The sad smile on Dorian's face lingered after waking, the impression of a comforting, if poignant, dream difficult to dismiss. Granted, no smile ever lasted past his morning bath, and probably never would. It was a ritual by now, with water heated by magic and softened with an ever-diminishing supply of scented oils bought with the last of the money he'd gained from selling his heritage. The scarcity made each drop of water precious, a spur to ensure that he looked his best every day as a personal reminder of what he'd lost, what he'd given up, and what had been taken. He'd hoped to make the supply last until they defeated Corypheus and the Venatori, but he doubted that would now be true.

And that was assuming the Inquisition survived Mailani's death.

I'm so sorry…

He paused in the act of drying himself with his towel. That… was not his thought. A whisper on the very edge of hearing, a memory of something borne anew on the winds of conscious… but it wasn't his mind which had created those words. He glanced down at his left hand, glimmering a fitful green in the growing light of the rising sun, and frowned thoughtfully.

"I'd be a poor mage if I didn't wonder how this came to be on my hand," he said softly. "Even Corypheus could not unseat it with all the power of the orb." He felt a pricking at the back of his eyes and quickly fought it down. "I'll figure it out, I promise you. I never broke a promise to you, save one."

The light on his palm flared once, then flickered out.

Hand clenching into a fist, he looked out of his narrow window, eyes burning with more than just the bright sun. "Maker, why did I have to fail that one?"

He blinked a few times, then looked away and finished his morning ablutions quietly. By the time he was done, the sun had risen high enough that it was out of view of his window, and he knew it was time to leave the dubious safety of his quarters.

The moment he was outside his chambers, Dorian felt them: the eyes. Expecting, weighing, judging, and, above all, everywhere. Even at home, he'd rarely felt this amount of scrutiny - he'd been a prominent Altus when he'd behaved, and a notorious one when he'd chosen not to do so, but it hadn't been quite the same. In Skyhold, now and the last few days, he was caught in the limbo of 'expected to fail but hadn't quite managed it yet'.

At least I'm fairly sure I'll meet their low expectations, he thought bitterly to himself. It seems to be my lot in life. Still, it wouldn't do to show a surly exterior, particularly when the Inquisition was already treading on such thin ice, so he put on what he hoped was a pleasant expression while wending his way to the War Room to meet with the Iron Trio, as he was quickly learning to call them in his head. There was something implacable about the way Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine kept trying to prepare him for a role he had no desire to fill, but he couldn't quite bring himself to tell them to simply let him close rifts and nothing more.

Even worse were the rumors whipping around him as he made his way determinedly through Skyhold. Rumors had been a pervasive part of his youth, after all, so his ears were attuned to hearing their pernicious susurrations, especially the half-whispers that were supposedly secret, but not really meant to be.

...lying to keep us here. The mark died with the Herald…

...follow a magister from the Imperium? They must be mad! Best to start packing…

...heard he let her die under those rocks, just to take the mark…

...Commander said that? Really? Well, he would know, wouldn't he?

The last comments made him cringe internally, though he didn't let it show. Apparently there truly were no secrets in Skyhold, even when the so-called secrets were exaggerations or outright lies. Still, he listened carefully, noting each and every variation. Rumors he understood, and rumors could be countered - if one knew of them. He'd been the cause of so very many iterations of them back home that ferreting them out had become second nature. I'll be comparing notes with Leliana later, I'm certain, he sighed. When he was just a Tevinter nobody, he hadn't particularly cared. Now…

What does the Iron Trio expect of me? he wondered again. I'm dashing, but hardly a leader. Not like- He stopped that thought before he could complete it. Well, I'm sure they'll see reason soon enough.

As he walked through the main hall towards the war room, however, a commotion near the throne at the far end caught his eye. Though tempted to pass on by, he asked himself silently, What would the Inquisitor do? and kept moving towards it. In his mind, of course, always and forever, the Inquisitor would be Mailani.

As he approached, voices could be heard arguing, and he hovered long enough to get an idea of the situation. It became clear that a few of Cullen's soldiers were standing in front of the Inquisitor's throne, looking at each other nervously as their lieutenant argued with the man at the head of a group, presumably men and women who had come to join the cause - the Herald's cause, that is. Dorian's heart sank as he identified their leader as Horsemaster Dennet, but wasn't particularly surprised. There were few in Skyhold who had been more staunch supporters of Mailani than Dennet.

"Seeker Cassandra has said no one is to touch the throne," the lieutenant declared firmly, her arms crossed across her chest as she stared up at the man in front of her.

Dennet set his hands on his hips, jaw set. "Well, the people of Skyhold disagree with you," he said, then pointed at the throne. "That is the Inquisition's throne. And she's gone." Those words were spoken more quietly, and a number of the people gathered behind him bowed their head, a moment during which Dorian moved around the crowd to be closer to the front. The moment passed, however, when the man looked up with a stubborn expression. "I say we need to move it before the Vint sets his magister's fat ass on it!"

Dorian glanced up to the heavens and gave an inward sigh. Honestly. Granted, as insults went, it was a fairly pathetic attempt, and for a moment he was tempted to simply turn around and walk away, as he always had before. He'd known from the moment he'd joined the Inquisition that he would never be able to win their hearts and minds. His friendship with Mailani had proven to be a rare and precious thing in a world of disdainful looks and caustic judgments. As a mere follower of the Herald, he'd had the luxury of turning his other cheeks and walking away. Now… he flexed his hand slightly as it flared, the pain and the burden of the Anchor forcing him to take a deep breath.

Very well. If I am to be her legacy, I shall do it properly. By going on the offensive, of course.

He'd learned long ago the value of fighting anger with a sharp wit and sharper tongue, and he saw no reason to spare any of the people gathered before the throne from either. After heaving a loud, melodramatic sigh, Dorian began to cluck his tongue. "Oh, my blushing buttcheeks! Please, my good man. Is that really any way to insult someone?"

The guards and the people in the small crowd whirled to face him, and a few in the crowd started to edge away as Dennet's expression darkened further. Before the man could say anything in response, however, Dorian continued. "What a hodgepodge of vitriol! Why, I'm uncertain where to even begin. For one, I am no Magister. The proper term is Altus. And for another, your phrasing was absolutely atrocious."

As the Horsemaster's jaw dropped at this unexpected rejoinder, Dorian slowly walked to stand close to the lieutenant, tapping his lips thoughtfully with steepled fingers. "Perhaps you could have used 'the fat ass of the magister' or 'fat Vint's Magister ass'." He paused and pretended to consider it, head tilted as if in deep contemplation. "No, no, that wouldn't do. Perhaps you should stick with 'move it before the Magister's fat Tevinter ass breaks it'." He beamed at Dennet. "That rolls off the tongue much more properly, don't you think?"

Now more than a few people were staring at him, and, to his relief, he saw a few grins appear among the sea of furrowed brows and angry glares. Dennet kept staring at Dorian, even when Dorian took advantage of the fact to step forward and clap his hand on the man's shoulder firmly.

"Now. Here, my horsey friend," he said with a sweeping wave of his left hand, grateful for once for the pain as the green light flickered and glowed despite the bright sunlight streaming through the windows, "we have the throne of the Inquisition, as you said. Of the Herald of Andraste. Of my dear friend, Mailani Lavellan." He looked at it, not bothering to disguise the choking of his voice. "And you're right. I am neither Herald, nor Inquisition, and certainly not worthy of sitting upon it, whether my buttcheeks blush or not." That earned him a few titters from the people gathered behind him as well as from one of the guards standing next to the throne. To lessen the tension even more, he leaned in towards Dennet and said in a loud whisper, "You don't really think my ass is fat, do you? It fits in those saddles of yours quite well, I thought."

That earned a snort even from Dennet, though he valiantly tried to pretend it wasn't amusement by frowning sternly. Pressing ahead with the advantage, Dorian said in a hearty voice, "What say you we turn it to face the wall, hmm?" He made a twisting gesture with his glowing hand, noting with satisfaction as the man stared at the green light. "Hard to claim any authority that's not yours when you're staring at a wall of bricks, wouldn't you say?"

When Dennet didn't reply immediately, the lieutenant dared to step forward. "With respect, Ser, Seeker Cassandra said-"

Dorian flipped his hand in a dismissive gesture, knowing it again brought all eyes upon it. He knew how rumors worked. He'd heard the bits and pieces earlier, but saw the life of those rumors in their eyes as they widened whenever the Anchor blazed and crackled. Oh, it hurt like the blazes, but it was necessary to be seen, in this case, to counter the whispers that it was all a lie, that the Inquisition was doomed. Granted, there were the other rumors still to tackle, but only one step need be taken at a time. "Come, come, lieutenant. Lay all the blame on me, if you like, and I shan't say any differently to the Seeker herself." Pointing a trifle dramatically at the throne, he again clapped his hand on the Horsemaster's shoulder. "What say you?"

Abruptly Dennet nodded. "Aye. We'll turn it around." He waved the crowd forward, and Dorian surged forward with them, earning some startled glances and a few approving nods. With a great deal of effort, they all turned the heavy throne around until the owl calmly faced the wall.

Once the deed was done, Dorian turned to the people around him and smiled. "There we are. No usurpers allowed."

He watched as the crowd - which now included a fair bit more than just those who had followed the Horsemaster in the first place - heard those words, and waited for the moment when listening turned to understanding, then beyond. What he was looking for was acceptance - either of him or the idea that he wasn't trying to replace the Herald. As the nods he was looking for began to spread through the crowd, he turned to Dennet. "The Inquisition still needs us, even if she can no longer stand here and tell us herself." He held out his right hand. "Will you stay, for her sake?"

The words hung there for a moment, and then Dennet reached out and took Dorian's hand in a firm shake as he nodded. "Aye, that I will. For now. Who's to say what tomorrow shall bring?"

"Hopefully no more rifts and no more Corypheus. I rather think that would make everyone happy, don't you think?" Dorian asked with a smile.

"That's the Maker's own truth," the man grunted. For a moment, Dennet's gaze remained on Dorian, but then he nodded. "We'll just be on our way then."

And… that was that. Dennet looked at the crowd still gathered around them and said, "To work! The Inquisition needs us!"

As the people slowly started to disperse, Dorian couldn't help but wave at them with his glowing left hand, using a smile to cover the grimace of pain as he wiggled his fingers at everyone. Then they were gone - except for one. The blond man stood directly in front of Dorian, arms crossed over his chest and a little smirk on his face as he inclined his head. "You handled that well," Cullen said. "I was just coming to deal with them myself."

Dorian's heart sped up slightly, his bruises not so quick to forget the events of yesterday as Cullen's smile was. "Commander," he said with an easy smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Had I known you were already summoned, I wouldn't have bothered to get involved."

"Then I'm glad you didn't know." Cullen glanced back at the people in the hall, then stepped closer to Dorian so he could speak in a lower voice, though his brow furrowed as Dorian instinctively swayed back from him. He glanced at the guards, then gestured to the door to his left. "Might I have a word?"

Dorian swallowed, but knew he couldn't refuse the man. He could, however, control the situation, at least a little bit. "Of course, Commander. I was just on my way to the War Room. Perhaps you could accompany me." He gave Cullen a nod and hurried past him, using briskness to conceal what actually felt like a retreat as he headed for the door to Josie's office. The sound of Cullen's boots could be heard after a beat of hesitation, but he still managed to get past the second door into Josie's office before Cullen could corner him in that small space between. His smile faltered when he saw that Josephine wasn't at her desk, but he quickly repaired it as he pivoted to face Cullen. "And here we are. Josephine must be in the War Room waiting for me with the others." I will be missed if I'm late.

Cullen sighed. "Yes, I know." His brows furrowed. "They don't want me to join you until I've offered my apology."

Join us… Pushing past the discomfort that arose with that thought, he raised an idle eyebrow. "Apology, Commander? Oh, for that little scuffle we had yesterday? Pray give it no mind. Why, I've had far worse than that just wandering the countryside with-" His smile faltered, and he quickly amended what he had been about to say. "Just… wandering the countryside. Have you ever run across the length of the Hinterlands with a pack of demons on your tail? I think not. I'll be perfectly all right."

"No, I-" Distracted, Cullen looked at Dorian with a surprised look on his face. "Wait, have you?"

"A rather ignominious series of events, Commander." Yes, repeating the word helped keep the distance, kept the person hidden behind the title. Absently he flexed his hand as it began to itch. "Not my finest moment, I'll admit, but someone had to play bait to give the others time to-" He stopped, then, looking at his hand with a grimace as the itch flared into sudden, sharp pain.

"Is everything quite all right?" Cullen asked. "Is the mark giving you pain?"

Shaking his hand, Dorian chuckled and held it behind his back as he shook his head. "Oh, no. Just getting used to the glow. Let's go to the War Room, shall we?" he asked, then began to head to the back door of Josephine's office.

Cullen took a few large steps after him, his hand landing on Dorian's arm. "Dorian," he said in an urgent voice.

Stepping smoothly out of the grip, he turned to face Cullen with a brittle smile on his face. "I already told you, Commander-"

"Please, just… just hear me out." Cullen reached up and rubbed at his forehead for a moment. "There are a lot of excuses I could try to claim for my behavior yesterday, but I won't. The truth of the matter is that I treated you abhorrently. I forgot that you were a valued member of the Inquisition and…" He stopped, then shook his head. "That sounds… that's… Let me try again."

"Commander, I assure you, these measures are not necessary." You're still who you are, and I am still what I am, and what I always shall be. "We can work together as the Inquisition demands it. I belong to it now, after all. This little glowy thing just makes it more… official." He tried for a smile as he waved his hand in front of his face. "Just try not to break any more walls with me, would you? Skyhold is an old, crumbling heap, after all. Who knows how much damage it can take from a sufficiently determined push?" He started to turn to the door.

Cullen's groan of exasperation halted him, and Dorian glanced back in time to see Cullen bury his face in his hands. After a few moments, the man looked up, face still pale and a bit sweaty, but with a determined expression. "It won't happen again. Just… please. Give me a chance. I promise there won't be a next time."

I'll do better next time, Father. The words popped unbidden into Dorian's mind, part and parcel of the way he'd arranged his thoughts since deciding that his departure from his family needed to be permanent. Please, give me another chance! Ruthlessly he pushed the memory of that vulnerable little boy away, refusing to think of why it had suddenly appeared in the first place.

Mouth inexplicably dry, Dorian inhaled sharply, left hand automatically rising to knead his brow. The very touch of that green light on his face made him flinch, and he hissed softly as he pulled his hand away quickly and stared at it. "Thank you, Commander. As you may have noticed, I am apparently not a very gracious man, but I appreciate the sincerity of your words. I accept your promise." he said softly. Clearing his throat, he said in a slightly stronger tone, "Perhaps you'd like to accompany me to the War Room, hmm? The Iron Trio will be expecting us by now, I'm sure."

Cullen's shoulders dropped a good two inches as Dorian spoke, but the last phrase earned a tired chuckle as he followed Dorian. "Iron Trio? I don't even need to ask who you mean."

"They'd be insulted if you did," Dorian quipped as he led the way.

The meeting in the War Room turned out to be every bit as long and tedious as Dorian had feared, made worse by the not-quite-lecture Cassandra gave him regarding his handling of the situation with the throne. Although fruit and bread was already waiting for them when they arrived, the meeting stretched on long enough that more food and chairs were brought in shortly after the sun passed its peak. A while after that, Cassandra looked at Cullen and frowned. "Are you all right, Cullen?"

Cullen blinked as he looked at her from his chair, and Dorian realized it had been quite a while since he had contributed to the discussion. Though the food had improved his color initially, now he was just as pale as he had been when he'd approached Dorian this morning. Despite that, his face was gleaming with sweat, and Dorian frowned. "You'd better go take care of that headache," he told Cullen. "Give it another hour, and you won't be able to shake it for days."

"And how would you know that?" Cullen snapped, then sighed and raised his hand to rub at his forehead. "My apologies. Perhaps you're right." He sighed, then stood. "I think you know as much as you need to about our troops and their deployment, anyway, given how few remain." He grimaced, though this time it was more at his words than his pain. "I shall leave you to your work."

"Cullen," Cassandra said as the man stood, waiting until she had his attention. "Take care of yourself." There was an odd note of caution in her voice as she said it, and Cullen nodded.

"Understood, Lady Seeker," Cullen said, the formality odd to Dorian until he saw the little smile on Cassandra's face as she watched the Commander leave.

Private joke, most likely. "How much more of this must I endure myself?" he asked as the door closed behind Cullen.

Josephine smiled apologetically to him. "Perhaps we could take a quick break in an hour or two?"

Dorian groaned and buried his head in his hands. "Kaffas. And I thought lectures in the Circle were bad." With a sigh, he leaned back in his seat and glared at the map. "But we're done with Orlais at least. What about that letter from Anora? I'd like to see that again."

By the time he emerged from the War Room - although blessedly they'd been allowed a few breaks in the meantime - the sky was indigo, his back was stiff, and his head and hand were throbbing in pain. All he really wanted to do was go to the tavern and get a drink, or perhaps sneak a wine bottle out of the cellar and go to his room. Maybe two bottles. It's been that sort of a day.

So when he emerged from Josephine's office, the immediate hush which fell didn't really register. He felt their eyes upon him, of course, but that was more obvious, even with masks, and so common as to be insignificant. Instead he just nodded to the nearest Orlesian noble - their masks made them interchangeable, really - and began to work his way through the room, unconsciously moving to the main door and the tavern before he remembered that perhaps that wouldn't be the best idea. After all, he'd gone from Tevinter pariah to even lower. Would they even let him in? Well, the Iron Bull would drink with him, he was certain of that - the man had little subtlety in some things. Tonight, Dorian was precisely in the kind of mood which would lead him to consider things he'd never pondered before, too.

As he stood on the threshold of the main hall, trying to decide if he was tired enough to go back to his bed or awake enough to contemplate seeking another's, the hush swelled into a quiet symphony of words. A trick of the acoustics in the hall brought the distant whispers to him, caressing his ears with hints of rumors and secrets.

...declared no usurpers. What is his game?...

...Once a Vint, always a Vint…

...clearly has the mark. He doesn't claim authority…

...worth watching, I think. Perhaps this isn't the end…

A little smile came to his face, unseen by anyone behind him, and he held up his left hand long enough to glance at it, flexing the pain away as it flared. "I will be her legacy," he said softly.

"Sparkler!"

Blinking, Dorian turned and saw Varric waving him over. Curious, he moved to where the dwarf stood next to the fire, moving close enough to bask in its warmth as he replied, "Varric."

"I've been waiting for them to let you escape for hours now," Varric grunted. "What did you do, have to provide examples for the class? Forget to bring enough to share? You were in there an awfully long time."

Dorian groaned. "Oh, please don't remind me. I really just want some wine and my bed right now. So unless you're willing to offer the former without intruding upon the latter, perhaps we could continue this conversation at a later time?"

"Keep your pants on, Sparkler." Varric shifted from foot to foot, and Dorian frowned slightly as he realized for the first time that Varric's forehead was beaded with sweat.

"Varric, are you quite all right?" he asked, voice dropping slightly.

Heaving a sigh, the dwarf looked up the hall, apparently equally aware of the eyes upon Dorian at the moment. Finally, he gave a little shrug. "Look, Sparkler, I'm just here to look pretty and tell people what they need to do. And you need to go to the study in the basement."

Dorian's eyes narrowed momentarily. The request was… odd, to say the least, and the timing put it into an even more questionable light. "I did pay you those sovereigns I owed you, didn't I?" Dorian asked lightly. "If not, it would be easier to simply ask for them, you know."

That brought a grin to Varric's face. "Don't worry, Sparkler. If I wanted all your money, I'd just challenge you to another round of Wicked Grace."

"I am not that poor a player," Dorian protested.

"No, but your wineglass is," the dwarf retorted with a smirk. "Just get going, would you? It's… kind of important."

Dorian frowned, though he banished it after only a moment to put the smile back on his face, all too aware of the eyes watching them. Questions raced through his mind in quick succession, but he knew that it would, in the end, come down to whether or not he trusted Varric enough to take him strictly at his word. After a momentary struggle, and an internal reminder that Varric had always been the most forthright with him in praise or insult, Dorian chuckled. "All right, if it's that important to you. We're still on for Wicked Grace tomorrow, yes? I have some money I don't need anymore, after all."

Varric visibly relaxed and laughed. "Wouldn't miss it, Sparkler. I need some more money for paper and ink, anyway."

With a sly wink, Dorian nodded to the dwarf. "I'd better go get some wine for it, then." For those watching, it would provide a perfectly good reason to explain why he backtracked and headed to the door leading to the lower levels of Skyhold.

When he reached the study, he found the door slightly ajar with a light glowing within. A reluctance abruptly seized him, partly because of the mystery, but also because this had been where Mailani went when she'd wanted time alone. Her quarters were a bit too easy to find, but most people still got lost trying to find the wine cellar, so it had been ideal for her.

Finally he took a deep breath, nodded to himself, and pushed his way in.

As he passed by the bookshelves to get to the desk, his fingers idly traced along their spines. His eyes darted around in the dim light, looking for a person, or a package, or anything which would indicate why it was so important for him to be down here. When he heard the door click shut behind him, however, he pivoted quickly, calling fire to his hand as he readied it for defense or attack as necessary. "Who's there?"

"Calm yourself," a deep male voice said from the doorway. "I mean you no harm."

Dorian frowned. The voice was… familiar, but not enough he could match a face to it yet. When footsteps approached, he instinctively backed up and around the desk, even if it meant he ended up cornered. When the man finally entered the light, however, Dorian straightened from his combat crouch and let the fire dim away. "Your Excellency," he said with a bow, buying himself some time to wipe the astonished look from his face.

"Please," the man grunted as he crossed his arms across his chest. "I get enough of that in Kirkwall. I prefer Hawke."

Dorian rounded the desk again, though he was still a trifle wary. "I thought you and the Warden had gone ahead to the Western Approach."

"We got bored of waiting," Hawke noted dryly. "So we found some merchants. You know how much they love to talk. Heard about the Inquisitor and decided to come out here. Quietly, of course. Aveline's probably sent a bloody squad out looking for me by now without Bran knowing about it."

Dorian glanced around reflexively, a slight frown on his face. "Is the Warden here?"

"In Skyhold, yes. Said he had to go see an old friend." Hawke frowned. "But I really came here to see you. Are the rumors true? You've got the mark now?"

Holding up his left hand, Dorian looked at it as a green glow filled the study before fading away. "I have the mark, but no title or authority."

"And the Inquisition is falling apart around you, I'd imagine," Hawke said, shaking his head. "That whole 'Herald of Andraste' thing was a disaster waiting to happen anyway. If it's one thing I learned in Kirkwall, it's never mix religion with politics. However, Corypheus is still out there, and I'd be lying if I said I don't feel partially responsible for that. So I'm here to help."

Dorian's eyebrows rose, and for a moment he just stared at the man. Then he cleared his throat. "I see. Well. This just got incredibly interesting."