Hello, everyone! Welcome back, and thank you so much for your patience!

Lyrium continued to flow into the Inquisitor's quarters ceaselessly, and some of the more astute people in the main hall noticed.

Even Leliana, a talented bard and spymaster, could not control the rumor mill from spinning when Tharin dropped all pretenses and stopped applying the lavender scent. By the week's end, the Inner Circle knew of Tharin's lyrium usage. The whole of Skyhold would know before the month's end, Leliana was certain.

Now the Inquisitor walked around with a cloud of metallic tang surrounding him as though he were an incorrigible drunkard with a fog of alcoholic aftermath, a constant reminder of what an absolute dog's dinner the situation had turned into.

Leliana needed to reassert some control over the state of affairs, change the narrative, and bring Tharin back into the fold. But invoking the Inquisitor's duties would not change the situation, for those duties pushed lyrium into Tharin's hands. No, the time was ripe for a more draconian measure.

The impossible future witnessed in Redcliffe Castle. That would prove to be the Inquisitor's salvation, Leliana believed.

The knowledge of Tharin's lyrium addiction cast a pall on the semiweekly war council. The autumn sun blazed and shone through the latticed windows, its jovial light mocking the seriousness of the meeting. Still, the advisors did their parts conscientiously. Leliana reported on clandestine activities of the Venatori operatives in southern Thedas and announced that secret intelligence gathering programs had been activated in various capitals. Cullen reported on his soldiers securing defensible positions in Ferelden and Orlais.

Now, it was Josephine's turn. "I've just received a word from Val Royeaux. Princess Adelia hopes to meet with the Inquisitor before the wedding date is set. In fact, I believe she is planning to propose a wedding date when she comes to Skyhold."

Lightning struck Leliana and her brain conjured a spectacular idea. She leaned forward on the map table and stated in an uncharacteristically vociferous voice, "Wait, it would be better if the Inquisition goes to Val Royeaux, no? By presenting the Inquisitor directly to the Orlesian court, we can alleviate the nobles' fear about his elven descent and impress them with the grandeur of the Inquisition." Not to mention that the trip could be a refreshing change of pace for Tharin, which may help convince him to reduce his lyrium intake.

Cullen turned to her with fury roughly etched in his countenance, which Leliana promptly ignored. It had become a habit for Leliana to ignore the Commander. Since Tharin's little revelation, clashing with Leliana seemed to have become Cullen's sole purpose in life. Every interaction with the man had become a battle, which was taxing.

Yet, she could not ignore the Commander's sharp words that inevitably followed. More's the pity. "I must strenuously object to your using the Inquisitor like some sort of an icon to be shown off. And if the engagement is a done deal, why must we placate the nobles?"

Even Josephine seemed to be on the gruff blond's side. "Yes, Leliana. With the Inquisitor's health… compromised, I do not believe traveling at this time is advisable."

The vaulted ceiling seemed to reverberate with Tharin's inelegant snort. "My health is perfectly fine, and you know it, Madam Ambassador. I am a templar taking lyrium. There is nothing wrong with it."

"But my lord…" It was most unlike Josephine to be at a loss for words. Eventually, she peeped, "Pardon me."

As if to pacify a tot throwing a tantrum, Leliana looked to Cullen and talked softly, "You must realize, Commander, that the Game is a fickle process. One mistaken step and we could lose every advantage we have accrued so far. And with the imperial house weakened by the Civil War, we must be even more diligent in getting the nobles as well as Celene and Gaspard on our side. For you see, the nobles hold more power than ever before. This is for the greater good."

If the Spymaster could be certain that the Commander would oppose her, she could be certain that the Ambassador would agree. She kept her eyes focused on Cullen's that teemed with open hostility as she asked, "You concur, do you not, Josie?"

"…I do."

But Cullen was not quite finished. "If we must drag the Inquisitor all over Thedas to curry favor with the nobles, what exactly is the point of having you as our Spymaster? I'd thought you were more than capable of influencing them covertly?"

Here it was, the moment for Leliana to strike back and invoke Redcliffe Castle. And she found herself more than prepared. "We need every advantage to win this war. Having Adelia come to the mountains will be viewed as a snub to these nobles, and the Inquisition will lose Orlais because of that. And if the Inquisition loses Orlais, we only have that dark future to look forward to." She looked around the room only to bring her piercing gaze back to the Commander. "You know, the one the Inquisitor saw in Redcliffe Castle. Or did you forget?"

Cullen looked dumbstruck. Good. The man needed to be put in his place. And if the Commander remembered how he had quarreled with Tharin and almost ruined his relationship with him over the decision to recruit the Redcliffe mages, so much the better.

It was then when the Inquisitor soughed and crossed his arms. "Stay or go, I do not care. You three can sort it out amongst yourselves. After all, my body and soul are the Inquisition's, not mine."

Leliana watched as Cullen's demeanor changed in a blink of an eye. Now looking sorrowful, he shuffled over to the Inquisitor's side and pleaded, "Tharin, please tell me what you want. What would you like to do?"

One corner of Tharin's lips rose in a sneer. "I want to not have survived the explosion at the Conclave, but that is not a realistic wish, is it? No… So, I will do as you three see fit. Do not fret. I will be the best Inquisitor and the best husband to the Orlesian princess you could hope for." Yet there was sudden hesitation in the young man's demeanor before he added diffidently, "…I do want to prevent all the bad things from happening. If going to Orlais will help with that, then… I will go."

The Spymaster spoke quickly, "So, three for and one against. I believe we have our decision." She exhaled in relief as she outstretched her hands. "The Inquisition is going to Val Royeaux."

Clearly enraged by her pronouncement, Cullen stormed out of the war room before the meeting was officially adjourned.

Less than half an hour had passed since the war council.

Leliana heard heavy footsteps echoing across the stale, damp air of the rotunda and looked up from her report. It was an irate Commander approaching her desk.

He slammed his hands on the desk and barked, "Just what do you think you are doing?"

"Commander…" The Spymaster took a moment, wondering if she should be forthright or evasive. In a split second, she decided being honest was the best policy with Cullen. But if she was to be honest, it had to be away from everyone in the rotunda. Idle nobles loitering around Skyhold, all potential donors, already had plenty to gossip about. There was no good reason to add the falling out of the Inquisitor's advisors to the litany of items they blabbed about so casually.

The Spymaster got on her feet and began to walk away. The Commander shouted, "Are you running away?" She kept on walking. Soon, she heard the man follow her.

Leliana opened an unassuming door and led the man through it to a ring of narrow rampart enclosed by a battlement. The battlement was not crenellated, making it useless in actual battles. But then, they were so far away from the curtain wall and so high up, that the rampart would serve better as a watchtower.

The sun was still blinding. The cool autumn air was mixed with the smell of snow from the Frostbacks. Leliana leaned into it, letting it fill her lungs as she put her hands on the hips.

Cullen shut the door rather violently, and Leliana thought with some amusement that the man probably closed the door in order to show how upset he was.

Once she was sure that they were alone, she began carefully, "Do you still believe in the Maker?"

She turned to find Cullen lift his right hand to massage the back of his neck. "…Yes." Leliana noted how reluctant he appeared. She jocundly thought that she should bring up the Maker more often if it would stop the Commander in his tracks.

The fact of the matter was, however, that Cullen was not a difficult foe to vanquish when it came to verbal disagreements. Leliana said, "Then you must believe that the Maker has a design for each one of us. Everybody, without exception, has a role to play in this world. I failed the Warden and Justinia, so I must believe that I survived this long in order to lead the Inquisition to victory."

Leliana let her gaze bore through the Commander's amber brown eyes. She emphasized, "Do you honestly believe you survived Kirkwall to indulge Tharin's whims and to help bring about an end to the world, Cullen?"

The man was completely thrown off, she could tell. Cullen bit his bottom lip before answering with an unsure tone, "That is… unfair. Wanting Tharin…" A deep sigh. "Wanting the Inquisitor to stay away from Orlais and be happy wouldn't bring about the end of the world."

"You've heard Tharin's account. If the Inquisition fails, the world ends."

The Spymaster approached the battlement and looked down at the tiny figures busily moving about in the courtyard. Those were her people. The Inquisition's people. They had to come first. "So, the Inquisition has to succeed. And the Inquisition needs us to travel to Val Royeaux. That's it. There is no argument to be had."

"But the betrothal is what drove Tharin to lyrium. You know that better than anyone. This trip is an insane plan!" shouted Cullen.

And Leliana countered with her own steel as she spun around to face the livid man, "No, it is Tharin's own weakness that has driven him to lyrium. Once he sees that this engagement is serious business, that it is the only way to stabilize Orlais and to prevent the dark future, he will find a way back to us." She then brought up the idea that came to her earlier, "Speaking of which, you should guard the Inquisitor during this excursion and the wedding."

Cullen's sandy eyebrows arched. "What?" The man forced the tail end of the word, making it jump like a startled cat.

"You are our most qualified fighter other than the Inquisitor himself. We should have you protect the Inquisitor at all times."

The Commander refused to answer. He turned and opened the door. But before he departed, he spat, "You are cruel, and I feel sorry for you."

Leliana sniffed. "Use the time to pity me to train more volunteers and recruits. The Inquisition needs soldiers."

"Stand still, Commander," ordered Josephine's tailor as he raised his left hand daintily, lifted a pin from his pincushion, and attached something to the coat.

The Inquisition's preparation for the expedition to Val Royeaux included fitting the advisors and companions with formal uniforms in the Ambassador's salon. After dreading it for days, it was finally the Commander's turn.

And now, pieces of black velvet with chalk lines covered Cullen's torso. Grimacing at himself reflected in the full-length mirror, he exhaled, "This is ridiculous."

The tailor twirled his right hand and answered in a heavy Orlesian accent, "But imagine how you will look in these fabulous garbs! You will be the talk of the whole town!"

Cullen muttered, "I do not wish to be the talk of the whole town. This is so I can serve the Inquisitor and the Inquisition to the best of my abilities."

And the tailor, his enthusiasm and bubbly attitude quickly souring into resignation, sighed, "And by standing still during the fitting, you are serving the Inquisition to the best of your abilities."

Yet, Cullen continued to fidget and squirm. It was not that he could not follow orders. Having lived more than half of his life as a soldier, he was obviously excellent at it. But it was nearly impossible to stand still when surprisingly scratchy pieces of fabric were fitted closely to his skin and made him sweat like a corseted dowager.

After Cullen lifted his hand to pull on the collar, the tailor threw his hands up. "I give. I simply give. I need a break. I will be back in five." The disaffected tailor huffed before exiting Josephine's salon to the great hall and slammed the door shut.

Cullen looked down on his body, observing the fabric closely. He thought he saw a stray thread peeking out, so he pulled on it. But the thread apparently held the decorative pad affixed to the coat's right shoulder. As he pulled the length of it out, the seam began to detach.

The sound of quill scratching on a parchment halted. He heard Josephine stand up from her desk and approach. The woman admonished, "Stop pulling on the thread, Commander."

Cullen retracted his hand swiftly as though it burned. "Apologies, I shall desist." But he did not stop examining the coat. He looked at his sleeves, wondering if they actually needed to be that tight.

In the mirror, Josephine emerged on his right side. Her face was curiously somber.

"Cullen?"

It was unusual for the Ambassador to call him by his given name. The Commander lifted his face and looked at the woman through the mirror with curiosity. "Yes, Josephine?"

"You have feelings for the Inquisitor, don't you?"

Cullen inhaled sharply and balled his hands into fists. He mumbled through gritted teeth, "…Why does everybody ask me that?!"

Josephine's brows were rounded. An apologetic grin followed. "You are not subtle."

Feeling exasperated, Cullen glowered at Josephine's reflection and growled, "No, I do not! For the Maker's sakes, I do not have feelings for the Inquisitor, the blessed Herald of Andraste!"

Uncomfortable silence settled into the air around the two. Eventually, Josephine pursed her lips and nodded. "I understand. But in case you do…"

Josephine's breath shook. Cullen watched with apprehension as the woman's face broke. "I am sorry… I am so sorry…" Tears followed. The kind that reddened the eyes and flowed drop by drop. It was disconcerting. "I feel that… this is all my fault."

"What is?"

"The betrothal and lyrium…" susurrated Josephine.

Cullen felt his chest lurch. He turned to embrace the teary Ambassador. "It is not your fault. I know it is not your fault."

As Cullen squeezed Josephine into his bosom, she yelped in pain, "Ow."

He stepped back and apologized, "Sorry. Pins." He held out his right hand, which Josephine took ahold.

With their hands twined, they both looked at the mirror. Josephine rested her head on Cullen's right shoulder, further messing up the decorative pad barely holding on. "How are we to survive all this and still defeat Corypheus?"

"We shall." Cullen wondered if he sounded at all convincing. "I swear on divine Andraste, we shall overcome everything."

The Inquisition caravan descended from the stronghold among the peaks of the Frostbacks and rode in a series of orderly columns to the famed port city of Jader. There awaited Empress Celene's extravagant armada, which saw the Inquisition through the treacherous Waking Sea safely. Although the people not used to being tumbled around by high waves – the Inquisitor among them – suffered bitterly from the ordeal of seasickness.

Before the two-week mark since the caravan's departure from Skyhold, the armada sailed into Val Royeaux's grand harbor.

As the ships came to a smooth stop, Tharin and Leliana stood at the forecastle and watched the scenery. The sun was up high, and the undulating water reflected the rays and glittered. The quays were decorated with swaths of shiny imperial yellow silk and fresh flowers. Even the immense Andraste's statue erected at the tip of a breakwater held garlands of the most colorful flowers, which seemed blasphemous. But Sister Leliana did not appear to be bothered in the slightest, so Tharin assumed it was fine.

The Inquisition caravan changed into formal uniforms and disembarked much the same way they marched across Thedas. Josephine was right to fuss over their attires. With matching golden embroidery of peacock tails on the length of the black velvet coat, form-fitting trousers, and freshly groomed mounts, the advisors and the companions of the Inner Circle cut imposing figures.

And the reception was incredibly warm. Royans from all walks of life cheered for the Inquisitor, for the Inquisition. From opulently dressed nobles to lowly elven servants to beggars in tattered rags, people filled both sides of the parade to applaud and yell all kinds of blessings.

The Inquisitor rode through the city's main boulevard surrounded by his advisors. The Ambassador and the Spymaster were on either side of him and the Commander was behind him.

Josephine kept waving to the crowd whereas Leliana looked pensive. Eventually, the Spymaster gestured at the crowd and intoned, "This is what you have accomplished, Tharin. Everyone adores you."

Tharin had an answer ready. "Because they have a use for me."

"No, it is because of the series of miracles you have performed. To them, you truly are the messenger of the Maker."

Irritation spiked in Tharin, and he spat, "Whatever I do, I just cannot be anything other than the Maker-damned Herald of Andraste, can I?"

Leliana's calm voice somehow cut through the deafening noise of the crowd. "You have no qualms about wielding your power to change the world for the better. Do you think you would have that power without the title of Herald or Inquisitor?" She philosophized, "The titles are like the marriage alliance. They are a means to achieve great things. And I know you will achieve even greater things in the coming days."

"Are you certain you are putting your trust in the right person?"

Leliana replied without hesitation, "I am."

To this steadfast faith, Tharin simply scoffed and looked away.

The Imperial Palace, hidden away by the tall, crimson walls of its defensive citadel, loomed closer and closer. The procession came to a stop when the Inquisitor and the advisors were met by the imperial entourage at the plaza that stretched to the front gate. Those on horses dismounted speedily.

A pale woman in a sapphire blue dress, who was obviously Empress Celene Valmont, stood in the middle. With her hands frozen in an uncomfortable pose that was fashionable in Orlais, the woman stepped forward. "Welcome to the Palais Impérial, Lord Inquisitor. We trust your journey has been pleasant?"

In his peripheral vision, Tharin saw the two women on each side of him curtseying. He bowed a beat too late. "It most certainly has been, Your Imperial Majesty. Thank you very much for meeting us all the way out here."

Celene grinned benevolently and turned toward a woman in an ornate scarlet dress. Her skin matched the Empress's in paleness. "And may we introduce our dear cousin, Princess Adelia de Verchiel, your betrothed."

Adelia spoke in a high voice. "Your worship, you honor us with your presence. I shall endeavor to make your stay at our humble abode enjoyable." Listening to her squeak, Tharin wondered facetiously if she could break glasses with her pitch if she were to sing. In short, Adelia's first impression was underwhelming.

"Your Royal Highness, I look forward to exploring various delights the Empire has to offer." Tharin smiled, taking care to crinkle his eyes to look genuine. Or as genuine as he could stomach standing in front of a woman who would be imprisoned with him for the rest of their lives. "With you."

Impulsively, Tharin reached out to grab Adelia's right hand. There emanated a collective gasp from the imperial entourage, but it died down when Celene held her hand up. Smoothly, the Inquisitor bowed down and placed a kiss on the Princess's hand.

Adelia giggled.

Interrupting the display of ersatz affection, Celene declared, "You and your people must be exhausted. Let us proceed and settle you in." The Empress slowly turned around and began to walk, her hands still flawlessly posed.

Tharin let go of Adelia's hand and exchanged a quick look with Josephine and Leliana.

The Inquisition's Game was afoot.

In the inexplicably balmy first evening began the grueling official schedule.

For supper, Cullen would have rather partaken in a simple fare away from the crowd, as he was wont to do in Skyhold, perhaps with just Tharin by his side. Alas, this was Orlais, and good many things in Orlais were elaborate productions designed to maximize showy effects, not for the convenience of those who would partake. And the Inquisitor and his three advisors were invited to dine with the Empress and the Princess, which had been rendered into a public spectacle for the idle nobles so many decades ago.

The Palais Impérial had a hall specially designated for dining. And the hall was gargantuan and gaudy. The walls, painted red, were embossed with complex decorative patterns. They were also befringed by dentil crown moldings on the top and chair rails on the bottom, all uniformly gilt. There were five grand entrances, including the main one that the would-be diners just entered on.

On top of the casings hung different paintings of cornucopia spilling with foodstuffs. On the ceiling was a humongous painting of Andraste battling the Tevene army and her followers crouched in prayers. At the other end of the hall from the main entrance was a mirror that almost took up the entirety of the wall, unnervingly reflecting the backs of the people gathered to watch the Empress, the Princess, and the Inquisitor eat.

There were six settings laid out on the table. The plates and the candelabra were made of sterling silver and gleamed against the candlelight. Cloth napkins were folded in an elaborate flower pattern.

Cullen was about to wrinkle his face at the unapologetic display of wealth all around him but then realized that in the state he was in currently, he fit in well. Stuffed in a velvet formal suit, he embodied affluence afforded by his position.

As Cullen swiped quick looks at everything around the room, Josephine passed by and whispered, "Don't look so surprised. There are many more surprises waiting ahead." With poise, the Ambassador took her seat immediately next to the Empress. The Inquisitor sat next to the Princess and beamed at her, which galled Cullen. Feeling morose, he sat next to Tharin.

Soon, elven servants began to ferry plates upon plates of rich food. On an obscured side, a string quartet began to play a soft melody.

The first was the soup course. Four different kinds of soup for each diner – cream of spinach, chicken broth, butter soup, and carrot purée – because in Orlais, more was always more. As far as Cullen could tell, no bowl was touched more than once by the Empress, the Princess, Josephine, and Leliana. On the other hand, the Commander finished the entirety of chicken broth and was working on butter soup when he realized other diners had finished.

When Cullen looked at Josephine, she creased her brow and shook her head almost indiscernibly. He immediately dropped the spoon with a loud clink. He heard the nobles, probably aghast at his uncouthness, murmur amongst themselves.

Cullen was not entirely displeased with himself for this inadvertent act of resistance to the asinine and frankly pointless ceremony.

With the Empress's dainty signal came the next course. It included a roasted pheasant and a roasted swan, both decorated with feathers, as well as a tower of boiled langoustines. A noise of approval emanated from the nobles, and Cullen had to clear his throat lest a snort escaped.

These hors d'oeuvres were followed by a roast course, which was followed by a savory pie course, a salad course, and finally, a dessert course. All of this despite the ongoing Civil War and destitute refugees pouring into neighboring nations. If anything could be counted as an Orlesian tradition, going overboard to spite the reality and tempt fate had to be it.

Cullen had lost interest in the food somewhere in between the roast course and the pie course. He was more than full anyway. He watched the Empress and the Princess nibble on little tidbits of dishes that seemed to multiply on their own. Meanwhile, Tharin apparently had a similar experience with the meal. The young man's cutlery was barely moving as he picked at his food. Cullen grinned to himself and began to space out.

During the dessert course, Cullen noticed Tharin's Anchor hand perched on the arm of the chair, marked with calluses and missing two fingers.

Oh, but it was the most beautiful hand of the most beautiful man. The man who rescued thousands and continued to protect millions. The man who caressed scarred Cullen a long, long time ago. The man who would choose… death to save Thedas.

The man who Cullen loved so desperately.

It was not clear to Cullen what prompted it, but he suddenly reached out and gripped the calloused hand. Magic from the Anchor crackled, but he could not have cared less. He held onto the hand with both of his hands.

Cullen faced Tharin and saw the man inhale in anticipation. Before the courage he had summoned all but dissipated into the ether, he confessed.

"I… I love you."

And Tharin, his Tharin, crinkled those iridescent eyes and upturned his lips in a most brilliant smile. He returned, "I love you too."

He said, I love you too. The noble spectators were frenzied now, angrily shouting and pointing at the two men holding onto each other.

And then came an inquisitive query.

"Cul? Hello?"

The Commander turned and saw the Inquisitor looking at him worriedly. He looked down at his own hands set upon his own thighs. He had not moved for some time. Feeling foolish, he bit his bottom lip before responding, "Yes, Inquisitor?"

"I believe we are finished."

The Empress was whispering something to Josephine, who in turn nodded vigorously. The Princess was sipping her sparkling wine. Leliana was staring at something in the crowd of nobles. The plates had been cleared.

Wondering if there was any way for him to hide his blush and knowing there was not, Cullen rasped, "Excellent."

The Inquisitor and the advisors stood up as the Empress and the Princess left the table. They then followed with much pomp and ceremony.

The four bade good night to the imperials with curtseys and bows before heading to their respective apartments. One by one, Josephine and Leliana went into their own ravish rooms.

So, it was just Tharin and Cullen when they neared the Inquisitor's apartment. Tharin threw his arm around Cullen and joked, "You are definitely in trouble for not paying attention during the dinner. Josephine is going to tear you a new one."

Feeling not at all puckish and rather annoyed at himself, Cullen blustered, "Let her."

The Inquisitor reeked of lavender.

The upper crust of Orlesian society continued to observe its idiosyncratic rituals and customs in spite of the Civil War. Once the Inquisition was well and settled in the Palais Impérial, Josephine briefed the war council on the very matter. Indeed, the Inquisitor and his companions were to take part in these rituals with just as much gusto.

The Ambassador informed that Val Royeaux's season went ahead with significantly fewer gentlemen callers – many were indisposed due to the fighting – but possibly the largest number of debutantes in the empire's history. There were noble daughters and sisters everywhere looking for eligible bachelors.

The Inquisition obviously missed Val Royeaux's season, which lasted from Drakonis to early Kingsway, but its aftereffects were still felt across this thrumming metropolis. For one, hedge mazes were still in fashion, and the moneyed class did not hesitate to invest in more elaborate designs that would confuse and delight the visitors. And none rivaled the one found at the palace grounds.

The third public event that Adelia and Tharin would attend jointly was the hedge maze rush in the gardens of the Palais Impérial. There were four distinct entrances to the maze, and a red rose had been placed in its middle along with a single shot of fireworks. Four gentlemen would race to the middle; one gentleman would emerge triumphant with the rose for his date. And Tharin counted himself among the competitors.

The event would have been a small affair if not for the fact that the Inquisitor and Commander Rutherford were both participants, the latter man added as a protective detail to the former. Now, the lawns were filled with what seemed like every eligible debutante in Orlais.

All unattached daughters and sisters of nobles seemed to have come out for the occasion. Tharin had a suspicion that this was Josephine's doing, to parade him and his Commander around in front of as many of the upper class as possible before their time in Val Royeaux was over. He could not fault Lady Montilyet. He supposed that visibility meant more political points and donations.

Before the game began, Tharin knelt in front of Adelia and bowed his head. The princess sounded appreciative as she spoke in her high voice, "My lord, having you fight for the rose on my behalf is already a tremendous honor."

Tharin mustered his most serious, knightly voice and declared, "I swear on the Maker, I shall fetch you the rose, Your Royal Highness."

He looked up to find a wide smile blooming on the princess's pretty face, which was all that mattered.

With a crier's call, the competitors entered the maze.

The hedges towered over Tharin and Cullen almost menacingly, and shadows stretched long. Left, right, another fork. Tharin knew he ought to pay attention to the maze, but with Cullen following him so closely in his snugly fitted formal outfit, he could not focus. This was the first time since the day Cullen confronted Tharin on his lyrium usage that they were left alone, even temporarily.

And the meandering path, combined with Leliana's strident words at the war room, reminded him of the apocalyptic catastrophe he faced in Redcliffe Castle. When he and his corrupted companions had to slog through many a corridor to arrive at the throne room to battle Magister Alexius and return to the present. Tharin's thoughts strayed toward the Cullen of the impossible future and his confessions.

Feeling frustrated by the growing chasm between the situation at hand and the things his brain latched onto, he murmured, "If I never get lost in another labyrinthine place, it would be too soon."

Cullen inquired, "Pardon?"

"Nothing. Just some memory of Redcliffe Castle dungeons."

Tharin regretted mentioning Redcliffe almost immediately. Leliana notwithstanding, who almost certainly brought up Redcliffe to achieve some secret purpose, the talk about the alternate reality had been deemed taboo by everyone in the know ever since Tharin's return. And it did not help that the debacle of a war council following that particular adventure was a sore point for both Tharin and Cullen. After a pregnant pause, Cullen susurrated, "…I see."

Despite not being sure where they were heading, the two men continued to walk. Tharin could hear shapeless hum of a hundred nobles chatting through the rustling leaves. The maze seemed to grow in difficulty and magnitude every moment. And in a half-daze, the Inquisitor contemplated.

The Cullen in Redcliffe said that he loved Tharin. All this time, Tharin had thought it impossible, that it was some sort of a trick the twisted reality had played on his addled mind. And so, he concentrated solely on his love for Cullen, on what he could do for Cullen, without opening himself up for another excruciating rejection.

But what if? What if Cullen's visceral reaction against Tharin's preference in companionship was a reflexive effort to hide his affection for the young man? What if… Cullen was ready to be more than just friends?

Tharin knew that if he were to give in to the possibilities, however remote they may be, he would be forced to believe, to expect more and more improbable things to come to fruition. And that was exactly what happened. The never-ending series of thoughts was like a gushing jet of water widening the hole in a collapsing dam. He thought of Redcliffe Castle, and now he considered asking the Commander, the man who rebuffed him before, whether he loved him.

The thing was, there was not going to be a better time. This was indeed the last chance to ask before the arranged marriage would sweep aside any chance of a different future for him. And so, Tharin halted and turned to face Cullen directly.

Tharin gathered his courage and put his hands up. "Cul, stop." He breathed deeply before declaring, "We must talk, before everything is… irreversible."

Cullen was frozen in place with his brow wrinkled. "But… the rose…"

"Forget about the rose for a moment." Slowly, gingerly, Tharin closed the distance between the two. "You were there in Redcliffe Castle, you know. You were… Well, you told me something that leads me to this little inquiry."

Tharin's heart beat wildly, and he dallied until he could no longer dally. With Cullen's inquisitive wildflower-honey irises focused on him and any more delay all but unbearable, Tharin asked in a voice that unhelpfully broke halfway through, "Is it possible that… by some strange turn of events, that… you have feelings for me?"

Cullen looked like he had been caught committing a serious crime, like murder or high treason. Guilt seemed to pour out of his face. And Tharin knew, he knew that he was about to taste bitter rejection once again. The young man had put Cullen in an impossible situation, having to reject him without hurting their friendship. Every muscle in Tharin's body seemed to tense as he braced himself for the inevitable impact.

The Commander was ruthless in his gentleness. With a small divot on his brow, he pronounced slowly, "I adore you and respect you." So completely heartless. "Because everything you have done as the Herald of Andraste has been for the betterment of Thedas, mages and templars alike."

As searing embarrassment scorched Tharin's body from inside out, he could no longer look at Cullen's guilt-ridden face. He directed his gaze to the grassy ground.

Yet, Cullen persisted. "I worry that I've given the impression that I do not care for you, Tharin. Because I do care for you. Please remember that… I will always lend a helping hand when you decide to quit lyrium. I will always be here for that."

Not wanted. Like a torn-up ragdoll by the wayside. You are not wanted.

With his eyes still staring at the ground and his mind beginning to trace the chaotic lines forming the blades of grass in a useless effort to distract himself from this new rejection, Tharin intoned, "Thank you for your kind offer, Commander. Forgive me for such… absurd question. Let us proceed. After all, we have a race to win, do we not?"

In spite of the self-inflicted humiliation, there was one good thing to come out of this. Cullen's answer reminded him that he did not have the luxury to dwell on personal feelings. He must be brave, and he must persevere. This recognition lifted the fog that obscured the world around Tharin. Everything came into sharp focus, and the maze no longer seemed as threatening or as daunting. As a matter of fact, it seemed to clarify to which direction he must head. The Inquisitor turned away from Cullen and began to march onward.

Onward.

After what felt like an eternity but what was more likely enough time for a rushed tea break, Tharin and Cullen reached the center of the maze. And there, they found the red rose from the palace hothouse and the fireworks perched on a little podium. Despite all the dithering, Tharin had beaten his competitors. Whether by sheer luck or by Josephine's machinations, the Inquisitor did not care. He won.

Tharin headed straight for the fireworks to ready them, leaving Cullen to grab the rose. The young man lit the fuse with a match on a graveled patch and backtracked his steps toward Cullen. When he turned to Cullen with a heart rendered lighter and a smile on his face, Tharin saw a shadow upon the man's expression.

"Take the rose," murmured Cullen.

Mystified by Cullen's downhearted comportment, Tharin accepted the rose. A sharp pain emanated from his right middle finger.

On the stem of the rose was one lone thorn. The gardener must have missed it as he sheared the thorns off. Or perhaps it was laced with poison, designed to kill the winner of the hedge maze rush. With the Orlesians, one could never be sure. A rather humorous way to die, the Inquisitor supposed.

As Tharin merely stared at the little globule of blood on his finger, Cullen said, "You're bleeding."

"It's just a prick."

The next moment, his right hand was enfolded by Cullen's warm hand. "I have something for it." His free hand reached for a pocket on his suit coat and pulled out a handkerchief.

The white fabric looked immaculately clean. Curiously so. Cullen pressed the handkerchief to the wound. He then clumsily tried to tie the cloth around Tharin's finger only for it to slip downward.

"Mm," a faint noise of frustration escaped Cullen's lips.

Feeling impatient, Tharin said, "Honestly, it's fine, Cul."

"No, I got it." Cullen looked up with such an earnest expression, Tharin could not help but let the man do what he wanted.

As the fire flowers blossomed across the blue sky with loud booms, Tharin watched Cullen carefully fold the handkerchief into a thin strip and cinch it around the finger.

And Tharin thought he felt nothing.

END NOTE

I'll just be sitting here happily munching on my huge bag of chips while these two boys pine for each other endlessly. Although Tharin kind of seems done, doesn't he?

Next up, Tharin's recklessness and Cullen's realization, coming on September 12.

If you like this, please give Where the Waves Crest (波の上り詰める所) a try, which is nearing its conclusion - five chapters left!