritably and snatched the wine back. “Perhaps people wouldn’t pester you about me so much if you didn’t pass on everything they said,” he snapped. “Am I fun to gossip about, Inquisitor? I suppose I must be a rather appealing project to a perennial problem solver such as yourself.”

Lavellan’s face stayed calm. Dorian burned with shame. Lavellan, of all people, why was he trying to rile Lavellan up?

“It’s not gossip, Dorian,” Lavellan said. But the blank way he was looking at him. Anger, even, anger would be something. He just wanted him to react. Lavellan held out the letter. “Look, just – just read it, this will explain better than I can.”

Dorian snatched the outstretched envelope. And as he unfolded it, he felt the colour drain from his face. This seal, this handwriting. Yours graciously, Magister Halward of House Pavus.

He crumpled it into a ball and considered setting it on fire. He uncrumpled it and read it again. He re-folded it, almost neatly. Lavellan watched him silently.

What could he say? He knew Lavellan had probably read the letter. To hear his father pleading as one Andrastian to another, to see him drawing himself the injured party when he knew what he’d done. Calling him my son, the boy, as if Dorian was still a child.

“You don’t have to decide now,” Lavellan said. “But as we’ll be in the area… I wanted you to be aware. If this is a trap, the Venatori may be looking out for you.”

When Dorian didn’t say anything, Lavellan stood and held a hand out neatly. The light was disappearing from behind him as the sun sank into the mountains. Dorian refused his hand, getting to his feet himself with book, wine and now letter tucked under his arm.

“I’ll tell his hireling to piss off in person,” Dorian snarled, and stalked back towards the camp.

Chapter Text

They were still an hour from the Crossroads when the winter sun started to fall for the day, and Lavellan called that they were stopping to camp at the Inquisition's nearest travellers' outpost before the frost set in.

Dorian had spent the day at a distance, lingering at the end of the cavalcade. In theory, he had intended to think about his father's letter during the gentler but duller parts of the road around Lake Calenhad, with the ominous shadow of Ferelden's abandoned Circle Tower ticking past him like the hand of an enormous clock. Instead, he had finished one tatty paperback and started a second one.

The sharp corners of the abandoned letter pricked against his chest as he climbed down from his horse. Dorian told himself that if he'd thrown it out the night before, he could have forgotten about it by now, but wasn't quite persuasive enough to trick himself into believing that was true.

The outpost was nestled against one of the Hinterlands’ cliffs, to shield travellers from the elements. It had some basic amenities, kept decent by the Inquisition's soldiers – a hitching post for horses, a cache of supplies, a firepit and a store of wood, kindling and cooking utensils – but they would still be sleeping on the ground. Dorian was used to it by now, certainly, but doubted he would ever enjoy it. This campground was used so frequently that the ground beneath had melded into a muddy slurry from the frequent parade of boots and caravans.

Lavellan dismounted in one neat, fluid motion. Dorian could better picture him among the Dalish like this. Their serious-faced but warm-hearted First, bandaging their wounds with sturdy hands, and turning those same fingers to the pages of stories at night. Lavellan turned his face skyward, and Dorian followed his gaze towards the bird-scattered horizon. Wondering, as he assumed Lavellan was, if any of them were carrying a message.

Dear Lavellan, everything is fine. Leliana’s people chased off the bandits bothering your clan, nobody was hurt, and they’re riding south to visit you. The rift at Redcliffe has closed on its own, Corypheus tripped over the hem of his robe and plunged to his death, the Orlesian civil war has ended and the ball at the Winter Court has been cancelled.

But Lavellan’s eyes hadn't had time to look skyward for long before they needed to turn to the camp rota. “Solas, Blackwall, it's your turn to look after the horses,” he called, elbow still resting on his saddlebag. “Sera and Iron Bull, you're putting up the tents.”

“Sera, whatever you're thinking,” Cassandra said. “Don't.”

Sera grumbled something about pegs and went to start unpacking.

“Cole and I will clear up, Varric and Vivienne have the night off...” Lavellan continued. He paused, and flicked his eyes towards Dorian with a limp smile. Oh, no. “And Dorian and Cassandra will cook.”

Dorian met Cassandra’s grim eyes, the scar tugging across her cheek. “Delightful,” he said. “I’ll light the fire.”

He strode over to the wood store as the camp broke into chatter from the others separating to go about their business.

“We don’t need your help,” Cassandra said flatly. Dorian looked up to see that Varric had seated himself by the extinguished firepit.

“I’m not here to help you, Seeker,” Varric laughed. “I’m here to save everyone else from having to eat something the two of you cooked unsupervised.” He produced a bottle from his bag. “And I’ve even brought you a peace offering.”

Cassandra sighed, and Dorian crouched to pile wood into the pit, mouth twisted into a smile. “Varric, I have no idea why you’d doubt the culinary talents of two individuals who spent their childhoods surrounded by servants and their formative adulthoods in learning institutions that provided room and board.” Dorian flicked a spark into the pit, hoping the addition of magic would overcome the damp chill in the air.

“See, Sparkler, that’s your problem,” Varric said, gesturing as the fire flared to life. “Always with the roaring magical fires. The temperature’s too high.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sorry that my magical abilities are so powerful they’re unsuitable for mundane uses,” he said. “Perhaps next time I need to use them to kill something, I’ll put them on a light simmer instead.” The fire did, indeed, blaze unnaturally bright.

“I didn’t realise you were a chef as well as an author, Varric,” Cassandra sniped. Dorian could hear the snick of her blade as she began to chop vegetables. He grabbed the canister of cooking water from the ration case lying by her feet.

“I’d say I’m more of a critic,” Varric replied, spreading his hands.

“I feel that I would regret asking what you think my problem is,” she said.

“And yet, you’ve just invited him to do so,” Dorian said, trying to look as if he wasn’t smirking as he hung the cooking pot over the fire. Across from them, Vivienne was watching Cole and Lavellan assemble a small camp table.

“You’re too cautious, Seeker,” Varric replied, leaning back with his palms against the ground. “You overcook and underseason.”

Vivienne was beginning to put out cutlery. And then she continued to put out cutlery. Dorian met Lavellan’s gaze across the fire, and flicked a glance at the table. Lavellan flicked his eyebrows upwards. Dorian made a show of stifling a laugh.

Cassandra walked over to begin adding vegetables to the water in the pot. “What are they doing?” she murmured.

“Cassandra, I would think that you of all people would recognise this,” Dorian replied.

As Vivienne added the third fork, Cassandra made a disgusted noise with her throat. “I hated this.”

Suffering through more dining etiquette would hopefully keep Lavellan’s mind off things. As much as Dorian hoped that watching him would keep his own mind distracted.

“Was there anything you did enjoy?” Dorian asked. In theory, there was more to do, but as Varric had started shredding the dried herbs himself, Dorian instead draped himself across the ground by the firepit and got as comfortable as he could.

“I enjoyed learning history,” Cassandra replied. Her voice was as clipped as usual, but with its pointed edge dulled. “And heraldry. I liked knowing that there was more to the world.”

“I quite understand,” Dorian replied. Cassandra turned to bring more vegetables to the pot, and that hard glare returned as she caught him lounging. The Seeker sighed, then sat on the other side of Varric once she’d passed the vegetables on.

“One for the pot,” Varric said, dumping a wooden cup of red wine into the broth. “One for me.” And set a second wooden cup by his feet. “One for the pot, one for Cassandra.” He winked as he held a cup out to the Seeker, who rolled her eyes but took it. “One for the pot, and one for Sparkler.” Dorian smiled languidly as he took his own drink from the dwarf’s hand. Varric stayed standing over the pot, stirring gently.

Dorian’s eyes drifted back to Lavellan. He was sitting at the camp table now, dwarfed by the mass of silverware before him. Cole sat on the ground next to him, head raised to watch while his hat flopped over his eyes.

“Before I get too comfortable, I’m going to check that Vivienne isn’t tormenting our dear leader too harshly,” Dorian said, clambering to his feet.

Varric laughed. “That poor kid.”

Dorian left the pot and strode across the camp. Lavellan lifted his chin in greeting, eyes relieved. Dorian’s mouth twinkled into a smile. He still owed the Inquisitor words. About the letter, about what he'd said to him. But that could wait until Redcliffe. Tonight, he would be what he was best at being. A comfort, a frivolous diversion, that didn’t ask anything in return.

“I do hope you’re not here to be a distraction,” Vivienne sighed. “This trip will take a week out of the Inquisitor’s preparations for Halamshiral, and we still have a lot to cover.”

“Isn’t it proper to make a toast before the meal begins?” Dorian asked, gesturing at Vivienne with his cup and leaning on the camp table. It sank a little further into the mud. “Surely, we should prepare the Inquisitor for the event that he may be asked to say a few words.”

“Unlikely, but I suppose there’s no harm,” Vivienne replied. She turned to face Lavellan. “You are toasting with red wine. Which glass do you raise?”

Lavellan’s brow furrowed, and his eyes carefully skimmed between the glasses laid out on the table. Carefully, he reached a hand forward and lifted a round, wide-mouthed glass with a long stem.

“Correct,” Vivienne said. “Can you tell me why this is the right glass?”

Lavellan shrugged loosely, his mouth curling into a dark smile as he raised his eyes. “Dorian keeps this type of glass in his room, and he prefers red.” Dorian’s chest fluttered, and he tried not to let it show in his face as Lavellan smirked up at him. Oh, he must know what he’s doing.

Vivienne smiled dryly. “It seems Josephine was right, you do serve an educational purpose.” She turned her eyes back to Lavellan, who smoothed his face into a mask of innocence. “Red wine needs a larger-mouthed glass to breathe. White wine is generally served in a taller, narrower glass, sparkling even narrower.”

“Dorian, could you demonstrate a toast for me?” Lavellan asked, eyes sliding back to him.

Dorian held his cup out towards Lavellan’s raised glass and cleared his throat. As much as he knew the Inquisitor was teasing him, he hadn’t been lying when he said someone might ask him to speak. “Thank you to our host for such a beautiful meal,” Dorian said, gesturing between Vivienne and the empty plates. His usual speaking trick of embarrassing his father with bluntness would likely not serve the Inquisitor in front of the Orlesian court. “May our futures be as pleasant as this evening.”

He bowed to clink his cup against the Inquisitor’s glass, and Lavellan mimicked drinking wine as Dorian took a real sip.

“If you are called to speak, I suggest you follow your companion’s example and keep your words brief,” Vivienne said. “Nobody has good memories of dinners delayed by hour-long speeches.”

“And on the subject, I suppose I should return to the kitchen,” Dorian said, taking a step back.

“Yes, please do,” Vivienne said. Lavellan smiled at Dorian as Vivienne gestured to dismiss him.

He sauntered back across the camp, Cassandra still staring into the pot. It had changed to a rather more edible red-brown colour than when he’d left it.

“Don’t fuss, Seeker,” Varric said, reclining in the warmth of the fire.

Cassandra continued to turn the ladle through the stew, wincing from the steam.

“Allow me,” Dorian said, offering his hand. Cassandra narrowed her eyes as she passed him the ladle’s long handle. “I’m rather used to dealing with the heat from my own spells,” he explained. “And you’ve barely touched the wine Varric so kindly poured for you.”

He waited until she was taking a polite sip before he spoke again. “The Inquisitor tells me we have similar taste in literature.” Cassandra almost choked.

She had just about regained her composure by the time Varric had stopped laughing, eyes still flashing with – well, on Cassandra everything looked like rage. “That man cannot keep a secret,” Cassandra sputtered.

“He said he thought it might be good for us to have something in common,” Dorian said innocently, continuing to slowly stir the pot.

“Did he now?” Cassandra said flatly.

“Do let me know if you need any recommendations,” Dorian replied.

Cassandra growled, but not angrily. Varric said nothing, but looked like he was taking mental notes. Dorian’s eyes followed the steam from the pot upwards, to where birds looped lazily against the orange sky.

Dear Dorian, it’s Felix. The last letter was someone’s idea of a prank. I’ll be here in Redcliffe, right where you left me, waiting for you to tell me what you’ve been getting up to all these long months.

Chapter Text

Dorian watched idly as more nosy heads appeared over the Redcliffe ramparts. The guards had asked to clear the area before Lavellan attracted a horde of demons by approaching the rift, but they couldn't stop people from wanting to watch the Herald of Andraste perform his divine work. At this distance, Dorian couldn't make out if anyone was wearing Tevinter fashion. If his family's retainer had come to see if he'd arrived with the Inquisition forces.

In the valley, the yawning green chasm in reality throbbed like a heart. Lavellan's mark - and the corresponding grimaces of pain that crossed his face - pulsed in time. A flag began to rise above the Redcliffe guard tower, their signal. Lavellan walked down the hill, flanked by Cassandra, and Dorian kept close.

"Inquisitor, what is the correct form of address for a duchess?" Vivienne asked.

"We're really going to do this now?" Lavellan replied flatly. The rift let out an air-searing groan as the anchor's proximity tore it open, green tendrils grasping for the ground.

"You need to be able to answer under pressure, my dear," Vivienne replied, keeping a breezy tone to her raised voice. "Until it becomes second nature."

Lavellan paused. The largest pool of green unfurled and kept unfurling, until the vast horned head of a pride demon rose into being.

"Your Ladyship," Lavellan called as he threw up a barrier.

"Your Grace," Vivienne corrected as she joined him.

Lavellan released the first strike, a volley of lightning that rippled throughout the wraiths, shades and otherwise that crawled out of the portals. It plinked off the demon's crackling skin like droplets of water.

“Is there a correct form of address for the Inquisitor?” Dorian asked, as a cluster of Sera’s arrows soared past them. “How shall he know if people are being rude to him?”

“I can tell when you’re being rude to me without the need for titles, Dorian,” Lavellan replied, half amused and half strained in concentration. He flattened his hand and dropped it quickly, and the shade approaching Cassandra collapsed as if it was a marionette with its strings cut.

“Your Lordship would be perfectly appropriate,” Vivienne replied. Her spectral blade shimmered, twinkling off of the gold-horned metal crown she wore. “Inquisitor or Lord Inquisitor also suitable.”

Iron Bull and Blackwall were doing their best to distract the pride demon, but it was too clever to be goaded. It kept coming towards them, its massive legs striding around the warriors that harried it.

“Good to know,” Lavellan breathed.

Iron Bull threw his chain around the creature's muscular thigh and yanked. The demon dropped one knee to the ground hard to keep itself from losing balance completely. An opening.

Lavellan had once told Dorian that he was surprised by how he fought. Dorian supposed it would have looked different when he was still in the Imperium. An exhibition of his talent and accomplishments; complicated, ornate and ordered. But the past few years had changed him. The difference between lashing out with something, anything, and achieving the most effective form could be a few seconds. Lavellan had his clan to cover him, Vivienne her Circle, Solas his wards and barriers. Dorian only had himself. As such, he didn’t always have a few seconds.

And so Dorian fought like wildfire, chaotic and deadly. The motions of his staff quick and fierce, hot fire and dark power consuming his own defences to fuel themselves. Enough to make a smouldering wreck of most living things. Survive, survive, survive and deal with the consequences later.

Sadly, pride demons were not most living things. It was difficult to tell when they were hurt, as their bodies weren't bodies, per se. But as this pride demon climbed to its feet after Dorian's onslaught, he could tell he'd at least managed to piss it off. It squared its shoulders, that metallic armour sheen falling back over its skin as twin whips of electricity dropped from its wrists.

Varric, Cole and Sera had been picking off the shades and wraiths, but the rift only spilled out more as the demon began to stalk towards them. Solas' pale hand glinted out of the corner of Dorian's eye as he replaced the scorched remains of Dorian's barrier. Dorian was reluctant to admit that they made a good team in that regard.

“What is the correct title for a cousin of the Empress?” Vivienne asked.

Cassandra knocked a wraith between them, and Lavellan raised his hand to stun it, a pulse of energy beating outwards from him. “Is it Duke and Duchess?” Lavellan panted.

“Grand Duke and Grand Duchess,” Vivienne corrected. Cassandra cut the wraith down with a slick swipe of her blade. “They will be rather offended if you fail to make the distinction.”

The pride demon latched on to Blackwall's shield arm with one of its electric cords, but the Warden held his ground as it attempted to fling him across the field. He must have let go of his shield, because both the whip and the shield ricocheted back. Blackwall lowered his stance, drawing a parrying knife from his belt with his mangled glove.

But the demon turned away from him as Lavellan tugged at the rift, a searing blast of green stabbing through the demon's chest. They'd both pissed it off now. One of Varric's trick bolts plunged into its thick hide and burst into flames, but if it was in pain it was storming through it.

As it got close to them, Dorian lashed out again. The air tasted bloody, the acrid tang of necromancy, as he lay every hex within his power upon the creature.

The vast monster of the fade was still standing.

The electric whip lashed out, and Dorian’s barrier was still down.

He threw his arms up, an improvised magical shield half-spreading from his hands. But not quick enough to cover everything. The whip carried on, and Dorian hissed in pain as the raw magic cut a burning gash in his shoulder.

“Cover Dorian!” Lavellan barked as he lunged forward.

A green blur as the overstretched demon drew back for another strike – Lavellan let the mark open all the way, dragging it off-balance.

Cassandra and Vivienne caught it between them, their silver and gold blades piercing it.

And shafts of light poured from the holes instead of blood.

Demons didn’t leave corpses. Only smouldering ash, a scattering of the alchemical components that technically composed its body. With a lash of green, the Fade reclaimed its soul.

The academic part of Dorian’s mind wondered what it felt like, magically speaking, to connect with a rift as the Inquisitor did when he closed them.

He could already imagine what it felt like physically, from Lavellan’s ragged breathing, the way sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold.

The rift let out a deafening drone as Lavellan forced it closed, and then it was gone. Only the ringing in Dorian’s ears remained.

Dorian put both hands out, one bloody from clutching his wounded shoulder, and helped Cassandra catch Lavellan as he staggered backwards, and collapsed.

Chapter Text

Lavellan didn't stay unconscious for long. By the time Dorian and Cassandra had marched him down the hill towards Redcliffe, he was blearily half-awake, and insisted on entering the town himself. Dorian watched Lavellan carefully, his own bloody handprints still sticking to the back of Lavellan's leathers. He caught Lavellan looking back at him, blank eyes lingering on his wound. Dorian half-smiled and half-grimaced, his hand pressing a barrier down against it as a makeshift bandage. Cassandra touched Lavellan's shoulder to turn him back around.

The people of Recliffe lined up to offer the Inquisitor their thanks, beg him for blessings, grab at his sleeves – the usual fanfare – and Lavellan leaned on walls, on fences, on his staff to keep himself upright. Dorian wasn't certain how much of it was a conscious attempt to keep up the appearance of the invincible Inquisitor and how much of it was the instinct for putting a brave face on things that had gotten Lavellan into this situation in the first place.

Cassandra was clearly doing her best to hurry him along towards the lodgings they'd been promised for the night, but there was only so much she could do. Dorian had heard whispers ripple through Redcliffe while he'd been hiding out during the Venatori occupation, complaining that the Templars had abandoned them to the mages.

Dorian knew that the ever-prepared Josephine would have given Lavellan and Cassandra instructions. That when the Inquisitor finally visited, he must show the people of Redcliffe – and by extension, its influential Arl – that the Inquisition was different. He had almost expected to see Vivienne by Lavellan's side, overseeing his manner of speech, but he supposed that how the Inquisitor should best address Fereldan peasants wasn't her area of expertise.

Dorian thought he saw the swirl of red Tevinter robes slipping away from the crowd. House Pavus' retainers had apparently learned a predilection for making a scene from their employers. Dorian wasn't going to let things play out that way – noticing, panicking, following, and having whatever dramatic altercation was intended for him play out when he was completely alone. He would much rather make them wait.

And as much as he'd embarrassed himself with another angry outburst when Lavellan had given him the letter, Dorian didn't intend to face this without him. If Lavellan was still standing, at least.

Dorian was almost grateful when the snow flurry started. The practical concerns of the townspeople seemed to cause many of them to decide they were satisfied with a mere look at the Herald of Andraste, and the crowd began to thin. Dorian averted his eyes from the inn that had previously been Alexius and the Venatori's base of operations. The one his father's retainer was allegedly presently taking a room in. Dorian wondered if he knew, if the other mage – he assumed his father wouldn’t send a mere servant – had been drawn there by the lingering traces of Alexius’ experiments. Dorian risked a look for red clothes at the windows, and was relieved to see nothing.

Cassandra and Lavellan had stopped in front of a guest house on the other side of the square. The Seeker already had one hand on the door, the other gazing warningly at the remnants of the crowd. Dorian supposed this was how the late Southern Divine had retained her approachable image – that of course she would stop and shake every hand, if only she was not hustled past by her grateful but pragmatic bodyguard.

Still looking a little stunned, Lavellan gave a sweeping glance around the crowd. Dorian realised with growing horror that they were expecting him to speak. “Thank you for your hospitality in allowing us to rest here tonight,” Lavellan said stiffly. He made the wrong bow, a neat forward fold usually used by servants, and let Cassandra usher him through the door.

The crowd were less interested in the rest of them. Not that they didn't whisper, not that they didn't stare. But they didn't approach, and so Dorian followed on into the lodging house. In time to help Cassandra catch Lavellan as he crumpled again. They lay him down on one of the beds.

“I'm going to get Solas,” Cassandra said, hurrying back out of the door.

The lodging house looked almost like a barracks, with a boot-worn wooden floor and slender beds lined up along the wall. Dorian wondered if Templars had stayed here, due to Redcliffe's proximity to the Circle tower. Or if its establishment was more recent than that. While he'd been staying here, it had been a hostel for the displaced, whether by the war or by the Venatori clearing out houses to make room for themselves. Dorian knelt down next to Lavellan's bed, wincing as he straightened his shoulders.

“Your shoulder,” Lavellan murmured, raising a limp hand towards him.

“Lavellan,” Dorian said softly. “I'm not getting stitches from someone who can barely stand.”

Lavellan laughed weakly. Dorian's eyes lingered on his hand. He reached for it, lacing his fingers through Lavellan's as if they were dancing. Feeling the mark, still hot from use, against his palm as he pulled his grip close. Lavellan closed his fingers over Dorian's hand, and held it there.

Dorian met Lavellan's curious eyes, and felt himself smile. The door opened behind them, and Lavellan pressed his fingers against Dorian's knuckles. Asking him not to let go, and so he didn't, as much as his instincts cried out for him to hide.

Dorian was used to desiring in the dark. In private rooms and behind locked doors. The secret code that passed between men like him in Tevinter was purely practical, and layered with plausible deniability. Whatever it was Lavellan wanted from him, he seemed determined to drag it into the light.

“He collapsed again,” Cassandra explained. Dorian kept his eyes lowered. In Tevinter, he would have seen disgust. That at best, his failure to disguise his desires was embarrassing. That at worst, he was perverted, abandoning his station and duty purely in service of his own pleasure. The latter was, he imagined, how he was remembered by his former peers.

“Can I see the mark?” Solas asked. Dorian lifted his eyes to meet Lavellan's as he released his hand. Lavellan smiled at him, then looked to Solas.

“It doesn't hurt,” Lavellan said.

But Dorian wasn't in Tevinter anymore. And before they left, he would remind his father's retainer why he didn't intend to go back. Dorian lifted his chin to look at Cassandra and Solas. They were both focused entirely on Lavellan. “It's fairly obvious what's wrong with him,” Dorian said. “He's exhausted.”

A flash of green reflected on Solas' face as he did something to cause the mark to flare. “You may be right,” he said. “I expect that its proximity to the rebel mages caused the rift to be more strenuous to close than expected.”

“So he's not injured?” Cassandra said.

Solas shook his head, and the Seeker looked visibly relieved. “He simply needs to rest,” Solas replied. He turned his eyes to Dorian. “Dorian, I would like to see to Blackwall first, as I believe his arm may have been fractured. Then I will attend to your wound. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes, yes, that's fine,” Dorian replied, waving a hand.

Solas left without another word. Cassandra lingered at the foot of the bed.

“I'll be staying here,” Dorian said, looking up at her. “So I can watch over the Inquisitor, if you've any business to attend to.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes, then walked away.

Dorian leaned in closer to Lavellan. “I shan't be speaking to you again until you've slept, do you understand me? I shall absolutely deny you my company if you are unable to resist your instinct to rescue orphans from trees or what have you for one day.”

“That's fine,” Lavellan murmured, already drifting off. Dorian got to his feet and lay himself on the next bed over, turning his head to watch as Lavellan twisted into a more comfortable sleeping position.

“Dorian,” Cassandra said quietly.

“Yes?” Dorian replied. She was standing at the foot of the bed in the otherwise empty hostel, holding a book.

“I owe you an apology,” she said tersely. “I feel that I misjudged you.”

Dorian blinked. “Pardon?”

“It will not be news to you that I was opposed to your joining the Inquisition,” she said. “Lavellan had no questions as to your loyalty, but I went as far as to petition Josephine and Leliana to investigate whether you could be a spy.”

“You're not the only one who had that suspicion,” Dorian said flatly.

“I am realising that perhaps what I didn't like was your manner,” she continued.

“This is a very strange apology, Seeker,” Dorian replied.

“You act as if you don't care about anything. And I suppose I believed you.”

She thrust the book out to him. There was a beautiful black-haired knight on the cover, his armour gleaming in an unseen sun. Confused, but not unpleased, Dorian took it.

“I think you do care about our cause,” she said. “You have done nothing but work for it the past few months.” She gestured to the book. “I love these books because they are full of people who care. So I thought I would lend you one of my favourites, as a symbol of my apology.”

Dorian turned the book over in his hands. “I'm touched, Seeker,” he said. A faint smile came across his lips, and he raised the book to her. “To being more than we appear, Cassandra.”

For perhaps the first time, he saw the Seeker smile. “To being more than we appear.”

Chapter Text

The snow still trickled through the cold morning light. Dorian pulled his coat close, wincing as it dragged against his bandages.

“Are you ready?” Lavellan asked. He had changed into the uniform of one of Leliana’s scouts to avoid drawing attention, his tan face now partially obscured by a pale green hood. It suited him.

“It’s not going to take very long,” Dorian replied. He swallowed tightly and took a step across the courtyard, towards the Gull and Lantern. The sound of Lavellan’s boots crunching through the fresh snow followed behind him.

Dorian’s head was a mess. He was remembering too much, being here. He used to meet Felix around this time in the morning – one of the few times of the day he would manage to escape his father’s overbearing observation, with the excuse that walks were good for his increasingly failing constitution. Dorian hadn’t seen the inside of the inn while he’d been staying here. Perhaps it would be better if it stayed that way. He could produce any number of excuses, after all.

He came to a halt at the large statue of a griffon in the centre of the courtyard, and turned on his heel to face Lavellan.

“Are you sure you’re well?” Dorian said, grinning uneasily. “Perhaps we should forget about this. I’m certain they’ll take my absence as answer enough.”

Lavellan looked at him, and then over his shoulder towards the Gull and Lantern. “I see you’re stalling,” Lavellan said dryly.

Dorian exhaled, leaning back against the statue. “Perhaps I am,” he replied. Lavellan stepped forward, and perched himself a little further along the plinth.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Lavellan said gently.

Dorian stared ahead of them. He could make out a sliver of the docks at this angle, the water gleaming like molten metal.

“Why didn't you come to Redcliffe before now?” Dorian blurted out.

Lavellan went quiet. The town itself seemed to go silent, the interminable moments punctuated only by the cries of the ornery waterfowl beneath the pier.

“It was obvious that there was something wrong with the Templars,” Lavellan said. “And the woman who invited me to Redcliffe didn't seem under duress.”

Dorian had already run through it all in his head before he’d left. Perhaps if they’d smuggled a letter out, made contact with the Inquisition in the Crossroads. Felix had quieted him. It was all done now, he’d smiled. All that remained was what they did next.

Lavellan lifted his head towards the sky. “Given that they already thought I was a heretic, I thought that the Templars would be a danger if I didn't deal with them first, and that I could speak to the mages afterwards.” He sighed. “I didn't realise how deeply Corypheus had buried his talons into both of them until it was too late.”

“I don’t… envy your decision, Lavellan,” Dorian murmured. Perhaps it would have been easier, if he could have been furious with the Inquisitor. Blamed Felix’s death on his non-arrival, somehow, and shifted his guilt at not having been there somewhere else. But even Andraste herself couldn’t have stopped the fetid sickness coursing through Felix’s body.

All that was left for him to regret was what Corypheus had done to the mages, would have done to the Templars if their positions had been reversed, and taking a personal vendetta against him was as useless as swearing revenge on the wind or rain.

“I didn't think they'd kill Alexius,” Dorian said. His words dried up.

Lavellan tentatively brushed the hood aside, his black vallaslin glittering like obsidian against the snow-dusted town.  “The Magister,” he prompted. “I remember you telling me about him.”

“I thought he was too useful to them, but apparently the Venatori value bootlicking over real academic talent,” Dorian rambled. “I thought that as long as he was alive, there was at least one man working with the Venatori that I knew could be... redeemed, I suppose. People who were there because they were desperate, rather than because they truly wanted to resurrect the old Imperium.” Dorian restlessly brushed snow from his lapel, as if it itched him. “But they slit Alexius' throat, and sent Fiona and the other rebellion leaders on a suicide run into the heart of the Inquisition's forces.”

A grimace flickered across Lavellan's face. They both knew that some of those hopes of the rebellion had perished by his green fire, that the Inquisitor was the weapon Corypheus had used to end their lives.

“I want to believe that the mages can still be saved,” Dorian said. He shook his head and sighed. That wasn’t what he meant. “I want to believe that Tevinter can still be saved,” he corrected. “But I'm not currently seeing a lot of reasons to be hopeful, not while the Venatori have Corypheus' might to squash any who would consider moving against them. Eventually, there won’t be anyone left to fight.”

“You’re still here, Dorian,” Lavellan said softly.

Dorian snorted. “When we worked together, Alexius gave me hope that we were going to make a difference. You can see how that worked out.” Dorian threw his hands up. “We both left Tevinter, and… here we are. A wastrel and a carcass, changing nothing.”

“Dorian, you know that’s not true,” Lavellan said firmly. “You came to the Inquisition because you wanted to make the world a better place, and you have.”

“Yes, the Inquisition changes things,” Dorian snapped. “Your Inquisition. I am not you, Inquisitor.”

Dorian stood away from the statue, and gestured across to the Gull and Lantern. “When I go in there, will I be any different from when I left? Will my family? Or will we have the same arguments we’ve always had?” His voice splintered into breathy laughter. “We’re no stranger to arguing through servants and letters, so even the addition of a third party won’t be a novelty.”

We’re no stranger to a lot worse, Dorian thought.

He wondered if they’d prepared whoever they’d sent, the way the Inquisition was preparing Lavellan for court. The precisely tuned cutting glares, the correct euphemisms. The same attempts at guilt trips. Your frivolous interests, your responsibility to your family. I don’t know who you are anymore, Dorian, because you are not my son.

Lavellan hadn’t flinched at Dorian’s raised voice. With his tongue’s fire having burned itself out, Dorian was left only with the cold ashes of embarrassment. Lavellan stepped closer, and spoke quietly. “Does it matter to you, what your family thinks?” he said, looking up at Dorian from beneath the shadow of his hood with those inscrutably serious eyes.

“…I don’t know,” Dorian replied, his hands dropping to his sides. “I don’t know if my father is the kind of man I would want to approve of what I’m doing.”

“Are you worried he won’t disapprove enough at news of your rebellious antics?” Lavellan said, mouth curving into a smirk.

Dorian offered a tense smile in return.

“I used to take a strange pride in pissing him off. Speaking my mind too much at a party and embarrassing him, and so forth.” When it was about their political views, Dorian had taken him as a compass that he should point the opposite direction from. It was almost funny now, to think of his father blasting Alexius as an upstart reformer. Half-proud of the prestige of Dorian’s position as the Magister’s research assistant, but never fully happy.

Would it be worse, if all he had to say was that he was proud of him, pretending nothing he’d done to him – nothing he’d tried to do to him – had happened?

“I’m still not quite sure how to imagine court,” Lavellan admitted, eyes lowered. “But I can imagine you, flashing clever words.”

“You should also picture the part where I’m dragged out on my ear afterwards,” Dorian replied. Lavellan laughed. Dorian had no doubt that he’d been brilliant, but it was hard to imagine his self in Tevinter as quite so glittering. There was a hole burned in those memories, and everything at that hole’s edges was charred by it.

“This could still be a trap,” he added, not really believing himself.

If his father was working with the Venatori, would he have joined them to get his son back, in a rather different way from Alexius? Or would he have joined for some far more banal reason – money, power, etcetera? It was hard to picture him as part of them. Halward Pavus craved immortality through stability, and Corypheus was hardly stable.

“Do you want to find out?” Lavellan asked.

Dorian turned towards the Gull and Lantern. It was almost ridiculous, how a squat village tavern was casting such a long shadow in his psyche. “I suppose it won’t take long,” Dorian said.

He took a step, and then paused. Lavellan looked up at him. “Dorian?”

Melting snowflakes glistened around the hem of Lavellan’s hood, like a strange halo. “…Thank you,” Dorian said, mouth twitching into a smile. “For accompanying me.”

“Whenever you need me, Dorian,” Lavellan replied. Dorian tried not to let his smile linger on him for too long. There would be time for that later. He strode towards the Gull and Lantern, and Lavellan followed.

The inside was almost disappointing. Just a tavern. Empty, given the time of day, the rafters laden with lazily drooping cobwebs. Even the bartender was yet to come downstairs.

There was only one other man in here. A man in red Tevinter robes, perched at one of tables, reading a book. He lifted his head.

And Dorian’s stomach dropped as he recognised his father.

Chapter Text

Lavellan’s face twisted in anger, sorrow, anger as Dorian’s faltering voice explained the blood magic ritual. The reason Dorian had fled rather than merely left Tevinter. The way the man now standing mournfully before them had tried to fix him. Lavellan slammed his simmering mark against a table, knocked over a chair, unleashed a torrent of what Dorian assumed were colourful Dalish curses at Halward Pavus.

“Dorian told me he was estranged from his family,” Lavellan said, voice curling into a snarl. “But he didn’t tell me his father was a monster.”

Dorian had thought he would enjoy this more. Having someone he admired learn the truth, and tear into his father for it. Hadn’t this been what he’d imagined closure would look like? Sweeping back home lauded and adored, the handsome bandit king at his elbow with barbed words for those who had wronged him. You weren’t overreacting, Dorian. What he did was exactly as horrid as it felt. The end. But any satisfaction Dorian tried to summon felt hollow.

Halward Pavus wasn’t the compass he navigated by anymore. Dorian didn’t need him to love, notice, approve of what he did.

And yet.

They had turned to storm out, when Dorian hesitated. Lavellan stopped, careful green eyes flitting over Dorian’s face.

“If you never get the chance speak to this bastard again,” he said. Slowly, quietly. “Would you regret it?”

Dorian hated that the answer came to him so quickly. Hated what the answer was even more.

“I would.”

Lavellan nodded evenly.

Lavellan, waiting on the letters that would tell him which of his clan he’d never see again. Lavellan, who had glimpsed the parts of Dorian that were unfortunately sentimental. Lavellan, of all people, of course he understood.

Lavellan took a step closer, and kept his voice low. “Do you want me to stay, or would you like some privacy?”

Despite the situation, Dorian found himself smirking. “Dearest Inquisitor, I can’t have you learning all the dark secrets of my past quite this easily.”

“You’re right, I expect I’ll have to listen to you tell me them later,” Lavellan replied. His unconvincing attempt at a smile cracked, his hands tensed. “If he tries anything, Dorian--”

“I know,” Dorian said softly. His fingers straightened the silver Inquisition clasp on the lapel of Lavellan’s now-abandoned disguise, a strange reassurance. “I’m certain I can fend for myself.”

Lavellan exhaled. “I know.” He took a step back, placed his hand on the door. “I’ll get your pack from the lodging house and meet you outside when we’re ready to leave.” He pressed his lips together as if he was about to say something else to him. Instead, he raised his head to glare over Dorian’s shoulder.

“Halward Pavus,” Lavellan said steadily. Voice like distant thunder, and eyes like lightning. “After what you tried to do to him, you don’t deserve to have a man as kind as Dorian as a son.”

Lavellan slammed the door behind him.

Alone, the bar was dark, dusty and far too large. Dorian turned to face his father, squared his shoulders, and said nothing.

Love, family, respect can be conditional. Halward Pavus was the one who had taught him that lesson.

If his father wanted a single murmur of reconciliation to spill from Dorian’s lips, he’d have to beg for it.

Chapter Text

The ice on Lake Calenhad was sinking back into the water, owing to the day's unseasonably mild turn. Satchels full of clipped elfroot leaves and blood lotus blooms, Lavellan's excuse for this excursion away from camp, rested against a tree away from the pebbled shoreline.

They both knew they weren't out here for potion supplies, but Dorian was struggling with where to start talking.

Lavellan's wrist flicked out, and a round, black stone skimmed across the surface of the lake, leaving shallow ripples in its wake. Dorian knelt to take a rock of his own. Not smooth, not to skim. Rough, heavy, jagged. He threw it as hard as he could, and it tore through the skin of the water with a satisfyingly ugly splash.

“I feel as though I tricked you, Inquisitor,” Dorian said slowly, watching the waves settle.

“That's what you came out of this morning with?” Lavellan growled, gravel crunching beneath his feet as he paced.

“Allow me to clarify,” Dorian said, frowning. “I let you think I was a revolutionary, that I left Tevinter because it was an affront to my deeply held moral principles. But that isn't true. I didn't leave for the slaves, the servants, the soporati – I barely noticed them. I left to save myself, and myself only. A single Altus.”

Lavellan crouched next to him, his deft fingers probing the lakeside gravel. “If you want me to be upset with you about this, Dorian, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed.”

Dorian stared out into the dark, swaying water, and sat on the rocks. What did he want from this exchange? Lavellan was right, he was pushing. Dorian took a steadying breath.

“I expected that speaking to him would be more... cathartic,” he said.

And yet, had he? He had known an apology wouldn't be enough. He tried to grab a handful of stones, to scatter them into the lake as if in divination, but his hand was shaking too much.

“I suppose I thought that he'd try to convince me in person that trying to erase my mind with a blood magic ritual had been for my own good, and I would get to have the argument I've been imagining having since I left,” Dorian said. “But he didn't. Talked a lot about regret, and such. How similar we are deep down. Stubbornness, intelligence and pride.”

Dorian smiled bitterly.

“You know, my mother used to tell me that I was overreacting. Being unreasonably impractical – many Magisters do as they please, as long as they do so in secret. I only had to give up shaming the family name with my antics in public. I only had to produce an heir. With all the privileges I would have as an Altus Magister, couldn't I at least be happy that my hell would be a golden one? She didn't say, as mine has been, but I suppose I knew that's what she meant.”

“Dorian, that's horrifying,” Lavellan said, mouth hanging open.

“Ah, to be a noble, Inquisitor,” Dorian grinned. “I am afraid that for all their talk, you will find our cousins in Orlais to be scarcely an improvement. You are attending Halamshiral to intercede in a succession crisis, after all, are you not? Which family gets to have status, and which should lose it.” Dorian shrugged. “If I was an Orlesian Duke, that's what my father would tell me I was setting our family up for. Distant cousins going to war over who gets to keep the silverware.”

“Perhaps I should listen to Sera's suggestions for once and simply burn the place down,” Lavellan replied flatly.

“Ah, I'm afraid that would only make things worse,” Dorian said, sighing dramatically. “So many cousins of cousins. That's more arson than even you could possibly oversee.” He glanced over his shoulder to Lavellan. “Do the Dalish have some equivalent? You don't keep land, I suppose, but I'm certain you must have something to pointlessly squabble over.”

“Not really,” Lavellan replied, cupping his chin in his hand. “When a member of the clan dies, we redistribute their useful possessions to those who can best use them, and let friends and family take trinkets as a reminder. If a child is orphaned, another member of the clan will adopt them, typically one without their own children.” He frowned in thought. “I suppose we have arranged marriages, sometimes. If, for example, if one clan's numbers are dwindling while another has too many to feed. But that's... different from what you were talking about. It's more like how we might move mages between clans, if one has many and another has none.”

“It occurs to me that you haven't spoken a lot about your family,” Dorian said.

Lavellan shrugged awkwardly. “There's not a lot to say,” he muttered. “We were happy.”

Dorian realised he was an idiot. Probing him about his family now, when his clan was still in danger. “...Have you heard anything?” he asked carefully.

Lavellan turned back towards the lake. “Leliana's scout has gotten them to safety, but they're still trying to figure out where they came from. She thinks the local Bann could be... if not involved, then at least turning a blind eye.” He fidgeted with his cuff. “We're going to talk about what to do next when I get back to Skyhold.”

Dorian nodded. “If there's anything I can do to help,” he offered. He felt useless. Lavellan had walked him straight through seeing his father again, and he could do nothing in return.

“We'll see,” Lavellan said tightly. He turned his face upwards, towards the horizon. “...I suppose we should be getting back,” he added. Lavellan stood, and offered Dorian his hand. This time, Dorian took it. Lavellan pulled him to his feet, stronger than his slight frame would have suggested.

They stood in silence. There was always more to say. Lavellan spoke first. “I'm... glad you're still yourself,” he said, avoiding Dorian's eyes. “I like this Dorian. I think he's brave.”

And Lavellan quickly turned and strode off, towards the tree where they'd left the herbs.

“And kind, I believe was the word you said to my father,” Dorian blurted out as he followed. “I admit, that wasn't the word I was expecting. Clever, bold, talented, handsome, perhaps.”

“Your father already knows you're all of those things,” Lavellan said. “And so, clearly, do you.”

Lavellan slung the satchel of elfroot over his shoulder, and passed the blood lotus to Dorian.

“Everything practical, all of your obvious weapons,” Lavellan continued. “But you're more than that, Dorian. It's not always useful to be kind, but you are. It's not always safe to stand up for your beliefs, but you do.” He sighed. “That's why I said kind. Because... I don't think your family understands how valuable it is, to be kind and to be brave. Your father was too cowardly to say this is my son, and this is who he is.”

Dorian looked towards the sky, heart sinking. I'm sorry that I broke your trust. I'm sorry that I drove you away. I'm sorry that I failed you.

“...I couldn't forgive him, in the end,” Dorian said.

He wanted to storm back towards camp. Let Lavellan figure the rest out himself. He was clever, and it wasn't exactly hard. But Dorian's mouth kept moving, voice cracking. “Because I will never know if he would have regretted losing the real me. If it had worked. And neither will he. That's... that's why. I can't.”

I had thought it would be more cathartic. And yet here he was, still knotted. The lakeside breeze blew cool and clear, and Dorian walked away.

Chapter Text

Skyhold loomed large on the horizon as they rode back through the mountain pass. Five days of Lavellan's month of preparations for the Winter Court, and Dorian suspected that all Lavellan had learned in the time was further reason to find the human nobility abhorrent.

He should have kissed Lavellan on the shore of Lake Calenhad, instead of wittering on about his father. But he hadn't regretted anything he'd said. He... he had wanted Lavellan to know, he supposed. And if he only had one moment to bring this thing between them into reality, ignite the brief, burning glory in which all of his relations blazed before a respectable return to normality, he didn't want his messy conflict with his father to have any part of it.

But there was always something, wasn’t there? Lavellan’s clan. Dorian’s family. Tears in the Veil. The war in Orlais, the missing Grey Wardens, Corypheus, the Venatori. Always a dark cloud cast over them, however much of a balm he found Lavellan's company to be, however much they exchanged glances, brushed fingers, complimented each other with intimate observations.

He had cared less in Tevinter, where there could have been no stakes but his own satisfaction. Where there had been phrases, signals, gestures that passed between men with the knowledge of such signs. Understandings and expectations. Tell me, have you studied the works of Antinous?

Coded advances were acceptable, up to a point. Affairs were an enjoyable distraction, up to a point. And he knew where that point was, the line he wasn't to hope beyond. When Dorian – and it was usually Dorian, given that both his family home and Alexius' were inappropriate venues for secret rendezvous – would put his clothes back on, leave discreetly, and offer no public acknowledgement afterwards, no knowing smiles or glances. After all, this was no forbidden-but-respectable blood magic ritual. There was no power or respect in rumours of your participation. Ironically, he supposed that if that had been what he was doing out so late at night, his father would still have disapproved, but would have done nothing.

But Lavellan wasn't from Tevinter. Lavellan didn't understand any ciphers Dorian might have spoken in. This thing Dorian wanted from him, with him, he couldn't ask for casually. Dorian's traitor heart said that perhaps there was no line with Lavellan, that outside of Tevinter perhaps this wasn't an indulgence that would last a few weeks at most and the occasional bored night thereafter, but his head kept him guarded. What he thought Lavellan might want was a shadow cast by an object he couldn't see. A pretty illusion, just as likely to dissipate at Dorian's touch as every other mirage he'd been fool enough to fall for.

Dorian wasn't in the mood to trail through another procession today. Cullen and his soldiers had cleared a space around the gates, to keep the crowds from spilling out on to the bridge, and Dorian nudged his horse through it and towards the stables. He doubted he would be missed. He wasn't who they were here to see, after all. Eyes darted, of course, seeing one of the Inquisitor's companions slinking away like this. But a few dozen people, perhaps, of the hundreds with their eyes turned upon the Inquisitor and his Right Hand.

Leaving his horse with Dennet, who seemed almost relieved to have some sort of practical distraction from the spectacle, Dorian wove through the crowds towards the stairs to the upper courtyard, towards the keep.

He almost started, seeing a figure in red at the top of the stairs overlooking the procession. But it was the wrong red. Southern Chantry red. Mother Giselle. She hadn't seen him. He could have walked past her, and saved himself the risk of making a scene. But no, he had words for her, and the buzzing of the crowd below was loud enough to hide them.

And if he did make a scene after all, well, he could handle that. He stalked up the stairs, and slipped in beside her.

“Before I retire for the afternoon, Mother Giselle,” Dorian purred in sing-song irritation. “Do you have any more letters from people I have estranged myself from? Enemies from school, perhaps? The bickering matriarchs from my mother's cat breeding society? I will gladly take notes for anyone else, given that you apparently have no issues with spreading gossip. Does Blackwall have a long-lost twin, perhaps? Solas a secret lover?”

Mother Giselle stayed composed, gazing serenely at Lavellan and Cassandra as if she hadn't heard a word he'd said. “Dorian, will you join me for a walk in the garden?”

“I can't think of anything I would enjoy less,” Dorian replied.

But she peeled herself away from the crowd, and he walked alongside her. At least as far as the keep, he told himself. Where he could turn away to the library, and she would likely be too polite to follow.

“I understand that you made contact with your father,” Mother Giselle said, as calmly as if she was making a remark about the weather. Had someone found out and run straight to tell her, or was she merely assuming Lavellan had done what she'd asked and taken him to meet the messenger?

“And I'm sure if you keep seeking out gossip about my private life you'll understand a number of rather colourful interpretations of what might have happened at such a meeting,” Dorian replied.

“I do not like to see families torn apart, Dorian,” she said. “Your father seemed a kind man at heart, in his letters.”

“Ah, you say families torn apart as if we were rent by a natural disaster,” Dorian said. “I assure you, families are quite capable of proving unsuitable to themselves.”

“Would you speak to me of what happened?” she asked, turning her come-here-dear-child-of-the-Maker-all-will-be-well expression towards him.

But this was not a wound he was going to tear open again so soon, especially not for her. She could carry on thinking he and his father’s separation was due to a simple misunderstanding, and disapprove as deeply as she wanted at his poor filial piety.

“No,” he said. “But tell me, did you know it would be my father himself? Lavellan seemed rather surprised.”

If she was shocked by this, she didn't show it. “I didn't, Dorian. And I apologise for my deception. But I hope you found some good in seeing him again.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “You can believe whatever helps you sleep at night after a long day of meddling, Mother Giselle.”

They reached the near-empty entryway to the keep. Some of the soldiers, some of the scouts, going about their routine uninterrupted by the Inquisitor's return. Dorian turned, and strode towards the door that led to the library.

“Dorian,” Mother Giselle called. “Wait. There is something else I must speak with you about.”

He would regret this, but he turned back. Mother Giselle clearly had no qualms with trying to solve Dorian's personal issues behind his back if he didn't accept her help.

“Are we planning to reunite dear Princess Pentaghast with the Nevarran royals, if we are to continue in the business of mending families?” Dorian sniped. “I will speak with you on that if you must, Revered Mother, but I'm really the wrong person to ask. Josephine, perhaps, would be better.”

Her face grave and her voice still, Mother Giselle led him to the gardens.

Dorian had avoided coming here, unless he was going somewhere. It was supposed to be relaxing, he gathered. Someone was keeping a herb garden in the corner nearest the keep, staked over with a fabric mesh to keep the snow out. Someone obviously more concerned with keeping the contact poisons away from the elfroot than with making it look pretty.

He thought of the extensive floral borders his mother had created on the path to the family estate, and how she would have a servant watch him like a hawk almost into adulthood in case he, for some reason, took the whim to leap into them and ruffle her careful arrangements. He thought of the neat movements of Lavellan’s hands when it was their turn to gather supplies for camp, clipping medicinal flowers from their stems with his pocket knife, and how those hands would pause when Lavellan was going to speak, to tell Dorian the name his people had for the plant, or some other little detail.

Mother Giselle slowed. They passed under the shade of a tree. “People talk, Dorian, as I am sure you know,” she said.

It was obvious bait, but Dorian took hold of it knowingly. “And what are people saying, then?” he asked.

Mother Giselle did not turn away or bow her head when she spoke to him. With every word she watched his face, eyes hiding nothing. “That the Inquisitor takes frequent private counsel with a noble from the country of our enemies, and places undue weight on his advice,” she replied.

“Have the people considered that perhaps I simply give very good advice?” Dorian said dryly.

She was still as a column, barely moving her head. “They see how you whisper in the Inquisitor's ear, how he visits your quarters at night, how close you seem,” she said. “And they wonder what you could be asking of him.”

In the middle of the garden, so many eyes watched. Mother Giselle's own two, the stone eyes of the Chantry's statues, the dark-lined eyes on the Inquisition's banners. He wondered if that was why she had chosen it, if she believed that even a pariah such as himself would be unable to lie in front of so many watchers.

“Perhaps you should be asking the Inquisitor,” Dorian replied, anger creeping into his voice. “I doubt an answer from the mouth of a degenerate necromancer from the country of their enemies would satisfy those who ask you that question.” He smiled darkly. “Unless it's you who asks it, Mother Giselle. In which case I would ask you to speak more plainly as to what you mean. If you truly thought I was a spy, I suspect you wouldn't have agreed to arrange a meeting between myself and my father.”

“I speak as plainly as I can,” Mother Giselle replied. The winter sun ensured that no shadows crossed her face. “In Orlais, even the Chantry knows how to play the Grand Game, and you are a far more experienced player of games than the Inquisitor. We both know of the narrow path walked by the precariously powerful. A player in such a position is vulnerable, and often blind to the moves of those they count as their favourites. If a noble in exile sought to gain power, favours and position away from their homeland, would they not seek out intimacy with such a person?”

“You think I'm using him?” Dorian snapped. “Honestly, I would prefer you to think me a spy. A spy, at least, has some kind of personal integrity.”

“I do not mean to insult you, Dorian,” she continued. “But I am concerned for the Inquisitor. It would bring harm upon all of the faithful if he were to be manipulated. I know what goals his advisors follow, and know they are for the good of the world. But beyond your rudeness to some of my people and what your father has written, I do not know you.”

She was right, of course. They both knew how his actions looked, if they were viewed as moves.

I’m already here, Dorian. If we’re to play the Grand Game at Skyhold too, they’ll already be talking.

“Then take it up with Leliana,” Dorian spat. “You wouldn't be the first. By this point, I'm certain she has quite the report on me.”

He didn't turn back when she called after him this time. He felt that certain elements of the Inquisition brought out the worst in him, this tendency to storm out of the room. But there was nothing else to say, was there? Even if he bared his heart to Mother Giselle, and she spoke of his pure, good nature to her flock, others would still talk. At least the nobility knew how to whisper.

Chapter Text

There were no familiar faces in the Herald's Rest. Good. Dorian ordered two glasses of shit red wine from Cabot without interruption, and took himself to a table in the corner.

It felt marginally less pathetic than heading straight to his quarters. He could tell himself this was a choice he was making, a celebratory and social visit to the tavern to rub elbows with the ordinary people of the Inquisition. And not that he was too angry to go to the library as if nothing had happened, and had apparently failed to develop any better coping mechanisms. Perhaps his father would know a blood ritual for this.

It wasn't as funny a thought as he'd hoped.

Dorian could ask himself how he would look through Mother Giselle's eyes. But he supposed that was the wrong question. If someone already suspected him of hiding something, that was how the hypothetical they would sift through his actions. Behold the deviant’s vices, proof of not only this sin but others.

“Dorian, there you are!”

He lifted his head from his brooding to glance at the interloper. “Ah, Josephine,” he replied. “I hadn't realised this was the sort of establishment you frequented.”

“Only on special occasions,” she smiled. “I am actually looking for the Inquisitor, I don’t suppose you have seen him?”

“Not since we arrived,” Dorian replied. “I assumed he would be in the War Room with yourself and his other advisers.”

“I have been… busy,” Josephine said. “I am glad I ran into you, however. I had intended to invite you, also.”

“Invite me?” Dorian asked, raising his eyebrows. “Whatever are you planning, Josephine?”

“I arranged a... practical surprise for the Inquisitor and his companions for their return to Skyhold,” Josephine explained, pressing her palms together. “A… wine tasting. It will be... both fun and educational.”

Dorian snorted in amusement. “You don't sound terribly convinced, Ambassador.”

“It will be fun... when everyone arrives.” Josephine sighed, eyes lifting towards the ceiling. “The Inquisitor disappeared after the procession. I, too, assumed he was visiting Leliana or Cullen, but... it has been some time. I am not sure where any of them are.”

“If he's slipped away, I'm certain he can't have gone very far,” Dorian said, taking an idle sip from his glass. “...or, if he has, perhaps he needs some time to himself.”

Josephine nodded slowly. “Perhaps you are right. I heard it was a... difficult journey.” She hesitantly motioned to the chair across from Dorian. “May I sit?”

“Be my guest, Ambassador,” Dorian replied, flourishing his open hand. “You may help yourself to the wine as well, if we're to leave to go to a tasting. It's quite disgusting, it will cleanse your palate.”

“You are not meeting anyone?” she asked, raising her wide eyes and gesturing to the second glass. “I had assumed this was for a friend. One of our missing guests, perhaps.”

“No, they’re both for me,” Dorian replied. He considered offering an excuse, but couldn’t think of one that conveyed an appropriate level of nonchalance. He tipped his wine glass towards the untouched drink in front of Josephine. “I would generally not inflict this upon someone I hold in positive regard. Sadly, here you are.”

Josephine carefully lifted the glass, her grip practised and elegant. Dorian smiled blandly. She lifted it to her mouth, frowning gently as she inhaled the wine's scent. “Hmm, I'm getting...” She took a sip, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. She swallowed quickly, coughing. “Notes of... vinegar,” she croaked. “Dorian, why are you drinking this?”

“It's cheap,” he shrugged. “Or perhaps it's a force of habit.” He leaned back and sighed theatrically, as if he was about to regale her with a pleasant story from his youth. “The nostalgic flavour of the only bottle of wine left in a run-down roadside tavern when you're rather desperate.”

“You get a stipend for your work, Dorian,” Josephine frowned. “And now that I mention it, so do our soldiers.” Despite herself, she took another sip. “How long has it been since this wine was uncorked? Why does Skyhold's tavern sell this? We can afford better than this. It could be bad for morale.” She reached as if for her ledger, which she had apparently left elsewhere. “I need to speak to our suppliers.”

Dorian covered his mouth with his hand, masking a laugh.

“I'm serious, Dorian!” Josephine continued, her tone smeared by the smile creeping across her face.

“We have no idea what conditions are like in the Winter Palace, Josephine,” Dorian said, trying to force his face into a serious expression. “Perhaps Duke Gaspard is blocking the Empress’ shipments, and this will be what is served. All of the court will have to decide for themselves whether to shame her for her subpar hospitality, or whether to show their solidarity by finding something kind to say of it.” Dorian took a long drink. Josephine shook her head and started to laugh. “The character is… unique. Rustic, perhaps. Incredibly ripe.”

Josephine lifted the glass back to her mouth, and sipped thoughtfully. “Yes, Lord Pavus, I absolutely agree,” she replied. “It has such an intriguing sour quality to it, does it not?”

“Absolutely, Lady Montilyet,” Dorian replied, lifting the mostly-empty glass as if in a toast. “Raise your glass to the Empress or Emperor of Orlais, and their fine hospitality.”

Josephine clinked her glass against his, and flashed a pearly-toothed grin. “This is precisely what I was thinking of for tonight,” she said brightly. “Even if the Inquisitor is occupied himself, he must have companions who are able to make smalltalk at Halamshiral. You and I have been practicing far longer than one evening, of course.”

“I prefer to say that I’m naturally talented,” Dorian replied.

“Of course, Lord Pavus,” she replied. He laughed, recognising the breezy tone as the one he had heard her use with noble visitors that she was trying to brush off without slighting them. Josephine paused, smiled. “Although, I imagine this means you will end up training rather than participating, again. I apologise for what you have been asked to take on, but I am grateful for your help.”

Dorian smiled carefully. “It’s no trouble, Josephine. It's certainly not what I expected the cause to ask of me, but I can do it.” He drained his wine, and glanced towards the door. “We can hardly leave this all to him, can we?”

“Agreed,” Josephine said, eyes dark and voice hard. The last of the revolting liquid disappeared down her throat, and she got to her feet. “Speaking of the Inquisitor, I should—"

The door of the Herald's Rest swung open as Josephine turned towards it. Any raised heads fell fearfully as Leliana entered.

“Ah, speak of the demons,” Dorian remarked.

Leliana’s entrance was clever – it meant nobody was looking too closely at Lavellan, who followed in the same scout's disguise he'd worn in Redcliffe. He already looked rather bedraggled, so the disguise was likely for the best. Maryden had sung The Battle of Redcliffe Rift twice since Dorian had arrived, and it wouldn't have taken too much prompting for her to launch into a third rendition of her new – though frankly derivative – composition, should he have been recognised.

“Well, Ambassador,” Dorian said as he stood. “I suppose it’s time.”

Chapter Text

The storeroom was strewn with straw, bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. It was actually somewhat reminiscent of the last Orlesian winery Dorian had visited. That had been during the year when it had been fashionable for nobles to summer in cabins built to imitate peasant villages, pairing their gilded masks with plain clothes and spending a few hours a day standing on grapes or riding horses. Dorian had irritated his hosts by refusing to dress in sackcloth for the visit to a Montsimmard vineyard they had arranged to impress their distinguished guests from the Imperium.

Dorian had known how much that wine sold for back home, and how much it cost to have a new jacket custom-tailored, sackcloth or no, and hadn't considered himself to be missing out on much of an authentic peasant experience by arriving in a black and gold damask cloak and leather trousers.

“This one has a rather oaken aftertaste, wouldn't you say?” Dorian offered, examining his now-empty glass of Lydes 9:20, the fourth wine of the evening, and smiling across at Lavellan.

“If you insist,” Lavellan said blandly, staring down at his glass. “Perhaps I haven’t the palate for telling them apart.”

“The Duchess of Lydes is rather proud of the character,” Vivienne said, swirling her wine thoughtfully.

Dorian had found himself at what seemed to be the business end of the circle, away from the buzzing laughter of the rest of their companions that dimmed only when new glasses were passed out. As this was the end closest to the wine, however, Dorian wasn't inclined to complain.

“It represents the beautiful forests of Lydes, I believe is how she discusses it,” Josephine added.

Lavellan frowned as he tentatively lapped at his sample. “Am I going to be expected to know all of this?”

“Not at the Winter Court, no,” Josephine replied, offering Lavellan what Dorian assumed she considered to be a reassuring smile. “Though it is a useful tool, and a hobby many of the Orlesian nobility share.” She looked towards Leliana, who lingered in a corner slightly outside of the chatter. “It is one of your spymaster's particular talents, in fact.”

“It becomes much easier if you acquire the wine list beforehand,” Leliana said coolly. She seemed to be staring into space, but from where Dorian was standing, he realised that what she was watching was the door. “We are working on it, of course,” she added. “For the benefit of the courtiers in our employ.”

Lavellan sighed.

“As with most hobbies of the nobility, it can of course be used to deliver messages,” Josephine continued. “As Dorian and I were discussing downstairs, the nobility may convey their appraisal of how Empress Celene is handling the war through comments on the sufficiency of her wine selection.”

“Yes,” Dorian said, taking his eyes from Leliana. It was hard for him to imagine the spymaster truly at ease, as much as Josephine had repeatedly declared that this evening was supposed to be a pleasant diversion. “If, for example, the court seems overcome with praise for the acrid dregs from Halamshiral’s personal vineyard, you should take that as a sign. And perhaps not declare aloud that it tastes like horse piss unless you’ve taken a mind to favour Gaspard.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Lavellan murmured, setting his empty glass on the dusty barrel next to him.

“Remember, Dandelion, you can just make shit up as long as it sounds good,” Varric said over his shoulder. Having appointed himself the evening's sommelier, Varric was already pouring sample-sized slivers into the next row of glasses. “Trust me, that's how we used to sell this shit in Kirkwall.” He passed a glass of pale white to Lavellan.

“The next drink is a Val Chevin Blanc,” Josephine called.

Lavellan twisted his glass in his hands, and turned his eye towards the row of drinks. “How much did this cost, Josephine?” Lavellan asked quietly.

“Very little,” Josephine assured, smiling widely. “In addition to what we already purchase for the purpose of hosting ambassadors, we have received many vintage drinks as gifts. And bribes. It was a trifle to select a range of what is currently fashionable.”

Lavellan nodded stiffly, and took a sip of his drink.

“I would like to see you practice, my dear,” Vivienne said firmly. “Imagine you are in conversation with a Duchess, and she has asked your appraisal of the wine.”

“Is that likely to happen?” Lavellan asked flatly.

“It will be fun,” Josephine said brightly. “We can all try it.”

Lavellan went to take another sharp mouthful.

“You should take in the aroma first,” Josephine corrected.

Lavellan lowered his glass, expression steely. Then he mimicked the motions Josephine had taken him through earlier. Pausing to smell the wine, and then taking a slow drink. Pausing again, to swirl it in his mouth before he swallowed.

He exhaled slowly. Josephine smiled expectantly. “This is… certainly another glass of grape wine,” Lavellan muttered. “One wonders if Orlais has any other plants.”

Dorian laughed under his breath.

“Generally, one is encouraged to make less dull remarks, Inquisitor,” Vivienne replied.

Lavellan gave Vivienne an icy grin. “My apologies, Madame de Fer. My spymaster brought me here under the impression that this there was something important I had to attend to, and yet my ambassador insists that I am here to enjoy myself. I’m rather unclear on which tone I should be aiming for.”

“Please, relax and enjoy yourself,” Josephine said, grinning fixedly. “This is meant to be a night off for all of you.”

“One must still build good habits, even when at rest,” Vivienne said pointedly, turning towards Josephine.

“Vivienne—” Josephine started.

“I don’t think I need to remind you how little time we have,” Vivienne said. “Would the Marquise of Val Chevin be slighted by his sarcasm, if it was passed on as gossip?”

“Perhaps he would be relieved to share his secret stash of dandelion wine,” Dorian suggested.

Vivienne ignored his remark and turned back towards Lavellan. “Once you are a piece in the Grand Game, you must always act as if you could be observed. Every comment could be scrutinised for double meaning, however innocuous you believe it to be.”

“There is a spiced wine we can try next, if you would like a change,” Josephine said hurriedly, face pulled into a forced smile.

“If I am to be playing at court, then perhaps I could be doing something more useful,” Lavellan said, voice turning hard. “Put me through another lesson, leave me to study the highly complicated feuds between Orlesian vineyard owners.” He drained his glass, and gestured around the room. “This isn't a break for me. This isn't fun. And I'm not learning anything. It's a waste of time.”

“Do you think you can understand court purely through books?” Vivienne snapped. “Take this as tonight’s lesson, Inquisitor. This is what court feels like. An obligation you cannot evade, at once delightful and cruel.” She lifted her head. “I appreciate some of your friends’ attempts to preserve you from its worst parts,” she continued, with a sharp glance at Dorian. “But you need to be ready. As you have insisted yourself, you will not get a second chance.”

“Perhaps we should—” Josephine began.

“I read all of the reports, Vivienne,” Lavellan growled. “I am certain you are just as aware, given your knowledge of Orlais. The people of Emprise de Lion starve because the winter has frozen the river solid. Celene and Gaspard conscript their people to fight back and forth across the Exalted Plains. The Grey Wardens are still missing.” His fingers tightened around the stem of his wine glass. “And this is what the nobility busy themselves with?”

“There are many ways to fight a war, Inquisitor,” Vivienne sniped. “And some that cannot be won by might and magic alone, no matter how impressive your army. Considering the presence of your ambassador and spymaster, I expected you would have remembered that.”

Dorian could imagine this playing out as Vivienne and Josephine’s initial attempt with the cutlery had. They were almost half way through the month, and yet returning to Skyhold, it was almost as if they hadn’t moved at all. The Grand Game continued to be what it always was, and Lavellan continued to reject it. He caught Josephine's frantic glance. Varric reached his hand out to whisper something to the ambassador.

“I find wine to be a rather good cover,” Dorian said quickly, plucking another glass of wine from the crates and taking a preening posture with it as if he wasn’t interrupting an increasingly heated spat. “If I am attempting to insult someone in a plausibly deniable manner, for example, although I’m sure you can use it to be pleasant if you really must.”

Dorian played his mouth into a grin, which nobody apart from sweet, polite Josephine returned. He took a step towards Vivienne, and held his glass up. “This wine, for example. Although I admire the complexity of the flavour profile, I find to be rather too bitter to appreciate. I suspect it may have been aged in an older cask, and taken on a rather unpleasant flavour from it.”

Vivienne raised an eyebrow. “I do find it rather unsubtle,” she replied, voice lowered into smoothness. “A clearly laboured attempt to create something refined, but sadly overpowered by poor base character.”

Lavellan put his glass down next to Varric, pressed himself back against the wall. Seeing that Dorian’s eyes had darted away, Vivienne turned her head.

“Thank you for putting this together, Josephine,” Lavellan said roughly. “But I think I need to turn in.”

“Do you require a chaperone?” Dorian said teasingly.

He wasn’t sure if Lavellan was attempting to smile or grimace. “I won’t have you leave on my account, Dorian. Enjoy yourself.”

Leliana shadowed him as he made his way out. There was a moment of silence as the door clicked shut. Dorian turned back towards Josephine, Varric and Vivienne, although his eyes still watched the door.

“I believe you mentioned spiced wine,” Dorian said idly.

“Of course,” Josephine replied.

From downstairs, he heard the rising wail of Maryden’s voice. Dorian wished he didn’t recognise what she was beginning to sing. Varric poured him another wine. The Battle of Redcliffe Rift. 

Chapter Text

Five days, Dorian had barked at Leliana, sweeping his arm out to draw the spymaster's cool gaze over the shelves. We were away for five days, and now the Neverran histories and the natural philosophy books are in the same section.

He was still puzzling over that one. Both books contained dragons, perhaps. Leliana had blamed the library's state on a group of visiting scholars, whose visit had been arranged through Josephine, who claimed they were contacts of Dagna. Even his own corner hadn't been spared. At least his papers were, as far as he could make out, intact. Almost too intact, perhaps, considering they were apparently the sole item undisturbed by the swirl of chaos that had redistributed the books he was using across the far corners of Skyhold.

From the spymaster's wan smile, Dorian suspected that the neat removal and conspicuously inconspicuous return of his notes were her doing, but he hardly cared. The reports were largely for her sake, after all. Magical theory, Tevinter politics, and a few cramped pages of notes on the recent history of Orlais.

Dorian stalked back across the library, carrying the re-gathered volumes of Collected Writings on Temporal Studies of the Fade under his arm – the third volume having been transported, for some reason, to underneath a paper-wrapped corpse heart on the Tranquil's desk. And when he turned into his candle-lit reading nook, there was someone lounging in the chair in the corner.

“Ah, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, gently resting the books on his desk. “What brings you to my study?”

Lavellan was sitting oddly, his leg stretched out to the side and propped against the wall, and his face masked by a book on Orlesian theatre traditions. “I'm reading,” Lavellan replied roughly. When he lowered the book to grin at him, Dorian saw a freshly stitched cut above Lavellan's swollen left eye, and bruises that stretched down his throat. “At least, I'm trying to.”

Following the lead of Lavellan's strange smile, Dorian suppressed the instinct to fuss. It wasn't, he thought, one of his more becoming looks. “I'm certain Iron Bull can source an eyepatch for you, if you insist on walking around with that ugly thing on your face,” he remarked, casually dragging the spare chair over. As he moved, Dorian could see the glistening of freshly applied healing salve all down the left side of the Lavellan's face and neck. He was a rather pretty mess.

“So, pray tell,” Dorian continued, motioning towards Lavellan's wound. “What danger were you saving the world from when this happened? Demons? Assassins? Or did you return to the pantry and cork yourself rather violently trying to get into the good sparkling wine?”

“I fell into Cassandra's training sword,” Lavellan croaked, lining his hand up with the cut as if his fingers were a blade. He clenched his fist, and held it towards his bruised throat. “The cross-guard caught me here.”

“And here I thought she’d forgiven you for telling me her secret,” Dorian replied dryly.

“I ran into her after this morning's briefing and asked her to show me how to duel,” Lavellan grinned. Every time he moved his face too far, he winced.

“And you didn't invite me to watch?” Dorian said, theatrically drawing his palm to his chest. “I'm disappointed, Inquisitor.” He supposed he was, actually, but he was hardly going to tell Lavellan that. He had drunkenly considered visiting Lavellan's quarters to check on him after the party, but had found himself steered towards the barracks by Varric, who assumed he had managed to get lost.

Lavellan snickered, his laughter wheezing through his wounded throat. “Maybe next time,” he rasped through a strained grin. “I didn't have a lot of time to assemble an audience before we started.” He mimed a blow to the back of the knee he could still bend.

Dorian smiled sadly. “I have to admit, this isn't what I expected would be the thing to lift your mood after last night.”

“I wanted to throw myself into something... practical,” Lavellan said. He sighed, hunching his shoulders and lifting his eyes to the ceiling. “I just...” he started. He gestured loosely, then stopped. Dorian waited for him to continue, but whatever words Lavellan was searching for clearly weren't coming to him.

The library was quiet, owing to the amount of storming about snatching books and muttering to himself Dorian had been doing for the past hour.

Dorian leaned forward, and gestured to Lavellan's face. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” Lavellan replied. Dorian reached forward. He placed his thumb to the salve-slicked side of Lavellan's injured eye and curled the rest of his fingers against his cheek, careful to avoid brushing Lavellan's vallaslin. There was little if anything written on Dalish etiquette, but he assumed that touching their markings without permission was at least as rude as touching an Orlesian's mask.

“Yes, this is rather nasty,” Dorian said idly. Lavellan lifted his hand to cup Dorian's wrist, flinching slightly as he pressed Dorian's thumb closer to his bruises. Dorian swallowed. Lavellan looked towards the window.

“...Vivienne isn't wrong,” Lavellan said quietly. “It's for the best if I spend as much time as possible practicing. Josephine thought she was being clever, doing something most nobles find entertaining to try to give me a break.  It was a good idea. I'm just... tired. There's so much we need to do, and so little time. I have another dance lesson in half an hour, and I would still be duelling with Cassandra if she hadn't told me to stop.”

 “...I know,” Dorian said. He slowly uncurled his fingers, stretching his palm to cup Lavellan's cheek. He could feel Lavellan's jaw quiver against his fingertips. “...What if I told you to stop now?” he asked. “Take the afternoon off. Do something nice. I shall wait on you personally, if need be.”

Lavellan shook his head, squeezing Dorian's hand. “You know why I can't do that, Dorian,” Lavellan replied.

“I don't think I do, actually,” Dorian said sniffily, fixing his eyes on Lavellan's.  “You spent yesterday morning riding through the Frostbacks being grilled on appropriate formal greetings, the afternoon catching up on every report that's come in during the past five days, the night at a cultural lesson disguised as a party, and then you woke up at the crack of dawn to fit in extra lessons before the ones you already have planned.” He kept talking, despite his vow not to fuss, voice crackling. “How many times do I have to explain that I'm worried about you?”

It felt a little pathetic as soon as he'd said it. Slow down, so I will feel better. He had snapped and fretted over Felix like that a rare few times. Anyone else, even less. And he hated it every time, how vulnerable it made him feel.

“...You're right, Dorian,” Lavellan said, eyes lowered. “I'm... not going to learn anything well if I push myself like this. I'm just.. trying to make up for lost time, I suppose.” Dorian felt the muscles in Lavellan's neck tighten as he swallowed. “...My clan has a new First,” he said. “The woman who used to be our clan's Second is taking on my duties.”

“...Oh,” Dorian replied, heart sinking.

Lavellan's mouth twitched into a tense smile. “Do you know why I find the court so frustrating, Dorian?” he asked.

Dorian followed the lead of his false joviality. “Because they're a parcel of bastards?” he offered.

Lavellan smirked. “It's because my people do not have the luxury of succession crises,” he said. “We have a Keeper, a First and a Second. And plans for which clans will shelter the others if one of us is scattered. We would not survive if we didn't. We might not always agree – indeed, some of us may technically be at war with each other – but if the Dalish had a civil war on this scale, we would not survive as the same people.” He shrugged tightly. “I don't know if the Orlesians will change. The people of Val Royeaux continue to play the Game, as if the world is not burning around them. So we keep pushing, as if I'm not burning out.”

“I think things are already changing, Lavellan,” Dorian said softly. “Perhaps more than you think. The Chantry has split between those who wish to bury their heads and those who would rally to your cause.” He grimaced as he thought of Mother Giselle. “As much as I may not see eye-to-eye with many of the Southern Chantry faithful assembled under your banner, I think those who are here do mean to make this a better world.”

Lavellan watched him quietly, eyes alert. “Is that what your argument with Mother Giselle was about?” he asked carefully. “Her intentions?”

Dorian flushed. “Of course you heard about that,” he groaned. “No, it was about mine.”

Lavellan scowled. “She has no right--”

“I know,” Dorian replied calmly. He lowered his arm and clasped Lavellan's hand between both of his own, resting against Lavellan's knee. “You know how people like to gossip, even at Skyhold. Apparently I'm a terrible influence.” He still put on a grin. “Though, given that you've spent any length of time with me, you were aware of that.”

“Obviously,” Lavellan said faintly.

“She thinks we're, ah, inappropriately close,” Dorian said. “That I'm trying to put myself somewhere I can use you for power, riches, etcetera.”

“Inappropriately close,” Lavellan repeated tersely.

He knew he could have left things here. He wanted to run away. To oh, look at the time, shall we get you to your dance lesson? And yet, here they were. Lavellan wasn't taking his hand by accident, wasn't looking at him like this by accident. And if he was… better for Dorian to find out now, than keep hurting himself by pining. He ran his thumb over Lavellan's rough knuckles. He didn't particularly want to repeat what he knew people had said about them. There was a comedy song, apparently, about how they were a Dalish elf and a Magister, and in Tevinter weren't things normally the other way around?

“It's not just her,” Dorian said. He lifted his eyes to meet Lavellan's. “People think we're… intimate.”

He wasn't expecting Lavellan to shrug. “That's not the worst thing people are saying about me,” he replied flatly.

“I'm not the best lover for your reputation,” Dorian said with a smirk, ignoring his thudding heart. Lavellan was still holding his hands. “If the rumours are true, that is.”

Lavellan smiled, flustered, and averted his eyes. “If you were Dalish, I'd know what to say to you, Dorian.”

Dorian knew what he meant. “There is a rune I would have shown you if you were Tevene,” Dorian said, in as casual a voice as he could manage. “It's usually a fire rune, but it has... other meanings.”

“I'm going to need you to elaborate,” Lavellan said.

There was always something more to say. But this time, it could wait until later. Dorian leaned across the library chairs, and placed a firm hand against Lavellan’s chest. Pushing him back against the fabric headrest, he kissed Lavellan's warm mouth.

Chapter Text

Dorian slid from his chair and braced his other hand against the headrest as Lavellan's questioning fingers found his shoulders and pulled him closer. Dorian liked how Lavellan's hands felt. He was used to a certain level of rote unenthusiasm between himself and the objects of his attention, any other contact a formality before what they were both there for. A reassurance that things wouldn’t be taken further than was convenient. But Lavellan's touch was firm, his movements gentle. His hands lingered on Dorian's back, fingertips probing the edges of Dorian's shoulderblades. It reminded him of how Lavellan would trace his way across the map before they set off from camp in the morning, hands memorising the route.

Dorian lifted his head. Lavellan's face was soft, his eyelids fluttering.

“If I were Dalish, what would you say to me now?” Dorian whispered.

Lavellan laughed breathily. “I don't know,” he said softly. “What would you say to me, if I were Tevene?”

Dorian didn't want to say let's get this over with, shall we?, even if that would have been the general idea in Tevinter. Because he didn't want things to end that quickly with Lavellan. Dorian smiled frankly, aiming for mischievously. “That's a secret,” he said instead.

Lavellan laughed again, and pulled himself forward to kiss Dorian again, the joyful curve of his mouth pressing against Dorian's lips. “I still need to go to my dance lesson,” Lavellan said.

“You still need to rest,” Dorian replied, trying to smother the seriousness in his voice.

“Afterwards,” Lavellan said. He leaned back against the headrest. Green eyes flickered from side to side, apparently unable to decide where on Dorian's face to rest. “We could do something nice,” he said, almost stammering.

Dorian snorted in amusement. “Were you this nervous when you closed the hole in the sky, or is it just me that has that effect on you?”

“Just you,” Lavellan replied. “I thought you were here to kill me when I first saw you,” he blurted out. “After-- after I closed the rift at Haven. Everything was red with fire, and then there was you, surrounded by dead Venatori.” He paused, caught a calming breath. “And then you started talking, and you were... you.”

Dorian smiled gently. “I thought Cassandra might kill me, from her expression when she opened the door,” he said warmly. “You, though. I suppose I was expecting the Inquisitor to be more of a swaggering knight type. And then, there you were. The shortest person at the gate, dressed like a Fereldan peasant between your General and the Right Hand of the Divine in their clearly once very expensive armour.”

“I am a peasant, Dorian,” Lavellan laughed.

“That's besides the point,” Dorian breezed. He stroked Lavellan's cheek in a half-circle, avoiding his vallaslin. “What I was going to say, before you so rudely interrupted me, is that I understood, seeing you, why people followed you. You looked so sincerely serious.” His smile wavered. “I spent hours listening to people talk about you after Haven, before you staggered in from the avalanche. Stubbornly alive.”

“Please tell me that nobody spoke about the time I got lost in Val Royeaux at my vigil,” Lavellan grimaced.

Dorian smirked. “From the stories they were sharing, the Inquisitor was a rather bland, saintly type. I suppose the terrible hero complex was true, at least.” Dorian cupped Lavellan's face in both of his hands, and gently leaned in to kiss his forehead. “Although I must say,” he murmured. “I have always preferred Lavellan to the stories about the Inquisitor.”

Lavellan rested his chin on Dorian's shoulder, tight hands spreading across Dorian's back. “I noticed,” he whispered. And then he pulled back. “But I suppose we should get going,” he said quietly.

“Ah yes, your lessons,” Dorian said awkwardly, sitting up and straightening his shoulder-straps.

They both knew that Lavellan had made his way to the library on his bruised leg without assistance. But Dorian held his hand out anyway.

“With your terrible wounds, you must let me help you down the stairs,” he said.

“Of course, I couldn’t possibly go anywhere without help,” Lavellan replied evenly.

And as Lavellan rose, he anchored his arm around Dorian’s shoulder, and let Dorian guide him towards the stairs.

Dorian had expected stares. And they were some, as they crossed through the scaffold-cluttered main hall. It wasn’t true that Dorian didn’t like being looked at, he rather liked the attention most of the time. He just liked, generally, to have a purposeful idea of the impression he was giving. But with Lavellan’s obvious limp, most second glances seemed to be those of concern for the Inquisition’s noble leader, clearly somehow wounded in battle despite nobody having seen him limping yesterday.

Dorian wasn't sure what Lavellan thought this was, holding himself against Dorian's shoulder as they hobbled towards the same muddy corner of the training yard as before. Whether Lavellan considered this to be a purposeful cover for their closeness, as Dorian might have in Tevinter. Dorian had assumed the Dalish had an exact equivalent to Tevinter's codes, and that this was what Lavellan had been referring to, but he hadn't wanted to ask.

Whatever was happening between them, whether this was merely a pleasant indulgence to take Lavellan's mind from the Winter Court, or whether this was something else, Dorian intended to enjoy it while it lasted.

Dorian scanned for Josephine’s mustard yellow blouse as they arrived at the training yard, but she was nowhere to be seen. The others looked up as Dorian and Lavellan approached, and Dorian felt he should offer a story before anyone conjured their own.

“Did Cassandra ever apologise for hitting you in the face, Inquisitor?” Dorian asked.

Cassandra’s eyes widened. “I did!” she insisted.

Dorian smiled idly as Varric laughed. Lavellan slipped his arm down from Dorian’s shoulder and stood, still obviously favouring one leg.

“If this was a real duel, she would have cut your head off and tossed it across the ballroom floor!” Dorian cried, twisting his voice into an impersonation of Vivienne’s and throwing his arm out to mimic the bowling of an imaginary severed head.

“Really, Dorian, that would be absolutely barbaric,” Vivienne replied, arching a brow. “Whatever are they teaching nobles in the North?”

“I’ll be more careful next time, Cassandra,” Lavellan said calmly.

And they stood in uneasy silence, because Josephine was still nowhere to be seen.

“Well, nothing else for it,” Varric said, anchoring his hands to his hips. “Looks like I’m your dance teacher for today.”

“Would I not be a better choice?” Vivienne said.

“You can supervise me if you need to, Viv,” Varric replied, raising his palms.

“Well, I suppose we might as well get started then, my dears,” Vivienne said, striding across the yard towards Varric.

“Would it be better if we all changed partners, then?” Lavellan asked, glancing between Vivienne and Cassandra.

“Sure,” Varric said, shrugging loosely.

“It would be advisable to get used to dancing with different people, yes,” Vivienne elaborated.

“Alright, then,” Lavellan replied. And he turned, his face still and serious. “Dorian?”

“At some point, you’re going to have to dance with someone shorter than you,” Dorian replied briskly.

“That, as you have repeatedly pointed out, limits my options somewhat,” Lavellan replied dryly.

“I’ll dance with you next time, kid,” Varric piped up.

Lavellan grinned brightly. “Well, then?”

Dorian smiled nervously and raised his hand, touching palms with Lavellan. Varric bowed sarcastically, flourishing his hand towards Vivienne in imitation of a noble requesting a dance. Lavellan led Dorian by the palm to stand behind him, his pace uneven. Dorian dipped his palm to match him each time Lavellan staggered.

As they took their place in the formation, Lavellan swung himself close, standing on his toes to whisper against Dorian’s ear. “If you were Dalish, and I wanted to court you, this is how I might show you I was interested. Asking you to share a paired dance with me at one of our festivals.”

And Lavellan lowered himself and turned back to their dance positions, as if he hadn’t just done that. Dorian opened his mouth and closed it again, face turning hot, while Lavellan stared ahead idly. Cassandra stood with Solas, and Blackwall with Cole. Dorian pressed his palm firmly against Lavellan’s, focusing on that steady touch.

“Give me a minute and I’ll get Krem,” Bull said.

Dorian heard Bull took a few steps, and then stop.

“I’m terribly sorry for being so late.”

Dorian turned his head. Josephine’s hair was falling from her bun, and her face was flushed from rushing. She was holding a bottle in her hand.

“We received a diplomat who needed… immediate attention,” she panted as she crossed closer.

She was holding a bottle of Verchiel Red. A nice one. Verchiel, Gaspard’s territory.

“Is there a problem, Josephine?” Lavellan asked, turning to face her.

“Not as such,” she replied, coming to a halt. She held the bottle up in front of her, and met Dorian’s eyes. It meant exactly what he thought it might. “A little later than I had hoped, but… we have our invitation to the Winter Court. Courtesy of Duke Gaspard.”

Lavellan was the only one to break the pointed silence. “Good,” was all he said, before he turned back to the front of the set.

Chapter Text

Extracting Lavellan from his evening's lesson had been relatively straightforward. Even Vivienne insisted that he should spend the rest of the day lying down with something cold pressed over his eye, given that it would hardly be seemly for him to show up to the Winter Court with a bruised face.

“Especially as it's your eye, darling,” she continued. “The type of mask you'd need to wear to disguise it simply isn't in fashion this season.”

“Yes, and I suppose one is generally discouraged from dusting blemish concealer into open wounds,” Dorian added dryly.

Lavellan laughed, hadn't stopped laughing and smiling since they'd started dancing.

Their hands close and their bodies apart, gazing scandalously across the distance between them.

Dorian's heart had stirred with fear and desire, focusing on Lavellan's palm as a distraction from his mind's insistence that each pleasant moment be scrutinised, catalogued for future reminiscence after the end he hoped wouldn't come.

“I'll be heading back to my quarters, then,” Lavellan said. “Please come and find me if you need me.”

“You really can't help yourself, can you?” Dorian said, amused. Lavellan smiled guiltily, and shrugged.

Until they turned to leave, Dorian hadn't considered that it might have been him that someone needed.

“Dorian,” Josephine called.  Careful fingers smoothing a lock of ruffled hair behind her ear. “I was wondering if you might have some time to discuss the plans we were making before your departure for The Hinterlands.”

“Erm, I'm...” Dorian sputtered. He looked between them, Lavellan so warm and Josephine so frazzled.

Dorian was surprised that his urge was to help Josephine, and trust that Lavellan would make time for him another night. Dorian was used to thinking of his affections as something that needed to be consumed greedily and all at once, lest he miss his chance. And while the cautious voice in his head still suggested that if he didn't take the opportunity to visit Lavellan's quarters now, he might lose it, he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it.

Lavellan placed a hand on Dorian's elbow and smiled, green eyes bright. “I'll be fine,” he said. “You can check in on me when you're done, if you have time.”

Dorian nodded, and folded his palm over the hand of Lavellan's that rested on his arm. “Don't wait up for me,” Dorian said. “Make yourself some of your Dalish herbal tea, rest, and I'll see you in the morning.” He squeezed Lavellan's fingers, and then let go. “I expect you'll be lavished with enough attention from the medics, regardless.”

Lavellan ducked his head to laugh. “Yes, I expect so.”

He glanced back at Dorian as he left the training yard, and Dorian crossed towards Josephine.

“We can talk another time, if you would like to keep your plans,” Josephine said, nodding after Lavellan.

Dorian scoffed, and looked over his shoulder at the departing Inquisitor. “Please, Josephine. You've met him.” Lavellan had paused part of the way up the staircase, and was talking to Cullen. Dorian smiled softly at the familiarity of his distant gestures. “He would hardly be able to sit still if he thought he was keeping me from something important.”

“True,” Josephine replied warmly.

Dorian's eyes turned back to Josephine, and fell to the bottle of Verchiel Red, still clasped in her hands. “So,” he said, gesturing at the bottle as they began to walk towards the keep. “I assume that was a surprise to you.”

“Not completely,” she said. She turned the bottle, pressing its label against her blouse. Dorian supposed that was wise, if she wasn't looking to broadcast a potential alliance with Duke Gaspard to their nosier visitors. “I had hoped for a more... neutral sponsor for the Inquisition's entry. But the smaller houses that desire an end to the war are not able to leverage enough invitations, and the larger houses that have been waiting to see how fate will fall are unwilling to risk their reputation on our behalf.”

“Yes, Maker forbid they endanger their hard-fought inactivity when the world is on fire,” Dorian said. It was hard not to be reminded of Tevinter when they talked about court. People like his father, who stood for nothing but their own status. “Has Gaspard asked for anything?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Josephine replied. “For all his... numerous flaws, Gaspard has nothing to fear from further chaos. He seems to hope that our presence will go some way to preventing the assembly from ending with a continued stalemate.”

“So, what do we have left to do?” Dorian asked.

Josephine counted across her fingers, shifting the bottle under her elbow. “The tailors will be arriving later today. I, of course, request your presence at the costuming appointment tomorrow morning. Dennet has sourced the carriages, and Cullen and Leliana are able to provide soldiers and scouts to accompany them.”

“Such a shame, I was looking forward to pitching tents and camping on the Empress’ lawn,” Dorian commented. He held out a hand and Josephine passed him the bottle, before continuing to count.

“Leliana's spies have been sending back information about Halamshiral's agents, and she has been collating thorough intelligence on the other known attendees.” Josephine paused as they passed through the main hall, which was hardly the place for useful gossip. Dorian was glad that Lavellan didn't seem to have been detained further, from the fact that he couldn’t see him still loitering on the way to his quarters.

Josephine closed the door to her study, and continued to stride towards her desk. “As far as we can tell, the menu seems relatively simple,” Josephine said firmly, as if she was answering a question Dorian had asked.

“Simple to eat, or simple to poison?” he asked jokingly.

“Simple to eat,” she replied seriously. She seemed about to continue, but stopped herself, smiling self-consciously. “Sorry, I fear I am rambling. You do not need to hear all this. Most everything is provisionally arranged, if not confirmed.”

Dorian scoffed. “I am yours for the evening, Ambassador. If you continue like this, I am at risk of being useful.”

Despite her earlier hurry, Josephine’s desk was clear of letters – whatever correspondence she had received from Gaspard was either locked in a drawer or under Leliana’s scrutiny. Josephine opened a drawer and lifted out a thick stack of mismatched notepaper, bound together with a thick ribbon. “All that is left to prepare are our people. Which, as you know, is what I would like your help with.”

This time, Josephine didn’t object when Dorian pulled a handful of papers closer. There was a menu with a seating plan, a wine list, a suggested order of music and entertainment for the evening

“It seemed fair that I should play the host,” Josephine said. “And for you to play the host’s brother-in-law, who comes from a more prestigious family.”

“And has a myriad of secretive reasons for attending,” Dorian continued, a smile playing across his lips. “A marked absence of Antivan wine despite it being rather fashionable at the moment, suggesting a failing in the host’s trade connections.”

“Well noted,” Josephine replied.

“Have you had a chance to speak to the others?” he asked. “I suspect some may need more preparation for this evening of artifice than myself.”

“Not so far,” she admitted, stacking the sheets into neat piles. “I was planning to meet with them over the course of the next few days, once I had discussed some of the more practical details with you.”

She traced her fingers over one of the stacks, and pushed it halfway towards Dorian. “These are the notes regarding your character,” she said. Her hand lingered. She looked up at him, carefully. “I know you are worried about the Inquisitor, Dorian. Particularly after yesterday.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dorian replied automatically.

Josephine smiled gently. “I have been thinking,” she said. “If ordinary playing of the Game were enough to resolve the war, Orlais would not still be in this position. The Inquisitor is clever, he is learning well, and he has a… certain charm to him. I think that if he plays these well, being an outsider may indeed even be to his advantage.”

Dorian smiled frankly, and drew the papers closer. “If anything happens to him, I will burn whatever is left of Halamshiral after Gaspard’s trebuchets are done with it down and install Leliana as a benevolent dictator,” he said. “I’m certain she has the blackmail material to accomplish it.”

“I have no doubt that she does,” Josephine replied carefully.

Dorian buried his eyes in the papers, flipping through the sheaves with fast fingers. Notes on fashion, previous engagements with the strangers Dorian assumed would make up the rest of the party’s guests. “So,” he said. Quickly, loudly. “It seems Lord Caius has a mistress. Should I expect her to be in attendance?”

Chapter Text

Josephine's desk was piled high with fabric samples, cast with a warm glow from her fireplace. Lavellan still shivered in the mountain keep's cold stone drafts. He was stripped down to his shirt and breeches, arms spread out to the side as the red-haired dwarven tailor tightened her measuring tape around his slender waist. She was one of Varric's old merchant contacts, Dorian had gathered. She made a quick scribble on the long ream of paper trailing from her wrist, and moved to measuring the length of Lavellan's legs.

Dorian and Vivienne were lounging in seats by the fireplace, sipping from small porcelain cups of Josephine's bitter black Antivan coffee. Pretending they hadn't spent the previous hour squabbling, in a refined manner of course, over which of them would get to wear a particularly fetching brooch Josephine had sourced for the practice salon's wardrobe selection. He had pocketed it when she wasn't looking, excusing it to an exasperated Josephine as a highly necessary accessory for truly conveying the opulent dignity of Lord Caius, the curling golden embellishments reminiscent of a lion's mane and thus hinting at his favour for the Valmonts, etcetera.

Dorian caught Lavellan's resigned eyes as the tailor found yet more measurements she needed to take, and smirked from behind his cup. Lavellan’s bruise had healed nicely, faded to a yellow-and-lilac patchwork under his brow.

“I'm afraid fitted clothes are in fashion this season, my dear Inquisitor,” Dorian said dryly. “The very tilt of trouser cuffs could make or break your diplomatic efforts.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Lavellan replied, disguising a smile.

“Leliana and I had a few ideas,” Josephine piped up, sitting straight in her chair to peek over the fabric. Leliana was slowly sifting through the samples, turning each to and fro and probing it with her fingers, as carefully as if she were tasting wine. “Given our... practical concerns and limitations.”

“Talk me through them,” Lavellan said.

“Now, one… generally has more than one month to prepare a new outfit for the most important event of the season,” Josephine began. “So, frankly, the fact that we have managed to employ a tailor at all is a victory of a sort. Leliana is sorting through the fabrics to select what we are likely to be able to acquire in quantity on short notice.”

“As well as what is appropriate,” Leliana added.

“Purple and green are out of the question, I assume,” Lavellan said.

“Correct, my dear,” Vivienne replied. “At least, should you wish to present a face of neutrality, which I believe would be wise regardless of who you are planning to favour.”

Lavellan shrugged, his eyes finding their way to Dorian with feigned casualness. “Well, Dorian did say those were the two coat of arms colours I should take care to remember.”

Dorian leaned back in his seat, and smiled sharply.

“As I expect Dorian also told you, do look out for anyone wearing those colours,” Josephine said brightly. “It may be subtle, such a pair of small earrings or the lining of a jacket, but the Court often uses fashion to suggest allegiance in a manner that can be denied as a coincidence should their position become disfavoured.”

“Sadly, a two-colour coat which can be turned about to suggest a shifting allegiance would be both impractical and hideous in these colours,” Dorian added smoothly. “Unless you wish to attend in the guise of a particularly provocative court jester.”

“One of our spies is already wearing such an outfit,” Leliana replied. “It wouldn't do for someone officially affiliated with the Inquisitor's party to match them.” Dorian couldn't read whether she was joking or not from her blank expression, and decided that either was just as likely.

“What we were considering,” Josephine continued. “Is a uniform.” She stood and walked around her desk, unfurling a roll of draft paper and presenting Lavellan with a cluster of mannequin sketches. The tailor, apparently quite finished, scurried aside as Lavellan reached for the designs. “We thought that the absence of a mask would be a statement of sorts,” Josephine added. “It also means you will not have to cover your vallaslin.”

“Josephine, this looks remarkably wearable,” Lavellan grinned, peering over the paper. “Are you certain I can wear it at court?”

“Sometimes, the appearance of utility comes into fashion,” Leliana remarked coldly. “With many of Orlais’ brightest nobles involved in the war on one side or the other, military-style jackets have become a rather common sight.”

“And given our timeframe, we needed something that would appear refined without the need for rare materials or grand embroidery,” Josephine added. “Also, having your official party dress in the same style is... again, we realistically have only a little over a week before we leave. There simply isn't time for a bespoke fitting for all of your companions.”

Dorian hadn't even considered his own outfit. He had been thinking of other things, he supposed. He was disappointed, of course, that he wouldn't be able to acquire something more to his style, but he imagined he would still look rather fetching in the jacket.

“It also means that there will be no doubt who we represent,” Josephine added. “Cassandra, for example, will be seen as representatives of the Inquisition, not the Divine or the Pentaghasts.”

“And if they’re all the same colour, anyone wearing that colour could be seen as one of our supporters,” Lavellan mused.

“Exactly,” Leliana smiled.

“We thought it would be best to give you some say over the choice of fabric and colour, with our guidance,” Josephine said, gesturing towards the fireplace to include himself and Vivienne as part of our.

Lavellan stared over at the pile of fabric Leliana had set aside, still a sea of colour. “I’m not sure what’s fashionable,” he said nervously.

“What colours do you enjoy wearing, my dear?” Vivienne asked gently, as if she was coaxing a cat. “It should suit you best, after all.”

Lavellan glanced down at the chair in front of the desk, where he’d slung his frayed beige tunic and worn, tan leather jacket. “Brown?” he replied.

Josephine matched eyes with Dorian, grinning uneasily. Lavellan looked between the four of them.

“We may have something in bronze?” Josephine offered tensely. “Or russet?”

“You should select a… brighter colour, perhaps,” Dorian suggested. “Something… colourful, rather than natural.”

“Something that a peasant wouldn’t wear?” Lavellan replied sharply.

“Well, when you put it that way…” Dorian said, sucking air through his teeth. “…Well, yes.”

Lavellan smiled darkly. “I won’t offend the court by demonstrating the undyed colour of the fabrics they’re wearing.” He strolled towards the table, laying the design to the side and putting his hand against the pile of fabrics. “Red, then,” he said, pulling a blood-coloured swatch towards him. “And the braiding can be gold.” He tossed his glance over his shoulder, his grin almost sinister. “I’m told they’re considered rather romantic colours, by the discerning viewer.”

Lavellan turned, and held the swatch against his jaw. Dorian set his cup against the fireplace with a shaky clink. He looked almost as he had at Haven, cast in the red glow of the Venatori’s torches. “So I’ve heard,” Dorian replied. “Clearly, you’ve chosen something a shade away from Chantry red to suggest they approve of what they’re doing.” Rather than simply to tease me, he didn’t add.

“Clearly,” Lavellan replied.

“And a rather fashionable colour this season,” Vivienne added. “Jewel tones are always fairly popular in winter.”

“Ah, and in the broadcloth,” Josephine noted, pacing around the table. “It is a sturdy fabric, so it should provide some basic defence if you find yourself in a duel.”

“The sash and lining should be a silk, I think,” Leliana suggested. “We have a supply of navy and of white, Inquisitor.”

“Whichever we have more of,” Lavellan shrugged.

“That will be the navy, then,” Josephine replied.

“Then if that’s everything, I will retire to my quarters to begin my study of Orlesian literature,” Lavellan said, flourishing the swatch like a handkerchief as he took a mocking bow. “Shall I send the others to be measured?”

Josephine plucked the swatch from his fingers as he straightened. “I will handle it, Inquisitor,” she said. “Please enjoy yourself, the reader Varric compiled seemed very comprehensive.”

“Remember that I shall be querying you on common allusions made to Freyette’s The Sword of Drakon tomorrow, my dear,” Vivienne added.

“I recall,” Lavellan replied. And he paused, part of the way through crossing his room, to look back. “You all know where I’ll be if you need me,” he said. And his wounded eye passed nervously over Dorian before he darted from the room.

Chapter Text

Most of the repairs to the main hall were finished by now, but the climb to Lavellan's quarters was still propped up by rickety scaffolding. As Dorian ascended the dusty staircase, crows flapped in and out of a gaping hole in the keep wall that had probably been a fairly neat window at some point in its life. Dorian rapped his knuckles neatly against the door, adjusting the stack of books balanced against his hip with his other hand.

"Come in!" Varric's voice called. Dorian pushed the door open, somewhat bemused. Varric was standing on a chair in the middle of Lavellan's rather spacious room, raising a blunt-tipped actors' sword in the air with one hand and clutching a script in the other. Lavellan himself was sprawled across the floor, upside-down to Dorian's view, clutching his heart as if he'd been stabbed.

Lavellan relaxed his expression of feigned agony and opened his eyes, straining his neck to look at the door as a tangled blonde halo of his hair spread across the rust-red rug. "Ah, Dorian," he said with an upside-down grin. "I'm glad you dropped in, I think Varric is tiring of playing most of the roles."

"Hey kid, you're supposed to be dead, remember?" Varric laughed. He looked across to Dorian. "You're just in time for my big speech, Sparkler."

Dorian closed the door behind him and crossed the rug to lay his books on Lavellan's bed. They were mostly textbooks, with a few... exceptions. Things he'd thought he might read if Lavellan needed quiet company rather than intimate chatter. "So, what dreadful genre of fate has befallen our fair hero today?” Dorian said. “A tragedy, or a farce?"

"Well, he asked for tragedy," Varric shrugged.

"I apparently have a very limited patience for Orlesian theatrical humour," Lavellan muttered, closing his eyes and re-affecting a corpselike disposition.

“Yes, I suppose it loses something when there are only two of you and neither of you are wearing masks,” Dorian replied, settling against one of the bedposts. “So, pray tell, which famous corpse from Orlesian literary history are you pretending to be today?”

“Oh, I'm Clarence de Riche,” he replied. “I have just been murdered by my scheming younger brother.”

Varric shrugged, turning the blunt sword aside. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm going to be arrested by the palace guard as soon as I'm done talking.”

“This play would be rather risqué in Orlais at the moment, would it not?” Dorian suggested. He placed his fingers against his collarbone and adopted a dramatic tone. “Ah, Clarence de Riche, the Dukedom's rightful heir, so viciously murdered by his brutal, dictatorial brother.” He smirked. “Or, ah, Clarence de Riche, that foppish nitwit, how tragic that his far more practical brother never received the recognition he deserves, depending on how one plays it.”

“That's why I thought he should read it,” Varric replied, stepping down from the chair. “Or at least, the famous scenes. I'm trying to hit the parts any noble with a tutor can make jokes about as if they understand them. Orlesian comedy stock characters, overused speeches, that sort of thing.”

“You still haven't given your speech,” Lavellan piped up from the floor.

“Eh, Dorian can read it to you,” Varric said, tossing the script to the bed. “Ruffles said she'd need me this afternoon.”

“Such a shame,” Dorian drawled. “Cassandra assures me that nobody matches your talent for dissemblance. I shall consider us robbed of your performance.”

Varric laughed, low and warm. “I'm sure you'll manage without me.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, then?” Lavellan said, glancing after Varric.

“Sure thing, Dandelion,” Varric replied. “And you can ask me what I've just made you read.” He waved over his shoulder and slipped through the door, still laughing.

Lavellan seemed frozen for the moment, after the door clicked shut.

“I wasn't sure if you'd come,” he managed to say.

Lavellan's quarters smelled like pine needles and fresh leather.

Dorian smirked and knelt on the rug. Fingers pressing into the fabric, once rich but now threadbare. He wondered where Josephine had found this, whether it had rolled off the back of a merchant's wagon or whether it had been a slightly insulting gift. He still wanted one. It would smother the chill from the tower's floor. So would Lavellan, his mind whispered, now that he was perched so close to Lavellan's warm body.

“Whatever am I going to do with you, Inquisitor?” Dorian murmured. He planted a hand beside Lavellan's other shoulder and stooped to kiss him at an angle. Lavellan's breath was soft against Dorian's lips, his fingers tracing through Dorian's hair. Lavellan opened his eyes languidly as Dorian leaned back.

“I'm never going to find out how this play ends, am I?” he whispered, smiling wickedly.

“And here I thought you would stop teasing me after I kissed you in the library,” Dorian whispered back.

He reached for Varric's script, purposefully slowly, his other hand still resting within touching distance of Lavellan. Dorian still felt his skin heat, and his blood rush, when Lavellan spoke to him like this. But oh, Lavellan always knew what he was doing. And so did Dorian.

“You know,” Dorian said idly, leaning casually against the bed as his hands closed around the script. “You once said that you wouldn't read to me alone unless you were courting me. Is that what this is, or does it depend on the material?”

It was Lavellan's turn to flush. “I suppose it is,” he stammered. His eyes darted to the ceiling, as if he was trying to recall a name he'd forgotten. “It's-- it's like what you say about the Orlesians,” he said quickly. “There's... plausible deniability. Up to a point. One of you might break things off, up until... that point, and not be thought badly of. Clans are small, so... if a relationship moves past that point and then breaks down, it can... cause a lot of problems.”

Dorian didn't have to question whether they would reach whatever that point was, if things were to be as they had always been for him. He settled the script in his lap. “Courtship in Tevinter is rather more functional,” he said coolly, keeping his eyes on the pages. The margins, the gaps between the letters. “There's a lot of resentful, chaperoned strolling through estate gardens while one's parents compare bloodlines over iced tea on the terrace.”

“As always, Dorian, that is horrific,” Lavellan said, brows creasing. He reached a comforting hand towards Dorian's face, and Dorian caught it in his fingers.

“It was nothing, Inquisitor,” Dorian said with a grin.

“It wasn't, though, was it?” Lavellan insisted.

Dorian pressed his lips to Lavellan's knuckles in silence, as he wondered what to say. He wished he could think of his homeland without that scar finding its way to the surface.

His family had put him through such a preliminary courtship with the girl whose debutante ball he had attended, the one who had worn that same Orlesian-style ruffled dress for the rest of the season. They had spent the entire stroll making veiled snipes at each other's families. He had almost been sad he likely wouldn't see her again, after one or other set of parents had declined the match. Of all of the fiancées his parents had attempted, she was the one he would almost have liked to have as a friend. He wondered what it said about them, that he thought of that as an almost happy memory.

“I can court you in the manner of either of our people, if that's what you want,” Dorian said, cupping Lavellan's cold fingertips against his cheekbones. “Vivienne will chaperone you, I'm certain.”

“I mean, I would, Dorian,” Lavellan scowled. “But I'm not letting you distract me that easily.”

Dorian nodded distractedly, pulling the script into his eyeline with his free hand. “I don't know what I can say, Inquisitor,” he said. “I have a lot of good memories of my homeland. I wouldn't choose to be from another place. But... you already know that I wish things were different.”

Dorian pulled Lavellan closer, and Lavellan let him. He held Lavellan's warmth against his chest, tighter than was wise, and Lavellan clutched him as if he was something precious. Dorian adjusted the pages, and read over Lavellan's shoulder. “Now the time for kind men is at an end,” Dorian murmured. “Although one might choose to read it in a more sinister register, of course. Even farcically, depending on how one wishes to play the subsequent arrest by the palace guard. Now the time for kind men is at an end. I care not if I am known for cruelty, long as I am known, in equal measure, for power.”

Chapter Text

It had taken another morning's work, but the library was finally back in some semblance of order, albeit with large gaps where the majority of useful texts on Orlais would be returned when he, Leliana and Josephine were finished with them. Dorian had even taken the Tranquil around the shelves and explained the Tevinter archival system to her, in the hope that she might be able to repair some of the damage the next time a flock of Orlesian scholars descended upon the Inquisition's library while he was away. He had attended a second fitting with Josephine's dwarven tailor, picked out a suitable pair of boots for the salon, and supplied a handful of additional names for Leliana's list of Tevinter mages that could plausibly have been in Orlais for the last year.

And now, Dorian found himself back in the library, and at a loose end.

He had searched, feigning nonchalance, for books on Dalish customs. For research on some of Ambassador Briala's allies, he had been prepared to tell anyone who asked. But really, so that he would have some idea of what Lavellan could be expecting from him. So that he might be able to surprise him. Lavellan had spoken before of how he missed his clan's rituals – perhaps this game of courtship might, in some small way, cheer him in that regard. Lavellan had smiled, and was gentle, the rest of the evening they’d read together, and Dorian rather liked seeing him like that, particularly when it was all for him.

Such anthropological minutae were of little interest to the composers of the Inquisition library's books on the Dalish, however. Exalted March-era military records describing the terrifying and alleged barbarity of Dalish warriors, and toothless fairytales of the ancient elves as a quaint historical people, all hastily donated by nobles wishing to demonstrate a base acknowledgement, and by implication acceptance, of who and what Lavellan was. Apparently they had also received rather a lot of literature on the histories of great circle mages, given that there was hardly any written material on Dalish magic in specific.

Still, Dorian had lifted some of the stranger ones in case Lavellan might get some entertainment from them. The record describing Halla as vicious, carnivorous war beasts had particularly amused him. And he set aside anything that referred to Halamshiral while it was still an elven settlement for Leliana's people to scry through, in case they mentioned any secret passages or some such that could be of use.

And that left him with Tevinter’s idea of courtship, again. Wholly unsuited to what he and Lavellan were going through, but he supposed adopting the Orlesian tradition would be somewhat inauthentic to both of them, if a rather intriguing cultural teaching tool. It could be entertaining, at least. Perhaps he should suggest it.

He thought of what he’d said to Lavellan about Tevinter the night before. The matchmaking wasn’t the worst of what he’d had to endure, but it had certainly been a symptom. Even if he had been allowed to court men and take, for example, an apprentice or distant niece as an heir, he wouldn’t have been allowed to court Lavellan. Because he was an elf, because he was an outsider, because he had no noble lineage. The codes Dorian was used to would still apply – but would apply slightly more respectably, as if he were an Altus sleeping with a non-mage, a servant, or lover of weak pedigree, without diluting his family’s bloodline.

He tried to wonder, more pleasantly, if Lavellan would want a gift. Courtship in Tevinter occasionally involved the formal presentation of trinkets. The rings and necklaces his mother wore, the illuminated illustration of her family tree that had hung in the entranceway of his family home. Perhaps the Dalish had a similar tradition. Or perhaps they would have considered such things a waste, in some way.

Or, indeed, perhaps he was simply overthinking things. He had made his offer to Lavellan as a distraction. Perhaps Lavellan had accepted it sarcastically, and he shouldn't trouble himself too much with the details. Dorian didn't like how much his mind was racing over this, was aware that it had been running in circles since he’d returned from his visit to Leliana.

Perhaps he should take a break from haunting the library. Dorian put the books he wasn’t taking back where they belonged, adjusted his belts and satchels, and headed for the stairs.

When he had left, Josephine looked as if she would be busy with the tailor for the foreseeable future. And he could find Lavellan and Varric, certainly, but he felt it best for Lavellan to have the opportunity to miss his presence. Turns of feigned coldness and playing at disinterest after intimate moments suited how he wanted to present himself better than clinging lovesickness. It made him feel like a dog. He felt that should he get too close, Lavellan would be able to tell what he'd spent the morning fretting over, and find it pitiable. That wasn't how he wanted a lover to look at him.

And that left a stroll through the courtyard. Visiting the new array of merchants that had arrived this morning, keen to offload late-season fashion on the Inquisition. Dropping in on Cassandra to tell her where he had gotten to in the book she had lent him. As he wandered down the stone steps, he spotted Blackwall in conversation with one of the soldiers. You could go back to the tavern, a voice reminded him.

He was surprised at how nauseating the concept seemed to him this afternoon. When he thought of not just Blackwall, but Lavellan, Josephine or Cassandra finding him in the staggering state he was liable to get into by himself, the shame burned like acid. Keeping his eye fixed on the distant ramparts as if he hadn't noticed the Warden, Dorian hurried onwards.

“Dorian.”

Dorian froze at Blackwall's call. He turned slightly. Unfortunately, the Warden was walking towards him. “Ah. Warden Blackwall,” Dorian said stiffly. “So lovely to see you. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company today?”

Dorian grinned nervously. He didn't know why. There was nothing Blackwall could possibly be here to chide him for, unless he had done something he'd forgotten late in the evening at Josephine's wine tasting. Which was rather unfortunately plausible.

“I wanted to have a few words, Dorian,” Blackwall said carefully.

“And what would those words be, Blackwall?” Dorian replied, aware of the sharpness creeping into his voice. Even recently he had thought that there would come a time when this pre-emptive fear of disgrace would leave him. After he proved himself through his magical talents, after he left his family home, after he left Tevinter, after he found some purpose, after he stopped Alexius, after he argued things out with his father, after he knew Lavellan wanted him. So far, there had been no easy cure. “I would be happy to advise you on your conduct at Josephine's salon, if that's what you desire.”

Blackwall shook his head. “It's about something else,” he said, folding his arms slowly. It was his loss. Dorian couldn't think of a man less suited for the intellectual demands of artifice than Warden Blackwall. He wouldn’t be surprised if he forgot to answer to his false name. Blackwall folded his arms. “I heard a little about what happened with your father, Dorian.”

Dorian froze. “That's none of your business,” he said automatically. He wondered how it had spread. One of the soldiers that had come to Redcliffe with them? Mother Giselle's people? And beyond that, he supposed, news of what was happening to House Pavus might be known to merchants who had travelled to Tevinter, eager to sell gossip to the Inquisition's hungry faithful, or to their hungrier antagonists.

“I know,” Blackwall replied, his face falling into that irritating expression of gentle seriousness. “You're estranged from him. I don't need to know more.”

“I can't imagine why you feel you can give me a lecture on a subject you admit you know little of,” Dorian snapped.

Blackwall sighed heavily. “I'm not going to lecture you, Dorian. We've had our problems, you and I, but losing your family – it's a difficult thing to go through. If you need to get something off your chest – you can talk to me.”

“Is that all?” Dorian said snippily, and he wasn't sure why he said it. His recently habitual check of would you be embarrassed if Lavellan saw you acting like this was coming back with an easy yes.

“Yes,” Blackwall sighed, uncrossing his arms. “That's all. I’d do the same for any of our people, Dorian.”

Dorian's face tightened. Despite all he felt he'd changed for the better during his time with the Inquisition, he was painfully aware that he was still a shipwreck by anyone’s standards, his basest instincts breaking him upon the same rocks over and over, and a few months of being out of the frantic, fearful state of paranoia he’d lived in since his departure from Tevinter had yet to change that. “Thank you,” Dorian said suddenly, and stalked off without waiting for Blackwall to respond.

Chapter Text

The last times Dorian had been near Skyhold's gate, it had been as part of a procession. The place was, thankfully, somewhat less busy as merely a marketplace. While the quartermaster handled most provisions, weapons, etcetera – indeed, Dorian thought he spotted him arguing with a fletcher at the far end of the market as he came down the steps – there were still stalls selling to what passed for the general public at Skyhold. Faded pink and blue canopies huddled to shelter their stock from the angry clouds threatening to burst overhead, and soldiers and servants wandered between the stalls, the dirt and dried grass path beneath mulched and muddy from the heavy footfall.

Dorian wasn't expecting to feel homesick, given that this was hardly Minrathous. There was no marble at all, for example. But this still reminded him of wandering the markets with Felix, spending Alexius’ money on cheap books and expensive accessories.

He imagined that most of his possessions were still in trunks somewhere in his family's estate, possibly somewhat moth-eaten by this point if they hadn’t already been disposed of. He remembered his father making a show of disposing of some of the gaudier baubles as retribution for his debauchery. Perhaps he torched the rest after the humiliation of his departure, before the regret started to sink in.

Dorian had taken a rather eclectic selection of what had been to hand in the blind panic of his escape, and sold most of it across the leaner months of the past few years to pay for his various lodgings. Apparently, there wasn't always stable employment for a decadent academic of strange reputation from a country most of the rest of Thedas would rather not have dealings with. He had occasionally wondered if he might see any of it amongst the stacks of last year’s fashions when he came to the market. He’d sold some particularly flattering jackets that were still in good condition, among other things.

Dorian stepped from the end of the stone stairs and into the crowd, and cringed as the ground squelched beneath his travelling boots, a dampness creeping through. He supposed they'd finally worn through. They'd at least given a decent showing, first – this was the pair that had seem him through his abscondance from the Imperium and his mad dash to Haven, as well as months of hiking all over the countryside with the Inquisition.

Josephine was right, of course, even if she hadn’t realised what she was right about. Dorian had a stipend for his work now. He didn't need to live as if he was coasting on the dregs of gold his most recently pawned heirloom had earned him. Given that he had come down here to take the sort of break he was always pestering Lavellan to have, perhaps he could take the indulgence of acquiring a new pair before he returned to research and reports for the rest of the evening. The shoes he'd set aside for the salon were hardly appropriate for the ride to Halamshiral, and he didn't relish the idea of having to break in the stiff boots of their new uniform in such a manner. If he was going to spend the entirety of the Winter Court limping, he'd rather it be for a more exciting reason than blisters.

There was a second-hand book stall, which he lingered at habitually. He thumbed the yellowing paperbacks, and cursed not having brought down the books he’d finished, or at least the ones that survived the Frostbacks, to sell back. Perhaps he would create a section in the library for them, if only for the private entertainment of watching the stuffier Chantry researchers that flapped around the library like bats come across them. The Maiden and The Magister would certainly raise some eyebrows. He spotted the cover of another terrible Tevinter bodice ripper and picked it up immediately, along with another few salacious romances that he thought looked particularly amusing, and handed the merchant a palmful of coins.

As Dorian was putting them in his satchel, he couldn’t help but feel that he was being watched. He was so used to this feeling by now that it scarcely bothered him anymore. He turned casually, to shoot a glance over his shoulder. Cassandra quickly looked away, and Dorian realised it hadn't been him she was looking at but the stall. He smiled. It was hard to describe her as a friend, per se, but he supposed he was pleased to see her. She slipped through the crowd, and he decided it would be at least briefly amusing to catch up.

Crossing the stream of people to meet her wasn’t difficult, considering that people generally tried to stay out of both of their ways.

“Too busy for you to be seen buying scandalous literature?” Dorian said breezily, almost having to jog despite his height to keep up with her rapid strides.

“Dorian,” she said sternly, evading his easy smile. “I was just here for – supplies.” She brandished a list, in what he recognised as Leliana's handwriting, as if it were a blade. He knew better than to question why this wasn’t going through the quartermaster. Leliana in particular liked to make her material needs difficult to track through one source for anyone watching.

“Ah, of course,” he replied. “She once asked me to buy a dozen bars of soap in three very particular scents, I never did find out why.”

“Yes, I believe I remember what that would have been for,” Cassandra said. She didn’t elaborate. She did slow her pace, however, apparently relaxing somewhat. “You were… correct, however. I was… considering seeing the rest of the market while I was here.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am in no hurry to return to Josephine’s tailor.”

“And here I thought you would be used to the pinching and pinning, given our shared aristocratic history,” Dorian said idly. He straightened, trying to grasp a curious glance at what Leliana was after this time.

“Quite the opposite,” Cassandra muttered. “I dislike being fitted for armour, but that at least has some purpose. I spent many more hours of my childhood being stitched into ridiculous layers of taffeta than I care to recall. Such a waste of time. It was another reason to be grateful when I began my training as a Seeker.”

“Perhaps I had more time to get used to it,” Dorian shrugged. “I gather our magical institutions are rather more well-heeled than the rest of Thedas, our dear Vivienne and her proteges excepted of course.”

They had crossed out of the other end of the market, now. Cassandra came to a halt. He could begin to tell the difference now. She still looked, to the unfamiliar eye, rather like she was about to scold him, but he could tell she was actually, by her standards, in a fairly good mood. “I have been telling myself that, no matter the outcome, I will be at least a little relieved when this is all over.”

Dorian knew he’d thought the same, for Lavellan’s sake at least. “I would like to tell you, smugly perhaps, that I would be perfectly happy to still be drinking wine in the Halamshiral gardens in two weeks’ time. But so long participating in the Grand Game, no matter how sparkling the company, would quickly turn nightmarish.” He smiled frankly. Cassandra, through her enquiries, would know enough of his history to understand what he was about to say without questions. “The Inquisition attracts all manner of outsiders, pariahs and undesirables, and I am no exception.”

Cassandra nodded silently. “A homeland is not always the home we wish it to be. Some of us find such belonging elsewhere.”

“Yes, quite,” Dorian murmured. “Although, don’t you suppose Nevarra might become a homeland you could be proud of, if it changed?”

Cassandra shook her head. “Much of my family believed so, and it ended in their deaths. I have no desire to return, when the Maker has given me another calling.”

“Of course,” Dorian replied. But that stubborn thread still tugged at his heart, the one that still led to Tevinter no matter how many wrongs had been done on its behalf.

Cassandra unfolded Leliana’s list again, drawing a line under the topic. Dorian hadn’t expected to be glad that Cassandra was a woman of so few words.

“Actually, perhaps you could help me with this, Dorian,” she said with a frown. “Apparently we require very specific fabrics that I have no knowledge of.”

“I am at the Inquisition's service,” Dorian replied glibly, tilting his torso as if he was beginning to bow. Cassandra handed him Leliana’s requirements, and led him back into the market.

Chapter Text

The night's heavy raindrops rapped against the tower's roof and walls, and a firm, careful knock sounded against the door to Dorian's quarters. Lavellan was standing in the hallway when Dorian opened the door, weather dripping from his hair and a wicker basket hanging from his arm. Dorian pulled him impulsively close, pressing his rain-damp chest against his own, and then let him pass without a word. Hoping, he supposed, that speaking only behind the closed door would grant some illusion of privacy.

“I was wondering if you'd had time to take dinner this evening,” Lavellan said conversationally, placing the basket on the bed.

“I had a rather pleasant meal with Cassandra, actually,” Dorian replied smoothly, tracing Lavellan's steps. “But you clearly haven't. Please, take that sodden jacket off and eat something. I acquired some delightful Orlesian literature at the market this afternoon, and was rather looking forward to reading it to you.”

Lavellan shrugged the soaked tunic from his shoulders and let Dorian peel the clinging sleeves from his shivering arms. “The Tragedy of the Chevalier's Lover,” Lavellan read, tilting his head to squint at the book Dorian had left on the bed. “That sounds absolutely filthy, Dorian.”

“Yes, and absolutely more read across court than whatever Vivienne has been questioning you on,” Dorian said, hanging Lavellan's tunic on the back of his chair. “Perhaps you can bond with a Duchess over it.”

When he turned back around, Lavellan had slung his boots off and was sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Do make yourself comfortable, Inquisitor,” Dorian remarked, arching an eyebrow and smothering a laugh.

“Thank you, I will,” Lavellan replied, smiling dryly. He opened the basket as Dorian sat across from him. It was layered with neat slices of bread, shiny red apples and generous pieces of cheese.

“I didn't know you were on the kitchen's good side,” Dorian replied, settling restlessly against the headboard.

“I've had to go up to apologise personally for Sera's antics enough times,” Lavellan shrugged. “They think I'm a nice young man.”

“An unfortunate mistake on their part,” Dorian teased. Lavellan took a bite of his bread, and Dorian wondered if he saw Lavellan shiver again, his wet shirt in Dorian’s cold room. He told himself, fruitlessly, not to fuss.

Lavellan swallowed. “Dorian, you’re pulling a face,” he said. “What are you thinking?”

Dorian flushed. “I’m thinking that I must be out of practice ahead of returning to court if you can read me so easily,” he replied.

“Perhaps I’ve just learned to do so,” Lavellan grinned easily.

“I’m also thinking that if you catch cold under my supervision, Josephine will have my head,” Dorian sighed. He stood and paced around to the foot of the bed, Lavellan's eyes following him in amused bewilderment.

“You’re very sweet sometimes, Dorian,” Lavellan said softly. “I promise not to tell.”

“After what happened with Cassandra, I’m not sure I can trust you with my harmless secrets,” Dorian breezed, snatching the black silk dressing gown from the bedpost. He had been used to owning silks when they were, so to speak, new. This one had been threadbare and greying at the seams when he’d acquired it, but the state of his tower dwelling had still led him to appreciate it.

“Has she still not forgiven me?” Lavellan asked.

“I think after the duelling incident the pair of you are even,” Dorian replied, perching behind Lavellan.

Dorian didn’t know what to do with how easy it was. To talk to him, to be with him. Forgetting himself, he sunk against Lavellan as he wrapped the gown around his shoulders, resting his face against Lavellan's neck and his arms against Lavellan’s collarbone. Lavellan dusted the crumbs from his fingers and crossed his arms over his shoulders, meeting Dorian's hands where he held him.

“Dorian,” Lavellan said, voice thick and sweet as treacle. “Is everything alright?”

Dorian laughed gently against Lavellan’s neck. “I should be the one asking you that, Lavellan. You know, Cassandra actually asked me to check on you ahead of tomorrow's training. She thinks you might be bravely hiding an injury.”

“And I see that you agreed with her,” Lavellan smirked.

“Well, it’s the kind of thing you might do,” Dorian replied.

He lifted his head to kiss Lavellan's warm cheek, near his wounded eye. Lavellan didn't flinch. He slid his closest hand along Lavellan’s leg, to touch his bruised knee. Lavellan didn't pull back. Not the methods Cassandra would have suggested, but Lavellan was close and Dorian wanted him to be closer. Lavellan moved his hand slowly, tentatively encouraging Dorian’s fingers to press against his thigh.

“I confess,” Dorian whispered, hand tingling with the sensation of closeness. He lowered his voice, to smother his rare nerves. “I scarcely know what to do with you now that I no longer have to play coy.”

“Who said you had to stop?” Lavellan asked.

“True enough,” Dorian replied. He did know what he’d normally do. Dorian had a lot of imagination, but generally very little time to act upon it. Whether or not it was true, he enjoyed the joint illusion that he and Lavellan had as much time as they needed to take. The looming threats just out of reach of harming them, but close enough to override anything that might separate them. As if Dorian was his port in an eternal storm.

Dorian kissed Lavellan’s neck and took his hand away, one careful finger after another. Lavellan he would savour slowly, like a decent wine. Lavellan he would not rush, even if it felt like playing games compared to his usual practice.

“Regardless of what I might or might not do, you should eat something,” Dorian said, leaning away and adjusting the dressing gown on Lavellan’s shoulders. “I shall read to you, so you are not bereft of my entertainment.”

“I might enjoy that,” Lavellan replied, feigning mildness.

Dorian swung his legs on to the bed, resting his knees against Lavellan’s, and reached for the book. Lavellan put his arms through the sleeves of the dressing gown and took a piece of bread, as Dorian cleared his throat and began to read.

Lavellan leaned closer, soft in the silk dressing gown against Dorian’s skin. He laughed, and exclaimed, and asked questions through Dorian’s reading.

“It’s a euphemism, it means she’s a virgin,” Dorian had explained.

Lavellan had almost choked on a piece of cheese as he snorted.

Every time Dorian paused, the storm outside lashed harder. Dorian hoped the roof wouldn’t leak again. Lavellan eventually put the basket aside, and nestled closer. Dorian finally began to lose his voice, and put the book down at the end of a chapter. It ended with a cliffhanger, the Chevalier riding off to fulfil some knightly duty and leaving his weeping lady behind. Lavellan was staring towards the slit window, watching the darkness.

“Should I go?” he asked. “Given that it’s late.”

And people might talk, neither of them needed to say. Dorian stroked Lavellan’s hair, and listened to the rain.

“I would hate to send you out into that,” Dorian said softly. “Perhaps you could stay a little longer.”

“Perhaps I could,” Lavellan replied. He sank against Dorian, and wound his arms tightly around his shoulders. Dorian closed his eyes, and spent some moments dwelling in the fizzing orange of his eyelids, the warmth of being held and nothing else. When he opened them again, the room seemed cast in cool blue. Tonight, Lavellan was his alone.

“Now, you’re aware of some of my sordid history,” Dorian said. “I would rather like to ask about yours, although I’m aware it’s… a delicate topic at the moment.”

Lavellan shook his head against Dorian’s shoulder, eased himself away so that he could meet Dorian with his serious eyes.

“Everyone says that,” Lavellan said. “And it’s true that I’m… worried about them at the moment. But I would like to talk about them.” His wide mouth flickered into a frail smile. “I trust the woman who was my Second and is now their First, I trust Leliana and her people. And I would like to remember my clan in stories, as I would like to think they are remembering me. So ask, Dorian. Anything.”

Dorian snorted, and looked aside. “When you put it as grandly as that, what I was going to ask seems faintly ridiculous.”

Lavellan leaned to follow Dorian’s averted gaze, so far that he ended up lounging on his elbow. He reached towards Dorian’s face with his free hand and touched his chin with a curved finger, his smile mischievous. “Oh Dorian, as if I didn’t assume you wanted to ask me something unseemly. Please, ask whatever crude question about my upbringing you were thinking of.”

Dorian batted at Lavellan’s hand and laughed. “If you insist, Inquisitor.” Dorian lowered himself to lie beside him, mirroring the Inquisitor’s languid pose by propping his head up with his hand and settling his elbow against the pillow. “I’m not the first man you’ve been with, am I?”

Lavellan let out a sputtering laugh and shook his head with a grin. “No. I expect I had less time for relationships around my duties than you have described having around your studies, but… no. You aren’t.”

“Dear Lavellan, I think you may be getting relationships and relations mixed up,” Dorian replied lightly. “But please, we’re speaking about your indecorous history, not mine.”

Lavellan kept laughing, and flopped down on Dorian’s pillow, turning his gaze to the ceiling. He raised one of his arms above him, spread his fingers, and stared through the gaps. “I told you about Clan Alathiel’s Second, the storyteller?” he said.

“Yes, I do recall you mentioning her,” Dorian replied. He stayed where he was, peering down at Lavellan as he gazed at some distant point.

“She had a younger brother that was closer to my age,” Lavellan continued. “He had hair like autumn leaves, and bow-calloused hands.” He sighed. “We didn’t do things properly, exactly, because we were in different clans. I was much more serious about it than him, but… I was also the one that never had time for him.”

“That’s adorably unsurprising,” Dorian commented. “You’re still dreadfully serious.”

Lavellan smiled sadly, and closed his hand. “His sister was furious with him on my behalf when he broke things off with me. I hadn’t realised she considered me a friend, rather than just a reader. It… made things a little easier, I supposed. She was very kind.”

He lifted his eyes to meet Dorian’s, before shying back to the ceiling. “I’m still terrible at finding time for people I care about,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to be… better this time.”

Dorian caught Lavellan’s hand as he lowered it, pulling it gently towards his chest. “There’s really no need,” Dorian replied. He smiled weakly, aiming for glib but landing on tremblingly honest. “You’re already better than I deserve.”

“I’m not,” Lavellan said hoarsely. He rolled over to take Dorian’s face, press his lips tightly against him. “Everyone says that. I must not need them, I’m so responsible.” He laughed strangely, wildly, tearfully. “I’m not, I’m not, I’m not,” Lavellan breathed between kisses.

Dorian held Lavellan close, fingers grasping the folds in his dressing gown, kissing him desperately. Neither of them said it, you should stay, or I should stay. But Lavellan didn’t leave, and Dorian didn’t him want to.

At some point, Dorian fell asleep, limbs still tangled with Lavellan’s. Holding, and being held. Needing, and being needed.

Chapter Text

Dorian had awoken like a painting of a penitent, face against Lavellan’s chest and fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. And had lain there a while, Lavellan still asleep and Dorian torn between not wanting to wake him and not wanting to be found in a state of intimate vulnerability by the serving girl that brought him hot shaving water in the morning.

The decision was, eventually, made for him.

He hadn't gotten up. Had instead spent his time watching how Lavellan still frowned in his sleep, and lifted his hand to smooth his lover's brow. Lavellan had stirred gently with the knock on the door.

Dorian as a rule, hadn’t stayed the night after previous encounters, even after he'd left Tevinter. He remembered one of the rare times that he had, daydreaming incorrectly that perhaps this time would be different. The ambitious Laetan he'd been seeing had shoved him awake at the sound of the servants' footsteps, and ordered Dorian to hide under the bed. He'd felt like filth, lying amongst the dust and lost socks and trying not to breathe too loudly. And yet he still felt the instinct to do the same to Lavellan, and pushed it down, repulsed by himself.

He opened the door to take the hot water, lounging casually against the door as if there was nothing of interest in his room. If the girl had glanced through and noticed Lavellan, he expected Sera to know by the time he next saw her.

And Dorian found that the idea didn't terrify him so much, anymore. Sera, certainly, was vocal enough in her preference for lovers that he knew she wouldn't bat an eyelash at finding Dorian and the Inquisitor to be similar, so to speak. But even Cassandra, Josephine, if they didn't already suspect, if Lavellan hadn't already mentioned it to them as if it wasn't a problem – he couldn't imagine them being disgusted anymore. His paranoia had become a habit more than anything, a set of motions he was used to performing.

Lavellan had awoken properly when he'd returned to sit on the bed. Pulled Dorian closer and kissed him with morning bleariness, before reaching for his boots.

“I suppose I should go back to my quarters and change,” Lavellan said. “We're supposed to be meeting Cullen soon.”

“I think, considering the occasion, you should be learning to fight in the most formal clothing possible,” Dorian replied with a shrug. “Certainly, Josephine will be upset if you immediately tear your uniform against Cassandra's training blade, but I expect you'll find some way to ruin it part-way through court regardless.”

Lavellan laughed, and took a slice of the leftover bread to eat on the way back to his room.

“Lavellan,” Dorian called, as Lavellan reached for the door.

Lavellan swallowed, and turned to look at him. Dorian smirked and held out Lavellan's stiff jacket, now mostly dry after last night's storm. “Might I have my dressing gown back, my dear Inquisitor?”

Snickering as he shrugged the garment from his shoulders, Lavellan held Dorian's robe out to him and snatched his jacket back playfully. He stroked Dorian's cheek before he left, and Dorian smiled as he turned to shave.

---

The dungeons were empty except for their party, the usual darkness of the cramped corridors lit dimly by lanterns. From the way the others took their places without question, Dorian supposed that they must have trained together like this at Haven, before he'd joined. And, he supposed, before the Inquisition got too large for such things. Cullen paced back and forth beneath one of the dangling lanterns, one arm behind his back and the other gripping the hilt of his sword. In his full aspect as the Inquisition's general, rather than as the quiet-humoured man that always lost at cards whenever Dorian and Varric managed to convince him to join in.

“Josephine would like me to begin by saying that she expects you won't have to fight anyone at Halamshiral,” Cullen said, smiling dryly. He came to a halt, and directed his address towards Lavellan, who stood at the front of their squashed assembly. “But if you do, you'll most likely be indoors, in tight corridors, and won't have access to your usual weapons. Considering that most of your recent engagements have been outdoors, the Inquisitor and I agreed that we should prepare his entourage to fight in close quarters.”

“Preferably without causing any diplomatic incidents after the fact by damaging any of Halamshiral's priceless historical furniture,” Vivienne added.

Lavellan sighed as he rolled his shoulders. “I shall endeavour to appraise the curtains before I tear them from the windows as an improvised weapon.”

“I can tell you what I think is gaudy enough that it should be destroyed,” Dorian suggested with a smirk.

“A most helpful offer, Dorian,” Vivienne replied. “I can advise you that, contrary to your people's sensibilities, or perhaps your sensibilities in particular, we generally consider black leather, red wine stains, or anything covered with dragons to be passé.”

“Noted,” Dorian replied. “I shall ensure to merely leave everything that's been entirely dipped in gold, embroidered with the empress' face, or encrusted with jewels, all of which are and will forever be considered less garish.”

Cullen cleared his throat.

“I'm glad we could come to this understanding,” Vivienne said, with a purposefully shallow curtsey that would read as snide to perhaps only the two of them, given Josephine’s absence and Cassandra’s apathy.

“Vivienne, how cutting,” Lavellan said.

Dorian laughed, and Vivienne looked positively proud. Cullen cleared his throat again.

“Orlesian furniture aside,” Cullen sighed.

“Oh, I assure you that Halamshiral has the finest furniture from across Thedas, not simply Orlesian,” Dorian said.

“It's an elven building, for example,” Lavellan added. He smiled sympathetically at Cullen. “But, fine furniture from across Thedas aside.”

“Thank you,” Cullen replied, half-laughing in exasperation. “I swear, you lot don't do this to Josephine.”

Dorian could sense a half-dozen bitten tongues, his own included, primed with witty remarks. Cullen began to pace again, carefully, as if his footsteps were their own answer.

“I am aware that some of you have more experience fighting indoors, and with weapons small enough to conceal, than others,” Cullen said, casting a glance to a grinning Sera. “And that some of you are... less reliant on having a weapon than others.” A look to Dorian, and the other mages, this time. “Leliana tells me we may be able to smuggle weapons in throughout the night, but if we can, then so can any assassin. Regardless, it's important to learn to fight with what we can carry, and expect anyone who might attack you to have at least the same – daggers in boots and poison-tipped darts.”

Dorian had a lot of worries about what might happen to Lavellan at the Winter Palace, but what might happen if he was attacked hadn't been one of them. There were too many things that Lavellan wasn’t already good at to worry about that the thought of him getting in a fight had seemed relievingly entertaining, actually. The idea of some fool assassin grabbing him, and being struck by lightning like a sinner punished by the Maker in an ancient Imperium morality play.

“So, does that mean we’re allowed to take poison into court?” Sera asked innocently. Cullen passed along the line, handing out wooden daggers and moving them into pairs.

“Leliana asked that you let her know if you’re planning to poison anyone so she doesn’t have to work out who did it,” Lavellan said flatly.

“Before, or after?” Sera asked.

“Both,” Lavellan replied. Cullen moved him to face Varric as Sera grumbled to herself, and Dorian saw a grin pass across Lavellan’s face. He dipped into the correct bow, as if the dungeon they were training in were a ballroom.

“You’ll still owe me a dance after this, kid,” Varric said.

Cullen touched Dorian’s shoulder, and turned him to face Iron Bull. “This hardly seems fair,” Dorian commented, glancing back at Cullen. “He hasn’t even taken a dagger. His entire body is a concealed weapon.”

Iron Bull shrugged and scratched at his stubble, slouching so that his horns didn’t scrape the rough stone of the dungeon’s ceiling. “You think this is concealed?”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Point taken. I suppose you should be hoping that Halamshiral has more generous ceilings.”

Behind them, Varric and Lavellan burst into raucous laughter. Dorian smiled warmly as he turned to look. Lavellan was practically horizontal, Varric dipping him towards the floor as if they were finishing a particularly intimate dance set. Sera clapped and whistled.

“Alright,” Cullen sighed, his pause lingering long enough for Lavellan and Varric to scramble back to their feet. Cullen drew his sword and squared himself, ready to begin his own demonstration. “Let’s begin.”

Chapter Text

“I'm surprised that you lowered yourself so far as to help Josephine put up drapes,” Dorian said, balancing on a stool. At the other end of the curtain rod, Solas ignored him. “Surely such trifles as furnishings are an insult to the dignity of a man of the spirits such as yourself.”

The dining table and chairs for tomorrow's salon were already laid out, but there was still a lot to be done. Lavellan had suggested that Dorian come over to read with him again, but he had decided against it for a number of reasons. Mainly that Josephine needed his help, given that her people were already burdened enough with the rest of the preparations for the Winter Court.

I rather like you, Inquisitor, Dorian had whispered. But I’m still deciding if I like you quite enough to let you see me making myself up for court, if you’re planning to turn staying with me into a habit.

Lavellan had laughed to hide how flustered he was. Walked Dorian to the room where the salon would be held, and stood on his toes to kiss him on the cheek. If you’re absolutely certain, I suppose I’ll ask Varric instead.

He found it endearing that Lavellan really did mean to study together, rather than some coded innuendo, when he asked things like that. Varric won’t be as fun as I am, obviously, but I’m sure he’ll come close.

Dorian caught himself smiling. It had been a few minutes since Josephine had disappeared to fetch a crucially fashionable vase for the fireplace, and the silence between himself and Solas was hardly companionable. Dorian was uncertain which of them was most looking forward to Josephine’s return.

Dorian and Solas lifted the curtain rod, and nestled it into the hooks above the window. Solas sighed as he let go. “Are you truly interested in what I have to say, or are you simply enjoying listening to yourself talk?” he said.

“Oh, a little of both,” Dorian replied, patting the dust from the curtain as he lowered his hands. “But this hardly seems like something that would stimulate your intellectual curiosity, given that we shall all be awake.” He had promised himself he would be on his best behaviour with Solas, but it was difficult. Dorian couldn’t tell whether Solas genuinely disliked him, or whether he was merely irritable when preoccupied, and always preoccupied.

“I find it curious that you believe I would have no interest in this,” Solas said, stepping down from his stool. “Because Lavellan has none, and we are both elves, I assume?”

“Well, yes,” Dorian shrugged. “Although I wouldn’t go as far as to say he has none.” He crossed his arms and leaned, perhaps ill-advisedly, against the window-frame. “Besides, you’ve never seemed very interested in people, or at least people who are still alive, so I assumed that an event built on human gossip would be about as appealing to you as an extended bout of cholera.”

“I find it nostalgic,” Solas said simply. “The Dalish have fallen far from the elves of ancient times. They had courts, fascinations, intrigues. Observing something such as this is, frankly, closer to what I am interested in than watching the Dalish would be.” His smile turned barbed. “Not that I would expect someone such as yourself to understand the intricacies.”

Dorian remembered a little of Lavellan’s descriptions of his clashes with Solas. He wondered if he remembered enough to put together a suitably witty remark. He hopped to the floor, and pretended at casually continuing to inspect the curtains. “Yes, Lavellan said you’re remarkably uninterested in your contemporaries for someone so otherwise concerned with your shared history.”

“I am interested in history at the point at which it is true, not at the point at which it has been diluted to superstition through innumerable years of misunderstanding,” Solas replied.

He passed behind Dorian, dragging another set of drapes towards the next window. Supposing he should at least help finish the curtains, Dorian grabbed the stool and followed at a stroll.

“You must know something of the Dalish, if you’re so certain that what they know is wrong,” Dorian added.

He didn’t know why he said it. If he wanted to find out more about Lavellan’s people, he would do better to pester Lavellan himself rather than an elf who seemed to have a… unique relationship with them. And yet, here he was. Single-minded, and a little pathetic. He wanted to know more about the Dalish in a misguided attempt to surprise the lover he was still pretending he wasn’t getting too attached to, and had found very little of use in the library. But knowledge was worth something for its own sake, he supposed.

“I know mostly that they care not for what I have to tell them,” Solas replied. “That their magic has dwindled to where they can name their mages First and Second, and that they are concerned primarily with the mundane.”

“Considering your distaste for the Imperium, I’m surprised that a lack of magic is something you’re disturbed by,” Dorian replied, stepping to reach for the curtain rod as if he hasn’t just said something he knew he probably shouldn’t have said.

“What the Imperium considers to be impressive is pitiful in the grand context of history, on top of everything that you yourself admit to be wrong with it,” Solas replied. “The ancient works I am interested in were achievements not matched by humanity. Those that the Dalish remember are simplified to customs and gestures. The calls for favour and allegiance between our great cities boiled down to a mating ritual, asking a trial of a lover to prove they are worthy. No higher than a bird crafting a nest to prove their aptitude to a potential mate.”

The door swung open as Dorian opened his mouth.

“Sorry for the delay, I ran into… something which needed my attention,” Josephine sighed. Solas returned to his silence as they finished changing the drapes, the stillness broken only by the clink of Josephine settling the vase into place.

“I am still at your service, despite your inexcusable several minutes of lateness,” Dorian drawled, glancing over his shoulder at the ambassador. “So please, tell me what you need us to do next.”

Chapter Text

Josephine closed the door behind her, black lace mask shading her features. “He's almost here,” she said. “Is everyone in their places?”

They were mostly turned out in last season's second-hand fashions, owing to the expense of the new. Vivienne had decided it would be useful for Lavellan to familiarise himself with them anyway, in case anyone at the Winter Court should be wearing old clothes. She was to be playing one of the salon's other prominent nobles, Marquise Sauvage, recently widowed and secret mistress to Lord Caius, although things had turned sour since her husband’s death. Josephine had indicated on his lengthy character sheet that Dorian should be trying to find out why.

Dorian, as Lord Caius, was wearing a powder-blue mask with a matching headpiece. He was still getting used to peering through it, and to drinking the early-evening wine in smaller sips to avoid knocking the glass inelegantly against his mask. Slashed doublets had fallen out of favour as unfashionably wasteful due to the war, but Lord Caius wore one anyway, blood-red undershirt showing through the gashes, an ostentatious gesture that suggested to the viewer that he was wealthy enough, or certain enough of the war's end, to be frivolous with his clothing.

Dorian leaned against the back of the chair as Josephine crossed the room, carefully careless. “Does the Duchess de Lin generally carry Josephine Montilyet's ledger?” he asked.

“Oh!” Josephine exclaimed. Her eyes darted and her footsteps followed, stashing her checklist in the bookcase. She took her place beside him, to look as if they were in conversation when Lavellan arrived.

“Has our Inquisitor been briefed on what to expect from this collection of miscreants?” Dorian asked, smirking as he gestured around the room with his glass. Cassandra was wearing a velvet gown, and scowling by the fireplace, allegedly a reclusive Chantry scholar seeking financial support from Duchess de Lin due to the current upheaval.

Josephine smiled secretively. “He has been told what our spymaster would expect to find out before such an occasion.”

Though Dorian had enjoyed the dramatic gesture of making Josephine pick the Venatori agent at random, she had never told him who it had ended up being, and evidently wasn’t planning to give it away now.

He was absolutely dying to know.

He recalled that Vivienne's marquise had been one of the possibilities, along with Cole's bard and Blackwall's chevalier. He did hope it was Vivienne. The dramatic possibility of Lord Caius finding that his mistress was using him to send information to the Venatori was rather exciting. Unless, perhaps, the intention was that she favoured Gaspard, and that this was what had caused the rift between them...

Dorian felt he could cross Cole out, at least. Because frankly, getting him to pretend to be a person was going to be enough of a challenge, and he doubted Josephine would push for more. Bull's mercenary hadn't been on the list, given that Leliana apparently suspected that the Venatori agent was either a member of the Orlesian nobility or a close advisor. Varric and Harding's traders could make an interesting choice, given the links between Orzammar and the Imperium, but he didn't recall them from her initial list either, unless Josephine had made changes. The wine merchant she had originally suggested seemed missing from the party, for example.

Dorian knew much about the party's preparations and some of the guests, but not everything. As, he supposed, Lord Caius would. Josephine, as he should have expected, had arranged this all rather cleverly.

“I'm sure we won't disappoint, Josephine,” Dorian said, to put the ambassador at ease. He smiled broadly. “At the very least, I intend to enjoy myself.”

Josephine nodded, in her nervous perfectionism. Then the door opened, and her countenance altered completely. Changeable as Leliana, she affected a false smile and an altered voice. An impersonation of someone very particular, he suspected.

“Ah, how delightful, you’ve arrived!” Josephine exclaimed.

Cullen stood stiffly, holding the door open. He had been convinced to play the valet for ten minutes before returning to Inquisition business. “I present Lord Inquisitor Lavellan, representative of the Inquisition.”

His green eyes hard and his face blank, the Inquisitor that strode across the room towards them looked like a soldier in his new uniform.

Thick-heeled boots and stiff shoulderpads pulled him into the illusion of being taller, broader-chested and smaller-waisted, as was the current fashionable silhouette for men in Orlais. There was always a hardness to the Inquisitor. Dorian thought of how he’d looked at the gates of Haven, fighting demons, staring down Halward. But today, he looked sharpened to a point. His hair styled with wax, where it was normally mussed with stray hairs from Lavellan running his hands through it; his boots freshly blackened, where they were normally cracked and lightened from wear.

There was something imperceptibly different about his face, too. He wasn’t wearing a full face of make-up for the same reason he wasn’t wearing a mask – foundation and powder would hide his vallaslin – but perhaps Leliana had done something else. Plucked his eyebrows or shaded his waterline. Or perhaps Dorian had simply grown used to seeing him without the Inquisitor’s façade, was used to being beside him rather than facing him when he strode into a room on Inquisition business. He liked that he got to have both.

Lavellan bowed, deeply but not too deeply. “Thank you for your invitation, Your Grace,” he said. Meeting Josephine's eyes steadily, like a wolf fixed on prey.

Given his power, wealth and favour for the Valmonts, how should Lord Caius respond? He and Josephine had agreed that he should be condescending, attempting to undermine the hostess.

“I’m surprised you decided to show yourself at my dear sister-in-law’s little soiree,” Dorian said. “I assumed a man such as yourself would have better things to do.”

The Inquisitor straightened. They caught each other smiling, as if they were simply who they were. Dorian flickered his expression into Lord Caius’ sneer, and Lavellan tightened his mouth into the Inquisitor’s stiff-humoured grimace.

“It is always-- I am always humbled to be invited to participate in the Game,” Lavellan replied, stumbling only slightly over what Dorian assumed was the line he had rehearsed with Leliana. There would be questions and courtly rituals he could be prepared for in specific, Dorian supposed.

“Obviously, you have just been announced, Lord Inquisitor,” Josephine cut in, stepping between them in perfect demonstration of a hostess anxious about her own control. “But I suspect it would be best to introduce you to the other guests before my dear brother-in-law begins to talk your ear off about, well, unpleasantness.”

Dorian made a show of scoffing at her under his breath. They had agreed that he should be obvious in his disdain, given that they expected the rest of their party to carry their imaginary grudges with anxious subtlety. And Dorian did so love playing the villain, it was rather more fun. He lowered his voice, and hissed. “Why the bloody hell else would he be here but the war, Marie?”

Josephine held her hand up, and smiled diplomatically. “Please, Lord Caius. You may question our guest later.” She held her arm out, and Lavellan took it, lightly touching her forearm in a position that was likely to give no suggestion of inappropriate intimacy. She guided him towards Sera and Solas, the artist and the member of the College of Heralds. Dorian had wondered why Josephine had given Solas that part, but apparently he’d asked for it. Given their conversation the day before, Dorian assumed there was something of obscure interest to him. Did you know that the ancient elves considered heraldry to be deeply important? I am very disappointed that the Dalish do not wear the appropriate genealogical crests, etcetera.

Dorian swept towards Vivienne, who was loitering by the window. She watched through her mourning mask as he approached.

“Is it too early to make a scene?” he asked, in his own voice.

“I’m sure we can find a reason for it not to be,” she replied, keeping her expression stern, as if she were indeed someone not pleased to see her lover. “I have an idea of what we could be arguing about. May I suggest the dining room, given that it is currently unoccupied?”

“Certainly,” Dorian replied. Josephine was still walking Lavellan around the other side of the room, far away enough that they could speak out of character. “Shall I storm off, or would you like to do the honours?”

“Not now,” Vivienne snapped, raising her voice enough that Varric and Harding, closer to the makeshift dining room, could hear it. He supposed it would be Vivienne, then. She walked away, head held high, boots clacking across the wooden floor. He shot a pointed glare at Josephine as she turned to look, and followed.

“Yep, you know, trading things. I love it,” Harding was muttering nervously as Dorian passed.

“I know, kid. Enjoy your break, I’ll do the talking if you need me to,” Varric assured.

Dorian passed through the doorway. Now out of view, Vivienne allowed herself a pleased expression. Dorian bowed, as if they were to dance, and then raised his voice as he straightened.

“Really, Marquise, avoiding me at a party I invited you to! What indignities will you subject me to next?”

Chapter Text

In Dorian’s experience, arguments that one got into just outside of a party’s intended gathering area went on for longer than one thought they had. Halward and Aquinea had each thought themselves masters of the discreet word, whether their issue was with Dorian or with each other, but in such an observed arena all comings and goings, especially those attempting subtlety, are noted. Aquinea complaining that he was holding his wine glass in a sloppy manner, his father that he wasn’t associating with the people he was seeking favour with. Dorian was used to looking out across the room when he returned, and seeing how successfully people ignored, or pretended to ignore, his return.

Much like Dorian and Vivienne, neither Lord Caius or the Marquise liked to let someone else to have the last word. But Dorian had still managed to storm out first, a pleasing victory. Even Harding managed not to lift her head at his return, although he supposed she and Varric had likely been eavesdropping, given their convenient placement.

Thinking back through Vivienne’s words, he still couldn’t tell if she was the Venatori agent. He had already guessed that something had changed with her husband’s death, although he hadn’t thought she cared for him. Did she need the distraction Lord Caius provided less, now that she had the house to herself? Was she hoping to dispense with an inconvenient suitor before seeking a new husband? Did she anticipate a victory for Gaspard, and was seeking to distance herself with someone who would become a political millstone?

Or was the Marquise rather clumsier than Vivienne herself, and being rather too transparent in pushing away someone who might notice something suspicious in her husband’s death, or her obviously flaunted wealth?

When Dorian returned to a party after an argument in Tevinter, there was usually something pleasant he was eager to return to. Maevaris, or a handsome stranger, or the wine. As it was, he was pretending to be a sketchy aristocrat whose main interests in the evening were interrogating the Inquisitor and embarrassing Duchess de Lin. Under normal circumstances, it would be unseemly for him to move straight from arguing with one guest to arguing with another. And, indeed, it was also unseemly under these circumstances. But that had been part of Josephine’s intention for this character – Lavellan must learn not only to impress by the Game’s rules, but how to manoeuvre around someone who had the power to break those rules when he would likely not.

Lavellan had his back to Dorian when he crossed the room. Loitering by a painting with Blackwall and unguarded by Josephine, who seemed to be corralling Sera at the other end of the room.

“I see you managed to escape my dear sister-in-law,” Dorian said, affecting a sneer.

Lavellan’s grip tightened on his glass, but the smile he played was delightfully curt. “I see you’ve decided to rejoin the party, Lord Caius.”

“I could hardly stay away from the most interesting man in the room,” Dorian replied, taking a step closer and flashing a coy smirk. Lavellan’s smile flickered, but he remained still. It hadn’t been Dorian’s intention to make flirtatious phrasings or toy with him, but it was difficult to resist pressing Lavellan’s buttons.

“Perhaps I should take my leave,” Blackwall said, unimpressed.

“Oh, there’s no need, Ser,” Dorian breezed. “I would rather like a chevalier’s opinion on the, as my sister-in-law called it, unpleasantness that I’m interested in discussing with the Inquisitor.” Being a chevalier, he expected that Blackwall’s character would likely support Gaspard, but perhaps Josephine would surprise him. He had no idea what Blackwall himself thought, or whether Josephine would have been inclined to draw on that.

“The war, then,” Blackwall replied, crossing his arms.

“Your ambassador is always so terribly evasive,” Dorian said, turning his eyes on Lavellan. “I thought I might get a more direct answer from yourself, My Lord. Where does the Inquisition stand?”

Lavellan's expression stayed mild. “The Inquisition stands against Corypheus, Lord Caius. It's no secret that we seek the aid of Orlais. What Orlais looks like when it grants us that aid is not for us to decide.”

Dorian leaned against the wall next to him, slightly too close. So that between him and Blackwall, Lavellan would be unable to extract himself without uncouth shoving. The aggressive posture of a constant thorn such as Lord Caius would be noticed and gossiped about. Josephine and Leliana would warn them of any such characters expected at Halamshiral. But Lavellan, a commoner, an elf, an outsider, would still be expected to be polite.

“I didn't ask about your decisions,” Dorian drawled, voice sickly-thick, a poison coated in syrup. Pretending to be someone who was pretending to be drunk to mask his malicious intentions. “I asked about your preferences.”

“I would be more interested in hearing about yours,” Lavellan said, sliding a lifeline glance to Blackwall. “What do the ordinary people of Orlais think?”

It was a good, though transparent, attempt at flattery. Given that peasants and merchants attempted to play the Grand Game, even hereditary aristocracy liked to think of themselves as ordinary but merely lucky, given that they were moving on the same board as anyone other than royalty.

“The ordinary people want an end to this,” Blackwall replied. He looked to Dorian with a pause. Dorian assumed he'd forgotten the name he was to call him by. “Do you not agree, My Lord?”

He would forgive the lack of a more specific honorific in this incident. My Lord was generally acceptable for someone whose rank one did not know, though it could be used to disrespectful purpose in incidents where the speaker could be expected to know that Your Grace would be more appropriate, but was choosing to feign ignorance as a comment on the addressee's insignificance. Duels had been fought, but wouldn't be fought today.

“There is little purpose in ending a war if it leaves the country in such a state that further turmoil is likely,” Dorian replied.

This was, to his understanding, a core tenet of the Valmont view. That Gaspard, the warmonger, was no better than chaos, and only the rightful ruler, an experienced diplomat and player of the Game, could restore order in the Orlesian manner. It made him think of what Lavellan had said, before they kissed in the library, about how the Dalish could not come out unchanged if they went to war in such a manner.

“War causes turmoil,” Lavellan replied, the terse turn to his voice covered by that now-practiced bland smile. “Orlais will need to rebuild regardless of who takes the throne.”

However Lavellan chose to end this, if he could, at Halamshiral, Dorian suspected that the previous Orlesian way would crumble as the old Imperium had. Slowly, over centuries, and then all at once.

“Ah, Inquisitor!” Josephine exclaimed, her arms aflutter in a manner that was a world apart from the ambassador's usual composure. Inserting herself closely, an elbow separating Dorian from Lavellan as she clasped her hands. “I apologise for leaving you, something needed my urgent attention.”

“It's no trouble, Your Grace,” Lavellan replied. “I was having the most interesting conversation with your brother-in-law and Ser Gautier.”

“Thank you for looking after our guest, Lord Caius,” Josephine said, putting on a pointed look. Her mouth spread into a smile as a genuine light came to her eyes. She looked back to Lavellan. “Now, Lord Inquisitor, you must meet the Marquise. I don't believe you had the opportunity to be introduced. Would you care to join us, Lord Caius?”

If this had been a manners play, Dorian might have laughed. He was still attempting to remain in character, however.

“You know, I've suddenly spotted someone I need to speak to,” Dorian replied. He flashed Lavellan a barbed smile. “Do enjoy your time with the Marquise, My Lord. I am keen to continue our little discussion another time.”

Lavellan let himself be led away, and Blackwall leaned against the wall. Dorian watched Lavellan chatter away with Josephine's silly Duchess, not quite court-slick, but assertive and unafraid.

“Better him than me,” Blackwall sighed.

“You were in the Orlesian army, weren't you?” Dorian asked. “I thought you'd be used to this.”

Blackwall grimaced, but said nothing. Dorian had assumed it was an out of character remark, but perhaps Ser Gautier had his own history with the Marquise. Lavellan matched Vivienne's bow, and the Marquise shot a pointed look across to Dorian as they spoke. Dorian really should have questioned Blackwall, but the idea of trying to get anything from him seemed futile.

From the corner of his eye, something red moved. Cassandra grabbed roughly at the waist of her gown as one of the pins tumbled free. Evidently, she hadn’t had the patience to let the tailor take it in. Lord Caius wouldn't help, but Dorian decided he probably should, and began to cross the room.

Actually, perhaps he could find a reason that Lord Caius would help. Assisting the younger scholar as some ploy to make his likely-former lover jealous, for example.

“My Lady, you look like you might require assistance,” Dorian said dryly, with an overly-respectful bow.

“I need to step outside,” Cassandra said, gritting her teeth. Dorian crouched to pick up the missing pin before it caused an incident. Cassandra didn’t have enough hands to hold everything she needed to in place, the overly-long skirt slipping and puddling on the floor.

“If you need my help, you need only ask,” he said.

“I might,” she grunted. She let Dorian take one of the clots of fabric bunched in her first, and lifted the skirt to her ankles.

“We’ll fix this in the corridor,” Dorian said quietly. Cassandra nodded, flushing as red as her dress, and hobbled towards the door. Dorian was trying very, very hard not to laugh before they got outside.

“So,” he said, by way of distraction. “What brings you to Duchess de Lin’s gathering?”

Chapter Text

It wasn't the prettiest fix. Dorian and Cassandra had both gotten rather adept at patching torn garments on the road, but such circumstances did not lend themselves to much care for the aesthetics of the finished item. The pale blue thread Dorian had pulled from the artful gash on his doublet sleeve did not at all suit the particular red of Cassandra's gown at all, for example. But it would hold.

“The scholar is supposed to be in financial hardship, is she not?” Dorian suggested, as he cauterised the thread tail pinched between his fingers with a quick burst of heat. “Perhaps, if someone were to ask, you could pretend this is a purposeful modification intended to represent that. Let us pretend that's the conversation we were having out here, shall we?”

“This never happens in books,” Cassandra groaned, testing the new amendment with a tug. It stayed in place. “Heroines, however unlikely, merely put on gowns and walk in them.”

“Considering that you are already surrounded by heroic figures, I suppose that would be the most unrealistic part of a knightly romance to you,” Dorian commented. He got to his feet. “Remind me to lend you The Tragedy of the Chevalier after all this, would you?”

“After all this, I will need a break from chevaliers,” Cassandra replied. She glanced furtively at the door. “I hope this distraction hasn't caused us to miss anything important.”

“Why Cassandra, everything that happens at court is important,” Dorian smirked.

“I meant the...” she lowered her voice, although they were still outside. “The murder. They wouldn't do the murder without us, would they?”

Dorian blinked. “Pardon?”

“There is to be a test of the Inquisitor's deductive abilities,” she said, simmering with repressed excitement. “A murder at a ball. Like in a novel.”

“That would certainly be a change to what I understand of Josephine's plans,” Dorian frowned. “As far as I'm aware, the Venatori agent isn't planning to murder anyone.”

Cassandra scowled in return. “Varric said--”

Dorian held up his hand. Cassandra blanched as she realised what she was saying. Her eyes narrowed.

“I need to have... words with him,” she growled.

Dorian smiled lightly as he opened the door for her. Cassandra marched through, shoulders squared. The gentle sound of music drifted from the far side of the room, where the dancing had begun. Lacking an actual ballroom, Josephine had asked their guests to suspend their disbelief. Dorian made a note to have Lord Caius stop Duchess de Lin and complain that she'd started without him. Dorian himself didn't mind so much, however. He watched Cassandra stomp towards Varric, who was gossiping with Blackwall, and perched himself at the table that marked the edge of the dancefloor. Next to Cole, who he almost hadn't noticed despite him being the only other person there.

Although he had been dressed in a nice shirt, Cole was still... Cole. Haunted eyes and dry skin. Dorian had gotten enough from Cassandra, admittedly mostly out-of-character, to rule her out as the Venatori agent – she would hardly be worried about missing the murder if she was the one who was supposed to do it. By contrast, he had simply ruled Cole by assumption.

“But I am not who I say I am,” Cole said, without turning his head. Dorian almost jumped out of his skin. “I am pretending.”

“Well, yes, we're all pretending,” Dorian replied snippily. “Shouldn't you be dancing?”

“I like listening,” Cole said. “Aren't you supposed to be asking me questions?”

“I suppose I am,” Dorian replied. He cast his eyes across the dancers. At the far edge of the set, Lavellan danced with Josephine. Dorian could make out their mouths moving, some quiet exchange of intelligence in the dance's relative privacy. Dancing had always suited Lavellan, and he made each step with elegant precision. Which was particularly impressive considering that Sera was swinging Harding around the middle of the set and almost booting the other dancers in the shins with her excited kicks.

Dorian was markedly more interested in asking about Cole himself, and how exactly he worked, than his character, but he supposed he should make some attempt to keep him involved in the salon. “What brings you here?” he asked. “Duchess de Lin invited you for a reason, I assume.”

Cole furrowed his brow. “I'm... a bard,” he said. “I'm here to watch. But I'm not supposed to tell you why.”

Well, Dorian supposed Josephine asking him to just watch suited Cole's social inclinations perfectly. He couldn't cause much trouble at Halamshiral if he was reporting strange things he saw back to Lavellan or Leliana and little else. “And do you know who I am?” Dorian asked. Maryden's song came to an end, and the dancing pairs began to part.

“You're a good person pretending to be a bad one,” Cole replied.

“Oh, I'm not pretending,” Dorian grinned. He leaned away from the table and stepped onto the imaginary ballroom floor, aiming to grab Josephine from the tangle of bodies and limbs. One could most certainly dance passive-aggressively, and he was intent on demonstrating that with Josephine's capable aid. But before he could find her, another hand turned him aside.

“Lord Caius,” Lavellan said, voice low and serious. Dorian turned.

Lavellan had bowed his blonde head a little too much, which could be interpreted as either overly respectful or purposefully patronising, and held out a gloved hand. Dorian knew it was the hand without the mark, and that the dangerous palm was the one folded behind his back, but most would second-guess themselves, not only about which hand it was, but about what that would mean. A clever little trick.

“Would you join me for the next dance?”

Would people whisper, if Lavellan danced with a man at the Winter Court? Someone other than him, of course – he was already a scandalous choice for unrelated reasons, and one was generally not advised to dance with a secret lover at court unless one was doing it for a purpose. The Orlesians were somewhat more relaxed about relationships like theirs, as long as the legal lines of succession were taken care of, but that wasn't to say some of the same remarks and implications couldn't be used against someone such as Lavellan, with his uneasy reputation and the long list of people who would rather the Inquisition disappeared into irrelevance.

But today, Dorian supposed it didn't matter. He wasn't himself, and that the Inquisitor was speaking to Lord Caius would be more worthy of comment than how he was going about it. “I see you're planning to be even-handed in sharing your favour between myself and my sister-in-law,” he said, bowing to take Lavellan's hand. “I accept, of course. I wouldn't turn down the chance for a, shall we say, more private opportunity for conversation.”

Lavellan's mouth gave him a rakish smile, his secretive eyes promising nothing but heartbreak. If they had met at a party when Dorian was younger and Lavellan had looked at him like that, Dorian knew he would have let himself be utterly ruined by him. Perhaps that was what scared him sometimes, that shard of fear, deep and primal, that added a self-conscious edge to his warmest feelings. Regardless of their late-night talks, Dorian’s mind would draw him back to the uncertain line between what was his trust, earned, and what was naiveté.

There was a purposeful arrogance in Lavellan's pacing, leading them to the front of the set where Caius wouldn't be able to tell who was lining up behind them. The message was clear. For the duration of the next few minutes of song, Dorian would be thinking only of Lavellan. He held his hand high and flat, a deceptively neutral stance, and Dorian raised his hand to meet him. The skin of their palms kept from each other by gloves, he felt for Lavellan's warmth through the soft leather.

The music stirred, and they began to move. Lavellan wasn't normally what Dorian would describe as flashy, but there was something to his steps. He'd let Lord Caius stand in the lead position, but challenged him to keep up.

“Why are you so interested in what someone from outside Orlais thinks?” Lavellan asked briskly. A little blunt, but Lord Caius had been rather obvious.

“We are all invested in the outcome of this war,” Dorian replied. Lavellan spun into the first loop, and Dorian stretched to catch him. “I wouldn't be so gauche as to tell such an interesting specimen as yourself what to think, but I'm curious as to whether the outside world can see the right decision.”

Lavellan faltered as they took the next turn. Dorian hadn't been expecting such a straightforward answer to throw him. He met Dorian's eyes as the dance brought them to face each other, the mask slipping somewhat.

“Out of character,” he said, voice dropping. “Is Lord Caius flirting with me, or do I just think that because it's you?”

“Dearest Inquisitor,” Dorian breezed. “Lord Caius may give the appearance of flirting with you, but if it is him rather than myself, that still won't tell you whether he means it. Perhaps he is straightforwardly angling for a private rendezvous after the party, perhaps he's using it to imply some other interest in you, perhaps he’s simply trying to confound you.” They lifted their arms in an arch, and then pulled closer. Dorian gave him a glossy smile. “It's a tool you may have to utilise yourself. The flirtatious part, or perhaps something further. It's the way of the Game, sadly. I shall be devastatingly jealous, of course.”

“I wouldn't do that to you, Dorian,” Lavellan replied, eyes hard. “Why would you even suggest that?”

Because it would be easier, in the end, for Dorian's fears about what them meant to be realised in a manner that served some practical purpose. If the pragmatic seriousness that let Dorian believe that this was something more to him could be the reason it wouldn't, without dampening his adoration for the Inquisitor. Without him having to be cast aside with disgust.

Maryden's lute reached a straining crescendo, too large a sound for such a small band.

“Because the Grand Game isn't a nice place,” Dorian said weakly. Pretending this was some lesson, and he hadn't meant what he'd said. “And it sometimes requires unpleasant actions.”

“As you've noticed yourself,” Lavellan said, with a dark smile. “That doesn't mean I won't still be myself. For better or worse.” He took control again, leading Dorian with an overly-formal firmness through the dance's final sequence. Bowed, just the right amount, as the break in the music indicated that they should part.

“Thank you for the dance, Lord Caius,” Lavellan said dryly. Readjusting himself back to the character of the Inquisitor, now that they could be heard again. “Perhaps we will speak again later.” He stepped back, through the shuffle of swapping dancers. Dorian almost followed, but instead he simply watched, as Lavellan disappeared into the crowd. He wasn't sure what he would say, could say, right now.

Chapter Text

Dinner at court was, as always, an ordeal. With every excuse to leave the table noted, the Dorian who had to endure them back in Tevinter found them suffocating. Leaving to get some air or another drink, the way he would have in the less regimented parts of a gathering to escape an argument he didn’t care to get into, would just as soon lead to another.

He had at least managed to get the passive-aggressive dance with Josephine he'd wanted before that part of the afternoon came to a close. He could tell they'd both been trying not to laugh, keeping their expressions pointedly bland. Taking turns adjusting their position to a marginally closer one and daring the other to be the one seen pulling away from their false overture of peace.

There were enough people that would benefit from the Inquisitor either appearing close to them or making a scene that someone might try a variation with him. That, Dorian hoped, would be where Leliana and Josephine would come in, finding subtle ways to steer Lavellan away or distract the noble nuisances. He'd come across Josephine doing it around Skyhold enough times – suddenly inserting herself between Lavellan and any particularly aggressive visitors that managed to corner him in the main hall. Ensuring that the interloper would neither get what they want nor be able to leave Skyhold telling all that the Inquisitor had been rude to them.

Lavellan was beside Josephine, who sat at the head of the table, with Vivienne at his other side to observe and correct his table manners. Dorian, for his part, had spent the hour-long dining experience trying to entertain Lavellan by riling his minders into barely polite court-appropriate arguments. Embarrassing Josephine with supposedly amusing recollections of mistakes made at previous salons. Do you remember the time your chef used the Lydes 9:20 to make the coq au vin and served your guests the cooking wine? Offering Vivienne overwrought condolences that came with pointed questions she couldn't dismiss in front of an audience. Your estate is so vast, Marquise, however are you planning to manage it all by yourself?

Dorian couldn't explain what he'd said to Lavellan during their dance here, and frankly he didn't want to. Seeing Lavellan smother a smile or disguise a warm look as he and Vivienne swapped elaborate barbs, Dorian hoped that perhaps he'd simply... forget about it. Let any wounded feelings be smoothed over by a reminder of Dorian's charm and wit.

“Out of character,” Lavellan said, as he picked at the elaborate parfait in front of him with a tiny dessert fork. “I suppose I would tell Leliana and Cullen what I've uncovered, and let our people handle the Venatori agent. But I feel we shouldn't end the evening without discussing it.”

“On the contrary, darling,” Vivienne said, lifting her glass. Lavellan had clearly learned from her – they both held the wine to their lips frequently, but drank little. “If you are confident of your assertion, then unveiling your evidence before the court could be considered part of the Game. Nothing quite adds value to a party like an exciting incident one can tell peers who were not invited about, after all.” 

“Lay it out like the end of a story,” Varric added. Dorian could feel the heat radiating from Cassandra's face, even from the far end of the table. “Get all the suspects in the one room, and make a show of it.”

Lavellan cleared his throat. “Very well, then.” And he stood suddenly, chair scraping too loudly across the bare stone floor. He spread his fingertips across the table in front of him as he leaned forward. “I thank you all for your hospitality, but I have a second reason for coming here today.” He was trying not to grin, putting on the airs of a romance novel knight. “I have reason to believe that someone here is working with the Venatori.”

His eyes ran nervously along the table at the silence that followed. Dorian wasn't sure what he was looking for. A guilty expression, some signal from Vivienne that he was doing the right thing.

“Well, this will be exciting,” Dorian remarked, lounging back in his chair. “Are you going to pace around and read us our crimes, perhaps, as if we're in some cheap Free Marches mystery paperback?”

Lavellan leaned away from the table and took an uncertain step behind Vivienne. Dorian hadn't meant that as a suggestion, but he supposed the purpose of a dramatic revelation at Court was to let the nobility feel part of a story. And then perhaps that the rest of the stories they told about themselves were true, the ones where they were good, beautiful and deserving of their position.

“Marquise,” the Inquisitor said. “You are clearly relieved to see your late husband dead.” Vivienne smirked. With a dramatic precision Dorian didn't realise Lavellan had in him, he took an achingly long time to look away. “But relief isn't proof of a crime.”

He moved, next, to Varric and Harding. “Neither is lying, although I suspect those you have been trying to sell your family's mine to may be reluctant to do business with you if they knew the reason for your exile.”

Cole and Sera were next. He walked past them to the end of the table, and looked between them and Cassandra. “The bard and the artist are innocents, mere hangers-on seeking patronage from the nobility. The scholar is the same, almost. But you have been more successful, have you not?”

“Yes,” Cassandra replied stiffly, arms folded in a way that was definitely Cassandra’s body language rather than that of a timid scholar. “Duchess de Lin has been... very kind. She has offered to support and publish my research.”

“May I ask what you to repeat your area of expertise is, my Lady?” Lavellan asked, strolling behind her.

“Chantry history,” she said. “The Seekers, and the first Inquisition.”

Dorian froze. He had assumed that was merely to play to Cassandra's knowledge. Was it more than that?

“I suppose that's fashionable at the moment,” Lavellan said blandly. But added nothing more, and walked on.

"Killers, obviously,” he said of Iron Bull and Blackwall with a loose wave of his hand. “But what mercenary or soldier isn't?”

The only person left between Lavellan and Dorian was Solas. Dorian wasn't secretly the murderer, was he? It couldn't be Solas.

“I admit, you confused me,” Lavellan said. “Whyever would a member of the Council of Heralds be at a gathering so far from the Valmonts, at this time? But it isn't Duchess de Lin you're here to see,” and he turned to-- Vivienne? “Is it, Marquise?”

“He is my lover, it's true,” she sighed, putting the back of her palm to her forehead.

“Excuse me?” Dorian sputtered.

“Oh darling, you really thought it was just you?” Vivienne replied. “No, you were merely wealthy and entertaining. With my husband's estate mine through inheritance, I can now marry the one I love.”

“So that's why you accepted my invitation,” Dorian said, in mock-anger. “Because it gave you cover to meet him.”

And Lavellan walked behind Dorian, and rested his hand on the back of the chair.

“And you, Lord Caius. I have to admit,” he said, faintly amused. “I suspected you for a while. Your obvious aggression, your interest in the Inquisition. But I have one more question, if you will humour me.”

“Then ask,” Dorian replied, lifting his hand as if to beckon.

Lavellan lowered himself, and spoke by Dorian's ear. “You and the Duchess clearly despise each other. So why did she invite you to this party?”

Dorian opened his mouth. The answer he had been working with was that he served a useful, out-of-character function. To be an example of aggression. To be...

“To be a distraction,” Dorian murmured.

“I'm glad you understand,” Lavellan replied, turning towards Josephine. A step, a step, a step, and he was behind her, hands clasped behind his back. “In all of his irritating angling, one thing was clear about Lord Caius – he sought an end to the war, and had a preferred candidate for the next ruler of Orlais. I knew the Venatori agent would have some other goal – to disrupt peace, to keep the parties involved fighting for as long as possible to prevent Orlais from turning outward to face Corypheus. I wondered who that might be. Someone who arranges parties made up of guests who will fight, perhaps. Someone spending their money researching the Inquisition.”

“You were using me?” Cassandra interrupted.

Lavellan smiled mildly, and continued. “So what I'm wondering, Duchess de Lin, is what exactly you get from this.”

Josephine composed herself in a manner that was clearly somewhat rehearsed. Lips tightening, eyes hidden by the black lace mask. “My family and I have been playing the Game all my life, Inquisitor,” she said, a tremble in her voice. “Hoping to raise ourselves from our debt, and return the de Lin name to the status it once had. But each move that should have been my salvation has brought me nothing. When I think of nobles who have been so lucky, brought so much light by Orlais as it is...” She tightened her fists, glared out at Dorian and Vivienne. “Why should I not wish it upturned? Why should I not wish my family to be elevated to their rightful position?”

Clever, clever, clever. Of course it would be Josephine playing it. Who else had interviewed him about the Venatori’s motives, who else had her knowledge of them?

“The Orlesian peasants that you grind beneath your heel to make your ascension would have objections, I suspect,” Lavellan said. “So I give you a choice, Marie de Lin. Will you be tried by the Inquisition, or tried by the people of Orlais?”

Josephine raised her palms, lowered her head in surrender. “Orlais could not understand what I have done. Let your people be my judge, then.”

The Inquisitor took her wrist, but paused, Lavellan's softness returning to this voice. “I would haul Marie de Lin from her seat, of course,” he said. “But I can't be doing that to my ambassador.”

“I am most grateful for your mercy, Inquisitor,” she replied, an impish grin creeping into her features. He released her arm, and she peeled the mask from her face.

“You did very well, my dear,” Vivienne said.

The others raised their voices too, an overlapping cacophony of comment and compliment. Dorian met Lavellan's eyes as he removed his own mask. All he needed to do was smile.

Chapter Text

“I hope you do not mind all that I kept from you, Dorian,” Josephine said, bright-eyed and grinning.

“I'm rather impressed, actually,” Dorian replied, as he set another chair against the wall. Across the room, Lavellan and Cassandra were taking the curtains back down. Dorian had considered offering to help, to have a chance to speak with Lavellan, but he'd had enough wine that he didn't relish the idea of balancing on a chair. He was sure he'd find another chance – Lavellan couldn't be occupied every hour between now and their departure to Halamshiral. “The majority of the details were as we discussed, but you made enough changes to fool me,” Dorian continued, eyes turning back to Josephine. “Did you have some other confidante?”

Josephine shook her head. Dorian took his place across from her to assist in folding up one of the grand blue tablecloths. He'd already asked why they couldn't leave the room as is, but Josephine had been evasive. Some purpose of Leliana's, he suspected. “Vivienne provided advice on the manner aspects, of course,” she replied. “But she knew half as much as you, and our other companions half as much again. I had considered making Vivienne the Venatori agent, of course, but had not told her so when I changed my mind.”

“I did suspect her rather intensely,” Dorian replied. “I assumed that you would choose someone with a great deal of expertise in the Grand Game to play them, given that the agent Lavellan will be hunting at Halamshiral clearly has at least some knowledge. As it wasn't me, and you were already taking on far too much of the responsibility, that seemed to leave only her.” They stepped aside from the table, bringing the bright cotton corners together. “So, when did you change your mind?”

“I had much the same thought process as you did,” she replied. She laid the thick triangle of folded cloth on the table and smiled. “And I suppose... well, two things. Firstly, that the more I thought about what you told me about the Venatori, and my own notes for Marie de Lin... the more it made sense for it to be her. Someone like her could have been recruited by the Venatori had circumstances been different. If she, or...” She paused. “If she, or I, had made an unknowing ally of one of Corypheus' people rather than our cherished Nightingale, I could have had very different poisons whispered into my ear.”

Dorian nodded carefully, taking another chair so as to avoid appearing to scrutinise. “So the story about the family with the debt – that's yours, I take it?”

“It is,” Josephine replied. “Though secondly,” she continued, voice breezier. “I thought you'd have more fun, if you were to be able to play detective along with everyone else.”

“You weren't wrong,” Dorian replied, smiling faintly. “It's strange, I don't often relish being wrong. I was trying to be far too clever, and the Inquisitor was just clever enough. It was equal parts joyful and frustrating to see where I went wrong.”

“That was how the Game used make me feel,” she replied, eyes lowered.

“I shall have to do something you will find entertaining to repay you, of course,” Dorian said casually, leaning against the table. “Perhaps if I were to run one of these for recreational purposes, with you as the ignorant party. There could be a murder to solve. Varric lying in the middle of the carpet clutching a wooden dagger to his chest. Cassandra would certainly enjoy it.”

Josephine smiled. “Yes, that would certainly add an extra layer of excitement.” She lifted her eyes again, to meet his. “But there is no need to repay me for the extra work I've undertaken. I chose to take it upon myself. And having your company and friendship the past month... I so very rarely get the chance to speak so straightforwardly.” She perched next to him, and looked across to Lavellan. “I will almost miss this, when it is all over, as much as I will be relieved.”

“I... understand, Josephine,” Dorian replied sadly. Josephine, Lavellan, even Vivienne and some of the others – he'd enjoyed this precarious period of bonding with them. There would always be something else for the Inquisition to do, of course. Lavellan and Leliana moving pieces across a distant board, while Dorian tried to solve Tevinter's problems from beyond its borders. But his aristocratic idleness was not so focused and tactical as Josephine's diplomatic expertise, and Lavellan... well, that's why he'd said what he had when they were dancing.

Whether it be for his clan or the world, the concerns of the Inquisitor were – had to be – greater than Dorian Pavus.

“I will miss this too,” he murmured. This month had perhaps been one of his happiest, as much as it was filled with moments that reminded him of his worst. That said, the idea of a month unsoiled by the long fingers of his past seemed to Dorian to be a rather unlikely outcome. “It's strange to think I was almost dreading all this, at first.” Still watching Lavellan, laughing with Cassandra as they stepped down from the window. “I thought he would suffer far more than he did, I suppose.” He smiled, briefly. “And I suppose I wasn't expecting the pleasure of your friendship.”

Josephine nodded warmly. “I am still... afraid for him,” she said quietly. “No matter how well we prepare them, the Court could still be merciless. That was always a possibility. But we have... done our best. And so has he.” She tightened her fingers against the table. “And Dorian,” she said mildly. “I hope you will not be upset by me saying this. You certainly have reason to be wary of others meddling in your affairs.”

Dorian stared ahead, still, saying nothing. If it had been someone else, he might have snapped. Assumed this was some whisper from Mother Giselle or the like. But he trusted Josephine enough to let her finish.

“But... know that I have noticed how close you and he are, and how he takes solace from your presence,” she said levelly. Perfectly Josephine, free of innuendo but clear in implication. “He and I are similar in many ways. Our friends fear to confide in us, for they think our burdens too great to share, even when we would open ourselves gladly to their troubles. I suspect that you will be able to discuss most things with him, but... should something arise, at court or otherwise, that you fear to trouble him with but must discuss with someone, know that I am here for you. As fellow advisor to the Inquisitor, and as your friend.”

“I don't think my inner thoughts are all that interesting,” Dorian said, smiling weakly. A deflection, of course. He knew he was clever and fascinating. But Josephine wouldn't be the only person to have noticed his closeness to Lavellan. There were rumours before it was true. Platonic and malicious, with Dorian as a Tevinter agitator, or the ones that were simple in their lewdness.

But to answer Josephine with something truthful would be to snatch the covering aside, to let another person know there was something worth admitting to. A person who might ask questions of it, afterwards. He felt torn in two as he watched Lavellan, mouth dry with fear and heart full of pride. A lover one could brag of having, a perfect jewel of a man. “I suppose I do have one question,” Dorian said quietly. Averted his gaze away from Lavellan and Josephine both, towards the door. “You are far more appraised of what to expect people to be saying of him at Court, as much as it can be predicted.”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Josephine said. “What was your question?”

Dorian swallowed. “Would it be better if I were to... stay away from him?”

The door opened in the silence that followed. Leliana and Cullen. Ah. To discuss what would be happening, when they left and as they travelled. He lowered his eyes as Josephine lifted hers, caught her firm, unwavering gaze.

“No,” Josephine replied, eyes gleaming fiercely.

“Inquisitor, Josephine,” Cullen called, leaning against the doorframe. “We have some final preparations to make in the War Room. The rest of you may be at ease. Finish your packing, we leave for Orlais in the morning.”

Lavellan paused by them as he walked towards the door, looking between Dorian and Josephine.

“I shall be with you in a moment, Inquisitor,” Josephine said slowly. “We have... some tidying to finish.”

“And I shall see you if you ever have time to yourself again,” Dorian said weakly. Lavellan didn't laugh.

“I'll-- be going, then,” Lavellan stammered. Dorian considered asking him to stop. But even had he not been full of fears, Lavellan really did have to leave. Their preparations for the departure to Halamshiral couldn't be delayed to assuage Dorian's feelings.

And though her feet pointed to leave, Josephine leaned in close. “Yours is the kind of scandal I can use to our advantage,” she said quickly. “It makes him look, as I believe Sera would say, like people. Some want to see him as Andraste was. Mortal, with all the inconvenient feelings that might entail.”

“Even should people see me as his Maferath?” Dorian replied, smiling darkly. “Would it not be inconvenient, for him to appear led astray?”

“Even then,” Josephine said firmly. She blinked quickly, as she drew back. “Dorian,” she added, voice so sharp one could barely feel it cut. “As we both well know. Some moves in the Game, no matter how advantageous they may seem in the short term, are not worth it. Let both of you have this happiness, Dorian. For as long as you can.”

He sat against the table in silence as she walked away, buckled shoes creaking and clacking across the bare floorboards. The rugs rolled against the wall, all other decorations folded, the room had been returned to its practical bones.

For as long as they could. He was still afraid, of course. Of how long that would be. But Josephine was right. This was not Tevinter. There might still have been people who disapproved of them – or of him in particular – at Skyhold, but it was not a place that was waiting to uncover his desires and destroy them as a degenerate threat to the fabric of society.

Corypheus could kill them all tomorrow, of course, but that would be a different kind of tragedy. This... he would go to Lavellan, whenever his dear Inquisitor next had time to himself. He would go to him, and he would make this right.

Chapter Text

Dorian hadn't managed to speak to Lavellan that night. At the outset of the evening, he had entertained himself with packing for the journey. He felt more like he was preparing for a holiday than a potentially world-changing voyage, given that his outfit for the party was in Josephine's care and they would be stopping at Inquisition camps along the way to re-supply their practical provisions.

As it was, his pack was nearly empty, the victim of every trick for paring down his belongings that he'd learned when he was on the run. Three books, two changes of travelling clothes, a compact pouch of reagents. A folding case tightly cramped with the minimum amount creams, powders, perfumes, brushes and shaving razors he needed to make himself a level of presentable that pleased his own vanity.

He put his face to the slit window, and saw the candlelight still wavering in the War Room. Drank wine from a dirty glass and finished The Tragedy of the Chevalier. And yet the light still burned. It would burn there the rest of the night. Or at least, until Dorian had gone to bed.

Lavellan looked exhausted enough the next morning to suggest that it had in fact burned for some time after that. He barely seemed conscious of Dorian pacing behind him, pretending to look at the maps and miniatures as their companions slowly filed into the room, each dragging their travelling packs with them.

“My, Inquisitor,” Dorian said with a grin. “I hope it wasn't anything salacious keeping you up so late last night. You seem rather ragged, and certainly didn’t spend the evening in your own room.”

Lavellan smiled weakly. “Sadly, by the time I returned to receive visitors, I had practically already fallen asleep.” He looked up at Dorian and leant against the table, a crack of brightness appearing in his tired eyes. “I was actually reading about other people's salacious deeds. It gets surprisingly dull after three hours, and I still have more to read on our trip.”

“Normally I would offer to help you revise, but I think Leliana's entire intelligence report might be too much for even me,” Dorian said breezily. “I'll hear the highlights, of course. I'd like to know if I'm going to run into anyone of particular notoriety.” A flicker at the corner of Dorian's mouth. “Yourself excepted, of course.”

“After everything I've read so far, Dorian, being the figurehead of a heretical Chantry sect seems fairly tame,” Lavellan replied.

Despite himself, Dorian laughed. That morning, with such a crowd, wasn't the place to be serious and mawkish. Lavellan didn't even seem upset, considering how plagued Dorian was by his own worries, unless he was doing a particularly good job of hiding it.

Josephine, Cullen and Leliana arrived last. Josephine beamed at them as she entered, the other two absorbed with some quiet debate. Dorian allowed himself a brief touch of Lavellan’s arm before he walked to take the last free seat. At the front, unfortunately, between Cassandra and Varric. Well, someone had to keep those two apart, even if it meant Leliana would notice if he glazed over during the briefing again.

“It’s hard to believe it’s been almost a month since we first discussed the Winter Palace,” Josephine said, all smiles. “I would like to begin with thanks to all of you. Preparations for the Grand Game have been quite a change of pace for many of you, and I would like to acknowledge all of your hard work.” Her bright look alighted on Cassandra, Vivienne, himself. “Some of you in particular have been crucial in preparing your companions for what the troubles of court might entail.”

“At present, we are well-prepared,” Leliana continued. “But though the Inquisitor will be facing most of the scrutiny, I would like you all to be aware of what we may face at court. Celene, Gaspard and their allies will be prominent, of course. Ambassador Briala intends to represent the elves of Orlais, but her own background is… patchy.”

“She isn’t Dalish,” Lavellan added. “So whether or not we will be natural allies is…” He grimaced. “Something I’d have to find out regardless, I suppose. My people are not all friends, despite our often common goals.”

“Our hostess, Florianne de Chalons, is somewhat known to us,” Josephine said. “She is Gaspard’s cousin, although she remains close to Celene. Conversely, Celene’s Court Enchanter remains a mystery. They are known only as M, and despite our best efforts, we have been unable to uncover anything further about their identity or loyalties.”

“And should your intrigues run into trouble, Inquisition soldiers will accompany you,” Cullen said, a step away from the table. “We won’t be able to overcome the entire Winter Palace, or else I’d be suggesting we start there, but if the Inquisitor can identify the Venatori agent, we’ll be able to move on them.”

“So, what do you need us to do?” Dorian asked, leaning back in his chair. “Apart from eat small cheeses on sticks and try to look presentable. I’m fairly sure we have that part covered.”

“Other than try not to cause trouble?” Lavellan said dryly.

“I’m afraid that’s unavoidable, given your involvement,” Dorian replied.

“Pass on anything of interest that you find to myself, the Inquisitor or Leliana,” Josephine said quickly, before he and Lavellan could continue to drag out the meeting with glib remarks.

“But do try not to cause trouble,” Vivienne added. “I shan’t be happy if I have to pull you out of the courtyard fountain after a drunken incident, Dorian.”

“I am more than capable of pulling myself out of the fountain, if such an incident should occur,” Dorian replied with a smirk. “Besides, the Inquisitor may need a distraction.”

“I’ll let you know if that’s the case,” Lavellan replied, smoothing his hair behind his ear and turning his quiet smile to the others. “Though obviously, I may need to ask for some of your help if I need to explore the palace. Those of you with a talent for unlocking doors in particular.”

“I can’t wait to piss in the Empress’ shoes,” Sera said, surprisingly solemnly.

“Please… don’t do that,” Josephine replied, teeth fixed into a grimace.

“Nobody will be pissing in anything they’re not supposed to,” Lavellan said firmly, fixing Sera with a look so serious it made Dorian wonder what she’d done before he’d joined them.

“Oh, you’re always such a bloody killjoy,” Sera said, throwing her head back.

“That aside,” Lavellan replied, leaning his palms on the table. “Leliana has prepared notes for all of you to look over while we’re travelling. The time it will take us to arrive will give us a few more days to finish our preparations.”

He paused, swallowed, face turning serious.

“I’d like to follow Josephine in giving my thanks to all of you. When we first discussed this, I couldn’t imagine feeling anywhere near ready for this, but you’ve all been a great help to me, even though I know that for some of you this has been just as difficult.” A glimmer of a smile. “Whether because you’re equally inexperienced, or because turning from the life of a noble is a step you took on the path that led you to the Inquisition.”

He leaned back, and glanced across his advisers. “I think that’s everything, isn’t it?”

“Everything best said in words, at least,” Josephine said.

“Then it’s time for us to leave,” he said, looking back across at them.

Chairs scraped slowly across the floor. Dorian stood up. Cassandra breathed heavily through her nose.

The next time they returned to this room, their business in Halamshiral would hopefully be at an end. Dorian slung his bag across his back, and began to walk.

Chapter Text

Lavellan insisted on riding on horseback for the first leg of the journey, despite the availability of carriages. We'll move faster if they're empty, had been his excuse, although Dorian and everyone else present knew it that, firstly, it wouldn't make terribly much of a difference, and secondly, they were already leaving with time to spare. Vivienne had raised an eyebrow, but neither she nor Josephine cared to stop him. Most of Lavellan's companions, Dorian included, had decided to join him.

He supposed it was the last chance Lavellan would get to be wild and roughly handsome for a few days. And, given the speed with which the head of the caravan cleared the gates, he supposed it also minimised the amount of time Lavellan and Cassandra had to spend grinning politely. They would have quite enough of that over the next week. Josephine had already warned them – word travels fast at court, and they should act as if anyone they met in Orlais could be passing messages. It seemed that this would be where the tiresome part began, their descent into dishonest winter.

Dorian was surprised to find himself thinking fondly of the last time they'd left Skyhold – their journey to the Hinterlands – considering what a difficult trip it had been for everyone involved. He thought of riding next to Lavellan in the brisk mountain wind, talking about romance novels by the side of Lake Calenhad, and taking his hand in the Redcliffe barracks. That these incidents had been glimmers between Lavellan's fear for his clan's life, Dorian's anger at his father's return and both of their injuries during the fight at the rift only served to polish the moments rather than diminish them.

But the caravan reached the fork in the mountain pass, and now their journey changed. Past the familiar path to Fereldan and towards Orlais, to skirt the edges of Emprise de Lion on the way to Halamshiral.

Dorian had complained about the night chill on the way to Redcliffe, of course. But a few miles and weeks away, the valley their horses and carriages travelled down into was thick with frost and snow. Despite their emptiness, the carriage wheels slowed. Despite their emptiness, the carriage wheels sunk. Without a word, Lavellan went to dismount, and let out at a yelp as he plunged ankle-deep into the powder-snow. Dorian laughed, and Lavellan pointed a barbed smile towards him as he handed the reins of his horse to Solas.

And Dorian watched, with a curling smirk, as Lavellan sloughed towards him, attempting to remain composed in front of his people.

“I fear you're going to ask me to lower myself to your level,” Dorian said dryly, looking down his nose at the snow-flecked Inquisitor.

“Why Dorian, we've crossed the border by now,” Lavellan said. “If you could at least pretend to admire me, it would be appreciated.”

“I'll consider it,” Dorian replied.

Lavellan came to a stop by his horse, and gave an inappropriately deep bow. “My dear Lord Pavus,” he said, in what Dorian recognised as an imitation of his own voice. “It would be greatly appreciated if you could lend your much superior fire magic to the cause of getting the carriages and wagons out of the snow.”

“Ah, you mean you would prefer I didn't simply sit here and fling fireballs at your procession?” Dorian said.

“If at all possible,” Lavellan replied.

“I'll consider it,” Dorian repeated, swinging his leg over his saddle. He took Lavellan's offered hand, initially lightly, as if they were playing a sarcastic game of knights and nobles. But as he stepped down, he too fell through the top layer of snow, and it was Lavellan's ever-firm grip that pulled him back from plunging to the ground in a rather undignified, and face-first, manner. He laughed and leaned back against Lavellan, forgetting for a moment that they had an audience, and conjured a flicker of flame.

Iron Bull and the Chargers had already dismounted to pull and push at the first carriage, with Bull's usual amount of raucous fanfare.

“Your nipples, boss,” Krem was saying. “Maybe in this cold you can use them to slice through the snow.”

“Surprised you can sass me through those chattering teeth, Krem,” Iron Bull replied with a grunt. He heaved at the back of the carriage, but it stuck, the snow weighing down the spokes of the wheels.

“As much as I'm tempted to let you try that, I would rather get out of the pissing cold as quickly as possible,” Dorian said. “Please, allow me.” He knelt through the damp frost and put his hand by the wheels. Trying to be subtle, for once. He was aiming to melt, not to burn.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen said from behind them, his heavy boots crunching through the snow. Not for the first time, Dorian envied the lion's mane cuff that closed around his neck. “As you can see, last night's snow was thicker than we anticipated. We'll need to have fire mages walk alongside the carriages and supply wagons to keep them from sinking in the snow, or slipping if the melted water re-freezes.”

Dorian had done many impressive tricks with his magic before, but something like this – unless one had time to prepare a ritual to clear the whole valley at once, it was generally considered the work of spellbinders. There was relatively little cerebral interfacing with the Veil and the nature of magic to be had in moving carriages through a mountain pass.

And yet, something about the particular challenge of this appealed to him. Not pushing his magic to the limits of its power, not performing a feat of great philosophical or technical understanding, but creating an efficient tool that he would need to be able to cast over and over for the next few hours. And a touch of technical complexity, given that his instinctive methods produced flames that burned as hotly and quickly as possible. Useful in combat but, as Varric had been so keen to point out in regards to his cooking, perhaps unsuitable for other purposes.

“How much time will we lose?” Lavellan asked.

Dorian traced a circle in the snow with his heat-tipped finger.

“A few hours at most,” Cullen replied. “This was never going to be a particularly quick part of the journey. I had hoped to reach the nearest Inquisition camp before nightfall to make tomorrow's travel easier, but that may not be possible. I'll have one of the scouts take a message to the forward camp, to see if they have soldiers to spare to clear the snowfall on their end.”

“We should try to make the camp, even if it means travelling in the dark,” Lavellan sighed. “Bull,  Krem, split up and help the other wagons. Dorian, I'll join you at the front. Fire may not be my specialisation, but I know enough to help.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Bull replied.

“Whatever you say, boss' boss,” Krem added, following as Bull heaved himself through the snow.

Dorian leaned back as the glyph he'd laid beneath the carriage glimmered to life, the bright light of pure magical fire searing through the frost.

“And here I assumed you would prefer to lounge in the carriage reading your reports and heckling me,” Dorian said, dusting the snow from his hands and glancing up at Lavellan.

“Perhaps I'll have you do that if you get tired,” Lavellan replied.

Lavellan stepped closer. Dorian could hear Cullen barking instructions at the next set of soldiers. The ones loitering by the next wagon, the one Dorian hadn't failed to notice was clearly filled with weapons and armour for the Inquisition camps they were passing through on the way to Halamshiral. He supposed the useful part of Cullen's paranoia feared an attack by the Venatori while the Inquisitor was distracted at the Winter Palace.

“What can I do?” Lavellan said, the white smoke of his frozen breath rising between them. Dorian smiled.

“Stop me from burning the carriages to shreds,” Dorian said. “Use your barriers, or what have you. I'm unfortunately rather dangerous.”

“And I'm clever enough to handle you,” Lavellan replied, flexing his fingers. A waxy blue sheen coated the base of the carriage as Dorian's glyph flared. Dorian wanted to kiss him, but he wondered-- no, perhaps he should. Quietly pressed his mouth against Lavellan's frosted lips and then walked on.

The carriage creaked on through the snow as the soldiers behind it began to push. Dorian knelt, despite the chill already spreading through his legs, and started to draw another glyph in the snow.

Chapter Text

It was indeed dark when they arrived at the camp at the base of the mountain, guided by torchlight and the distant sight of burning campfires. Dorian had decided to trust that the camp being visible for miles wouldn't attract unwanted attention, if Cullen had been willing to sign off on it. It was rather well-established from the looks of it. Mostly tents, yes, but the start of makeshift walls and cabins, things that would have taken time to build.

The soldiers took the wagons and horses from them, guiding the stunned mages towards the campfire. Scouts passed out bundles of dry clothes and wooden cups of hot tea to each mage that walked through the gates. Dorian had thought he mustn't have been too cold, given he'd been casting fire magic for miles, but the pain in his fingertips as he took the cup, the ache in his legs as he came to a stop, suggested he'd merely been numb.

“Go with them,” Lavellan croaked, voice scratchy from the chill. He put a gentle hand to Dorian's shoulder as he glanced behind them, the long line of torches still stretching up the mountain. “I'll wait until the rest of the caravan gets in.”

“At least let me wait with you,” Dorian said. Quietly, seriously. There were words he still wanted to have with him.

Lavellan nodded.

“You will be doing no such thing, Inquisitor,” Josephine interrupted.

Lavellan blinked as he turned his head. Neither of them had noticed her carriage unload. Her face and silk shirt, gleaming golden in the orange torchlight.

“People have attended court while ill, of course,” Josephine said sharply. “But if you catch a cold and spend the evening coughing and delirious, I imagine you will not be working at your best. All of the Inquisition's mages have been ordered to take respite.” She narrowed her eyes, but not without humour. “And that includes both of you.”

Dorian grinned guiltily. “Why Josephine, surely standing around in incredible discomfort is the best preparation for court the Inquisitor could undertake.”

She smirked, but spoke seriously. “I also ensured that tents would be prepared for yourselves, Vivienne and Solas upon arrival, should the Inquisitor or his companions wish to rest immediately.” Her gaze turned on Lavellan. “Ahead of the relaxing carriage ride he will be taking on tomorrow's journey.”

Lavellan nodded stiffly. “I will trust yourself, Cullen and Leliana to see the rest of our people to safety,” he said. A smirk playing at the dim corners of his mouth. “It wouldn't be the first time you've done so without me in these sort of conditions.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Josephine replied, bowing gently. Dorian was relieved that Lavellan wasn't intending to argue. Perhaps a few weeks ago, Dorian could have imagined him doing so. His people, his responsibilities, given that his instinctive inclination had been to... well, to do as he would.

Clutching his change of clothes tight to his chest, Lavellan strode on, and Dorian kept pace with him. There was an obvious question to be raised, and Dorian didn't want to miss the opportunity through remaining silent.

“I would still like to spend time with you, if that suits,” he said, averting his gaze towards the fire.

“It suits,” Lavellan replied quietly.

Dorian would reach his hand out for his, if they weren’t carrying so much.

“You would watch the rest of your clan come in safely when you stopped to camp, wouldn't you?” Dorian said. “I suppose it would have been somewhat like this.”

“The Aravels,” Lavellan said, almost dreamily. “Yes. Not because I was First, however. We all took turns – hunters, crafters and Keepers alike.”

Their tents were towards the back of the camp. Near the guard posts, and close enough to the edge that the Inquisitor could fight or escape quickly if needed. Lavellan smiled faintly. “Winters were always difficult. The ground so hard we could barely forage, and the animals that weren't hibernating had turned lean and fierce. And snow is always trouble, of course.”

Dorian could imagine. But he smiled. He didn't want to be overbearingly concerned, especially given that he was planning to be moodily serious in private.

“This one year,” Lavellan continued, beginning to laugh. He paused, to nod at the guards near their tent. Dorian made a point of bowing, and held the heavy tent flap open for Lavellan with the hand that clutched his empty cup.

“So, about this one year,” Dorian prompted as he knelt. The blankets were thin and coarse, at least by Dorian’s standards. “I would go to my tent to snatch what they set aside for me,” he said sniffily. “But I'm not going back out there.”

“My orchid, who can't stand the cold,” Lavellan said, raising an eyebrow as he sat on the bedroll. “Are you sure you'll survive with just this?”

“Maevaris called me that in one of her letters to you, didn't she?” Dorian replied flatly. “I should never have let you two know you might have common purpose.” Trying to hide the half-comfortable sting. That Lavellan would borrow his sentimental phrasing from a friend he dearly missed, and how he feared and longed to be spoken of in such honeyed terms.

“Do you still write to her?” Lavellan asked, setting his cup aside.

Dorian smiled weakly. “I've fallen out of the habit of letter-writing,” he replied. He hadn't contacted her as a friend since before Redcliffe, when he'd decided it was too dangerous to risk revealing his whereabouts to Alexius and the Venatori. Now they shared business through Skyhold, and signed their letters wittily, but nothing more. “Have you heard anything more from your clan?”

“A little,” Lavellan replied tightly. He lowered his eyes and set to unbuckling his snow-crusted boots, numb fingers struggling.

“Oh, please,” Dorian scolded. “Let me do it.” Lavellan laughed as Dorian swatted his hands aside. Though not quite as deft as usual, Dorian's fingers still worked quickly. “As you were,” he said.

“Leliana's people are investigating,” Lavellan sighed, letting himself lie back. He closed his eyes, a frown still crossing his brow. “The nearby city's elves have been having their own problems, and we suspect they may be interlinked. She received a coded note from one of her agents. While we are at court, the people she can spare will be attempting to ensure their safety.”

“Lavellan...” Dorian said quietly. “I meant what I said, a while ago. We could go to them, after all of this fuss with the court is over. I think you'd have earned a detour to the Free Marches.”

Lavellan smiled shakily. “Perhaps,” he replied. Dorian pulled his second boot free. And then, almost yawning. “But we have so much to do.”

Dorian put his sodden cloak aside, and lay down by Lavellan's side. Lifted his closest hand to cup Lavellan's face. “We should change before you go all the way to sleep,” Dorian said softly. “Josephine's right about you catching a cold.”

“I know,” Lavellan replied, eyes still closed. He pressed his cheek against Dorian's palm. “But I'd like to lie here for a moment, if that’s acceptable.”

“I suppose it is,” Dorian replied. He turned, and rested his other hand on Lavellan's chest. Watched, for a few peaceful moments, as his palm rose and fell with Lavellan's deep, tired breaths.

“There's something I wanted to say to you,” Dorian blurted out. Perhaps this wasn't the time, when Lavellan was so exhausted. But he had to make things right.

“What is it?” Lavellan murmured.

“I said something to you at Josephine's salon,” he said. “While we were dancing.”

“You say a lot of things, Dorian,” Lavellan replied languidly, his reaching fingers finding the base of Dorian's neck.

It would be so easy, to stop. To say nevermind, to flirt back, to touch and be touched and melt into the night. Normally, Dorian would. But normally, Dorian wasn't so troubled.

“I said you might offer yourself to other people in service of the Grand Game, and it seemed to upset you,” Dorian said. “I wanted to apologise.”

“Is that what's been troubling you, Dorian? Something you said from beneath a mask?” Lavellan asked. He laughed as he spoke, but those careful green eyes watched him.

Dorian sighed. “It's... yes, but it's more than that.” He pressed his forehead against Lavellan's, and then pulled back. Now that it came to trying to describe what was bothering him, it was as if he was grasping at a cloud. “It's why I said it that's bothering me,” Dorian said tightly.

Lavellan nodded softly, and brought his fingers to Dorian's jawline. “What are you thinking about, Dorian?”

Dorian swallowed. He'd frozen, but Lavellan didn't push him. Looked at him warmly, and traced his thumb against his cheek.

“I wasn't entirely... pretending, when I spoke. If using every tool at your disposal would upset me, you wouldn't do it,” Dorian said. “And, certainly, I expect you might act similarly for your other confidantes, but... this tool, in this instance...”

Dorian sighed again. He felt he was talking in circles.

“It makes me think I mean something to you,” Dorian stammered. He tried to force himself to meet Lavellan's eyes, but couldn't do it. “And, frankly, I find that terrifying.”

“In what way?” Lavellan asked quietly. If he'd been indignant at Dorian's implications at the party, he sounded... sorrowful, now.

“I don't know,” Dorian said. “I'm not sure if I'm more afraid that you do, or more afraid that you don't.” He tried to smile, shakily. “You being who you are and me being who I am... I'm not sure this ends happily for us.”

In the moments before Lavellan responded, Dorian was certain that he'd blown it. His words had taken him over the line he had drawn for himself. He had made this into something more serious than someone like him had any right to want. But Lavellan only pulled him closer, slid his hands back to wrap his arms tightly around Dorian's shoulders.

“Dorian, this sort of thing doesn't normally end well for you, does it?” Lavellan whispered. “That's what I've gathered, from what you've told me.”

Dorian nodded. “There's no room for emotions, usually. It's considered rather rude, as much as that world of mine has its own etiquette.” He laughed weakly. “It rather ruins the mood. Asking someone to consider if they might feel something for you – it’s terribly presumptuous. And I have no idea what a future would even have looked like. The same surreptitious rendezvous, forever.”

“It will look like this, Dorian,” Lavellan said softly. “If... you want. You and me. Keeping each other warm in the dark, and making each other laugh. Wherever we end up. If that would be enough.”

Dorian pulled back to look at him. His lip trembled. It felt rather pathetic. But he looked at Lavellan's soft, sad eyes, and that set him off.

“Dorian,” Lavellan said, half-warm and half-alarmed. Fingers scrambling to wipe at Dorian's cheeks. “Dorian, you're crying.”

“I suppose I am,” Dorian said shakily, trying to smirk and failing. The words caught in his throat. “It's enough,” he choked. “Of course it's enough, you stupid man.”

“You can insult me all you like, Dorian,” Lavellan said dryly. “But come here, at least. It’s cold, your tears might freeze.” And Dorian let himself be pulled closer, laughing harshly against his lover's shoulder.

Dorian always imagined he'd feel different, if something like this ever happened to him. But he was still him, still an open wound. His dark brain scrambled, reminding him he could still ruin this. Reminding him that perhaps he'd just pushed the pain into the future, setting himself up for an even greater hurt. But he let Lavellan brush it away. His warm skin, his gentle hands, his kiss against Dorian’s forehead.

“Stay close, ma vhenan,” Lavellan whispered, so softly Dorian wasn't even certain if he'd been supposed to hear.

“I have no idea what that means,” Dorian murmured. “But I like the way you say it.”

Lavellan laughed nervously. “I never finished the story I started, did I?” he said, possibly one of the most obvious attempts to change the subject Dorian had ever seen.

“It's a dirty word in Dalish, isn't it?” Dorian said, his voice still choked despite his mirth. “Whatever rude thing did you just call me?”

“So. One year,” Lavellan repeated. “My clan saw the snow was coming. We didn't want to have to dig the Aravels out if we were caught in it, so we took shelter in a deep cave, thinking we could continue in the morning.”

“You're fortunate that I'm interested enough in your life to drop this,” Dorian replied, lifting his head. “Perhaps it means orchid,” he continued. “Given that you called me that earlier. And I'm aware that in several languages, and I suppose Dalish could be one of them, it's an uncommon euphemism for--”

“That's not what it means,” Lavellan said quickly, face turning hot. “So we took shelter in a deep cave,” he continued, teeth gritted, struggling not to laugh. “But there was much more snow than we thought, and in the morning, the cave was snowed in.”

“Lavellan,” Dorian said firmly. “Given your laughter, you think this is a fun story. I am severely worried about what you think constitutes a fun story.”

“It's very funny,” Lavellan said. “In hindsight. Although we did think we might die at the time.”

“Lavellan,” Dorian said, in false exasperation.

Lavellan pulled the blankets over them, and nestled closer to Dorian. “The next morning,” he continued.

Dorian relented, letting himself be pulled against Lavellan's warmth. Letting himself listen to Lavellan telling stories. Letting himself forget the sorrow that had fallen over him so closely. You and me. The two of them. Sneaking to each other's rooms and talking until they fell asleep.

Of course that would be enough.

Chapter Text

It was cold when Dorian awoke, and as he emerged from the fog of sleep, he briefly forgot where he was. Lavellan was sitting against the back of the tent, one knee resting against Dorian's waist and the other leg stretched out in front of him. Dorian's eyes followed the easy lines of Lavellan's body until he found his hands, a folding knife in one and a piece of wood in the other.

And Dorian wondered – the Dalish would have their own version of a Harrowing, wouldn't they? The Tevinter equivalent wasn't as brutal as the Southern Chantry's, but it still happened. The first time a mage was plunged into the Fade consciously, and had to prove they were strong-willed enough to return. The Desire Demon that tried to tempt Dorian during his Harrowing had promised him something like this. His mind would live in a castle of dreams with a wraith in the guise of a handsome lover, eating the finest phantom delicacies and discussing philosophy from the Fade's grandest library, while his body shambled around trying to murder everyone.

He wondered if this was what Lavellan's dreams had looked like, too. Well, the parts without the demon.

“I see you're still here,” Dorian said, propping himself up on his elbow.

Lavellan smiled faintly, and carefully clicked the knife shut. “And so are you.”

And so he was. Dorian watched as Lavellan quietly, furtively tucked the closed knife, as well as whatever he’d been carving, into his satchel. Dorian’s tongue felt heavy, and his mind a maze.

He should speak.

“I confess, I'm not sure what I should say next,” Dorian said softly. “You're right, of course. I crossed the line I drew for myself in Tevinter with you a long time ago.” Dorian smiled, despite himself. “I let myself be seen with you in public, for one thing. I let you visit my quarters, and stay the night. I spoke freely with you, even when I feared I was becoming impractically fond of you. Those...” It was obvious, when he put it like this. It was obvious that Lavellan had never been an ordinary lover to him. “Those are things I would normally deny myself. But I didn't, with you.”

Lavellan paused. “I hadn't realised that was how you were thinking, Dorian,” he said. “I hadn't noticed how much this was troubling you. And I'm sorry for that.” He lifted his uncertain eyes. “I've… always been serious about you, Dorian. It's... how I am. If you still fear that this isn't something I want, please lay those fears to rest. I want this, Dorian. A lot.” He swallowed, and tightened his hands. “And I want you, Dorian. A lot. All of your fears, all of your sorrows, all of your teasing.”

“Well, I certainly shan't stop teasing you,” Dorian said, with a shaky smile. He leaned in, drawing his gaze slowly over Lavellan's face as if he was appraising him. “I certainly shan't stop anything, if you want it,” he whispered. “I may even have some wants of my own.”

Lavellan laughed breathily, endearingly flustered. Dorian smirked. He liked that he could do this to him.

“What is it you want, then?” Lavellan whispered, eyelids fluttering softly. It was Dorian's turn to laugh. But he liked that Lavellan could do this to him, too. And now, perhaps, more than ever, he was happy to give himself over.

Dorian closed his eyes and leaned in, as if they hadn't done this before. Leaned in, and trusted Lavellan's mouth to meet his. Full lips grazing his, gently at first, then firmly, forcefully. Heads tilting, hands grabbing at sleeves. Dorian felt Lavellan's fingers against his neck, fumbling blindly with his collar fastenings. And Dorian drew him closer, pressing Lavellan's jagged hipbones against him, just above his own. Dorian felt a heat spreading through him, almost enough to forget the cold chill of Emprise de Lion.

“Dorian,” Lavellan murmured. He was panting. Lips parted, mouth damp. Lavellan's fingers reached for Dorian's wrists. “I--”

A sound rang from outside the tent, a horn echoing across the camp from far, far too close. The bloody morning call. Lavellan tightened his grip, and Dorian didn't pull away. A second horn sounded in response from the other side of the camp as Lavellan dragged Dorian's hands upwards. And with his eyes scrunched tightly shut, Lavellan raked Dorian's fingertips across his vallaslin.

“Lavellan,” Dorian stammered. Lavellan lowered his face and, fingers laced together, buried his face in Dorian's palms. Dorian blinked slowly, mostly stunned. His heart ached for Lavellan, and his trembling sincerity. Dorian breathed deeply, to still himself.

“I see you were serious about being serious,” he said, perhaps too lightly. He wanted to hold him, but he didn't want to take his hands away. “Has anyone ever told you that you can be rather forward?”

Lavellan laughed shakily, face still hidden. He let go of Dorian's hands. Dorian spread them out to the side, along the branches of Lavellan's markings, so he could hold his face and see his eyes. Kissed him once, slowly and tenderly, for reassurance as well as Dorian’s own desire.

“You know,” Dorian said. “Solas once told me – not on purpose, of course, we were arguing and it happened to come up – about one of the Dalish's rituals. He said that if someone is being courted, they may request a trial of some sort from their lover to prove their worth. Is that correct?”

Lavellan smiled faintly. “More or less,” he said.

“Now, I would have previously considered such a trial to be for you to request, given that I've clearly been corrupting your innocence for several months by this point,” Dorian said, a wicked grin gracing his lips. “But with you being so forward, dear Inquisitor, I thought perhaps I should be the one to request something of you. I don't need to know how things work to guess that this would usually come before, well, where we are, but as we're hardly a conventional Dalish couple I hope you'll forgive me the misordering of your people's ways.”

“I'm sure my Keeper will forgive me,” Lavellan replied evenly. His smile had warmed as Dorian had talked, and now he let the back of his hand rest lazily against Dorian's shoulder. “What would you ask of me, Dorian?”

And Dorian knew, as they spoke, how little time they had. The camp was waking, and they would have to rise soon. And then there was nothing keeping them from the court. Lavellan would finish his preparations on today's journey, and take a scant few hours of sleep. Lavellan would be cleaned, dressed and combed. And then, no matter how pleasant Dorian's witty distractions might be, Lavellan would be plunged into the viper's nest, and into the midst of a malice that went beyond their ability to keep him safe.

Dorian took his hands from Lavellan's face and pulled him close, smile faltering as he pressed Lavellan tightly against his shoulder. “Come back to me,” he said quietly. Cleared his throat, and spoke again. Firmly, this time, with a glib veneer. “Come back to me, alive. Preferably in one piece, but as long as you still have your head I'm certain I can work with whatever state you're in.”

He loosened his grip, so that Lavellan could meet his eyes. “After all you've said and done to me, Lavellan,” Dorian said, voice unsteady again. “After all this, I can't lose you.” Here he was, selfish as ever, begging Andraste to put her life and his love above the world. But here he was.

“Dorian,” Lavellan said quietly, mouth wobbling. They both knew that he could argue. They both knew that if it really came to it, and the only way to stop Corypheus was Lavellan's death, he would do it, and Dorian would shout and bawl and plead but would never, if it came to it, stop him. Foolish enough to fall for this martyr-in-waiting, Dorian wouldn't have him any other way.

“I'll come back to you,” Lavellan said, his breath warm on Dorian's lips. Lavellan kissed him deeply, hands grasping his, and started to get up.

Chapter Text

The day before Halamshiral had progressed as Dorian expected. Smothering his selfish sadness, he had bid farewell to Lavellan at the door of the newly-repaired carriage the Inquisitor was to share with Leliana, Josephine, Cullen and what appeared to be several hundred pages of reports. They rode until after nightfall again, owing to their delayed departure, and fell straight to sleep.

And then the morning of the ball was upon them. And though the sky was still a painful orange, they began their preparations.

Dorian had at least some pleasant memories of the day before a night of festivities. When there was nothing to do but get ready, and the evening seemed full of possibility. They were still staying in a camp rather than a manor, but Josephine had ensured they had at least some of the appointments one might expect. Mirrors, for one. Washbasins, for another.

It was just rather a shame that they were crammed into sharing the small handful of tents the camp had to spare.

“I don't suppose you're planning to shave for the occasion,” Dorian said dryly.

“I have shaved,” Blackwall replied tiredly from the next mirror.

Dorian examined Blackwall's reflection as his fingers traced his own upper lip, for any lingering stubble or hairs out of place. “Yes, I suppose I can see your neck now,” Dorian replied. He turned back to his own mirrored face, the ointments from his case spread before him, and delicately dipped his forefinger and thumb into the metal pot of wax.

“I know you're nervous, Dorian,” Blackwall said evenly.

“I think we're all nervous,” Dorian replied, rubbing his fingertips together. “Even Celene will be sweating through her petticoats at the moment, don't you think?”

“Probably,” Blackwall said, almost amused.

“My word, Blackwall,” Dorian said, glancing slyly at the next mirror. “Were you entertained by something I said?” Dorian smirked, and carefully pinched at the corners of his moustache. “Perhaps this is a day that can change the course of history after all.”

“Perhaps,” Blackwall replied. But his warmer tone drained, and he fell into a soldier's silence, as Dorian was used to seeing him. “We can hope, at least. This war has taken too many lives,” Blackwall muttered.

Blackwall was Orlesian, of course, even if Dorian knew little of him. He had mentioned having lost his family, though not whether it was through death or, as it was with Dorian, estrangement. Whichever it was, if it was because of the war, that wasn't a scar Dorian was particularly keen to pick this morning, despite his burning nosiness. His truce with Blackwall was already shaky at best, and he imagined Josephine and Lavellan would really rather he didn't wind him up more than usual.

“I suppose most wars do,” Dorian said weakly. Reached for his Snoufleur-tusk comb, and turned his attention to his hair.

He supposed that, whatever Blackwall's own opinion of Gaspard and Celene, he had meant what his Chevalier had said at the salon. That the ordinary people of Orlais wanted the war to end, whatever ordinary people meant in this instance.

Just as many of Tevinter's Soporati played the Magisterium's games, awaiting the luck of a magical child, only the lowest of Orlais were not captivated by the fantasy that they might be elevated from peasant to merchant to noble by speaking the right words, in the right place, at the right time. All siblings who were not first in line for inheritance offered their sword to ingratiate their families with the next ruler of Orlais, and came back as one forgotten corpse among dozens. Surely even those who wished to use the war to play the Grand Game must be beginning to bore of it, courtly fashions tended not to last half so long as the war had.

“Gaspard's carriage will be here shortly,” a rather harried Josephine said, poking her head through the flap of the tent. “Has anyone seen Cole?”

Dorian glanced over his shoulder as he replaced the last lid and closed his case. There was something subtly different about the way Josephine had painted her face. Her eyes darker, to better pair with the deep red of her jacket. Her mouth pale and matte, less glamorous than usual, to match the soldierly illusion of her uniform.

“I haven't,” Dorian replied. “And you look refined as always, Lady Montilyet.”

Josephine smiled briefly, and bowed lightly. “Thank you, Lord Pavus. Your manner is as impressive as ever.”

“I'm here,” Cole said from the corner of the room.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Josephine replied, clasping her hand to her chest.

Dorian hadn't been aware of Cole until he spoke. Apparently he was still doing that, the thing where he snuck around and didn't let himself be seen. Well, perhaps taking him to the Winter Palace would be easier if he wouldn't be noticed. And if they did glance past him, at least he was wearing his uniform. Someone even seemed to have combed his hair.

“Cole, you will be taking the carriage after ours with Solas, Sera, Blackwall and Iron Bull,” Josephine explained.

“My my, we're letting them arrive without supervision?” Dorian commented as he pulled on his gloves.

“I trust in Ser Blackwall's ability to... supervise,” Josephine replied carefully. “And Dorian, you will be arriving ahead of us with Cassandra, Cullen, Varric, Vivienne and Leliana.”

“And you and Lavellan will be making a scene by arriving fashionably late with Gaspard,” Dorian finished, with a smirk.

“As was the condition of our entry to the Palace,” Josephine said, smiling tightly.

“Oh Josephine, I of all people can't complain about someone making a scene,” Dorian replied, raising his eyebrows and walking to join her. “I'll be looking out for you.”

“I expect you won't be the only ones,” Josephine replied stiffly.

Dorian passed through the door. He could see the first carriage, waiting for him. Cassandra and Cullen were sitting at the windows he could see from where he was, speaking seriously. Well, Dorian supposed they had many shared interests. They were probably talking about their favourite methods of oiling their swords or starching their underwear.

Small drops of snow twinkled from the sky, and Dorian hurried across the campground. He wasn't exactly dressed for standing around in the cold.

“Dorian!”

He found himself smiling as he turned towards Lavellan's voice. There he was, standing by the campfire and chatting to Varric. And he looked as he did at the salon, striking and serious, the rich gold braid at the neck of his jacket casting a reflective highlight along his tight jawline in the firelight.

“Inquisitor,” Dorian replied. He crossed the distance between them.

“I'll give you two some space,” Varric said. He rapped the back of his knuckles against Lavellan's elbow. “You're gonna be fine, kid.” He lifted his head to grin at Dorian. “And I’ll see you in the carriage, Sparkler.”

Lavellan's hard mask was softer in this light, as he waved Varric away and turned towards him.

“You look nice, Dorian,” he said, looking at him with gentle eyes.

“Nice?” Dorian snorted. “That's all?”

Lavellan gave a sharp laugh, and shook his head. “Well, you know how you look, Dorian. What would you like me to say?”

“Really, Lavellan,” Dorian said, sighing dramatically. “You'll be in front of Celene Valmont in a few hours, and she might not be as charmed by that puppyish expression of yours as I am. You need to learn how to pay a decent compliment.” He took another step closer. “Let me show you.” Lavellan watched intently, smothering a smile as Dorian softened his expression into one of mawkish sincerity. “You look breathtaking, Inquisitor. The deep red of your uniform is exquisite. Your boots remind me of Emperor Drakon. Your mouth is perfection.”

Lavellan's serious expression crumbled into a laugh. “I get the idea, Dorian. You are more beautiful than Celene and more handsome than Gaspard.”

“Well, yes, I knew that, it comes with being marginally less aristocratically inbred,” Dorian drawled, hiding a smile of his own behind rolled eyes and an affectation of disinterest. “Though do be careful who hears you say that, if you're going to be murdered for slighting the Orlesians it should, preferably, not be before you've even arrived at Halamshiral.”

“I’ll try,” Lavellan said, his voice warm beneath his mirth. “Oh, and I have something for you.”

Dorian blinked as he realised Lavellan was serious, reaching his gloved hand into his pocket. “...What?”

Lavellan smiled and pressed something sharp into Dorian's palm. A small, roughly-carved wooden Halla on a leather cord.

“You don't need to tell me it isn't your style,” Lavellan said, avoiding Dorian's eyes.

“You made this,” Dorian said incredulously, staring at the carving. Every time he thought he might have glimpsed the furthest reaches of Lavellan’s heart, the bastard went and surprised him. “That's what you were making when I woke up yesterday.”

“I meant to finish it before we left Skyhold, but... I didn't have time.” Lavellan shrugged. “I thought you could wear it under your shirt.”

“One does generally give these kind of gifts before their lover has finished dressing, but I'm sure I can accommodate it,” Dorian said. His mouth trembled. “Is there… a particular reason you made this?”

“I started making it after what you said at the party, actually,” Lavellan said, fidgeting with his gloves. “It was my understanding that it's common to exchange gifts and favours in Orlais and Tevinter, and this is the kind of present the Dalish would give a lover. I thought that, no matter what I have to do at court... you’d enjoy it, knowing you're the only one wearing my token.”

Dorian curled his hand around the pendant, and held it close. It had been a while since he'd worn something like this. He used to wear his family's amulet in Tevinter, another trinket of status, until he'd had to pawn it.

“You are unbearable, you know that?” Dorian said, threading the cord around his neck. “It's not fair for you to be this thoughtful. I'm going to have to surprise you in turn.” And it did bother him, a little. Not being sure if he should be making as grand a gesture in return, or if this was simply… how Lavellan was.

“That's not how gifts work, Dorian,” Lavellan laughed. He looked towards the carriage. Dorian supposed they didn't have much time. Lavellan glanced back, and spoke hurriedly. “Would it ruin your make-up if I kissed you?”

“Yes,” Dorian said, tucking the Halla into the neck of his jacket. “But you know I'm going to let you do it anyway.”

And even in his thick-heeled boots, Lavellan stood on his toes to press his grinning lips against Dorian's. Dorian brushed a cautious hand against the back of Lavellan's neck, careful not to touch his hair, and guided him into taking a step closer, letting Dorian tip his neck back. There would still be no easy cure for Dorian’s fears. But he was happy, truly happy, and drank of that happiness as deeply as he could until the winter’s chill crept back through his thin gloves and into his fingertips.

“I think that's quite enough scandal for now,” Dorian said, taking his hand away.

Lavellan smiled. “Well, try not to cause too much of a stir before I arrive,” he said dryly. “I'm supposed to make an entrance.”

“I'll try,” Dorian replied. “But I’m making no promises.”

And with a lingering touch of Lavellan's hand, Dorian stepped away. Walked the rest of the way towards the waiting carriage, and climbed inside.

He was, by now, the last one to arrive. Josephine swung the door shut behind him, and gave them an adrenaline smile.

“I’ll see you all shortly,” she said. And as she stepped down, the carriage began to move.

Cassandra stared across at Dorian with wide eyes, as if someone was strangling her. “Are--” she sputtered. “Did you and the Inquisitor--”

“Yes, yes, do keep up Cassandra,” Dorian replied, glancing out of the other window with a practiced smirk. He supposed there was no hiding it now, at least from their friends.

“Am I the only one who didn't know?” Cassandra demanded, turning on Varric and Leliana.

And the frozen countryside began to roll away, as the wheels of the carriage turned towards Halamshiral.

Chapter Text

By the time they arrived it was already dark, and the early guests were roaming the gardens. Cassandra had refused the wine and canapés they'd been offered by a masked servant as they stepped through the grand iron gates, and glanced over her shoulder frequently and frantically as they strolled.

“Is there a problem, Cassandra?” Dorian asked, holding his wine glass to his mouth but drinking little. “Assassins in the shrubberies?”

“There are too many hiding places,” she muttered. “But more than that, I simply have no desire to linger and gossip. I will meet you inside.”

“I'll come with you,” Cullen said quickly. He turned to Leliana, and lowered his voice. “Hiding places are more your area of expertise, and it's best that I'm seen inside before I return to meet our late arrivals.”

Cullen waited until Leliana nodded her assent before he left to follow Cassandra. They marched across the labyrinthine gardens with soldiers' resolve, dodging the loitering nobles and ornamental sculptures with purposeful strides.

“Oh dear, someone should have told them there will be even more of this inside,” Dorian said dryly.

“...I guess someone should keep an eye on them,” Varric sighed. “And I guess it might as well be me. Not the Kirkwall reunion I was expecting, but I’ll take what I can get.” He lifted his head to wink at Leliana as he took a step back. “Besides, someone needs to case the place, right Nightingale?”

Leliana smiled. Dorian imagined that the building was already crawling with her people, every publicly accessible inch painstakingly mapped. “I will see you inside, Varric,” she said.

They lost Vivienne soon after. She breezed away to greet one of Bastien de Ghislain's old friends, with the assurance that it would be useful to win them to their side early in the evening.

“Look at the Countess’ gown,” Leliana whispered, tapping Dorian’s shoulder with what he might have mistaken for excitement had it been anyone other than Leliana doing it. He turned to look. The woman she was gesturing at was wearing a wide ballgown, the full skirt encircled by a gold latticed frame that reminded Dorian of a birdcage, and laden with dangling gems, baubles and charms.

“Truly, a very special kind of hideous,” Dorian noted. “Only someone of grand means could afford that many mis-matching ornaments.”

“I think I almost like it,” Leliana said, pretending to sip her wine. “I hadn’t thought you one for minimalism, Dorian.”

“Revered Nightingale, is it not true that one cannot truly appreciate beauty until one understands how ugly it can be?” Dorian replied, with false grandness.

“It’s quite clever,” Leliana continued. “You didn’t notice the knife she conceals at her right side, did you? None of the guards have seen it.”

Dorian squinted. As the gilded woman turned, he noticed what Leliana was talking about – a long, dark dagger sheathed against the skirt’s gold waistband, its blade masked by the constellation of silver animal heads and knuckle-sized jewels that drew the eye away.

“It’s a shame we couldn’t afford one of them,” he commented. “Should we be concerned about her?”

“Isn’t it just?” Leliana replied. “And no, not overly so. She has recently inherited a great deal of money, and while we are not without suspicions, she is most likely carrying it for self-defence. The less the people trust the Empress to keep them safe, the more weapons find their way into her parties.” She smiled privately. “Or rather, Florianne de Chalons’ party. One wonders why she arranged a contentious party with such little protection. Naivety, finances, or perhaps something else?”

Dorian took a deep drink of wine, and to his disappointment found that it was actually rather pleasant. “Well, their cellar seems decently stocked. From one of her supporters, perhaps?” Dorian suggested idly.

Leliana sniffed the drink, and took a studied sip. She frowned. “Marquise de Montagne,” she muttered. “But she supports Gaspard… Unless she's playing both sides...”

Dorian had forgotten who that was, but they were clearly important. “Or at least, someone with access to stocks of her wine is,” he suggested.

“Excuse me, Dorian,” Leliana said. “But I need to confirm something.” And with that she was off. Hurrying back towards the gate, presumably to confer with one of the scouts who'd escorted them.

And so, Dorian was alone.

Well, as alone as one could be at a party.

The white facade of Halamshiral gleamed with a blueish tinge in the thick starlight, and twinkling frost climbed the vines that climbed the trellises. It was beautiful, in the way that predatory birds were beautiful, despite the marks of siege Cullen had pointed out on their approach.

He felt eyes upon him as he strolled up the stairs, some curious and some maliciously delighted. He wasn't exactly hard to recognise, if one was looking out for him. It was almost like being back at Skyhold, just after he'd arrived. Nostalgic, really. There he was, the Inquisition's evil Tevinter necromancer. Lavellan's corrupting influence, or the sign that he was corrupt to begin with. Whether or not they approached Dorian, they could at least say they'd seen him.

Dorian could see most of the gardens from the west balcony, although not the parts of the courtyard beneath it. Cassandra was right, Halamshiral was certainly full of hiding places, though whether they were to be used for secret crimes or secret trysts on this occasion remained to be seen. Dorian leaned his elbows on the balcony, and swirled his wine back and forth in restless hands. Soon, Lavellan and Josephine would walk through those gates, Gaspard at their side. And then, all masks would rise, and the Grand Game would truly begin.

Someone stepped beside Dorian, and stopped. A pair of black-gloved hands leaned on the white marble balcony, clutching a glass of blood-red wine. Dorian decided not to give the stranger the satisfaction of looking up immediately.

“I had hoped he would be early,” the stranger said, her voice low and pointed. “’Tis a pity.”

“I’m afraid I’m not a messenger,” Dorian replied, affecting disinterest. If she was one of Celene’s people, she’d already know they’d had the chance to summon the Inquisitor and failed to take it. If she wasn’t, well, she didn’t need to know they’d struggled to be invited. “You’ll have to speak to him yourself, if you can catch him.”

“I wonder how close I’ll be able to get to him,” she replied. “With those overbearing handlers of his clucking around him like brooding mother hens. The broken-winged songbird, the outcast merchant’s daughter, and the alcoholic Magister.”

“I’m not a Magister,” Dorian corrected. “Although I understand that the mistake may be an artistic one. Decadent Tevinter exile isn’t quite so easy to say with a single, dismissive spit.”

Her dress had a bodice of black velvet, and a ruffled crimson skirt that could conceal all manner of secrets. Dorian hadn’t seen her in the gardens. She must have come from inside the palace. Whether she was one of Celene’s people or not, she was clearly looking for something. Dorian, to his annoyance, couldn’t figure out enough of an idea of what it was to toy with her.

So he allowed himself a glance. The woman was wearing a mirrored mask that covered her whole face, the twisting facets contorting Dorian’s reflection into a kaleidoscope of ugly caricatures that swayed as he moved. Her eyes, yellow with small black pupils, were surrounded by sharp facets that reflected her irises into a spider’s eightfold gaze.

“The specifics of your trifling titles are not my concern,” she replied. “But never mind. I wanted to set my own eyes upon the Inquisitor’s confidantes, and I have done so. I shall see for myself if he is as they say.”

She turned her head forward. For all the ornamentation of her mask, her dress, her heavy necklaces, her hair was surprisingly plain. A slick black bun, with no pins, no feathers, no glitter. Dorian couldn’t even take the satisfaction of knowing she hadn’t gotten what she was looking for yet, because he had no idea what it was. For all the past while he had spent teaching Lavellan to lie, he had been learning to be honest. He was out of practice with pure dissembling, clearly.

“He comes, now,” the stranger said. She stepped back as Dorian looked forward. Indeed, there it was. The procession carrying Gaspard’s colours.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder to give the stranger one last witty comment as farewell. But she was gone.

Chapter Text

Dorian knew that Josephine had been pondering over Lavellan's entrance for a while, of course. Well, his entrances. He would have to make a first impression every time he entered a room, even if some first impressions were more important than others.

It was to both of their advantages that the association between Gaspard and the Inquisition appear to be a loose one. Lavellan could investigate with greater freedom if Celene's people would speak to him, and neither Celene nor Gaspard could be seen to support the heretics until they were in a less vulnerable position, given that the Inquisition didn't exactly have the troops to turn the tide of war on the battlefield.

Gaspard marched through the garden gates first, flanked by his golden-faced chevaliers, to the flutter of fans and murmur of voices. And then Lavellan followed, through a parting column of Inquisition soldiers, the exact number of which Dorian expected had taken hours of debate to agree on. Too little and they’d seem to represent a meagre army, too many and they’d be seen as a statement of aggressive intent.

"This must be Gaspard's idea of a joke," came a whisper from further along the balcony. A pair of nobles in masks of gold leaves. Celene’s people, by Dorian’s estimation, from the purple flash of their inner cuffs.

"Perhaps he hopes the brute will do something embarrassing to distract attention from how own faults," their companion replied.

"I didn't realise Gaspard was known for his sense of humour," Dorian interjected, casually twirling his still-full wine glass.

The nobles glanced over with thinly veiled disgust, and walked to where Dorian couldn't hear them. Dorian smirked to himself.

This was how it would be for much of the court. Lavellan, alone among the whispers. Dorian could only be so much help as a peacemaker, given that he was a Tevinter interloper on the eve of suspected Tevinter interference. But he did make a rather fantastic nuisance.

Because the mirror-masked woman, whatever her motives, wasn't wrong - if Lavellan's courtly mentors circled too close, people would question whether the Inquisitor truly made his own choices, and in the view of the court, Dorian would make an especially troubling puppetmaster. So he would wear the mask of the fool, instead.

Gaspard dressed relatively plainly compared to many of the nobles Dorian had already observed. But like the nobles Dorian had visited at the peasant-costume vineyard, relative plainness didn't mean his clothing wasn’t just as expensive. Solid, gleaming masks of bronze were hardly cheap, nor was the dyeing of fabric into such a dark, deep shade of Chalons green and tailoring it into a custom suit.

Everyone here wore masks. Gaspard's was to dress as merely another chevalier, as if he'd never been a prince. As far as Dorian was concerned, he and Celene were of a kind, a kind he was far too familiar with. Whether it be through war or through games, they would ensure Orlais' stagnant immortality.

Dorian joined Vivienne and Leliana by the gates when Lavellan tensely ascended the stairs.

“Lift your head and unclench your shoulders, Inquisitor,” Vivienne advised quietly. “The court will look for excuses to dismiss you. Don't give them any.”

Lavellan did as she asked, his chest rising and falling in a long, calm breath as he rolled his shoulders back.

“How did your enquiries go, Vivienne?” Leliana asked.

Lavellan stepped closer as Vivienne turned to the spymaster.

“I've been here for two minutes,” Lavellan whispered, his mouth still wearing a charming grin even as his voice bore irritation, “and I have already been mistaken for a servant and asked to dive into a fountain after someone's lost trinket.”

“Perhaps this could be to your advantage,” Dorian replied dryly. “Hide your jacket behind one of the opulent golden statues and nobody will notice you skulking about in the shadows.”

“I'm considering it,” Lavellan said. He sighed, and glanced down the stairs at the approaching Josephine. “I'm fine,” he insisted, without Dorian needing to ask. “I've been lucky around humans at Skyhold, but I expected this. Even if I feel like I’d rather be facing Corypheus.”

“Well, he is marginally less irritating,” Dorian replied. He allowed himself a brief, comforting brush of his hand against the elbow of Lavellan's jacket, and Lavellan allowed himself a smile.

However public they were to be, however closely Dorian wore Lavellan's amulet – they hadn't discussed it, but he assumed Lavellan knew, or had been told. That no matter the allegiance of their hearts, it would be for the best if the Inquisitor wasn't seen to have a favourite at court. He took his hand away, and crossed his arms.

“I've been expecting people to look at me like I've pissed in their drinks, but I at least have to be recognised before I get to experience that delight,” Dorian added dryly. “Regardless, it’s rather inhospitable of them, isn't it?”

Lavellan laughed at that, at least. They both knew that whatever Dorian might face, Lavellan would face it tenfold. But Dorian wanted him to know that he… wasn’t alone.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine said as she caught up, with a brief bow and a nervous smile. “Apologies for my delay, I saw the opportunity to speak with some contacts.”

“Working, Ambassador?” Dorian replied. “Unforgiveable.”

“There’s no need to apologise, Josephine,” Lavellan said brightly.

Josephine straightened, and cast her wary glance forward, towards Gaspard and the Winter Palace. “I expect you need… no more warnings,” she murmured. “When we step through that gate... the Game will not end until the night has a victor.”

“I know,” Lavellan said quietly. “Josephine, thank you for everything you've done. If tonight does not go as we wish... know that you did all that anyone could do in your position.”

Josephine nodded grimly. And with one last look back, Lavellan walked towards the gate.

“Gathered your people, Inquisitor?” Gaspard asked. His mouth bore a grimacing smile, all but the very centre of his eyes hidden by the sharp half-moons that made the eyeholes in his mask.

“We're ready if you are,” Lavellan replied evenly.

Gaspard swept his arm towards the gate in one short, sharp motion. “Then I think it's time we made our entrance.”

They walked forward together, out of the silver night. Josephine and Leliana following behind Lavellan, Dorian and Vivienne behind them. And in the moments of darkness before they stepped into the golden light of the vestibule, Dorian heard a voice. Leliana, murmuring a prayer.

“Andraste watch over us, and Maker give us her clarity. Let our eyes pierce those with wicked hearts, and let the truth blaze bright with your holy light.”

Cassandra and Cullen reluctantly joined them in the vestibule. Dorian wondered if they had their own prayers, or if they were placing their obvious hopes that this would be over quickly on the Inquisitor himself. Varric broke off his chatter with a frill-necked noblewoman who had apparently asked him for an autograph, and made his way over.

“Have you ever actually seen a lion in Orlais?” Dorian asked idly, by way of distraction. Cassandra followed his eyes to one of the roaring golden lions that framed the ballroom. He was aware it was a historic heraldic symbol, bestowed on Lambert Valmont for his achievements during the Fourth Blight, etcetera, but he would take his amusement where he could.

“No,” Cassandra replied flatly.

Dorian would guess that the statues were Blessed Age from their designs, commissioned with the spoils from the war with Ferelden. Dorian wondered if they were solid or hollow. If they were outrageously expensive as opposed to ludicrously expensive, in other words. “Do you think Celene has ever seen one?” he asked.

“I don't think it'd be polite to say,” Varric replied.

The door swung open, another mouth to swallow them. Silent Cullen stepped forward, jaw taut with gritted teeth, to join Lavellan's other advisors. Gaspard might as well have been playing a pantomime villain, from the tense silence that fell as he entered the room.

The master of ceremonies from the Council of Heralds stood at the top of the stairs to the sunken ballroom, a long scroll of guests and their titles draped across his hands. “Grand Duke Gaspard of Chalons,” he called.

The master of ceremonies conferred with Lavellan, as Gaspard descended to the ballroom floor. Presumably confirming exactly which reprobates the Inquisitor had brought as his diplomatic party. And then Lavellan began to walk, nervous fingers alighting on the gilded handrail.

“And accompanying Grand Duke Gaspard, Lord Inquisitor Lavellan.”

The rustling voices weren't friendly. Dorian didn't need to be able to hear what they were actually saying to be able to tell that. For their purposes, Dorian told himself that it was at least preferable to bored silence. Lavellan would need to be noticed, for people to wish to speak to him. Dorian smiled to himself at the memory of one of their early jokes, Lavellan's suggestion that they pass him off as a Dalish prince, in the way they could likely have passed Dorian off as a Magister if they’d been so inclined.

Josephine, Leliana and Cullen were called and followed. Lavellan kept his steely gaze forward, shoulders firm, and lifted his head as he walked across the tiles. Looking straight at Celene Valmont. And the whispering only intensified as she turned from her handmaidens to return his gaze.

The mask she wore was the cracked veneer of opulence. A grand golden sun spread from her back like wings, and a voluminous skirt of crushed blue velvet billowed from her waist. If Gaspard wished people to believe that he was like them despite his royal inheritance, Celene wanted them to believe that she was too grand to be affected by the war, that she still had the resources to spend freely on behalf of both herself and Orlais.

Vivienne smiled up at the faces of friends in the court as she was called to cross, and Cassandra barked at the master of ceremonies to stop listing her apparently endless array of middle names. And then it was Dorian’s turn.

“Lord Dorian Pavus, member of the Circle of Vyrantium, son of Lord Magister Halward Pavus of Qarinus.”

He smiled grimly as he stepped across the marbled floor. If anyone hadn't recognised him, he expected word would spread fairly quickly now.

The master of ceremonies had read his alleged titles without a hint of irony, despite their irrelevance to his current life. Member of a circle he hadn't returned to in years, connected through a now-dead mentor. Son of a man who had cast him from his homeland, even if he wasn't legally disinherited. If rumours of he and his father’s estrangement had reached Skyhold, he imagined there were some who would know of it here, given that it wouldn’t be the only true rumour about him to have reached Val Royeaux.

Dorian looked to Lavellan as he stopped in front of Celene. He moved as Dorian had seen him rehearse, elegantly dipping to the precise level of respectful humility expected before the Empress. His head lowered, and his gloved palms open.

The whispers around the Inquisitor would be worse, and likely less true. However uncomfortable Dorian was returning to a place like this, he came here without regrets. For Lavellan. And, he supposed, for the aim of stopping Thedas from being mashed into a carpet of blood and intestines by a half-living caricature of the worst that the world believed about Tevinter.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Lavellan said, with diplomatic warmth.

“Lord Inquisitor,” Celene replied, bestowing him with her own careful bow. The Empress wore her own kind of humility, surprisingly welcoming in her movements. Dorian looked for the mirror-masked woman in the gawking faces around the gallery, but he couldn’t find her. “A delight to see you at Halamshiral.”

Lavellan lifted his head. “I have every hope that this ball will be as delightful as your hospitality,” he said, evenly if a little stiffly.

“Any compliments on the hosting should be shared with my dear cousin,” she replied, standing aside. Florianne de Chalons took her own bow, purposefully deferential. Though she was Gaspard’s sister, she had chosen a mask that echoed Celene’s, her bare neck and shoulders shrouded by a wide, soft collar patterned in the sombre brown and white of a moth’s wings.

“Then, thank you both,” Lavellan said.

Dorian wondered at the drabness of it. Florianne indeed had a reputation for being somewhat of a milquetoast bore, but Dorian had assumed she would still dress according to the same fashions that other nobles followed. Perhaps it was a statement intended to undercut Celene’s position, a cry for help after insects ate the bolder dress she’d intended to wear during one of Gaspard’s sieges. Perhaps it was intended to take the focus from her, though whether that was for the purpose of making underhanded deals while eyes were turned towards her relatives, or whether she was merely an exhausted diplomat, remained to be seen.

Lavellan wore a lot of brown, after all. Chosen by Josephine to mark him as a humble ascetic with no designs on the Sunburst Throne, and kept by him because it was a comfortable jacket.

“How are you finding Halamshiral?” Celene asked, Florianne still silent.

Lavellan took a moment to give a silken smile before he answered. Looking at Celene with the deferential charm with which he looked at Dorian. “Words fail me, Your Radiance. I have never seen anything like it. I had thought Val Royeaux the jewel of Orlais, but this is its own treasure.”

The motions of his flattery seemed to please her, even if it was as empty as anything said at court. Gaspard had already left the room and there the Inquisitor was, taking the next step in the dance of an allegiance and inviting her to step into it.

“Thank you for your kind words,” Celene replied, with a simpering gesture. “Please, take time to enjoy what Halamshiral has to offer during your time here.”

She made a final bow, and the master of ceremonies called the next name. A chevalier and his wife. Lavellan walked out of the sunken ballroom, and his associates followed.

“I wish I could just speak,” Lavellan said quietly, as Dorian caught up.

“I know,” Dorian replied.

Leliana signalled for the Inquisitor’s attention and Dorian smiled farewell. The Herald and his spymaster strolled, chatting amiably, through the sea of jealous eyes. The first movements of the dance had been called, and Lavellan would have to lead.

Chapter Text

“I'm positively hurt, Josephine,” Dorian remarked, idling at the balcony above the sunken ballroom as another Baron arrived. Introductions and arrivals at events as grand as this one could last hours, and Dorian was torn between wishing Lavellan more time to investigate and wishing to avoid enduring any more of this interminable boredom. “After all the time we've spent together, you didn't think to tell me that you had a sister?”

“I'm more concerned with the fact that she procured an invitation without my knowledge,” Josephine replied grimly. Not that they could have used it, he supposed. If Josephine could have leveraged enough invitations for the Inquisition through her family, Dorian expected she would have done so.

“Father didn't want to go,” Yvette replied sniffily. “So I came instead.” She turned her lace mask towards Dorian. He had thought she was another minor Orlesian noble hoping to leverage something from the Inquisition when he'd approached Josephine. Yvette was dressed in an affordably muted variation of the current fashions – a ruffled dress of satin rather than silk, in a shade of olive green with enough yellow in its hue to divest it from Gaspard's colours. “She never takes me anywhere fun.”

“I offered to have you visit Skyhold,” Josephine sighed. “But you complained that it would be too cold and asked if we had an outpost somewhere warmer.”

“She does have a very good point,” Dorian noted. “I wouldn't choose to live in the Frostbacks if I'd been presented with any other options.”

“When are you going to introduce me to the Inquisitor?” Yvette asked, turning back towards her sister.

“When he's less busy,” Josephine replied.

The Inquisitor wasn't the belle of the ball, exactly, but since Lavellan and his spymaster had returned from the vestibule, Leliana and Vivienne had been taking turns arranging introductions. Leliana pausing from the conversation she and Lavellan were engaged in to greet passers-by that Dorian recognised from their dress as at least wealthy, while Vivienne happened to wander close enough to offer her own friends.

The Inquisition’s aims wouldn't be unknown, at least to the nobles Josephine had written to. And their partial transparency was both shield and liability. Those who knew of it might think their practicality vulgar, while those who didn't may continue to speculate that the Inquisitor had arrived for some other nefarious purpose, to intimidate the reluctant parts of Chantry or so forth.

For all his connections Dorian, as he supposed he'd expected, hadn't seen anyone he recognised – not even anyone that he knew would be entertainingly displeased to see him. He supposed former members of the Southern Chantry's Circle of Magi with connections to Tevinter weren't exactly in demand.

“Is it true that the Inquisitor can tell if someone is lying?” Yvette asked.

Across the ballroom Lavellan bowed and spoke, any fear or discomfort hidden behind his own invisible mask. Dorian knew that fretting from afar would do little to help him.

“He can, actually. It's rather irritating,” Dorian replied breezily. “It's through his mark, you see. If he's touching you with that hand, he can read your mind.”

“Even through gloves?” Yvette asked, clasping her hands.

“Dorian, don't encourage her,” Josephine sighed.

“Even through gloves,” Dorian confirmed. Yvette glanced back towards Lavellan, and Dorian couldn't tell if she was amused or nervous. She was Josephine's sister, after all. As much as she played at being the silly ingénue, he expected she was smarter than she let on. He was, after all – at least, depending on what he wanted his company to think of him.

Josephine and Cullen were best placed in the ballroom, given that seemed the most probable place for action at the moment. So, given that he was hardly likely to have reason to return to Halamshiral, Dorian supposed the most useful thing for him to do would be to look around. Make some witty remarks about the furnishings aloud, eavesdrop on some juicy conversations, and get a sense of the layout in case something exploded after a few hours of the Inquisition's meddling.

“But I shall take my leave of you for now, Josephine,” Dorian said, with a bow. “Perhaps I'll ask a dance from you when the sordid dregs of late arrivals finally dribble to an end.”

“That will depend on whether or not Yvette proves she can be left alone without getting into trouble,” Josephine replied, brows raised.

“I'll dance with you if she won't,” Yvette offered.

“Oh, I couldn't possibly,” Dorian grinned. “It's your first ball, after all, and I'm far too scandalous for a first dance. Your sister has already been positively ruined by association with me, but there's still a shred of hope for you.”

Josephine smiled from behind her hand. Dorian winked at her, and turned to leave.

The hallway that led to the inner courtyard was positively cluttered, the walls crammed with dozens of paintings in elaborate gilt frames. Dorian, of course, immediately tried to find the worst. Tacky would be too easy. He was hunting for the least remarkable.

He apparently wasn't the only one with that idea.

“Isn't this just your favourite part of the evening, Sparkler?” Varric asked, stepping up behind Dorian.

“Ah, the part where everyone stands around wondering if there's a more interesting conversation they could be having elsewhere with someone more important?” Dorian replied. “Not that you'd ever wonder that while talking to me, of course.”

“Well, Nightingale's asked me to look out for arrivals from the Free Marches and the Merchant's Guild,” Varric sighed. “Or at least, the ones I'm on speaking terms with.”

“You seem very enthusiastic about this,” Dorian replied dryly. “I like to imagine it's because there's a tempestuous old flame you'd rather not run into, rather than because they're mundanely tiresome.”

“I'm not exactly friendly with the Starkhaven royal family after what happened with Hawke and Anders,” Varric replied, with a shrug and a glance through the starlit windows. “I think Sebastian would challenge me to a duel if he saw me again.”

“Well, at least that would be something to keep Cassandra occupied,” Dorian suggested. He gestured to a painting. Yes, this one. Too dull to be vibrant but too tepid to be moody. An uninspiringly decent painting of some past emperor's cousin riding a horse in a field devoid of features. Tacky showed passion, at least. Bad would me memorable. This was the worst of all – it was simply boring. “Tell me, Varric, do you think the overbearingly lavish frame elevates the painting, or does it merely draw attention to its relative blandness?”

Varric grinned, and cupped his chin in an imitation of thoughtfulness. “Do you think the completely forgettable painting makes the frame look fancier, or would it be better left empty?”

“I think they should all be left empty,” Dorian sighed. “It would certainly make a statement. I'm not sure what statement, but I imagine the speculation would provide hours of entertainment.” He started to wander further down the corridor, and Varric joined him. “But I wouldn't worry about Starkhaven. Poor Sebastian would have to beat his way through your throng of admirers to challenge you to a duel.” Dorian smirked, and offered Varric a raised eyebrow. “Don't think I haven't seen the way the clearly more literary noblewomen are straining to catch your attention. Perhaps Celene is a fan.”

Varric gave a low laugh. “I'm sure she'd want her favourite author at her peace talks. Who wouldn't?”

“I've already told Lavellan that literature would be his way into the court's hidden circles,” Dorian said. “Perhaps she'd like you to write of her? Who wouldn't, of course.”

They passed through the broad white doors to the courtyard, where nobles who already needed air were clustered between hedges and statues, looking out towards the mountains or perching at the fountain beneath the crawling vines. There was a long table of drinks at the opposite end from the door, beneath an overlooking balcony.

“What have you written about me, out of interest?” Dorian asked. They strolled towards the drinks table, because it seemed like the thing to do.

“Please, Sparkler, I'm an artist,” Varric protested, half-laughing. “You'll have to wait until it's finished.”

“You let Cassandra have a preview of one of your books,” Dorian complained.

Varric smiled. “Oh, that was a very special request.”

Whether because of his Inquisition uniform or, indeed, because of himself, noses wrinkled and heads turned, the bodies in the garden parting as Dorian moved. As Varric had guessed sardonically when he'd approached, this was in fact the part of the long evening Dorian had been dreading most.

At dancing and at dinner, he knew what motions he, Lavellan and the rest were supposed to be passing through. But this, the time when Lavellan would be free to move without his absence being so obvious, to try to get closer to either of the squabbling royals or to search the palace, was also the part when they’d both need to be mostly alone.

And, for his own selfish sake, it was also the part of the evening where Dorian would have to make do through the ceaseless tedium of a party where there was nothing to do but drink steadily, something he was trying to avoid doing on a night when he might be called upon to advise, console or fight, rather than merely fling flirtations and insults with equal indiscretion. He wouldn’t be causing problems for only himself or his family here, if he should become indisposed.

His hands fastened around a glass, and he and Varric backed away, settling against a statue of a hooded figure. Something that would vaguely muffle their words, within view of the door.

“Okay, Sparkler,” Varric said, his low, warm voice pushing through Dorian's stiff nerves. He nodded to the side. “What's their story?”

Dorian darted his eyes along Varric's line of vision. A trio of nobles, two men and a woman, dressed in navy and mustard. With, when Dorian glanced over, the woman glaring at a man who avoided her gaze. And then they switched, deftly avoiding noticing the other while the third babbled obliviously. Ah, Dorian knew this game well. He had played it with Maevaris and Felix before, during the Tevinter equivalent of this part of the evening.

“This was a mess, clearly,” Dorian said, as he turned back to Varric. He allowed himself the odd glance towards the door as he continued, determined to keep some track of who was coming and going. “I would say they're ex-lovers, of course. I think he ended the affair because she's from a poorer family. Despite her loathing she's still secretly in love with him, but is engaged to the third man, half out of need and half out of spite.”

“Definitely plausible,” Varric replied. “But consider this.” He lifted his glass to punctuate his opening. “Blackmail isn't a crime if it's in pursuit of the Game, of course. So they're working together, trying to cut a third relative out of a mutual inheritance. But this morning, they both received a letter. Someone knows what they're doing. They're threatening to expose them for part of the inheritance. They both think it was from the other. But can they be sure? If it's from a third party, and only one of them has been threatened, can they trust the other to help them rather than betray them?”

“Well, who's blackmailing them?” Dorian asked, riveted. “What for?”

Varric cast his eye out across the crowds, settling on a lone chevalier by the fountain. “During the war,” he began, meeting Dorian's smirking expression. This was as good a way to stay out of trouble as any, after all. “It all started during the war...”

Chapter Text

Dorian and Varric’s game of conjecture had escalated, somewhat, by the time Dorian caught a glimpse of Lavellan through the window to the hall of portraits, striding with wine in hand towards the unguarded door. Leliana's comments about the party's lack of security had been haunting Dorian for the time he'd been watching the inner courtyard. There were guards, certainly, but most of them had been in the ornamental garden, as if the threat could only come from the outside Halamshiral's walls.

The rest were only at the party's edges, keeping the guests in place rather than looking for any danger among them. Was there somewhere else in the palace they were guarding, perhaps? The room where the peace talks would be taking place? Was this a ruse to attack one of Gaspard's encampments while he was occupied? Or was this purely a show of face – that it would be seen to be equal parts weak and aggressive to suggest that one didn't trust one's guests?

“Nevarra can’t be involved,” Varric was saying, with a low laugh.

Beyond all of that, he supposed Leliana would be wondering too – did someone so dull as Florianne really make all of the arrangements here, or was Celene or another hidden figure merely using her as a shield?

“And why ever not?” Dorian replied. Empty, jovial words came easy to him, a thin lacquer over his tempestuous mind. He imagined it was the same with Varric. He was familiar enough to know that attachés gossiping at the edge of the event was something so unremarkable that it would cause most not actively interested in the Inquisition to glance past them. “If, as you say, the hidden blackmailer doesn’t need to have close ties with the Orlesian nobility, what harm is there in crossing a border?”

As Lavellan stepped through the door to the courtyard, Celene's identical handmaidens swept towards him. Dorian had been wondering why they'd been waiting in such a quiet place, but it made sense now. It was one of the more discreet places open to the public to have a word with a controversial figure. They bowed in time, in a clearly practiced manner, their Valmont purple dresses crafted from drifting tulle and gauze as if to suggest they should be seen as wraiths – insubstantial, and unimportant.

“You’re just saying that because Tevinter being behind it is overplayed,” Varric suggested. Though the grin lingered on his mouth, he turned too, eyes darting towards Lavellan.

“Well, I’m not wrong, am I?” Dorian replied. He felt so powerless, having little to do but watch. All of their efforts here hung on frayed thread. Moving for movements’ sake, without signal from the Inquisitor or one of his advisors, or even without his own feeling that he knew what he was doing… as much as he knew the shape of the evening from Tevinter, Dorian didn’t know this place, these people, their connections. He had studied some of the briefings, yes, but not to the level of minutae that they would know of each other, that he would have known of people in Tevinter.

Dorian didn’t know what harm he could do. It could be none, if he was already considered such a pariah that any misbehaviour would be brushed off on Tevinter rather than the Inquisition. But it could be everything.

Lavellan bowed, and eventually excused himself from the triplets. Dorian had also been wondering whether they were actually identical, or merely close enough. If there were perhaps a set of extras, and they took turns. Lavellan was careful not to look straight at him or Varric, but Dorian knew he’d noticed. He turned back to Varric, and pretended not to be glancing to the Inquisitor from the corner of his eye.

“Obviously, I’m not saying it couldn’t be my homeland,” Dorian said with a sigh, and a loose gesture to turn Varric’s alleged attention back to the trio of nobles they’d been spinning tales about. They were still rooted to the same spot, which Dorian found odd. Bound, apparently, by their unresolved tension. “But I was looking to, shall we say, broaden this tale towards less passé possibilities.”

Lavellan did look very lost, even with his head held high and his shoulders straight. He was clearly checking down a list he’d been given, zig-zagging across the courtyard to give brief greetings to partygoers Leliana or Josephine had described to him. His bold, athletic strides did at least somewhat alleviate the impression of a wounded deer staggering back and forth through a clearing. Wounded deer didn't tend to wear such well-tailored jackets, after all.

Varric shook his head, drawing Dorian's attention back. “I hate that you're right,” Varric replied. “Tevinter's too good a red herring, the blackmailer must be using them as a cover. Whatever's underneath has to be even juicier.”

“Well, perhaps it’s the third man,” Dorian retorted. “I think he’s in on it. Wouldn’t that be the most terrible thing at all, for it not to be some interloper from outside their borders? For it to be no other land’s fault at all but Orlais?”

Because Orlais, for all its beauty, was no kinder a society than Tevinter, and Dorian very well knew that Tevinter was the cause of most of its own problems. That was why Dorian was here, eavesdropping and drinking wine, instead of being by Lavellan’s side. Because Celene was too prideful to take Lavellan’s hand when he offered it in aid – Dorian supposed he could at least empathise, a little, with that part, with her need to hide her weaknesses – and what took its place was fear and favours, the dread that if Lavellan was not seen in the right way, some crucial door would close to them.

It was how most struggling players of the game felt, as if that closing door would cast the world into darkness. Unfortunately, in the Inquisition's case that may actually prove true. Even if, knowing how things usually went with Lavellan, Dorian was hoping he would find some way around the Grand Game. Whether by kindness, by subterfuge, or by direct action upon whoever this assassin was.

“Yeah, there’s a certain inevitable tragedy to it,” Varric commented. “I like it.” He curled his finger against his chin, and smiled conspiratorially as he turned his eyes upwards. “But are you sure it was him that he sent the letter?”

“I think he wrote it,” Dorian suggested. His lips curved into a smile, and he pretended not to have noticed Lavellan’s approach. “But I don’t think he sent it. Perhaps he didn’t even intend it for these two.”

“I’m glad you two are keeping yourself entertained,” Lavellan said, chin lifted and smile dry.

“I did promise not to cause too much of a stir without you,” Dorian replied glibly. “And I do at least attempt to keep most of my promises.”

Lavellan nodded, but his mouth stayed tight. He was far more likely to be observed, he supposed. Such glib games as he could play with Varric might not reflect so well on a supposed dignitary.

Not that their eavesdropping had been completely without use. Apparently, for all its gilt, this wasn’t the grandest wing of the palace, though he expected Leliana already knew more about that than anyone outside of the palace had any right to. There was a grand mirrored ballroom, apparently, that was used for summer masquerades. Some whispered that it must have been damaged in a siege, or fallen into disrepair. Celene's critics complained that she couldn't be taking peace seriously, if she was hosting them in such an inferior set of hallways, while her supporters praised the change of venue, to this more appropriately sombre one. Thinking of the solid gold statues and dangling chandeliers, Dorian had deep concerns about what the Orlesian nobility considered inferior or sombre.

Even if, horrifyingly, that was perhaps the intention. Perhaps Florianne the Moth’s dowdy outfit, intricate and yet still brown, was intended to mirror the event’s earthy seriousness. Whether it had always been planned thus, or whether it had been gently redirected after an inconveniently placed catapult shattered the mirrored ballroom’s ceiling.

“Also, Varric is clearly avoiding an embarrassing encounter with the Dwarven Merchant's Guild,” Dorian added.

“I'm waiting for the right time,” Varric protested with a smile.

But despite his feigned mimic’s smile, Lavellan was still distracted, eyes wandering to the doors and pillars. Dorian realised – he wasn't what Lavellan was here for. He was the sleight of hand. He intended people to think that the Inquisitor had come here to speak to his agents of chaos, rather than for any other purpose. Dorian lowered his voice, aware that they would need to speak carefully.

“How have you found this evening so far, Lord Inquisitor?” he asked carefully.

“Well, I can tell you what I've not found,” Lavellan answered tensely, keeping his voice at the level of an irritated whisper. “I've not found a way into the negotiations, or any leads on the Ventatori agent from Vivienne, Josephine or Leliana’s contacts. The gracious offers I've received from both parties are purely under the table, for assistance after one of them is installed on the throne, which won't happen if they're both mysteriously taken out and the Orlesian succession crisis starts all over again.”

“Figures,” Varric sighed.

“Maker, they'd end up with Grand Duchess Florianne on the throne, wouldn't they?” Dorian murmured. “I can't think of anyone more malleable. I suppose whoever is behind this would be looking to puppeteer her, at least if they intended to resolve the issue before Halamshiral was ironically swallowed whole by a rift.”

“You're just saying that because you don't like her outfit,” Lavellan replied, a hint of a smile gracing his broad mouth.

Dorian snorted. “I didn't say--”

“After all of your tutelage I've gotten an idea or two about your tastes, Dorian,” Lavellan replied.

“Well, if you do find yourself needing a diversion, perhaps I can fight her about it,” Dorian said.

“It's fine, Hawke used to do this too,” Varric offered dryly.

“Do what?” Lavellan asked, an affectation of confusion creasing his brow.

“Get distracted,” Varric laughed.

Dorian smirked. “So, what does bring you out to the courtyard, Inquisitor? Did you find yourself needing some air?”

“I suppose you could say that,” Lavellan said, eyes flicking upwards. “I found myself looking for a quieter wing of the palace.” Dorian followed his gaze. He was looking up at the balcony above the courtyard. “Leliana suggested that the guest wing or the library are usually quiet, but they appear to be closed at the moment. I was wondering if they might have been open from the other side.” Lavellan's eyes lingered, searching for stairs up to the balcony that weren't there. And then Lavellan's eyes crept downwards. Down the vine-twined wooden trellis that might have been just strong enough to carry the weight of a short, slender elf, if they were so unthinkably improper as to clamber up it. “But I'm not sure it's... a good idea to be seen sneaking off, anyway.”

“I'd forget about it, kid,” Varric said, with a gentle shrug and a mischievous grin towards the trellis. “With how many people are watching you, you'd need a pretty impressive diversion to get any quiet around here.”

Dorian glanced down at Varric, and then across at the bickering trio of Orlesians. “Varric, I am going to strangle you,” Dorian sighed.

“Ah, the Seeker would be so proud,” Varric shrugged. “But hey, you did offer.” Dorian was almost relieved, he supposed, after his complaints of having no way to help his Inquisitor.

Lavellan looked between them. “You have a plan, then?” he asked.

Dorian gave a frank smile, half-drained his wine and dumped the rest in Varric's glass. “Go with Varric, don't ask questions, and don't look back. This shan't exactly reflect well on your choice of companions.”

“I'm sure Josephine will forgive you,” Lavellan said, trying to maintain his nervous grin. “Perhaps I'll save you a dance, to make up for whatever it is you’re about to do.”

“If you want people to talk,” Dorian replied. He liked the closeness, when he and Lavellan danced in practice. His heart might have leapt, if such an offer was in friendlier circumstances. But he wasn't sure that he wanted the eyes of the court scrutinising them, even if it was for some pragmatic purpose. “Then perhaps I'll oblige.”

Varric led Lavellan away in quiet conversation, and Dorian prepared his act. He would pretend they'd had a quarrel, perhaps. If Lavellan climbing around the forbidden areas of the palace was going to work, it would need to be at a time like now, when they would have the excuse of Lavellan being in just the next room if anyone asked after his whereabouts. And if this diversion was going to work, Dorian would need to at least appear to be drunk.

He stormed to the drinks table, and flirted loudly and badly with one of the servants as he requested another drink. Red, yes, the kind of wine that leaves a stain. He could seem a lot of things when he was drunk. He was angrier, usually, but the people at this party weren't to know that. All they knew was that he was scum. Varric and Lavellan perched at the fountain by the trellis, so far back that no gaze that turned towards him should catch them clearly. Dorian staggered on.

It was a shame that Cole wasn't here. Perhaps he could make the warring couple simply start fighting through his strange sleight of hand. That said, Dorian supposed Cole would have refused. He didn’t seem to like seeing people argue, after all. Dorian, however, was used to it. He feigned a drunken stumble, and let the wine splash across the woman in the, seeing the material so close, very expensive mustard dress.

“I'm so terribly sorry,” Dorian said, carving his slurred drawl to give the impression of insincerity. His accent, clearly from the barbarian lands beyond Orlais even if they couldn't quite pin him as Tevene.

And if they wouldn't turn their tense anger on each other, whether from a lover's quarrel or tense international blackmailing scheme, they would certainly turn it on him. Drunk, fool, shitstirrer. The third man looked positively baffled. The shattering of large taboos generally did not have so much of a prepared reaction as the trampling of smaller ones.

“Please, madam,” Dorian protested, pretending the woman couldn't be someone of high enough rank for at least a My Lady. “Satin launders easily enough. I can have it seen to. Besides, I think the colour is somewhat of an improvement over this absolutely vile piss yellow. Whatever did your tailor sell this to you as? Dead grass? Burnt wheat?”

Dorian didn't chance a look towards the trellis while eyes were on him, in case any should follow his gaze. The woman's lover-or-accomplice had to be physically restrained by the third man to stop him from punching Dorian in the face then and there. Dorian supposed that he would have been willing to take a prettily blackened eye in service of their cause, but would also rather avoid it. The man looked stronger than he seemed up close, a former Chevalier perhaps.

Then Dorian heard the trellis creak, and realised he might not have that luxury of coming out of the evening intact. Well, he supposed, Lavellan was always throwing himself into worse for the Inquisition. Hell, he’d thrown himself into worse for the Inquisition. He would wheedle any injury for all the sympathy he deserved from the lover who was most likely currently dangling ten feet above several dozen Orlesian nobles, as long as they got out of this alive. Dorian dumped the remainder of his drink on the restrained man, and gave a nasal laugh. “There, now you match.”

And he braced himself, as best he could, as the former Chevalier broke free. And as he stumbled back, he could at least spare a wild, roaming glance across the crowd – Varric was cackling at his misfortune by the fountain, and Lavellan, mercifully, was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter Text

To his credit, Varric did intervene. Eventually.

“You certainly took your time,” Dorian slurred, his every consonant dulled and muffled by the embroidered handkerchief Varric had given him to still his bloodied nose. It reeked of rosewater and was initialled with an unfamiliar monogram. Dorian could only assume it had been pressed on Varric by one of his admirers.

“Look, I just wasn't expecting you to...” Varric laughed as he led Dorian around the outskirts of the ballroom. “Shit, Sparkler, I don't know what I thought you would do. But it wasn't that.” He paused, and glanced over his shoulder. “But hey, I've seen enough barfights to know you'd come out fine.”

“Yes, well,” Dorian said snippily. “I was right, by the way. They're lovers.” He hadn't the faintest clue what the rest of his face looked like at the moment, but from the horrified expression he'd caught on Josephine's distant face, he could deduce that it had already started to bruise badly enough to be obvious from across the room, despite the handkerchief.

“Huh, really?” Varric said.

They would have to wait to see how Josephine looked when she found out Varric had smoothed things over by giving the stained woman Josephine's card and telling her that the ambassador would more than make up for his inebriated friend's boorish behaviour. Leliana looked oddly bland, and Dorian wasn't sure if that was merely her mask for the evening or if she was already abreast of everything that had happened in the courtyard. He supposed that was part of her talent, that he truly believed she might have learned everything before he'd even been able to enter the room himself.

“Or they were, at least,” Dorian replied. “You saw how the room turned ambivalent when things, ah, escalated. One doesn't risk such a thing for a mere co-conspirator, even if whether she'll want to continue to be seen with him is another matter.”

He had been expecting the room to cheer like they were watching a penny play when the Chevalier had struck him, but it had been... more complicated than that. Certainly, he doubted nobody in the room would say he hadn't deserved it. He'd calculated that part correctly, at least. But he hadn't considered that the room's glaring attention would have turned from him to the Chevalier, when his only aim had been to keep it from turning towards Lavellan.

“It's a question of what the story will be,” Dorian said. “Whether he's a true noble dutifully defending a lady's honour, or whether he's simply the first man to start a fistfight at the Empress' party.”

It was easy enough to trust that Leliana could keep any damage away from the Inquisition. The versions of the courtyard story she could spread after the fact that would play his part down, with a sly smile from one of her agents. Who hasn't gotten drunk at a party and done something foolish? And an outsider no less, clearly overwhelmed by Orlesian grandeur. For a man of the Court to start a fight, however – how vulgar, how much better we should expect of him.

But this wasn't afterwards. The story was still in motion, and he could feel dozens of eyes casting him in different roles. Even if Leliana reduced which member of the Inquisition was involved in this fight to a footnote, everyone at this party, tonight, could know close enough to first-hand that it was him, and use that knowledge to confirm whatever they believed about him. The alcoholic Magister, as the mirror-masked woman had put it.

But while he didn't like it, exactly, Dorian found that he didn't care. The band were beginning to set up along the edges of the sunken ballroom, and Lavellan would have to be back within the next half hour to be seen to watch the Empress' first dance. Whether Dorian had bought him enough time – that was all he cared about, right now.

“Well, I guess this was all worth it after all,” Varric said. Making a point of smiling to him in knowing reassurance as he opened the door. “Shame the Inquisitor missed it. He'd only just left the room when that nobleman hit you.”

Dorian smiled briefly in return, despite the sting in his face. “Well, you know how it is. He’s a busy man. I can't even remember who he was supposed to be meeting with.” Lavellan knew what he was doing. Lavellan would find something, even if it was trouble.

Varric's plan had been to take Dorian to the back of the vestibule, behind the stairs to the garden, to make some attempt at patching him up where they were unlikely to be troubled. But as they stepped into the vestibule, Cullen was coming up the stairs to meet a loitering Cassandra, and the Inquisition's late arrivals were following behind him. Solas, Sera, Iron Bull and Blackwall.

“What happened?” Cullen asked, eyes darting to Dorian and hand flashing to his waist; unveiling far too obviously that he had a blade sheathed under his jacket in anticipation of danger.

“He... tripped,” Varric said carefully.

“You got in a fight, didn't you?” Blackwall sighed.

Dorian gave a fixed grin. They would hardly be able to explain that he'd been causing a distraction in public, not with so many ears in the vestibule. Dorian would wear this glib and grinning mask, no matter how it chafed.

“In a manner of speaking,” Dorian replied, studiously languid. He tried to imagine it was to their advantage, to have the purpose of the altercation obviously unknown to even the rest of the Inquisition. “I... tripped, and as I tripped, the glass of wine I was holding may have gone over something it shouldn't have.”

“Someone it shouldn't have,” Varric corrected.

“Someone who punched you in the face,” Iron Bull noted. Dorian was briefly amused to notice that he'd changed his eyepatch, or at least been given a change by, presumably, Josephine. The Inquisition's symbolic eye was stitched over it in gold thread, the effect of which was frankly slightly terrifying.

“Someone whose lover punched him in the face,” Varric replied.

Cullen sighed, and Dorian couldn't tell if he was disappointed or relieved. Sera looked as if she was getting ideas, and Dorian honestly wasn't inclined to stop her at this point.

“I'll have a look at your wound,” Solas said flatly, icy gaze flitting to Dorian's face.

“Much appreciated,” Dorian replied tightly. This was a clever manoeuvre on Leliana and Cullen's part. Their additional guests had arrived late enough that they wouldn't be announced. They were recognisable enough as the Inquisition from their uniform, but the average attendee may not notice how many of them there were. He assumed there may be other soldiers arriving later, at least if him passing Krem and the other Chargers being fitted for one of the Inquisition's red uniforms before they’d left was anything to go by.

“...Where is Cole?” Cassandra asked, looking back down the stairs.

“I thought he was with you,” Solas said, looking to Varric.

Varric shrugged. “Well, you know how he is. He's probably somewhere quiet.”

“I wish I could join him,” Cassandra murmured.

But as relieved as Dorian was to have more of them there, Cullen's words from their combat drills stayed with him. The more the Inquisition could sneak in, be it people or weapons... the more anyone with at least their influence would be able to do the same.

“Perhaps you can keep me company while Solas attends to my grievous injury,” Dorian suggested. He removed the handkerchief to grin, and immediately replaced it as he felt a trickle of hot blood dribble past his septum. Instead, he glanced pointedly at the ornate bannister Cassandra was leaning on. “Surely it would be a break from loitering in this exact spot.”

Cassandra grunted her reluctant assent.

“Perhaps I should come too,” Cullen said quickly, glancing towards the ballroom he was evidently dreading a return to.

Dorian supposed he should, reluctantly, be the voice of propriety here. “As much as I'd enjoy all of your company, I suspect we shouldn't all linger in the one place.” Not when they had so much ground to cover, at least.

“Then I'll go and look for Cole,” Varric said, shaking his head.

“And I'll return to my… station,” Cullen said grimly. He started, grudgingly, to walk towards the ballroom door, taking most of the others with him. Solas strode towards the back of the vestibule, and Dorian and Cassandra followed.

People were if anything avoiding him more, as if his wound made him more likely to inflict some injury on them. But that did clear one of the reclining benches at the side of the room, which Solas ordered Dorian to sit on. Cassandra refused to perch next to him, instead standing to attention by his side and peering about as if she was anticipating an attack – or worse, an attempt at unwanted conversation – at any moment.

“Do you feel dizzy, or nauseous?” Solas asked. Dorian cringed as Solas probed the wound.

“A little,” Dorian replied. “Although it is a party, Solas. I was expecting to feel one or the other by the end of the evening.”

“You have a mild concussion,” Solas sighed, pressing his pallid fingers against Dorian’s brow. “Hold still.”

Solas closed his eyes in concentration. Dorian could feel the cracking and shifting of healing magic squirming beneath his skin. Magical healing was never exactly comfortable, even if the way the pressure behind his eyes dissipated was a relief.

“How is the Inquisitor?” Cassandra asked, by way of distraction.

A half-smile tugged at Dorian's mouth. “He's certainly getting around,” he replied. “And as far as I can tell he hasn't gotten into any fights, so I suppose we should consider that a victory.”

Solas removed his hands, although Dorian’s face still felt tender. “This should heal any internal damage.”

Dorian was aware that it was usually considered a waste to use magical healing on bruises, but he still wished Solas would sod conventions and make him presentable again. He didn’t quite suit being ruggedly bruised as much as Lavellan had in the library.

Admittedly, even were it not for Leliana’s paranoia about Celene’s mysterious advisor, Dorian supposed that keeping any spellcasting to a subtle form was generally common sense in polite company outside of Tevinter.

“I suppose this could look rather brave and dashing,” Dorian sighed, gingerly pressing at his swollen brow. “Single perfect scars seem to work well enough for you, Cassandra, or our Commander, if one doesn’t know where I got it.”

Cassandra pointedly raised a brow.

“It won’t scar,” Solas replied, getting to his feet. “Let me know if there are any other… incidents.”

As Solas left, striding deeper into the vestibule, Cassandra still loitered awkwardly. Dorian stood to join her.

“…The waiting is rather frustrating, isn’t it?” he said mildly, studying her frown.

Cassandra sighed. “We’re here to act. Only to be held back by… niceties.”

“I finished Tempted by the Templar,” he offered. “Perhaps, given the dearth of decent conversation elsewhere, you’d care to walk with me a while and carry on our usual book club until the dancing begins?”

Cassandra smiled gratefully. “Please. If one more Chevalier approaches me to try to flirt me into telling him more about the Seekers, you won’t be the only one to have gotten in a fight before the end of the evening.”

And though he still feared, he knew there was nothing to do until Lavellan returned. He made a joking show of bowing to offer the maiden his hand, and to his surprise, Cassandra snorted with amusement and took his linked arm. And as they walked towards the ballroom, Dorian thought he saw a rustle, of silver, red and black, but as he turned to glance through the closing doors, she was gone.

Chapter Text

To Dorian’s relief, Lavellan returned just in time. The ballroom was already filled to capacity with partygoers keen to see Celene and Gaspard together, both those eager to glimpse the hope of peace and those who merely desired to watch a significant disaster. Cullen seemed satisfied to have been able to exercise his expertise, ensuring the Inquisition held a section of the banister above the sunken ballroom through the tactical positioning of their small, gathered group. Making enough space for those of them who had been introduced to make themselves visible at the front of the crowd.

Dorian had suggested that he should, perhaps, not be seen in his current condition, but Josephine and Leliana had disagreed. Dear, sweet Yvette had forced him to borrow her fan, at least. He held it open, even though its ashen silver colour clashed with the gold braiding on his outfit. The room ran hot and cold, sweltering from the heat of so many waiting bodies until a servant pulled open the door to a balcony and filled the room with chill winter air. And from a distance, at least, the fan would mask Dorian’s marked face.

Having pushed his way through the crowd, the Inquisition parted to lets its Inquisitor pass, and Lavellan settled himself between Dorian and Cassandra without looking up, as if he’d already been waiting there a while.

They all knew it was him that should be seen, after all. To be present, and to have observed the warring cousins as closely as possible.

Lavellan leaned his forearms against the banister, and Dorian noticed a tightness to his affectation of casualness. A glass of wine gripped a little too stiffly, an elbow held too close. And his face, watching for Celene and Gaspard’s imminent entrance with a stony expression that could be recognised as a noble’s air of disinterest, but which Dorian knew as something much, much worse.

He hadn’t seen Lavellan look this angry since they'd spoken to Halward together.

“Lavellan,” Dorian said quietly, shifting the fan to obscure the movements of his mouth. “What happened?”

Lavellan shook his head, and lowered his stormy gaze towards his tight hands. “I… don’t know how to talk about it here,” he murmured.

The wide blue doors at the head of the room swung open to fanfare from the band. Florianne, with her head bowed, Celene on one side and Gaspard on the other.

“Well, this seems like quite the covering distraction, don’t you think?” Dorian whispered.

Lavellan half-turned towards him, though nominally towards Celene and Gaspard, one elbow still on the banister. And came to a halting stop when his eyes reached Dorian’s face.

“Dorian,” he said, firm voice wavering. “Did someone hurt you?”

If they had been somewhere quiet, it might have been cathartic to say yes, and let himself be fussed over. Dorian knew full well what he’d been doing and why when he’d been causing the distraction, but that didn’t exactly make it comfortable to walk around with.

“I am most honoured that the evening’s dancing will commence with Empress Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard joining us,” Florianne said, from somewhere by the band.

But the wounded, vulnerable lover wasn’t who Dorian needed to play for anyone else who was watching. He faked a grin, knowing Lavellan would see straight through it.  “I did tell you not to look back,” he breezed. “I apparently caused quite a mess after you left, it’s a shame that you missed it.”

And, uneasily, Lavellan played along. “I’m sure Leliana will tell me all about it when we get back,” he said, wearing an imitation of his own smile. In the darkness between the crowd, Lavellan reached his hand to touch Dorian’s arm, in warm comfort, and Dorian passed his palm over Lavellan’s knuckles in reciprocation. But not for long.

Lavellan's hands were needed elsewhere. He took his touch back as he turned his eyes back to the front of the room and began to clap, and Dorian quickly followed.

Celene and Gaspard, starry blue and earthy green, walked down opposite staircases into the sunken ballroom to rapturous applause, frankly undeserved for an act so mundane to their persons as walking down the stairs unaided.

They were followed, with subdued but continued applause, by four more pairs that Dorian probably should have recognised. Influential Dukes and Duchesses, members of the Council of Heralds, etcetera, to make up the rest of the set.

“I think the scoundrel will be spending the evening feeling quite sorry for himself,” Dorian suggested, turning his head towards Lavellan even as his eyes stayed on the dancers. “However unpopular I may be, starting a brawl at such a dignified event isn’t generally looked upon as the mark of a gentleman. So there will be no need for any heroic vengeance upon my tattered honour from you, Inquisitor, at least this early in the evening.”

Dorian was mildly surprised that Florianne hadn’t joined them. Perhaps she was a bad dancer. He allowed himself to take his eyes away and towards Lavellan as the string section played the set to their positions. There was at least some warmth to the smile Lavellan gave him in return.

“But you already seemed somewhat distressed when you arrived,” Dorian prompted, voice carefully light for the benefit of anyone at the edge of the Inquisition's perimeter straining to hear anything juicy before the music struck up. “Perhaps you'd like to tell me what ails you. Spurned by a Count again?”

Celene and Gaspard bowed to each other at the head of the set, each straining to let their greeting be as shallow as it could without outright rudeness. The Emperor or Empress should not bow too deeply to anyone lower ranked, of course.

Lavellan stayed quiet as the music began. Keeping each other at fingertip distance, Celene and Gaspard took their first step together. A show of peace, at least in theory. The music and dance were livelier than Dorian expected, a galliard, all flourishing kicks and grand, striding leaps in time with the rest of the set. He supposed it was Gaspard’s idea, the soldier wishing to make some show of athleticism which Celene was determined not to decline, although it was quite funny to watch her, starry blue gown keeping Gaspard at a distance, his deft, dark movements overpowered by the wide sweeps of her full skirt.

“The assassin is already here,” Lavellan whispered.

Dorian nodded, as if this was a normal conversation, and he realised he should endeavour to make it at least appear that it was. “I'm going to keep talking,” he whispered back. “As if I'm making very clever comments about the dancers. Ignore what I say.”

Lavellan nodded grimly. He was leaning closer now, arms folded tightly. “I saw...” he murmured. The sequence of steps laid out, the galliard entered a repeat, and it was getting... faster. “In the guest wing. While I was looking around. I’d heard some of Briala’s people would be meeting there. I saw…” And Lavellan’s voice was getting faster, always just faster than the music’s rising tempo. Gaspard was technically leading, as per tradition, but Celene seemed always in danger of outpacing him into the next step. His quick spin was supposed to throw her into a leap, but she moved so far so fast that only a warrior’s quick lunge brought his hand to hers in time. Whether this would be considered a show that she completely outmanoeuvred him or that she disrupted Orlais’ movements purely to satisfy her own pride depended on your perspective, of course. “There were so many bodies, Dorian,” he murmured. “There was so much blood.”

Normally, when they had conversations like this, they had time, silence, space. But not here, and not now. Dorian was powerless to do anything but seem vaguely disaffected, and there wasn't a witty comment he felt like saying to what Lavellan was telling him.

“I looked through the bodies,” Lavellan continued. “In case I could find... anything. They weren't Dalish. And I know they're not my people. I know a lot of them wouldn't want to be. But I still feel... I still feel the same. It was a slaughter, Dorian. And whoever killed them wouldn't have seen the differences between us. Just... ear to ear, like animals.”

“I'm wondering if they'll use the lavolta,” Dorian commented, forcing his voice steady while Lavellan knotted his trembling fingers around the wine glass. What pathetic little gestures this place forced people to make, to move a knee closer or rest fingertips disguised by folded arms so as not to appear indecently comforting in public. Dorian closed Yvette's fan, and rested it against Lavellan's arm. He did not want masks to cover them, when they spoke like this.

“I don't recall Josephine teaching you it,” Dorian continued. “It's a particularly flashy and particularly scandalous step in a galliard, so I suppose you were unlikely to use it. One dancer lifts the other and turns them, chest to chest. It's the closeness that makes the Dowagers faint, of course. I suspect Celene simply doesn't want to put herself in the position of being lifted off the floor by Gaspard. You'll have noticed, of course, that they've chosen a dance where they make no moves that turn their back to each other.”

And without taking a breath, Dorian dropped his gaze to Lavellan and kept talking, the first string of words he could put together to meet the first instinct he’d had. To reassure. To let Lavellan know he wasn’t alone. “We'll find who did this, Inquisitor. I promise you that. And I mean we. Whatever strange little adventures you have to go on, I will be joining you.”

Lavellan nodded shakily. “I think I owe my spymaster a dance first,” he murmured. “I have... things to speak to her about.”

“Of course,” Dorian replied. Celene and Gaspard’s dance slowed for its final refrain, a reprieve from frantic movement intended to highlight the precise, skilful articulation of each limb, each step.

“And I'll find us somewhere quiet, this time,” Lavellan ordered, though not without some softness to his voice. Whether it was fully pity or underscored with some mirth, Dorian supposed he'd find out.

The music fell quiet as Celene and Gaspard came to a slow stop, like clockwork dolls running down. Lavellan forced a mildly entertained expression as he resumed his applause. Dorian supposed he shouldn't be surprised that the cousins were only participating in one full sequence, given how strained their movements were together.

“It looks like they didn't do the lavolta after all,” Lavellan commented. “I'll have to get you to show me.”

“My offer to scandalise the Orlesians is always open,” Dorian replied. “At least we'll be accomplishing something.” Dorian wasn't sure if he felt uncomfortable or relieved to be making their normal banter into part of how he and Lavellan played the Grand Game. It would feel different, if they were alone and Lavellan, no matter his sorrow, still wanted to speak with Dorian like this. He'd have known it wasn't a mask.

But he and Lavellan both knew they'd have to be people they didn't necessarily like to get through Court. At least a mask stapled and sewn from his own dead flesh was an easy mask to wear. Whatever game they’d have to make of themselves… nobody here would know the words they spoke to each other in their own quiet places, that Dorian wore Lavellan’s token or that Lavellan wore Dorian’s heart.

Celene and Gaspard walked back up their opposite stairs and the room fell to whisper as the ballroom floor opened to all. And cloaked by each other’s smiles, Dorian bowed to Lavellan as he walked towards his spymaster, and supposed that, at some point, he should return Yvette's fan.

Chapter Text

Dorian had decided to give Cullen some reprieve, however brief, from his admirers. That said, the Commander seemed genuinely disappointed to find that Dorian was actually inviting him to step forward and watch the dancing with him, rather than this being some cover for immediate action.

“Tired of the hors d’oerves already, Commander?” Dorian drawled, watching Lavellan and Leliana part. The room rustled with movement, the change of dancers between songs.

“So, I take it he found something,” Cullen noted.

“Yes,” Dorian replied curtly. He didn't say anymore, and Cullen didn't ask. Without Celene and Gaspard, the dancefloor wasn’t drawing quite so much attention, and as such Dorian wasn't keen to mention the assassin aloud. “I expect you'll be able to get the gossip yourself from Leliana,” he said instead. “Something about Gaspard's tailor having an affair with a Carta middleman, I gather.”

Cullen didn't rise to Dorian’s game. But he supposed it wasn't Cullen he was playing it for.

Lavellan and Leliana had already been on the floor for a few sequences. Dorian supposed Lavellan must have had more to tell her about from his travels than dead servants. Courtly specifics and eavesdropped secrets, the kind what would have been of only mild interest to Dorian but could form a vital strand in the web Leliana would spend the evening spinning.

And as they left the dancefloor and went their separate ways, Lavellan walked towards them. Past Cullen and straight to Dorian, in one smooth set of strides. Dorian supposed it was time. Whatever preparations he’d needed to make and whatever intelligence he’d needed to pass on, Lavellan had certainly made himself seen.

Cullen turned back to the dancefloor, his instinctive desire to give Dorian and Lavellan privacy proving, once again, why he was not at all suited to the ways of the Orlesian Court. Dorian would definitely have eavesdropped on himself. It was nothing personal, although he was, to be honest, one of the more interesting people in the room.

“I have a plan that will distract the court from wondering where we are for a while,” Lavellan whispered, leaning in close by Orlesian standards, but distant by their own. “But it will mean... playing on our reputation.”

“Well, we've been playing on each of our separate reputations for most of the night,” Dorian said levelly, knowing that wasn’t what Lavellan met.

It was something he'd already come to terms with. That if what they needed to do would ruin him or sully them – well, that was what he should have expected from falling for someone like Lavellan. He could have taken a shine to a servant, a soldier, or a visiting scholar, but no. He'd wanted Lavellan, herald and heretic, despite and yet because of all the trouble that came with him.

Lavellan swallowed, glanced down to the ballroom and then back up to Dorian, half-hesitant and half-frantic. “Playing the Grand Game with strangers is one thing,” Lavellan murmured. “But I don't want to make a game of us.”

The corners of Dorian's mouth lifted into a twitching smirk. “I know,” he said softly. In the ballroom, he could hardly say more, as much as he wanted to. Their love – he supposed, dully, like a man in the rain enduring one more droplet and acknowledging that he had been soaked through for quite some time, that he should stop pretending it was anything else. Stop pretending that the trembling seriousness with which Lavellan approached Dorian’s fears were the actions of a man reassuring a casual companion. Their love was not for the Court to consume, and he resented that their situation meant they would have to give the impression that it could be.

Dorian lowered his eyes to meet Lavellan's. “What do you need me to do?” he asked softly.

And with that same hesitation, Lavellan leaned forward, his mouth now disrespectfully close to Dorian's ear.

“In a few minutes, follow me towards the servants' quarters,” Lavellan whispered. Despite himself, despite knowing it was for show, Dorian felt a shiver across his shoulder's from Lavellan's closeness, the soft impression of his lips as he spoke. Their usual, private affections were tender ones, and the subtle chasteness of Lavellan's movements, ensuring that their bodies didn't touch, didn't lessen how much it made Dorian's heart ache. He hadn't thought it would feel like this, something realised so quietly when they, being who they were, were replete with opportunity for grand heroic gestures, deathbed declarations and so forth. “Look like you're trying to be subtle,” Lavellan continued, almost smiling. “But are doing a very bad job of it.”

Dorian smiled back, rather more affectionately than the situation really called for. He could see the shape of Lavellan's plan now. If the Court was playing with what the Inquisitor and his disreputable advisor might be getting up to, whether it was imagined to be a secret tryst or an argument about the fight Dorian had gotten into, they were less inclined to be wondering about where they might be getting up to it, at least in the way they were trying to hide. It wasn’t that Dorian entirely minded the scandal, after all. That he didn’t, in those daydreams, want people to look at him and his lover and know they were each other’s.

“I'm not sure how I'll manage to look excited for a secret meeting with you,” Dorian whispered, his own mouth brushing against the pointed tip of Lavellan's ear as he spoke. “But I will at least pretend to be hiding my enthusiasm.”

Lavellan made a point of smothering his genuine laugh and wiping the obvious smile from his face, masking himself in seriousness. Striding off a little too obviously, as if he was striving a little too hard to make it seem like he was going somewhere grimly important. Dorian turned back to Cullen, to pass Lavellan's few minutes. He would be sure to look as if he was concerned with the precise passage of time, to make himself unable to stop glancing to the door Lavellan had left through.

“I don't suppose you'll need my assistance,” Cullen sighed, trying not to look at the peering crowd that were clearly waiting for Dorian to leave. Leliana had reappeared while Dorian had been speaking with Lavellan, and was watching with vague interest. He supposed she was considering using Cullen's popularity as leverage.

“I'm afraid this is a private call,” Dorian replied. And he lowered his voice, purposefully not quite enough. “Do tell anyone who asks after me that I'm in the garden, will you?”

Knowing that Lavellan would be doing the same, that the brazenness of their diversions would cover that they were, indeed, a cover.

Cullen nodded warily. “...Be careful,” he said.

Dorian knew all of the plans and fallbacks Cullen had detailed before. That they should come to him if they needed soldiers, the façade of the Grand Game be damned.

They didn't need said again, especially not when Dorian needed the words to have other meanings. Why would the Commander say that? Perhaps he simply meant not to get caught. Perhaps there's something else afoot, between the three of them.

Dorian made sure to stroll nonchalantly, but to throw one too many glances over his shoulder. Out of the ballroom, and nominally towards the hall of portraiture that led to the inner courtyard.

The corridor connecting the two was relatively empty. A checkerboard floor with a staircase that sunk towards the door to the servant's quarters, guarded by grand statues. He spotted Cassandra at the far end of the quiet corridor, and presumed from her hewn frown that the Seeker was having a fit at the number of places there were to hide in this room alone, behind statues and in the shadowed walkway beneath the balcony.

Sera was standing on the stairs just below Cassandra, loudly recounting the tail end of a lewd anecdote involving a cucumber that Dorian supposed had cleared the hallway of lingering nobles.

And there Lavellan stood, at the base of the marble stairs, pretending to look at the statue of, if Dorian recalled correctly, Judicael Valmont I that blocked one’s view of the servant’s quarters from the vestibule door. He turned his head, smiling nervously in the low, golden light as Dorian walked down the stairs. Cole came into view as the servant’s quarter door did, hovering by one of the dark alcoves.

“Wherever did you find him?” Dorian asked.

“What?” Lavellan replied distractedly, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, he's been here the whole time. Why?”

Dorian narrowed his eyes at the troublesome vagrant, but decided he wasn’t interested in making a scene. Well, not about Cole in particular. “Oh, nevermind,” he shrugged. And turned back to Lavellan, who still wore a nervous grimace.

“I was thinking about the salon,” Lavellan blurted out. “How when you and Vivienne disappeared to argue, nobody was talking about where you might be. Only what you were doing.”

Dorian smiled softly. “Very clever, Inquisitor,” he replied.

So much of their relationship had been as romantic as Dorian’s wildest daydreams – meeting at the gates of a burning village, confronting Dorian’s father, embracing in the long, cold nights. All the while, Dorian smothered the possibility of feelings, as he usually did, only for those fears to be proven wrong, again and again, by a man who truly adored him. So, here he was, only listening to his fool heart at the very worst moment – in halls where they could only be silent, when Dorian and the man he loved were about to do something very, stupidly dangerous.

Dorian brought his hand up to Lavellan’s chin, and lifted his head to meet his eyes. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t think he needed to, at this point. They would find more bodies, certainly, on top of the ones that had already brought anger and sorrow to his Inquisitor. It was the path they were always bound to have walked. Dorian hadn’t joined the Inquisition because he wanted to have it off with their handsome leader. But now that they were both here, and now that things were as they were…

Dorian lowered his hand, his smile turning faint. “Whatever fresh hell is behind that door,” he said. “I am with you.”

Lavellan said nothing. He didn’t need to, at this point. Cassandra walked down the stairs and Cole peeled himself away from the wall. And Lavellan, hands steady, unlocked the door.

Chapter Text

Beyond the golden candlelight of the ball, the servants' quarter seemed meagre, almost grungy. A quaintly rustic chest of drawers, and unstained hardwood floors – acacia, Dorian suspected. A simple table and chairs upturned by a struggle, wooden cutlery and smashed apples strewn across the floor, bare white walls spattered with blood that had dried so dark it appeared black.

Dorian had, in theory, been prepared for the bodies. He was well acquainted with death, given the facts of both his morbid magical specialisation and a typical day with the Inquisition. Students of the necromantic arts in Tevinter received bodies to work with, and Dorian was aware that not all of their deaths would have been pleasant, or natural. But by the time they arrived at the college morgue, they had generally begun to decay. The fresher ones stiff until their reanimation, those who had lost their rigor discoloured and putrid. Undeniably corpses, in other words.

But these... from how their limbs still hung loose, from how their cheeks retained some warmth...

They would have died in the past two hours, likely after the ball had already begun.  Most of the bodies Dorian had seen so freshly dead, so formerly a person, had at least been trying to kill him until a few moments prior.

Just... cut their throats ear to ear, like animals.

Lavellan knelt by the elven woman nearest the door, her slack limbs sprawled across the floor and her face against the upturned table. Cole started to shiver, as if in a trance. Lavellan was murmuring something in Dalish, quietly and calmly. A prayer, perhaps. That would be part of a Keeper's work, wouldn't it? To handle the dead.

“A moment of peace,” Cole sputtered. “You and I, the sharp taste of a fresh apple, and then-- the door opens, a flash of red and white, a scream that no-one will hear, and-- gone.”

Cassandra put a hand on Cole, in case his shaky ramblings turned into a dead faint. Lavellan finished his murmuring, and lingered for a moment. Kneeling, still, by the dead servant.

When he stood, he turned to Cole. Lavellan wasn't always the easiest to read, although Dorian had become familiar with the subtleties. He bore his usual sincerely serious expression, while anger tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Cole,” he said firmly. “Did you see the person who did this?”

Cole froze. Perfectly still apart from his eyes, rolling and flickering through another of his trances. “No-- no face, no face--,” he breathed, leaning into Cassandra's steadying grasp. “Mask--” he gasped. “They were wearing a mask.”

“Well, that certainly narrows it down,” Dorian blurted out, throwing his hands up as a burst of nervous laughter emerged from his throat.

He didn't particularly want to be in this room anymore. He paced towards the open door to the servants' sleeping quarters, and came to a staggering stop in the doorway. More bodies. Lying in bed, they could almost be mistaken for merely asleep were it not for the weeping red smile across their necks.

“Dorian?” Lavellan said. Dorian simply shook his head. Lavellan's footsteps closed towards Dorian before he could articulate himself.

“From the fact that you have nothing clever to say about it, I'm going to assume that it's bad,” Lavellan said, voice shaking beneath its dry drawl.

Dorian hadn't thought about what it would be like, the next time they ran into something truly horrible together. His past month with Lavellan had been like a dream, in comparison to what they usually did to pass the time. Lavellan placed his hand on Dorian's shoulder to steady himself as he passed, as he'd done before, when Dorian was sometimes too distracted to wonder at its meaning, and sometimes entirely diverted by the very thought of the Inquisitor's hands. It would be the same, then, as before. A warm, intimate camaraderie in the face of hell wasn't new to them, Dorian supposed.

“Have you found anything?” Dorian croaked. Lavellan shook his head. But still he paced, insistent on saying a few words over each body. He paused over the last, as Dorian's eyes followed him around the room. It was fairly middling, as servants' quarters went, once one had gotten used to the change from aristocratic opulence to peasant dwelling. He supposed that even those so wealthy as the Valmonts were unlikely to paint gold leaf over the parts of their estates nobody of influence would see.

“In my clan, we're used to performing memorials without the bodies of the dead,” Lavellan said distantly. “They could have been eaten by animals, or died while we were travelling. A body abandoned to nature isn't such a terrible thing.”

“Dearest Inquisitor,” Dorian said, his glib tone forcing its way over his shakiness. “I am not helping you dump half a dozen dead bodies in the Halamshiral Royal Gardens.”

Lavellan laughed under his breath. “It's strange, leaving them here like this,” he continued, eyes glazed and voice bland as if he was remarking on a room he wasn't currently standing in. “I suspect the other servants will be left to take care of this, to clear out their own dead by their own rituals. I suppose that's not so bad.”

He turned back towards Dorian. Cassandra and Cole waited a few paces behind him.

“Inquisitor, we should go to Commander Cullen,” Cassandra said firmly. “We need to lock the palace down.”

“We don't have enough soldiers,” Lavellan laughed. He walked back out of the sleeping quarters, past the three of them. “It's just us.”

“Then we keep going,” Dorian said. “I told you I would see you through the perils of this evening, no matter how horrific, and unfortunately I'm going to have to keep to my word.”

Lavellan nodded, manic eyes calming, and turned to Cole. “There is going to be more of this ahead, Cole. Do you still want to come with us?”

“The person who did this will cause more pain, won't they?” Cole asked. He still looked strange to Dorian, his wide, bloodshot eyes against his crisp Inquisition uniform. But he supposed Cole was hardly the only one out of place here.

“Yes,” Lavellan replied.

Cole bit his lip, then nodded. “Then... I'll come.”

Cassandra took the lead, in case the assassin was still lurking, and pushed open the door to the kitchen. There were bodies here too, of course, but Dorian thought he might have managed to become used to them. They were holding knives, scratched with defensive wounds. These ones, at least, had a sliver of a chance.

There was a dead man draped over the table, his blood pooling around the half-chopped onions. Dorian almost gave a morbid laugh, as his mind worked to keep the despair from overwhelming him. Right now, he was imagining this as a murder scene from one of Varric's crime novels, the grimly splayed limbs and puddles of blood in contrast with the hanging wreaths of garlic and smell of spiced broth an aesthetic choice rather than part of reality.

“Well, I suppose dinner will be late then,” Dorian remarked.

Cassandra, better versed in investigating murder than any of them, stalked between the rows of benches as Lavellan checked the bodies.

“Whatever weapon our assassin used, they seem to have taken it with them,” Lavellan noted. “These wounds weren't inflicted with any of the kitchen knives.”

“I see Vivienne's weeks of acquainting you with the cutlery haven't gone to waste, then,” Dorian replied.

“Dorian, must you be so inappropriate?” Cassandra said, without edge.

“My, I thought you'd be used to it by now,” Dorian replied.

Cole stood in the corner of the kitchen, turning a spatula over in his hand with a strange curiosity. The kitchen wasn't inherently unusual, it was just that... well, servants didn't often have their own kitchen, and food for so many guests generally wouldn't be prepared in a space so small.

“Incidentally, did Leliana mention any other kitchens?” Dorian asked. It was a useless detail, but Dorian found himself wanting to pull at whatever threads he could grasp, hoping to find something at the end.

Lavellan's eyes flickered as he sifted through his memory, walking further along the bench. “This kitchen was built recently, when Celene made expansions to the servants' quarters and grand apartments,” he murmured. “Leliana did mention another. The main kitchen is in one of the wings that was damaged in Gaspard's last siege.”

Dorian supposed that with as vast as Halamshiral was, those in the grand apartments would prefer if their food had the possibility of arriving warm. And, perhaps as an aside, that an estate with so many servants would benefit from feeding them with more than banquet leftovers.

“What are you getting at, Dorian?” Cassandra asked.

“Nothing of use in our present endeavour, I suspect,” Dorian replied. He wondered, briefly, where they kept the wine. “I suppose I was just thinking that the kitchen in my family home isn't terribly much smaller than this, and it prepares meals for a few dozen at most. It seemed an odd space in which to prepare a feast for hundreds, and yet...”

Lavellan doused the fire that was still burning, beneath a pot of likely-burnt soup. “Leliana suspected that Celene and Florianne are having most of the food prepared elsewhere and put into cold storage, because of the damaged wing,” he explained. “That's how a lot of her agents infiltrated the palace.”

And, although it went unsaid, how anyone could have – Briala, Gaspard, the Venatori or otherwise.

“But we're not going to find anything more here, I suspect,” Lavellan said. Glancing to Cassandra and Cole, neither of whom took this moment to produce something that would give them a lead. A dropped note, a scrap of fabric, an incriminating bootprint. Nothing.

Whoever they were following was three moves ahead of them, and covering their tracks. The Inquisition had been on the back foot from before they began, and they all knew it. Lavellan marched on towards the gardens, a determined alacrity to his paces despite the deaths now weighting upon his shoulders. Even the scant time they'd stopped with grief was the most Dorian suspected Lavellan would allow himself until afterwards.

The garden was beautiful in the moonlight, framed by vine-wrought trellises to create avenues narrow enough for a feeling of intimacy yet broad enough to accommodate two wide skirts promenading side by side. And at the sound of a terrified scream from beyond the manicured archways, they all began to run.

Chapter Text

Lavellan was fast, but Dorian was more than used to keeping up with him, and usually in far less orderly terrain. They tore down the corridor of vines, Cassandra and Cole close behind them. Out into open space, the black sky's gaping maw enveloping the bare courtyard. It was clear where the screams were coming from, now. A man in Orlesian courtly dress fled through the hedgerows across the plaza, towards the lion-headed marble fountain in the centre.

There was a low wall between the servant's quarters and the plaza, presumably so that the residents of the grand apartments weren't in danger of having the illusion of endless promenade shattered by spotting the rabble carrying meals to and fro. Lavellan vaulted the wall without breaking stride, and dropped into the plaza.

As Dorian leapt down, the running man stumbled, staggering into a spin as if he was dangling from a spindle. And as the man fell, Dorian caught sight of a white shape behind him. White and red, with a mask covering their whole face, loose sleeves and a thickly padded bodice disguising the precise details of their build. Dull spatters of blood coated the white panels, a choice Dorian was certain that no run-of-the-mill hired thug or pragmatic Crow would make, considering the secondary expense of cleaning it. Despite their grim purpose, the clothes had still clearly been made by a very expensive tailor, red harlequin diamonds slashed across the sleeves and down the hose.

The Antivan Crows preferred wearing leather, anyway, if his lurid novels were to be believed. Dorian had meant to lend Beneath His Wings to Josephine so he could watch her try to be polite about it. Perhaps it would cheer her up, after this whole ordeal was over.

The harlequin hesitated for only a moment, presumably decided that Lavellan was either too close to retrieve their weapon or too dangerous to fight, and bolted back up the path, the leaves behind them turning to brittle black as Lavellan lashed out with a crackle of lightning and barely missed.

Lavellan stood for a moment at the threshold of the hedge maze. Limbs tense, as if he was going to fall into chase. But instead, he swore in Dalish and turned back. Stray strands of his golden hair falling out of place as he dropped to one knee by the wounded man’s side.

Cole appeared at his other side, as if he'd always been there. But Dorian could only watch, as he crossed around the fountain to join them – the man’s last breath croaking from his burbling and bloody throat despite Lavellan's attention, the faint glimmers of healing magic licking from his palm.

“Be careful, Inquisitor,” Cassandra warned. “The blade could be poisoned.”

Cole shook his head. “He died from one wound,” he said.

Lavellan sighed, his fingers gracing the fresh edges of the wound. “Then it seems we're dealing with someone very, very precise.”

Dorian knelt beside him. The knife jutted from the back of the man's neck, at the base of the skull. This was the kind of dead body Dorian was used to dealing with. And from the precise angle of the blade... well, given he was a healer, Dorian assumed that Lavellan had come to the same anatomical conclusions he had.

“So we're dealing with an assassin who can sever the spinal cord of a moving target from several metres away,” Dorian noted. “Delightful. I'd be almost impressed if it wasn't so gruesome.”

“That assumes the target is unarmoured,” Cassandra pointed out. And she wasn't wrong. Everyone that had fallen to the harlequin so far had been taken by surprise, completely unprepared for combat. If they could corner the assassin, Dorian expected they would hold their own.

But they'd need to catch them first.

Lavellan tilted his head, peering closely at the knife, as Dorian examined the man's clothing.

“This is the crest of a member of the Council of Heralds,” Dorian noted. “Whatever was he doing back here?”

“And here, on the hilt of the assassin’s knife,” Lavellan noted. “This is the de Chalons crest.”

Dorian glanced across. It was, indeed, the de Chalons crest. The crouching chevalier inlaid in the palm, the snarling beasts curling along the cross-guard. Dorian supposed it looked slightly less ugly when it wasn't on that putrid green and yellow backing that accompanied it in banners and on tabards.

“Well remembered, Inquisitor,” Dorian replied. “We can assume that the assassin meant to retrieve this knife, given that they weren't expecting us.”

“And I suppose that points to Gaspard,” Lavellan said.

“Or Florianne,” Dorian noted, although the idea of her hiring an assassin seemed faintly ridiculous to him. “Or perhaps some other distant cousin. Or someone formerly affiliated with them but now hired elsewhere, etcetera.”

“Or someone trying to frame him,” Cassandra pointed out, frowning faintly. “In war, it's not uncommon for a soldier to wear another army’s colours if they could be captured doing something... untoward.”

“I get the idea,” Lavellan replied grimly. “It could mean everything or it could mean nothing, like everything here.”

Lavellan got to his feet, leaving the knife where it was. Probably for the best. It might end badly if the Inquisitor was found carrying such a thing about his person.

“I suppose it's the same with the victim,” Dorian pondered. “Whether the assassin had a particular grudge against the Council of Heralds, which would again point to Gaspard, or whether they simply saw something they shouldn't have in the closed wing.”

“We keep moving, then,” Lavellan murmured, staring down the opening path of the hedge maze. “And we find where this assassin is hiding. Whether they'd planned to kill this man at the start of the evening or not, I expect they won't let any witnesses return to the ballroom alive if they can help it.”

Lavellan was right. Whether or not they knew everything, they were clearly intending to meddle, and if this assassin was a member of the court, they'd know they couldn't leverage their absence against them without drawing attention to themselves.

“Shouldn't we return to Celene, if there is an assassin on the loose?” Cassandra asked.

“M is looking after her, and Cullen can watch them both,” Lavellan replied, speaking over his shoulder as he strode forward. “At least, while we investigate.”

“...M?” Cassandra asked, moments before Dorian could do the same.

“Celene's magical advisor,” Lavellan replied.

And then it clicked.

Celene's mysterious magical advisor and the woman, clearly a mage, who had been looking for Lavellan...

“The darkness touched her,” Cole whispered. “And she touched it back.”

“I see she found you, then,” Dorian drawled. The clustered hedges drew shadows over the four of them, shielding them from distant lights in the servant’s quarter windows. “And you're certain we can trust her?”

“She has a history with Leliana, apparently,” Lavellan replied.

“Oh, really?” Dorian purred.

“It's her, isn't it?” Cassandra sighed. “The Witch of the Wilds?”

Lavellan shrugged. “It could be. I’m not familiar with all of her titles.” He glanced over his shoulder at Dorian, a faint smirk spreading across his lips. “Oh, but she mentioned she’d already met you, Dorian.”

“Well, did she say anything nice about me?” Dorian asked airily.

Lavellan just smiled, teasingly and knowingly. “She said you were smarter than you look.”

“I’m honestly not sure whether to take that as a compliment,” Dorian drawled.

And then the mirth left Lavellan’s eyes, and he threw his hand into the signal to stop.

Dorian didn't like how quiet the gardens were, without their chatter. In a gathering of this size, it would be normal for there to be at least a few stragglers exploring the palace, whether from nosiness or some other instinct.

But Florianne's ball had locked its guests down to a single wing, with guards only at the perimeter – whether this was to best utilize their threadbare guard company or to disguise the damaged parts of the palace, Dorian still couldn't be certain.

All guests, that is, except for people like them – those who were clearly where they shouldn't be. If anyone was here other than themselves and the assassin, Dorian could assume they'd snuck in just the same.

“It seems our assassin has friends,” Lavellan hissed.

That's when Dorian heard what Lavellan must have noticed – distant voices in the distinct lilt of Tevene. He was almost happy to hear his homeland's tongue again, even if he loathed that in this situation it had to mean danger.

“How many, Cole?” Cassandra whispered, striding ahead of Lavellan and into a guarding position.

“Twelve,” Cole replied.

“Oh, they’re not even trying,” Dorian breezed.

The cool touch of Lavellan's barrier traced across Dorian's skin, and he glimpsed a glimmering blue wave sealing itself across Cassandra's back. He'd almost missed this, the everyday possibility of being beaten to death by someone of no particular importance.

“Be careful,” Lavellan said, smiling weakly over his shoulder.

“Oh, would you be upset if I did something foolhardy?” Dorian asked, raising a brow. “I’m not the one that’s needed back at the party. You be careful.”

“Will both of you be quiet?” Cassandra hissed.

“There’s no point,” Cole noted. “They already know we’re coming.”

“Well,” Dorian shrugged. “I suppose it’s not polite to leave an ambush waiting out in the cold.”

Lavellan snorted. Cassandra drew the knife from beneath her jacket, and started forward, towards the bright opening at the other end of the hedgerows.

No more words. They usually didn’t need them, in this sort of situation. Back inside the ballroom, there would be music, warmth and dancing. Out here, in the flattening silence, the Inquisitor walked into a fight.

Chapter Text

They fought their way to the door of the grand apartments without much issue. For a group so invested in the ways of Old Tevinter and the superiority of mages, the Venatori certainly had a lot of non-mages within their ranks, nor were many of their mages particularly superior.

The untalented mages and shoddier spellbinders were understandable, Dorian supposed – they could entertain the delusion that Corypheus would grant all mages of the Venatori the power to make dust of former rivals who represented all that was wrong with Tevinter, if only they succeeded. Dorian was less sure of why a Soporati would want to be a part of this, although he supposed he'd hardly had contact with them even when he was in Tevinter. Perhaps it was something similar. That if all Tevinter – or Orlais – was made great by a return to their old ways, the Imperium's time of expansion or Drakon's time of conquest, that would at least raise them above the non-magical peasants within spitting distance of their borders.

Or perhaps they were simply mercenaries who didn't ask questions. The Inquisition certainly had members who weren’t deeply devout, either to the Chantry or to their particular cause.

Cassandra lunged towards the last Venatori soldier in the doorway, while the spellbinder behind him struggled to rebuild their broken barrier, and struck her dagger across his neck. An arterial spray of blood slashed across the front of Cassandra’s jacket, red on red. Dorian didn't need his necromancer's instinct to know she'd struck a killing blow.

Dorian snapped his fingers, and the body of the dead Venatori staggered before it fell, dragged from the neck by Dorian's re-animating magic. The body steadied itself just in time to take a panicked lash of vengeful fire from the lone mage, originally intended for Cassandra.

Given the circumstances, Dorian preferred not to dwell on the ethics of his grim abilities. Perhaps the innocent dead they'd passed so far would have feared that someone such as him would do this to them. No matter how accepted he became in the Inquisition, there would always be those whose disgust at what he did outweighed any acknowledgement of his better qualities.

But the pragmatism, and in some ways the glamour, won out, as it always had. Necromancy was difficult, and talent in it was rare even in Tevinter, where one could actually learn it fairly openly. It was a powerful fantasy in a world of backstabbers, to be able to turn the bodies of your slain enemies against others, a deterrent against crossing someone with such a talent as well as a rather useful tool.

With its breath already departed, the marionette corpse had no fear of further killing blows. Dorian drove the magic-stitched figure towards their last remaining foe, and Lavellan followed. When they worked together in this morbid manner, Lavellan had no fear of wounding a living bodyguard with his outbursts of riftborn power.

The mage fought like Dorian, now that he was alone. He wasn't taking the time to repair the barrier after he'd been interrupted, and Dorian could only assume he was looking, instead, to preserve himself through killing. The pages of his spirit-bound tome rippled as he searched for the spell that would save him. Dorian's mute homunculus lunged at the book, bringing down its ripping sword. Lavellan threw a precise blast of lightning that arced back and forth between their foe and Dorian's puppet in glimmering crackles of white, until the mage's shuddering body fell to the floor.

Lavellan strode forward without a word. Moving with swift fury, he tossed the spellbound tome out of the mage's reach, and pressed a now-scuffed black boot down on to his chest. The mage twitched as Lavellan's paralytic magic coursed through him. Despite his anger, Lavellan hadn't killed him.

Dorian's puppet stood mutely to the side, the magic that would keep him standing still good for a few more minutes. Dorian spared a glance to Cassandra and Cole, the seeker's jacket truly stained with blood.

“Perhaps one of Cullen's soldiers has an ill-fitting spare you can borrow,” Dorian suggested dryly, as he strode to Lavellan’s side.

Cassandra looked down at her clothing, and sighed in irritation.

“The Venatori would betray innocent lives for a chance at personal power,” Lavellan said, voice hard and sharp as steel. The Venatori grunted, the lingering magic keeping his vocal cords too rigid to interrupt. “So tell me, what do you value more? The success of the Corypheus' plans for tonight, or your life?”

As movement returned to the mage's body, his mouth curved into a cruel smile, and his throat rattled with stiff laughter.

“I will be written into tales of Tevinter's rebirth when you are but dust in the margins,” he croaked. He certainly had a Tevinter flair for the dramatic. With his hood spilled back across the ground, Dorian could see the spellbinder's face. They were around the same age. They had likely moved in similar circles when they were both in Tevinter, might even have met before.

Dorian squinted. The mage’s waxy, bone-white skin and pointed features, the slick of smooth black hair. Not uncommon features in Tevinter, but--

They had met before.

“Remus?” Dorian exclaimed. “Remus Dominic? What are you doing here?”

“You know each other?” Lavellan asked, sliding Dorian a confused glance as he kept his boot in place.

“Not very well,” Dorian admitted. “But we’ve met. He’s the third son of a Laetan family.” He glanced down at the wounded mage. “Though, frankly, I’m surprised a Laetan wants anything to do with the Venatori. What did Corypheus promise you? Money, power, a guarantee of the good tea set in the inheritance?”

“I wouldn’t expect a traitor to his people to understand,” Remus sneered. There was a glazed quality to his small, black eyes, despite the fervour in his voice. It wasn’t unusual in Venatori they’d tried to interrogate before, to have this fanatic’s dyad. “Tevinter has been dragged down by your kind for far too long.”

“Oh, and elevating a mediocre talent like you is what it needs?” Dorian scoffed, aware that he was getting rather distracted from their purpose here by such a frustratingly familiar argument. “The only thing dragging Tevinter down is that we won’t change. We are not an empire anymore, and even with our evident capacity for atrocity we never will be again. There are other ways to create a better society.”

He was aware that he was ranting now. Lavellan was looking at him with a strangely amused expression, and a warm smile.

“You are nothing, Dorian Pavus, and will be nothing in our new world.” Remus spat. Whatever Dorian said, the words clearly weren’t reaching him. “You walk at the heels of the slave who stole the power that rightfully belongs to Tevinter, like a ravenous dog begging for scraps, and I--"

And then everything happened so fast. Lavellan leapt back as Cole staked his knife through Remus Dominic’s heart, and the rancid smell of blood magic hit Dorian's nose. And only then did he notice the hidden blade biting into the mage's hand, one he’d worked from his sleeve while they were speaking.

“He was going to hurt you,” Cole said, almost apologetic.

Lavellan stared down at the body.

“He was going to turn himself into an abomination,” Dorian said dully, staring down at Remus’ death-clouded eyes. There were spells in his purview that let one speak with the dead, but they generally required a deeper personal connection than that of a passing acquaintance, or at least enough of the deceased’s possessions to manufacture one. The thick, bloody odour faded with the thwarted magic, but the reek of the Fade remained. “He was going to open himself to possession by whatever Fade creature might tear through the veil at the scent of him.”

“...Why?” Cassandra asked from behind them. It was why people in Tevinter called them the soporati, the sleepers. They couldn't understand it, the pull, the knowledge and temptation of the possibility. That you could, in one last fuck you, take your enemies down with you, even if it meant giving up your body, your self.

Dorian had only been seriously tempted a few times. A few scattered incidents when he was alone and truly thought he might die, although he'd always had enough of a shred of hope, and enough of a sentimental attachment to his own body, to resist.

And the other times. Well. It had been... a fantasy he'd entertained. While he'd been locked in his family estate, trying to plot his escape before his father's ritual. He had imagined that, should the worst happen, he would try to stay conscious during the procedure, and turn the ritual's blood against itself. Be changed, yes, but by his own hand.

But he knew, deep down, that he would never have done it. He had never wanted to destroy his father. That was why it still hurt. The asymmetry of it. That although he regretted it now, there was a time when his father had been perfectly willing to obliterate him.

Lavellan was still frozen to the spot. Dorian looked to Cassandra. “In this case,” he said grimly. “I'm afraid I'm not an expert on the why.”

Cassandra lowered her head, as Cole got to his feet.

“Dorian,” Lavellan said quietly. “Are you alright?”

Dorian gave a stretched smile. He didn’t feel anything. “I barely knew him,” Dorian murmured. “So I’m hardly about to grieve for him.”

And yet…

“But?” Lavellan prompted.

“There is much ill with Tevinter. You know that, I’ve certainly spoken of it to you more than enough,” Dorian said. Remus’ blood trickled between the fine Orlesian courtyard paving, and Lavellan pressed a hand against Dorian’s shoulder. “But it’s easy to forget that, almost, when I’m away. How deeply this poison flows, how monstrous we can be. People I was far closer to than Remus have joined the Venatori.” The ones he’d given files on to Leliana, the ones the Inquisition had tracked down.

“I expect you’re going to develop a skewed picture,” Lavellan said carefully. “Given that we will be fighting a lot of Venatori and a lot less ordinary people.”

Dorian gave an empty laugh. “I expect so.” They were getting away from the matter at hand. The assassin was still awaiting them, and there was no time for Dorian's dread sadness. “But I also expect the assassin is tiring of waiting for us.”

“Dorian--” Lavellan started.

No matter how he felt, how any of them felt, they had to keep moving. Dorian stepped away from Lavellan’s hand, which stayed with him as far as it could reach, and walked onwards.

Chapter Text

It was even quieter inside the grand apartments, apart from a few handfuls of easily-dispatched Venatori. None had given them as much trouble as Remus had, and even he had scarcely slowed them down. Deep red lounging chairs draped beneath the bay windows, and pieces of art lined the walls. Rooms whose sole purpose was to be occupied by guests, yet still lay empty. No servants, no candles, nothing but the occasional soldier's bootprint trailed across the carpets.

“And... still no sign of our assassin,” Dorian sighed.

“Perhaps they have returned to the party,” Cassandra suggested. “And are simply trying to waste our time.”

Dorian still considered it unlikely, but… he had to consider the possibility. He was aware that he and Lavellan's... excuse could only last so long. At some point the line would be crossed between rumours that the Inquisitor was enjoying a thrillingly passionate excursion with an exceptionally handsome bad influence and rumours that he'd simply skipped out on the party due to an inability to keep up with the Grand Game.

“Well, I’m certain that if anything is amiss at the party Josephine will be able to divert it,” Dorian said, not quite sure if he believed himself.

He rolled the body of one of the dead Venatori over with his foot. They weren't dressed terribly covertly, but so far, they'd found no incriminating papers, no records of their orders. Merely personal possessions, potions and salves, a growing collection of keys that seemed to match no door in Halamshiral.

“And at the very least, every soldier we take out here is one less that could attack the peace talks,” Lavellan said with a grimace.

“Assuming they’re not doing so as we speak,” Dorian said, aware that he was contradicting himself. Well, perhaps more accurately, accepting that his contradictions were an admittance of his fears.

Lavellan simply shrugged, calmer than Dorian expected. “If they are, and Morrigan, Cullen and Leliana can’t stop them, then there’s nothing we can do. So we may as well proceed as if they’re not.” He glanced over his shoulder, gold against red. “After all, you’ve said yourself that I can’t be everywhere at once. You can’t be, either. The others are still in the ballroom, should anything happen.”

Dorian nodded shakily. He knew Lavellan was right. No matter how much he might wish to believe that Lavellan could solve the world’s ills alone – as much as he wished that he himself could solve Tevinter’s ills alone – this was not a burden for one person. And it was terrifying, the powerlessness of those who longed to change the world’s dark direction. Lavellan was right, even if Dorian was aware of the irony of being given his own advice back. Fear or no, they had built a grand web of those they should be able to trust. To not trust them now, and be crushed by a burden too heavy for one person to carry alone…

“You’re correct, of course,” Dorian said weakly. He supposed it shouldn’t be surprising that he and Lavellan had an affinity for some of the same bad habits.

They walked up the tight marble stairway, the labyrinthine corridors splitting before them into one path of gold and one of silver, Lavellan keeping half his attention behind him. He had stayed close since what happened with Remus, though he had said nothing further about it, and neither had Dorian. Dorian supposed it wasn’t exactly difficult to tell that he hadn’t suddenly become cheery about the matter in the past ten minutes.

That urge to push came again, to take out his confused feelings at the one person he thought would take him seriously, wanting Lavellan to see right through him the way he already had with his worries about Celene and the assassin.

But firstly, it wasn't the time for that. And secondly... well, Dorian supposed he didn't need to. Lavellan always knew what he was doing with his body, with his actions. Lavellan wasn't staying close by accident. He was staying close because Dorian needed him right now, even with everything else they both had to deal with at court.

“Leliana said that Celene used to have quarters in this part of the building,” Lavellan noted, head turning towards the golden path.

“Well now, I suppose there's the chance she left something juicy behind,” Dorian drawled.

“Or if not, that someone else could have visited before us,” Lavellan noted, flashing Dorian his clever smile. Dorian’s hands found the front of his neck and gently pressed Lavellan’s charm against his warm collarbone, allowing himself a private smile. Far easier, even, than trusting their friends to deal with the court, was to trust Lavellan, to lean on his solid, steady presence.

The gold room certainly looked like the quarters of someone important. Or at least, like it had been. It had clearly been cleaned recently, and was still dressed as if it would be ready for occupancy if the Empress suddenly chose to stay in different rooms – the ridged gold columns of the four-poster bed were clear of dust, and fresh silk sheets in Valmont purple lay across the bed – but it clearly wasn’t lived in. As much as they were all loath to admit it, even nobles with servants cleaning up after their every step had some need for possessions. Books, letters, half-finished embroidery projects, anything.

Dorian opened the drawers as Cassandra dutifully checked the perimeter. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

“Well, I suppose if she was keeping anything illicit, she would hardly keep it where the servants might find it,” Dorian suggested. He certainly hadn’t. Revolutionary letters to Felix, Alexius and Maevaris; notes on research he’d yet to publish; romance novels with covers a little too suggestive of their contents – whether he’d been at his family’s home or elsewhere, he’d quickly learned to hide them, or at the very least burn them.

“There’s something here,” Cole said. Dorian turned to catch Lavellan pulling back a privacy screen to reveal another doorway. And watched as a hex of bright white light flared at Lavellan’s touch. A magic-warded door.

“My, my, my, it looks like our Empress does have something worth hiding,” Dorian said with a smirk.

“Try not to get too excited,” Lavellan said dryly. “It could just be furniture too expensive to use.”

Lavellan probed at the glyph again, frowning in concentration as Dorian joined him. He wondered if it was Morrigan’s work. Or Vivienne’s, perhaps – the elegant intricacy certainly reminded him of her spellcraft. “I’m not sure if I’ll be more or less positively inclined towards her if she’s keeping the more tasteless pieces hidden.”

“This is an old elven ward,” Lavellan murmured.

“But this part of the building can’t possibly be that old,” Dorian frowned. “Although if it is, I suppose it won’t be Celene’s undergarments we’ll be finding behind this door.”

“It could be Briala,” Cassandra suggested. “Briala’s ward, I mean, not Briala’s… undergarments. Leliana said there were rumours that she has some access to elven artefacts. Perhaps she used such a thing to create this ward, despite not being a mage.”

“It’s certainly possible,” Lavellan sighed. “Cole, Cassandra, I suspect your abilities may actually be more useful in getting us in here.”

Ah, yes. Between Cassandra’s magical disruption and Cole’s ability to get into places he shouldn’t, and couldn’t, be, Dorian supposed they'd be able to figure something out.

Dorian stepped aside to let Cassandra get a closer look at the door. As she did, Dorian heard a jangling noise. Cole was going through the keys and trinkets they’d picked up on their way here, in desperate search for something useful.

“Here,” Cole murmured, pressing something into Lavellan’s hand.

“Cole, where did you get this?” Lavellan asked. He peered at the object Cole had given him. It was a small sculpture of a Halla, not dissimilar to the one Lavellan had carved for Dorian. It certainly hadn’t been on any of the Venatori.

“The kitchen,” Cole replied.

If this ward was Briala’s work, and some of her people were among the servants… well, Dorian supposed that made sense. Lavellan turned carefully, and held the carving out towards the glyph. The burning white lines parted, snaking in on each other and retreating towards the edges of the doorway.

“Perhaps Briala’s people have been using it as storage, if Celene hasn’t been using it,” Dorian suggested.

But as Lavellan swung the door open… that seemed not to be the case. It was as Lavellan had initially suggested. Surprisingly tasteful paintings that Dorian recognised as being of Clarisse de Montford, Celene’s mother. Brightly painted urns, the kind that were in fashion with the kinds of Val Royeaux artists that considered Celene a patron. Shelves of jewellery, necklaces and rings that had clearly been gifts. These seemed like… sentimental items.

One necklace in particular caught Dorian’s attention, owing to its striking plainness. A wooden disk on a cord strap, with a design he couldn’t make out in the dim light. Dorian took a step towards it, and lifted his hand to take a closer look.

It was elven. At least, Dorian assumed so from the script. The symbol in the centre looked like a sun, in the style of the murals Lavellan had pointed out on their journeys through elven ruins.

And from the material, it seemed… recent, rather than some artefact.

“Now, why would Celene have a fairly plain elven necklace in the warded room where she clearly keeps her emotional valuables?” Dorian mused, glimpsing the answer even as he spoke.

Lavellan strode closer, stopping the spinning disc between his fingers. “A gift from Briala, maybe. But if that’s the case…”

“Well, I suppose it would mean there’s something to the rumours about them, then,” Dorian replied. Lavellan’s eyes widened just a fraction as he caught Dorian’s teasing expression. “A necklace like this is a rather serious courtship gift for your people, is it not?”

“Briala isn’t Dalish,” Lavellan said, stiffly flustered. “But if she was following our people’s ways, then… yes, I suppose it would be.”

Dorian smirked, and pressed Briala’s necklace into Lavellan’s palm. “I thought I recalled you telling me as much,” he said breezily.

“Does this mean we can eliminate Briala as a suspect?” Cassandra asked. “Even if she is a spurned lover, it’s difficult to imagine someone going so far as to join Corypheus for revenge.”

“Well…” Dorian sighed. People had likely joined the Venatori for less.

“I hope so,” Lavellan murmured, his quiet smile fading. “Whatever the reason, having one less suspect would be… useful.”

Dorian was aware that neither he nor Lavellan would particularly want this to be happening to them. They weren’t strangers to having their relationship scrutinised for signs of ill conduct and misplaced favouritism. Even if that was the cruel reality of the Grand Game.

“I suppose we’ll have to see,” Dorian sighed.

They spent a few more minutes searching, but there were no other secrets hiding amongst Celene’s jewels, at least in this collection. Like it or not, this token of Briala and Celene’s connection was their only lead.

They walked back out of the vault, and out of Celene’s disused old quarters, otherwise empty-handed.

Chapter Text

The silver path was long and winding, but as they walked it, Dorian understood why this wing was closed. A long crack split the ceiling at the far end of the corridor, and as they stepped through to the other ballroom, a vision of the open sky stared down at them through the crumbling hole in the roof, doubled and doubled again by the mirrored walls. The room at the far end was completely gone, a thin sheet feebly pinned over the collapsed doorway, blowing in the breeze from the balcony.

Despite its vastness, the mirrored ballroom felt crowded. Blocky shapes cluttered the gold-tiled dancefloor, shrouded like coffins in stiff white sheets. Dorian lifted the nearest sheet, wrinkling his nose at the dust. It was a cushioned chair, embroidered with leaves in autumnal bronze and gold. It was, he conceded, very nice.

“Perhaps they're hiding weapons here,” Cassandra suggested, stalking ahead towards one of the larger items and tearing its covering down with much less care. A splintered wardrobe, its beautifully lacquered door hanging from broken hinges. Empty.

“If we secure the area, we can have Leliana's people check for caches,” Lavellan said. “We know that Corypheus' agent knows the palace. If the abandoned wing is being used for storage, it would be a clever place to hide something.”

“I hope our assassin isn't hiding amongst the furniture, like an ambush from one of Varric's penny crime novels,” Dorian said dryly.

“They are,” Cole replied casually. Without so much as another word he tore the sheet from a low shape, revealing a parlour table with a Venatori spellbinder crouched underneath.

Dorian would really need to have a word with Varric about this. An almost awkward silence hung the air, before all hell broke loose.

Cole leapt on top of the table as the shadowy figure beneath the table lashed at his leg with an icy grasp. More Venatori soldiers, half a dozen from Dorian's quick count, emerged from hiding places, where they'd clearly been waiting for an opportunity to surround them if they'd walked further into the room.

And wherever the assassin was, they were yet to emerge.

The green flicker of Lavellan's hand echoed in the mirror, casting the room in a sickly glow. Cassandra and Cole stayed ahead, facing the approaching enemies and leaving the entrance to Dorian and Lavellan. The glimmer of Lavellan’s shield covered Cole and Cassandra, too far away to encapsulate the four of them in a single volley.

“You know,” Dorian said quickly, moving to cover Lavellan's back. “Considering the condition of this wing, I don't think the Empress will notice if anything is a little damaged in the scuffle.”

Lavellan gave a restrained laugh. “Don't start any fires you can't put out,” he said. He clenched his hand into a fist and pulled, tearing a green gash in the air in the middle of the room, between the dust motes twirling in the moonlight. His teeth bared in concentration, irises glowing emerald-bright, his black vallaslin cast in a dark velvet green by the reflection of his power.

The rift pulled only on flesh, its tentacle lashes steadily matched to the twitches of Lavellan's arm. Most of the Venatori were pulled back, leaving the lone mage isolated before Cole and Cassandra.

Don't start any fires he couldn't put out, indeed. “I'm sure there's something priceless in here,” Dorian sighed. “And I know you'll tell Josephine.”

But as Dorian raised his hand and opened his palm towards the clustered Venatori, he saw a glint of white and red out of the corner of his eye. From behind Lavellan, where his Inquisitor wouldn't be able to see.

Lavellan had no barrier. Neither did Dorian, come to think of it. But without a second thought, Dorian turned behind him, an arc of fire following his moving hand.

A score of melted leather slashed across the front of the harlequin's jacket from Dorian's flames, and the assassin's thrown dagger struck the wrong target. Dorian staggered back. The knife was slowed a fraction by the thick broadcloth, but not enough to stop it from piercing his chest with considerable force. Around where the back of Lavellan's neck would have been, he supposed. When his mouth opened to cry out, it wasn't air that came from his lungs. A wet croak, and a dribble of hot blood down his chin. Terribly unoriginal, to aim for the same spot twice, he would have said, if he could speak without agony.

The room spun. Dorian felt Lavellan turn. Unlike Dorian, unlike the Venatori, Lavellan defended first, the cool blue gleam of his hastily-thrown ward crackling with impact as it deflected the assassin's second attack.

An arrow struck the harlequin from the direction of the balcony. A woman's voice spoke from behind them, her voice smoother than Cassandra's. The harlequin backed away as more figures appeared in the doorway. They were dressed like the servants. The assassin began to run, and Dorian couldn't follow where she'd gone. He slumped forward slowly, realising he was being lowered to the ground.

“Dorian,” Lavellan's voice said, the only thing Dorian could still make out clearly. “Dorian, I'm here.”

Dorian was lying on his back, white lights criss-crossing his fuzzy vision. Lavellan knelt by his side, hand on his chest, fingers pressed down on either side of his wound. The jagged threads of healing magic sparked between them, stitching skin together as Lavellan pulled the bloody knife free.

“Now, that was rather foolhardly,” Lavellan said, allowing himself a smile. “Is this what it feels to be like you all the time?”

Dorian's rasping laugh turned into a cough, a sharp pain tearing at his chest.

“A thank you would be nice,” Dorian croaked. “I didn’t want you to tear your jacket.”

“Well, you never thank me,” Lavellan teased. “I'm allowed to worry too, you know.”

Dorian wasn't planning to laugh again anytime soon, but he did smile.

Cassandra leaned over them, worry knit across her brow. Dorian was honestly slightly relieved that Cole wasn't joining them. He expected that the spirit would only bother to come so close if Dorian were actually dying.

“He'll live,” said a woman's voice. “It seems our assassin missed their mark in more ways than one.”

Lavellan looked up, to someone across the room. “You're Briala, I take it.”

Another figure swam into Dorian's vision, peering down at him. Large hazel eyes, pointed ears, face shrouded in a silver mask and hair wrapped in scarlet. She was holding a bow and arrow. Briala, Dorian presumed, had been the archer. The other figures, the servants, Briala’s agents, passed through the outskirts of Dorian's vision, staking the room against any further ambushes. Dorian let his hand fall loose, resting his fingers against Lavellan's knee.

“My people told me you'd gone to investigate the attack on the servants' quarters,” Briala said. She turned her gaze towards Lavellan, baring her neck. “Thank you for... taking an interest in them.”

Lavellan nodded. “Cassandra, Cole,” he said suddenly. “Briala's people can take it from here. Cassandra, you and Dorian will need new jackets.”

Indeed, Cole was strangely spotless for how many daggers Dorian had seen him plunge into arteries.

“Are you sure we can trust her?” Cassandra asked.

“If we're going to make it back in time, I think we'll have to,” Lavellan replied. “Someone needs to tell Leliana what happened, and I can't leave Dorian like this.”

Cassandra turned towards him. Dorian couldn't make out her expression. But she stood, nodded faintly, and began to walk away.

“At court, everyone is alone,” Lavellan intoned, as Cassandra and Cole left the room. A quick glance to Briala before his eyes returned to Dorian, deft fingers unbuttoning his jacket to get a better look at the wound. “I hope we can rule each other out as enemies. If you were working with the assassin, you wouldn't have stopped them.”

Briala smirked. “Unless I'm playing a long game, of course,” Briala replied. “But I could say the same of you, Inquisitor, sending your accomplices away so that we may speak more privately. Our kind had best work together in such a place as this, and I suspect our goals align in more ways than one.”

“I'm not going to have time to numb the area,” Lavellan said, catching Dorian's wavering gaze. Those eyes, so recently fierce with anger and power. Still firm, now, but with a softness to them. “This is going to hurt, Ma Vhenan.”

Dorian smirked. “So did being stabbed, Amatus.”

Lavellan pressed his fingers down. It felt as if someone was reaching their hand into Dorian's chest and clawing at his organs. Dorian's hands clenched, neatly clipped nails biting into his palms, anything to distract him.

“The necklace he’s wearing,” Briala murmured. “A gift?”

Dorian scrunched his eyes shut, vision turning black and red. The healing hurt so much that Dorian thought he was going to pass out. His limbs went limp. He felt Lavellan's hand against his neck, against his pulse.

“It's like the one you gave Celene, isn't it?” Lavellan said quietly.

“How did you know about that?” Briala asked.

“She was keeping it in storage, in the bedroom in this wing,” Lavellan replied. “I thought you'd know, given that it had your seal on it. Do you want it back?”

“...The room we shared,” Briala murmured. “I hadn't returned to it. I... it was a gift. I don't want it back.”

Through the black depths of his pain, Dorian supposed it would be polite to point out that he was conscious. He tried to say something, but all that came out was a groan, and he supposed that could go either way. Lavellan's cool fingertips smoothed the hair back from his forehead, before returning to his chest.

“...You still love her, don't you?” Lavellan said. “If your token means what it would to the Dalish.”

“You would still love him, would you not?” Briala replied. “If you parted?”

If Lavellan replied, he didn't do so with words. The pressure eased in Dorian's chest as Lavellan's healing magic worked its way outwards, towards his skin, Lavellan’s fingers tracing glyphs across Dorian’s chest with aching tenderness.

“My people don’t always agree with what I do for her,” Briala murmured. “But…”

Briala’s voice faded. Or at least, Dorian’s ability to hear it did. With the healing having passed from agony to discomfort Dorian’s body knew that if it stilled beneath consciousness now, it would not have to fear never waking again.

“--our people--” he heard Lavellan say.

And so, despite Dorian’s mind’s struggle to stay awake, Dorian's body allowed itself to faint.

Chapter Text

Dorian had done what he could with the borrowed jacket. It was tight around the shoulders and loose around the waist, the former of which wasn't ideal considering that was where he wore a freshly healed wound, but the latter of which he could at least disguise by pleating the excess fabric into a makeshift dart beneath his belt.

"I suppose Cullen is a fairly respectable choice, for a first dance," Dorian noted. “Although, you seem remarkably unworried about all of the nobles who've been trying to coax him down here for hours. The ones staring daggers at your dear sister over the balcony as we speak.”

Josephine matched his steps, length for length, neck lifted gracefully and eyes pointed forward. "It's not Yvette I'm worried about," she replied dryly.

Dorian laughed. "I can't disagree with you there." As the other pair took their place at the opposite end of the formation, Cullen looked like he was going to be eaten alive. Skilful as he was, leading a lady with a wide skirt and petticoats down the stairs clearly wasn’t an activity Cullen had much practice in. Dorian and Josephine stood a half-arm's-width apart at the back of the set, a perfect mirror.

“I heard a little of what happened in the servants' quarters from Leliana,” Josephine said evenly, her mild tone enclosed from eavesdroppers by the rising music. “I am... glad you are all well.”

“Oh, the evening isn’t over yet Josephine,” Dorian breezed. “I would be careful who you call well.”

“True,” she replied, a sombre shadow coming across her expression.

With Yvette and Cullen having taken their place, the dance began. It was closer to the first one Josephine had practiced with Lavellan. Slow, theoretically dignified, no leaping and bounding. They stepped to the left together, palms pressed together, fingers flat.

“So tell me, Josephine,” Dorian said. “I imagine the court hardly stayed quiet during Lavellan and I’s little adventure. What have I missed?”

“It’s strange,” she said. “I thought I would have seen more spats between Gaspard and Celene’s supporters, but...”

She and Dorian turned, and the set continued their dance in the opposite direction. “Not even any accidents of debauchery?” Dorian remarked. “I’m rather disappointed, actually. I’d heard so much about Orlesian wickedness.”

“…Well,” Josephine said. She pursed her lips, half-pensive and half-excited. “The Orlesians generally take pride in celebrating their most sombre occasions, to balance sorrow with joy, but tonight… it’s too tense. A widow whose husband died under suspicious circumstances became overly-inebriated and was sick in one of the violins, two debutantes arrived in near-identical jackets and left to duel in the garden. I’m keeping the incidents in mind, of course, but none of them are people of particular note. It is as if everyone is waiting, hoping that this will be the last night before everything returns to how it was before.”

Dorian’s mouth twisted into a dark smile. “Well, I’m sure the best way to accomplish that is to do nothing to make that so.”

The dance brought them to face each other.

“…Do you believe Gaspard could be behind this?” Josephine asked.

“No,” Dorian replied.  “And I don't think Lavellan does either. It's all too convenient, even for a double bluff. And if it was him, why risk inviting the Inquisition?”

Dorian lifted his arm, and Josephine spun.

“Perhaps he means to frame Lavellan for the assassination,” Josephine suggested.

“That sounds like something Leliana would say,” Dorian replied. Dorian’s heel clicked against the ballroom floor, in time with the other dancers.

“It was,” Josephine said, a small smile finding its way across her mouth. “I agree that it's unlikely, but we can't rule him out yet. He does not play the Game the same way as the rest of the Court.”

Josephine returned to his side, and the music marked their dance, and their conversation, as coming to an end. At the far side of the floor, Yvette seemed to be pleading for Cullen to stay for another dance.

“I suppose we should rescue the Commander,” Dorian remarked.

The rest of the set stayed in their place. Dorian and Josephine crossed the floor, a rare genuine smile on an evening such as this.

Dorian turned at the top of the stairs. Leliana was standing at the railing over the sunken ballroom, staring towards the door to the vestibule with practiced aloofness. Josephine had already rushed to join her, dragging Yvette. With his height, Dorian didn’t need to lean far over the banister to see what they were staring at.

Florianne de Chalons stood at the entrance to the grand ballroom, with Lavellan by her side. His dark-gloved hand, the one without the mark, wrapped around her pale hand. With the thick heels of his boots, he actually stood at around the same height as her.

Lavellan gave a suitably admiring bow, and led her down the stairs.

Where Celene and Gaspard’s pair had been one of the earth and the sky, the chevalier and the noble, Lavellan and Florianne were everything and nothing. Bright, blood-red, blonde and gold, against the subtle beige and charcoal print of Florianne’s gown. The unwitting hero who found himself rising from no title humans would recognise to the centre of their world, and the almost-heiress who, despite her involvement in Orlais’ politics, always remained a shadow.

There were stories Dorian could imagine. Lavellan, the night’s bold distraction, while Florianne had worked for the good of Orlais without asking for acknowledgement. Lavellan, who didn’t ask for his responsibility but came to live for it, and Florianne, who sought her position but now resented it. Their differences a thing to overcome, while they unite under their desire to end the war.  Their differences, as much of a symbol of the cracks in Orlais as Celene and Gaspard’s. All could be true, or none, depending on how you thought this tale was going to end.

The band started again. A livelier song, and likely to get faster. Florianne linked her fingers through Lavellan’s, and closed them around his hand. Despite, or because of, the intimacy such a thing would suggest, Lavellan reciprocated her gesture.

Where Celene and Gaspard’s dance had been one of distance, the bare minimum of respect, Lavellan and Florianne’s was almost aggressive in its friendliness. Florianne turned far closer than she needed to, and Lavellan whispered into her ear. Whatever he whispered to her, he certainly wasn’t giving his audience the impression that it was something professional or political.

One by one, the other pairs of dancers left the floor. The dance they moved into – it was more like the ones Dorian was used to seeing in Tevinter. Facing each other, one pair of hands joined and one clasped on the other’s shoulders.

Leliana and Josephine watched quietly. After this long month together, the three of them had no choice but to trust their Inquisitor entirely. If they did not take risks, they had already lost the world. Either whatever gamble Lavellan was running now would pay off, or it wouldn’t.

As the song spun to an end, Lavellan leaned forward. Laid Florianne backwards in the song’s final beat, as if he was dipping her at the end of one of Varric’s risqué Rivaini dances. Florianne clasped her hands around his neck, any surprise hidden beneath her mask. She whispered one last murmur into his ear, and kissed his cheek, his vallaslin, before she let him pull her up.

A few weeks ago, Dorian might have been jealous. It wasn’t something he tried to make a habit of, but a life searching for subtle signals that someone might not set you on fire with their eyes if you suggest they might want to sleep with you made one sensitive. He suspected that was why the Orlesians had such a reputation for it. The very signals one might make by accident are the same that, in Orlais, always mean something.

But this… the way Florianne spread a queasy smile across her mouth, and purposely ran her eyes past Dorian as if she didn’t see him. Lavellan was handsome, of course, and if they came to the end of the evening and found that the moth had simply wanted, for once, to be a butterfly, Dorian wouldn’t have been surprised.

But Florianne was an Orlesian noble. Whatever she did was unlikely to be for her pleasure alone.

And Dorian was one of Lavellan’s obvious weaknesses. His dubious lover from a repressed empire, who was, depending on how much Florianne knew, either already drunk enough to start a fight or had recently encountered Celene’s ex-lover. Perhaps the Inquisitor will cast you aside, as Celene did Briala, was a decent play, he supposed. If he’d fallen for it, his emotional antics could have provided just enough of a distraction for Florianne to achieve whatever she needed Lavellan not to be watching for.

Dorian met Lavellan’s eyes, the Inquisitor’s expression neutral. But as he and Florianne parted, he pressed his hand to his collarbone, a gesture Florianne would have no way of understanding. There was only one person in the room wearing Lavellan’s token, and it certainly wasn’t Florianne de Chalons.

Dorian mirrored Lavellan’s gesture, pressing the pendant against his skin.

And he decided that he was going to let Florianne think it had worked. At the very least, he knew Lavellan intended to try to speak to Celene and Gaspard again before they did anymore scurrying around, and he supposed a decent dramatic sulk would pass the time.

And he trusted, just as surely as he had never questioned Lavellan’s closeness to Florianne, that his lover would understand what he was doing.

Dorian let his face soften, one mask into another, a sadness trembling at his lip.

Florianne pretended she wasn’t watching.

And Dorian, without another word, turned on his heel and stormed away.

Chapter Text

Dorian found himself in the courtyard again. He decided to make a show of getting a drink in a sorrowful manner, in case Florianne asked after his demeanour. The noble he’d gotten into a fight with was, thankfully, nowhere to be seen, and neither were his companions.

But Morrigan was.

Without the mask, she was easy to recognise. There were many illustrations of the Hero of Fereldan's companions, after all, even in Tevinter. She sat at the edge of the fountain, beneath that blasted trellis, her mirror-mask now pinned behind her hair. She stretched her legs out, in the wide circle of space that the nobles had apparently decided to afford her. He suspected she preferred it that way.

Morrigan turned her head to the side, her true and false faces hanging in profile, and beckoned Dorian closer with a blood-red smirk.

If Morrigan was here, then Lavellan was likely with Celene. Assuming that she was worth the trust Lavellan had, however reluctantly, put in her, she likely wouldn’t have let the Empress out of her sight without a suitable replacement.

“Your Inquisitor certainly put on a show,” Morrigan drawled, as Dorian settled on the edge of the fountain. She continued, her voice lowered. “Creating a distraction for Briala’s people by drawing eyes to himself and Florianne, I assume. ‘Tis not the alliance I would choose, but she is useful, in her own way.”

Dorian wondered what Morrigan was doing out here. He was hardly going to be so gauche as to ask. At court, one was clearly wherever they intended to be, unless they were not.

Her room was in the guest wing above, Dorian recalled. Perhaps she’d had to retrieve something. He assumed she had the key to some sealed door that connected them, although the image of the Witch of the Wilds sliding down the trellis in her heavy velvet gown while the assembled nobles pretended not to notice was briefly entertaining.

“I thought you were to be Celene's nursemaid this evening,” Dorian commented, twirling his wine glass and watching the liquid spiral. “Did she give you a break?”

“I may have the Empress' counsel, but there are some conversations even I am not privy to,” Morrigan replied. Her small pupils fixed on him, gold irises glimmering in the candlelight, creating the impression of a poisonous insect preserved in amber. Not dangerous, for now. “Your Inquisitor will ensure her safety while he speaks with her, I am certain.”

But as much as they were on the same side tonight, it was obvious that Morrigan had her own aims. The tales of her suggested as much, even if none of the writers were certain what it was. Perhaps she worshipped some other evil god, exactly as dark as her manner of dress suggested, just as people claimed that he did. Perhaps it was, like his desire to redeem Tevinter, something relatively benign. Dorian would be a fool to trust her quite that far, at this stage.

It was likely neither, something in between.

Dorian decided he would prefer to imagine that it was something inconceivably petty. She was trying to lay a curse on an ex-lover, resurrect a beloved childhood pet, or some such.

“Now, speaking of the Inquisitor, I have been wondering,” Dorian mused. “How is it that it's him that you've come to rely on? You have your own merry band of heroes from a decade past to call upon.”

Disdain tugged at Morrigan's mouth. “The Hero of Fereldan's party and I... did not part on the best terms, as I expect the tales have made you aware.”

“I’m going to need more than that,” Dorian chided. He half-expected Morrigan to throw her drink over him, but she didn’t.

“Mahariel was Dalish, clearly,” Morrigan sighed. “I asked him to do something that went against his beliefs. When he refused, I left his company. I saw him only once more after that, but we had... different aims to fulfil, and thus we parted again. I have not seen him since, and know not where he is.”

Dorian was surprised that Morrigan was being open with him. Well, open at all, with anyone.

But then, most people in Thedas knew at least part of her story. It was hard for people such as themselves to keep secrets, even if the exact details were lost to history. If Mahariel had taken a lover from his companions, each tale of him had a different suggestion as to whom. A tragic romance with the Witch of the Wilds, who vanished the night of his final battle. A salacious affair with an Antivan Crow he'd spared from death. A beautiful warrior’s bond with one of the Grey Wardens he’d trained, walking hand and hand into the darkness together to face the Blight and never returning.

Dorian was at least fairly certain, owing to Morrigan’s tale, that Mahariel had not been converted to the Andrastian faith by a pious romance with Sister Leliana, as he’d seen written, although perhaps it simply hadn't happened the way those tales described.

Not that Dorian was satisfied with simply a tease of the details. Knowing they would have to return to Lavellan and Celene soon, Dorian decided he might as well press Morrigan for more while he could. “Morrigan, this raises far more interesting questions than it answers. Whatever did you ask him to do?”

Morrigan shook her head firmly. “I do not wish to speak of him further.”

Dorian had learned a lot of kindness, honestly, etcetera in his time with Lavellan. He wouldn’t press her about Mahariel.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try and get some juicy details.

“Leliana, then?” Dorian asked, pretending to take an idle sip of wine. “Why did you not contact her? You were clearly aware of her, given that you were aware of the Inquisition.”

“A naïve question,” Morrigan murmured. She rested a dark-nailed hand on her hip, and turned her sharp gold eyes upon him. “I did not contact Leliana for the same reason I did not call on the Inquisitor until this evening. Because I had not yet determined that I could trust her. She has always been a fanatic, and I shall not be swayed as easily by your Ambassador as the pious nobility. You and your companions may have a common goal for the moment, but 'tis foolishness to think that you always will.”

Dorian’s smile flickered. “Oh, I’m well aware of that. I expect that if I try to approach Solas socially after Corypheus has been finally decapitated, he’ll pretend we’ve never met.”

He wanted the Inquisition to be different, of course. Different to what had happened with Alexius, with every other temporary alliance he’d passed through. Every fellow student who had joined the Venatori, or simply not hesitated to move against him when their interests no longer aligned. Dorian himself had done it to others, after all. The gossip and information he'd so shared easily with Maevaris and Leliana to help with their manoeuvres.

“I don’t regret my caution,” Morrigan said. “And I would advise you to keep the same in mind.”

Dorian wouldn’t pretend to be wiser than Morrigan. Being the cleverest person in the room, rather than merely thinking one was, generally involved acknowledging the intelligence of others. Unless something drastic occurred, he expected he would always feel some trust for those he’d truly opened himself to. Just as, for all of her grim posturing, for all that their paths now diverged, it was clear that Morrigan still trusted the Hero of Fereldan.

Lavellan’s token hung at Dorian’s throat. Dorian trusted him wholly, in a way he generally didn’t allow himself to. No matter what happened, there was something there that would not be severed. Even if, as Morrigan did, Dorian wasn’t planning to admit that aloud, perhaps not even to Lavellan. He had to keep some mystery to himself, after all.

Morrigan’s eyes flickered forward. One of Celene’s triplet handmaidens had appeared at the door, alone. Dorian was briefly surprised they were allowed to separate, but the signal was clear enough. Morrigan should return, and that meant Dorian should too.

“And regardless, I suppose it’s done now,” Dorian replied, feigning casual conversation. “Or not done, in your case.”

“Walk with me, Dorian,” Morrigan commanded.

She stood, before Dorian could make a show of offering his hand to help her out. He supposed she did outrank him here, after all. Enough that she didn’t have to care about being seen with an undesirable such as himself. Much as Dorian supposed that pretending he was trying to make Lavellan jealous in turn would suit his pretences, Dorian doubted it was a game Morrigan was interested in playing. Perhaps it would suit better, to pretend he had tried and, in fact, failed. He had no issue with making himself seem pathetic to the nobility, after all. It made it easier to surprise them.

Celene’s handmaid disappeared into the hall of portraits, and Morrigan and Dorian strolled.

“Whatever happens in this next hour,” Morrigan murmured, her expression still. “I suspect our evening is beginning to draw to a close.”

Chapter Text

“Ambassador Montilyet, you look like you're about to disintegrate,” Dorian said, offering Josephine his glass of wine. She actually drank some of it.

“So do the peace talks,” Josephine replied, turning her back to the balcony above the sunken ballroom.

“...Ah,” Dorian said. Leliana appeared to be intently entertaining Yvette, though Dorian could tell she'd been watching Morrigan since they'd gone their separate ways.

“It would be comforting to believe that Corypheus has a direct hand in this too, but I suspect that is not the case,” Josephine sighed. “Although, clearly, his presence in the world is not helping matters.”

“Yes, helpful is certainly not how I would choose to describe him,” Dorian replied. Josephine started to pace towards the vestibule, and Dorian fell into step. They had danced together enough for him to know when to follow her lead.

“It has been the way of much of court at late,” Josephine continued. “The same arguments, fought with the same familiar enemy, the rhythm of winning and losing easier to face than change.”

“Much the same as home, then,” Dorian noted. Frankly, the idea that there would be enough people in Thedas alive and not under the rule of a dictatorial Darkspawn mage in ten years’ time for Dorian to be able to carry on a feud with a former companion seemed charmingly positive. He was actually looking forward to it. Even as he hoped that he would not, as much of the Orlesian nobility had, let such a disagreement become stale, an insurmountable barrier to working together as they had before. “Perhaps we could scare each other out of stagnancy by pointing out the similarities. Is this what we have been reduced to, Orlais with more blood magic?”

“I only wish that were the case,” Josephine replied, smiling reluctantly.

Josephine was leading him, as casually as if she simply wanted to stretch her legs in the midst of a long party, towards the back of the vestibule. Behind the stairs that led up from the garden. Past where Solas had treated his bloody nose, towards the split corridor that led towards more of the closed wings. Dorian decided to keep his manner closed, as if he was obviously masking something – as if he was trying to hide his boiling jealousy from Josephine, rather than scheming anything loftier. Although he expected he’d made his impressions on most of the guests who had cared to notice him, he knew how treacherous late nights could be in Tevinter, if one let their guard down as the evening waned.

Dorian had expected there to be guards at the far end of the vestibule. Indeed, he was certain there had been earlier in the evening. But as they turned the corner, there was nobody but the Inquisition.

“Dorian,” Blackwall said, nodding stiffly in greeting. As Blackwall turned, Dorian caught a glimpse of Varric, kneeling in front of the door with one thin, silver hook in his hand and another inserted into the door’s lock.

“Huh,” Varric noted. The lock made a loud click. Varric leaned back, and glanced over at Dorian and Josephine. “After what the Seeker said happened to you, I wasn't expecting to see you up and about.”

Dorian gave a tight-lipped smile. “And miss the climax of the ball of season? Why, I think not.” He took a step closer. “And speaking of our dear Seeker, where is she? She wasn't glowering at people as they came out of the ballroom like she has been for most of the evening.”

Lavellan spoke up from behind them. “She'll be working with Cullen to co-ordinate the soliders. And Cole is… somewhere.”

Dorian turned. Lavellan and Cullen himself walked up the stairs of the empty corridor. Dorian could see the sleight of hand now – they would all arrive separately, and then the General and the Ambassador would leave together. It would be less obvious that they'd congregated.

“More of our soldiers have arrived,” Cullen noted. “But still not enough to cover the palace.” He gave Lavellan a stern look, hand resting on his belt. “Inquisitor, I must again ask whether you really want to walk into something that could easily be a trap. If we're covering the ballroom, we won't be able to--”

“I'm certain, Commander,” Lavellan interrupted, holding up a hand. “Briala said this part of the palace was closed because a rift tore through it. However fledgling our alliance may be, that lines up with some of Leliana’s information. Trap or no, I won't let any of our people face a rift without me.”

“Ah, more demons,” Dorian drawled. “And here I thought you simply wanted to take me to admire the furniture. I should have known you had something more romantic in mind.”

“Well, you're welcome to stay here and make smalltalk with the Orlesian nobility, if you'd prefer,” Lavellan teased, barely concealing a smile.

“Oh no, I think the demons will be much better company,” Dorian replied. “Why, all they'll be talking about is your little show with Florianne, and I'd rather hear about that from you.”

“I’d be happy to give you all of the intimate details,” Lavellan replied, quirking an eyebrow. “I’ve already given them to Josephine and Leliana.”

“Perhaps you could discuss this once we get moving,” Blackwall sighed, folding his arms. “What are our objectives?”

“Oh-- of course,” Lavellan said hastily.

“Sorry for being such a terrible distraction,” Dorian replied, although he wasn’t. It had been a long evening, and could still get more dangerous. Someone had to provide the Inquisitor with some levity.

“You’re still doing it,” Lavellan laughed, flashing Dorian a smile before he turned to Blackwall. “After our little show, Florianne suggested I investigate this wing. She claimed Gaspard is using it to hide soldiers.”

“Well, I think everyone’s entitled to their own tiny army at the Winter Palace, don’t you?” Dorian suggested. Cullen didn’t have anything to say to that. “And I don’t suppose she mentioned our assassin?”

Lavellan shrugged. “She was mostly evasive. But then, so was I. She wants me to believe that Gaspard’s soldiers and my problem are one and the same. I doubt that’s the case, but at the very least I can take care of the rift.” He glanced to Cullen, who still looked dubious. “It could be a distraction. It could be a trap. But right now, we don't have any other leads. Celene is unlikely to call everything off without some sort of proof, and the only way to get that proof is to spring this trap, regardless of who set it for who.”

“Gaspard wishes to be seen as a grand commander, but has so far been unable to overcome Celene with military force. Celene wishes to be seen as a great diplomat, but has been unable to make peace with her own cousin. I do not wish to be a pessimist, but… you can see the problem that conceding tonight poses, to her pride in particular,” Josephine said, with a sigh. “I understand Cullen’s reservations, but if there is any material Leliana and I can make use of in that wing…”

“…Very well,” Cullen said tightly. “Cassandra and I will work with Morrigan to try to secure the ballroom while you’re absent. I assume the guards Briala’s people distracted won’t be away for much longer.”

Lavellan shook his head. He took his place, next to Dorian, Varric and Blackwall, quiet eyes falling on Dorian’s shoulder as he drew closer.

“Dorian,” Lavellan murmured. “I want you by my side, but if your injuries…”

Dorian scoffed. “And let you go into certain danger without your most talented mage? Absolutely not.”

“I’m sure Vivienne would have something to say about that,” Lavellan said, finding a smirk from somewhere in the depths of his concern.

“Well, Varric can put this in the novel he will inevitably write of this sordid evening, and we can see what she says then,” Dorian suggested.

“Hey,” Varric said, spreading his hands. “I’ve already told you, Sparkler. I’m not settling any arguments between you and the Iron Lady.”

Cullen cleared his throat politely. The four of them turned to face him and Josephine.

“Josephine,” Dorian said. “Do try not to spread too many stories about us while we’re gone. I don’t think Blackwall’s reputation can handle any more rumoured affairs.”

Josephine nodded, her smile uneasy. Blackwall grimaced. How frustrating this night must be for her, a sparkling star with a love of clever manoeuvres, to be working in such a stagnant court. He thought of the character she wrote for herself in the salon, spending her life working at court to barely stay afloat.

“To find the centre of a maze, one must first find all of the dead ends,” Lavellan murmured to himself. “I hope that with this, we’re getting close.” He gave a neat bow to his Ambassador and General, as if someone might have been watching and judging him on his etiquette rather than the fact that he was breaking into a closed wing. “We’ll see you shortly.”

Blackwall opened the door to the closed wing. It was empty indeed, or at the very least, this first room wasn’t swarming with soldiers. Josephine and Cullen turned to leave. Lavellan walked on, and Dorian followed.

Chapter Text

Everything in the sealed royal wing was still ludicrously luxurious, of course. But this was the part of the Winter Palace that the monarch and their family were actually supposed to live in if they were intending to spend the season here. Unlike Celene's former room in the grand apartments, the study they emerged into at the end of the corridor was cluttered with personal touches.

And, as such, Lavellan had insisted on at least a quick look around. Dorian held close to Lavellan's advice as he concerned himself with the bookcase at the back of the room. Whatever happened in the ballroom would happen, and they were better using their time to investigate than standing around, drinking apertifs and waiting for something happen in the hour or so between now and Celene's speech. The speech that was supposed to open the banquet, the same banquet which may or may not be happening considering the state of the kitchens.

“Kid, if you're not careful we're going to end up lost in the back of Celene's wardrobe and missing the rest of the ball,” Varric joked, pulling open the drinks cabinet at the far end of the room.

“Really, Varric,” Dorian said, “do you think the Empress would leave something so important as her wardrobe within sneaking distance of the ballroom? What if someone sees what she's planning to wear to Queen of Antiva’s spring soirée?” It occurred to him that he wasn't sure where the Empress was currently staying, with this wing and the grand apartments both so obviously damaged. “Unless, of course, the rift opened precisely in the middle of her dressing room. In which case, a deep venture into Orlesian fashion would be sadly necessary. I can only hope that all of Lavellan's training will have prepared him when I call for him to watch out for the demon in the reticella collar.”

“We still have to fight the demons even if they're dressed in expensive lace,” Lavellan grunted, forcing open a drawer on the desk in the middle of the room.

Dorian's fingers graced the spines of heavy books on politics and history, crammed between decks of illustrated playing cards and colourful tomes promising nobles without a magical bone in their body the secrets of divination through tea, wine and the stars. He wondered what Celene was trying to foresee. Something so pragmatic as the end of the war, or something more personal?

“Did you get the chance to speak to Celene, by the by?” Dorian asked.

“She's the same as earlier,” Lavellan replied.

“So, no help, in other words,” Dorian sighed.

“Briala told me the necklace was… as we thought it was, and Celene confirmed it,” Lavellan said. “But despite the assassin running loose in her palace... it's as Josephine said. She won't call off the night unless she has leverage on Gaspard that would turn the war in her favour. They're still... they're still playing the Game. And I... despite everything Josephine did, all the rules of propriety we've learned to follow... we're still outsiders, and they only want to be changed by the familiar.”

Dorian turned from the bookshelf. It occurred to him that Lavellan was assuming he hadn't heard most of what had been said between himself and Briala while he was half-conscious. Not that he'd said, or not said, anything likely to cause the type of eleventh hour misunderstanding that Cassandra complained punctured the illusion of grand romance in some of her novels. Lavellan had been rather sweet, especially considering he hadn't been speaking for Dorian's benefit. He would tease him about it later, when they got out of this alive. He would tease him about a lot of things.

“I'm sure Vivienne would, albeit reluctantly, not correct me on this,” Dorian said softly. “But... whatever improperness you need to perform between now and the end of the evening, you have already shown the court you can behave if you have to. I'm sure whoever emerges in charge will be grateful enough to forgive any scenes you need to make, at least until we take care of the problem that threatened their life. After that, well – I'm hopeful that in a few years you'll be relaxing, for once, in a world without Corypheus, and that it won't matter if a Baroness turns the court against the idea of the Inquisition because Cassandra was rude to her an hour ago.”

Lavellan smiled weakly. “Let's hope you don't have to cause any more distractions, then.” He nodded to the bookshelf. “Anything of interest?”

Dorian shook his head. “I'm afraid all Empress Celene seems to be guilty of is bad taste. These trinkets may look like sinister magical tools, but... well. It's obvious to anyone with a thorough knowledge of magical theory – myself, for example – that they're fake. This one,” he rapped his knuckles against one of the shelves, “is supposed to be Dalish, I believe, if you'd find such a thing entertaining.”

Lavellan closed the drawer, settling the desk back to how it looked as they entered, and came closer.

“To think Morrigan and Vivienne present themselves as so dignified when half their duties were likely nothing more than entertaining bored nobles with parlour tricks,” Dorian added. He moved his hand to point at the other engraved baubles as he kept talking. “This is an Avvar word that I believe translates to 'cow', 'goat' or 'grazing animal', and this is in Ancient Tevene, clearly copied from the inscription on the front of the Magisterium with some mistakes along the way. From the shoddy handiwork I would like to suggest you cross out, for a second time, the idea that Celene is secretly working with the Venatori to fake her own death. Much as they are deeply, deeply flawed I feel that, in the interest of not underestimating our enemies, I should assume the Venatori would at least have given her the correct inscription to worship.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Lavellan replied, with a quiet smile.

“And yourself?” Dorian prompted, grinning and leaning against the shelf. “Any love letters, secret allegiances?”

“Sadly, it seems as if she's keeping anything like that somewhere more secure,” Lavellan replied. “So as much as I would love to stay here, drink the Empress' wine and listen to you insult her book collection with clever precision...” Lavellan smirked, eyes lingering on Dorian's face before he turned back to the rest of their associates. “...I suppose we should move on, unless Varric has found anything particularly suspicious.”

“Nothing juicy over here,” Varric shrugged. “And honestly, I'd skip the wine.”

“...What's wrong with it?” Lavellan asked, frowning slightly.

“Fake,” Varric replied.

“How can you tell that without opening it?” Lavellan asked.

Varric held up a bottle as an example. “Look at how much fancy ink is on this label. Gold-plated shit.”

“Although, given its alleged age I can't imagine a fake would taste much worse,” Dorian noted. “As somewhat of an expert, let me assure you that wine can, in fact, be aged for too long. After a hundred years I would hesitate to use it for anything other than alchemical purposes unless I was particularly desperate.”

“Well, I suppose we should leave it behind then,” Lavellan said dryly. He glanced back to the desk with a sigh. “I'd hoped to find material for Leliana and Josephine, but I don't want to waste time if there's nothing here.”

Dorian looked up towards the door that would lead them deeper in, where Blackwall was standing guard. Hanging on the wall behind him was a handsomely illustrated chart of the stars above Orlais as they would have been at Celene's birth, deep blue velvet embroidered with delicate gold thread. It reminded Dorian of his family's genealogical charts, though doubtless the Empress would have something of that sort too. Dorian hadn't seen much of Blackwall since he'd arrived. He assumed that, like Cassandra and Cullen, he'd been trying to stay out of the way.

“You being very quiet, Warden Blackwall,” Dorian commented, tapping his fingers against the handrail. “Run into any old friends? Get into a fight?”

“I don't know why you think I would know anyone here,” Blackwall replied gruffly. “And you're one to talk about getting into a fight, considering you managed to get into a drunken brawl before I arrived. Though, seeing how badly you hide it when you’ve had a drink, I'm guessing that was an act.”

Dorian winced, a little. “Well-observed, Blackwall,” he breezed, still hoping that the lingering bruise on his face didn't damage the charm in his expression. “And really? Not a single petty enemy? Dozens of Chevaliers, and not one that once cheated you at cards?”

“I think the Inquisitor has more important things to focus on than who I might know,” Blackwall said, eyes fixed forward. With Blackwall's rank in the Orlesian army before becoming a Grey Warden, Dorian had assumed he would be at least vaguely familiar with some of the knights of the court. But, well – he had mentioned being estranged from his family. Perhaps it was a touchy subject. For another time, then.

“I suppose you're right,” Dorian said, with a dramatic sigh. “Lavellan still hasn't told us any of the intimate details about his dance with the Grand Duchess.”

Lavellan gave a dry smile as he joined them at the stairs. “I think I'm enjoying making you wait, actually.”

“I took a knife on your behalf so you could have that dance, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, teasing with mock hurt. “I could have died. And this is how you repay me?”

“I will tell you,” Lavellan protested. “I'll even tell you when Varric isn't here, so you can hear it first.”

“Well, I suppose that's acceptable,” Dorian replied.

Lavellan's expression dropped from easy mirth into concentration as they reached the top of the stairs. He nodded at Blackwall to open the door, deeper into the sealed wing.

It was as empty as Dorian had expected, with no signs yet of the rift's damage, and, like the gardens by the grand apartments, it was silent apart from the stifled sound of music from the distant ballroom. The corridor was almost dark as they walked further from the study – with the wing abandoned, there were no servants to light the lamps. And yet, as they turned, a puddle of orange light spilled across the floor at the far end of the corridor.

“Someone else is here,” Lavellan murmured.

Blackwall and Lavellan crept forward, Varric and Dorian close behind them. Around the corner, beyond where the corridor broadened into a square, a single dead guard was slumped against the wall. Orlesian-style armour, but no identifying colours. One of Celene's guards, one of Gaspard's soldiers, some other infiltrator – it was impossible to tell. But from his wounds – this hadn’t been a single clean strike. He likely hadn’t been killed by their assassin.

“This place was supposed to be empty,” Lavellan hissed under his breath. “What was he doing here?”

And from one of the myriad doorways leading out of the square, a muffled voice. “--are you? Get away from me!”

“Gaspard's men?” Dorian asked.

“Are in the opposite direction, according to Florianne's directions,” Lavellan replied.

Something clattered in the room at that end of the hallway. None of them needed to ask any more questions, ask whether they'd help or hurry on, whether this could be the trap. It was one of the things that gave working with the Inquisition that warm and fuzzy feeling to Dorian. Almost too sugary for his usual tastes, really. But here they were.

Walking the wrong way from their goal, knowing – hoping – that they still had most of an hour to return. They'd help, and hope it was a lead. But no questions, they'd help.

Chapter Text

Dorian was thinking of the last time they'd run at the sound of a scream. The stranger from the Council of Heralds, killed a few metres away from them in the opposite wing. The Inquisition dealt with enough near-death situations that of course there were times when they were too late. That was something Dorian had gotten used to rather quickly, even if there were... incidents like the one in the servant's quarters that shook even his morbid comfort around death.

Lavellan threw the door open, hands already crackling with electricity. The scene was like something from a Chantry painting. An elven woman in servant's clothing crawling back across the floor, holding a knife aloft towards the costumed assassin that loomed above her. The assassin wore a harlequin's outfit, albeit in the wrong colours – yellow and blue instead of red and white. Judging from the fact that the servant was still alive, Dorian could only assume it wasn't the same assassin.

It seemed to be a bedroom, not as grand as Celene's spare room, but grand nonetheless. A bed shrouded by yellow silk drapes, the footboard curling with floral gold swirls. A lounging chair in front of a disused fireplace, the horns of the deer carved on the armrests detailed in gold. A life-size marble sculpture of a woman in prayer, her robes decorated with golden imitations of embroidery.

Dorian wasn’t sure whether he liked it or not. It reminded him of Varric's fake wine bottle – far too much ostentatious gold-leaf for half of the furniture to be as expensive or impressively historied as it clearly wanted to appear. But there was almost something charming to that – the ambiguous line between expensive taste and an ostentatious rejection of the authentic.

The harlequin lifted their head to assess this new threat, the four interlopers clogging up the broad doorframe. And that was enough time. The servant lunged upwards and stabbed, stabbed, stabbed, a half-dozen rapid, shallow strikes piercing the thick fabric muffling the assassin's neck.

And as her assailant slumped, gurgling, to the floor, she turned that now-bloody knife towards Lavellan, backing towards the wall, hands fumbling towards the window and reddish-brown hair falling over her sharp-lined olive face.

Lavellan held his palms open in surrender. Dorian felt the magic he'd conjured dissipate into the air, the itch of static electricity nestling where his bare neck met his jacket collar.

“What, showing her you're not holding a weapon?” Dorian drawled. “She can already tell you're a mage. I don’t think a blade is what she’s worried about, coming from you.”

“It's a gesture, Dorian,” Lavellan sniped.

The servant's gaze wavered between them, grip tightening on her knife. She was lucky Cassandra was elsewhere. Blackwall was a far more blasé bodyguard, letting her point a weapon at Lavellan like that, even if he stood just as ready to defend them, as if he were wearing armour rather than merely a courtly uniform.

But then, if this servant had been their assassin – well, Dorian expected she'd have thrown her knife and escaped through the window by now.

“We're not here to hurt you, is what they're trying to say,” Varric explained.

“We heard a scream, and came to investigate,” Lavellan added. “Now, may we step in and close the door? As much as I’m enjoying speaking to you from the corridor, I’d rather not be stabbed in the back if another of our jester friends is roaming the sealed wing.”

The elf gestured for him to do so. Dorian settled against an expensive writing desk he hadn’t been able to see from the doorway, a portrait of a blonde noblewoman hanging above it, framed in, again, gold.

“I'm... grateful for your intervention,” the elf admitted. From the accent, she was Orlesian. “You are with the Inquisition, I take it.”

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” Lavellan replied. “And my companions are Dorian Pavus, Warden Blackwall and Varric Tethris.”

“Ah. The Dalish Inquisitor. I should have known,” she replied. “My name is Noemi. …I'm a fan of your books,” she added, sparing a glance to Varric before returning, steel-eyed, to pointing her knife at Lavellan. “What are you doing here? This wing is supposed to be empty.”

“And yet, here we all are,” Lavellan replied, gesturing to the dead assassin. He gave an unnecessary bow, the kind one would give to a soldier. “We're investigating whether a certain party is hiding soldiers in the sealed wing of the palace. Are you the one who killed the guard outside, or was that our assassin?”

“Our assassin, I suspect,” Noemi replied. “I wonder which of us they were waiting for.”

“Well, half of your suspects know we're supposed to be here,” Dorian replied, shooting a glance to Lavellan. Florianne, Briala and Morrigan, at the least. They’d been subtle enough that he assumed that relatively few nosy dowagers would have noticed their absence, unless they were particularly looking for it. “Unless, of course, the attacks on both yourself and the guard were because you entered the wing, rather than the other way around.”

Similar to what they'd suspected could have happened to the man from the Council of Heralds – the guard stumbling upon the Venatori, or Gaspard's alleged army, and the assassin stumbling across Noemi while making sure there were no other interlopers.

“Then I suppose the question is still who is getting the Venatori into the palace,” Lavellan sighed. “Noemi, I take it you're one of Briala's people?”

Noemi scoffed, apparently amused enough to let her blade waver. “I have been part of the revolution since before Briala decided we needed her. But for tonight, yes. I'm one of Briala's people. Did she send you in here?”

“She told us when the wing wouldn’t be guarded by Celene’s soldiers,” Lavellan replied. “But, no. She didn't ask me to come here.”

“I assume Briala wouldn’t want one of her own people dead, especially one so handy with a knife,” Dorian mused.

“Do you think she’ll put the knife down faster if you flatter her?” Varric asked.

“It’s worth a try,” Dorian replied.

Noemi ignored them. It was like speaking to Cassandra, before she warmed to you. “I wouldn't be the first member of the cause that Briala has found expendable,” she replied bitterly.

“Well, that sounds like a story,” Dorian said.

“Did Briala ask you to come here?” Lavellan asked.

“She asked me to search Celene and Florianne's abandoned rooms for blackmail material. But Celene's room is sealed, and,” Noemi gestured around the room. “Florianne's had nothing of interest.”

“Ah, so this is Florianne's room,” Dorian noted. “That certainly adds an air of desperation to the décor.”

“I don't particularly care about the Grand Duchess' furniture,” Noemi replied. She turned her stare back to Lavellan. “Tell me, Inquisitor. Why are you working with Briala?”

“She wants to better the lives of the elves of Orlais,” Lavellan replied. “And neither of us particularly want to see Celene assassinated by Corypheus.”

“You don’t know much of the lives of the elves of Orlais, do you, Dalish?” Noemi asked.

Lavellan raised his eyebrows. “I hadn’t set foot inside Orlais before the Conclave. So, no.”

“Then let me tell you the history the shem you surround yourself will be ignorant of,” Noemi said coldly. “Celene may be kinder to elves who excel at the Grand Game than Gaspard would be – elves like Briala and yourself—”

“I don’t know where you got the impression that he excels at the Grand Game,” Dorian said, without thinking. Noemi glared.

“Apparently, I’ve been very convincing,” Lavellan replied. “Please continue, Noemi. Dorian can be very rude when someone’s pointing a knife at him.”

Noemi sighed, and allowed the blade to fall to her side. “Briala pretends she always tried to bend Celene’s ear to the elves’ cause, even when she was her servant,” Noemi said. “But I have known her long enough to know the only elf whose station she seeks to elevate is her own. Celene set fire to our alienage to silence our people’s cries for justice, and Briala did nothing.”

“Celene set fire to your alienage?” Lavellan said, his voice a hollow echo. “Leliana… I knew Celene had let it burn to send a message, but I’d been told it started as an accident.”

Blackwall broke his silence with a low, dark scoff. “Nothing in Orlais is done cleanly, especially not during this war.”

Noemi nodded, her expression tight. “It was no accident. The rumours about Celene’s leniency with our people grew more inconvenient than holding to her morals, and she need to create an opportunity to show otherwise. Briala decided she would rather stay Celene’s pet a little longer than save those she now claims as her comrades. Not that it worked. Celene cast her out regardless, and now Briala turns to us as if we were hers all along.”

Dorian knew a lot more about inconvenient rumours than he did about being an elf. This wasn’t really his area of expertise. He watched Lavellan, his expression fierce. That rumours could be false didn’t mean that there weren’t true horrors lurking behind the Game. Dorian knew that well enough.

“And… Briala knows it was her?” Lavellan said.

“She was upset by it. Enough to leave, eventually. But, clearly, not so upset that she wouldn’t crawl back to Celene’s side eventually,” Noemi replied.

“And Gaspard...?” Lavellan asked.

Noemi laughed, short and harsh. “Gaspard would have burned the alienage too. Whether or not he knows it was Celene’s doing, I doubt he cares.” She paused, steel voice wavering. “I… thought I could work with Briala, even after her inaction, but… I don’t know anymore. She sent me to a wing she knew was dangerous so that her precious Empress’ secrets would not fall into anyone else’s hands. My death at that assassin’s hands would have meant as little to her as it would have to any shem. She knows that I know too much of her past for me to accept her as our saviour.”

Calculating eyes, reading Lavellan’s face.

“If I had proof of Briala and Celene’s affair,” Noemi said quietly. “Something your spies could use – would your Inquisition take me in?”

“Their affair isn’t news to me,” Lavellan replied. “But we won’t turn down help.”

Noemi scoffed, eyes hardening again. “You knew about the affair, and you still wanted to work with her? Knowing she is not so different from those who would let our country war with itself to comfort their own pride? Perhaps you are not so different from them either. You surround yourself with shem, you take their nobles as lovers, as she did.” Her eyes flitted to Dorian, nostrils flaring. Evidently, she knew more of the Inquisition than she’d initially let on. “If you had any integrity, you would let this place burn, let the shem suffer the consequences of their own pride.”

“I’m not here because I care about preserving the Orlesian throne,” Lavellan replied, exasperated. “I’m here because the Inquisition needs to make sure that one of the largest armies in Thedas doesn’t fall to Corypheus.”

He shook his head.

“You’re right, Noemi. I don’t know the plight of the elves of Orlais. If I was Orlesian, I might be doing as you are. But I’m not. I am as much of an outsider to your cause as Briala. But my people are not spared because we are outside of the city. While I’m here dealing with Orlais’ petty problems, my own clan is in hiding from a lord who poisons their water and hires mercenaries to drive them towards rifts. I will do the best that I can by the elves of Orlais, but… I have to worry about the Venatori first.”

Lavellan’s shoulders fell. Dorian knew that look. The man who couldn’t save everyone. The elves of Orlais were as unhappy as those of Tevinter, but Lavellan, with his mark, with all of his responsibility, could not take his eyes from the unhappy world.

“I’m afraid you’re right about me, by the way,” Dorian interrupted. “The Inquisitor was rather keen on having Halamshiral burnt to the ground before I suggested otherwise. The dramatics of one succession crisis is quite enough for Orlais, clearly.”

Dorian forced a smirk, as if things weren’t quite so tense. Noemi’s disgust was palpable.

“You have said yourself, nobody who could end this night on the throne is better than any other,” Lavellan continued, voice steady. “But I assure you, a world where the Venatori’s assassination succeeds and Orlais is broken by Corypheus would be worse. If you still wish to leave Briala’s side, my spymaster will have you. Go to the ballroom, and look for a red-haired woman wearing this uniform. If your people choose to trust the Inquisition, I will make sure you have our resources. And at the very least, Leliana can keep you safe for the rest of the night.”

“It will take far longer than one night to fix all of Orlais’ ills,” Blackwall said, calmly. “I may not know what your people have gone through, but I know what the human peasants of Orlais have faced under this war, and it’s not pretty.”

Noemi nodded slowly, eyes tethered to Blackwall. For someone who was part of a death cult such as the Grey Wardens, Dorian conceded that Blackwall occasionally had a better connection with ordinary people than Dorian was capable of. He was far better with the extraordinary, after all.

“…I will go to your spymaster,” Noemi murmured. “At least for tonight. I… I can’t be in this place any longer. Tomorrow… well, we’ll see.”

“Do you want us to walk you out?” Varric asked.

Noemi shook her head. “It’s not far.”

They parted as Noemi crossed the golden room, towards the door. A brief look to Lavellan before she left. “Whether or not I agree with what you have to do tonight, you still saved my life. I won’t forget that.”

Lavellan nodded stiffly. Dorian wanted to comfort him, to throw off any doubts he might have had. But he knew that wasn’t what he needed, what either of them needed.

If Dorian truly thought Lavellan was making a mistake, he would tell him. Lavellan clearly wasn’t afraid to do the same to him. Dorian wanted to be a terrible influence on Lavellan in some ways, certainly, but he would never be the person Lavellan would watch innocents burn for, and he didn’t want to be. Dorian didn’t think he’d have fallen in love with Lavellan if he wasn’t as he was, so stubbornly decent, just as Lavellan’s sincere affection assured Dorian that, perhaps, if such a man was able to adore him down to his soul, he may be capable of being as good a man as he wanted to be.

“Noemi said there wasn’t anything of worth here,” Lavellan said.

“Well, if there was, I suspect she left with it,” Dorian replied. “And I doubt there’s anything worth stealing.”

“I don’t know, Sparkler, I think some of these drapes might be worth something,” Varric mused.

“We’re not stealing anything,” Lavellan laughed. “I’ll already owe the Orlesian crown for whatever Sera’s been up to while I’ve not been watching her.”

“Then let’s move,” Blackwall said.

Dorian put a hand on Lavellan’s shoulder as Blackwall opened the door back to the dark corridor. Lavellan took his fingers, pressing down against Dorian’s hand. Briefly, but gratefully.

Chapter Text

Lavellan was as silent as the long, black corridors as they continued their search, all of their adrenaline dissipated from running to Noemi's aid. Without that manic energy, only tension remained. The wing couldn't have been much larger than the grand apartments, but it felt endless – too many doors unlocked, too many dead ends, for knowing they had perhaps three quarters of an hour left.

“I don't suppose the Wallpaper Duchess was kind enough to give you any directions, at all?” Varric asked.

“Beyond the royal wing?” Lavellan gave a hollow laugh. “No.” He sighed, opened and closed the door to another empty room. “There's no time, now, to be hunting for secrets Leliana might use to gain inches at a time when we're miles behind. But Gaspard's army... whatever Florianne wants me out of the way for, she knows that's not something I can ignore.”

“You're the one who told me to trust in our dear companions to handle things in the other wing,” Dorian noted, a wavering smile crossing his mouth. “Whatever it is Florianne is up to, spreading rumours about your terrible manners or manoeuvring soldiers to assassinate a minor Baron that slighted her several months ago – Celene won't be out in the open until she returns to give her speech. Whoever our assassin may be, if they're enmeshed enough in the Grand Game to be close to Celene then I doubt they'll let her die without a show. We have time enough to search.”

“Even if the Grand Duchess has some other reason for sending you here, Gaspard and his people have a history of paying people to do his dirty work,” Blackwall added, grimly reassuring. “We'd best not ignore such a warning, however we received it. From what you've said, there's nowhere else in the palace he could be hiding such a force.”

Lavellan's mouth twitched, an imitation of a smile. “You're right,” he murmured.

“I'm right, as always,” Dorian corrected.

Blackwall sighed.

“Oh, as always?” Lavellan asked, his voice playing at cheer but not quite succeeding.

Dorian stared at Lavellan for a quiet moment, the obvious – to Dorian, at least – affectation of foolishness tugging at something deep, dark in his chest.

And apparently, it wasn’t just obvious to him.

“Kid, you... don't look great,” Varric said. “Something on your mind?”

“I don't look great?” Lavellan echoed. Dorian recognised his own dishonest glibness, echoed in Lavellan’s voice. “Well, I hope the court won't judge me too harshly for that.”

“...Lavellan,” Dorian said firmly. “I play the tragic buffoon far too well not to notice when somebody else is doing it. Varric, I assume, is equally proficient at playing the regular buffoon.”

“Well, thank you,” Varric said sarcastically.

“Your act is, frankly, more distressing than it is reassuring,” Dorian continued. “What's troubling you, my dearest Inquisitor?”

Lavellan sighed. He turned, and even Blackwall was looking at him, the same irritatingly sombre way he looked at Dorian when he’d just done something to embarrass himself.

“...I'm thinking about what Noemi said,” Lavellan said quietly, letting the false smile dissolve into his natural seriousness. “...I wish I didn't have to make this choice. To put one of Celene or Gaspard on the throne, knowing that before this,” he lifted his cursed hand, “they're the kind of people I might have considered enemies. The kind of fallen shem noble, clinging blindly to how powerful they think they should be, that my clan sent me to the Conclave to look out for, knowing how quickly they'd let us be trampled.”

Lavellan flashed a dark smile, rage rising behind his quiet voice. “I'm not surprised Corypheus and the Venatori found allies in a hive such as this. The reason finding a suspect has proved so difficult is that there are none in Celene and Gaspard's inner circles that we can rule out, who have never made some cruel manoeuvre to grasp desperately at power. All of those books and plays you asked me to read, Varric... they like to pretend there are some innocents, whether honourable or naïve, as Gaspard wishes to cast himself. A prince who wants only good for the people, a knight who is too honest for the Grand Game. But there is nobody of that sort here tonight.”

“There are some among the Chevaliers I might have called honourable, at least once,” Blackwall said quietly. “But I expect most of the honourable have perished by now.”

“Well, you always know how to lift the mood, don't you, Blackwall?” Dorian drawled.

Blackwall fixed him with only the mildest glare. “I can only hope the Inquisitor finds your clowning more endearing than I do.”

“We can ask the Inquisitor to pick favourites from the survivors after tonight, alright?” Varric added.

It filled Dorian with more warmth than he was expecting to find that his first thought was and it will be me, of course.

“Alright,” Lavellan replied. He managed a small smirk, just about genuine but fading quickly. “I... I don't regret being a part of the Inquisition. I miss my clan. I hate feeling so... distant from a people who I have spent so long close to, as if we were the one body. I don't know what my clan would be doing if I wasn't already here. Perhaps I'd have been our envoy here, whether I was the Inquisitor or not.”

Dorian liked that thought, even as he immediately dismissed the associated fantasy as frivolous. The idea that even if events had been such that some other had been chosen as the Herald of Andraste, they might still have met.

“But knowing what I know now... even if it was possible to remove the Venatori agent and leave Celene and Gaspard to clean up their own quarrel, I couldn't,” Lavellan continued. “They'd go right back to war, and too many people would be hurt. I have to believe that even a bad choice is better than that.”

Lavellan let out a long, loose sigh, the dregs of his anger leaving with his breath. “And... thank you for asking,” he stammered. “I... I fear how much time we have, but I... needed to say all that.”

“Look, I've got... experience dealing with stubborn idiots who need to be pried open like clams,” Varric replied. “No offence.”

“He really isn't as steel-hearted as I'd expect from the Inquisitor,” Dorian replied, that warmth creeping into his voice. “He's actually very obvious if you know what to look for.”

“Well, I'm glad my people think so highly of me,” Lavellan laughed.

Dorian fingers alighted along the glass front of an ornamental cabinet as they walked, the cabinet replete with vividly painted vases whose colours sang even in the dim light. “...Out of interest,” he pondered. “Do you think Gaspard knows about the rift?”

“...That's a good question, actually,” Lavellan mused. “He clearly knows it's abandoned, or at least that it isn't in use tonight. But he can't have been to the palace since the rift opened. He will have spies and informants, clearly, but if Leliana didn't know about the rift...”

Lavellan cut himself off with a wave of his hand as they turned the corner. A dull flare of green lit up Lavellan's palm, casting its spectral glow over the half-covered furniture. They were close to a rift.

“Well, shit,” Varric sighed. “I guess even if the army's not here, we should still clean this up.”

“...Are you ready?” Dorian asked, turning to Lavellan. He was fussing, and he knew it. Lavellan was almost always ready to fight demons.

“I'm not the one who's been wounded twice already tonight,” Lavellan replied.

“Well, what happened to my face was an injury to my pride more than anything else,” Dorian breezed. “Why, I can barely feel the dull pain crinkling beneath my skin as I blink anymore.”

“Either way.” Lavellan's voice dropped into shy seriousness, half-shadowed eyes resting on Dorian's face. “I'm not going to let it happen again, Dorian.”

That blue shield-shell glistened over the four of them. Lavellan navigated by his hand, wincing as it grew brighter.

The door at the end of the corridor was larger, and clearly let out into a courtyard. It also looked primed to collapse, the ceiling sagging to one side atop a wall threaded with thin black scorch marks, stonework visible through the cracked wallpaper.

Blackwall stepped forward, baring his sword. Varric was laden with traps, potions and mechanisms, the sort of weapons that fit in one's pockets.

“It's a shame Bianca couldn't make it,” Dorian noted. “I'm sure she would have looked beautiful at the ball, perhaps in a little crossbow-sized gown and tiara.”

“I'll tell her everything she missed,” Varric replied.

Blackwall led them through the door, as Lavellan clutched at his wrist.

From the glow of the rift, eyes adjusting from near-darkness to such brightness, they almost didn't see them at first. Archers, mercenaries. Someone's army, at least.

“Heart as hard as emeralds, so hard to read...”

Dorian could only make out her silhouette first, that hideous dress, as his eyes adjusted to the sickly riftlight. Florianne preened against the balcony overlooking the courtyard, hands clasped against the railing, her proud chin illuminated in unflattering green.

“I'm glad, though I'm sure you won't be, that you decided to come.”

Chapter Text

Florianne lifted her hand, kindly delaying her archers from firing. The balcony she was standing on was half-patched with wood from the rift's damage. Dorian caught sight of the same kind of hasty half-repairs around the rest of the courtyard. It was sadly reminiscent of Florianne’s room, the cracks in her worthiness plastered with gold.

Dorian was confused, more than anything. Florianne was trying to kill them? Really? It was difficult for him to imagine her acting alone.

Lavellan took a step forward through the unkempt grass, Blackwall putting himself between the Inquisitor and one wing of the archers. It didn’t take much of a turn of the head to know that more soldiers had approached from the corridor behind, blocking any quick retreat.

“Your Grace,” Lavellan said, a breezy false intimacy to his glassy smile. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what the correct bow is in this situation. You’ll have to forgive me for standing.”

“Very amusing, Inquisitor,” Florianne replied. The monochrome contrasts of her dress had turned murky in the dim night. Dorian supposed that common moths did, generally, have such dull markings in order to hide themselves from predators.

“We must be late,” Dorian said dryly. A single rift, and a small battalion of mercenaries – they were in danger, certainly, far more outnumbered than usual and distinctly lacking in weapons, but at least it was a danger they could see. “We've given her too much time to rehearse her petty comebacks. I’m surprised she didn’t ask you to kneel.”

“One has little need to rehearse a dance when one already knows the steps,” Florianne replied. Her mouth twisted to one side when she smirked, a gesture that surprised Dorian with its distinctness.

“I forget your customs,” Lavellan replied. “Generally, the Dalish are much clearer when we’re asking someone to dance. And generally, when people are trying to kill me, they don't waste time posturing.”

“You know that's not true,” Varric pointed out.

“…True,” Lavellan noted.

“I've almost killed you once already tonight without fanfare, Lord Inquisitor,” Florianne said. “With this many arrows pointed at you, I suspect I can take as much time as I like.”

“Because there’s still time until Celene’s speech,” Lavellan said. Florianne didn’t correct him. From the way she was grinning, like a cat with a mouse squirming beneath its claws, Dorian supposed she considered them cornered enough that concealment wasn’t a priority. “I didn’t know the Orlesian nobility got their own hands dirty,” Lavellan continued, pushing. “Was there no bard who would work for you?”

“A strange question, coming from you,” Florianne replied. “Were there no soldiers who would come to this wing in your stead? I have some training as a bard, myself. I know how easily they can be bought, or turned. You are a threat, and I would know that you are accounted for with my own eyes.”

“I’m insulted on behalf of the rest of my people that you don’t consider Cullen to be a threat,” Lavellan replied. “Is this your part in Gaspard's plan, then? To clean up an inconvenience on his behalf, while he and the rest of his army make a show of handling Celene and her court mage? It’s clear from your reputation that you can’t be acting alone.” His voice was carefully bland. Dorian knew very well that Lavellan was up to something; knew how deeply dubious he was of the idea that Gaspard could be involved. A turn in he and Florianne’s dance, pulling to a distance from their appearance of intimate closeness.

“Gaspard?” Florianne choked. Her smile frozen in place, her step faltering. “Do you really think Gaspard could have arranged this? A fine warrior my brother may be, but he is a fool.”

“It's the only thing that makes sense,” Lavellan continued mildly. “You've had dozens of opportunities to kill her in private, and yet you haven’t taken them. Gaspard is the one who hasn't been able to get close. What did he offer you? Another Dukedom?”

“I confess that he offered,” she replied. “As did Celene. A pitiful reward, after all I have done for them. I have spent years arranging victories for both of them. Years.” Wild eyes, a crack in the mask beneath her mask. “You think Gaspard could be working with the Venatori? He’s too prideful to labour under another. Corypheus is the only one who recognised my brilliance. He is the only one who has offered me what I deserve.”

“A tailor?” Dorian suggested.

“The crown,” Lavellan intoned.

“When I think of how Celene and Gaspard have been so lucky, brought to power by an accident of birth, by my labour in the shadows...” She tightened her fingers around the balcony, as the flickering of the rift cast ghoulish shadows across her face. Her mania might have been terrifying if she wasn’t such a pathetic figure. “Why should I not wish to be elevated to my rightful position? This ungrateful empire is already ablaze. It refused all chance at peace even before Corypheus offered me illumination. Why fight to be Empress of a war-ruined country when I could be Empress of a war-ruined world?”

She sounded like Josephine’s hostess, at the salon, if a touch more genocidal. The underappreciated noble, whose grand efforts have not borne results. He supposed that to someone with so much power, courtly disappointment and true death weren’t terribly different.

“Why kill the servants?” Lavellan asked, bitter anger stealing into his steady disposition.

“Why ask questions you know the answer to?” Florianne replied. “Some were Briala’s people. I know you are aware of that. The rest were servants, expendable enough to kill without risk.”

“Does so much death mean so little to you?” Lavellan asked.

“Some lives are worth more than others,” Florianne replied. “Mine would mean little if I did not make it more. Perhaps we should test your pretence of honour, Inquisitor. If you are so keen to martyr yourself as Andraste did, then lay down and die, and perhaps I shall stay my master’s hand from the necks of some of your people.”

“I doubt he’d listen,” Lavellan said, grinning darkly.

She turned her eyes from Lavellan, to each of them in turn. “Then I offer the rest of you a chance. Join the rest of your brothers in answering the Call, Warden. Let your tales survive into the new world, author. And you.” Her eyes rested on Dorian, her queasy smile returning. “Leave before he casts you aside, as those with power are so inclined to do. I shall let you serve as my court mage, after I dispose of that scarlet charlatan. You will have your own power, the greatest living mage in Thedas. You will be the one who discards.”

“Whatever Corypheus has done with the Grey Wardens, I have no interest in helping him,” Blackwall said.

“I don’t think you or Corypheus have a great grasp of how publishing works,” Varric replied.

Florianne thought she was so clever, playing on the jealousy, the inadequacies, she thought she’d observed.

“I’ve sometimes wondered if there is a version of this world where I was desperate enough to join the Venatori,” Dorian drawled. “But no, I’m not sure I’ll ever be quite as desperate as you apparently are.”

Desperate enough to die, perhaps. To crumble. To make some sort of foolish sacrifice. To selfishly keep Lavellan alive, if she was offering salvation rather than damnation. Even then, he doubted Lavellan would want such a thing. It wasn’t that Dorian was an inherently good person who never made cruel choices. He most certainly wasn’t. Alexius had made that dreadful pact, despite despising the Venatori just as much as Dorian had, when it came between Felix and the world. Dorian knew better than to think himself stronger, if put in precisely the wrong situation.

But to betray someone he cared about. Felix, Lavellan, Josephine, those who deserved him. Halward, those who didn’t. No, that wasn’t part of his repertoire of desperation.

Dorian smirked. “Not all of us are so afraid of being cast aside. I know my worth well enough, thank you. I don’t need flattering words from an antique cadaver to convince me of it.”

“Then let you be just as worthy when you are a cadaver yourself,” Florianne replied. She turned her icy gaze to Lavellan. “I thank you for our dance across the length of the evening, but I'm afraid I've another partner to attend to. I’ve owed her this dance for quite some time. You are where I need you to be, and I’m sure my soldiers will be very obliging if you’d care to partake in a galliard.”

She turned towards the door, hand still raised. “Keep the elf’s body. The rest you can burn.”

If they didn’t have numbers, they needed a distraction.

As Florianne started to lower her hand, Dorian lifted his, and Lavellan dove forward, intent on some plan of his own. A lash of flame extended from Dorian’s hand, striking out towards the patchwork balcony. The archers let loose their bowstrings, and Lavellan let loose the rift.

Chapter Text

The volley of arrows all sought Lavellan. Some pin-cushioned the first eager demons to tear their way through the veil, others struck the ground where Lavellan had been before he’d thrown himself forward. A half-dozen rained against Lavellan’s back, against the crackling blue lattice of his barrier. And a half-dozen more pierced through.

Lavellan lurched to his ground, fingers digging into the soil, the back of his jacket a mess of bloody punctures, protruding shafts and arrow feathers. Florianne had fled without waiting to watch, even as Dorian’s fire caught along the wooden boards patching up the rift’s damage. Dorian had hoped there were more mercenaries than zealots, that some might decide to leave with their lives at the first sight of demons.

But they were to have no such luck.

Varric laid out traps with quick hands. Blackwall stood between Lavellan and the rift, blade held high, as Dorian dove to his Inquisitor’s side. Lavellan’s distraction had worked, at least – the arrows turning the demons upon Florianne’s soldiers, even as it doubled their danger. Dorian’s own barriers were not so elegant, nor so used to shielding more than one person. Dorian was no healer, after all. But he tried. Wild blue sparks flung out from his fingertips, coating Dorian and Lavellan in a thick, glistening mist. There were still too many archers, even with the demons. With Lavellan wounded, with Blackwall and Varric scarcely armed. Dorian needed more.

Outside of Tevinter, there was a hard line. Magic that was tolerated, and blood magic. In Tevinter, the line was… blurrier, and further away.

Dorian hoped his assumptions were correct, and that the Dalish were far less squeamish about blood magic then the rest of the world outside of Tevinter. Pragmatically as well as emotionally, Dorian could weather most judgements better with Lavellan by his side.

Dorian grabbed one of the arrows from the ground, and slashed it across his palm.

It was easy, so deliciously easy to open himself, with the tear in the veil so close. To draw on more than the Fade, to make himself something to draw on. His blood ran hot with magic, every vein tingling, that siren call of magic. Sex and power and more and more and more.

Dorian was afraid. Dorian was afraid because he knew how this felt, and he knew that it felt good.

His father hadn’t been a puritan, per se, but he spoke of all sins with the same manner. Dorian’s desire for the company of men was the same as his desire for drink, was the same as Tevinter’s desire for power at any cost, blood magic beyond all necessity, secret societies and fanatical cults – temptations which the respectable, reasonable man could avoid becoming embroiled in if he kept a sensible temperament.

But Dorian was not a respectable man, and his temperament was far from sensible. In his youth he had feared – still feared, he realised – that being unable to resist one temptation meant giving into them all. That he struggled to stay sober to disguise how he struggled to stay away from men, and that one day he would struggle to stay away from demons too.

Some in Tevinter called those mages from outside their Circles who had never dabbled in blood magic Soporati, sleepers, as if they weren’t mages at all. Because they’d never know how alive it made you feel, to put a little more of yourself into your magic and see such vast reward. How tempting it was, after you’d seen how far it could stretch your talent, not to go back to it, even as it burned at you like any wound would, even as it called the demons closer.

The move to cruel ritual was a line Dorian wouldn’t cross, but he knew the logic. A little blood from all of you, reward doubled and risk halved. A lot of blood from someone else. Turning that power to what only blood magic could do, the warping of the flesh and the mind. Dorian knew he was a powerful mage, enough to work necromancy without such accoutrement, enough to make the Southern Chantry tremble. When Dorian saw how powerful he could be with just the slightest bit more, he could terrify even himself.

Dorian held his hands out to either side as blood-fed fire erupted from his palms. The men on the balcony didn’t have time to scream before the heat scorched them to nothing, the boards holding the balcony together evaporating with them, his initial torrent of distracting flame seeming pitiful by comparison. Dorian felt them twinkle, freshly dead souls at a necromancer’s command.

Those in the doorway fared a little better, although the doorway itself didn’t. Where the rift had marked the wall, the blood-fire destroyed it, blasting messy chunks through the stonework. Dorian heard the cascade, the ground trembling as the wall collapsed. Only a few souls glimmered in his peripheral. Those who were trapped beneath the rubble would have the chance to dig themselves free, scrambling their bloodied fingers bone-raw.

The acrid, metallic reek of blood magic turned the demon’s head. Rage, as impervious to Dorian’s fire as he himself was.

Dorian felt Lavellan’s fingers dig into his shoulder, dragging himself to a kneel. As the blood haze faded, Dorian took in the damage his chaotic, angry magic had wreaked. What remained of the wraiths and horrors descended on what remained of the archers on the far end, while the rage demon advanced towards them. The archers behind them backed against the wall, nocking a pitiful second volley.

“Blackwall, Varric,” Lavellan rasped, face and jacket glistening with sweat and ash from his proximity to Dorian’s fire.

The miserly scattering of arrows caught in Dorian’s barrier.

“Take the archers, unless they’d care to surrender,” Lavellan croaked. “Dorian and I will handle our guest from the Fade.”

“The demon’s all yours,” Varric said, with mock politeness.

Lavellan’s first barrier still clung to the pair of them, untouched as they were by the archers’ singular focus. Blackwall snatched a second blade from the belt of one of the demon-felled archers, and tossed his bow to Varric. Not quite Varric’s size, but Dorian imagined it was better than nothing. Between Dorian and the demons, Florianne’s battalion been reduced to a far more manageable number.

Dorian held Lavellan up as they turned towards the demon, his bloody palm leaving handprints on Lavellan’s already-stained jacket. Well, so much for it surviving the evening. Dorian’s vision blurred, his legs wobbled, and he felt as if he was falling, chest caught by Lavellan’s unsteady hand.

“Dorian, you’ve lost a lot of blood,” Lavellan murmured.

“Look who’s talking,” Dorian whispered in reply.

Clasped together, each propping the other up, Lavellan and Dorian raised their hands, Lavellan’s arm trembling through his arrow-studded shoulder. Pride and rage, lightning and death.

Before them, such a minor demon was nothing.

Lavellan turned, groggily alert, to watch as Varric bound the hands of the last archer. Some surrender, some life spared, after all. The dark green grass and pale cobbles of the courtyard were slick with mud and flesh, the collapsed balcony turned to a thick black charcoal that could have been wood or bones or both. Lavellan lifted his marked hand, shakily. Closing a rift always took longer than snatching it open. The green portal winked close, leaving only the empty, dark sky.

Lavellan attempted to struggle his feet, even as his exhausted body slumped against Dorian’s in a dead weight.

“Wait a moment,” Dorian soothed. “We can’t have you fainting again.”

“We don’t have time,” Lavellan croaked, even as his body ceased its struggle.

Varric and Blackwall stood at a leery distance, staring at Dorian’s bloody palm. Blackwall seemed nonplussed, assessing the threat and marching back to the bound soldiers, but Varric…

Dorian knew enough of the tales of what had happened in Kirkwall to understand that look. Lavellan groaned, and they both dropped their gaze.

“Let me have a look at him,” Varric said. “I’m no healer, but I know my way around an arrow.”

Varric crouched by them, hands working quickly. A few he removed and threw aside – flesh wounds, most of the arrowhead embedded in the thick wool of his jacket. But the rest went deeper, still, one in his shoulder and three across his back.

“Leave them,” Lavellan murmured. “I think it’ll make… a dramatic impression.”

Lavellan wasn’t wrong. It was a clever move, a breaking of a rule, to bring the vision of violence to a hall that pretended all brutality took place outside its walls.

“Yes, I expect you’ll make all the debutantes faint, carrying yourself around with a still-bleeding wound like that,” Dorian replied, cradling Lavellan against himself with careful hands.

Lavellan left out a soft wheeze of laughter against Dorian’s neck.

Although, Dorian supposed, the matter of how they were going to get back when he’d caved in the doorway they’d come in through---

Blackwall dragged a soot-stained soldier over by the scruff of his neck, dressed in the horrendous swamp green that was popular among Fereldan mercenaries rather than the sleek leather of Florianne’s archers.

“You can bloody well untie me, you know—” the mercenary protested.

Blackwall dropped the man to the ground, the mercenary’s eyes alight with arrogant suspicion. “Florianne kept one of Gaspard’s men alive.”

Chapter Text

Dorian’s head pounded as if he was hungover, and Lavellan traced his finger across the bloody line on Dorian’s palm. Dorian supposed he really had lost a lot of blood this evening. He always remembered how good blood magic felt, but rarely considered how he always felt afterwards. And the irritating practicality of it, cleaning up the lingering blood and dressing his wounds. Dorian supposed that wasn’t an uncommon problem for him.

“That should stop the bleeding for now,” Lavellan murmured. It wasn’t as elegant as his usual work, the wound still painfully raw even as the surface flesh scabbed over. This long night, Lavellan’s magic exhausted from saving Dorian’s life once already tonight, the rift and the Venatori – it was clear that they were both worn out, and the night’s exertions were far from over. Safely removing arrows and performing healing magic on one’s self were already complicated, even for one so talented as Lavellan, so the projectiles remained embedded in his flesh.

Lavellan lifted his head back to the mercenary. It wasn’t the most glamorous interrogation, by courtly standards, given that everyone but Blackwall was kneeling in the mud. “So, you were their captain,” Lavellan resumed.

“His sister, duchess de what’s-her-name--” the mercenary said, hands still bound behind his back.

“Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons,” Lavellan supplied, as if he was calmly rolling noble titles from his tongue at Vivienne’s request.

“Right,” the mercenary continued. “She told Gaspard this place would be empty. Gave him the key to sneak us in. Wasn’t expecting the demons, though. Wasn’t expecting her lot to be waiting here to kill all my bloody men, either. Thought she’d at least try to buy us out first, you know?”

“Why did she keep you alive?” Lavellan asked, voice cold. Despite their wounds, Lavellan still had his way. Leaning forward, knuckle pressed to the ground, skirting the edge of too close to the mercenary with a hunter’s silent airs.

The mercenary shrugged, still wearing his shield of indifferent swagger. “Fuck if I know. It’s all Orlesian bullshit, isn’t it?”

His manner seemed so transparent. Perhaps it was Dorian’s courtly mind at work. It was difficult to see anyone as genuine, when viewed through such a lens. A soldier’s veneer of hardiness was no different than an heiress’ affectation of grace, when you were looking for it. Gaspard himself wore such a coating; the guise of the coarsely honourable man slighted by a deceptive world.

“One of her soldiers said she wanted me to stand up in front of the court and tell them Gaspard hired us,” the mercenary continued. “Tell them he resorted to lowly Fereldans because he didn’t have enough of his own men, that sort of thing.”

“Yes, I’m sure that the fact that Gaspard’s army is Fereldan is what the court will be most interested in,” Lavellan said dryly.

“He might have a point, Dandelion,” Varric suggested. “An assassin is one thing, but this…”

“This is just crude,” Dorian added. “A Chevalier at least pretends to believe in a cause.”

“Hey, I’m not telling you I’m a good person,” the mercenary objected, itching his stubble against his shoulder. “I am telling you that I’ve still got the sister’s key, and if you’re wanting to get back to the party before her – well, you aren’t getting back the way you came, are you?”

Dorian spared a glance to the rubble. His fault, technically, but it was difficult to feel too bad about it.

“I know I’m not getting out of here paid,” the mercenary added. “But if you get me out of here with my life… I’ve got the dirt on Gaspard and Florianne. I’ll talk. Owe my men that much, at least. Won’t even tell them it was your mad mage they need to come after for cost of repairs.”

Ah, the way he spat mage. Dorian hadn’t heard that in quite some time. It was almost nostalgic, the Southerners’ paranoia from before their Circles fell.

“Now, they won’t even know it’s me you’re referring to if you put it like that,” Dorian drawled, examining his blood-crusted nailbeds. “I was perfectly lucid when I did that.”

“I’m sure you’ll understand that I don’t have much trust in a mercenary who took a job to kill unarmed people in order to replace one noble with another,” Lavellan growled, the mercenary flinching as he slinked closer. “But you’re right. I don’t have much of a choice. And in this place, at least, I appreciate the honesty of your lack of regard for the living.”

Blackwall hauled the mercenary back to his feet as Lavellan began to stand, struggling upwards one wounded vertebra at a time.

“We still have time,” Varric reassured. “If the world ends because you tear a lung scurrying back to the ballroom in a hurry, I don’t know what I’m going to write.”

“I think your readers might expect it of him at this point, frankly,” Dorian breezed, trying to coax a smirk from Lavellan.

Not now, it seemed.

Dorian still leaned close to Lavellan, in practical affection. Lavellan was limping, his every step laboured by the jagged implements protruding from his back. And Dorian, well – he was less wounded, certainly, but he didn’t trust his swimming head to keep him upright all by itself.

“One day,” Blackwall growled, dragging the mercenary towards the other door by the collar, “you’ll be ashamed of all this. The lives you’ve taken for causes that mean nothing to you.”

“Oh, like you lot don’t use mercenaries,” the mercenary scoffed. “Don’t give me that holier than thou shit.”

“We tend not to use them to assassinate heads of state,” Lavellan piped up.

Shaking his head in disdain, the mercenary directed Blackwall to take the key from his belt loop.

“Follow me,” the mercenary grunted.

Lavellan’s breathing was pained, chest expanding and contracting in stiff shudders against Dorian’s side as he led him through the unlocked door.

To save Lavellan’s life was one thing. To keep him alive was another. They wouldn’t have the time – or the talent – to treat Lavellan’s wounds before he’d have to return to the ballroom to face Florianne. They’d lost too much time already. If it came to it, he knew what Lavellan would choose – to let himself be the thing that was lost, rather than this wretched place. Dorian held him tighter, as if his embrace could staunch the bleeding.

“You’re still going to keep your promise, you know,” Dorian said, voice wavering, assuring himself as much as Lavellan. “I know you’re too stubborn not to, whatever is waiting for us in the ballroom.”

Lavellan gave a rasping laugh as they staggered down another corridor, following Blackwall and the mercenary. His body burrowed close to Dorian’s side, his hands grasping the loose fabric of his mis-fitting jacket.

“I know,” Lavellan laughed, “I know. Come back to you, alive.”

Chapter Text

Nobody spoke as they paced the dark corridors. Dorian supposed it made sense. The inhibiting factor of Lavellan’s wounds aside, Gaspard’s mercenary was as much a set of ears as any aristocrat. For all of his postured disdain for the Orlesian court, he had been willing to work for the nobility for the right price. Dorian didn’t trust him not to open his mouth again as soon as someone opened their purse looking for gossip on the Inquisition, no matter how this night ended.

“Not much further,” the mercenary insisted, as Blackwall pushed open the broad door before them.

The corridor was illuminated by soft candle-light from the next room. Lavellan gave a jagged cough, stumbling as they crossed the threshold. Warm stained-glass windows painted with Andraste’s famous followers gazed down on them, lit from behind by flickering braziers. This would be the castle chapel, Dorian supposed, where the royal family and their retinue would come to take their prayers away from the rabble. It was small, but clearly expensive, the walls panelled with gold-capped pillars and richly painted friezes.

“Lavellan,” Dorian murmured, trying to pull the Inquisitor to a standing position.

“I’m fine,” Lavellan rasped.

Dorian raised his eyebrows.

“…I’m not fine,” Lavellan admitted.

“There’s a long staircase past this door,” the mercenary announced, jabbing his chin at the doorway. “Leads right through to the ballroom.”

Dorian glanced down at Lavellan. He looked as if he was deep in thought, but Dorian was aware that his grim expression could cover for all manner of exhaustion.

Lavellan slowly dragged himself upright, fingers digging into Dorian’s shoulder.

“Take our guest to meet Leliana,” Lavellan breathed. “Tell her about the other soldiers we left in the courtyard. We’ll… catch up.”

Blackwall nodded firmly, but Varric watched him carefully. Across the back wall was a painting of Andraste in flames and Hessarian, the convert Archon, the penitent destroyer, wreathed in a white snake and holding his merciful blade aloft. It was strange, seeing him here, knowing he was but a footnote to the Southern Chantry. He was a far more important figure back home, the greatest of Andraste’s disciples. Proof, when Dorian was feeling particularly devout, that even Tevinter could be redeemed.

“You don’t need me to tell you that the pair of you don’t have long,” Varric noted.

“I know,” Lavellan murmured. “I just… need to rest for a moment.”

“And we both know what a scene he’ll make if he tries to squabble with Florianne in this state,” Dorian replied. “Leave him with me. Despite my reputation for fashionable lateness, I assure you that I can be very punctual if I’m feeling so inclined.”

Varric nodded warily, mouth carved into a tight smile. “I’ll see you soon, then,” he said, and joined Blackwall in walking ahead, down into the darkness.

“You’ll want to untie me before we get into the ballroom, you know,” the mercenary was arguing, as the heavy door swung shut.

Lavellan hobbled forward as Dorian guided him. The chapel was lined with long, rigid benches, all facing towards the altar. Dorian eased Lavellan down, draping him against the dark, varnished wood.

“I’ll remember that you can be punctual the next time you’re late to a war room meeting,” Lavellan murmured, head lolling against Dorian’s shoulder.

“Oh, so now you’re in the mood for jokes?” Dorian teased.

There was a large, pale triptych behind the altar at the front of the room. Andraste, in all her bright splendour, spread her arms out across the centre panel, while adoring Brothers and Sisters in the fashions of the Southern Chantry watched from either side.

“This must be Le Requiem,” Lavellan commented, frowning faintly. “Leliana showed me it on the map. It was an early expansion, added by… one of the Judicaels, I think. I can’t remember which one.”

Dorian smirked. “This is a rather ironic place for someone who doesn’t believe himself to be the Herald of Andraste to come for solace, is it not?”

Lavellan laughed weakly. “I suppose it is.” He groaned softly as he shifted to look up at Dorian, his expression turning serious. The light from the brazier hanging above them shone down on Lavellan’s face, illuminating loose strands of blonde hair around his face in a dull, golden glimmer. “It’s almost a shame Florianne is planning to kill Celene before dinner. I won’t get the chance to show Vivienne that I remember how to hold a lobster pick.”

Dorian smiled warmly, lifting a hand to trace his fingers along Lavellan’s firm jaw. “Dearest Inquisitor, do you really think they won’t simply wash the servants’ blood from the kitchen counters and serve dinner anyway once all the unpleasantness is over?”

Lavellan grimaced. “You’re right, as always.”

“As always,” Dorian smirked.

Dorian held Lavellan tenderly, a faint echo of his Inquisitor’s heartbeat fluttering through the back of his jacket. Dorian tried not to think about the arrow stems, inches from his fingertips. Tried not to think about what damage they could still do, embedded in Lavellan’s flesh without a healer to remove them.

“I can’t let her die,” Lavellan said distantly. “Despite all Celene has done… I can’t let her die. Noemi said it herself. Despite all she’s done, Gaspard is no better.”

Dorian nodded softly. Any appeal Gaspard had lay in the pretence of honesty, and his mercenary army had apparently quite severed any clinging tendrils of trust Lavellan may have extended to him.

“And Briala?” Dorian prompted. “Are you planning to orchestrate some kind of saccharine reunion for the pair of them? It’s the type of horribly romantic thing I assume would appeal to you.”

Lavellan shrugged, unconvincingly. “Whether they’re lovers or not, Briala is the only one who wants to change Orlais. The only way Gaspard would work with her is through blackmail, and that’s not the sort of allegiance I expect to last. I’m an outsider here. I can’t solve everything. But if Briala can convince Celene to do anything for Orlais’ elves… Orlais will a better place than it was before the war. And then, at least…”

“And then, at least, you won’t feel like the Orlesian nobility have completely wasted your time,” Dorian suggested.

Lavellan smiled softly, his eyes meeting Dorian’s. “And if Orlais can overcome itself… then maybe so can Tevinter.”

Dorian smirked. “Tevinter is my problem to solve, Lavellan. You’re doing enough with the Venatori already.”

But he was right. Tevinter hid its crises better to the outside world, that was how it liked it. It would be more complicated to solve then even Orlais, in some respects. Redeeming Tevinter would need more people like Maevaris.

It would need more people like him.

“Besides, I suppose I imagined you’d want to return to your clan after this,” Dorian said. “I expect the Dalish will need you more than I will.”

“I can do more than one thing, Dorian,” Lavellan said. “I will do whatever my clan needs of me. But after so long apart from me…”

Dorian had permitted himself a lot of fantasies of late. The type he would never have dared entertain within Tevinter.

That was why this, taking his pained lover whose clan had moved on from him into the heart of his corrupt Imperium, as if Dorian was his only care, was one dream too far.

Tevinter, land of his nightmares, would find some way to destroy their happiness. The Inquisitor, a Dalish elf, no matter how powerful a mage, could not walk freely there, not openly as who he was, and Lavellan was hardly one to be satisfied lounging in the garden and waiting for Dorian to come home from bickering at the Magisterium. The wide world called to him, far more appealing than Tevinter, the narrow confines that even Dorian would struggle with. The regressive habits he would fall back into; the wretched creature he was could never have blossomed into someone Lavellan could adore there.

“I think you’re getting quite ahead of yourself there,” Dorian breezed. “Orlais first, then the world, and then perhaps we can think about Tevinter.”

Dorian didn’t need to remind Lavellan how little time they had. As much as they could speak further, the court called them back. Lavellan put his hand against the back of the bench, steadying himself hesitantly.

Dorian helped him to his feet, and held him a little too tightly.

“I’ll come back to you, Dorian,” Lavellan repeated soothingly.

Dorian had only upset himself. It was hard to look at Lavellan, and not think of how fleetingly someone like Dorian’s grasp on him was. How he didn’t want to lose him, to the court, to the Venatori, to time, to himself. He wanted Lavellan to hold that promise to him, over and over. He wanted to hold himself to it, in turn.

“But if there’s anything else, you need to tell me now,” Lavellan said, his gaze firm.

Dorian smiled weakly. “I was going to say something altogether too sugary,” he said, false glibness gleaming. “But even if I were to be so uncharacteristically sentimental, I’d rather not have all of our more romantic moments tied up with the Orlesian court.”

Lavellan’s smile was warm, his firm hands reassuring. “I can wait,” he said.

Dorian stroked Lavellan’s vallaslin, and opened the chapel door.

Dorian could see the tall door to the ballroom at the far end of the moonlit corridor, down the long marble staircase. He could hear, once again, the chatter of the crowds, the ringing of the bell that called guests to gather. Whether it was the first, second or third, he didn’t particularly care to dwell on.

“…We both know I can’t face her head on,” Lavellan said, as they eased their way down the stairs. “I’m in no state to fight, and you’re scarcely better. And Cullen’s soldiers… we have no idea what forces she has remaining. We have no idea if it’s enough.”

“Then we need a different plan,” Dorian suggested. “Perhaps you can faint in the middle of the ballroom floor and pretend to have died. Celene might take that seriously, at least.”

“I’ve been thinking about what Josephine said, at the salon,” Lavellan mused. “About how the Orlesian court loves to be there, if there’s to be a scandalous secret revealed.”

Lavellan stepped unsteadily on to the flat ground at the base of the stairs. His wicked eyes, his wicked mouth, turned upwards towards Dorian. “After the month you’ve all spent teaching me to impress the court…” he said, giving a resigned sigh. “We’re going to have to hope I’ve learned enough to put on a show.”

Chapter Text

Dorian had been loath to leave him behind. But they both knew – for Lavellan’s next move to work, he would need to appear to be playing the Grand Game without assistance. Certainly without his allegedly drunk lover holding him upright, whispering in his ear.

The hapless image Dorian had allowed to be carved for himself tonight had served its purpose, even as he detested it. As if in imitating it too far, he may become it. Such was the way with courtly artifice. He expected Lavellan would tire of him if he didn’t keep some edge of aloofness, some clever mystery.

“Where in the Maker’s name have you been?” Vivienne hissed as he approached, black and white fan fluttering against the thick heat of the crowded ballroom. “And where is the Inquisitor?”

“Perhaps he’s simply standing behind someone tall,” Dorian suggested, with a loose shrug.

Josephine’s eyes were drawn to Dorian’s hand, clamped against his chest. He hardly wanted to ruin the surprise early by revealing his shredded glove, his bloodstained jacket.

“Dorian,” Josephine repeated, pointedly calm. “Where is the Inquisitor?”

“Ah, Josephine,” Dorian grinned. “I can’t get anything past you, can I?” He put his clean hand against Josephine’s shoulder and nudged her towards the balcony. Yvette sullenly shifted to make space. “I assure you both, you’ll be finding out where he’s gotten to quite promptly.”

“I should hope so,” Vivienne replied. “I am aware that he is a busy man, my dear, but even his admirers have begun to question his absence.”

Dorian searched the crowd as he swung his head towards the door Celene would emerge from, looking for any of the others. Leliana, Cullen, Varric, Blackwall, Briala, Morrigan. Only Florianne was in view, standing at the edge of the ballroom and barking at the band. Dorian leaned back against Josephine, in case the Grand Duchess should turn her head their way.

The bell rang once more. The door at the head of the hall opened. Celene and Gaspard, Morrigan by the Empress’ side. The blue glimmer of Celene’s dress seemed to take on another possibility in Dorian’s mind – a ploy by Morrigan, perhaps, to disguise any warding magics she was using.

“I’m afraid the Inquisitor has disregarded some of your earliest advice, Vivienne,” Dorian drawled. “He’s quite intent on making an impression.”

Further down the hallway, the door Dorian had slipped through minutes before opened once again. Dorian could feel Lavellan’s movements rippling through the hall. The shoves of the crowd parting, silences and murmurs.

“You mistake me, Dorian,” Vivienne replied. “If I did not have the utmost faith in a student, I would not allow them to attend court.”

Nobody truly played the game without assistance. Spies, servants, allies and admirers. But to reveal your reliance – to openly admit your army, your diplomats as your equals – was to admit weakness. For the appearance of the Game, the knight clashed with the knight, and all watching pretended the board was clear of pawns.

Lavellan’s advisors, his companions, his uneasy allies could only watch from the balcony as the wounded Inquisitor stumbled, alone, down the ballroom stairs. The crowd rustled with gasps, perhaps at his boldness, perhaps at the weaponry protruding from his bloodied back.

“I apologise for bringing the war to your ballroom, Grand Duchess,” Lavellan called, leaning against the banister. “I’m afraid the Venatori agents you enlisted to kill me almost succeeded.”

Well, that got a reaction. Idle chatter ceased, and eyes fell upon Lavellan. The only words the crowd whispered now would be about him.

“Josephine!” Yvette complained. “You didn’t tell me there would be a mystery!”

“I suspected it was the only way to stop you from trying to solve it yourself,” Josephine grimaced.

“I would critique you for the obviousness of leaving him wounded, but I suppose it’s quite effective,” Vivienne commented. “The knives behind the masks are revealed. It’s hardly subtle, but clever moves do need boldness, on occasion.”

“I’m afraid we didn’t have time to pretty him up for the occasion,” Dorian drawled. That it was the mercenary archers Florianne had intended for dispatching Gaspard’s army rather than the Venatori assassins that had so wounded the Inquisitor was a detail the court didn’t need to know. The minutiae were forgivable, in exchange for a better story.

Lavellan limped closer to the front of the ballroom, scuffed black boots squeaking across the marble floor. Florianne turned slowly, stiffly, pallid face drained of her earlier mania.

“I’m afraid the Lord Inquisitor is mistaken,” Florianne said calmly. “I suspected my brother was sneaking soldiers in to the palace, intended for Celene. In snooping about the Winter Palace’s private rooms, the Inquisitor has clearly come across them.”

“Celene, my sister is talking nonsense,” Gaspard said, thrusting his arm towards Florianne.

“I suspected that you and Gaspard were working together,” Florianne continued, the thin slits of her mask tilted towards Lavellan. “It’s why I sought to dance with you. To learn more about you. But lo, you have wrecked each other, and now you bring the blame to me.”

Dorian looked to Josephine, to Vivienne. They could say nothing. Only hope that Lavellan had enough fledgling admirers from Vivienne and Leliana’s introductions that his words would not be utterly cast aside by Florianne’s quietly plausible excuses.

“You certainly went to great lengths to lay the blame upon your brother,” Lavellan said. “Your assassin, for example, carrying a knife with the family crest you share. But Gaspard hasn’t been in the palace in months, and I suspect he would be the first to admit to his failings in subterfuge and espionage. How would he be able to sneak an army in?”

Gaspard was nodding, indeed. A faint cry went up from the crowd, the half-hearted remnants of his supporters, none so raucous as to be unable to deny that for which they were cheering.

“He has his supporters,” Florianne replied.

“He has you,” Lavellan said, taking a pointed step forward across the chequered floor. “I pity him, and pity more the mercenaries he hired to take the Empress’ head. You gave him the keys to lead his men into an ambush, and for what? Leverage over him?”

Celene took a step back, widening the already broad gap between herself and her cousin. “I knew you were capable of such depths, Gaspard. I am disgusted that you have sunk to them.”

Of course Celene’s palace was crowded with her supporters. Jeering at Gaspard, their traitor prince, as if watching a play unfold. A show for the nobility. No thought spared for their peasants and their battlefields except, Dorian expected, in the abstract, as a point of rhetoric.

“This is nonsense, Inquisitor,” Florianne said, backing towards the balcony at the head of the ballroom. Away from Lavellan, and towards Celene. “My brother has put you up to this, clearly, to strip his cousin of a trusted advisor.”

Florianne might have been the hostess, but the crowd showed no loyalty to her. It was almost pitiable. There were no cheers of affirmation, no cries of defence.

Lavellan took another step. His tangled shoulders steel-stiff, his gaze burn-firm. “The Inquisition has taken the man you planned to have testify against Gaspard into custody. Some of own your agents, too. With both of them dead, Celene by Gaspard’s hand and Gaspard by the Venatori’s, who else would the nobility trust with the throne but you, the thwarted peacemaker? You said it yourself, Your Grace. You’ve spent years cleaning up Gaspard and Celene’s mistakes. It’s a shame there was nobody to clean up after you.”

Florianne twisted upwards, the stone balcony blocking her from Celene and Gaspard’s eyeline. Celene stared forward, sternly.

“Celene, you mustn’t listen to him,” Florianne begged. “He only seeks your favour—"

Greater than the scorn for the warmonger, came the roars for Florianne. Florianne the pathetic, Florianne of no allies, Florianne the fallen star. Florianne, symbol of the court’s sins, the evening’s poetic villain.

“We are a rational court,” Celene said coldly. “I will hear the testimony from the Inquisition’s witnesses fairly.”

Dorian wondered whether Celene truly believed him, or whether it was simply convenient. If an innocent Florianne would be an acceptable loss, if Celene could rid herself of Gaspard in the bargain. She must be pleased with herself. Gaspard the discredited and Celene the assailed, the honourable, the righteous, through no work of her own, with scarce mention of the fact that her court had been so deeply infiltrated by the Venatori. She would even be able to save face in regards to how close she’d come to allowing her country to collapse, once she understood the full extent of what she’d ignored.

“Brother,” Florianne pleaded.

“I have nothing left for you, sister,” Gaspard replied. “Nothing but contempt.”

Florianne slumped against the wall, Lavellan the only person left by her side. Not even Corypheus would come to her aid, in the end. Lavellan took her falling arm with his marked hand, firm but gentle, steadying them both against the wall. And he spoke, voice distant, a stage whisper echoing up through the raucous ballroom.

“Florianne the moth, so drawn to the light. Do you see, without your master’s shadow, how bright the light can burn?”

Chapter Text

Florianne was taken away by guards. Dorian knew she was capable of fighting, but she didn’t lift a hand to defend herself.

“Well, I have to concede that the Inquisitor certainly benefitted from observing your flair for the dramatic,” Vivienne commented.

Dorian smiled weakly. Celene made a show of bringing Lavellan close, still wounded as he was, the trusted saviour of her crown and her reputation. Morrigan, Celene’s red shadow, caught Dorian’s eye. As unclear as her goals were, he was at least reassured that it wouldn’t be in the Witch of the Wilds’ best interests to allow the Inquisitor to collapse from his wounds under Celene’s care.

“And I suppose he did make some use of your courtly knowledge,” Dorian admitted. “The pointed Your Grace was a delightful touch, I thought.”

Celene gave a gracious bow to her court, as the star players departed the stage for the smouldering remains of the peace talks. The volume of conversation swelled with the closing of the door. The evening’s gossip resumed, and the servants began to set the hall for dinner.

As if all was back to normal, indeed.

“And I must express how relieved I am that Celene remains on the throne,” Vivienne continued. “Gaspard would have been a disaster for Orlais.”

“Agreed,” Josephine said tightly.

Dorian couldn’t bring himself to summon an appetite, despite his wounds, given what he’d seen in the kitchens. He found himself missing Skyhold with a sharpness that surprised him, drinking cheap wine and eating peasant bread with Lavellan in his draft-filled tower room as they pored over books.

“I’m so hungry,” Yvette sighed, gazing longingly at the empty tables.

“My dear Yvette,” Vivienne said. “Your host always serves their food at precisely the correct hour, no matter how late that hour may be.”

Dorian glanced to Josephine. He hadn’t expected her to be cheerful, per se, given that this was likely one of the most stressful evenings of her life. And that, for all Dorian could have spent of the rest of the evening getting drunk and tripping over his own feet in the hedge maze without much ill effect, this night would not be over for their ambassador for a while yet. Josephine couldn’t even summon a tired glance to Yvette, irritated, amused, or otherwise.

“Ah, it is your first time at court, is it not, Yvette?” Dorian breezed. “Madame de Fer, given that your star pupil will likely be missing the first few courses, if not all of dinner, perhaps you could accompany the younger Lady Montilyet in Josephine’s stead.”

Yvette looked positively betrayed.

Vivienne followed his glance to Josephine. Much as they rarely agreed, he suspected they would be able to come together on this matter. With so much work left to do, she didn’t need the distraction of her delightfully naïve sister. Cullen and Leliana would have enough to ask of her, once they made their way through the crowd.

“You are, of course, such a talented tutor of young nobles at their first court,” Dorian continued. “Yvette, did you know that Vivienne used to be the Court Enchanter to Empress Celene?”

Yvette’s expression swiftly changed to one of curious joy. “Oh, you must have so many stories!”

Vivienne’s smile was warm and sharp, like tempered steel. “I certainly do. I think you’ll find many of them rather… illustrating. Come, Yvette, shall we take a walk?”

Vivienne beckoned, and Yvette followed, the younger woman’s heels clicking and clopping across the hard floor. Josephine let her go.

“Well, I expect Vivienne will at least keep her out of trouble,” Dorian commented. He eased himself in next to Josephine, her quick eyes watching the gossiping crowds across the balcony. He looked towards that grand, far away door, behind which Lavellan would make unknowable bargains. “…Not to doubt our Inquisitor’s strategy, but I was pleasantly surprised that confronting Florianne so openly worked.”

“I wasn’t surprised,” Josephine replied. “Florianne is an administrator, not a tactician. Celene desired to rule a united court, and Florianne shared that same desire. With the court turning on her so clearly… I suspect she realised that the forces Corypheus was willing to afford her would not be enough to quell the second civil war that would ensure if the court did not consider her a worthy ruler. She overplayed her hand, and the Inquisitor destroyed any chance she had of assuming the position naturally or quietly.”

“I find myself almost pitying her,” Dorian said. “She’s a terrible person, of course. But to have no trusted allies of her own, even from her time as someone merely mediocre… it’s rather tragic, really.”

“It is the way of the most precarious in the Orlesian court, not to trust,” Josephine replied evenly. “It is why so many cannot stop falling once they stumble. They assume that all would only use them, as they look to others in the same manner.”

“And yet, you seem somewhat dissatisfied,” Dorian noted.

The servants pulled the long, blue and white tablecloth taut across the stretch of tables joined to make the long banquet setting, concealing the gaps and joints between the wooden surfaces. Dorian was quietly impressed by the expense of such a large piece of fine fabric. The kind of subtle flaunting of wealth that only Orlais’ most truly powerful could afford. They would have been sitting at Gaspard’s end of the table, given that they were his guests, the less influential members of the court packed away in distant rooms, even further from the Empress.

“There is much to love about the court. You and I know that both. And we certainly both have a talent for it.” She twirled her pale white wine gently. “But working with the Inquisition… I cannot help but see it through an outsider’s eyes. Through all that Lavellan has said. There is a philosophy behind the court’s actions. A why. A wish to disguise any sorrow or discomfort from the prying eyes of enemies, a wish to embrace joy and sorrow both in all occasions. We dance when we are afraid and weep when we are relieved, as Vivienne might say, to remember that both the beautiful and the terrible exist.”

“…But that philosophy is the same one that led to this unpleasantness in the first place,” Dorian finished. “I’ve heard Lavellan speak of such as well. He’s so terribly morose about it, after all, and a rather dampening influence upon my belief in the dignity of the aristocracy.” He allowed himself a small smile, not the product of his mask. Knowing, despite all that lay ahead, that they’d succeeded. That he had succeeded. “My own part in it, as well. I rail against the backbiting, yet I still partake of it. You fear for the state of the Game, even as you play it.”

Josephine nodded quickly. “I am relieved, of course. The Inquisition has achieved its every aim here. Celene is safe, and I suspect shall be rather keen to support us in order to appeal to those who would see her as too weak to deal with Corypheus if she could not handle Gaspard. But… Orlais has rarely been at true peace. Not under Celene, not under Florian, Judicael II, Judicael I before her. I cannot help but fear. The pride of the Grand Game is what allowed the war to continue for so long. Its stagnant secrecy is precisely what Corypheus used to his advantage. Florianne may have failed, but Orlais may require more than the return of a sole ruler to secure a pleasant future.”

“It’s in the true nature of the court, I suppose,” Dorian noted. “To feel even more apprehension upon victory, in case your fortune is reversed. The next time the Inquisitor attends court, he will not have the shield of assumed ignorance about him. Now that he has risen, he will have far further to fall.” Dorian looked to Josephine, to her grim diplomat’s composure. “But regardless of which party is the first to strike at him to advance themselves… he will still have us. The Inquisition will still have us. You, particularly, but I suppose since I’ve almost enjoyed aspects of this escapade, I wouldn’t be averse to continuing to assist you in future.”

Josephine’s smile was small, and serious. But it was real. “I would appreciate that,” she laughed. “Having another confidante for such a grand undertaking such as this has been… useful.”

“Ah, useful,” Dorian drawled. “That’s what I hope all my friends say about me.”

“I… know that I will have to plan to defend the Inquisitor,” Josephine said. “It is as if we have replaced one trouble with another. But… he has won tonight, as well as any can be declared a true victor at court. It makes him vulnerable, yes, but… he has always been a natural target. That is why we are here.”

She looked over Dorian’s shoulder. He followed her gaze. Leliana didn’t appear to be coming towards them on purpose, but she and Cullen were clearly getting closer.

“I suppose your work for the evening is only just beginning,” Dorian commented.

Josephine gave a pleasant grimace. “I would not have chosen this life if I did not get some enjoyment from it. Do not worry about me on that accord, Dorian.” She glanced, again, at the far door. “Although, if you are willing, I do have one further minor task to ask of you this eve.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows warily. “I’m a little afraid of what you think to be a minor task, but I’ll hear you.”

“What remains at court is the work of diplomats,” Josephine said, strangely earnest. “Tomorrow, and the day after, that will be the time for Leliana and I to brief the Inquisitor. After all he has done, all he is still doing… when the peace talks have finished, he can rest. He can stop. Please ensure that he does so.”

Dorian nodded quietly.

He still did not feel fully comfortable, talking about himself and Lavellan to others. Even as he trusted Josephine. He did not know how to tell his story to others, in a way that did not feel somehow ridiculous. This was not something he could make small wit of. It was something that consumed him. Something personal, vulnerable, meaningful.

“He…” Dorian murmured. He loved him, with his fool’s heart. Of course he would go to him. Adore him, and care for him. He flashed a trembling half-smile. “Well, I expect I’ll have to wait until Celene and the healers are finished with him, but… I suppose someone should keep him company. It might as well be me.”

They had worn a caricature of themselves as bickering lovers in courtly desperation, but now was time to remove it. To be sincere, honest and weak with him once again.

“I would appreciate it,” Josephine replied, awkwardly serious. “I… believe he is happier, with your influence.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so willing to praise my influence on anything, Josephine.” Dorian smirked, as Leliana drew close. “Now, don’t overwork yourself. You’ll have to listen to Vivienne explaining all of Yvette’s mistakes on the carriage back to camp, I expect she’ll be quite furious if you can’t keep yourself awake.”

“I expect you’re right,” Josephine smiled.

“Ah, ambassador,” Leliana said, in false surprise. “I meant to catch you after all the excitement. Cullen explained some of what I missed, but I thought that perhaps the two of you might have… seen from another angle.”

The door to the peace talks wouldn’t open for a while. There was still rather a lot of the evening banquet to endure. Dorian supposed that, in the interim, he could do worse for company than the rest of the Inquisition.

Chapter Text

The tables were set, but the evening’s etiquette still held. None should sit before the Empress called them to, and that would depend on how long the final negotiations took.

“I suspect that this part of the evening better suited for Leliana’s specialities,” Josephine had said. An excuse to rest, and stay in the corner above the sunken ballroom with the rest of them, for however much time was left until Celene’s return. There was little negotiation to be had now, at least the kind the Inquisition was directly interested in. Just gossip. The court’s alleged proclivity for sombre celebration was cast aside – Dorian supposed that even the nobility might shed a droplet of genuine joy at the sight of the war’s end.

“Be honest, Cassandra,” Dorian drawled. “You’re disappointed that you missed it.”

Cassandra sighed and folded her arms. It was difficult to tell that she was wearing a replacement uniform, rather than the blood-soaked item she’d arrived in, unless one looked at her arms, noticed how baggy the sleeves were around her wrists. But with how crowded the room was, Dorian expected that not many would notice, and that fewer still would dare to point it out.

“I am… irritated that of all the noble speeches I had to watch tonight, I missed the only one of importance,” Cassandra admitted. “But I was where I needed to be.”

With the Inquisition’s soldiers, they didn’t say. With all of the fuss around Gaspard’s army, it was likely for the best that nobody noticed the Inquisition had smuggled in more than Lavellan’s honour guard.

“The kid did a good job,” Varric smiled. He hadn’t quite looked at Dorian the same, since the incident with the blood magic. But even now, he was warm. Turned his smile to Dorian, and winked knowingly. “And hey, you even got him here on time, just like you said.”

Dorian had once told Cassandra that the Inquisition attracted outsiders, pariahs and undesirables. He supposed that tonight being the night of their kind made a good story, whether or not it was the truth. The war ended by an elven apostate and his merry band of heretics and misfits, the whole affair’s star witness an incredibly shady Fereldan mercenary.

Cole and Solas sat by the band, and nobody else seemed to notice them. Vivienne and Yvette engaged in animated chatter with another former Circle mage, Yvette’s excitement palpable from across the room. Sera, Iron Bull and Krem drank and laughed wildly. Cullen, clearly incredibly sober, still managed a smirk at their jokes. Sera was hanging from one of the grand golden statues, and nobody would dare tell her to stop, right now. Only Leliana and Blackwall were out of Dorian’s view, Blackwall presumably avoiding the crowds and Leliana presumably embedded deeply within them.

Dorian smiled, despite where they were. A bright mirror of his time in Tevinter, feeling however tentatively that he was not alone in the courtly nest of vipers. However their paths might diverge in the future – and he knew Morrigan was right, that they would – he hoped he could remember this feeling, the gleaming parts of the night, alongside its harrowing moments, the gloom that was having to deal with stale Orlais.

The bell rang out, and hall rustled to a whispering near-silence. The door opened, and there they were.

Dorian held in a brief laugh at how they’d been arranged, to balance the aesthetics as well as to suggest details of their allegiance. Celene and Briala entered first, side by side. Lavellan, matching Briala’s straight silhouette as well as their shared elven nature, stepped out to Celene’s side, while Morrigan, in her vast gown, emblem of the power of the Orlesian crown, moved to join Briala. Perfectly harmonised.

Lavellan stood straight, arms clasped behind his back like one of Cullen’s soldiers. Despite how he had reassured himself that nothing would befall Lavellan in Celene’s care, Dorian felt a sense of strangled relief at seeing him, the arrows removed but his posture so painfully stiff.

“My honoured guests,” Celene said, spreading her arms in sombre dignity. “Lords and ladies of the court. Be reassured that our troubles are now over, and that as of this evening, peace and unity are returned to Orlais.”

Dorian clapped politely, if sceptically. The nobility seemed far more willing to be impressed.

“For too long, our court has been poisoned by the treasonous actions of those like Florianne and Gaspard de Chalons, who seek to turn our Empire upon itself for the gain of those outside of it.”

Lavellan’s expression seemed to freeze. Dorian’s heart sunk for him. After all he’d done, all he could do now was watch Celene speak. Speak, and excuse the court who stood before her from blame for what had happened, in favour of the outside.

The Empress turned demurely towards Briala. “Orlais will no longer be divided. All of our people must stand together, and stand strong, human and elf alike. I now introduce Ambassador Briala to the court as she shall be known henceforth: Marquise Briala of the Dales.”

She motioned for Briala to step forward. With the poise of any noblewoman, Briala bowed. “My people have been part of Orlais since its beginning, and we have long played the Grand Game, as you all do,” Briala said. “The world needs Orlais, and it needs all of Orlais. Just as humans and elves once stood together against Tevinter, I ask that we all unite against the evil that threatens our way of life, that which took the Divine from us and sought to tear our country apart.”

Lavellan stayed steely silent, and Dorian could only imagine what Noemi would say.

It was clever, Dorian conceded. To cast their new Marquise and her people as, in Sera’s words, not too elfy. They play the Grand Game, just as the court does. They give their prayers to the Maker, just as the court does. They are all true Orlesians, who deserve acknowledgement of their grand achievements and hard work, and Florianne is written out of her own part in Orlais’ tale as the poison from elsewhere.

Florianne, the Venatori, Corypheus, Tevinter. Once again, Tevinter and its people were reduced to nothing more than a caricature, an effigy to be imagined to be the cause of all that was wrong with Orlais, and destroyed. Their culture, their history, all of their own very real flaws buried in what Orlais needed them to be.

“Lord Inquisitor, we would not have uncovered the traitors without your assistance,” Celene said. “Before we begin the festivities, would you care to say a few words?”

Lavellan stepped forward carefully, calmly, as if he was used to giving speeches to nobles that would likely be dissected for ages to come. Dorian supposed that, as out of his element as he still was, the Inquisitor was at least used to being asked to speak to his people.

“May your reign be as long and peaceful as this evening,” Lavellan said, gesturing politely.

Dorian snorted involuntarily. Josephine’s smile turned strained through the silence.

Lavellan’s eyes flickered wide for one brief moment, and he quickly lifted his arm, miming the action of holding a wineglass with his empty hand. “I hope you will join me, and raise your glass to the Empress of Orlais.”

The cheers drowned out any awkwardness, glasses clinking and drunken throats calling out of sync. “To the Empress of Orlais!”

Celene gave a glassy smile, and another bow. “Now, we may celebrate this new peace long into the night. Let the festivities continue!”

They clapped, and they drank, more than they whispered. For tonight, at least, the court could forgive Lavellan for any faux pas.

“Technically, it was an excellent move,” Dorian suggested, smirking at Josephine through the raucous noise of the celebrants, loud enough to cover any courtly speculation.

Josephine raised her eyebrows, alarmed but amused.

“The ambiguity, Josephine,” he said, swirling his wine, “is exquisite. Is our dear Inquisitor being sarcastic, in suggesting that the Empress has hosted an event both fraught and tiresome, or is he attempting to pay a genuine compliment, expressing the outside world’s praise for her? Did he stumble over his words in a clumsy rush to speak meaningless platitudes, or was carefully, subtly imploring the Empress not to return to the petty squabbles that marked the truth of the evening?”

Josephine let out a nervous snort of a laugh. “Tonight, Dorian, I expect that we can play on such ambiguity without terribly much risk of correction,” she replied. “I am glad, at least, that he kept his speech… short.”

Across the ballroom, Celene and Briala moved together, warmly greeting the nearest nobles. The danger was gone, the evening was theirs to mingle in. Morrigan had already disappeared, her work here done.

And Lavellan still stood by the balcony. His expression softened, his mask falling. He turned his tired face from the crowd, and walked back towards the balcony, barely concealing his limp.

Dorian didn’t need to say a word. Josephine nudged him, and nodded.

“Such sharp elbows you have, Josephine,” he said, teasingly formal. “I certainly don’t need to be told to leave this riveting event twice. I shall take my leave of you, ambassador.”

Dorian looked back towards the door, towards the dark, moonlit balcony beyond the thick and joyous throngs of golden revellers. There was only one place, one person, Dorian’s heart desired to be near this evening. Turning his back on the party, Dorian began to push his way through the crowd.

Chapter Text

Lavellan was hunched over the balcony, gold hair silvered in the bright moonlight. His elbows braced against the railing; his clasped hands pressed close to his mouth. Dorian paused in the doorway and smiled to himself, the faint sound of Lavellan’s whispers – Dalish, Dorian realised, he was beginning to recognise the shapes, the rhythm – crossing the space between them.

Lavellan straightened, and held out his hands, releasing something – snatched petals, dried leaves – out into the chill wind. It twirled out into the darkness, disappearing over Halamshiral’s vast grounds. Dorian didn’t need to ask what he was praying for.

“I find that a party loses its shine when the most interesting man in the room leaves,” Dorian drawled, leaning away from the doorway and crossing towards Lavellan. “Though I’ll leave it up to you which one of us I’m talking about.”

Lavellan turned towards him, his smile numb and his eyes tired. “Dorian,” he murmured.

Dorian forced a cheering smile. “You know, if I were in your position, I’d be absolutely insufferable. Saving the Empress’ life, uncovering long-buried schemes, reuniting her with her lover… why, I’d have an excuse to be as rude as I desired. Perhaps, if you’re not intending to make use of it, I’ll simply have to be insufferable on your behalf.”

Lavellan let out a dry laugh. “You’re more than welcome to my courtly accolades, Dorian.”

Dorian hesitated as he arrived at Lavellan’s side. His lover’s brave face, his own rictus grin. Holding themselves at a respectable difference, a foot or so apart. Despite Halamshiral’s apparent wealth of nooks and crannies for private rendezvous, they were both aware that the Winter Palace was uniquely crafted for eavesdropping and observation.

Dorian simply didn’t care anymore.

 “…Let’s dispense with the masks, shall we?” Dorian murmured. Letting his face fall, his own tiredness showing through. “How are you holding up, Amatus?”

“That means something filthy, doesn’t it, Ma Vhenan?” Lavellan said. Dorian smiled noncommittally, knowing that they were each aware of precisely the other’s meaning, guarded as it was in their own native tongues. How strange it was that Dorian retreated there, hid his emotions in a language he had once known only as repression.

Lavellan leaned forward over the balcony, elbows spread out. “I’m… better than I thought I would be, all things considered. I’m just… exhausted. It’s been a long enough evening already, so you can imagine my excitement at discovering that my reward is to spend several more hours navigating Orlesian society.”

“Well, perhaps you… don’t have to return,” Dorian said softly. “Ambassador Montilyet herself advised me that your talents shan’t be required for the rest of the evening. The particulars have always been her domain, have they not?”

Lavellan nodded slowly, eyes fluttering shut. “I suppose even then, I should attempt to stay awake,” he said.

He looked not like the Inquisitor, out here in the moonlight, but merely like a man. A man Dorian loved, a man who needed him tonight.

A lot of bad had happened this evening. There were a lot of conversations he’d need to have with Lavellan. About the blood magic. About Celene and Briala, and the fire in the alienage. About Noemi and Remus, and all the dead there were to mourn. About what would happen with Orlais, going forward.

But those weren’t discussions to have tonight. Dorian had always loved a challenge. The thought of having these words with Lavellan, honestly, emotionally, long into the night… it didn’t seem like an impossible future anymore. Nothing would be easy with the Inquisitor, but… it would be worth it.

What Lavellan needed now wasn’t someone else to pile responsibility on him. What he needed now was what Dorian had always excelled at becoming. A distraction.

“Although, actually, there is one rather important thing you’ve forgotten,” Dorian breezed.

Lavellan turned his head quickly, instinctive alertness struggling against his body’s exhaustion.

“I hope you’re awake enough to give me the dance you promised to keep for me,” Dorian said.

Lavellan exhaled into a laugh. “Dorian, you’re terrible.” Still grinning, Lavellan took a step back from the balcony, standing to the left and holding his hand out to the right.

Dorian raised his eyebrows, looking pointedly at Lavellan’s positioning. “I think it’s adorable that you think you’ll be leading. You’ve done rather enough of that tonight, and I think it’s time someone gave you a break from it.”

Dorian caught Lavellan’s hand as he began to lower it, palms pressed together. Lavellan watched him in wary amusement.

“I also think,” Dorian said, closing his fingers around Lavellan’s hand, turning as if they were to face in a perfectly respectably courtly dance. “That it’s adorable that you think I meant Orlesian dancing.”

Dorian put his hand on the small of Lavellan’s back and pulled him close. Scandalously close. Lavellan’s soft winter breath stammered out against Dorian’s chest.

“This is the Tevinter style, I assume,” Lavellan replied, steadily as he could. His eyes, cool green in the pallid light, meeting Dorian’s as he placed his free hand against Dorian’s back. As he pulled Dorian closer, hipbone pressing against hipbone through their thick jackets.

Dorian could have stayed here. Holding him close, and damn whoever might see. But he really did want to dance with him, to take what he’d always been denied back home. To dance with his Amatus at court, no matter how corrupt that court was.

“The basic steps aren’t complicated,” Dorian said. “Although you will be moving backwards. Trust me, and follow my lead.”

And Lavellan did. Dorian stepped towards their clasped hands, and then back, swaying in a small, gentle circle. He winced when the torn muscle in his shoulder twanged, and Lavellan stumbled and limped even through such gentle steps. But they danced.

“What would you say to me now, if I was Dalish?” Dorian asked. “You’ve done what I asked, after all. I expect I should give you some sort of reward.”

“You said it yourself, we aren’t exactly doing things in the order of my people,” Lavellan replied. “You would take me as your lover, if you were satisfied with what I’ve done.”

“Oh, I’m more than satisfied,” Dorian said. “All of your limbs are still attached and everything. You really went above and beyond.”

Lavellan smiled softly to himself. Tilted his head forward, to lean against Dorian’s good shoulder as they moved.

“Ma Vhenan,” Lavellan murmured. “It… it means my heart, more or less. It’s a Dalish… well, I guess you’d say a pet name. Although I suppose it’s a little more serious than that.”

They swayed under the starlight, warm together against the winter chill.

“I love you, Dorian,” Lavellan said, still not looking up. “I hope that’s not too much.”

“No,” Dorian replied, heart tight against his throat. “It’s just enough.”

He wanted to hold Lavellan like this, close like this, forever.

“I… I used to imagine another man might say that to me,” Dorian said, voice trembling. “I wanted to believe it wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility. I suppose I...” Dorian broke off, shook his head. “Amatus is similar,” he said, voice clearer now that he had found the distraction of an explanation. “It roughly translates to beloved. It’s… even in a place like Tevinter, it’s more than a nickname. You may not marry someone you love, for the sake of your bloodline, but you may still have an Amatus. We may have lost the taste for scandalous affairs, but it still... means something.”

He lowered his eyes as Lavellan lifted his head, eyes clear and wanting.

“Of course I love you, is what I’m trying to say,” Dorian said. Oh, he had hoped he’d be more eloquent than this. “And certainly far too much.”

Lavellan smiled, looking almost relieved.

“You can’t say you’re surprised,” Dorian teased. “I’m hardly your only admirer. I’m simply the most refined.”

Lavellan shook his head gently. “I know this isn’t easy for you. I know I can be… a lot. If I go too far, if I ask too much, too quickly… tell me, and I can slow down.”

“Is this how you talk to everyone you’ve just declared your love for?” Dorian said. “To second-guess yourself?”

Lavellan laughed nervously in a way that suggested the answer was yes.

“I am yours and you are mine, Amatus,” Dorian said softly. “You and me, together, just like you said. For as long as I can have you, I want you. Don’t doubt that.”

“And don’t you doubt, Dorian,” Lavellan said, expression firm. “That you deserve this. To be loved, and to be loved by me.”

Perhaps another time, Dorian would teach Lavellan the more elaborate steps that Tevene dancing could extend to. He couldn’t have him thinking that only the Orlesians could master complexity. But tonight, they didn’t need to.

One step forward and one step back, as in time as the night’s wounds would allow. Laughing at their own faltering steps, Dorian and Lavellan danced together, long into the night.

Chapter Text

Epilogue – 9:44 Dragon

Two and a half years, more or less. That was how long it had taken for the Orlesian Court to turn from considering the Inquisition their saviours to considering it something that must be controlled or destroyed.

The Winter Palace looked different in the sunlight, but the masks they all wore were the same. The gold leaf details on the window-frames would have been obnoxious outside of candlelight, had it not been applied so skilfully, but Dorian supposed that was why Orlais got away with a lot of things that would otherwise be gaudy. Dorian had made a point of giving the Orlesians that compliment, at least, as they’d arrived. As he tried to settle Lavellan’s obvious nerves.

Orlais had changed a little since their last visit. There were more elves participating in the game under Celene’s rule, although the last Dorian heard, Briala’s people had splintered. The Inquisition had been rather politely unable to assist them with looking for Noemi. Dorian was certain that Josephine had used the exact same stationary she’d used to lie to the Prince of Starkhaven about why the Inquisition would be incapable of marching on Kirkwall.

Dorian had almost been calm about the Exalted Council, certainly moreso than he’d been about their last arrival at Halamshiral, knowing he still needed to tell Lavellan about the letter from the Pavus estate.

Two and a half years, more or less. That was how long they’d had together, before his father’s death had called him home to take up Halward’s seat. Two and a half years, a far sight more than any of Dorian’s previous… well, calling Dorian’s previous affairs relationships would perhaps be an overstatement.

He had thought Lavellan would be angry that he’d delayed telling him about the letter. And he certainly was. But not so much as he was determined to find a way around it.

Take me with you, Dorian. You’ll need me, or at least the Inquisition. If someone killed your father, you could be in danger.

You know Tevinter isn’t safe for elves, Amatus. Let alone particularly talented elves who are coming with the express purpose of changing it.

Your Tevinter exceptionalism once again, Ma Vhenan. After everything you’ve seen me live through, I refuse to believe that your home is uniquely dangerous.

The Inquisition still needs you.

And the Inquisition will still have me, but if it can’t survive without me at its head, then we are no less stagnant than the Orlesian Court.

Dorian had almost let himself be convinced that it would work out, despite the appearance of their interloper. Lavellan wasn’t wrong. Perhaps he could leave the main body of the Inquisition in Josephine and Cullen’s capable hands, and come with him to Tevinter. The new Divine wasn’t exactly a stranger to their aims, after all. For the Inquisition to work with the Chantry under Leliana’s reformations was unlikely to be to their detriment.

Lavellan would see how the elves of Minrathous lived, and try to make things right for them. Working with Calpernia in Tevinter’s long shadows, while Dorian and Maevaris worked on the Magisterium itself.

But that dream had assumed that Thedas’ troubles were calming. That there was no longer any looming crisis that only the Inquisitor was prepared to face.

And Solas had rather ruined that illusion.

The Winter Palace was hardly fit out with an infirmary. Any makeshift constructions that had been built for the civil war had been quietly dismantled by Celene’s expansions. Instead, Lavellan lay on a vast, marble-columned bed, a stiff white sheet pulled over the upholstery to keep his blood and sweat from staining the valuables.

Lavellan gave a strained smile as Dorian entered the room, still pallid despite the sun. Dorian turned a thick silver ring over and over in his fingers. Josephine had practically had to pry Dorian away from him after they’d stumbled back through the eluvian, to give the panicked healers the space to work.

“The way he cut my arm off actually cauterised the wound,” Lavellan noted.

“How thoughtful of him,” Dorian replied. “I’ll be sure to thank him the next time we see him. Although I have to say, I’m not sure Vivienne would consider that an appropriate greeting for anyone.”

He pulled a chair to Lavellan’s side, hands trembling with relief.

“My deepest apologies, Lord Magister,” Lavellan grinned. “Unfortunately, I’m less familiar with the proper addresses for Tevinter nobility.”

Dorian bristled at his new title. Truly his title, not a pretence, not a joke at the expense of every mage who left the Imperium’s borders that claimed it for themselves. At court, such an elevation would have seen he and Lavellan considered closer to equals, when the truth was that this title could only pull them apart.

“Sera retrieved this,” Dorian stammered, holding the ring up.

Bloody ugly thing, but I think he’d want it back.

Sera had pressed the blackened and burnished House Pavus signet ring into Dorian’s hand as Lavellan had been hurried away, and Dorian had stared at it dumbly. So concerned with retrieving the rest of Lavellan that he hadn’t thought to retrieve his arm.

“I thought you’d, erm… want it back,” he said.

Dorian had told himself it had been a joke at first. The signet ring. One of the possessions of his that Lavellan had helped him retrieve from various Orlesian pawn shops. Dorian had wanted to wear the amulet himself, but the less prestigious pieces… he’d wanted Lavellan to have something of his, the way he still wore Lavellan’s wooden token beneath his shirt.

“Dorian…” Lavellan murmured.

And Lavellan had still been wearing it. He’d still been wearing it to the Exalted fucking Council.

Lavellan held his hand out, and let Dorian slide the ring back on to his index finger. Clumsily, both their hands shaking. All of the tricks Lavellan had learned, using that ring as a subtle suggestion of who he was without invoking the Inquisition – the only elf outside of Tevinter that would have any cause to wear the colours of House Pavus – well, Dorian supposed he’d have to get used to performing them with the other hand.

“Does it still hurt?” Dorian asked. Rolled his eyes at himself. “I mean, I imagine the part where your arm was cut off hurts rather a lot, cauterisation or no, but… the rest of it.”

Dorian had watched Lavellan worsen over the past few years, held him through sleepless nights wracked by a pain from his marked hand that no draught could lessen.

“No, actually,” Lavellan grimaced. “It’s perhaps the one thing Solas was right about.”

Dorian still wouldn’t stoop to calling himself domestically inclined, but he ached in empty beds when the Inquisition’s work – or his duties as Tevinter’s ambassador – called for one of them and not the other. Missing Lavellan’s warmth, bare skin against bare skin. But this time, it would be more than a few weeks. And this time, it would be right when Lavellan needed him.

“If I stay,” Dorian said, carefully glib. “Exactly how many weeks will I have to spend listening to you explain exactly the ways in which Solas was wrong?”

“When you go,” Lavellan said, carefully firm. “My letters to you on the subject will be very thorough. They will include citations. They will be stored in the Minrathous library into the next age and pored over by a handsome Tevinter archivist who wishes he were Magister Dorian Pavus.”

“Oh, I’m sure there will be more than one,” Dorian replied. “There’s much to envy.”

But he couldn’t keep this mask up. Lavellan didn’t need to say anything. Just watch, with soft sympathy, as Dorian’s grin faltered.

He knew he’d become a better man, in his time around Lavellan. Slightly less selfish, slightly more sober. And a better man wouldn’t turn his back on Tevinter, no matter how much it hurt him.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” Dorian choked. “When I left Tevinter, there was nothing there for me anymore. In leaving the Inquisition, I have far more to lose. How did you do it, Lavellan? How did you not simply run from all this? I know it hurt you, to leave your people. It hurt long after I arrived.”

They were both going to cry. Dorian supposed he shouldn’t resist it. He sniffled pathetically. He supposed that any ornate eyeliner that there was to smear across his face had probably already been displaced by their hours of exertion beyond the eluvians.

“It did,” Lavellan said, gripping Dorian’s hand. “I never stopped missing my clan. But it hurt less, with you there.”

Dorian nodded quietly. It had hurt less for him too, enduring everything with Lavellan by his side.

“I won’t be alone here,” Lavellan said. “I’ll still have Cassandra and Varric. Josephine will look out for me, and I expect she’ll be looking out for you too. Tevinter will still need an ambassador, even if he is a Magister. You won’t need to worry about--”

“Oh, I absolutely will need to worry, knowing you,” Dorian objected, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his other palm. Even as he understood Lavellan’s meaning. Lavellan’s clan had loved him, but they had survived without him. Lavellan loved Dorian, but he would survive without him. Lavellan had been able to walk away because he’d known that. It was how the Dalish needed to be, to survive.

There was something of relief to Lavellan’s smile. “If you want to keep worrying about me, Dorian, you’re more than welcome to.”

“I’m afraid your seriousness has had quite the terrible influence on me,” Dorian teased. “It will take more than merely distance and time for you to be rid of me. Think of all the affairs I’ll have to turn down because I’ve already planned an evening of gazing out of the window alone, mournfully pleasuring myself while thinking about the day we’ll be reunited.”

Lavellan snorted in amusement and tightened his hold on Dorian’s hand, the signet ring pressing against the base of his fingers. Dorian realised quite how deeply he’d meant what he said, despite his veneer of sarcasm, from the grateful vulnerability of Lavellan’s grip.

Once, Dorian had only allowed his affections to exist as far as the other person was in front of him. Then, he had assumed that he and Lavellan would part ways as soon as their business with each other was concluded. The years they’d remained together since Corypheus’ defeat had proved him wrong there.

As always, Dorian found himself catching up to feelings that had long been settled between them. Of course Lavellan would love him even after they parted ways. Of course Dorian would still pine for him in return. He could think of nothing in Thedas that felt so true to him as that.

“I will write to you,” Lavellan said, mouth soft. He lifted his eyes to meet Dorian’s. “So you won’t get too much of a chance to miss me.”

Dorian smiled weakly. He would long for the next time they’d need each other. The paths they both must walk, the duties that pulled them and them alone in distant directions, would cross again even amidst the danger.

“Here we both go, preparing to engage in heroism when we’d both be quite within our rights to retire to a cabin on the shores of Antiva,” Dorian sighed. “As much as I will take refuge in Maevaris and Calpernia’s company, they shall be nothing in comparison to yours. But know that though I am leaving, I will not be leaving you tonight.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Lavellan said mildly. “It’s far too late in the day for that sort of thing. You’d end up lost in the Orlesian woods at night.”

“Oh, so it’s for my benefit?” Dorian smirked. “You need to rest, and Maker knows you’ll find some way to get into even more trouble if you don’t have me to distract you.”

“I was hoping you’d read to me,” Lavellan admitted. “If it’s the last time I’m going to hear your voice for a while. I’m hardly in the condition for anything more exciting.”

Dorian nodded, throat tight. “Although I do expect you to return the favour, if you’re planning to stay awake until the ending.”

Lavellan smiled, and shuffled over. The stiff white sheet crinkled as Dorian perched on it. He supposed, if they were expecting blood, they shouldn’t complain if he put his feet up. He swung his boots on to the bed, lying by Lavellan’s side with a gauzy pale blue canopy stretched above them between the marble columns.

He untied the string on the satchel of books that hung at his hip. It was supposed to be a private joke, that he would come to Halamshiral with a wad of cheap paperbacks rather than the respectful literature of a diplomat.

“This one’s about you,” Dorian offered. “You have a scandalous affair with someone who is clearly Grand Duchess Florianne, although they’ve transformed you into a dwarf for some reason. I feel I must have missed a few connecting trends while we were in the Frostback Basin.”

Lavellan winced, but not unpleasantly. “I’m horrified. Please continue.”

Two and a half years. Dorian would come to be grateful for all of the time they’d had, to talk long into the night, and wake up in each other’s arms.

Lavellan leaned into Dorian’s side, his head against his shoulder, as Dorian began to read.

Chapter Text

Epilogue – 9:45 Dragon

Although the Pavus estate was, strictly speaking, Dorian’s home, he had only been twice since his return, both times to settle his father’s affairs. It was colder to him than Skyhold had ever been, empty but for Aquinea’s disappointed scorn. In Halward’s absence, her bored complacency had turned to the same resentment she’d once reserved mostly for her late husband.

Maevaris had offered him an apartment at her grand villa in Minrathous as soon as she’d heard of his return. As distant as they’d become since he’d left Tevinter, it made sense emotionally as well as strategically to take his old friend up on her offer. As troublesome as the rumours that they were having an affair had been for Maevaris, they had no regrets. Maevaris and Calpernia may have had their political connections, but they were each as bereft of true friends at court as Dorian. And if the Lucerni were to succeed, they would need each other.

And if the Lucerni were to succeed, they would need the Inquisition.

Dorian looked more than presentable every day, of course, but he took particular care today, knowing that Josephine was arriving. He had pawned most of his Tevinter finery before arriving at Redcliffe. It would amuse him, to appear so expensively striking. He had grown his hair longer, and it lay across his shoulder like a curtain of black silk. He wore one of his finest robes, high-collared and broad-sleeved, made from a velvet damask in the two most expensively dark shades of red Dorian had been able to acquire.

He looked like every caricature of a wicked Tevinter Magister that the Inquisition’s sceptics had drawn him as. He considered it a clever move. He looked like every caricature because his fashions drew on those of the Magisters of old. Much as they might call on him for undermining the very idea of Tevinter society, he knew their ways and their history better than most. And despite the idealism of his reforms Dorian Pavus, the heretic necromancer, was precisely as deadly an enemy as the Archons of the Imperial Golden Age that the heel-dragging traditionalists of the Magisterium bemoaned the loss of.

But despite all of his preparations, Dorian still paced.

You look remarkably well for someone who was almost assassinated last week, was what he’d say if he saw himself. He could only assume Josephine knew. He hadn’t had the chance to tell her himself yet. Her, or Lavellan. He wore a tightly boned bodice beneath his clothing, to stop himself from favouring his wounded side. As far as any observers were concerned, the attempt had failed completely.

Of course he wanted to tell Lavellan it had been far closer than that. Of course he wanted to call him to his side. Use the codewords they’d worked out between them, to call for the other’s desperate aid without showing their hand to any who might be spying on their letters. But Dorian suspected that the Inquisitor had more to concern itself with than with the life of one man who could most certainly already look after himself.

The bright sun of Minrathous in the summer streamed in through the broad balcony adjoining Dorian’s apartment as he unfolded Lavellan’s latest letter. Again.

My heart,

Now that I’ve looked up exactly what a croquembouche is, I can see why you think Divine Galatea’s crown looked like one. I’m glad they weren’t in fashion while we were at the Winter Palace, the idea of trying to eat a cream bun with my hands in a dignified manner is difficult enough without the entire court watching.

A sharp knock at the door startled Dorian from his comforting trance. “Magister Pavus, you’re needed downstairs,” one of the servants called. “Lady Montilyet and her party will be arriving soon.”

“Tell Magister Tilani I’ll be down shortly,” Dorian called back, voice steady.

He turned to the letter’s last page, trying to calm his trembling hands. To read the end, at least.

I told you I was always more of a listener at my clan’s storytelling gatherings, but I’ve decided to try writing something. Let’s say it’s about a First whose clan finds a wounded human in the woods. Yes, the human is a charming, handsome mage from Tevinter. I can hear you laughing all the way from Ferelden. If people are going to write alternative versions of my life, I might as well write my own.

I may still decide to show you when I’ve finished. You should be honoured; I might not even let our resident renowned author see it.

Always and forever,

Your beloved

Dorian left the books and notes open on his desk as he folded the letter away, gently and precisely, and headed for the door.

His current work was far drier than the magical theory and political history he was normally inclined to put his talents towards. Today, Dorian had been looking through administrative records of buildings and ownership, trying to find any portside property associated with Magister Vitalus or any of his allies ahead of Josephine’s arrival.

It was the sort of tedious investigation he thought Cullen or Harding would be far better suited to. Perhaps he’d ask Josephine if he could borrow one of them. It was to both of their advantages, after all. The lyrium smugglers the Inquisition had taken an interest in and the faction who had attempted to take one of the Lucerni’s lives looked to be rather closely entwined, this time.

In the reception room, Maevaris looked as glamorous as always, matching Dorian’s striking red and black with soft blue and gold. Dorian was happy to play the radical, the sharp alternative to Maevaris’ years of trying to change Tevinter in reasonable increments. Calpernia, lingering to the side, was as plainly dressed as always, practical cotton and clunky leather boots.

“My dear, you look almost nervous,” Maevaris noted, a touch of concern in her artfully sculpted brow.

“Oh, I know exactly how cutting Lady Montilyet can be if she chooses to be,” Dorian breezed.

They both knew that wasn’t quite true. Dorian couldn’t explain his nerves. Perhaps almost dying, again, did that to a person.

He only hoped Josephine would look at him the same way, after a year apart.

Dorian and Maevaris spent every day navigating the dark mazes of Tevinter’s senate, adopting their methods where they had to. The Inquisition would have changed, as Lavellan knew it would have to. He only hoped that, whether or not their aims had diverged, he and Josephine could still face each other as old friends and honest confidantes, without the rhetorical guard he had to hold between himself and mere allies or acquaintances. That he hadn’t changed so much as to distance himself from Josephine, or from… others.

One of the servants held the wide front doors open, and bowed. “Presenting Ambassador Montilyet of the Inquisition and her party.”

And there she was, her warm smile still the same, flanked by two human diplomats and two masked elven scouts. Josephine still dressed in gold and black, although the cut of her clothes was fashionably different. Her smooth cravat replaced with a gathered collar, the embroidered sleeves of her jacket reaching her wrists.

“Stunning as always, Lady Montilyet,” Dorian said, his bow informally shallow.

“Charming as always, Lord Pavus,” Josephine replied, stepping closer.

They embraced as old friends, Josephine’s neat hands against Dorian’s shoulders.

Dorian thought he caught one of the scouts smirking. Fancied that their broad mouth had the same smile he’d seen on Lavellan’s face a thousand times. But their face was so obscured, between their mask and the shadows of their hood – it couldn’t be anything more than wishful thinking on Dorian’s part. He couldn’t go calf-eyed every time the Inquisition sent an elven scout to the Lucerni. It was embarrassing, to realise how grand his hopes were every time he raised them.

It was likely a smile for Josephine’s benefit. Seeing their ambassador, usually so elegantly formal, greeting anyone with true joy.

“It’s so good to finally meet you in person, Josie,” Maevaris said, engulfing Josephine in her own embrace as soon as she turned towards her. Forward, of course, but the message was clear. Anyone that the aloof and scathing Dorian Pavus, of all people, was willing to trust so deeply, Maevaris would extend the same trust to, especially if they were as delightful a letter writer as Josephine Montilyet.

Josephine turned to Calpernia with a rare pause. They stared at each other, the Ambassador of the Inquisition and Corypheus’ former general, now the Inquisition’s revolutionary ally.

“…I’ve never been one for bowing,” Calpernia muttered, hesitantly allowing Josephine to grant her a stiff and slightly formal hug.

“The servants will show you to your rooms,” Maevaris assured. The diplomats and scouts left with them, the pair of scouts insisting on carrying some of the luggage. She turned back to Josephine, effusive as she always was as a host. “I expect you’ll want some time to get settled before we discuss business, it’s rather a long way from Ferelden to Tevinter.”

Josephine shook her head quickly. “We can begin today, if you’d--”

“Absolutely not,” Maevaris insisted. “But if you’d like a walk, I thought I might take you to see the dwarven embassy. You won’t have seen anything like it, if this is your first visit to Minrathous.”

“That is very thoughtful of you, Maevaris,” Josephine replied brightly. “I have indeed never been. I would love to see it.”

“You can get a souvenir for Cassandra,” Dorian suggested.

“You can get her one yourself,” Maevaris pointed out. “As you and Calpernia are, of course, welcome to join us.”

“I have… something I need to take care of,” Calpernia replied evenly.

Technically, so did Dorian. But considering that one of the properties he was investigating had passed through the portfolio of a dwarven merchant a few years before being sold to an unknown owner…

“If you’ll permit me a moment to fetch my papers, I had business at the Ambassadoria anyway,” Dorian replied.

“Take as much time as you need,” Josephine said carefully.

Dorian raised his eyebrows pointedly, waving his hand with a scoff. “It’s a piece of paper, Josephine. I shan’t be more than five minutes.”

Maevaris and Josephine returned to chatting as Dorian returned upstairs, about Josephine’s journey to Tevinter and her trip through the Anderfels.

It had been a while since Dorian had been to the dwarven district. Regardless of the circumstances of her arrival… Dorian would take some joy in an afternoon with Josephine. Showing her Minrathous as a friend rather than an ambassador. The beautiful, worthy parts of Tevinter, before they delved into its filth.

Dorian opened the door to his apartment, and the smirking scout was lying on his bed, boots propped up against the elaborate mahogany footboard. His face still concealed, but this time by a handful of Dorian’s papers. Dorian didn’t need to look twice to recognise him this time.

And for a moment, Dorian wasn’t sure what to say. Whether he should say something grand, or important. As if he should have rehearsed something, given his lover a show.

“You’ve changed your hair,” he blurted out instead. Because he had. It was longer now, a thin gold braid framing his face. It reminded Dorian of the gold braiding on their formal uniforms.

“And so have you,” Lavellan replied, lowering the papers and fixing his rift-green eyes on Dorian.

“It suits you,” Dorian said awkwardly. And then he crossed towards the bed. “Given that you’re holding all of my paperwork, I’m not sure if you’re here to study the details of Tevinter bureaucracy or to seduce me.”

“My dearest Magister, you know it can be both,” Lavellan replied with a smirk.

He laid the papers aside, and plucked off his gloves, one finger at a time. His prosthetic arm was surprisingly deft. It was clever, of course, to disguise it. An elf in Tevinter might slip by unnoticed. An elf with a missing arm wearing Inquisition colours would not, even if Lavellan wasn’t the only one of the Inquisition’s people who fit that description.

“I suppose you are why Josephine told me to take my time,” Dorian remarked. “May I?” he added, motioning to the prosthetic.

Dorian nodded. Lavellan tensed as Dorian put his hands on the smooth wood.

“That’s ironbark, isn’t it?” Dorian mused. “So your people are involved, clearly. But the craft looks dwarven, and elaborate at that. Exactly what sort of favours did you have to call in for this?”

“Oh, it fell off the back of a wagon,” Lavellan drawled. “Varric found it completely by chance. The one-of-a-kind creation of a mad Carta inventor that happens to fit me perfectly. Isn’t that lucky?”

Dorian gave Lavellan a knowingly sceptical look as his fingers found the base of the prosthetic, where the wood was carved with letters. “And are you going to tell me what this says?” Dorian asked.

“I’ll think about it,” Lavellan said, his smile enigmatic. “I’ll be here for at least a few days, Dorian. I can’t make it that easy for you to learn all of my new secrets.”

Dorian snorted in amusement, and smiled to himself, genuinely. Dorian hadn’t written everything about his life in Tevinter to Lavellan. There were too many details of their movements and plans that would endanger one or the other, or someone else, if they were to be intercepted. It was pleasing to him, somehow, that even after so long they could both surprise each other, that there was still more about him to explore even after so many years of pouring their hearts out to each other.

“It doesn’t…” Lavellan sighed. “It doesn’t put you off, does it? The last time you saw me, I…”

Dorian scoffed. “Lavellan, I’ve slept with you while you’ve been wearing that hideous beige tunic Josephine used to dress you in to look humble to the Chantry. I can work with this, easily.”

And then it was Dorian’s turn to stumble. They might as well get their awkward questions out of the way now.

“…Coming here isn’t taking you away from anything important, is it?” he asked quietly. “I’ve wanted to ask for you so many times, but I haven’t. I can never tell if I want you here for mere comfort, or if I truly need your aid.”

“You spent two and a half years helping me learn not to take everything upon myself alone, even if I could, and you still have to ask me that?” Lavellan asked, teasing but understanding. “You’re important, Dorian. Yes, I’m here because the man I love is in even more danger than usual. Of course I am. But I’m also here because the Lucerni need the Inquisition’s help, and the Inquisition needs theirs. I am still your ally, Dorian. I can share your burdens as Lavellan and the Inquisitor both.”

Dorian nodded quietly, and pulled Lavellan closer. Gently kissed his forehead, then the broken bridge of his nose, and then, slow and lingering, his mouth.

“I suppose I should give you the tour, before we leave for the dwarven embassy,” Dorian said softly. “Josephine can hardly be seen without one of Inquisition escorts, as I’m sure you know.”

He would have him again, even if it would be for no more than a few weeks. He could show him Tevinter, the way he’d hoped to, before most likely getting into an understatedly life-or-death scrap in a dilapidated dockyard warehouse.

Dorian offered a hand, and pulled Lavellan to his feet, leading him out to the balcony.

“I insist you see at least some of Tevinter without peering through the eyeholes of that ridiculous disguise,” Dorian commented.

Maevaris’ villa was as private as one could manage, in the middle of Minrathous. The balcony, shaded by trees, looked out over her statue garden, a mix of classical Tevinter sculpture and more experimental pieces of dwarven craft. They looked down, as they’d looked down on to the dark gardens of Halamshiral, that night of the Winter Court. As they’d looked down on to the vast, cold valleys that surrounded Skyhold from the balcony of Lavellan’s quarters.

Dorian held Lavellan close, one hand on his back and the other still clasping his hand.

There was a dance in Orlais that Dorian had learned when he was younger. Respectably flirtatious, each pair of dancers only touched hands once in each repeat of the set, reuniting between the ordeal of complicated twirls and reels.

That was how Dorian felt now, Lavellan murmuring against his chest.

“You haven’t been to Val Royeaux recently, have you?” Lavellan said.

“They finished building the statue of Leliana, didn’t they?” Dorian drawled.

“I hadn’t realised,” Lavellan grimaced. “We were visiting Vivienne there, before Josephine was to head for Tevinter, and…”

Maybe one day, their work would be over, and they would retire to that cabin in Antiva after all. Maybe they would die in each other’s arms, in some heroic moment. Maybe they would open a tavern in Kirkwall under pseudonyms and be a permanent thorn in Varric’s side.

But today, he and Lavellan were together. And however brief each meeting was, they would always meet again. Each touch of their hands a star on a vast constellation, one they would dance across for the rest of their lives.

The sun was shining in Minrathous today, and for the first but never the last time, it shone on them.