"Do you think, if we could get them to coordinate all of those disapproving sniffs, they could lift a napkin clean off of the table?"

Dorian's voice wafted over, light and secretive, carrying just far enough to reach Maxwell's expectant ears. He bit back a laugh as he studied the serene, attentive row of Chantry ladies on the right side of the giant, U-shaped table. They weren't exactly sniffing, but the temperature from that direction was a little frosty. Mother Giselle seemed to be the main source of the chill, but it was spreading the more he whispered to his neighbor.

Dangerous whispers, which Josephine's pointed looks were reminding him of constantly, but this was much too fun to stop.

"I think we'd have to give them something much more scandalous to get that kind of force," said Maxwell in a low voice.

"More scandalous than a Tevinter interloper seated at your right hand during a formal dinner? While you drink the Imperium's finest wine? Impossible. If you accidentally slice your finger and bleed all over the meat course, you'll practically be a high-ranking member of the Magisterium."

Maxwell grinned. "I lack the basic requirement for membership, I think."

Dorian lowered his gaze to the hand that gripped a goblet full of sickly sweet liquid. The faint glow of the mark was easily visible against the metal. "Divinely bestowed magic is probably a loophole," he said. "Even if it's only alleged. But very well. How do you intend to raise the stakes for your guests?"

The faint smile on his face was extremely distracting, but Maxwell focused it away. In a way the afternoon's injury had been very useful. Now that Dorian wasn't actually touching him, it was much easier to keep his mind on the task at hand. Namely, acting as though he were incapable of distraction at all.

Maxwell leaned back and stroked his jaw with a light finger. "Well, I'm sure we have at least a dozen silk scarves somewhere around here. I seem to remember you'd have use for them."

The mage laughed, loudly and without restraint, and more than one head turned to stare at them. Maxwell waved to the room and clapped Dorian on the back heartily. Dorian wiped at the corner of his eye as his chuckles slowly subsided. "I'll need far more wine than this paltry offering to satisfy that level of curiosity."

"That can be arranged," said Maxwell, winking.

Before Dorian could answer, a young, heavily bejeweled woman approached the table and curtsied prettily. She carried a mask that she didn't wear, in deference to the customs of Skyhold, and her hair was powdered and styled in a very unbecoming, but fashionable, way. Maxwell nodded slowly, searching the dark recesses of his mind before it threw up an internal dossier. Comtesse Valencia. Orlesian by way of Antiva, connected to a powerful merchant family, married to a less powerful noble than she would like, and making a play for expanded holdings in the south of her new nation. The Inquisition was helping her through both diplomatic and back channels, and he was meant to reassure her of the organization's unwavering support.

And, by her lowered lashes, she obviously wanted to be flattered. Maxwell rose smoothly and made a true bow, this time taking her hand and brushing it with his lips. "My dear Comtesse, I'm so pleased you could make the journey to Skyhold. I know that this is a difficult time to be away from the beauty of Orlais, but its loss is certainly our gain," he said. The woman blushed a little more hotly than she would have if she were truly Orlesian, which was all to the good. He definitely wasn't at his sharpest this evening.

"Tell me," he continued, "did your husband make the journey with you?"

"No, Your Grace, he prefers to personally oversee the vineyards. They are very delicate. Do not feel slighted, however. He rarely travels outside the home," she said. The corners of her mouth drew up slightly, and he bit back a sigh.

Under cover of sweeping to the left in introduction, he shot Leliana a questioning look, and he was very relieved when she gave a small shake of her head. It wasn't that he'd never bedded a woman, or a man, to build a coalition, but it hadn't been something he particularly enjoyed. "You know our head diplomat, I believe. And the Lady Leliana," he said. He went down the line, finally adding, "And this is Altus Dorian Pavus, ambassador from the Imperium."

He half-expected Dorian to make some cutting remark, or give a compliment with a knife buried inside of it, but instead he smiled politely. "A pleasure, Comtesse. Is this your first trip to Skyhold?"

"Oh yes," she said, fluttering her mask in front of her face. "It's very imposing. A worthy seat of power for such a great man."

"Indeed," said Dorian with only a miniscule raise of his brow. "Make sure you explore the gardens while you're here. They're quite breathtaking, though nothing compared to your own beauty."

"Thank you, messere," she said, a little hesitantly, before turning back to Maxwell. "But I regret that my stay will be quite short. There are always duties at home to be attended to, are there not?"

"The sad state of affairs for those who accept the mantle of responsibility," he answered. "Nevertheless, if you can remain here through the next week, you can both attend our next fete and return home with an easy heart. It wouldn't do to leave before the hospitality of Skyhold is thoroughly exhausted."

The Comtesse smiled with a touch of satisfaction. "I appreciate that, Your Grace. I will do so. As long as I can be assured at least one dance with my host, of course."

"There could be no partner more desirable," said Maxwell with another gallant bow. When she pretended to wipe at invisible tears of overwhelming emotion, he rose to the occasion as though he hadn't known the ploy was coming. In a flash, he presented his handkerchief, handsomely monogrammed with the symbol of the Inquisition, for her to take.

She murmured her appreciation and curtsied graciously when he insisted she keep it. As Maxwell sat back down, carefully keeping his smile in place, Dorian clapped his hands together behind the table with a smirk.

Maxwell narrowed his eyes and mouthed, Stop it.

"A fine performance should always be recognized," said Dorian. "You're quite good at this, you know. Much better than you used to be. And you used to be unparalleled."

"Who says I'm performing?" asked Maxwell, suddenly irritated. "You were certainly gushing at her enough."

Dorian sipped his wine with insouciant sophistication, which was another impossible thing that he made look easy. "My life is a performance. Fatuous, puerile, and vapid. It's why they gave me this empty position," he said. "It's not much more of an effort to flatter the undeserving alongside the deserving."

Maxwell wondered if he was one of the deserving ones. He also wondered what Dorian meant about the emptiness of his job, and how much he was trying to hide. But mostly he wanted to take the bitter look out of those dark, tense eyes. "That sounds like your father talking. Not you."

"What's that charming Fereldan saying? Even a blind druffalo finds a patch of grass every once in a while? The fact that my father is so often wrong doesn't preclude him from ever being right."

Another knot of guests interrupted their conversation, and Maxwell ran through his social graces with as much enthusiasm as possible. This group was from the Marches, which was less fraught with doublespeak and flattery, but it did mean that they could talk a man's ear off. By the time they moved on, Josephine was giving him another pointed look, and Cullen was showing that very specific restlessness that meant he was about to receive some urgent summons from his captains that they would all have to pretend to believe, so Maxwell rose and clinked his glass with solemn ceremony.

As he thanked the guests for their humbling support, particularly the distinguished members of the Chantry, he heard barely audible noises behind him and knew Dorian was being amusing again. And when he heard Josephine cough gently, the remnants of a giggle inside of it, he knew Dorian must be in rare form. She never broke for anything.

He spared a minute at the end to welcome the new ambassador, and Dorian's face was angelic and guileless as he stood alongside him to accept the overture. "I know you're mocking me," said Maxwell between his teeth as they waved to the clapping audience. The Chantry sisters were less clapping than glowering noisily, but it was close enough.

"Just admiring the cut of your trousers," said Dorian with a sunny smile. All traces of his melancholy were gone, so completely that it was hard to believe they'd ever existed. And when they began to eat, the mage launched in to amusing tales of the Imperium that were light, airy and utterly meaningless.


After dinner, Dorian made his way gingerly through the doors out of the hall and to the atrium. Solas's old place, before he'd vanished off the face of the planet. At least he wouldn't have to worry about receiving an impromptu lecture on slavery every time he wanted a late-night snack. Not that he could even think about eating. The Inquisition apparently subsisted on much sturdier rations now that they'd become the official Savior of Everything We Hold Dear.

He paused in the library to find a book for the evening - preferably one with very large print and very short words - and tipped a nod to the lurking librarian. The man barely acknowledged him, engrossed in some old scrolls that Dorian longed to examine. It had seemed like a new, pricelessly ancient writing had appeared every day during the height of the war, and he could only imagine what new treasures they'd discovered in his absence.

But not tonight. He could feel the Revered Mothers lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike. His room would be much safer.

When he heard the unmistakable sound of his jailors clanking away from him, he worried he'd taken too long to secure his safety, but a half-turn revealed Maxwell shooing them away with alacrity. Dorian sighed. His pulse was speeding up, as it always did, but he was uncharacteristically exhausted of flirting and pretense tonight. Tomorrow would be negotiations and assignations and more shields against the hatred of the world. For now, he only wanted to rest.

But no, that would never be acceptable. So Dorian turned around with a sardonic smile and said, "Another familiar sight. Do you still run to and fro, saying your hellos, checking in on all of your faithful followers?"

Maxwell didn't smile back. "Only the important ones."

And that was far too direct for his exhausted state. "Careful," said Dorian. "Tongues are apt to start wagging if talk like that gets around."

"Fine," said Maxwell. "Let them talk. They'd barely have time in their day to fit a new topic in. Besides, it's just us."

Dorian reached up and lightly touched a wall sconce beside him. "Leliana had all of these fitted with tubes that funnel any conversation directly to the rookery. Didn't you?" he added to the fixture. "Cough twice for yes."

After a pause, two loud coughs sounded above them, and Maxwell gaped. Dorian shrugged. "When you spend enough time here, you start to notice when things change. It was very clever work. And it did finally cure me of my persistent habit of talking to myself as I read."

A delighted smile graced the Inquisitor's lips, and Dorian's heart sped up again. "That's adorable."

"Believe me, it isn't," said Dorian, sternly checking himself. "My instructors tried everything short of blood magic to remove the tendency, and I think by the end they were sorely tempted to chance it. Even Alexius hated it, and he loved everything I did."

Maxwell didn't look like he believed that, but he only said, "Well, I'm sorry we were spying on you while you were here. I wasn't aware."

"I don't think it was personal. The library was merely conveniently located. And I did make my own fun. I muttered to myself in Tevene for a week straight, once. Old cookery recipes. I never did find out if she tried any of them."

"If one of them was for a chocolate-topped strawberry dessert, she did. And it was terrible," said Maxwell. "Leave, Leliana. I need to talk to Dorian."

They waited for a few seconds before Dorian leaned over to stage whisper, "It's hard to know if that worked, isn't it?" In more normal tones he added, "Best not to chance it, I expect. And I need at least a full night of beauty rest, if not more, to maintain this flawless visage, so perhaps we could defer any chats until later."

"No."

Ah, and there was that stubborn set of the eyes and mulish thrust of the chin that Dorian knew far too well. Whenever they'd argued over mage rights, or slavery versus brutality, or which Chantry had the right of things - or less of the wrong - there would come the physical manifestations of internal tension. Nostrils flaring, breath coming a little faster, biceps flexed across his chest. It was a very intoxicating pose.

"You've gotten bossy while I was away," said Dorian lightly. "Must have something to do with running the entire world."

Maxwell folded his arms on cue, though sadly his tunic was in the way of the truly interesting sights. "Stop it," he said.

"Stop what? Speaking? Difficult to converse with one party mute, I would think. Unless this is one of those chats where you simply lecture me and I nod and say, wide-eyed and worshipful, 'Yes, of course, you're always right' at the end? I've been very well-trained for that."

"That. Stop that. The joking and the dancing and the deflecting."

So he wanted to be serious, now. Maxwell always had liked to change the mood of a room in an instant. It kept people off balance. But that didn't mean Dorian had to play. "I don't know how you expect me to stop being myself," said Dorian. He summoned up all of the remnants of charisma he could find and smiled. "My wit is a river that always flows."

Maxwell slammed his fist into a shelf, and Dorian blinked at him, trying not to be worried. Or at least not look it.

"This isn't you," said Maxwell. His eyes were searching and more than a little annoyed. "What happened in Tevinter? You've always been a flirt and a charmer and an exasperating bastard, but you've never been so angry."

"I remember being quite irritated on multiple occasions," said Dorian, a little confused. "My countrymen almost destroyed the world, you know. Twice."

"Sure, at them. Or at your father. Or me," Maxwell added as an afterthought. "But not at yourself." He stepped forward, just that inch or two closer, and suddenly Dorian's personal space was much warmer. And much more dear. "What happened in Tevinter?"

"It's been two years. A great many things have happened," said Dorian.

But the Inquisitor was obviously done playing, too. This was no longer ballroom Maxwell, or even the new, reigning version. This was the man on the battlefield, sizing up the enemy, and saving his strength for the best openings. How many times had Dorian watched his ever-present laughter vanish into indomitable, ruthless purpose? Red Templars or bandits or a wayward druffalo, the enemy made no difference. Maxwell was always at the fore, and he always won. There was nothing he wouldn't use for victory. Including people.

Even after Maxwell had agreed lightly that the one night should be all they had, even after he'd watched a broken-hearted man leave with indifferent eyes, he'd still taken Dorian with him on every journey into the wilds of Thedas. At first Dorian had thought it a sign of his effortless detachment, and perhaps it was in part. But a few weeks later, around the fire in some remote wasteland, they'd been alone together for the first time. And Maxwell had said, out of the blue, "I'm glad you're with us, Dorian. You're the best at what you do. Probably the best mage I've ever seen. Don't tell Vivienne I said so."

The stars had been nearly covered with fine, thin clouds, but a few had winked at them as he'd stood and turned to his tent. Before he reached it, he'd added, "But make sure to guard yourself. I need you to stay healthy."

That was as close as he'd ever gotten to saying that Dorian was indispensable to the fight even if he was disposable in the bedroom, but it had been enough to understand. Maxwell didn't get attached to anything. But he would always use the best tools for the job, no matter how little he regarded them. And the real, secret power of the man was, even that small acknowledgment of worth had been enough to keep Dorian close.

Dorian wondered if Maxwell had ever noticed that he was always the first one he healed.

But right now the Inquisitor's tools were oppressive silence and the carefully crafted concern in his eyes. Maxwell was a tall man, despite what Dorian told his countrymen, and he towered above as he willed Dorian to answer the question.

Before Dorian could marshal his own, not inconsiderable, obstinacy, Maxwell raised his hand and laid it on Dorian's shoulder. It was the casual comfort of one soldier to another, or the simple gesture of a friend. There wasn't even any true contact, since Dorian had opted for a less revealing shirt in deference to the holy visitors. It didn't matter. Every muscle in his body tensed, and when the tip of Maxwell's thumb ghosted across the exposed skin of his throat in a slow caress, he almost went through the ceiling.

"What happened?" asked Maxwell for a third time, low and insistent.

Dorian swallowed heavily. The melodic baritone was gone, replaced by the bedroom rumble, and he wondered exactly how obvious he'd been in his desires.

Too obvious, apparently, if the Inquisitor had chosen this tool for his interrogation. Dorian shook the hand away and said, "Nothing happened." When Maxwell growled, he cut him off with a glare. "It's meant literally. Nothing. My grand plans for change, all the idealistic hopes I'd picked up from your ragtag team of optimists… all for naught I'm afraid."

The other man frowned, and Dorian chuckled darkly. "Hard to believe, I know. Me? Charming, handsome and erudite, unable to accomplish the relatively simple task of talking the Imperium's head out of its own ass? But it seems some people were born to be effective. I'm simply not one of them."

"Things have changed," said Maxwell, crossing his arms again. "You forget I'm in a position to know. Better than most, thanks to my spymaster. Every week we get new Tevinter allies. And only a few of them have been spies."

"I'd never doubt the Nightingale," said Dorian. "At least, not while expecting to survive the process. But it's not enough. Like trying to empty an ocean with a thimble. There will always be arrogant Tevinters, and they will never see even the smallest shred of reason. While the power rests in their unstable hands, nothing will truly change." He looked away and sighed. "People have been murdered, you know."

"I know. I've been continually amazed you weren't one of them."

Dorian smiled with more genuine humor. "I think a few of my old acquaintances might have been tempted, at least after I raided their liquor stocks." He sobered. "But I'm of no threat to the knife-holders. I have no power."

"You have enormous power," said Maxwell.

Dorian lifted his hand and let a spark of lightning run over it, side to side.

"Not that. You do. In who you are. You're just too much of a coward to use it."

The lightning died a fast death. "Excuse me?"

But Maxwell didn't seem to hear. "Maybe not a coward. Not exactly. But you always quit before the fight is over. You're the one I had to watch like a hawk to make sure that you didn't relax until the enemies were dead. You're still the one who has all of the exits cataloged before you enter a room. Figuring out how to escape a situation before you're even in it. Revolution won't work like that. It can't," he said. "Building things takes time, Dorian. It takes some damn effort."

Maxwell raked his eyes over Dorian's face. His jaw tightened. "You're not a coward. You're a quitter."

Later, Dorian would remember the blazing, hot look on the other man's face and understand he'd been spoiling for a fight. Maybe because he'd lost his bout that afternoon. Maybe he'd had to be nice to one too many nobles. Maybe his collar was too tight. Whatever it was, in that moment, the Inquisitor's wish was granted.

"I see you've been corresponding with my father," said Dorian dryly. His voice shook only a little. "Tell me, did he give you the exact wording of this little speech, or was it mere suggestion?"

"Your father," spit Maxwell. Without moving an inch, he seemed to draw closer, but Dorian refused to shrink away. "Let's talk about him. How long did it take you to run back to a man you hate once you were home? A man who partially hates you, whether he admits it or not? Was it a month? Two? Your fine clothes and your slaves came from somewhere, Dorian. Did you find it all too risky, to actually commit to a principle for once?"

"Haven't you heard? A Tevinter citizen isn't allowed to have any principles at all. It's written right into the articles of governance."

"Stop it!" growled Maxwell. A few heads turned to stare at them, and he lowered his voice. "The world isn't a joke. Neither are you. You have so much potential, and you just… waste it. It's infuriating. I started as the powerless third son, but I gave every task they set me more than my best, and each one rewarded me. You won't even give the tasks you set for yourself a token effort. How can you expect anyone else to follow your vision if you barely seem to believe in it yourself? At least the lunatics in the Magisterium don't fake their confidence. At least they don't defeat themselves."

It was a slap to the face, a hit that Dorian felt down to his very bones, but in a wild, lost moment he almost laughed. He looked at the fixtures of Skyhold, at this fortress that had risen around the Inquisition like a fitted coat, and it was too much. You don't know anything, he wanted to say. Don't you see that we aren't all like you? That we aren't all so blessed?

It wasn't even his fault, not truly. It must be difficult to understand mortals as a god. To see what it was to be afraid, loathed, cast aside. Maxwell was a beacon, the flame that drew the moths, and he had never known a day of rejection in his life. He didn't know emptiness, or how a man might have no home, no place or person that needed him. He'd never looked into the eyes of his father and heard him say, "Change," in an echoing voice that branded the soul. He'd never had to demand love from the people who should have given it, fully and without reserve.

He'd never walked to his rooms at the end of the night, desperate for any contact, for any shred of relief from the crushing weight of the world, and had nothing and no one. He'd never listened to the rain in the dark, wondering what the worth of his own life was.

He'd never taken an appointment as ambassador just to go back to a place that had been burning, longing happiness for one night. He'd never dreamed of Maxwell Trevelyan.

Maxwell lived. He flourished. He was valued and adored, and it had only taken him a few short years to wrap the entirety of the world around his little finger. So no, it wasn't his fault. It was just who he was.

Dorian closed his eyes and willed himself to breathe evenly. "Not all of us can snap our fingers and get whatever we want."

"Neither can I."

"Name one thing you want that you can't have. One thing you want to do that you couldn't," said Dorian, opening his eyes in time to see Maxwell's irritated face smooth into blankness. "You can't. The Inquisitor has everything. And the rest of us will have to muddle along the best we can."

"That's not an excuse," said Maxwell. "Something being difficult to do is no reason to stop trying."

"Then you do it," snapped Dorian. "Go to Tevinter and fix everything. Waltz in with a smile and a wave of your hand and reverse centuries of arrogance and mistakes. Cow them or charm them or do whatever it is you do instead of sitting here with your Comtesses and your fetes."

Maxwell narrowed his eyes. "You want me to go to war with your country."

"What I want is to go to bed. What I want is to forget that I ever once considered someone as supercilious as you a friend."

The other man said nothing, and Dorian reveled in even that small victory. "You have some books to pick up," he added, brushing past his silent companion. "If you'll excuse me."

A hand reached out and pulled lightly on his arm. "Dorian," said Maxwell quietly. "Wait. We were friends. We still are. Don't leave."

"Friends don't fuck each other, Inquisitor," said Dorian with a sharp smile, entirely past control. "I'm certain I've seen that written down somewhere."

Before his mouth could betray him any further, he left.


Back in his room, Shayla was carefully picking at something, and Dorian realized dully that she was removing a bright orange patch from one of his shirts. She looked up at his face as he stared and, without a word, rose to get a cup of water for him. He settled into bed, fully clothed, and took the offering with a small, "Thank you."

"Sleep well, Dorian," she said in reply, and he drifted off to the sound of her chair creaking as she worked.


Maxwell walked back to his quarters with deliberate vigor. There were still visitors and Inquisition members in the Hall, and he waved and smiled at them as he passed. But he didn't linger, because he held in his hands three books in Tevene, designed to help a person learn the language, and he didn't need any questions about them at all.

As he climbed the staircase to his room, his step slowed, and by the time he reached the top he was barely moving. He entered to see everything exactly as he'd left it, tidy except for the pile of armor in the corner that he was still testing out. He dropped the books on his desk without opening them, then wandered over to the cabinet of ostentatious valuables Josephine insisted on housing in his room. Just in case he was bedding someone important, he supposed.

The top shelf held a set of Antivan daggers, a present from the Crows at the conclusion of some successful business or other. He didn't know much about their underworld contacts, and that suited him just fine. But he always liked a handsome weapon, and these were beautifully crafted, unmarked and polished to a noticeable shine that seemed out of step with assassins.

He hadn't meant to yell at Dorian. He didn't know what he'd meant to do, not really, but it hadn't been that. It figured that the first person they'd sent from the Imperium who might actually be a valuable negotiating partner was the only person who'd ever really gotten under his skin. Maxwell played the Game easily, with its indomitable rules that could be bent just so, but Dorian had never had any kind of discernible rules to his name. Or, if he did, they were all broken so often they might as well not exist.

When Maxwell lifted the daggers and felt their heft, he looked around at the yawning, chilled room. He kept the windows open as long as he could in the Frostbacks, anxious to bring some of the outside world into his space. The more the Inquisition went on, the further removed he was from it. And it was nice to think that something so common as mountain air could survive his grandiosity.

The curtains were the same pattern they'd been since the Inquisition moved in to the place. Dorian had called them ghastly before he'd walked out of the room for the first and last time, not a hair out of a place or a wobble in his voice. He'd clearly had no interest in returning. Maxwell remembered it all perfectly, and often. Especially the oh-so-charming fucking.

While the room filled with the frost of night, he threw the daggers again and again, watching them clatter and lose their sheen against the walls. Each time he picked them up, there were new scratches on their hilts and dullnesses in their blades. He filled the curtain's ugly patterns with slices and holes and relived his memories once more.