A/N: Welcome to my story! A note up front - this story is not explicitly about or post-Trespasser (in fact it won't follow that timeline at all), but it definitely borrows a few elements of people's stories, so if you are very spoiler-averse, be warned. This story comes courtesy of the lovely reader amandackrueger, who requested that I write a Dorian romance, which was apparently the magic spell to creating it out of the ether. As always it will be mostly romance in intention, but I make no apologies for any plot that might arise! I hope you enjoy it, as I'm certainly enjoying writing it, and thank you as always for reading!

When Dorian went back to Tevinter, there was only one question on his countrymen's tongues. No matter the occasion, be it a celebratory fete, an intimate gathering of the Magisterium, or even an impromptu revelry at a tavern, there would come a point in the evening where a face turned to him deliberately, eyes lit with that very specific curiosity that twisted Dorian's stomach. Whether a painted ingenue on the hunt for her elevation or an up-and-coming young mage with everything to prove and everyone to impress, they would raise their voice to the rafters and ask the dreaded interrogative.

"What is this supposed Herald of Andraste like? Truly?"

To demur only invited more inventive inquiry, and to answer was an impossibility. Better to ask what Fade light tasted like, or the sound of snow as it fell in slushy heaps. At least those might have some reference, some relative positioning behind them. How did one describe a thing that had no compare?

But very well. Start with the tongue - best to start with the pleasures, after all - that cutting thing, a weapon to rival any Chevalier's sword. A tongue born to play the Grand Game and dance circles around the men and women it met in peace or war. Move to the lips, soft in the day and softer at night, but always wearing a ready smile that dared the world to peer inside that complicated mind. Brush past the jaw and the carefully manicured stripes of beard that enhanced its squareness while softening its severity. Look to the often broken, dangerous nose instead, a pirate's nose, set firmly between piercing eyes the green of lush pastures.

Though, truthfully, they clashed terribly against the veridium-colored armor he insisted on wearing into the field against all reasonable advice.

Follow on to the rich, chocolate-brown hair made for tousling, with a small, unruly lock that always hung just so over the eye, despite the fact that he'd never once been caught teasing it into place. He had the tall posture of a noble and the fading-violet blink of the eyes that could only be Chantry servant. Powerful, broad shoulders, like a warrior, but the slim hips of a dancer. And a backside that was like nothing else, because sometimes a fine ass was a thing all its own.

And, most important of all, watch those massive hands that bore more marks than the anchor, rough and calloused from hours of sword work. They felt like the Maker's first promise when they slid across a man's skin.

But the last pays for all, and the Inquisitor's voice was the true strength behind the titles. That modulated, baritone of the day, so different from the husky pleas in the darkness, that won allies with its lightness and subdued enemies with its weight. A voice that turned ardent lovers aside at the dawn, an unemotional fist that crushed hopes into a dust finer than the sands of the Hissing Wastes. It was the voice that showed that for all that was seen of the Herald of Andraste, for all that was observed and admired and adored, less than nothing would ever truly be known.

Of course, that description wasn't suitable for Tevinter ears. They merely wanted reassurance that the man was good, but not too good. Competent, but never dangerous. A reformer, but wise enough to keep the reforms at a distance. And Dorian obliged them.

"The Herald is the most highly raised Marcher the world has ever seen," Dorian would say, his face and voice serious and reverent. And then the wink, the slashing smile that said everything. "And he is a very short man."

The insinuation was sufficiently pointed that the crowds walked away confident that Dorian was still a loyal son of the Imperium and that they knew all there was to know about the Inquisitor. And who could say? Perhaps they did. Dorian would certainly never be able to tell them differently.

In a way it was a relief to be back in Orlais, despite the chill and the food and the ostentatious displays that outshone him at every turn. At least at Skyhold everyone already knew exactly what Maxwell Trevelyan was like.

"Yes, yes, that's quite alright," said Dorian, shooing away the elven woman busily fussing at the falling line of his cape. His mount twitched and danced underneath him, and Dorian frowned. He'd never felt particularly comfortable mounted. Being mounted, on the other hand…

"That's enough!" he said sharply as a tug on his ceremonial armor almost pulled him from the saddle.

Shayla looked up at him with more annoyance than reverence, which was at least one happy change. "Magister Pavus was very specific about your presentation, Master Pavus. You're the ambassador now, and that must be treated with all the solemnity it's worth."

Dorian rolled his eyes. "What it's worth would barely buy a meal in a Fereldan tavern, much less anything of actual value. They'll hardly stand on ceremony for me, of that I have no doubt. I'll write my father and tell him you've been most conscientious in discharging your duties, however," he added.

She opened her mouth to protest, and he raised a warning finger and held his breath. Truthfully he was a little afraid of this elven woman, for all her awed fawning - she wore her hair in exactly the same style as one of his severest governesses, and he'd never quite forgotten her - but fortunately she hadn't cottoned on to the fact quite yet.

When she gave a small nod, he smiled. "Excellent. Now we're getting along famously. If you'll mount, the turn should be just ahead."

The elf did as he requested, though she said once again, "It's not proper, Master Pavus, me alongside you."

But that was a stipulation he refused to negotiate. Bad enough to be a Tevinter in Skyhold. How many magnitudes worse to be a Tevinter with a slave in Skyhold? Too many to count. His father had been less than interested in his son's insights, however, and thus his companion was supplied with no further discussion invited. But what the old man didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and she would be outfitted as a proper servant, at least. And Josephine would pretend to be fooled.

He was a little more worried about the rest. Particularly Sera. With luck, all of his socks would remain in their designated place.

"Follow behind me, if it will make you feel better," said Dorian. "But I think it would be only to my advantage to be paired with such a beauty on my triumphant return. The men of the Inquisition will be positively green with envy, I assure you."

Shayla only sniffed and gave him a baleful look, and he sighed inwardly. Definitely like the governess.

"And please remember, once we're at Skyhold, it's Dorian. Not Master Pavus."

"Yes, Master Pavus."

Dorian rolled his eyes again, safely away from her gaze, and urged his horse forward. He'd thought this trip might be like coming home, in a way. Or as close as he'd ever gotten. Going back to Tevinter certainly hadn't qualified. He loved his homeland, but he didn't feel particularly part of it now that he was working to change it, wholesale. But instead of joyful anticipation at the nearness of the fortress, all he felt was a headache and the looming threat of sparkling, emerald eyes. Perhaps he didn't have a home at all.

With that depressing thought, they made the turn that brought Skyhold into view again, and he rode toward what awaited him.

"Surely you must be joking."

Josephine stood in front of him with her ever-present writing board and an expression absent of any hilarity. The half-dozen soldiers that flanked her seemed even less inclined to joke, though Dorian winked at one on the end who'd been a very agreeable watch partner on several of their more prolonged journeys. The man colored, but his parade-ground posture moved not at all. Someone had clearly threatened the men with latrine duty if they lost their formality.

And had that been all, Dorian might have accepted the vague pomp with only a small protest, but there were a round three dozen armed soldiers watching him, and being stared at by so many swords tended to make him a little tetchy. "I realize that the Imperium isn't on the short list of your favored dance partners, but did you really expect me to come back to Skyhold with blood running town my forearms? Maker forbid. It would absolutely ruin my coat."

Josephine sighed heavily. "The honor guard is what is due for someone of your stature, Ambassador Pavus. In addition, it will both preserve our stronghold while maintaining your own safety. Consider it our gift," she added.

"Exactly like an abominable sweater knitted by my half-addled great aunt, then," he said. He crossed his arms. "Come now, Josephine, it's not as though I'm a stranger."

Or, he had to admit, that he particularly minded the idea of being surrounded by a phalanx of physically fit men. In theory. In practice, he'd never done well at being hemmed in. Besides, it was the principle of the thing.

"The world watches us, Ambassador Pavus." The diplomat's eyes flicked once to the top of the battlements, and Dorian casually followed her gaze. The number of Chantry-issued hats was almost enough to block out the sun.

"I see. Circle representatives?"

"A diplomatic party from the Grand Cathedral. They depart tomorrow, and Skyhold will be much less holy for their loss."

Dorian shook his head. "Very well," he said, taking pity on the poor woman. "The big, bad Tevinter will stay quietly caged per the Divine's orders." Not that he wouldn't have a stern letter for Vivienne by the end of the day.

"I appreciate your understanding in this matter, Ambassador," said Josephine, relaxing just a touch and shifting her weight.

"My one condition is that you call me Dorian," he said smoothly. "Surely the Chant of Light can't be opposed to first names. The world would be terribly confusing without them."

Josephine hesitated. "I'm not sure -"

Dorian put on his sternest face, learned by rote from his father. "My dear Josephine, when two people have shared the almost religious experience of seeing Commander Rutherford in all of his natural glory, it is simply not possible to relinquish that intimacy. Regardless of titles."

The soldiers in front of him remained impassive, but he heard a few snorts behind him, and Josephine's eyes narrowed. Latrine duty it is, he thought. Serves them right for not preparing for battle more rigorously.

But the Antivan finally smiled. "It was a night to remember, I suppose. Perhaps we can talk the Commander into another game while you're here," she said. "Though definitely not today."

"I look forward to it," said Dorian. He looked around vaguely, and Shayla appeared with another pair of servants and all of his belongings. "Ah, here you are. Please take my things to the guest wing. Third door on the left, you'll find. I assume I have my old room," he added to Josephine.

"The closest one can get to the library without actually sleeping in it? Yes. And your servant's accommodations are also arranged. Inquisitor Trevelyan was very specific," said Josephine.

As good a time as any to ask. "And where is the Inquisitor? Off running through the woods again? Or, Maker bless him, some ghastly desert wasteland?"

Josephine chuckled. "No. He claimed that he's now mapped every square inch of Thedas and won't venture out again until they arrange some new land to explore. He's in residence at the moment," she said. She paused, then added delicately, "But you understand that he couldn't be seen rushing out to enthusiastically greet a member of the Imperium."

He wondered how much she really knew. Even moreso than Leliana, Josephine was very good at playing her cards close to her chest. Leliana couldn't help but stab someone, every once in awhile, just to keep the game exciting.

"Of course," he said instead. "It only stands to reason. We wouldn't want anyone to get the impression that we were actual friends. Think of the scandal!"

Josephine glared sweetly, and Dorian subsided. But as he trailed behind the servants with the music of clanking metal around him, he couldn't help but wonder if even that might have changed. After all, it had been two years.

Maxwell Trevelyan considered himself a man of action, of all kinds. Some actions were physical, some diplomatic, and even more were mental. And some actions were even accomplished by standing very still, at least long enough for the danger to whiz past. But hesitation wasn't the same as deliberate non-movement, and so he was very annoyed to find himself cowering in a dark and shadowed alcove in the belly of Skyhold, pretending to inventory the liquor stores.

As though it were possible to keep an accurate inventory of alcohol with the allies he'd gathered around him.

When he counted the bottles for the fifth time and came up with his fifth new count, he leaned his head against the stone wall and groaned. Math had never been his strong suit, but this was disgusting. And, on schedule, he heard that distant, teasing Tevinter voice winding through his mind. Too many blows to the head can certainly leave a man addled. The perils of the warrior caste manifest at last.

"Shut up," said Maxwell to himself, then laughed bitterly. Two years since Dorian had even set foot in the place, until today if the schedule held, and his ghost was still an irritating tease of a man. Irritating and frustrating. It wasn't like Maxwell to be so damn hung up on someone like this. Maybe Dorian really was a blood mage.

He looked around quickly, just to make sure Mother Giselle wasn't there, picking up his thoughts. While it had never been proven that all Chantry sisters were mind-readers, it had certainly seemed that way during his training. And of course, Dorian wasn't a blood mage. He wasn't even a tease, not really. He'd never promised anything, except that he wasn't a nice man. And the mage had delivered on that promise without much effort. Months of flirtation, a night of incredible sex, and then the morning where he'd talked about the inevitability of separation with the ease of a housekeeper discussing dinner options.

Even that had probably been the nicest thing he'd done. Maxwell knew better than to keep sleeping with a man who already had a foot out the door. A foot and a half, knowing Dorian. The Inquisition was too important, and Maxwell himself too volatile, to live with that kind of arrangement. A young noblewoman, another Chantry trainee, and even a bartender who really should have known better had already learned the danger of a partial commitment when it came to the youngest Trevelyan. The fallout was never pretty.

Affairs weren't permanent, obviously. They ran their course like anything. But Maxwell believed in doing things fully or not at all, while they were being done. It was the only way it could work. Especially when he'd already been well on his way to being in love with the Tevinter idiot, mustache and all.

But somehow his mind had never really gotten the memo that it was over. He'd moved on to other flirtations, other partners, other lives, but part of him had remained stubbornly alongside that lazily arrogant man with his devilish smirk. The one who always, always had something pithy to say when a new noble swept through the hall. The one who seemed to know exactly how good he looked bent over a chessboard, brow furrowed just right to draw an opponent's eyes over the handsome lines of his face. The one who stayed up half the night to parse some dusty old tome in the library, yet still greeted the dawn with a smile as long as he'd finally translated it. Usually it meant something like, "Three wheels of cheese for the next party," but Dorian didn't care as long as it was solved. Puzzles were the only thing he couldn't resist.

Maybe Maxwell should have been a little more mysterious, then.

He kicked at the wall with his lightly-shod foot, which hurt like hell, but he felt better anyway. He grabbed two bottles from the rack and made his way to the kitchen, where he found the head server and thrust them into his hands. "Serve this tonight at my table. Please."

"Of course, Inquisitor," said the man, but his eyebrows lifted in surprise as he studied the bottles.

Maxwell gave his most charming smile and dared him to comment. Their servants were too well-trained, of course, but there would be more gossip for Skyhold's residents soon enough. Everyone knew how much their leader hated Tevinter wine, sweet-smelling and even sweeter tasting. Give him a strong ale any day, or even better a brandy. But diplomacy required a man to put the comfort of his guests over the comfort of himself.

And if Dorian looked a little more deliciously flushed and his tongue loosened just that hint more over a bottle of his favorite wine, well, that wasn't an opportunity Maxwell would ever miss.

The rest of the afternoon was taken up with much more dreary business, the consequences of putting off all of the boring tasks of running a nation-spanning organization to a single day. Maxwell glared at his advisors as they passed yet another document in illegibly small handwriting over to his seat. "And this one is?"

"A writ declaring that the city-state of Kirkwall shall always be honored by the Inquisition, and that the anniversary of the Chantry explosion will be set aside as a day of memorial in perpetuity," said Josephine as she scribbled on her own page.

"You have got to be kidding me."

A year ago that might have earned him a rebuke, but they were more than used to his lack of patience by now. In this room, anyway. He considered it only fair that he could snap and snarl with his closest counsel if he had to be so polite outside of it. The Inquisition was his responsibility, and he gave all he had to its continued survival. But he had to be grumpy somewhere.

"It's a token of the Inquisition's empathy with their plight," said Leliana. "Just sign it."

He did as he was bid, though he muttered, "Varric said they already hold memorials on that day anyway."

"Ah," said Josephine with a smile, "but this will be the Inquisition's memorial. That's what they'll remember."

"If you say so," said Maxwell. "I still think Kirkwall would be better off forgetting all about the whole damn thing. No offense to you, Cullen."

Cullen's chair was tipped back on two legs as its occupant stared at the ceiling and tossed a small stone in the air. "None taken, I assure you. In fact, if I had my way, all of these ceremonies and processions and formalities would be outlawed entirely. Do any of the writs say that?"

"Commander, it's important that we be seen as healers and not simply warmongers," Josephine began, but she was drowned out by a trio of groans.

"Do not give the speech again," said Cullen. "I yield."

The chair thunked to the floor and the blonde man leaned forward onto his elbows. "Please let me go and do something useful. Anything. I beg you."

Josephine slid another sheet across the table in reply. "Requisition lists from Ser Morris for your review and signature." Her lip twitched as Cullen gave her a wounded look. "And then both of you will have discharged your duties for the day."

Maxwell felt a little guilty about the broad smile spreading across his face, but Cullen's was no less pleased. "Sparring, Inquisitor?"

Dorian was here, in Skyhold. Almost certainly in the library. And Maxwell was several dozen steps of comfort away from being able to seek him out, especially after Josephine had reported he was practically unchanged, which was typical of the man. He hadn't even had the courtesy to go off and get ugly in the interim.

At least a sparring session was a much better way to be a coward than a wine inventory.

"Just try to stop me, Commander."

The yard was crowded, as it usually was on these rare fall afternoons where the air was crisp and the ground not quite soggy. Luckily the Inquisitor never had much trouble clearing space, especially when he was at his most charming. All of his noble training came to the fore as he made his way through the crowd, smiles flying in every direction and names rising to his tongue without thought. Leliana had once remarked that he was practically Orlesian in his manners, and he supposed that was supposed to be a compliment.

"Come on, finish him," cried a voice as he and Cullen finally neared the ring. Varric was sitting on a fencepost, swinging his legs as he watched two helmeted foes squaring off against one another. As they watched, the taller gained the advantage over the shorter and struck a clean killing blow that had the spectators applauding.

Maxwell didn't even need to see their faces to know who they were. Michel de Chevin had that flouncy, unmistakable Chevalier style that looked deceptively weak until it killed a man, and Cassandra's relentless attack could never be forgotten once seen. They removed their helmets, and she extended a hand to her vanquished opponent as he murmured some pleasantry that made her laugh. Cullen's eyes narrowed as he put on his armor, and Maxwell caught Varric's eye and grinned.

The dwarf laughed to himself, then called out, "Okay, settling bets on the last match, though any of you who bet against the Seeker deserved to lose all of your money. Now accepting coin on the Inquisitor versus the Commander. May the handsomest man win!"

"Well that's hardly fair," said Maxwell, buckling his lucky armor. "Even if I put a helmet on, I'd still be at a major advantage."

Cassandra snorted as she grabbed her water from the ground next to him. "The Seekers taught that only a weakling was a braggart. Those who are truly superior needn't announce the fact."

"You wouldn't know it from the number of promotional missives Josephine sends out on the Inquisition's behalf," said Maxwell. "We must be the weakest world-savers in the history of Thedas by that standard."

He grinned his most devastating grin as Cassandra frowned, and it rolled off of her back as usual. She'd once told him that she wanted a man to court her in the traditional style, and when he'd said that his idea of courtship tended less towards poetry and more towards inventive lovemaking, she'd apparently decided his flirtations were unworthy. Which didn't stop him from them in the least, even though he was vaguely relieved not to have her terrifying focus turned on him. Besides, he knew where he'd placed his money in Varric's book.

"Will you be the judge?" asked Cullen quietly, right on time.

She nodded, and Maxwell put a metal-clad arm around her. "Make sure you're impartial. I know I'm hard to resist." She shrugged away, though there was a small smile on her face, and Maxwell pushed his luck. "Kiss for the winner?"

The smile vanished, and Cullen's cheeks went suddenly pink. Cassandra didn't notice as she said, "That's oafish. Would you ask the same thing if de Chevin was your judge?" When Maxwell opened his mouth to reply, she added quickly, "Do not answer that. Take your positions, please."

She stalked away, and when Cullen moved to the center of the ring Varric whispered, "Curly is going to beat your ass into the ground now, you realize."

He considered replying that he'd always enjoyed being thoroughly dominated by a man, but that took his mind back to the library that he was steadfastly not going to think about. Instead he said lightly, "His bloodthirsty attitude will just make my victory all the more impressive."

Varric's laughter followed him as he sauntered away to face his opponent. Like always, the rest of the world faded away until it was just two swords and a body, waiting to be stabbed. The simplicity of battle filled him, and he was ready to win.