Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Inquisition is holding a ball, with slightly lowered security. It’s almost too simple. Dorian’s been meaning to get a closer look at the odd, ever-growing band of heretics for some time now, quite possibly with the intention of introducing himself, and he knows a decent opportunity when it drops into his lap. He would suspect it was a trap if not for the newness of the organisation and the rumours of their ambassador’s desperation to forge alliances. That and some announcement about transparency, and welcoming allies. Throwing a masquerade to encourage transparency? Apparently they’ve never heard of irony. That or they just want an excuse for a damn good party, and it’s been far too long since he’s attended one of those.

Dorian checks himself over, raising an eyebrow at his reflection. The kohl would be too heavy to wear casually, but this is far from casual. Some would argue the gold lines were unnecessary, too, but they’d be wrong. They’re mainly to complement the mask: black and gold, too, and finely made. It took some time and a lot of bartering to obtain it from a very stuffy merchant.

He looks down and turns the mask over in his hands, too amused. For all the Inquisition is based in Ferelden and pretends at being neutral, this is all very Orlesian - back home, the only mask you’d wear to parties was the one you were born with. A Fereldan Inquisition, full of Orlesians and with a Marcher Herald. He smiles at that as he adjusts the lapels of the one half-decent formal jacket he brought with him; there’s even a little braid, because he’s never been fond of subtlety.

The Fereldan accent is just another costume, much like the high-collared shirt that’s just different enough not to be Tevinter - which he bought from a merchant while sporting said accent, and he wasn’t looked at too oddly, so it might be halfway convincing. He’s spent enough time here to pick up a few things, or so it seems. Those odd, flat vowels and unnecessarily soft consonants taste strange in his mouth; they’re rather endearing on anyone else, but much as he enjoys the play of it, the sound also feels like he’s truly erasing the last traces of his home. Here he thought it clung to him, like the dirt from the road or some sort of miasma - you’d certainly think so, from some of the glares he’s received.

Perhaps that’s what makes him reach for the amulet, almost without looking or thinking. He weighs it in his hand, considering the family crest, and finds himself slipping it round his neck, tucking it under his shirt. It’s cold against his skin, warming fast from the magical aura he’s forgotten to tamp down on. A touch of something familiar in this strange land. He’d almost forgotten how it felt to wear.

Quite different from Alexius’, of course, which was far less gaudy but a lot more functional. It was so subtle, in fact, that it had been easy enough to steal in the commotion of Alexius opening that bloody portal back in Redcliffe. (Yes, tear time apart with a giant green hole already in the sky. That’ll end well.) He’d nearly been caught in the temporal pull, but a precise Fade Step and he’d just about managed to get away from it to cast the counter-spell. That should have been five hours’ worth of calculations, not least to try and find where and when the Herald had been catapulted to, but he’d compressed them into five minutes - and don’t ask him how, because much as he hates to admit it, he still doesn’t know. But he does know how he escaped: Felix. Felix, who got him into the castle, vouched for him and told the perturbed Inquisition soldiers that this Tevinter scum was useful Tevinter scum; who distracted the troops and Alexius enough for him to slip away as the rift was opening and pulling the Herald back into reality.

He ran. Now he thinks it was foolish, but at the time he’d been too aware that his work was done and there were a worrying number of blades pointed at his throat. Truth be told, he hadn’t thought through his plan beyond “foil whatever Alexius is up to,” and it mostly seemed that the Inquisition had got there first, from what Felix had told him and the scene in the main hall. Well, aside from the whole great-big-time-portal thing. But that was solved, and the Herald was quite probably alive. Yes, he reasoned, he’d done his bit, and rather stylishly. Unwise to stay and be arrested; that wouldn’t serve anyone. He’d make a plan and then try to approach them differently, on more neutral ground. Go straight to the Herald, prove that rift was his. Yes, that seemed sensible.

He hadn’t had a chance before Haven fell, and then the great Herald was the great Inquisitor.

So here he is, wondering how slight slightly lowered is. The Nightingale is famed for her sharp eyes, after all, and the Inquisition has one of the largest and best-trained armies in the country. They’re evidently confident they can handle any threat that may occur, from the open invitation to all. But it might be a fun way to play along for a while; to get an idea of whether the Inquisition is all heretical zealotry or if they actually have a sense of humour, without playing the, oi, you’re that Vint from Redcliffe that ran away game. And it’s not as if he has any weapons on him - other than the magic in every fibre of his being, anyway - or any plans to stick a dagger in their dear leader’s throat. If all goes well, he might reveal himself later in the evening as the Herald’s saviour, put a bit of a flourish in it. Yes, why not.

He runs a hand over his face, through his hair, and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, his hair is something more formal, neatly parted, and the moustache and goatee are gone. Strange - without them he almost looks twenty-five again. The spell is a simple thing, only a glamour. Thin enough, and easily dispelled, though he won’t be the only guest sporting one, he suspects. (Orlesians.) 

He ties the mask, securing it, and examines himself. Not bad, all things considered. He probably wouldn’t recognise himself at first glance. He allows himself a moment - inhales, and tenses his shoulders, and wonders how in the Maker’s name he found himself here - then leaves, closing the door behind him.

He arrives fashionably late, but not suspiciously so. He’s as surprised as anyone else when he’s not either thrown out on his ear or escorted to the cells. In fact, he’s barely given a second glance. He’s almost insulted.

He smoothly takes a glass of wine from one of the servants, then makes his way to a corner of the room, leans against the walls and watches his surroundings. He hates to lurk in the shadows like some villainous cliche, but it’s best to get an idea of what kind of affair this is, especially now things are fully underway.

The music is loud and just on the formal-enough side of raucous. The chamber orchestra are playing with obvious flair. There are couples dancing in what looks to be some sort of folkish turning arrangement. It would probably be frighteningly gauche at home, or even in Orlais. Kaffas, he’d have to be drunk to even attempt it - and that almost makes him want to try while perfectly sober, just out of bloodymindedness. But no, he’d never live it down.

He turns his head at a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye.

There’s a man walking away from the dancers, still half-laughing at something someone has said. White teeth against pale lips and clean-shaven skin, a bashful downturn of the head, a glance over his shoulder as he walks away. He makes his way quietly to this shadowed little corner, and Dorian wonders if he’s attempting to be inconspicuous. It wouldn’t work. Even with a relaxed slouch to his frame, he’s built like a wall. A ponytailed, rather fine-shouldered wall. The blue coat highlights that, and in shade it almost matches the mask, drawing attention to the paleness of his skin.

It’s a moment, a brief thing: their eyes meet. Something crosses the man’s face, though with the mask and what Dorian has a feeling is a carefully controlled expression, it’s hard to tell what. Surprise, perhaps, or… interest. Then it’s gone, and the stranger’s walking on, and Dorian’s dismissing it as a lethal combination of boredom and wishful thinking.

However, he’s less surprised than he should be when a throat is cleared next to him. He looks to his side, and into bright, curious blue eyes. “Interesting,” he says.

The stranger raises an eyebrow; it’s just visible above the mask.

Dorian pretends to look thoughtful. “You managed... roughly two and a half minutes, I’d say.” The false accent still sits strangely in his mouth; he wonders if he’ll be able to inject enough wryness into it to suit his purposes. Then he smiles, to show there’s no edge to the observation, only a mild amusement. “Was there something you needed?”

“I was about to ask you the same.” And ah, a noble - regardless of nationality, the cut-glass polish to the Common is obvious. Surprisingly soft-spoken, too. “You looked like you might want to dance. Or am I wrong?” There’s genuine uncertainty there, and not a hint of arrogance. Strange. Dorian almost wonders if he was wrong on the nobility assessment. That and he has to tamp down on his surprise, because… here? In front of an entire ballroom?

He says none of that, of course. Instead he looks back to where skirts are swirling and music is echoing, and replies, “That’s dancing? I’d assumed it was more… miscellaneous jumping.” At the quiet huff of laughter next to him, he returns his gaze to the man who’s… “I take it you’re offering to be my partner?”

In response he gets a slightly sheepish half-smile and, “I’m not much of a dancer. Decent jumper.”

Later, he’ll blame curiosity and relief at finding someone as bemused by all this as he is. For the moment, when he’s offered a gloved hand, he takes it. He puts his glass neatly aside and looks up - into that soft smile, which still contains the slightest hint of surprise. There are silver accents in the mask; he quite likes it, all told. He likes, too, the gentle encouragement of that grip, and the crinkling around those eyes. As if there’s no agenda behind any of this, it’s simply for the sake of enjoyment and a little company.

He lets himself be led onto the floor, keeping his walk casual, as if he infiltrates Inquisitions and dances with men every day. There’s a tug on his hand, and he raises it, interlaces his fingers with his partner’s and gets a decent grip -

And then he’s being pulled into a dance. It’s fast-paced and he’s being all but dragged, but somehow he can’t bring himself to mind. He’s spun until the world around him blurs, and then ushered back into some kind of hold. They turn together quickly, and there seems to be some sort of skipping element to this, with no room for grace, and honestly, Southerners. He laughs breathlessly before he can stop himself, dignity be damned. He hears a low noise and realises that the man dancing with him is doing the same.

“Yes, a decent jumper,” he says, as close to the other man’s ear as he can, and he receives another of those rough, low laughs for his trouble. It ruffles his hair. He feels silk and leather against his own glove, and he realises that at some point  he’s slipped his arm round the stranger’s waist - possibly clinging on for dear life, possibly something else.

Their eyes meet, and there it is, almost swallowed by the strange desire to laugh again and to abandon dignity altogether - a spark of something races down his spine. Oh, he thinks. Then he’s looking down, checking his footing.

The music slows slightly, and the man’s grip loosens. It’s a good opportunity, so Dorian takes it: he leads the stranger into a spin, getting his own back. It’s flashy and unnecessary and, all told, rather fun. And fun - isn’t that the thing? It’s been far too long since he’s had any, since he came to this bloody backwater. The music is slowing properly now, on its way to a halt; he can take his cue. He reels his mystery partner back in, and then… then there’s a man in his arms, grinning at him. He can feel the smile on his own face, and they’re both panting in the silence. They’re closer than he intended.

He realises he might have made a slight miscalculation as those startlingly blue eyes meet his, intent, and for a moment they seem to slip to his mouth. Even here, where things are different, it would be more than foolish to assume -

Ser Tall, Pale and Awkward gives him a softer half-smile, almost apologetic, and steps back, bows to him. “I’m impressed.”

Dorian does the same. “I’m impressive,” he says. It’s meant to be airy, but he’s still a little breathless.

“Didn’t disagree.”

Dorian realises after too long that they’re still standing there, and if he doesn’t say something soon, they’ll just be smiling stupidly at each other. His reputation will never recover. He looks around, suddenly too aware that there are eyes on them. He’d almost forgotten, somehow. “Don’t you have someone else to throw about?”

An incredulous look. “Have you seen me dance? No one else’d let me.”

He laughs at that; it’s louder than he intended, and entirely genuine. “I have few complaints. Fewer than I should.” He finds that they’re walking away from the dancefloor, falling into step with each other. It’s strangely comfortable. “Drink?”

His new acquaintance plucks one from the tray of a passing servant, thanking her with a few quiet words, and turns back to him. “How about you?”

Dorian returns to his former spot and raises his glass. He sniffs it conspicuously. “Well, it doesn’t appear to have been poisoned. Decent wine, as well. I’d ask where they’d found it - ”

“A gift from a Duke Ferdinand of… something,” the man replies. It’s rapidly becoming a mumble, and something guilty is in his eyes. Dorian’s surprise must be obvious, because the stranger adds quickly, “The ambassador told me. I saw her here somewhere.” He looks around him, tensing slightly. And then he looks back to Dorian, with a tilt of his head. “So…” he begins, and seems to lose the words.

Dorian steps in for him. “Let me guess: ‘what’s a nice man like you doing in a place like this?’”

That low, husky laugh again. “You’re nice?”

Dorian smirks. “What, can’t you tell? Is the mask throwing you off?”

Improbably broad shoulders tense, and the stranger rubs an awkward hand at the back of his neck. “Not that I think you… It’s been a long time. I don’t really… do parties.”

“Really? Pity. You’re quite entertaining.” He shouldn’t be doing this, not with someone he barely knows - he hasn’t even seen behind the mask - but not flirting would be like… well, not breathing. It is a party, after all.

That shy smile again, and the man’s eyes are downcast. “I haven’t seen you round here before. I'm sure I’d remember.”

“I’m… somewhat new to the Inquisition.” Well, it’s the truth; he’s been here an hour and a half. “You?”

“I’ve been here since the start.” It’s said with a half-laugh and a glance away. “Nearly. I’m… I’m a soldier. That was what they needed me for.”

The frame and the bluntness make sense, even if the accent doesn’t. “Ah. That would explain a lot.”

The questioning eyebrow makes a return.

“The shoulders, mainly,” Dorian says, with a casual tone less reflected by his heartbeat, taking a mouthful of wine.

He’s certain that were it not for the mask, the owner of said shoulders would be pink round the cheeks; it’s in his eyes, the twist of his mouth. Yet there’s also something assessing, a quiet weight. “You look like you fight, too.”

Dorian allows himself a huff of laughter and a half-truth. “I’d be useless with a shield in my hand.”

“Wish I could say the same,” is the reply. “For me, it’s nobles. And parties. I’ve had three Orlesians try to tell me about the line of my coat in half an hour.” A quiet exhale, and the stranger looks towards the doors before meeting Dorian’s eyes again. “The gardens here are… I’ve heard they’re something to see. Especially with the season."

This is a terrible idea in all sorts of ways, but the alternative would mean skulking in some corner without the first decent company he’s found here, and that’s somehow unappealing. “I could do with some air,” Dorian says, and smiles.

His companion leaves some perfectly good wine behind. He doesn’t make the same mistake. He keeps it in his hand as they leave the main hall, the music fading behind them. He follows, and they duck through first one door, then another, until he’s looking at what in daylight would be a bright, vibrant tree clad in orange leaves, a well-tended lawn, some sort of summerhouse. There are herb gardens, too, probably for poultices.

The soldier sticks his hands into expensively lined pockets, slouching, and glances around them. “I hope your feet are all right.”

Admittedly, it takes Dorian a moment to understand, and then he scoffs. “Your dancing wasn’t that bad.”

“I was more trained in… something slower.”

“Such as?”

“Waltzes. I think they were waltzes.” The soldier moves as if to run an awkward hand through his hair, then appears to remember that it’s firmly tied back.

“I’d like to see your waltz,” Dorian says, but there’s a softness to the words that is… dangerous. “For amusement, if nothing else.”

“I probably shouldn’t dance again. Ever.” The last word is a ground-out mutter that makes Dorian laugh.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to change your mind?” Dorian keeps his voice light.

That silent, assessing look. “For you, I might.” Swallowing, the soldier glances at the oak, the elfroot growing a few feet away. “How are you finding the Inquisition?”

“I’m sure the tree’s having a good time.” When he receives a sheepish look, Dorian continues, “And I’ve found it to be… surprisingly pleasant.” He moves slightly, significantly closer, but only half a step or so; plausible deniability is still present. They continue their slow, meandering stroll. “How about you? How are you finding this fascinating little cult?”

The soldier looks surprised at the question, mouth opening under the mask. Then he ducks his head, appearing to consider the question, and the hint of a smile comes to his face. “I know it sounds strange, but I like it here. Even with the Breach, and the war. All my friends are here. Even if the responsibility is…” He abruptly cuts himself off. “I don’t like to think about how I could disappoint.”

And Dorian really does scoff at that, unable to help himself. “Who would consider you disappointing?” But he knows nothing of this man, of his life, he reminds himself; nothing at all. Still, he sees a wan, grateful half-smile cross the other man’s face. He decides to move things along. “So… the Inquisitor.”

The soldier exhales lowly, looking into Dorian’s eyes as if preparing to take a hit.

“I assume you’ve run into him at some point? The fortress can’t be that large, after all.”

With a surprised arch of his eyebrows, the soldier replies, “I don’t…” He swallows, pauses. He shrugs. “The Inner Circle see him most. Everyone else… less. It shouldn’t be that way.”

“Is he decent?”

Another shrug. “Think he tries to be. Too many people suffer if he isn’t.”

“Interesting. You don’t sound like you think he’s up to much.”

The soldier keeps his eyes on the stars - Dorian tries not to consider too much the strong line of his jaw, the skin bared by that simple Marcher collar - and says, “The only difference between him and anyone else here is the Mark on his hand.”

Dorian grins at that. “You think he’s a jumped-up footsoldier.” Better than a tyrant.

Looking surprised, the other man responds, “You took the words out of my mouth.” He shrugs. “I came here to help, not for posturing. You?”

Dorian peers at him, wondering if it’s a southern thing to be quite so laconic. “’Me’ what?”

“Why did you end up here?”

Dorian considers it. “For the same reasons you did. Someone had to do something other than pontificate or gawp at the spectacle.”

“Admirable.”

“Practical,” Dorian corrects. “I quite like living. I’d rather continue doing it. I think you’ll find I’m far from the heroic type.”

“You seem decent to me,” the soldier says quietly, looking into his eyes.

An odd thing, a compliment that’s seemingly without an agenda or any sharp edges. Dorian’s almost uncertain how to respond, something rising in his chest that he doesn’t know how to contain. “Fooled you, have I? That won’t last long.” He pauses. “You’re not much good at playing the Game, are you?”

“You don’t look like you mind.”

“Oh, I don’t. You’re rather… refreshing. Can’t say I’ve met many like you in the Inquisition.”

The soldier raises a brow. “Didn’t think I was that unusual.”

“Oh, believe me, you are. Unless all the troops are like you. Is it something in the training that makes you all so droll?”

The soldier becomes not sad or offended, but pensive. He seems the sort of man who often is. “That started before the Inquisition.” Then his cheer returns, or seems to. “Do you really want to talk about work at a party?”

Dorian tilts his head. “You’re quite right. I have a better idea.” He puts aside his glass for the last time - it’s quite empty - and takes the man’s hand, leading him backwards: somewhere quieter, and darker, where the music is faint and there’s barely a slight glow from the candles close to the door. Aware of that, he calls to mind a wisp and lets it go, gently. It floats until it comes to an almost-standstill, hovering above their heads and casting a softer light so that neither will go head-over-heels from some unexpected rock.

The soldier watches it, light reflected in his eyes. There’s fascination in his face, but no fear, unlike too many in the South. “You’re a mage.”

“I am. Unless you thought that was simply an elaborate illusion.”

The soldier continues to follow him, and says, “I wondered. Thought I could sense something.” But before Dorian has a chance to enquire about that, the man’s continuing, “Where are you from? You sound Fereldan, but I can’t place it.”

 “Redcliffe,” Dorian answers, mentally checking his accent; it’s plausible, just about, and the simplest answer. “You?”

“Ostwick.” Thereby explaining the accent. “What are you - ?” The last words are soft and far from displeased as Dorian eases him closer, placing a hand on his back. “This… this isn’t a waltz.”

“No.” It’s slower and altogether more informal than that, neither one dance nor another, a sway that’s halfway to an embrace. Dorian falls into leading, enjoyable as the alternative was. “I could try one, if you’d like?”

 “No, this is good. Very good.” A smile is in the words.

 The soldier looks into Dorian’s eyes as they move, and Dorian feels a gloved hand slip around to his back, urging him nearer. He goes willingly. Maker, the man’s warm. Perhaps it’s a Southern thing. Either way, he wants to press closer and steal some of that heat, and yet he’s also… oddly content. It’s strange how comfortable this is. There’s an ease to it all. Time is slipping away, and comfort should feel like complacency, and yet he can’t bring himself to mind; he’s happy to stay here, with…

 Those eyes slide away from his, the soldier tilting his head. Listening. The words are low, but pleasant. “Dance tonight, for it may be your last,” he sings, “As kings said to soldiers…”

 "...In courts of times past,” Dorian finishes quietly. “Rather a morbid choice for a party, wouldn’t you say?” 

 More of that rough laughter. “We could go back and tell them.”

 Dorian pointedly tugs him closer. “I think not. I’ve got you right where I want you.”

 In response Dorian receives a grin and, “You keep stealing my words.” There’s very little space between them now. And then his companion says quietly, “It’s been a while. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

 He’s about to ask for clarification, but then there’s a mouth covering his. It’s a gentle kiss, barely there - then the man is stepping back, blinking as if he can’t believe his own boldness, before looking at Dorian questioningly.

 “...Ah,” Dorian says, smiling.

 He allows himself a moment to consider how very inadvisable this is, and then he leans across, cups the soldier’s face and pulls him back to continue where they left off. A small, surprised inhale, and then there are hands at his waist and he lets himself be gently but inexorably pressed back against the nearest pillar. The kiss is soft, sweet, all brushes that never last too long, or long enough. It feels like an invitation. He’d think he was being teased, if not for - The stranger draws back to half-smile at him, and he knows he is. Now where does an awkward soldier learn to kiss like this?

 He’s never one to refuse a challenge, however. He draws the man back, into something deeper, rather liking the low, approving noise he gets for his trouble. His stranger kisses with a quiet curiosity, exploratory but never pushing. It’s a banked heat, oddly… tender. He finds himself chasing it, made breathless once again, but this time for an entirely different reason. One of his hands finds its way to his companion’s back, and in turn, there are fingers brushing his jaw, settling against his neck and then… touching the chain.

A pause, and the stranger’s drawing back, following the chain with interest - and he really does have very long eyelashes. “What’s this?” he asks, as he reaches the amulet and weighs it in his hand, turning it in his fingers, examining it.

Dorian gives a mental sigh. It was risky, wearing his birthright, but it’s taken months to regain it and he didn’t want to lose the bloody thing. Besides, it was safely tucked inside his collar - emphasis on the was. “Old family heirloom,” he says smoothly.

“Beautifully made. Not a crest I know.” But to the man’s credit, he simply tucks it carefully back into Dorian’s shirt and leans in again.

They part too soon. The soldier’s eyes flutter open slowly, and it’s followed by an exhale, then a smile that would light up rooms, were they not in the deepest shadows this garden has to offer. The stranger says roughly, with a hint of incredulous laughter, “I… You’re… Who are you?”

Dorian finds he’s rather enjoying this game - and besides, he’d rather not end the night escorted out of the door by several well-armed guests. “Unfair of you to ask. This is a masquerade. But if we’re speaking of truths…” He brushes his thumb across that soft, surprisingly full lower lip, and reveals his findings further. “Makeup. How interesting.” There is a line of black ink revealed on the stranger’s mouth, going a little below his lips. A tattoo, and probably a distinctive one. Dorian would wager it goes further, were powders and paint to be removed. He narrows his eyes, and gives the man a half-smile of challenge. “I’m not the only one hiding, it seems.”

The stranger blinks rapidly, and swallows, tensing. “I… I don’t normally…”

“If we’re not going to play by the rules of this game, I’ll return your question. Who are you?”

Definite surprise is visible, even with the mask, and something like relief - then it’s shut away. “As you said: it’s a masquerade.” The hint of a smile.

“Hypocrisy is an unattractive trait.” But Dorian’s smiling, too; he can’t help himself. “Not that you seem to have many of those.”

That sheepish, surprised half-grin again. “You’d be the first to say that.”

A bell rings somewhere inside the castle, and they both look up. It rings again, and again.

The time for unmasking. Dorian realises several things at once: that he’s achieved not one of his aims since he came here; that the Inquisition can’t be entirely bad if it contains such enjoyably distracting men; and that between the magelight and everything else, his mana is running low - the glamour will only last for so long, and then there may well be awkward questions. A controlled unmasking might have worked, but an accidental one is another thing entirely. This is precisely the wrong time and place to explain his presence here.

“What is it?” 

He looks back to the man watching him with more than a little worry, and says, “I should go.”

Tensing, the soldier asks bluntly, “Me, or something else?”

“Definitely something else. Believe me, if I had the time, I’d ask you whether you fancied discussing things further in my quarters.” Not that he has any here, but the intent is the thing. He enjoys the inhale that gets him, and the darkening of blue eyes, visible even in low magelight. “But time’s the issue. Much as I’d prefer it to be otherwise...” He brushes a hand along the man’s cheek, beneath the mask, as he steps back. He has an absurd urge to cling to this moment, or to say thank you. An even more absurd one to stay. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t mean to say that, either.

The soldier swallows, reaches out, and their fingers touch. “If there’s any way, I’d like to see you again.”

That’s unexpected enough that it makes Dorian pause, but… no time. Some fool possesses his mouth and makes him say, “It’s mutual. I’ll… I’ll find you.” It can’t be that hard. The Inquisition’s army is rather large, but there can only be so many soldiers with templar abilities - judging from the sensing of magic - and facial tattoos who are built like a house. He only realises that he’s returned to steal one last kiss when he hears the low noise of surprise being made against his mouth, and draws back.

“Please…” the soldier manages, still sounding breathless. “Just your name?”

“When I return. I promise.” It's far too Tevinter for here and now, without adequate explanation, without adequate time. If he just had more time... I want to know yours too, he doesn’t say. No time. And then he’s turning to leave, leaving the wisp behind him to dissipate, his walk too fast to be casual, wondering what in the Void is wrong with him. He keeps his eyes on the path ahead, too afraid that if he looks back, he might stay. He slips back into the main hall and then out of the main doors, the gates.

It’s not a long ride to the small, unobtrusive village where he’s staying, but by the time he returns to his room, the magic is already wearing thin. He already looks like himself again. He puts the mask aside, meets his eyes in the looking glass, and shakes his head at his own foolishness.

He dreams of low laughter, half a song and a mouth on his.

Well, his first plan didn’t work. In fact, it not-worked in spectacular fashion. Not only has he failed to meet the Inquisitor, he’s now getting distracted by idle imaginings of hypothetical, bashful troops that kiss like desire demons.

His second strategy is much less convoluted: walk through the front gates, explain he has some pertinent information about what happened in Redcliffe, and ask for an audience with the Inquisitor. Show his palms and say he’s an ally. They don’t seem the type to stab and ask questions later, from what he’s seen.

So after leaving it a week to untangle the logistics, that’s precisely what he does. The reactions range from bemused to outright aggressive - he hears the mutters of “Vint” around him, even if he pretends not to - but no-one has a sword at his throat, so he declares it a tentative success. Everyone appears to be squinting at him and looking for some sort of trap. Understandable; he’d do the same. He’s been waiting in the main courtyard a few minutes, with several troops conspicuously loitering too close and not-glaring at him, when a woman approaches him who, from everything he’s heard, must be their ambassador.

“Lord Pavus,” she says, in a very Antivan accent. Definitely the ambassador.

He assumes his charm like one would a cloak, and gives her his dinner-party smile, bowing his head. “Lady Montilyet.”

“Magister Alexius’ son spoke of you, and of your actions at Redcliffe. It’s good to meet you at last.”

Of course Felix did. He’ll thank him later. “The honour is all mine. It’s hard not to hear of the Inquisition’s impressive diplomatic arm.”

She smiles at that, and glances at her notes. “You are too kind. I’ve notified the Inquisitor of your arrival. He’s ready to see you now. He seems… quite curious about the events in Redcliffe Castle, and your part in them. Particularly the magic involved.”

“So I’m to regale him with tales of my casting brilliance? That I can certainly do.”

She laughs slightly. “I think he would enjoy that. However, it may be better to start with facts.”

“Really? A shame. Those aren’t nearly as much fun.”

Shaking her head and seeming amused, she asks, “Is there anything more you need?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“Then if you would follow me.”

He’s led up two sets of stairs, and then into a very, very familiar hall - only this time, it’s much quieter. He hears the hush that falls as he arrives, and a few heads turn. It makes sense, he supposes: it’s rather harder to pull off an assassination in front of so many people.

Ah, yes. This time, the throne is occupied. He’s not there yet, so he only takes a brief look, and he sees the Inquisitor straighten slightly, as if surprised. He’s so busy analysing the crowd around him and the ambassador next to him that it takes him aback when he hears:

“The magic in Redcliffe… it felt the same. That rift was yours.”

Dorian pauses a few feet away, and looks up.

The Inquisitor is quite a sight, in leathers and chain, with what looks like war paint smeared around his eyes. The tattoos are certainly something, too, as is the hair. The wildness of that, and the way he leans on an elbow as if he’s simply in his favourite armchair, are somehow at odds with his rank and the formality of this arrangement.

The voice is oddly familiar, but Dorian’s heard several Marchers since he came here. For a moment he thinks they must have met, but that can’t be right. Then he looks at the tattoo on Trevelyan’s lower lip, and the startling blue of those eyes against the tattoos and kohl that are almost, but not quite, reminiscent of a mask.

Festis bei umo canavarum.  

The Maker evidently has a sense of humour. Of course it had to be the bloody Inquisitor. The Inquisitor gave him a bashful grin and dragged him onto the dancefloor, with a laugh like sin. The Inquisitor has sighed into a kiss and pulled him closer. The Inquisitor wanted to see him again, practically pleaded with him for his name, and is looking at him without a hint of recognition, because he’s extraordinarily good at disguising himself when he wants to be. Even the magic won’t give him away: a simple wisp in a garden, made by a mage carefully limiting his aura, is nothing like the flashiness of temporal disruption in Redcliffe.

He thinks something in the region of his chest breaks. It might have been different when he was going to see a simple footsoldier, but a Tevene reject can’t pursue the Inquisitor in front of an entire court. Assuming the Inquisitor would have interest in a Tevinter anything; he may pretend otherwise, but he knows how his homeland is perceived here. Realistically, it could never be… anything. Anything at all. Hope is cruel - he should have learned that well enough back home.

He swallows and puts on another, very different mask. “It was indeed. A pleasure to meet you.” He bows deeply, with a flourish, and for a moment he’s back in a ballroom, opposite a man who seems rather fond of him. However, he blinks and the illusion is gone. “Dorian, of House Pavus. Most recently of Minrathous.”

When he looks up to that preposterous throne, Trevelyan is watching him with interest. “Galahad Trevelyan, of Ostwick. Thank you for saving my life.”

If Dorian were a less disciplined man, he might gape at such an informal response. Instead, he says, “Blame Felix. He alerted me to your… unfortunate situation. I apologise for my mentor’s manners.”

“The trying to kill me?”

“If you’re a magister, that’s just ‘hello.’”

And Trevelyan is… smiling, subtle as it is. “When’s your attempt?”

Dorian sighs and assumes his best put-upon expression. “Let’s get this out of the way: I’m not a magister. Mage from Tevinter, yes. Magister, no.” Oh, he’s just asking to be hit with something for his disrespect, but old habits are too easy to fall into. 

The smile doesn’t fall. “Understood. Then why are you here?”

“I came here to ask whether you could do with a time mage. Useful in a pinch. I can also set things on fire, of course, and I have some knowledge of certain Venatori members.”

Trevelyan concedes that with a tilt of his head. “Does sound useful.” He stands, then, and steps down from the dais, in a move that has Dorian fighting not to stare. He offers his hand.

Again, Dorian looks at it, and considers, even if it’s only for half a moment. Then he takes it and shakes it, in the Marcher fashion. 

Trevelyan’s smile isn’t subtle at all, this time - it’s all but a beam, bright and surprisingly infectious. (Even better than Dorian imagined. It changes Trevelyan’s entire being, makes him someone familiar. It makes him someone Dorian can suddenly, sharply remember kissing in a darkened garden.) “Welcome to the Inquisition, Lord Pavus.”

It’s too much to say call me Dorian. Not yet. His mind already has more than enough to taunt him with. Frankly, he’s relieved he can look Trevelyan in the eye.

He wouldn’t say he’s avoiding the Inquisitor, exactly. That would be juvenile, and besides, there’s plenty of research he needs to share with The Herald of Andraste, He of the Mighty Maker-Marked Hand, One True Saviour of The World, so on. He’s simply… devoting resources to where they’re needed most. Which tends to be the library, rather than anywhere he might run into Trevelyan.

He’s been in the castle for four days, which have mostly been spent adjusting to his quarters and rearranging the Arcane Sciences section of the library (it’s woefully understocked and he’s been making a list for the librarian). He’s working his way through the Fire Studies section, wondering whether he should tell them that Gentford’s theories were disproven in the Imperium years ago, when he hears quiet footsteps behind him.

He turns and - of course - almost comes face to face with the Inquisitor.

Trevelyan’s only in simple kohl, rather than the battle-paint of before, and his hair’s simply knotted at the nape of his neck; Dorian wonders if he’s been training. He keeps a safe distance between them, a foot or two, and his expression is patient. “Good morning.”

“It is, isn’t it? No rips in time, and you appear to have some Marcellus. Your librarian must be half-decent.” 

Trevelyan smiles at that. Here, slouched and comfortable, he’s somehow less imposing. “Don’t tell him that. He barely lets me near the Imperial literature as it is.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow, suddenly wondering what kind of reading Trevelyan’s doing between missions.

Trevelyan glances towards the books, almost seeming sheepish, and then it passes and his face is stonier. “We’re heading out to the Hinterlands. I could do with a decent mage, and you know the area. Would you be able to come with us?”

Dorian ignores the thousand sarcastic responses that come to mind, and nods instead. “I would.”

“Two hours? Meet us by the stables?”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

Something crosses Trevelyan’s face, briefly, but then it’s gone. He nods in return, and leaves as quietly as he came.

Dorian watches him go, and turns over Imperial literature in his mind. Jumped-up footsoldier indeed.

Trevelyan fights like a demon made of bared teeth and visceral presence, covered in mud and blood and smeared paint by the end of every battle. They run into red templars over by the East Road, and Dorian proceeds to watch Trevelyan cut a swathe through them.

They’re halfway through the fight when he hears, “Dorian, behind you!” 

He turns, ducks a sword, and then matter-of-factly roasts the templar wielding it. He nods his thanks to Trevelyan, and then tops up Trevelyan’s barrier before the man goes roaring back into the fight. Somewhere in it all, he ends up ducking behind Trevelyan’s shield and being passed a lyrium potion. He takes a swig and exhales as the magical energy flows back into his bones. The first thing he does is refresh the barrier around himself and Trevelyan - honestly, can’t the Herald go two minutes without running straight at their enemies? - then he’s back in the thick of the fight. It’s all surprisingly easy, as if it’s muscle memory.

“Thank you,” he says afterwards. Behind them, the severe Seeker is still cleaning her sword, and the elven archer, Sera, is checking over her bow and muttering curses. “I’m rather glad I’m not a smear on some red templar’s sword.”

Trevelyan turns to look at him with the flattered surprise that’s growing to be painfully familiar. “Same to you. Nice barrier work.”

Dorian recovers his wits and meets Trevelyan’s eyes rather than glancing away to the trees or the sky or anywhere else. He’s not some mooning, spurned adolescent. He raises an eyebrow and says, “The lyrium potion was a nice touch.”

Trevelyan shrugs. “You were drained. Looked like you needed it.”

And there’s the reminder of these odd magical-sensing abilities. “Here’s the thing that interests me: Felix told me of your actions at Redcliffe. You took the mages as allies, and you aren’t throwing a tantrum about having me at your back, in spite of… well.”

It’s Trevelyan’s turn to raise a brow. “Well?

“You must be some sort of templar, and yet the ones I’ve run into so far didn’t seem as pleased to see me. Or mages in general.”

“I’m not a templar.” Trevelyan meets his eyes and states slowly, “Chantry-trained, yes. Templar, no.”

It takes a moment for Dorian to recognise the tone, and to notice the tinge of amusement in Trevelyan’s voice, and he remembers his own words in the throne room. “So it’s like that, is it?” He huffs a laugh. “I’m an altus. Is there a word for what you are?”

That half-grin, and the hint of a laugh. “A failed experiment.”

Dorian can recognise jokes intended to cover bitterness. He keeps his words airy and says, “Odd definition of failure they have. Or did I just imagine the sprawling fortress and army of the faithful?” 

Trevelyan gives an amused shake of his head.

“But honestly, I’m curious. Supporting the mages can’t have been popular.”

With another shrug, as if it’s simple, Trevelyan says, “No-one deserves to be hated for the way they were born.”

Dorian considers that. “I suppose you’re right. An admirable attitude.”

Dorian falls back for the sake of his own sanity, pretending to examine the focusing crystal on his staff. No, it’s still too easy. He’d expected Trevelyan to be stuffier, perhaps supercilious, without a mask to hide behind, not… almost precisely the same. 

The next few hours are, luckily, uneventful. They make camp, and after eating some kind of hideous stew with a speed that would make his mother murder him, he ends up sitting next to the fire. Seeker Pentaghast has already retired, and Sera is some way away, probably splashing about in the lake. He’s reading, in an effort to make his mind stop ticking.(But surely if red lyrium can adapt to the nervous system…) 

“Is that The Five Magicks?” 

He looks up, to where Trevelyan’s across the fire, methodically polishing a breastplate, and says, “It might be. Are you a fan of Coulter’s?” 

Trevelyan makes a caught-out face. “I liked his work on arcane spread.”

It makes a sort of sense, Dorian supposes; templar trainees must have to do some reading too. “Are you thinking of the first or second theory, or both?” 

“Second.” Trevelyan holds up the breastplate and squints at it, before putting it aside. “The one on the properties of flame.”

“Yes,” Dorian muses, stroking his chin. “He was rather a fine pyromancer, by all accounts. Though I was told it paled in comparison to his work with ice transformation.”

At first Dorian wonders if it might just be the flicker of shadows on Trevelyan’s face, but no, that’s definitely another smile - and a bright one. “His demonstration in Ostwick was…” Trevelyan cuts that off with a yawn. “Sorry. Long day. He showed some of his techniques one day, at a noble’s house. Saw it after I came back home.” He sighs and nods to his tent, standing and taking the breastplate. “I should…”

“Sleep well, Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan pauses and looks over his shoulder. “Gal. Most people call me Gal.”

Dorian nods, and his voice is too quiet when he says, “Then sleep well, Gal.” He looks back to the book before his face can give too much away. This was never how I imagined learning your name.

“Your little stunt at the ball did not go unnoticed, Monsieur Pavus.”

It’s been two days since he returned from the Hinterlands. He’s surprised it’s taken her so long. He turns to the Inquisition’s spymaster, who is watching him with crossed arms and an unnerving, now-silent stare, and he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“At first I thought it must be an intelligence-gathering mission, or an assassination attempt. But your actions at Redcliffe gave me pause, and on the night it became apparent quite quickly. You really had no idea who he was, did you?” She laughs, but it’s more a knife in the dark than a thing of any humour. “It’s almost romantic.”

He sighs. “Yes, yes, I’m being watched very closely in case I attempt to murder your dear Inquisitor in his sleep. I’d assumed that was the case. Is there a point to this?”

She tilts her head, as if idly examining him, the way he might look at an interesting rune. “You’ve had many opportunities to harm or influence him. Was it necessary to try and seduce him as well?”

He straightens his spine and looks down his nose at her. “I’ll reiterate: I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She turns to go and says, “He did, however, when I spoke to him.”

And that’s… too much, even for all the training he received in mansions and Circles. “Does he know?” There’s a rough, desperate edge to his question that he hates.

She pauses, triumph in her stance. “Who he met at that party? No. But you could tell him.”

“I… no. Bad idea.”

She shrugs. “There are worse ones.”

With that, she wanders off to terrify someone else - or a nation - and he’s left with his thoughts. How he wishes he wasn’t; he usually does his best to avoid them.

He doesn’t know why he’s dwelling on it. It was just a kiss, for fuck’s sake.

There are nights when he wakes up in a foreign bed and a room where the air’s too cold, and it takes a moment. Sometimes he ends up taking the birthright at his neck and turning it over in his fingers without even looking at it, the metal and the low thrum of enchantments something… constant. Familiar. But now he remembers careful hands examining it, too. Blue eyes meeting his, and the brush of gloved fingers against his chest.

Damn it.

He’s called out again, this time to the Hissing Wastes. There are Venatori, yes, but in between there are miles and miles of nothing. Tedious, empty nothing. The stars are beautiful, however; that’s something, so he focuses on constellations, recalling knowledge that has grown slightly dusty with disuse. It’s helpful to navigate - he knows Gal’s decent with a map, but if he lets himself think that he’s walking in circles, he’ll go mad. When not doing that, he takes to mentally reciting Horatius’ elements, or - even better - irritating Sera, to stop himself from falling asleep on his feet or focusing on the many inconvenient places where sand seems to be gathering. 

It’s some time after they’ve stopped and camped, darkness setting in and the temperature dropping, that he finds himself sitting by the fire, summoning ice into his palm, between his fingers - or more precisely, a representation of it. It’s not too cold - more of a tickle, if anything - and it gathers with a quiet whisper and a low light, rather than the flashiness of his usual style. He had some energy left and he was getting twitchy; this is absentminded habit rather than something for an audience. He lets it build with a half-thought, still staring at the sky, until someone sits next to him and says, “Draconis.”

That drags him back from his trance.“Hm? Oh, yes.” He looks at the little dragon forming in his palm, and realises which constellation exactly his eyes - and thoughts - had drifted to. The High Dragon. Then he looks back to Gal.

Gal, who’s watching the magic, silent but bright-eyed, looking more than a little enraptured. Dorian remembers the man speaking of being fascinated by Coulter’s ice demonstrations, and he can see it now.

“Thought you weren’t too fond of the cold,” Gal says. 

Dorian pretends not to be too surprised - what, Gal’s actually listened to his muttered complaints? - and then says, “It’s not cold, exactly. Here, let me show you.” He holds out his hands, and Gal obediently does the same. For one bright moment their fingers brush; he feels it down his spine, and he has to work to make sure the spell stays stable. Then he tips the little ice-dragon into Gal’s palm. “It shouldn’t melt, if the spell holds. I do try for decent craftsmanship.”

Gal holds it carefully, as if he isn’t a man who destroys Pride demons and batters Venatori. There’s a trace of that flat warrior’s focus left, but it’s fast being erased by the look in his eyes - he watches it with interest, often glancing back to Dorian, seeming… entranced. (Almost as if someone’s conjured a magelight in front of him and led him into a dance. No, no more of that. That way lies madness.) “More than decent,” Gal says, his voice quiet.

The thought creeps in. “I did this on the journey here occasionally, to stave off boredom. It’s a simple trick, by Tevinter standards. It took my mind off the sea, at least.”

Gal looks at him curiously. “Seasick?”

“An understatement, to say the least. I was surprised when I made it ashore in one piece.”

Gal smiles at that. “I’m glad you did. We needed a decent source on the Imperium.” He meets Dorian’s eyes, and his smile softens. “And it sounds like the library would be worse off.”

Dorian tries not to think too much. He tries to still his mind and not hope - not admire - not anything. He tries to ignore the odd warmth in his stomach, his chest, growing despite the cold desert night.

Still with that smile - there should be some sort of law against it, surely - Gal offers him the dragon. Dorian reaches out a hand, and Gal slips the little manifestation into his palm. Gal cups his hand underneath Dorian’s, steadying it, careful. He removed his gauntlets when they made camp, and his skin is warm, only slightly rough. Their eyes meet. 

Dorian wants, suddenly, viciously -

Instead he looks away, blows on the dragon gently and watches it disappear. He smiles, and it feels too much like a mask.

It was all so much easier before the Inquisitor was Gal, a man who reads Coulter and watches Dorian’s magic with fascination, and steps in front of blows meant for friends with barely a thought, and quietly passes him extra lyrium potions as if it’s second nature. A man with surprisingly gentle hands, who kisses like he wants precisely as much as Dorian’s willing to give. A man who thinks the Inquisitor isn’t special at all. 

It wasn’t even a night. It was nothing, in the grand scheme of things. It shouldn’t - it doesn’t - matter. There’s a world to save, and he has enough self-control not to dwell on it all too much. Gal’s probably forgotten it already.

Gal comes up to the library sometimes, after those first couple of missions. Dorian pretends not to notice, but it almost feels like… acceptance. Even with Sister Nightingale lurking in her shadowy corner upstairs and the glares of the troops, he’s no longer waiting to be thrown out of their merry band of heretics. Things change, slowly; people seem less afraid of speaking to the menace from Tevinter, and even Sera, after the obligatory barrage of nobility jokes, invites him to drink with her. 

And Gal seems content to give him a nod and a smile, then set to browsing. Dorian pretends to be absorbed in whichever tome’s on his knee, or occasionally makes excuses to be absent when he thinks his face might betray him. It should be terribly uncomfortable, but the truth is that’s not the problem at all - the problem is that it’s too easy to relax with the subtle sounds of books being slid out and examined next to him, the low, steady breathing of someone who has a respect for quiet. He can feel the entirety of the space between them, and how very easy it would be to cross.

“Dorian,” Gal says.

Dorian looks up from a truly boring Laurentius, startled. “Hm?” 

Gal’s leaning against the shelves, watching him steadily. “What would you recommend on polarity in spells? You’d know better than me.”

He’d say he recovers admirably quickly. “Have you tried Forster?”

Gal nods.

Dorian sighs, “Of course you have.” That gets him the slightest of smiles in response. He stands, putting aside the books, and searches the shelves, carefully unaware of Gal beside him, warm and solid, until he finds... “Here. Calwyn should serve well enough.”

Their hands brush on the book as he passes it over, and Dorian’s suddenly glad that Gal’s wearing gloves this evening. 

Gal says, “Thank you,” and then pauses, evidently wanting to say something, turning the words over in his head. “Sera wanted me to come to the tavern tonight. I told her I’d be there in a few minutes. She asked me to bring you, if I could.”

Dorian’s surprised at such an obvious invitation from her, one not couched in insults. He should ignore the way Gal’s watching him with something that in any other man would be nervous (hopeful?) interest. He should make some excuse and stay holed up here, or go back to his quarters. He should -

“Lead the way,” he says brightly. “She still owes me for the last round.”

The weeks settle into a pattern: every so often he’s told to follow Gal to the arse-end of nowhere and kill a few of the Inquisition’s enemies, and occasionally he ends up being dragged to the tavern and plied with drink - or at least, that’s the excuse he’ll use. It turns out he’s an excellent Wicked Grace player, oddly enough. No, he’s not surprised to find he’s an adept liar, and no, he’d rather not consider that too much. It’s… good, better than he ever expected when he boarded a ship to come South. He can almost fool himself he has friends.

It becomes easy enough to ignore the low, warm feeling in the pit of his stomach when he’s with Gal, the urge to reach out that’s like a constant itch under his skin. He’s had years of practice with this kind of thing, after all.

That is, until Gal finally has more than just the one tankard, and things go to the Void.

Gal stands to leave and takes a step, sporting a slightly uncertain gait.

“Kaffas,” Dorian mutters, still sitting and watching in frank amazement. “He must have the tolerance of a Chantry sister.”

Sera snickers. “Oh yeah, he does. Thought I’d told you that.”

Dorian shakes his head, still struggling not to look too wide-eyed. “You’d think a man that large…”

Sera cackles into her sleeve, effectively cutting him off, and says, “’Cause you can’t just keep going on about how big he is…”

He glares at her, his hackles rising. He didn’t think he’d spoken of his… interest to anyone. “I don’t go on. I simply... observe. It's not exactly hard to spot.”

She tilts her head, as if she’s willing to concede that, and nods over to Gal. “Look, just… look after him? He needs it.”

“Agreed,” he says, and goes to catch up with their great Inquisitor, who’s currently picking his way out of the door.

Gal turns - too quickly, if the slight wobble in it is anything to go by. “Dorian.”

Dorian tries not to laugh at Gal’s surprise. “Yes, me. I thought you might need an escort.”

“I know where my quarters are.”

“Yes, well. Walk in a straight line and I’ll be perfectly content to let you stumble there.” He stands aside, crosses his arms, and waits.

Gal looks at him, irritated. Takes a step. Another. Stops abruptly and mutters, “Fuck it.”

Dorian snorts. “Told you. Now come on, before you disgrace the name of Andraste.”

With a low, bitter sound that might be a laugh, Gal says, “Already done that. So my mother’d say, anyway.”

Dorian swallows and tries not to dwell on his misstep. Yes, he knows a little about being an old shame. “Many of us would beg to differ. Certainly, the people handing you a big sword and telling you to lead them might.”

There, a decent, proper laugh. “All right.”

They fall into step. Gal’s shoulder nudges against his, and he tries not to be too aware of it.

They’re through the first door, on the steps of Gal’s quarters, when Gal says, “Come up.”

Dorian blinks at him, too surprised to assume a decently blank face. “I…”

“Not like… Not seducing you,” Gal mumbles, with that characteristic bluntness that almost renders the sentence funny. “Need to return Calwyn.”

“I see,” Dorian manages, after a moment too long. It can wait, he should say, or Is now really the time to discuss polarity? “Well, all right,” he says instead.

There’s a fire burning already, and carpets - or rugs, at least. There’s an overcrowded bookshelf by the desk, which is also piled high with books. It’s almost homely. It’s blessedly warm, at least, and it contains Gal, which makes it instantly more inviting. That bed’s rather impressive, too. (No.)

He slides into an armchair which is far too comfortable and says, “Feel better? Told you you should relax a little. Untense those shoulders. It does you good.”

Gal pauses in checking through the shelves with unsteady fingers. He looks abruptly away, and it throws his face into shadow. “Untensing… It doesn’t go well.”

Dorian leans an elbow on the arm of his chair, all innocent, playful curiosity. “It sounds like there’s a story there.”

Gal shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Come on. Sister Nightingale has her files, you must know all my dirty little secrets. Well,” he corrects himself, “most of them.”

Gal shakes his head. Then he leans against the shelves, looking at the floor. His hands rub his arms, as if he’s cold, and he’s slumped. “Taverns, or parties... Just make a fool of myself. Always ends up with me doing something stupid.”

Dorian knows he shouldn’t push; there’s no possible way it can end well. Still, he’s too curious for his own good, so he says, “Something stupid?”

Gal finally looks up, but he addresses the wall. “There was… I met someone. At a…” He adds, so quietly it’s almost inaudible, and perhaps it was meant to be, “Kiss was enough to scare him off.” There’s a bitter laugh in the words. Another headshake. “Doesn’t matter.”

With that, Dorian’s heart sinks into his tightly-buckled boots, even as the surprise rises in him, too - and something else that feels dangerously like flattered pleasure. Even now? He fights the urge to stride across the space and say, You’re quite some footsoldier. He could press the words into Gal’s skin. He still remembers how that mouth tastes, how frighteningly warm Gal was. 

Instead he says, “The man was obviously an idiot. I wouldn’t trouble yourself with someone of that calibre.”

A rueful half-smile. “Smartest man in the room, and he knew it. He was a lot like you that way.”

He gives a mental sigh. Little do you know. “If he'd been intelligent, he would have returned. Or stayed.”

“He had his reasons. I just… I wish I’d known his name. Might’ve made it worse, but it would have been something.”

“Perhaps he had his reasons for hiding that, too. Maker knows you would have. Or did you give him yours?”

Gal looks guilty, then. “I was going to. I should have.”

“You never know, he might have had some terrible secret. Perhaps he ran off for your own good.”

“I don’t…” Gal raises his chin, straightening his spine with obvious effort. “It’s stupid. I don’t know anything about him.” More of that quiet, huffed not-laughter. “Don’t even really know what he looked like. He had… good eyes. And…” He raises a hand to his neck, his chest, as if grasping an imaginary amulet.

Dorian sighs. “You never know, he might have been Orlesian. He was probably hideous under that mask.”(Foolish, foolish. The masquerade was never mentioned. All he can hope is that Gal’s too drunk to catch the slip and pull him up on it.)

“He wasn’t,” Gal responds, with a frightening certainty. “And it wouldn’t have mattered. He…” He runs a hand through his hair. “He said he’d come back. Knew he was lying.”

“Have you considered that the problem wasn’t you at all? He might have wanted to return. He might have wanted… things which were unwise. He might have left to protect you as much as…” He sighs, and scrapes a hand across his forehead. “Or he might have been a scoundrel. Forget him, Gal.”

“Why do you care?” Gal’s still looking at the wall.

Later, Dorian will wonder why he said it, why he let his frustration get the better of him; he’s not drunk nearly enough for it to be an excuse. “Because he’s obviously unworthy of you.”

There’s a silence, and when he looks, Gal is staring at him. “I…” Gal manages.

Dorian sighs and rubs a hand over his face, standing. “Now, you’ve obviously got the Calwyn, so if you’ll just hand that to me and I can be going - ”

Gal crosses the space between them and hands him the book. Dorian’s turning to leave when he feels a hand on his arm, and Gal says, “Dorian?”

He pauses, and looks at Gal, an exasperated question on his face.

“Thank you,” Gal says quietly, and then lets him go.

He doesn’t know what to do with that, so he leaves, too silently.

“About last night…” Gal starts the next day, when they’re climbing a hill in the Emerald Graves and Cassandra and Sera have fallen behind to bicker.

“Think nothing of it,” Dorian replies, affixing a bland smile to his face.

“I’m sorry. I probably said something…” Gal frowns and rubs at his forehead. It only worsens his astounding helmet-hair.

“Nothing I’ll hold against you,” Dorian says. Then he looks around them and adds brightly, “Yet. It could be that I’m simply gathering blackmail material and waiting for the right moment to strike…”

Gal shoves him with a shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Never.”

They grin at each other, a thing of easy camaraderie, and it feels selfish to want more than this.

He has always been so very, very selfish.

He dreams -

Well, there are plenty of nightmares, what with the hole in the sky shitting out demons. However, one recurs more than most:

It’s scarred, gentle hands untying a mask and lifting it from his face, and three words, dreadful and simple in how disappointed they are. “Oh. It’s you.”

Perhaps worse are the dreams where that isn’t said at all, or where it isn’t said with disappointment; where questing fingers run over his cheekbones, his jaw, and then that searing, teasing mouth is on his. He dreams of his name, said breathlessly in the dark.

Those are worse to wake up from, once he realises after a last, Fade-riddled moment that they aren’t real.

It’s the small things that he thinks might kill him, much more than the Venatori. The moment when he’s in camp, keeping the tedium away by reading, and Gal has settled next to him with a book too, as if it’s a habit. The moment when a few minutes later, Gal’s knee comes to rest against his own. He considers saying something - after all, Gal doesn’t seem to be aware of it - and then decides against it. Again, there’s something so terribly easy and comfortable about it: the sounds of the birds in the trees, being halfway through a book of Marcher folktales, the steadying leg against his own.

He wants to wonder if it means something, even though he knows that thought is unlikely or actively foolish. Dorian wants to reach out and place a hand on Gal’s knee to keep him there. But Gal is at best uninterested, and at worst infatuated with a masked suitor who will never return.

So instead, Dorian reads.

Redcliffe is a disaster of epic proportions.

Gal told him of a retainer. He wasn’t prepared for his father, who always manages to surprise - or rather, disappoint - him. He knows that Gal of all people is unlikely to judge him, but he’s still too aware of those steady blue eyes watching every old shame and resentment dragged out like handkerchiefs from a sleeve. (An old summoners’ trick. Another, another, and here, you won’t believe it, another. Spread them out and examine them, one at a time. There’s always another.)

He wants to show his father the birthright he still wears, that the name still means something to him, that he wants nothing more than to be a decent son, his son; that he always wanted that and it was never enough. He wants to set his father on fire. He wants to not be here. He wants a drink, and part of him wants to laugh at that because there really is too much of his mother in him, isn’t there? No wonder his father couldn’t stand him.

He wants… For a spoiled firstborn heir, he is shockingly acquainted with not getting what he wants. Today is no different.

Afterwards - after they’ve trudged out of that tavern and found a decent place to camp, after the walk there has been spent with Gal glancing at him every so often in badly-hidden worry due to his silence, after they’ve sat and Gal has asked him if he’s all right and then asked what precisely his mention of blood magic and changing meant, and he’s attempted to explain -

All at once Gal’s standing, face murderous, probably about to go for his sword and a horse.

Dorian swiftly reaches up and takes his arm. “Don’t you dare. Much as I resent saying it, he’s still my father.”

Gal turns to stare at him. “You’re - you’re right. I’m sorry. But… how could he… how could he even face you?” Looking away, Gal blinks once, twice, rapidly. “How could he ever consider - Fuck.”

“Easily. It seemed necessary at the time.” Dorian laughs bitterly. “Isn’t that always the case with blood magic?” He’s working up the nerve to apologise for the entire miserable, humiliating performance, attempting to formulate a perfectly good speech in his head, but his mind is clumsy and the words won’t come. That’s been the case since he watched his father beg for forgiveness.

Gal’s sitting next to him again. “Sorry. I just - Why would anyone be ashamed of you?” The words are said with genuine confusion, and something like anger.

It’s Dorian’s turn to stare, possibly due to his heart leaping into his throat. “You can’t… just say things like that.”

“There a reason why not?” In the space between one word and the next, Gal’s hand has settled on his forearm, a warm anchor.

Because they make me want to do stupid things like kiss you. Again. “There will be rumours about the mighty Inquisitor growing sentimental.” He pauses, and hangs his head, unable to muster a decent quip. Too much. Today has been too much. “Forgive me, I… can’t.” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and inhales.

Gal calls him brave, looking at him bright-eyed, that gentle hand running up his arm briefly before it’s taken away. The words are… quite lovely, even as they make him want to laugh bitterly. Not nearly brave enough to tell you the truth.

He considers throwing aside his birthright after that, perhaps even selling it again, but knows it was more than enough to make that mistake once. He remembers the look in his father’s eyes and finds himself foolishly hesitating. Besides, regardless of everything else, he is a Pavus. He refuses to be written out of history simply because he’s inconvenient. He still has days when he can’t make himself wear it, but they’re rare. Mostly he keeps it close to his chest, or in a pocket. He almost wants to pretend keeping it doesn’t mean anything, but he knows better.

The days pass, and most nights are better, especially when he’s too tired from fighting and bickering to dream too intensely,  but there comes a bad one. He sleeps fitfully. He wakes from another dream of his father locking doors on him and telling him it’s for your own good, he wouldn’t have kept you anyway, men like that never do. At least, he thinks it was the usual argument. The details elude him now he’s mostly conscious, but all at once he’s too aware of the ground-in dirt in his hair and under his nails, the foul taste in his mouth, and how very far from home he is. He ends up staggering out of his tent clad only in his undershirt and breeches, grabbing the nearest clean-ish bundle of clothes.

Light is in the sky, albeit a murky blue sort of light, but the camp’s quiet, the others asleep.

Sera’s on watch, and she looks over her shoulder from her seat at the edge of camp. Her voice, for once, is soft. “Shit night, right?”

He sighs. “Very, very shit.” He sniffs his shirt and grimaces. “Maker.”

“Still can’t be as bad as the rest of us,” she says, grinning. “Lake’s over there. Might wake you up, if you’re lucky.”

“Yes, I’d forgotten in the space of one night. Thank you for putting your scouting skills to good use.” It’s unnecessary, too sharp to be sparring, and he regrets it instantly.

What might well be hurt crosses her face, less visible in the dim light, then she glares at him. The effect is amplified by the sharp half-glow of elven eyes; it’s rather unnerving. “I was trying to be nice.”

“I know. I’m sorry, that was unworthy of me.”

“And I was going to tell you the other thing, but you’ve pissed it up now, so no.”

He frowns at her. “What other thing?”

“I told you, no. Sod off and have your bath, then.”

He nods, too bleary to argue further, and does.

He warms the water slightly, suddenly grateful for the gift of magic, and spends some time there until he feels slightly more human. He ends up dragging his worn clothes into the water and giving them a decent scrub, too, to save time. He pulls them with him as he steps onto shore. Of course, it’s only after he’s got them well and truly sodden and drained the last of his mana on a strategic fire spell to dry himself off that he grabs the bundle of clean clothes and -

Not clothes. Precisely one tunic. He looks back at the rest of his soaked clothing, in silent desperation. No, not enough mana for concentrated heat, and no potions either. If he tries a spell now, he’ll fail but end up wanting to crawl back into his bedroll and sleep for a year, and that’ll be no use to anyone. Stupid of him, but he was half-asleep, and truthfully, still somewhere in an estate in Qarinus. Even so… stupid. He now thinks he knows what Sera was about to tell him.

He considers his situation a moment longer. “Fuck,” he mutters, very quietly.

He reassesses the potential of the tunic, and ends up tying it tightly around his waist as a sort of improvised loincloth. There’s something almost gladiatorial about it, he thinks, trying to find a bright spot in his humiliation. Much as half of Qarinus would argue otherwise, he does have a sense of decency, and of shame; he’d rather not blind - or dazzle - some poor bastard who’s up at this hour. Or Sera, who’d never forgive him. He knows he must look a state, even disregarding the nudity - he hasn’t yet shaved, and his hair is... well, considering it is painful - but it could be worse, all in all.

He trudges back to camp, wet clothes under his arm, fully expecting to be laughed at and have pointed jokes about “dangly bits” directed at him, which is why it’s a surprise when he sees Gal sitting at the camp’s edge, keeping watch. He does his best not to freeze, and sees Gal do the same, though it’s probably better-hidden. One of them has armour, after all.

Gal blinks, once, and then looks at the treeline. “Morning.”

Dorian raises a finger and tries, “There’s a perfectly good explanation for this.”

Gal nods. When he speaks, he addresses a point somewhere above Dorian’s left shoulder. “I believe you.”

Dorian notices something then, and it makes him smile despite himself. “I didn’t know you could go pink under all those tattoos.”

Gal ducks his head. His mouth opens slightly, and then he closes it again, so sharply that there’s a click.

Dorian scrubs a hand through his hair, attempting to get it out of his eyes and having little success. “No, go on.”

Gal finally meets his eyes.

“Really. Whatever you were about to say, say it.”

Gal looks at him - actually looks, however briefly, since that first startled glance. “Didn’t know mages could look like…” Gal swallows, and abruptly returns his gaze to the forest. Yes, definitely pinkening.

It takes Dorian aback, the weight of the realisation that Gal’s interested. It wasn’t his imagination. Even without a mask and an accent, there’s… something. He somehow manages to keep his voice casual when he says, “Surprising, how much exercise you can get when you’re not locked in a Tower all day. I take it you’re used to Circle waifs?”

“Templar training,” Gal replies quietly, still not quite looking at him.

“I see.” Dorian adds, walking back to his tent, “Tell Sera that I probably deserved that, but if she does it again I’ll freeze her hair.”

Gal laughs, low and rough. “Should I ask?”

“I’d think my predicament is obvious.”

“Your… Oh.” There’s a very embarrassed pause. “I’ll tell her.”

Dorian keeps walking, not wanting to make this any more uncomfortable than it has to be, and tries not to consider those eyes on him. And if there’s slightly more swagger in his step than before, well, no-one has to know. Gal’s probably too busy intently examining the trees to notice, anyhow.

Later, when they’ve been trudging a few miles and Dorian and Sera have had an interesting discussion about his lack of clothing, Cassandra says to Gal, glancing around them, “The trees are quite beautiful here.” Surprising, that she’d allow herself a distraction from saving the world, leading the faithful and glaring at Tevinter alti.

Gal says, with more than a little reverence, “I agree.”

Dorian considers it all and tries to be a better man. He fails. He’s always been far too keen on testing hypotheses. “Yes, you certainly seemed to appreciate the scenery earlier.”

Gal looks at him sharply, evidently suspecting what exactly he means by that. It’s the sort of surprise that would never have been shown when they first met each other, when Gal was all Chantry posture and unreadable expressions.

Dorian only raises an eyebrow expectantly, keeping his smirk only to his eyes, and confirming Gal’s suspicions.

Gal swiftly looks back to the road ahead, but says quietly, “It’s worth appreciating.”

It makes Dorian fall into step with him and crane his neck to check, because he thought he heard... “Maker, you’re smiling. I didn’t know that was possible.” A lie, but an amusing enough one.

Gal shrugs and says, still with that subtle half-smile, “I like surprising you.”

“I’m beginning to realise that.” Dorian’s words come out more softly than he’d intended.

Their eyes meet, Gal’s gaze bright and assessing beneath leaf-shadows, and time slows there, in that moment. Gal swallows, but doesn’t look away.

“Oi, got a Freemen stash over here!”

They both turn at Sera’s call, and the moment’s broken.

“Do you know where I can find our glorious leader?”

Josephine looks up, seeming surprised. It’s feigned, obviously - any bard worth their salt would’ve heard him come in - but he appreciates the politeness. “I think he was in his quarters. He said he was taking some time for paperwork and leisure.”

He nods at that, carefully doesn’t look at the book under his arm. “I see. Thank you. Then I can…”

“I’m sure he would appreciate the company.” Josephine says it with a mild, polite smile, which means go, now.

He pauses, and simply looks at her, wondering if she knows about the mess he’s put himself in. Of course she must do; she’s a friend of the spymaster’s, after all. “Lady Montilyet,” he begins.

She takes her eyes from her work properly now, watches him steadily.

His courage deserts him. “I take it I’m still banned from the wine cellar?” he says, instead of his true question.

She huffs. “Banned is a strong word.”

“I think you mean accurate,” he throws over his shoulder, as he leaves.

It’s a short journey through the main hall, and he closes the first door to Gal’s quarters behind him. He starts up the stairs, and then he hears something.

It’s half a sound, barely there, but it almost sounds like…

Dorian rounds the corner and tries the door, surprised when it opens. He moves cautiously forwards, tries to keep quiet, and there it is.

Sitting with his back against that preposterous desk is the fearsome Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste… crying. It’s silent except for some slightly harsh breathing, but the tears are streaming down Gal’s face, less visible for the tattoos but still very much there. And there’s a letter in his hand, one with a wax seal. That hand, so sure on the hilt of a sword or searching through shelves for old tomes, is shaking. The worst thing is the utterly resigned look on his face and the bleakness in his eyes, as if this is the sort of thing that happens every day. Maker, Dorian thinks, let it not be. Please.

Gal looks up, startled. Then he sharply turns his head away, scrubbing the letter-free hand across his face.

Dorian just sits next to him, sighs, and says, “There’s a perfectly good chair over there. Of course, that would have been less dramatic.”

A small, harsh noise that might be a laugh. “Dorian.”

“Gal.” He reaches for the letter. “May I?”

Gal passes it over without a word. Dorian begins to read, and he gets as far as the phrases “heretic,” “embarrassment” and “still banned from holding the Trevelyan title” before he puts it aside.

“...Ah,” he begins. “This is all sounding rather familiar.”

“Thought it might. I… Sorry.”

“No, none of that. Gal, look at me.”

Perhaps it’s all that Chantry training, but it seems Gal isn’t one to oppose an order. His face is for once free of the kohl, and Dorian tries not to be surprised by reddened, long-lashed blue eyes and pink skin, suddenly unable to help thinking of that ballroom suitor. It’s hardly a new sight, but last time, there was a mask - and a hundred lies - between them.

“I’d ask if you were all right, but that seems a stupid question. It’s nonsense. You’ve already earned a title greater than they could ever have given you. And they know it, hence the blubbering disguised as a reprimand. You’re a smart man, you know all this.”

Gal frowns, and then says to the floor, “Does it ever get easier?”

Dorian huffs a laugh. “So I’m now the authority on being a disappointment?” When Gal’s head snaps up, he adds, “No, you’re quite right, it suits me.” He sighs. “The honest answer is… I don’t know. Ask me in ten years. Some days are better than others.” He tries his best to smile.

And though everything in him should be screaming that it’s a terrible idea, he finds himself reaching out and brushing away Gal’s tears. He almost freezes, half-certain that there’s going to be a reprimand, perhaps a blow or a polite but sudden dismissal… But even so, he lingers there, thumbs on Gal’s cheeks.

Something crosses Gal’s face - surprised gratitude, painful in its openness - and then he blinks, staring at Dorian, his mouth opening slightly.

Dorian doesn’t quite realise his hands are moving until he’s brushing his thumb against the line of ink on Gal’s lower lip. He cups Gal’s face, unsure quite what he’s doing, afraid that a careless touch or word will break the spell, and watches Gal watch him.

It’s too much. “Gal,” he says quietly, “there’s something I need to tell you…”

“Inquisitor!”

The call comes from the stairs. A messenger.

He wants to curse. Instead he stands, offers Gal his hand and pulls him to his feet.

Gal hastily scrubs at his face. “Enter.”

Urgent business in the Exalted Plains. Dorian listens carefully to the brief, doesn’t look at Gal and tries not to set something on fire.

“Tevinter birthrights,” Gal says, and Dorian’s heart just about stops.

He turns from the astronomy section and pretends at confusion. “Sorry?”

“Krem mentioned something about them. Said he was waiting for you to flash yours about like most of the nobles he’d known.”

Dorian snorts at that. “Charming, isn’t he?”

Gal tilts his head. “Might understand the joke better if I knew what one was.”

Dorian crosses his arms and tries to look put-upon rather than panicked. “You’re a Trevelyan. Surely you’ve heard of wearing one’s crest? It’s simply that. Something to prove your impressive lineage.”

Gal seems to consider it. “That makes sense. What does yours look like?”

Ah. “I sold it.” Dorian looks away, knowing it’ll seem like shame, not as if he’s lying. “The journey here was difficult, and I was running low on coin. Stupid, I know, but I had other priorities at the time, such as not letting my old mentor tear time apart.” If he sounds a little prickly… well, it’s been a long day. “I’ll get it back somehow.”

“I could…” Gal begins.

It’s the frightening earnestness that does it, the certainty that Gal will run himself ragged for someone who appears to need him. Dorian says, “No. As kind as the offer is. You have enough people asking things of you. I’ll find the time.” He pauses. “Do you want some reading on them?” Surely he must be some sort of masochist; well, he is, that’s never been much of a secret. He practically makes self-destruction an art form.

Gal considers it. “Not yet,” he says, after a moment. “I’m barely halfway through Tales of Mirathous. But I wondered… they’re close to heraldry, aren’t they? Is each unique, like a coat of arms?”

“Yes, that’s about the sum of it. Otherwise how are we meant to frighten peasants by invoking our family’s fearsome reputation?”

Gal smiles at that, but after a moment’s hesitation, thanks him and leaves him to it. Dorian thanks the Maker, or the Old Gods, or whoever might be listening in times such as these. (And if something like his heart sinks, no-one need know. It’s not as if he wants to be discovered. He has far too much to lose. How can he possibly live up to a one-kiss ideal, one who doesn’t drink too much or try not to flinch at the mention of fathers? How can he possibly be someone who could kiss the Inquisitor without a scandal? The thought is ridiculousness, self-indulgence.)

It’s an unusually good ambush. That’s all he can say - it’s not as if he has any other excuse. He grew complacent - this area has been under Inquisition protection for some time now, and there hadn’t been any trouble in that time, so he let himself assume. He slept without armour; foolish, utterly so, and he won’t make that mistake again. 

It means he’s only in shirtsleeves and breeches when the call goes up and he hears the sounds of a fight. A brief half-spell to protect his feet - no time for boots - and then he’s grabbing his staff, dragging himself out of his tent and joining the fray. He casts a barrier as he goes, winding it with him so it covers the couple of soldiers he can see fighting as well as himself.

Bloody Venatori. There are about seven of them, though they might have a few rogues. They haven’t noticed him yet; they probably can’t even spot his aura, the camp’s so saturated with magic. It tastes like blood and ozone on his tongue.

Fire glyphs are too likely to have their own people caught in the crossfire. He reaches into the head of a warrior a few feet away and pulls, twisting thought and nightmare until the man’s screaming. Good. That’ll teach him to ruin a perfectly good nap.

He nearly jumps when Sera appears next to him. She cartwheels and gets her legs round a gladiator’s neck, slitting the poor bastard’s throat in a moment. She stabs another faster than a blink, twists. It would be quite a spectacle if he had time to watch.

That leaves three. Cassandra barrels towards them, distracting one, but unfortunately, his flashiness has got the Venatori’s attention. Two of them run at him. Sera grabs one from behind, and that just leaves him with… a spellcaster. The robes are overblown enough that she has to be.

She grins at him, and then that sharp coppery taste fills his mouth and he knows. He throws what must be a rather painful plume of flame at her ankles, but it isn’t enough to distract her: she draws a dagger.

He’s still preparing the counterwards when she draws blood from her arm -

And he feels his barrier shatter.

Kaffas.

She grins at him, reaching out. A tendril of magic grabs him, pulls him closer until he’s stumbling, and he’s grabbing for a lyrium potion, half-writing wards that’ll reduce the damage - He breaks one tendril, but then there’s another winding around his ankles.

There’s a shout from behind him. He feels a wave of force - not physical, but a change of spirit. The spell snaps. It’s so sudden he nearly falls, and then there’s someone steadying him, running past him…

Her eyes widen, and then Gal meets her shield-first. She falls, but scrapes to her feet quickly enough. There follows what can only be called a tussle. She tries to take Gal down with those strange blood magic tendrils, but he resists it, still fighting with her. It’s easy enough to lose track - after a while it’s all blood and mud.

Dorian finally gets the lyrium potion to his lips, and feels his magic flare. He looks around, but she’s the last of them. Sera’s approaching quietly, and he moves to cast -

Just a second too late. Gal’s sword goes through the mage’s chest, but she strikes out sharply with her staff as she falls. The focusing crystal meets Gal’s head, and then he’s stumbling, thudding to the ground too. His armour clanks with it.

Dorian’s running before he can help himself, falling to his knees beside Gal to check the wound; the man sustained the injury saving him from his own stupidity, after all. Healing has never been his strength - but if there’s something… Yes.

He barely notices the shift of something around his neck, absorbed as he is. “Don’t you dare.”

Those eyes open, focusing on him, and he thanks all that’s holy. Then Gal blinks, frowning at something below Dorian’s chin.

“Keep your eyes on me, you bastard, that was a ridiculous gamble. You can’t go running at everything that deigns to attack me…” The wound’s already closing under his fingers, reassuringly shallow compared to his worst fears - her strength must have been waning even when the staff struck.

Dorian feels Gal’s hand at his neck, gently moving the - lower, of course it’s lower, later he’ll think he should have known - collar of his shirt aside, and there’s a slide of chain against skin. “Dorian,” Gal says quietly.

“I would tell you to shut up if I wasn’t looking at a head wound which meant you should probably keep talking. It doesn’t seem to be anything too deep, at least.”

“Dorian. Your birthright.”

Dorian freezes, and looks down - to where Gal is holding the amulet in one gloved, bloody hand, examining it. “I…” he starts, and then falters.

“There’s only one crest like this.” Gal’s eyes meet his. “It was you,” Gal says quietly.

He swallows. And something in Gal’s eyes… “You suspected.”

“Was starting to. I wanted it to be you.” Gal looks back to the amulet, almost seeming guilty. “I wasn’t certain.” Then Gal tenses, raising his head, his eyes widening. “So you did come back.”

And that’s too much. “I thought I’d find a footsoldier. Some minor lackey. I thought… Gal, it was political suicide. You’re the Herald of Andraste, and I’m…”

“Not Fereldan,” Gal says, softly.

Dorian laughs. “…Not Fereldan,” he echoes, ruefully. He feels Gal’s hand come to rest on his cheek, and he starts, “What are you - ?”

But then he’s being pulled down and kissed. It’s rough, deep and a little dirty, and he tastes the copper of blood. He’s almost certain they’re both covered in mud - this shirt will never be the same again. His heart is soaring in his chest.

“The problem is,” he pants against Gal’s mouth, when he can speak, “political suicide feels rather good.” Then he moves to take those damnable lips again, and he can feel Gal’s laughter against his chest.

He settles his hand over Gal’s where it rests on his cheek, slowing the kiss down to something gentler. Somehow, he feels months of familiarity and longing in it. It feels like reaching out and finally, finally knowing Gal’s reaching back. It feels like falling and being caught.

It’s too good.

He pulls back. “Gal,” he says, voice rough and breathless, “you’re still the Inquisitor. You know how this will look -”

“And you’re still a good man,” Gal interrupts.

Dorian snorts at that.

Gal raises an eyebrow, as if determined to prove his point. “You put up with my dancing.”

“That’s hardly a test of virtue. So did the Duchess of Varennes.”

“After you saved my life.”

“You saved yourself. I just interfered from the sidelines.”

Glaring at him, Gal responds, “Bollocks.”

Dorian laughs, high and astonished. “You can’t just…”

Gal says, “You saved my life. You kissed me, not the bloody Inquisitor. And then you left me wondering for months who you were while you were saving my life again. Giving me books. Drinking with me. Too much work to have been a joke. Did you think I’d reject you if I knew?”

For once, Dorian isn’t entirely sure he can speak.

Gal stares at him.“You bloody idiot.” Gal reaches for the amulet, tugs on it very gently. Dorian obediently goes with it, leaning towards Gal, who kisses him before saying, “We need to stop playing games.” A kiss, pressed briefly to Dorian’s jaw. “Be with me. And if they mind, they can shove it up their - “

Dorian finally finds his voice. “Language. You are the Herald of Andraste.”

“Fuck it,” Gal says, and grins, somehow managing to shrug sheepishly even with a rather heavy mage mostly on top of him.

A throat is cleared a few feet away, and they both look sharply upwards. Sera is laughing with the troops some distance away, looking as if she distracted them some time ago, but Cassandra is standing close by and has gone a rather fetching shade of pink. “I only… wished to check on the Inquisitor’s welfare.”

Gal gives her a bright smile. “My head’s fine. Dorian got most of it.”

“Even if his excessive cheer may make you wonder otherwise,” Dorian chips in, trying to regain his wits.

“I’m glad to hear that.” She ducks her head, and then walks away to join Sera slightly more quickly than necessary.

Gal and Dorian look at each other as the silence falls. Dorian thinks he should be more bothered by the fact that at least two of their companions have witnessed this, but he’s surprised to find he isn’t. Somewhat embarrassed, as much as he may pretend he lost his shame years ago, but certainly not afraid. Perhaps it’s the way Gal’s looking at him, with that patient curiosity he recognises from a ballroom what seems like a long time ago now.

He sighs, and says, “All right.”

Gal frowns.

Dorian continues, “Yes, I’ll be with you. I can honestly say: you asked for it. This is entirely - “

And then he’s being kissed rather too thoroughly to speak, but he can’t say he minds. Gal smiles at him afterwards with something like wonder, and it looks so much better without a mask.