It's the third feast of the season, and Dorian can plainly see that his amatus is contemplating throwing himself off the ramparts. Oh, he hides it brilliantly, as always, his diplomat's smile firmly in place as he makes breezy chitchat with the visiting Orlesian delegation. But the elf has his tells, and Dorian knows them all. Just now, for instance, the Inquisitor is being treated to a rather lengthy monologue from the Comte de Blovié. (Not his actual name, of course. Dorian was introduced only a few minutes ago, but he's already discarded the information like a used cocktail napkin.) To all appearances, Seth is enjoying the tale, smiling and nodding at all the right moments. But Dorian doesn't miss the way his fingers twitch at his sides, fingertips tapping his thumb impatiently as he waits for an opportunity to make a graceful exit. The Comte and his hangers-on see nothing of this. Too dazzled by the elf's smile, and why wouldn't they be? But Dorian can feel his desperation from clear across the room – and he's not the only one.

"Boss needs rescuing," Bull murmurs from behind the cover of his flagon. "You want me to do it?"

"Let's do it together, shall we? We'll stage a distraction. A fight between the two of us."

Bull shoots him a side-eyed look. "A fight, huh? What are we arguing about?"

"A lovers' spat."

"Between me and the Inquisitor's fiancé?"

"Delicious, isn't it? We're fighting over him, of course."

Bull's eye narrows even further. "You want the Orlesians thinking the boss is getting some Qunari on the side? Or, wait – am I getting some Tevinter on the side?"

"Either. Both." Dorian flutters his hand dismissively. "Your pick."

"You're a messed up guy, Dorian, you know that?"

"Everyone knows that." He sighs. "What I am is frightfully bored. Our lady ambassador has got a little carried away this holiday season, don't you think? Three feasts in a row? I'd heard the Antivans celebrate Satinalia for a week or more, but I was expecting something a little spicier. At least throw in a good murder mystery or something."

Bull hitches a meaty shoulder. "More parties, more free drinks."

"I've always admired the simplicity of your philosophies, Bull."

Blue-green eyes meet Dorian's from across the room, and the effect is instantaneous. Seth's shoulders relax a little, and his smile brightens almost imperceptibly. Thus fortified, he returns his attention to the Comte de Blovié.

Dorian sighs. There's nothing for it. Satinalia isn't actually until tomorrow, and Dorian had Plans for the two of them. Terribly romantic, of course, with every detail carefully arranged. But he supposes there's something to be said for spontaneity, too, and this suddenly feels like the right moment.

He drifts over to Leliana, who's doing a masterful job of playing the wallflower while secretly cataloguing the most efficient way of killing everyone in the room. It's important to have a hobby. "Sister Nightingale, I wonder if I might prevail upon you for a small favour?"

There are no small favours from Skyhold's spymaster. Especially not for Dorian, who has yet to be forgiven for that time he inadvertently smashed Seth's heart into little pieces.

"You may ask, at least," she replies coolly, her gaze still making the rounds.

"I was hoping you might provide the Inquisitor with a plausible excuse to be elsewhere for a few minutes. Something urgent that requires his attention, et cetera. I won't detain him for long, and I can assure you my intentions aren't the least bit naughty." For once.

"Naughty or nice, it makes no difference to me. If you can cheer him up even a little, it is worthwhile. Go. He'll meet you in the library upstairs."

"Thank you," Dorian says, only a little worried about how easy that was. He makes a discreet exit and heads up the stairs, his heart already racing with anticipation. He's been working on this for months – ever since his birthday, in fact, when Seth's beautiful gift taught him what thoughtfulness really looks like. He's not going to top that – nothing ever could – but he can at least prove to his lover that he knows him every inch as well as Seth knows him.

It's deserted in the rotunda, and dark, and Dorian still doesn't hear him coming; Seth's innocent hi sends him halfway to the rafters.

"You'll be the death of me with that one day," he says, accepting a quick kiss in apology. "At the very least I'm going to be prematurely grey."

"Horrors," Seth says with a smile. His silver hair glows in the moonlight, and the emerald velvet they've stuffed him in brings out the green of his eyes. He's perfection, and Dorian is half tempted to abandon his plan and have his way with the elf then and there. But that would be predictable, and tonight, he's aiming higher.

"It's Satinalia tomorrow," he begins.

Seth's mouth takes a wry turn. "I noticed. Why, is there another feast?"

"Hush. I'm doing a thing."

"Sorry."

"The origins of the holiday are of course Tevinter. But my research has revealed that for a brief time, the Dalish also celebrated the holiday, under the reign of Hassandriel."

"Hassandriel?" Seth raises his eyebrows. "That is a long time ago."

"Indeed. I'd never heard of him until I started rooting through the library downstairs. He turns out to have been a rather interesting character. Among his more endearing qualities was his legendary devotion to his bride. It was said that he could not bear to be without her for even a few minutes. That he couldn't even leave a room without touching her."

"How romantic."

"Indeed. He showered her with gifts, some of which were the subject of lengthy descriptions in one of the tomes Morrigan helped me translate. But none fascinated me more than this." Dorian's heart is hammering in his chest now – whether from nervousness or excitement, he can't tell. A bit of both, probably.

Slowly, with appropriate flourish, he produces a bracelet. It's a simple enough design, a circlet about a quarter-inch wide, completely unadorned save for the iridescence of the material itself. Few would recognize this particular material, but Seth has seen it before.

"Ancient elven." He takes the bracelet with an astonished expression, turning it so that it glistens in the moonlight, shifting from indigo to green to gold. "This is the same material as they used to make the mosaics at Din'an Hanin and the Temple of Mythal."

"Bellasan," Dorian says. "Named for the rainbow. It turns out to be a type of petrified wood. More specifically, Dalish ironwood treated with a series of spells."

Seth glances up, eyes bright with fascination. "You learned how to craft it?"

"Of course. There's really very little to it." This is a lie. It took Dorian weeks to work it out, and a great many ironwood branches gave their lives in the process, but he sees no need to bore his lover with details.

"Bellasan," Seth murmurs, rolling this new word on his tongue. "The art must have been lost when the Dales fell. But you rediscovered it in the basement library?"

"Elegant, isn't it? A gift for you, derived from a gift for me. Based on a gift a Dalish lord gave to his beloved to honour a Tevinter holiday."

"It's… Dorian, it's…" He leans forward breathlessly, but Dorian puts a finger to his lips.

"Hold that thought. I haven't even got to the best part yet." He takes the bracelet and slips it over Seth's hand – whereupon it shrinks until it clasps his wrist snugly. It's really quite sexy, but that still isn't the best part. Dorian produces a second circlet of bellasan, this one a great deal smaller. It's a ring, and he slips it over his own baby finger.

Seth laughs. "Ah, I see. Now we match."

"Tut-tut, Inquisitor. You give me too little credit." Smiling like the cat that got the cream, Dorian runs his thumb over the ring – and watches in satisfaction as Seth's eyes light up again, his gaze falling to the bracelet around his wrist.

"It's warm!"

"They're magically tethered. From now on, I can send you a little greeting whenever I wish, or you to me. No matter how crowded the room or boring the conversation, I can remind you of my love without anyone but the two of us being the wiser. And I need never leave a room without touching you again."

There's a beat of silence. Seth just stands there, staring.

"The range isn't what I would like it to be. It works within the walls of Skyhold, but not much farther. Also, I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge the contributions of Morrigan and Dagna, and I—"

Seth takes Dorian's face in his hands and kisses him fiercely, and when he draws back, there's a shimmer of tears in his eyes. He kisses Dorian again and again, and by the time he's done Dorian's heart is pattering away happily.

He likes it. He loves it.

"There now," Dorian says, feeling ridiculously warm and fuzzy and also just a tad triumphant. "Let's get you back to the party, shall we?"

"In a minute." Seth pushes him backward, and before Dorian can say but I promised Leliana his breeches are untied and there are hands in all the right places.

"Really? Shagging in a dark corner in the middle of a Satinalia party?" Seth answers with his body, and Dorian is powerless to refuse him. Not that he had any intention of doing so in the first place. "Very well, Inquisitor. Maybe just a quick one."

"Not too quick," the elf whispers, his mouth hot against Dorian's. And a new Satinalia tradition is born.