Big chapter, guys. Big chapter.

Thanks and HUGE internet hugs for your support thus far. Normally (as many of you know) I'm a bit slower with the updates...but I was so giddy at having reached 400 reviews that I had to sit down and write this one.


Ladies and Gentlemen

River Hawke had remembered Val Royeaux's opulence from the last time she'd been there, but she continued to be surprised by Orlesian decadence every time she saw it.

She didn't know the name of whichever lesser lord or duke or whatnot that was housing the Inquisition's higher-ups in their estate not far outside of Halamshiral. But whoever owned the place clearly had a thing for frilly soaps. River had caught Ellairia Surana trying to sneak out of the washroom after apparently spending half an hour in there sniffing each soap; naturally, she'd had to do the same.

The white marble floors all over the estate felt cold and unnatural under her bare feet; she'd decided to walk around sans boots for the time being. And the washroom was easily the size of her room in Skyhold, and decorated like the noble had thrown buckets of money at it until it drowned in luxury. The marble countertops were trimmed with carved brass, the mirror's golden rim decorated with lion motifs, each soap encased in a glass bottle that was easily worth more than River's life.

Might as well inhale all of them. She picked one up, the glass jar nearly sparkling, liquid catching the light inside. It smelled heavily of primrose and reminded her of an old woman, so she put that one down. Another one gave her an overpowering dose of lemon zest, and another reeked so badly of cinnamon and cardamom that she sneezed.

Maybe you're a noblewoman by blood, she told herself, but there's nothing properly noble about you.

She whistled a tune, leaving the washroom and shutting the door carefully behind her. She'd turned to make sure the door didn't slam into the wall while being shut; when she turned back to the hallway to continue down it, she nearly ran smack into Fenris.

"Shit. I'm sorry, love," River said. "Were you—"

"My curiosity finally got the better of me," Fenris said. "How long did you think you could trick me for? I'll have you know I saw right through it weeks ago."

"What do you mean?" She played dumb. Tried to, at least.

"Did all of you collectively think I wouldn't recognize the sight of Tevene tailoring?" Fenris said now, sounding unimpressed. "I spent much of my life in Tevinter, bound to a magister. I know what I'm looking at."

"Dorian isn't a—" she started.

"Magister? I'm aware." Fenris shifted to lean against the nearest wall, crooking one leg. "Magister, Altus, it doesn't matter. You'd be a fool to trust anyone from Tevinter's higher class."

"Fenris…" River approached him, undaunted, and rested her hands on his muscular chest. His eyes softened slightly, affectionately, though he didn't move. "Look, I'm sorry. I—I keep screwing things up with you, don't I? And trying to protect you when I shouldn't be. I was worried that learning where Dorian was from would…"

"Set me off?" Fenris filled in. "Am I the same man you met years ago, River?"

She shook her head. "No. You're right."

He didn't say anything, just rested a hand on her hip.

"You can't blame me for trying," she said. "I know how much you went through, how much it hurts you still. How you have to be reminded of it every time you look in a mirror." She lifted a hand to graze her fingers on the lyrium lines on his neck, and he sighed, relaxing somewhat under her touch. "And…Dorian sees things differently from you. He's had different experiences. But I promise you, he's a good person. He—"

"You sound as though you're trying to convince me not to kill him," Fenris said, his eyes bottomless and leafy-green. "I'm not so filled with bloodlust that I would take his life unprovoked."

River breathed a sigh of relief, letting out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding for weeks.

"You know me," she said, attempting a lighthearted smile. "Always tugging on the strings connecting people and trying to fix relationships and prevent catastrophes. I didn't want there to be any sort of civil war in the Inquisition, and…and I forgot how much we've changed since we met, haven't I?"

"It's been a lifetime," he said quietly.

She smoothed her palms up and down his well-muscled arms. "I hate change," she admitted. "I hate every bit of it. Maybe that's why I keep pretending we're all the same as we were years ago. Sometimes when I get a headache my first thought is to go to Anders instead of Ellie. I still imagine Isabela's laugh all the time. And I quite literally told Dorian to claim he was from Antiva just so it wouldn't remind you of Tevinter, because I'd forgotten how much you've changed."

"Trust me," Fenris said with a dry laugh, "I knew that was your doing."

"Maker, I'm awful." She chewed on her bottom lip.

"Perhaps," he said. "But you're Hawke. I'll endure many things for your sake."

"Sweet-talker." River chuckled and leaned into him, smiling when his arms came around her back and held her close. "I don't know why you let me keep things from you for weeks on end. Or, attempt to. I've got two failures under my belt now, if we count that letter I left you when Varric asked me to join the Inquisition." She nuzzled her forehead into the curve of his neck. "Maybe you could give it a try and talk to Dorian? Just once? He's not always elitist. You can't be a staunch elitist and have feelings for Finn."

He exhaled what could've either been a laugh or a sigh. "I have no intentions of conversing with him, River."

"No?"

"Nor anyone, particularly." He lifted her head from his shoulder, gently, and pressed a kiss to her lips. "I'm only here for you. If you had defected and sailed to Llomerryn to drink away the rest of your days, I would have joined you there as well."

"Because you love bad Rivaini ale and you know it," River teased.

"Because I love you and I know it," he countered.

Maker, it still filled her stomach with stupid butterflies whenever he said things like that. She felt herself flushing pink against her will.

"For fuck's sake, you turn me into a blubbering mess," she said. He even looked proud of that, damn him; that half smile was too sexy for its own good. "Just for that, I think I'm going to rope you into my wicked scheme to desecrate this nobleman's washroom. Have to have a little fun before the ball, after all."

Fenris smirked. "I'm listening."

"You think that sink can hold my weight?" River said with a wink.

"I think," he said, bending to grab her legs and hook them around his waist, which she happily helped him with, "that even if it fails to, I can."

"Goodness me," Dorian said from somewhere near to them, "I should hope nobody is purposefully breaking sinks. Some of us happen to like using those."

Fenris's whole body went taut like a hide on a tanner's rack.

"Um," River said, twisting her head around to look at him, still clinging to the elven warrior's torso like a primate with her legs tight around his waist. "Dorian, we're a tad busy here."

"So I've noticed," the Tevene mage said, rather smugly.

"I would not push your luck, mage," Fenris said icily.

River weighed the situation. Fenris's tone—a little sketchy. The fact that Fenris hadn't committed homicide yet—good sign. She wasn't sure if her position clinging to him had any influence on his decisions, but she certainly wasn't moving. Fenris had a sharp mind and a good sense of right and wrong, she knew, but she'd also seen his judgment be severely clouded by traumatic memories.

Dorian chuckled, seemingly not noticing the acid in Fenris's words. River had no doubt he did; he just chose not to react to it. "Push my luck? I was only wondering when the washroom would open back up to the general public."

"It's ours for the next half hour," River said cheerily. Fenris's hands clenched around her thighs, fingertips digging in. "You can always find another one."

"No need. I have a tutoring session to give Nanyehi, anyway." Dorian brushed an invisible piece of lint off the shoulder of his tunic. "Do remember to tidy up after yourselves."

"Dorian," River said, "I swear to Andraste's panties, if you don't keep walking down this hall within five seconds I will convince Finn to wear a chastity belt for the next month."

"Not that he would ever do such a heinous thing, but you've made your point." Dorian continued on his way, giving them a sort of casual farewell wave as he left. "So long, my adventurous, washroom-wrecking compatriots."

Fenris was silent for a moment, then heaved the heaviest, roughest sigh River had ever heard.

"So…" River said, wanting to brush the conversation off rather than belabor it. "Sink?"

"Yes," Fenris said with very little hesitation, carrying her into the washroom and pushing the door shut behind him.


"I think it's absolutely hilarious that no one's telling me what's going on," Finn said. "And by that, I mean it's completely not hilarious at all. And by that—"

"I think you've made your opinion clear, Finirial," Leliana said.

Why Leliana had cornered him a few minutes ago and ushered him into one of the estate's private suites, he had zero idea. Even more confusing was when Leliana scooted a chair over to the vanity sink, facing away from it, and ordered him to sit down in it.

"I would be worried for your life, my friend," Zevran said, lounging on a patterned settee with a leonine sort of leisure. "Leliana has that gleam in her eye."

"Oh, shush, you." Leliana tilted Finn's head back, and he immediately felt a rush of cold water hit his hair. "You're lucky Shesi ordered me not to do anything with your hair. She's rather fond of it."

"Such is mia cara," Zevran said with a mock sigh. "The most threatening midget in all of Thedas."

"Okay," Finn said, "now you're really concerning me."

The spymaster's long, nimble fingers massaged through his hair, working the cold water to his roots and untangling as she went. "Nothing that isn't absolutely necessary. You're much too recognizable as you are without some sort of physical change."

"So, what," Finn said, closing his eyes, "you're giving me a haircut?"

"No," Leliana said. "Your hair should be unkempt for this. As a matter of fact, I'm coloring it."

Finn's eyes shot open and he made an undignified noise.

Zevran chuckled lowly. "I don't think he likes that, my dear."

"What do you mean, coloring it?" Finn said. "Is white hair really that offensive to Orlesians? And why don't I get a say? Please, for the love of all that is good, don't make it pink."

"Not pink," Leliana said. "That would look atrocious on you. Actually, there's a reason I have both of you in here even though I'm not allowed to touch Zevran's hair." The cold water stopped flowing, although she kept kneading her fingers through Finn's wavy hair. "As you may know, the Game is of the highest stakes, and the Inquisition must allocate its people to the best tasks possible. I'm disguising the both of you as servants so the Inquisition has eyes and ears among the elven workers in the Winter Palace."

Finn's tense muscles relaxed somewhat as understanding dawned.

"And I'm too recognizable, like you said." He lifted his hands to study them. "What about the vallaslin?"

"I'll admit, your markings are a predicament that continues to stump me." Leliana's hands left Finn's hair, and she turned to the vanity. "Many Orlesians have a sort of cream to smooth over their complexions, and powder, but I highly doubt such a thing could cover those vivid blue lines for such a long time."

"Gods, I would never wear that," Finn said, letting his eyes fall shut once again. Getting a surprise hair coloring was one thing. Fancy face-paste? No way in hell.

"I wouldn't expect you to." Leliana slicked something goopy together in her hands, from the sound of it; this time, Finn was expecting it when she begun smoothing it into his sopping wet hair. "Although at the moment, we're dreadfully short on options. And I must come up with something to do with you before I let you be seen with your new hair color."

"We can't have people realizing you've altered him, can we?" Zevran drawled.

"No." Leliana rubbed the dye deep into the roots of his hair, gathering his formerly ice-white waves into her hands and massaging the dye into every lock of it. "In fact, I want as few people aware of this as possible. Knowledge in too many hands is a loose end. The Inquisitor will know, Josephine…and I fully anticipate you leaking the secret to Shesi, Zevran. Aside from the bare minimum, everyone else in the Inquisition must believe the both of you have missed the ball."

"I hope you know I won't keep this from Dorian," Finn said.

Although he dreaded to think what opinion Dorian might have on the changes. What if altering his hair color and concealing his vallaslin changed his face, made him somehow no longer desirable?

Look at you, being a worrywart, he thought to himself. It'll be fine. You can't think that way.

"We are lucky Dorian is adept at hiding things," Leliana said, falling silent except for the occasional humming.

"I've been told we won't have to worry about becoming part of the staff, amico," Zevran mentioned, almost cheerfully. He didn't look bothered by any of the strategizing; Finn suspected it took quite a bit to ruffle his feathers. "We have an 'in', so to speak. All we have to worry about is gathering information. Easy, yes?"

"Easy enough," Finn said, slouching in the chair.

He fell silent for a little while, patiently letting Leliana work on his hair. She washed it once more with cold water, then had him sit up straight so she could dry his hair with a clean towel.

"Damp, but drying," Leliana said triumphantly. "This will do perfectly. Have a look."

Not wanting to prolong it, Finn stood swiftly from the chair, turning to face himself in the vanity's mirror.

He almost jolted back out of shock.

All his life, his hair had grown out of his head as pure white as swan feathers—except for his brows and eyelashes, which for some reason had always been dark. Another bizarre quirk of his. His hair was dark to match now, a rich sort of blackened brown the color of semisweet chocolate. It made the glacier-water blue of his eyes stand out quite a bit against the backdrop of his tanned skin and chocolatey hair; he had to admit that at least Leliana had picked a nice combination.

"Alright, I won't protest," he said. "It's a nice color."

"And one that won't stand out." Leliana sounded pleased. "All that remains is—"

Someone lightly rapped their knuckles on the suite's closed door. "Might I come in?"

"It's unlocked, Josie," Leliana called.

Josephine stepped neatly into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft thud. She turned, found Finn with her amber-brown gaze, and drew her hand to her mouth. "Oh! I hadn't expected Leliana to have finished. You look quite fetching with dark hair, Finn."

Finn smiled. "I'm glad you think so."

"Stai arrossendo, amica," Zevran told Josephine, smirking wickedly.

"Basta, per piacere," Josephine told him, her cheeks reddening a dark rose color as she returned her attention to Finn. "Have we settled the matter of your vallaslin yet?"

"No, and we must settle this," Leliana answered for him, striding over to Josephine. "I was lucky finding an appropriately colored dye even with the variety of plants and colors in Orlais, but I'm afraid we have nothing to conceal his tattoos. Any facial cream we might possibly find could potentially rub off during the ball, and I doubt he would consent to wearing it."

"Nope," Finn said, popping the 'p'. "I'm an elf and I'm short. I already look girly enough as it is without women's makeup."

"I'm unsure of what to do, I'll admit." Josephine paced a step. "I could ask Lady Vivienne if there is some spell to conceal them, but what if such a spell faded during the ball? It—"

"I believe I have a third path," Solas said from the doorway.

Four heads turned to look at him; Finn hadn't even heard him open the door, didn't know he'd been listening. What reason could he have to involve himself? And what possible path was there?

"This was a private conversation," Leliana said pointedly, her grey-blue eyes calculating.

"And I must have one with Finirial, at the moment." Solas didn't waver under her scrutiny. "One that will provide you your answers."

Finn stood without hesitation. "Lead the way, lethallin."


Whoever this nobleman was—Finn really should've made some effort to at least learn his name before he and Dorian desecrated one of his bedrooms—the guy had beautiful gardens.

It wasn't so much of a formal garden as it was a winding pathway around the estate grounds, paved by scattered flagstones and lined thickly with colorful and fragrant plants of all sorts. Finn smelled tea roses, jasmine, and lavender, letting his hand brush some willow leaves as he followed Solas.

"Any reason you're taking me to some sort of oddly romantic location?" Finn teased. "Solas. I had no idea."

"Your mind travels to all manner of astounding places," Solas said in return, stopping under the dappled shade of an oak and turning to face Finn. "I brought you here because the grounds offer a place of privacy—unlike the inside of the estate, where we might have been assaulted by potentially anyone."

"So," Finn said, leaning on one hip and feeling a cool breeze stir his drying hair, "what did you want to say?"

"Would you like to sit?" Solas gestured to a nearby rock.

"I'm fine on my feet."

"Very well." Solas nodded. "I will not delay the point of the conversation, Finirial. I know a spell. To take the vallaslin away."

"That's fantastic—wait." Finn furrowed his brows. "Take it…away?"

"Yes. The spell is permanent. Your vallaslin will not reappear on your skin when the magic has been cast."

Finn did his absolute best not to stutter or stammer. "Wait, but…I know I've been kind of questioning my old clan's beliefs and all, but these markings are important to me. Other Dalish wouldn't even consider me an adult if they didn't know me and they saw a bare face. And the vallaslin are to honor the gods, right? Even if—"

"They are not," Solas said firmly.

Finn fell silent.

"Your face. The vallaslin." Solas clasped his hands behind his back. "In my journeys in the Fade, I have seen things. I have discovered what those marks mean, the truth of it. And I thought that you deserved to know they are slave markings."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis, Solas and the garden and everything blurring in front of Finn's eyes; he wasn't certain how he remained on his feet without wobbling.

"You're…certain?" He was only half aware of the rather pathetic plaintiveness in his own voice. "I've been marked like a slave since I was fifteen years old and I was proud of it? I let my little sister undergo the same tattooing?"

"It was a process I have witnessed in memories of ancient Arlathan," Solas explained. His expression, though mild, was not unkind. "They were for the gods, in a sense. A noble would mark his slaves to honor the god he worshiped. After Arlathan fell…the Dalish forgot."

"Fucking hell," Finn muttered, finding the boulder near them and sitting on it. "Never mind that 'I'm fine on my feet' part." He exhaled sharply. "Hilarious, isn't it? The one thing every Dalish elf is so damn proud of receiving is a relic of slavery and oppression. The one thing we've always been so against."

Solas's brows furrowed just slightly. "I did not tell you this to hurt you. Nor to give you any sense of blame you should not carry."

Suddenly weary, Finn scrubbed his face with his hands. "If not for the masquerade, would you have ever told me this?"

Eventually," Solas said. "You are…important, Finirial. And you deserve the truth, although I did not intend to cause pain with it. I will gladly perform the spell, if you like. It will be as if you were never given the vallaslin at all."

Breathe. In, out. In, out. In…

"Take it away," Finn said, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice. "Just from my face. Give me some time to think about the rest of it."

"You may be interested to know that the slave markings were typically only on the face," Solas said. "Full body tattooing appears to be something your clan invented on its own. Regardless, it is your choice in the matter. Stand, please."

Finn obliged and stood.

"This will sting," Solas said.

His hands lifted, palms forward, in front of Finn's face and only a couple of inches away; Finn closed his eyes and braced himself. Magic washed over his face, pleasantly hot at first but then firing like hot pins and needles; he cringed, his brows drawing together, but he didn't make a noise.

A relic from his time receiving the tattoos in the first place, possibly. Making any sort of noise then would've been construed as a sign of immaturity. Maybe Finn still thought of it as such.

"You bear it well," Solas said. The burning magic faded, and Finn's head cleared. "Ar lasa mala revas."

You are free.


Finn's face felt like it had been seared with a brand, every nerve-ending raw and on fire as he entered the estate through a back doorway and padded silently along the hallway. He caught sight of a hanging mirror and peered into it, half expecting angry red burns where his vallaslin had once been.

Nothing of the sort. Nothing there at all except his face, devoid of June's blue vallaslin, the marks that had declared him an adult at fifteen and allowed him to join the war against the darkspawn in Denerim. His face looked strange to him without it, more youthful than it should've been considering his twenty-six years…and he'd forgotten about the faint dusting of freckles across his nose, hadn't he?

No Dalish would recognize him as one of their own anymore. He was just a tanned elf with dark hair and vivid blue eyes—pretty, maybe, but nothing special beyond that.

At least he'd kept the vallaslin covering the rest of his body in sweeping cerulean lines. Maybe he could use that as evidence, should someone ask. And the tattoos could be reapplied, technically speaking, but the process had been excruciating the first time he'd done it. Not to mention he and Nanyehi had no guarantees of ever returning to the clan.

Nor would I want to, he thought, a smile creeping onto his face despite himself. Dorian wouldn't be there. It doesn't really matter, does it?

Why give a shit if someone called him a flat-ear?

In slightly better spirits—but still feeling odd and awfully bare-faced—Finn continued down the hall.

He saw Cassandra and Cullen walking the opposite way through the hall, engrossed in a discussion about outfitting the Inquisition's attending troops for the upcoming masquerade ball. Finn looked up to greet them when they crossed paths, but neither seemed to notice him; he slipped wordlessly past Cullen's side, blinking.

So Leliana's disguise worked on at least two people, and those people knew him.

That was a good thing, he knew. Still, not being recognized by his sister's close friend and confidant, and the man currently courting his sister…weird feeling.

A little edgy and disconcerted now, Finn kept going, picking up his stride.

He had to get used to this for the masquerade. Once there, he and Zevran would have to be faceless, unimportant servants for the good of the Inquisition. At least he wasn't doing it alone; he felt inordinately glad for the promise of Zevran's company and aid throughout the event. It wasn't unheard of for elven servants to work in pairs, he was pretty certain, so if he and—

"And just where are you rushing off to?" Dorian's voice startled Finn out of his contemplating, and a hand fisted in the back of Finn's tunic and pulled him backwards. "Here I was thinking you'd winked right into nonexistence since this morning."

He must've been so deep in thought that he'd nearly passed right by his and Dorian's guest room without even knowing. Shifting to stay balanced on his feet, he found himself looking up into Dorian's stone-grey eyes, still held by the back of his tunic.

"I've been…occupied," Finn said.

"I see that now." Dorian let go of Finn's tunic and lifted his hand, brushing the backs of his fingers against Finn's cheek where the vallaslin had once been. "I hadn't pictured you a brunette before, but I must admit you look quite handsome with dark hair."

"And you recognized me," Finn said, smiling widely.

"Obviously." Dorian gave him a distinct 'what a silly thing to say' expression. "I hope it doesn't come as a surprise that I've spent enough time studying you to know what you look like even with a few cosmetic changes."

"I just…" Finn shifted up onto the balls of his feet and kissed Dorian soundly on the lips. "Thank you."

"Mmm, I do like how you show your gratitude." Dorian smirked and bent down for another kiss; longer this time, fingers weaving through Finn's chocolatey hair.

"And I have a lot of it, for that," Finn said when Dorian pulled back. "I have a lot on my mind right now, actually. Could we talk?"

"You needn't have to ask," the Tevene mage said, tugging Finn further into the room and shutting the door behind him.

No sense in stalling. "Leliana is disguising me and Zevran as servants for the masquerade," he said. "So, as you can obviously tell, she had my hair dyed and my facial vallaslin removed. I suppose it should alarm me that you recognized me so easily…but Cassandra and Cullen didn't, so I'll take that as promising evidence."

Dorian tsked his tongue. "Your eyes alone are remarkably recognizable, amatus. If you don't want to be exposed in front of countless Orlesians for trickery and fraud, you might do well to keep your head down as you go about your business."

Amatus? Finn had never heard that word before, although it sounded Tevene and it made an odd tingle rush up his spine. He made a mental note to ask about it later; maybe Krem or Fenris could tell him what it meant.

"So I should hide my eyes, as opposed to pouting handsomely at everyone and batting my lashes?" Finn teased. "If there is such a thing as pouting handsomely. Might be made up."

Dorian gave a sigh of mock indignation. "Whatever term you use for it, that expression of yours is a dangerous weapon and you really shouldn't unleash it on the populace."

Finn chuckled. "You just want it all to yourself."

"I won't argue that," Dorian said with a low laugh. "But, once again, we've managed to thoroughly derail the point of this conversation. You said your tattoos were…removed?"

"Yeah." Finn sighed heavily. "That's the part that kind of threw me for a loop."

"Who did it? And how so?"

"Solas," Finn said. "Apparently he picked up a spell from in the Beyond that let him erase vallaslin lines where he wanted to. They…" He broke off for a moment. "They were slave markings, once. In ancient Arlathan. Slaves were branded with the markings of whichever god their owner worshiped." He laughed bitterly. "Look at me, wearing slave tattoos on my face for eleven years of my life."

"That doesn't make you a slave, you know." Dorian stepped closer and rubbed Finn's arms, his left hipbone bumping against Finn's right. "Although I can imagine why it disconcerted you."

"But…you're right." And that was why he'd only erased them from his face, wasn't it? He idly fingered one of the buckles over Dorian's chest as he thought. "Wearing shokra-taar wouldn't make me Qunari. Imitating a finch's whistle doesn't make me a finch. I may be painted all over like slaves used to be, but that doesn't matter because I'm not one."

"Hm, no, you'd make an atrocious slave," Dorian said, his eyes softening. "The first time you uttered a marathon length curse would likely be your last. Not to mention you, martyrish as you are, would probably volunteer yourself for a blood ritual and die horribly."

"Gee, Dorian, I'm so relieved you pointed those things out," Finn quipped. "Looks like I'll have to find a new career path now. A whole life's worth of dreaming and planning, down the drain. I hope you're pleased with yourself."

The human mage smirked. "Immensely." He fluffed Finn's hair; he must've liked the color well enough. "Were you going to tell your sister of what you learned? Your clan, perhaps?"

"I'll think about telling Nani," Finn said. "My old clan, though? Nah. What's the point in wrecking such a big part of Dalish culture just because things used to be different and terrible? Someone else can be the bearer of that news if they want. I won't do it."

"Hm, I don't blame you for your reticence on the matter."

"You mean mulish obstinance," Finn said. "Anyway…about the masquerade? You can't act like you know me. Not until we have a huge amount of political sway over everyone there, which might never happen, so…yeah. Once the party starts, I have to be just another elven servant to you."

Dorian's expression soured.

"I'd expected as much," he said. "Not the easiest of tasks, though. Who am I supposed to complain about the quality of the food to?"

"Dorian," Finn chided. "Anyone could fill that role."

"I know." Dorian cupped his hand behind Finn's neck and leaned down, pressing a long kiss to the top of his head and inhaling deeply. "Hmm…raspberries? Orlesian hair dye is the strangest substance. I have no idea why it's scented."

"So I can smell like a fruit salad and attract bees." Unable to refrain from it, Finn smiled widely, enjoying being close to Dorian for what could potentially be the last time in a couple days. Not the longest time gap ever, but Finn was easily as clingy as your most persistent varieties of mold. "Go in there and show everyone why they're dicks for stereotyping all Tevinters, alright?"

"A manageable task, I should think," Dorian said. "Oh, and Finn? You should be aware—elves aren't necessarily treated with respect in Orlesian establishments. Should you need anything from me, I will be there. You have but to ask. Or make suggestive eye contact."

"Will do," Finn said, chuckling. "I'll be fine, but…will do. Oh, and before you ask…"

"Before I ask what?"

Finn grinned mischievously. "The vallaslin is only gone from my face. Which means your favorite tattoo lines on my arse are still there."

"Maker be praised," Dorian said, laughing, as he grabbed the sides of Finn's tunic and swept him forward into a rough kiss.