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The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth pushing back against the persistent chill of Skyhold. Taerian Lavellan sat at his desk, his lavender eyes scanning Josephine's latest missive with a mix of resignation and irritation. The room smelled faintly of ink, parchment and cedar—a lingering trace of Dorian's expensive Tevinter perfume that had become as much a part of Taerian's quarters as the mage himself. Weeks of sharing the space had given it a strange, comforting rhythm. Books stacked precariously on every available surface, an ever-present mug of tea cooling somewhere forgotten, and the occasional biting commentary from Dorian, whose wit was still just as sharp as his sense of style.
Taerian sighed and tapped the quill absently against the edge of the desk, trying to decipher Josephine’s carefully worded instructions for the Halamshiral ball. Everything about it felt needlessly complex, a tangled mess of etiquette and coded gestures that only Orlesians could enjoy. He hated the idea of dancing around nobles who measured every word like a blade, and he hated even more that Josephine somehow expected him to master their ridiculous games. His fingers tightened around the quill. Creators forbid he disappoint the Grand Duchess de Cloche by bowing at the wrong angle.
Across the room, Dorian lounged on the bed, propped on one elbow, a thick tome open before him. Firelight glinted off the silver embroidery on his tunic—a detail Taerian had teased him about more than once. Yet, for all his mocking, he found Dorian’s vanities endearing. The man refused to abandon his sense of refinement, even out here, surrounded by snow and warriors who barely remembered to bathe. That stubborn dignity was part of what Taerian had come to love about him.
“Amatus,” Dorian called, his voice a soft drawl that still managed to pull Taerian’s attention immediately. “You’re scowling again. What has our dear Ambassador written this time to make you look as though you’re planning her assassination?”
Taerian sighed and leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m trying to figure out if she actually expects me to memorise this mountain of Orlesian nonsense before we leave, or if this is some sort of elaborate punishment for a crime I didn’t know I committed.”
Dorian chuckled, the sound rich and low, curling around Taerian like a warm blanket. “The Great Game, my dear. A world of posturing and vaguely concealed death threats. You’ll do splendidly, I’m sure.” He closed his book with a soft thud and rose from the bed, his movements unhurried and graceful. The way the firelight played over his face, catching the arch of his cheekbones and the curve of his lips, was enough to make Taerian forget how to speak for a moment.
“I’d rather face demons,” Taerian muttered, his gaze following Dorian as he approached the desk. “At least with demons, I know where I stand.”
“Covered in ichor and hoping for the best?” Dorian teased, leaning against the desk so that his hip brushed Taerian’s arm. “Hardly an improvement.”
Taerian snorted, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Better that than drowning in a sea of perfume and false smiles.”
Dorian’s lips quirked into a smirk, his hazel eyes glittering with mischief. “Oh, but imagine the chaos we could cause. You and I waltzing into the Winter Palace hand in hand, scandalising every noble in attendance. They’d gossip for decades.”
Taerian allowed himself a rare laugh, startled at the audacity of the image. “You’re incorrigible,” he said, shaking his head. “And far too excited at the thought of turning an entire court on its head.”
“Chaos, my dear, is an art form,” Dorian replied smoothly, brushing his fingers along Taerian’s jaw. His touch was warm, gentle, and utterly disarming. “And who better to wield it than us? Think of it: the Inquisitor and his wickedly charming Tevinter paramour, turning the dance floor into a battlefield of wit and whispers.”
Taerian leaned into the touch, his eyes slipping closed for a moment as the tension of the day eased away. “You’d be the death of them, you know. The Orlesians wouldn’t survive it.”
“And what a loss that would be,” Dorian mused, his tone dripping with mock sorrow. “No more embroidered handkerchiefs or scandalous masquerades. How ever would we cope?”
Before Taerian could reply, a sharp knock broke through their laughter. He groaned, leaning back from Dorian’s hand, the moment shattered. “Come in,” he called, his tone resigned.
The door creaked open to reveal Josephine, her usually pristine appearance slightly ruffled. Her arms were full of what appeared to be clothing, though the riot of clashing colours and garish embroidery made it difficult to tell exactly what kind. Her expression was a delicate mix of exasperation and barely concealed horror.
“Your Worship,” she began, her voice strained, “I apologise for the intrusion, but we have a situation that requires your immediate attention.”
Taerian exchanged a glance with Dorian, who raised a curious eyebrow. Rising from his chair, Taerian moved to take the bundle from her arms. “What’s wrong, Josephine? Has something happened with Halamshiral?”
Josephine sighed, allowing him to relieve her of the offending fabrics. “In a manner of speaking. The formal attire for the Winter Palace has arrived, but…” She hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. “There’s been a miscommunication.”
Dorian stepped closer, his curiosity piqued as he reached out to touch a particularly garish swath of fabric. “Miscommunication?” he echoed, his voice laced with amusement. “Do tell.”
Josephine sighed again, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her frustration. “I entrusted Commander Cullen with the task of procuring the attire,” she said, her tone measured. “But it seems his understanding of Orlesian fashion is… lacking.”
Taerian pulled a garment from the pile, and his breath hitched as he held it up to the firelight. The crimson fabric shimmered with a strange, almost aggressive sheen, the gold filigree embroidery so elaborate it teetered on the edge of absurdity. A stiff, high collar trimmed in gold piping rose menacingly at the neck, while oversized buttons marched down the front like a line of miniature chandeliers. The pièce de résistance was a thick, iridescent blue sash slung diagonally across the chest and cinched at the waist, lending the ensemble a comically militaristic air. It looked less like formalwear and more like something a bard might don to parody Orlesian generals.
He turned the garment in his hands, the firelight catching on the intricate embroidery. “Misunderstood how, exactly?” he asked, though he was already bracing himself for Josephine’s answer. It couldn’t possibly make this situation better.
Josephine’s voice was even, but the tension in her posture betrayed her distress. “Instead of selecting individual outfits tailored to each person’s tastes and station,” she began, carefully enunciating each word, “Commander Cullen took it upon himself to… bulk order matching attire. For everyone.”
Taerian stared at her for a moment, unable to fully process the horror of what she’d just said. For the Inquisition’s entire delegation? A dozen of these gaudy nightmares strutting into the Winter Palace, glowing like a parade of over-polished lyrium statues? He could already feel a headache forming at the base of his skull.
Dorian made a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan as he plucked a sleeve from the pile. “Tell me you’re joking,” he said, running his fingers over the fabric with exaggerated delicacy. “Even I wouldn’t be caught dead in these atrocities, and I pride myself on enduring some truly avant-garde ensembles. This”—he held the sleeve aloft like evidence at a trial—“looks like it’s trying to marry Orlesian military regalia with a children’s puppet show.”
Josephine grimaced, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. “It’s no joke,” she said, the weariness in her voice heavy. “And we have no time to procure replacements. I can only hope the sizing is at least accurate—if we must wear them.”
Taerian’s grip tightened on the sash as he imagined the scene at Halamshiral: nobles sneering behind painted masks, whispers darting between courtiers like poison arrows. It was bad enough that the Inquisition’s presence at the ball was already controversial. Now they would be the laughingstock of the Winter Palace.
“Surely there’s something we can do,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. “We can’t walk into the ball looking like—like this.” He gestured helplessly at the fabric, his words failing him. “The nobility will eat us alive.”
Josephine sighed, her shoulders slumping. “I’ll do what I can to mitigate the damage, Inquisitor, but our options are limited. Perhaps… creative accessorising could distract from the more glaring issues.”
Dorian snorted, holding up the aggressively iridescent sash. “Unless you plan to blind them all with this gaudy fabric, I doubt there’s much to salvage. The nobles might just mistake us for a travelling circus troupe.”
Taerian groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “Creators save me from the follies of human fashion,” he muttered, the words muffled against his palms. He stayed like that for a moment, gathering the willpower to face this particular indignity. When he looked up again, he said, “Maybe I should just wear my armour. At least then I’d look like I belonged to an army, not a—” He gestured vaguely at the pile. “Whatever this is.”
Josephine’s lips twitched in reluctant amusement. “I’m afraid your armour would send entirely the wrong message. We must make an effort to play by Orlesian rules, even if our attire is less than ideal.”
Taerian sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable. “Fine. We’ll wear the blasted things. But if anyone asks, I’m blaming Cullen for this disaster.”
“Duly noted,” Josephine said, and for the first time, a faint smile broke through her strained expression. “Rest assured, I will ensure the Commander receives a thorough reminder of the importance of detail in diplomatic affairs.”
Dorian draped an arm over Taerian’s shoulders, his warmth a small comfort in the face of this catastrophe. “Look on the bright side,” he said, his voice rich with humour. “We’ll be suffering together. Misery, as they say, loves company.”
Taerian leaned into the touch, letting the solid presence of Dorian ground him. “Small mercies,” he admitted, though his gaze strayed back to the offensive pile of clothing. “We should try these on, just to make sure they fit. I’d rather not have to explain a ripped seam in the middle of the ballroom.”
Josephine nodded, though her expression remained sympathetic. “I truly am sorry about this, Inquisitor. I know how much you were already dreading the ball, and now this…” She gestured helplessly at the pile. “I will do everything in my power to ensure the rest of the preparations proceed smoothly.”
“I know you will, Josie,” Taerian said, his voice softening. He offered her a tired smile. “This isn’t your fault. We’ll make it work somehow. Even if we do end up looking like a flock of particularly colourful birds.”
Josephine’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and she returned the smile. “Thank you for your understanding, Taerian. Your grace under pressure is deeply appreciated.”
She straightened, brushing imaginary dust from her dress. “Before I leave, a reminder: there’s a war room meeting after dinner to finalise the details. I’ll have the revised guest list and seating arrangements for your review.”
Taerian nodded, though the idea of going over seating charts filled him with quiet dread. “I’ll be there,” he promised, the words feeling heavier than they should.
Josephine inclined her head in gratitude, her expression softening as she turned toward the door. “Thank you, Inquisitor. And… good luck with the fittings.”
As the door closed behind her, Taerian let out another sigh, looking at Dorian with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “If I somehow survive this, remind me to reward Cullen with something appropriately unpleasant.”
Dorian laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “Oh, I’ll help you plan it, amatus. Something truly memorable.”
Taerian shook his head, unable to suppress a small smile as he reached for one of the ridiculous outfits. “Let’s get this over with.”
Dorian plucked one of the jackets from the pile with the precision of a mage examining a cursed artefact, holding it at arm’s length as though it might explode. The crimson fabric shimmered almost aggressively in the firelight, its gold embroidery practically screaming for attention. He tilted his head, a mock-serious expression settling over his features. “You know,” he mused, his tone deceptively light, “I’m beginning to think I should just sit this one out. Stay here at Skyhold, curl up with a good book, maybe a nice vintage from the cellar…”
Taerian’s head snapped up, his lavender eyes narrowing into a sharp glare. “Don’t you dare,” he said, his voice clipped. “If I have to endure this, so do you. I’m not facing the Orlesian court alone, especially not looking like…” He gestured toward the garish jacket. “…this.”
Dorian sighed dramatically, draping the offending garment back over the chair as though it had personally insulted him. “Ah, the sacrifices I make for you,” he lamented, though the mischievous glint in his eyes betrayed his act. “Very well, amatus. I shall march into sartorial hell at your side, if only to witness the look of collective horror on the nobles’ faces when we make our grand entrance.”
Despite himself, Taerian snorted, some of the tension in his chest easing under Dorian’s theatrics. “How noble of you,” he drawled, stepping closer to Dorian, his fingers brushing the edge of the mage’s impeccably tailored tunic. “And here I thought you just couldn’t resist the chance to show off.”
Dorian smirked, his hands slipping to Taerian’s hips, pulling him closer. “Well, there is that,” he admitted. “I do enjoy a spectacle. Even if the impression we leave is something along the lines of, ‘What in Andraste's name are they wearing?’”
Taerian laughed, the sound bubbling up unbidden and surprising him with its ease. He leaned into the embrace, letting Dorian’s steady warmth anchor him. For a moment, the absurdity of Halamshiral, the looming dread of courtly games, and the horrors of the wardrobe all faded into the background.
But practicality soon reasserted itself, and with a sigh, Taerian stepped back, his fingers trailing along the edge of Dorian’s tunic before falling away. “As tempting as it is to keep this up,” he said, regret lacing his voice, “we should probably try these on. What if something doesn’t fit and we add wardrobe malfunctions to this disaster?”
Dorian raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a teasing smile. “And here I thought you’d seize any excuse to avoid putting on that monstrosity.” He gestured toward the pile. “But by all means, amatus, don’t let me stop you. I’m perfectly content to sit here and enjoy the show.”
“Of course you are,” Taerian muttered, rolling his eyes. “Just… try not to laugh too hard.”
“I make no promises,” Dorian quipped, leaning against the bed’s edge with a look of feigned innocence, his arms crossed as he watched Taerian with unabashed interest.
With a resigned sigh, Taerian began the painstaking process of donning the outfit. His soft leathers fell away easily enough, replaced by the stiff, heavy fabric of the formal jacket. The embroidery scratched against his skin, and the high collar felt more like a noose than an accessory. He tugged at it, muttering curses under his breath. How did anyone breathe in these things?
Then there was the sash. Taerian picked up the shimmering fabric and frowned at its overly elaborate folds. He twisted it one way, then another, trying to discern how it was supposed to drape. Every attempt only seemed to make the situation worse, and the iridescent material seemed to mock him with every shimmer.
“How in the Creators’ name is this supposed to work?” he growled, looping the sash over one shoulder and tugging futilely at the ends. It sagged awkwardly, and his frown deepened as he struggled to arrange it.
Behind him, he heard Dorian’s muffled laughter, rich and warm and entirely unhelpful. “Having trouble, darling?” the mage called, his voice alight with amusement.
Taerian threw him a glare over his shoulder. “I don’t see you offering to help,” he shot back, his frustration mounting.
Dorian chuckled, rising from the bed with a fluid grace that made Taerian’s irritation falter for a moment. “Allow me,” he said, stepping close and taking the fabric from Taerian’s hands. His fingers moved with practised ease, twisting and looping the sash with a precision that spoke of a life navigating Tevinter’s intricate formalwear.
Within moments, the sash was draped properly across Taerian’s chest and cinched securely at his waist. Dorian stepped back, giving him an appraising look. “There,” he declared with a smirk. “Now you look slightly less like a confused child playing dress-up.”
“Thank you,” Taerian said drily, though his lips twitched with reluctant amusement. “Though I stand by my claim that this ensemble is a crime against good taste.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Dorian agreed, his expression one of mock solemnity.
Taerian arched an eyebrow and spun him toward the pile. “Your turn. Let’s see how you fare against the might of Orlesian fashion.”
Dorian sighed theatrically as he reached for his own jacket. “Very well,” he said, his voice heavy with mock resignation. “But if this thing ruins my complexion, there will be consequences. Possibly even a strongly worded letter.”
“I’m sure Cullen will quake in his boots,” Taerian deadpanned, leaning against the desk as he crossed his arms, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Dorian made quick work of his outfit, his fingers moving with the kind of confidence that spoke to years of navigating Tevinter’s labyrinthine fashion standards. He unbuttoned his tunic with effortless grace, the smooth motion catching Taerian’s attention despite himself. Silks and leathers pooled at Dorian’s feet, his movements unhurried but deliberate, as if shedding the day’s troubles with his clothing. The firelight danced along the sharp planes of his face, and Taerian, halfway through adjusting his own ill-fitted jacket, found himself momentarily transfixed.
He tried not to stare, but his eyes followed the glide of Dorian’s hands as they tackled the jacket’s oversized buttons. A faint crease appeared on the mage’s brow as he fought with the stiff fabric. Even Dorian’s confidence seemed to falter at the sheer absurdity of the outfit. The sash came next, its iridescent fabric gleaming in the low light like some predatory creature mocking his efforts. Dorian managed it with a flourish, however, stepping back and turning to face Taerian with one hand cocked on his hip, the other adjusting the sash like an artist putting the final touches on a masterpiece.
“Well?” he drawled, his brow arching in exaggerated inquiry. “Do I pass muster, oh mighty Inquisitor?”
Taerian tried to answer but found himself at a loss for words. He blinked, then let out a helpless laugh, shaking his head as he surveyed the spectacle before him. “Resplendent,” he finally managed, though his voice shook with barely contained amusement. “You look utterly resplendent.”
Dorian’s eyebrows shot up, and a disbelieving smirk curved his lips. “Resplendent? Taerian, I look like a toy soldier that’s been dragged backward through a hedge. Twice. Possibly upside down.”
That did it. Taerian’s laugh broke free, the sound bubbling up from deep in his chest, uncontrollable and cathartic. He doubled over, clutching his stomach as his body shook with the force of it. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes as the sheer ridiculousness of their situation hit him full force. The Inquisitor of the newly emerging Inquisition, the so-called Herald of Andraste, reduced to this—dressed like a jester in a particularly garish play.
Dorian’s affronted expression faltered, giving way to reluctant amusement. A chuckle slipped from his lips, and soon he was laughing along with Taerian, their combined sounds filling the room in defiance of their looming ordeal. They leaned on each other for support as their laughter spiralled out of control, gasping for air by the time it finally subsided.
Taerian wiped at his eyes, cheeks flushed and sore from smiling. He straightened, taking in their matching outfits with fresh horror. “Creators have mercy,” he groaned, shaking his head. “We look like a pair of deranged harlequins. I can’t believe Cullen thought these were appropriate for anything, let alone a formal ball.”
Dorian plucked at the sash with a grimace, his distaste palpable. “These colours aren’t just clashing, they’re at war. It’s an affront to every sense. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy—well, perhaps one or two.”
Taerian snorted, tugging at the unyielding collar of his jacket. “I think I’ve gone blind from just looking at it. How are we supposed to navigate the Grand Game when our own outfits are out to sabotage us?”
Dorian’s smirk returned, a wicked glint in his eye. “Perhaps that’s the strategy,” he said, his voice light with mischief. “Blind the opposition with our dazzling appearance, then strike while they’re too horrified to defend themselves.”
“Ah yes,” Taerian replied, rolling his eyes, “the old shock-and-awe tactic. Forget diplomacy, we’ll just traumatise them into submission.”
Dorian’s chuckle was warm and familiar. “It would certainly make for a more memorable evening,” he mused. “I doubt even the most jaded Orlesian nobles have seen anything quite like this.”
Taerian tilted his head, considering. “Maybe these outfits are a blessing in disguise,” he said. “If we look ridiculous enough, they’ll be too distracted by our fashion disaster to care that the Inquisitor is a Dalish elf. The scandal of my ears might actually be overshadowed.”
Dorian snorted. “Oh, my sweet, naive amatus,” he sighed, shaking his head. “This is Orlais. They’ll be horrified by everything. The outfits, your heritage—it’s a veritable banquet of scandal. I’m sure they’ll find a way to tie it all together. ‘Proof that elves have no taste whatsoever. Poor creatures can’t help themselves.’”
Taerian wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I can already hear them now. ‘Oh, how quaint! The rabbit thinks he can play dress-up. Fetch him a carrot before he starts gnawing on the table legs.’”
“And they’ll titter behind their fans,” Dorian added, his voice dripping with disdain. “Thinking themselves dreadfully clever while simultaneously wondering if the rumours of elven stamina are true.”
Taerian groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Remind me why we’re doing this again?”
“Because the fate of Thedas rests on your ability to smile through your teeth and not strangle anyone with that sash,” Dorian replied, his tone playfully mocking. “And because Josephine would throttle us if we backed out now.”
“Right,” Taerian muttered. “World-saving and all that. Because that’s definitely more important than—what did you call this? Sartorial hell?”
Dorian smirked, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Clearly, this is the true test of the Inquisition’s mettle. Assassins we can handle, but the courtly critique of these outfits? That’s the real battle.”
Taerian let out a long-suffering sigh. “I’m almost hoping Celene's assassin tries it early. At least then we’d have an excuse to leave before dessert.”
Dorian laughed, low and rich, as he tugged at the offending sash. “Careful what you wish for, amatus. Knowing our luck, we’ll end up fending off assassins while still trussed up like Satinalia geese.”
The mental image hit Taerian hard, and he snorted, shaking his head. “Well, if that happens, we’ll just add it to the growing list of absurdities this Inquisition is known for.”
"I promise," Dorian muttered, tugging at the sash that threatened to cut off his circulation, "as soon as we're back at Skyhold, these monstrosities are going straight into the fireplace. I'll light the blaze myself, and we can dance naked around the flames in celebration of being free from their tyrannical grip."
Taerian snorted, the image of Dorian cavorting nude around a bonfire much more preferable. "Careful," he warned, his eyes glinting with mischief, "if the court catches wind of your pyromaniacal tendencies, they'll be even more scandalised. 'The horror, the depravity! That Tevinter savage, corrupting the Inquisitor with his wicked, fiery ways!'"
"Please," Dorian scoffed, waving a dismissive hand, "as if they needed any more reason to clutch their pearls. Let them talk. It will give them something to titter about besides the clash of our outfits against the Palace decor."
Taerian chuckled, shaking his head at Dorian's brazen disregard for the opinions of the court. He glanced toward the door, ensuring it was firmly closed, before turning back to the other mage with a sly smile playing at the corners of his lips.
He stepped closer, his fingers finding the edge of Dorian's sash, toying with the iridescent fabric as he looked up at him through lowered lashes. "Well," he murmured, his voice pitched low and inviting, "if we're going to be scandalising everyone anyway, perhaps we should give them something truly worth gossiping about."
His fingers slid higher, tracing the intricate embroidery that adorned Dorian's chest, the golden threads rough beneath his fingertips. Dorian's breath hitched, his eyes darkening as he watched Taerian's progress. "And what exactly did you have in mind?" he asked, his own hands coming to rest on the elf's hips, the heat of his touch searing even through the layers of fabric.
Taerian hummed, a considering sound, as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of Dorian's ear. "I was thinking," he breathed, his words a hot caress against Dorian's skin, "that since we're going to be stuck in these awful things for the ball, we might as well take advantage of the time we have before then." He nipped at Dorian's earlobe, a teasing bite. "After all, I don't have to be in the war room for a while yet..."
Dorian groaned, his grip on Taerian's hips tightening. "You're a menace," he accused, even as he tilted his head to give the elf better access to his neck. "A beautiful, wicked menace."
Taerian grinned against Dorian's throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "Is that a no?" he teased, his fingers deftly working at the buttons of Dorian's jacket, slipping inside to find the warm skin beneath.
" Vishante kaffas ," Dorian swore, his head falling back as Taerian's clever fingers found a particularly sensitive spot. "You know very well it isn't."
Taerian laughed. “Then come help me figure out how to get these damn things off.”
Dorian didn’t need telling twice.