Uncensored version found at: archiveofourownDOTorg/works/28044180/chapters/94912801

The Herald's retinue returned triumphant with the dragon's head in tow. As Dorian had suggested at their departure, Josephine organized a banquet for the returning heroes, the drake vanquishers. Leliana, the most vocal proponent of Tharin joining the expedition, worked in the shadows to manipulate the Theodosian public to downplay the seriousness of Tharin's injury – the mighty Herald of Andraste could not be perceived as fallible. And everything at Skyhold went back to the normal soon enough.

As normal as things could be under the circumstances of an active war, that was.

It had been a couple days since the return. Dorian was able to stick close to Tharin both during and after the return trip, stealing kisses whenever they were away from discerning eyes. But now that they were back at Skyhold, they could no longer deny many things competing for their attentions.

One of those things was arcane research, which was Dorian's raison d'être. He had neglected it in favor of taking care of Tharin this past month and needed to play catchup. He therefore dedicated the hours not spent with Tharin on books.

Consequently, the library floor of the rotunda was where Leliana found him.

Idly, Dorian noted how unusual it was to see the Spymaster on this floor. With growing concern, he watched her come straight for him.

Dorian was sitting on his plush chair askew, with his legs hanging over the armrest. When the Spymaster stood in front him, he reluctantly put aside the book on the consciousness of a sleeping person in the Fade.

"May I help you, Sister?"

"Yes, I was wondering if we could talk."

Dorian could always conceal alarm with a small veneer of wit. "With little old me? My, my, what have I done to deserve such an honor?"

A thin smile appeared on Leliana's countenance. "You will see." It was cold enough to make the mage shudder, which he hoped was not so apparent to the Spymaster.

Leliana ordered, "Follow me." Dorian had to admire the brazenness of the woman, someone who was sure the world would follow her directives and, if not, would find ways to bend it to her will.

It was not as though he was given a choice in the matter. Despite his ingrained resistance against authority figures, he dutifully followed the Spymaster upstairs. This wasn't good. They were entering Leliana's office, which meant she would hold the home ground advantage.

The mage should have insisted they talk at the library. That would have made for a better dialogue, less asymmetrical in power.

But just as soon as Dorian was about to suggest they move to a neutral, third location, Leliana opened the inconspicuous door to outside.

When Dorian followed, he found a narrow space that traced the ashlar wall of the rotunda.

He could feel the thin air coalesce around him into whirlwind. He told himself not to approach the edge of the rampart, let alone look down from the perch. No doubt it was a long, long way down to the courtyard.

At least the view would be spectacular as he fell and splattered all over the cobblestones.

The Spymaster, however, had no such problem. She leaned against the battlement, her arms folded in a comfortable position and her eyes staring straight ahead.

She waited for a few moments, perhaps anticipating the mage to come closer, but Dorian was not about to do anything of the sort. If he were a paranoid person, he would have thought that Leliana would push him off, and his scream as he plummeted down to his death would be heard for miles around. Which he did not think. Because he was not a paranoid person.

When Dorian refused to approach, Leliana eventually began, "I've noticed that you and the Herald are… getting closer."

With his arms folded tightly, Dorian let his acidic voice growl, "Well, we are certainly cutting to the chase, aren't we?" He leaned against the rotunda, satisfied that if Leliana were to actually try to push him off, he would at least have the advantage of having a solid wall behind him. "I am sure you had your spies already suss out the details, but here it is; we kissed. Many, many times. But kissing isn't a crime, is it?"

"No, it isn't. But…" The Spymaster turned and exhaled faintly. "Dorian, I'd like to protect you from hurt. You must know he remains betrothed and will marry Adelia de Verchiel. Not only that, but he also still has feelings for Commander Rutherford. And he had another man before that too when he was a templar. I am fairly certain he shared physical relationships with both men. I don't know if you can surmount all that."

Dorian felt his defiance spike, in spite of being fairly terrified of this diminutive redhead. "Thanks for that vote of confidence. I'm sure I will manage just fine."

"You sure?"

Was he sure? Of course, he wasn't sure. He had gleaned some of Tharin's past romantic history on his own and had all but given up on the man. He knew his trying would not matter one bit if Tharin would hang onto that history.

And Dorian had his own past, which he had left behind in Tevinter. He was not about to be that person again, the kind who clung to the man he was infatuated with until the object of affection tired of him and shooed him away. He had learned from the mistakes, and no longer would he allow them to happen.

But then, nobody ever said Leliana was the sole purveyor of truth. That much was clear to Dorian. He could not bring himself to agree with her that he had no chance whatsoever with Tharin. Not just yet.

With newfound anger at the Spymaster's dredging up the most unpleasant part of his courtship saga bubbling inside him, Dorian spat, "With all due respect, my dear, fuck off. You're overreaching."

He decided to perturb her for a good measure. Because she deserved it. "And personally, I'm well-trained to tip-toe around propriety when it comes to courting a married man, so there's no need to worry on your end."

Leliana's expression did not change at all, which infuriated Dorian. The woman simply added, "Well… It is your decision. I just pray you don't come to regret it."

Dorian sneered, though with Tevene high-mindedness tempered by his fear of the Spymaster. "Thank you for the concern, but the last time I checked, this isn't Tevinter, and you are not my father. Besides, I am far too old to be told what to do."

"I trust you will keep this between us?" The Spymaster stressed the last two words.

If there was one thing Dorian truly abhorred, it was being managed. He marshalled all the mettle he had and declared in the most caustic way possible, "I shall promise no such thing. I will tell it to whomever I want, whenever I want. So, good day to you."

"I must say, I quite admire your confidence. I hope you are successful in your endeavor to win over the Herald."

"No. No, you don't. Let us not pretend otherwise."

Leliana hummed, rather cheerfully. But it was not clear if that cheeriness was her actual mood, or if she was masking something else. "You know, Dorian, you don't have the monopoly on truth. Don't kid yourself. I do wish you all the luck in the world."

When the mage refused to utter another word and focused his gaze on the snowy peaks of the Frostbacks, Leliana eventually said her goodbye, "Well then, good day to you."

Dorian waited until he heard the door to the rotunda close before taking a deep breath.

Maker, that woman was frightening as well as galling.

Before this wonderfully charming little conversation, Dorian had no intention of doing this, but now he wanted to show the Spymaster what he was truly capable of.

The day was nearing its end. Tharin should be free now. When the mage moved from the ashlar wall, he felt his back soaked through with nervous sweat. It was embarrassing to say the least.

The Herald's chamber was hailing the mage and he ambled toward it.

She can't tell me what I can and can't do, thought Dorian like a petulant child.

With some effort and expert commands from "Master Pavus," Dorian managed to satisfy Tharin's towering desire as well as himself. Of course, the fact that Leliana would not be happy with this was a much-appreciated bonus.

After the torrid sex and the consequent cleanup, the two men lolled on the Herald's bed. Their bodies were enfolded together, and Dorian contemplated in Tharin's strong arms.

The most important person in the Inquisition, the most fearsome warrior in Thedas, was like a putty in his hand. Dorian may have passed his thirtieth-year mark, and he may be considered old in some circles, but he still had not lost it. Like he imagined in the Skyhold garden more than several months ago, sex with Tharin was excellent and it was mostly thanks to him.

Not that he would let Tharin know how pleased he was by this particular development.

The room was getting darker. One of them had to get up and put some light on. But it wasn't going to be Dorian.

Tharin stated in a passive-aggressive tone, "You know, you could conjure up some light orbs with your mana."

To this, Dorian waved his right hand and simply replied, "I daresay, that is not a good use of my magical abilities. I defer to your capacity to light up the room instead, my strong, handsome Herald."

Tharin laughed gaily, giving up on the issue without belaboring.

Eventually, Tharin stood up, walked over to the bookcase behind his desk, and grabbed a box of sulfur matches from one of the shelves. He then began to light the two tall candelabra on either side of the bed.

It was all done naked, and Dorian sniffed in amusement as he watched. But it was something else to be able to examine the Herald, resplendent in his perfectly sculpted muscular body, move about elegantly. And according to Leliana, only two other men had seen Tharin in this state.

What a shame one of them had to be Commander Rutherford.

As Tharin finished and plopped down on the bed once again, Dorian knew it was time to have the difficult conversation. But he certainly didn't want to be present for it. He opened his mouth and let the stream of consciousness take over. "Did I ever tell you about my parents?"

He felt Tharin turn toward him and stare. "No. I only know about your father from when we went to see him at the Gull and Lantern in Redcliffe."

"Ah, an event that was marred by what I am sure was a ridiculously dramatic interaction."

"It wasn't that bad," said the young man kindly. But they both knew it was just as bad as Dorian had imagined.

"Halward and Aquinea have never been happy with each other. Not really, not in the way that matters. They wed for their families, and that was it." With his hands gathered on top of his midriff, Dorian soughed. "I am telling you, Tharin. You don't want to be in the same situation as my parents."

"…Are you referring to our Orlesian plan?"

"Of course. What else?"

Tharin took a deep breath, but no words came forth. Dorian turned toward the other man and saw a cloudy face.

Tracing his hand across the noticeable scar on Tharin's forehead, Dorian whispered, "You are amazing. I do not want to see a good friend like you in an unhappy marriage of convenience."

The lines became etched as the frown deepened on Tharin's visage. "Is that what we are? Friends?"

And that question signified the end of Dorian's willingness to entertain difficult subjects, both the arranged betrothal and their relationship.

Dorian promptly stood up and put on his smalls. Then he began to gather all his clothes speedily. Without checking for the other man's reaction, he declared, "Right. This was fun, but I must get going."

And Tharin responded in a way that any sane person would respond at that moment, "What? Wait, you can't just ignore my question and leave."

But Dorian wasn't sane. Not in the way people of southern Thedas understood sanity. He was thoroughly Tevene, one of the characteristics of which manifested as an unbelievably intractable refusal to face reality and resolve tough questions.

Tevene obduracy was different from the Fereldan stiff upper lip. If the latter was a sensibility that encouraged people to carry on despite the harshness of the real world, the former blinded people to it as well as their own shortcomings. In short, it was about a crazy person arguing they were not crazy.

The inability to accept the reality of the realm, which included a crumbling empire, blood magic running amok, and the cruelty of slavery, was a kind of slow-moving psychosis that was deeply rooted in the collective consciousness of the nation. Even a discerning individual like Dorian could not avoid this folie simultanée completely.

So, instead of a serious answer, he stated facilely, "Oh, yes I can. I can so just ignore your question and leave."

The mage was feeling nervous. Rightly so, given that he was not accustomed to having heart-to-heart discussions about potential relationships. As he kept dressing himself, he felt craven.

But there was something in Tharin's demeanor that was more than slightly off. The man looked even more anxious than Dorian, which was not something he had expected. The mage had expected relief, maybe anger, but not anxiety. On top of that, he looked sad. No flamboyant adjective could describe what Dorian saw. The Herald was sad.

With mournful eyes that traced Dorian's movements, Tharin asked, "Have I done something to upset you? I would've thought…"

The Altus had planned to leave the Inquisitor's quarters without providing any additional explanation, but his heart could not stomach Tharin's poignant blue irises. So, he halted buckling the complicated clutches on his tunic and began to expound.

"Here's the thing. You just stopped taking lyrium, and then there's that injury from the dragon. I believe the Inquisition matters and your health must take precedence over little dalliances such as our harmless fun."

Tharin got up and started toward Dorian, still naked. His right arm reached out. The arm that saved the careless mage from the dragon. "This isn't just a little dalliance, Dorian. I want more than just fun."

Dorian turned away and faced the fireplace, refusing the hand. It was easier. At least the warmth was welcome at this point when cold mountain air wicked away the sweat from the affair. "You are indeed kind to say that. But… as much as I would like this to be something more, I am not in the habit of pursuing a taken man. No matter how attractive and how… caring he may be."

"Dorian… The arranged marriage with Orlais, it is–"

"Oh, don't be so thick, Tharin. It's unbecoming. I mean you and the Commander. You obviously love him."

For a while, there was only the sound of Tharin's breaths filling the room. Dorian was about to turn toward the other man to see if he had crossed the line when the young man finally spoke, "Cullen and I are… There's too much history there."

"Yes, well, despite this 'history' you speak of, I can see that you are besotted with the man. I would prefer to not fight a futile battle if I've already lost the war for your affection."

"If you knew about everything, then why have you come to me? Why go through all this and make me feel things for you only to…"

"Because I wanted a little fun. And you could use a little fun. That's it."

"…"

Some part of Dorian, the part he enthusiastically ignored most of the time and consequently stayed silent mercifully enough, now began to agitate and yell out frantically, Fight for me! I am who you should be with!

Even Dorian's Tevene sensibilities could not shield him from the fierce desire to be with Tharin, to be the man's everything. Indeed, just imagining the possibility made the mage overwrought, as though he may spontaneously combust from elation.

And the urgent appeal for Tharin to fight for his affection was an appeal to himself as well. To not let go, to allow even the slim chance for their relationship to grow into something far grander. Something that Dorian deserved after years of unrequited infatuations and forbidden trysts.

And yet…

Dorian heard no answer from Tharin, no vehement protest against his incisive observation. Certainly, no unexpected kisses that would categorically deny the mage's doubts about the viability of this. Of Dorian and Tharin. Instead, the doubts ballooned into fatalistic surety, and Dorian knew his fight for the young man's love was a lost cause.

Cullen was the only one who could make Tharin sincerely laugh and cry. That was the truth Dorian had learned over the months of adventuring and staying with the Herald. I don't know what I was hoping for, the dominant part of Dorian, the part of him that was frustratingly rational and cynical all the time, whispered, quashing any hope left in him.

"Not to worry, my good man. I am clever enough to know when I should bow out. I've been a port in a storm before."

"I am… so sorry. I have nothing else I can say… Dorian, you deserve so much more than me."

"Oh, Tharin…" As he turned to face Tharin and shake his head slowly, Dorian let his stinging sarcasm take the rein. "Self-pity is such a terrible color on you. You should try confidence. It better suits your status. And I've heard it's better for your complexion as well. Because frankly, you look rather pasty, darling."

Tharin still looked hurt, but he was grinning at least. "Hardy har har."

"Yes, well, if that is all, I must be going. Thank you for the lovely evening."

"Dorian, I…" Tharin paused, perhaps reconsidering his position. Dorian's heart skipped a beat.

One second.

Two seconds.

But nothing came of it. The Herald instead bid farewell. "It's nothing. Thank you very much."

"Sleep well."

"You too."

As Dorian left the Inquisitor's quarters and walked through the great hall sparsely populated by stragglers and the night watchmen, he remembered his own advice to Tharin back in the mountains. I've always found that trying to make something out of nothing inevitably ends in misery.

Well, he tried. None could say he didn't try.

Too bad he was right once again. He loved being right but not this instance.

After hours of contemplation about his relationship with the Commander and the Altus, the Herald managed a fitful slumber.

He was back at the same place he was lost in. The same path surrounded by the same crags, the endless expanse of barren lands. As he began to walk, he was careless and stepped on one of the green puddles. The pantlegs became wet, he could feel. It was real.

But then, what was real and what was not?

Suddenly, there was the shimmering figure standing before him, blocking the path. It was joined by two more shadowy beings. One cut a hulking figure, and the other a miniscule figure. They all had edges that were blurred, silhouettes that shimmered. As Tharin stood without knowing what to do, the hulking figure approached.

The shape of the body may have been different, but this one looked just as grotesque as the original figure. Black veins covered it, and it tilted its head too when it neared. There was a humming noise.

Tharin opened his eyes to his Anchor exploding with arcane power.

He held his left hand, thinking it would splinter into a thousand pieces and cause another blast like at the Conclave. The intensities of the tremor and the pain were unprecedented, and Tharin frantically looked around his quarters.

He was alone in the darkness.

Tharin curled his body and called out pathetically, "Cul, help…"

But the Commander was not here. After the expedition, Tharin returned to find his quarters deserted and Cullen comfortably ensconced in his tower. Without the onus of guardianship upon his shoulders, it was only right that Cullen returned to his residence, and Tharin had not questioned or complained.

Yet, he could not help but cry out for Cullen as his hand brutalized him with an unbearable agony.

If only Tharin could reach his dagger, or anything sharp enough to cut through flesh, he would have gladly rid his hand to be free of this suffering. Losing his left hand was preferable to this pain that throbbed with his heartbeats.

Eventually, Tharin let go. His taut muscles turned limp as he plunged into unconsciousness.

Dorian hardly slept.

The thoughts of counterfactuals – the what-ifs and the what-could-have-beens – prevented him from drifting to beatific slumber. Instead, he kept fidgeting in his austere Fereldan bed.

Dorian missed Tevinter. He certainly did. He especially missed having a large canopy bed with all the embellishments and accoutrements necessary to guarantee his peaceful sleep. But he knew that even if this were Tevinter, the thoughts of Tharin would keep him awake.

He sneered at himself, Oh, Dorian. When will you learn?

In the early hours of the morning, having gotten almost no sleep, something in his exhausted brain clicked and the mage decided to be intentionally obnoxious. He wanted to wreak some havoc. So, he dragged his drained shell through enduring darkness and rows of lit torches toward another part of Skyhold.

The Altus felt not a little ridiculous as he stood in front of the Commander's imposing tower. But as sleep gradually loosened its grip on him and his mind regained its clarity, he could see that this was an idiotic idea.

What was Dorian exactly trying to gain by talking to Cullen about Tharin? An official certificate for matchmaking? An empty gratitude from the Commander that would not mean anything to the mage? A sense of moral superiority as a paragon of virtue, perhaps?

Well, he did enjoy those rare moments when he held the position of moral superiority. He quite liked lording it over others, as a matter of fact. But this seemed like a particularly dubious way of achieving it. Confronting the grave and humorless Commander about his feelings, and then effortlessly regaling him with the tale of his own sacrifice for Tharin and his happiness.

Pish-posh. It all sounded too dreadfully theatrical for his Tevene sensibilities.

But… if needs must. Because the Herald could use a helping hand, obviously. And no matter what the circumstances of their relationship was, Dorian sincerely, excruciatingly liked Tharin. Quite a lot. At that moment, seeing Tharin happy was his foremost objective.

It took Dorian a while to work up the courage to knock on the door. Yet when he did, a deep voice immediately bade him to enter.

It was still too early for anyone to be up. More than half of Skyhold was probably still asleep. But of course, Commander Rutherford was up and about in a full armor at this wretchedly early hour, aided by the light from a torch and a candlestick in his office.

"Ah, Master Pavus. May I help you?" The Commander briefly looked up from the parchment he was holding and nodded with a rather peevish expression. I can't imagine why he's annoyed with me, Dorian thought flippantly.

"Commander."

The mage stomped over to the desk where Cullen was sitting but did not make any move once he was standing in front of the man. Instead, he crossed his arms and gazed at him with narrowed eyes.

Looking slightly uncomfortable – Good, Dorian liked making Cullen uncomfortable –, the Commander put the document down on the desktop and pointed to what looked like a flimsy wooden folding chair seat in the far corner of his office. If not for his pointing out, Dorian would have thought it was part of the debris from the ceiling that adorned one far corner of the office.

"Would you… like a chair?"

"No, thank you."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes," Dorian stretched the s at the end. "I am very certain."

"…If you say you are sure."

With his hands gathered in front of him and his face looking truly disconcerted now, the Commander asked, "I'm sorry, can I help you with something, or…?"

"I am here about Tharin."

"Oh."

"You love him, don't you?"

The searching amber brown eyes stared back at Dorian for a good long while. Eventually, the Commander turned sideways and rubbed his neck as he sighed delicately. "Master Pavus, you have every right to pursue a relationship with the Herald. What goes on between you and him is none of my concern, and you needn't seek my approval on the matter."

Dorian hissed, "I am not here to seek your approval. I don't give a damn about your approval."

Exhibiting a knotted brow that deftly mixed irascibility with discombobulation, Cullen intoned sharply, "Then why are you here?"

"I want to confirm that you love Tharin."

"Why? What does that matter to you?" Cullen kept pushing when Dorian wanted nothing of sort.

"Kaffas!" Dorian knew it was a perfectly valid question, but he also knew he could no longer repress the simmering indignation within him. He slammed his two hands on the desk and yelled with an uncontrolled voice, "Because I can't have him, and it's your fucking fault!"

Irascibility threatened to dominate the Commander's expression as discombobulation gave way. He stammered with a barely concealed temper, "I-I don't… What in the world are you jabbering on about?!"

Dorian did not blink as he stared straight into Cullen's eyes, trying to impart some sort of understanding. "All right, let me lay it out for you plainly, so even you could comprehend. I don't plan on pursuing Tharin. I don't court taken men." At least, not anymore, he added in his head.

Yet Cullen was nothing if not obstinate. Looking like a man at his wit's end when Dorian was the one who should have been, Cullen explained patronizingly, "I understand that his worship's engagement to Princess Adelia poses an obstacle. But once we defeat Corypheus and–"

Dorian knew he was provoking the man further, but he could not halt his eyes from rolling. How ironic that both Tharin and Cullen sounded exactly the same trying to explain the Orlesian plan. The mage grunted. "Commander, please have the decency to not treat me like I am a hapless philistine. It is beneath both you and me."

Dorian bent down until his eyes were level with Cullen's creased face. The Commander was quite handsome from this angle, and the mage absolutely despised himself for noticing that right then. "I obviously meant you. Tharin is madly in love with you. He's taken because he's in love with you, Cullen."

Now the Commander looked fairly astonished. Truly fascinating. It was as though Cullen either had no idea or was an exceptional thespian. "Maker's breath…"

Dorian ran his hand through his smooth hair. "This is… just all kinds of absurd."

Cullen, the symbol of hypermasculine stoicism, stood up and began to pace the length of the chamber. That was the extent to which the man was willing to exhibit any kind of strong emotion other than anger, Dorian noted.

"I… You… Uh… Why are you telling me this?" stuttered the Commander.

"Because I care about Tharin and prefer to see him happy. And you admitted your fault and apologized to me at Haven. Maker help me, it makes me want to like you, to help you.

"I have watched the two of you long enough to know that something is blocking the way. And it isn't the betrothal, I believe. Whatever that block is, you need to find a way to get over it. Otherwise, you are going to miss every chance with Tharin and will end up regretting it."

Feeling too wound up after that fun and not at all frustrating exchange, Dorian whirled around and began to walk toward the exit.

With his shaking right hand on the door handle, Dorian warned, "Remember, the next Dorian may not be as considerate as I am. You need to make your move now."

When he opened the door to the outside, the Altus heard his name ring across the room.

"Dorian."

"What now?" exclaimed the mage as he turned, discharging words that dripped with bare ire.

To this, the Commander replied with an earnest face that Dorian could not bring himself to hate. "I promise… I will find a way."

The two men stared at each other for longer than what would be considered proper in polite company. Dorian scoffed.

"Just do what needs to be done," snapped the mage before he exited and slammed the door shut behind him.

END NOTES

Next up, what could possibly go wrong when Cullen challenges Josephine to a round of Wicked Grace? On Sunday, April 10.

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