Josephine sat at the desk and watched Leliana command her attendant to leave them. She gathered her hands and balanced her chin on top.

Leliana stood before her, tall and maddeningly self-assured, "You know, you will eventually have to forgive Tharin."

"Do I?"

"Yes, you do."

The Ambassador sneered. She unclasped her hands and folded her arms. "I still have to spend hours of my day trying to rectify the mistakes he made all over Thedas. The question is not whether I should forgive him. The question is whether he deserves forgiveness at all."

Leliana glanced at the upholstered stool in front of the fireplace. She grabbed it, hauled it next to the Ambassador's chair, and sat down.

For a long while, Leliana stared at her own open hands. When she finally started, she drew each word out, "Do you know why the Warden killed Loghain?"

"I only heard the man died from a Landsmeet duel."

Leliana stretched her mouth and shook her head. "Things are never that simple." She lowered her hood, smoothed her fiery hair, and blinked slowly. "The Warden and Alistair were great friends. Alistair wanted to avenge Warden-Commander Duncan's death, and Loghain was the perfect target for his anger. The Warden knew all this, and so, he did not hesitate to kill Loghain despite not having any personal stake in his death."

Leliana extended her arms. "Like it or not, saving the world is a messy business. Sometimes, heroes make decisions on a whim, for personal reasons."

Josephine felt a twinge of exasperation and did not hide it. They were alone in her salon, and she could be entirely transparent with Leliana without fearing it would backfire. She knew she was the only person in Thedas who could act the way she did to Leliana. "But that was not a self-destructive move in the face of an impending doom upon the world. Tharin forfeited responsibilities the moment he decided to hurt himself."

There appeared a little crease on Leliana's brow, the one wrinkle on the otherwise placid surface. "Can you blame him for wanting to forsake the responsibilities? He was a hermit living in the mountains, and now we have him betrothed to someone he barely knows."

The Ambassador would have liked to rebut, but she knew it was a juvenile reaction. She knew the Spymaster was right in her assessment of the situation with Tharin. "…No, I suppose not."

Leliana stood up and patted Josephine's shoulder. "I know he wronged many people including you. But we cannot keep this up. We are headed to Halamshiral for a peace talk where we have to save Celene from a premature death, and the world expects an omnipotent Inquisitor. Tharin will need to make difficult political decisions on the fly, probably with intermittent combats. And I would rather ensure he has the powers before the world finds out he's lost them once." The Ambassador felt a light squeeze on her shoulder. "You have to admit, out in the field, not everything can be decided by a committee."

Josephine folded her arms and confessed, "…I am still angry. I don't know if I can forgive him that easily."

An unbidden smirk crossed Leliana's visage. "Tharin likes the Commander a lot." She stood and began to pace the length of the salon with her hands clasped in her back.

Tracing the woman's leisurely footsteps, Josephine commented, "Yes, that is not news. So what?"

Breezily, the Spymaster observed, "I just think the Commander is an especially easy target to tease, and it has an additional benefit of tormenting Tharin. Perhaps that would make you feel slightly better. Maybe put you in a forgiving mood, even." As she began to walk away from Josephine's desk, Leliana flashed a sly smile that revealed the rows of her perfect teeth. "Give it some thought."

It was not entirely clear to Dorian who came up with the idea first. It could have been Varric, who had been suffering from a writer's block for a couple weeks and needed fresh materials to inspire him, or Josephine, who had boasted once or twice what a champion card player she was.

It was definitely not the Herald, though he had mentioned how he wanted to have an intimate get-together with all the companions before they departed for the soulless grandeur of the Winter Palace.

In any case, one snowy day the Inner Circle happened to gather in the secluded corner of the Herald's Rest to play rounds of Wicked Grace.

Dorian wasn't entirely sure how he managed to snag an invitation to this little get-together. He had assumed that most people at Skyhold did not care for his company. Yet here he was, with Varric pouring him a glass of wine, Cassandra gently patting his right shoulder, and the Iron Bull peering at him with that Hissrad gaze. Dorian took the glass and gulped it down in one go, feeling like he needed to be drunk.

Come to think of it, Cole was here, too. The boy who was no longer a spirit. Perhaps the standard for an invite was not all that stringent to begin with.

Another person he did not expect to see was the Commander, who was perched between Varric and Blackwall, looking tense with his arms firmly crossed. He looked as if he disapproved of the whole affair, which was not surprising given his eternally serious nature. If only he knew Cullen was going to be in attendance, Dorian would have made a polite excuse and bolted.

It wasn't as though he was bad at it, making up an excuse to leave a party early. He had done it many times in Tevinter when he was either lucky enough to strike it with the prettiest boy at the soirée or found its hosts intolerably boring. And yet, by the time he discovered the Commander sitting one person away from him, it was entirely too late. He had already let Varric know he had no other plans.

And so, he was stuck.

When their eyes met, Cullen flashed a sheepish smile and nodded. Dorian could not help but grimace, the sour aftertaste of wine lingering in his mouth.

Tharin only joined after Varric left the table and tracked him down in the great hall. Feeling too giddy, Dorian felt like an excitable child as the Herald entered his view. He had to tell himself off, thinking, That ship has sailed. It was enough to enjoy the view of the handsome man strutting to take a seat next to the Seeker though. They were physically close. That would have to be enough for Dorian.

But then, the Commander had to say something.

"You seem to have enough people. I have a thousand things to do," said the Commander with a low voice as he moved to stand up.

Varric scoffed and waved his hand. "Curly, if any man in history ever needed to relax and have some fun, it's you."

Dorian agreed with the dwarf. He felt spiteful as he spat, "Losing money can be both relaxing and habit forming. Give it a try, if you dare."

Cullen obviously took it as a friendly encouragement to stay, since he sat back down and replied with a thin grin, "Perhaps a round would be fine." He was clueless as usual.

Dorian gritted his teeth, letting the annoyance ferment into simmering resentment. But he was no mere amateur in social situations. Along with the ability to vanish from a tiresome party without ruffling any feathers, he had had plenty of training in hiding his true feelings back in his homeland.

Josephine began to chirp, "Dealer starts. Ooh… I… believe… I'll start at… three coppers! Do you think that's too daring?" She continued to think aloud, "Maybe I'll make it one… No! Boldness! Three it is!"

"Seriously? Who starts at three coppers? Silver, or go home!" roared the Iron Bull.

Staring right at the Commander, who in turn was staring at the Herald, Dorian declared louder than he had intended, "Bolder the better, right? I'm in."

Varric added, "Me too." He looked to the Herald. "Well? Are you in?"

The young man, much like the Commander, was oblivious of the undercurrent of animosity that flowed from Dorian to Cullen. His cobalt blue eyes were focused on Varric and Varric only. He blithely chuckled as he tossed his silver in the pile, "Go easy on me. I know next to nothing compared to you all."

To Dorian's joy, things did not work out for Commander Rutherford.

Despite his initial protest, Cullen enjoyed Wicked Grace. Probably too much. Well, he first enjoyed the steins and steins of ale provided by Cabot.

Cullen asserted that he figured out Josephine's tells and vowed to vanquish her in another round of the game.

The result? Cullen in his smalls, shivering as a pile of his clothes and armor sat next to Josephine. His coins had been depleted long ago, and the Commander decided to bet his clothes in his immense stupidity.

Josephine cheerily toyed with Cullen as she tapped her fingernails on the table. "Well, now you owe me five coppers, Commander. And what a pity you are out of your armor and clothes."

Cullen rolled his eyes, which was most unlike him, and sighed. His teeth chattered from the cold. "W-What do you w-want, Lady Montilyet?"

Without a hint of irony, the Ambassador looked straight at the Commander and declared, "Methinks the last item of clothing on your body should suffice."

It wasn't at all clear what motivation Josephine had in bullying the Commander so, but Dorian didn't feel much like intervening on the man's behalf. He was privately relishing in watching the nearly nude man squirm.

But Tharin had to be a spoilsport.

"All right, Madam Ambassador. We need to maintain some semblance of respectability, don't you think? I volunteer to take off my tunic on Cullen's behalf."

Josephine, looking distinctly reddish, pouted. As she turned toward the Herald and balanced her chin on her right fist, her arm wobbled, and her face almost fell and hit the table. Still, she pretended nonchalance as she argued, "But you have a shirt on underneath. Commander is going to be full-on naked. It's not a fair trade."

Tharin exhaled, looking quite amused. "How about this? I take off both my tunic and my shirt, you watch my half-naked self shiver in cold, and we call it even."

"Deal!" Josephine extended her left hand, which Tharin grasped in a handshake that did not quite become a handshake.

As Dorian watched Tharin remove the clothes and Cullen's flushed face broke out in a grateful smile, he felt an overwhelming sense of acrimony. The Herald was literally giving the Commander the shirt off his back. His head felt like it was boiling. Did Cullen realize how lucky he was?

Dorian was done with them. He quietly intoned, "Forgive me, I'm not feeling too well. I think I will head to bed early."

Varric turned and asked worriedly, "What's wrong, Sparkler?" His reaction was quite touching, actually.

The mage gave the performance of his lifetime and smiled as though nothing was up. "One too many drinks, my dwarven admirer. You may certainly follow me to my room, and I will show you what I am capable of. Maybe you'll get a book out of it."

"Ha! Thanks for the invitation, but I think I will stick to Bianca."

"Ah, you tease. Someday you will learn to be more adventurous."

The other companions were too engrossed in their conversations to notice Dorian leaving, which was a good thing, really. As much as he enjoyed being the center of attention, he did not want to be detected at that particular moment. He wanted to slip away quietly, leaving only his empty wine glass behind.

As Dorian stood up to leave the revelry, Tharin got on his feet and followed. When the half-bare man put his hand on Dorian's shoulder, it left a burning imprint. Tharin whispered, "Hey, are you all right? Let me get my shirt and I will walk you back."

Dorian pushed the hand off and immediately regretted it. Still, peevish words came forth from him. "I'm not a child, Tharin. I am certainly capable of conveying myself to my own room." Realizing he had sounded more hostile than he had meant to be, Dorian soughed and apologized. "Forgive me. It's really all right. Stay and play another round. Your friends are waiting."

The somewhat irritating part of Dorian hoped the Herald would refuse to listen to his fake nicety and still follow him. He felt his anger heighten when the young man nodded and headed back to the table, however.

If Dorian could fool himself before, it was no longer possible. This was the end.

He had lost the war before it even began.

A week later the Inquisition left for Halamshiral.

Among the rocky hills of the Frostback highlands, the Herald's entourage reached the border between Ferelden and Orlais. There was only a rickety signpost standing guard by the dusty high road, but it was the midpoint of their journey precisely, and so they stopped for the evening.

Dorian slipped away quietly after helping the soldiers pitch tents. When he looked back, he saw Tharin deep in a discussion with the three advisors. He clenched his jaw.

He walked into a plain of silvergrass that seemed to be devoid of any other living being, almost as though the field was devouring any life that dared to approach it. Yet there was no desire to turn back. Soon the reedy stalks obscured everything around him, erecting a golden barrier between him and the Herald. He marched onward unthinkingly.

The frigid air stunk of winter decay, he thought derisively. He hated the smell of dried-up plant fibers and cold, black earth. He hated the snow and ice that would soon coat this part of Thedas, things that made him miss the Imperium. A home, even if it harbored a murderous intent toward him. The only home, nonetheless.

When the lacrimal hindrance finally overtook him, he came to a morose stop. He roughly wiped his face, determined to remove any sign of emotion. But the tears refused to cease, and he hated himself just a little more.

He was going to be fine. There was no need to be with someone. How foolish is it to define my self-worth through who I'm with, Dorian repeated in his head.

Yet he hated being alone. So undeniably, hopelessly, alone.

No, it was that he hated not having Tharin to himself.

Surrounded by the rising wind and the roaring silvergrass, Dorian let forth a sundered howl.

The young Altus firmly hugged himself and clamped his eyes shut. There were more silent screams among the wind and the grass.

He traipsed back to the campsite only when the last shard of the sunlight dissolved into the western horizon.

END NOTES

Next up, the first part of Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts! The posting will happen around Sun, April 24, but due to personal reasons, it could be a day earlier or later.

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