Dorian,

It has been nearly three months since the defeat of Corypheus. Satinalia has come and gone, the third such since our meeting at the tavern in Redcliffe. During that interval, I have written to you four times, though I have yet to receive even the briefest of replies. I enumerate these facts not because they are unknown to you, but in the foolish hope that reading them might move you reconsider this protracted silence, which is hurtful to your mother and thoroughly perplexing to me.

I am at a loss to imagine what is going on in your head, Dorian. When last we spoke, you indicated that you joined the Inquisition out of a sense of duty, and while I cannot claim to have been persuaded by that logic, I believed that I understood it. How, then, to explain your remaining there? Corypheus is no more. Most of the rifts within reach have been sealed, and those that remain are largely being managed, if the intelligence reports we receive in the Magisterium are to be credited. Your duty to the south, such as it was, is surely done. And yet you remain. This in spite of the fact that you have duties here, both filial and societal, which, while they may not be pleasing to you, are obligations nevertheless – obligations you continue to shirk.

I can only surmise that your reasons for lingering in the south are of a personal nature. I will not trouble you with a description of your mother's reaction upon hearing the rumours of your involvement with the Inquisitor. As for myself, I was hardly surprised. You have always enjoyed being as shocking as possible, and in Lavellan, you have hit, as the dwarven miners say, "the mother lode." You would not have been content, I think, merely to attach yourself to the most talked-about man in Thedas. Had he not been an elf, and Dalish besides, I daresay you would have sought out something nearly as ridiculous. A Qunari, perhaps, of at least middling notoriety. The only surprising aspect of the affair is that it continues. Indeed, it has apparently escalated to the point of outrageous rumours of an impending alliance between the two of you. Why persist with this charade? You have your whispers, Dorian, and presumably whatever ephemeral pleasures you hoped for as well. Like the Inquisition itself, your relationship with Lavellan has served its purpose. And yet you remain.

So I ask you candidly, my son: what are you doing? What can you possibly hope for? You have made your point. Consider your mother and me duly humbled by your actions. Your pride has been serviced: you have made a hero of yourself in the south, a legacy which is best preserved by leaving those lands before the lustre comes off. Let them remember you in song and story – that way, they can never be disappointed. As for your association with the Inquisitor, you must know this will only bring you pain. Whatever your intentions, or even his, it must end eventually. Better to cut ties before it becomes too difficult.

Like the facts I enumerated at the opening of this letter, these truths are all known to you, in your heart. One thing we have always agreed upon in this family is that you are strong-willed. Summon that strength now, my son, and do what you must. It will only get harder as time goes on.

Come home, Dorian. Let us begin the difficult work of repairing this family and looking to the future.

In sincere hope,

Your father

Father,

How wonderful to hear from you. Your letters are always such a delight. There is nothing quite like having one's proudest and most cherished accomplishments dismissed as an elaborate exercise in attention-grabbing to make one feel valued and respected. I particularly enjoyed the part where you cast me as some sort of seductive predator in search of the ultimate prey. Like a wolf, perhaps, to the Inquisitor's innocent stag. In fact, I'm so enamored of this image that I believe I'll mention it to him – we're always looking for new forms of bedroom role play. Keeps things interesting, you know.

This is actually the second letter I've penned. The first lies crumpled at my feet, beside the ashes of your letter. (The Nightingale is going to be cross about that. "Dorian, how many times must I ask you to refrain from burning your father's letters in the library?" She's right, you know. So many books here. It would be terribly embarrassing if I burned down Skyhold in a fit of pique. For both our sakes, you should probably stop sending them.)

Where was I? Ah, yes – the first version of this letter. It contained a long and heartfelt reply to your various questions. Frightfully witty and poetic, obviously, particularly the parts about my relationship with Lavellan. (That's INQUISITOR Lavellan to you, Magister Pavus.) But then I realized something. You are no longer entitled to my dreams, Father, if indeed you ever were. My hopes, my fears, my intentions – they are mine. And they are Seth's. Just as my heart is his, now and forever, and that is all you ever need know.

As for the rest, if you genuinely seek an explanation for my continued absence, may I direct you to that ghastly oversized mirror in your study? I'm sure you will find it instructive.

Now if you will excuse me, I have more important matters to attend to. I've a nose hair or two that needs plucking, and as you of all people are aware, if you don't stay on top of that sort of thing, it gets out of hand rather quickly.

Love to Mother.

Dorian

He puts his quill down, folds the letter, and takes it up to Leliana. He doesn't bother to seal it. That would be a waste of wax, since she'll only read it anyway. He just hands it to her and walks away, pretending not to feel that icy gaze on his back.

He heads straight for the Inquisitor's quarters, and he's relieved to find his amatus sitting quietly at his desk, working away. Seth is so absorbed that he doesn't hear Dorian coming, so he's a little startled when he finds himself being pulled to his feet and swept into a breathlessly romantic kiss. He's game, of course – Dorian is an excellent kisser – and they carry on for a while, a silence broken only by the soft sighs between each caress of the lips. Not wanting to be left out, Maggie trots over, and having the elf in his arms and the wolf swirling around his legs soothes the ache in Dorian's heart.

At last they part, and Seth gives him a curious smile. "What was that for?"

"You," Dorian murmurs, framing the elf's face in his hands and gazing over those beloved features as if for the first time. "You're what I hope for. This is what I hope for."

Seth's brow creases. He has no context for this remark, and doesn't know what to make of it. "You have it."

"I know. Which makes me the luckiest man in Thedas." Dorian kisses him softly again, and vows never to forget it.