"Wake up."

This time the words are a whisper, a desultory caress in your ear which slowly stirs you to wake. The booming pulse in your head has returned, steady and ever-present, and feels almost like a friend by this point despite the mystery. Around you, the world is dark at first, a mix of muted shadows and vague edges which slowly resolve into shapes with no color. You turn your head instinctively to check the entrance to the tent, wondering if Zevran had snuck in as he had the night before to hover and remind you of what your punishment would be if you did not complete your task. But you see no one.

And, in the next moment, you abruptly realize where you are, and who you are. You deliberately create distance between yourself and your host, even as you again try to find your way back to your own dream. You have not been to this dream-that-is-not since before the outburst in the jail, and you preferred not to be there now- especially now.

Unfortunately, it seems there is no escape now that you are here-at least, not yet. In resignation, you settle in to observe, hoping for an opportunity to learn and then leave.

Pushing yourself into a sitting position, you slowly gain your feet and take a moment to stretch, reveling in the fact that there is no pain. A faint sound reaches your ears, and you recognize the snore of your friend across the tent. You move to kneel next to his sleeping roll, studying him as best as you can in the dim light. It's hard to see much, given the way he's rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow, but it's enough to make you smile. His back isn't covered with half-healed cuts, and the snore means he's fallen into a true sleep, uninterrupted by nightmares and Zevran.

You reach out and take his hand in yours, savoring the fact you can do so without feeling or causing pain. As with any time you spend with him, the guilt weighs heavily on your shoulders, but you take the guilt and feed it into your determination. You have made your decision and found your guiding star: to see this man freed from the clutches of his captors, no matter the cost to yourself.

:Promise:

The word echoes in you and through you, so powerful are the emotions which drive home the vow being made. It pushes you out of alignment with your host due to the intimate nature of the emotions behind it, and you admire the strength of his conviction.

:I promise that you will be free of them:

The words take on the quality of an oath, never to be forsaken, and you shiver as you realize that your host literally means to succeed or die trying. Flashes of punishment involving pain and despair worse than anything you have personally witnessed in these dreams-that-are-not quickly strafe through your mind, making your host's determination that much more understandable and vibrant.

And it inspires another, certainly unintended, consequence: to do for your host's friend what you did for him. Even as your host catalogs and justifies what he will do and why he must do it, you seize the proverbial reins and dive deep into the spell around the sleeping man through the tenuous connection created by your host holding his hand.

Familiarity aids you here, reducing the time needed to scour the breadth of the spell to find its weak points. You see differences between this spell and the one on your host, and those differences are tied to blood in a way you don't quite understand, but you are still able to find an opportunity. You exert yourself quickly and apply pressure using the magic of the Anchor, seeking to unlock what nothing else could open.

Your reward finally comes with a rather spectacular flare of magic, and you quickly expend even more energy to hide the result. The effort leaves you exhausted, however, and once your task is done, you withdraw back into a corner of your host's mind, and pray that your work will pass unnoticed.

You turn your head to towards the source of the sound, the other tent in your small camp. An angry voice, a sharp crack-that is not anything you ever expected to hear outside of Zevran sating himself on his captive audience. You release the hand between your own and rise to your feet, setting your path to carry you to outside.

With every step, you feel the spell of compulsion grow stronger, trying to make you stay, to obey the order to remain inside the tent and sleep all through the night. By the time you halt an arm's length from the tent flap, your body shakes with the effort of struggle, striving to push back against the need to obey. Your hand reaches out to push the tent flap open, but freezes halfway there as a wave of pain washes over you. The spell rises, trying to force you to its will, but still you remain in place, fighting.

The small part of you not lost in the conflict itself watches intently as your host battles the spell you damaged during your last visit here. Is he strong enough? Your knowledge of your host remains limited, but you know the potential is there. You only know that he can, not that he will.

After another moment of struggling against the seemingly implacable force of Amell's magic, your host suddenly clenches his teeth together and pushes his hand forward. For a moment it feels as if he is pushing his hand through a bucket full of broken glass, but as his fingers touch the tent, the pain vanishes. You feel the spell crack further under the pressure, and smile.

Yes. He is strong enough. With a satisfied nod to yourself, you let yourself fall back into the moment.

You slip outside and look around the small camp. There are no guards, of course, because Amell relies on spells at the perimeter to keep enemies out, and spells on his slaves to keep them in. Still, your heart is racing as you sneak to the other tent, the one which houses Amell and Zevran. Even as you draw closer, you hear the sound again, the sharp crack of a hand striking flesh, and the voice raised in anger. Moving as slowly as can be, you use the clouded night to your advantage and sneak into the shadows until you are close enough to hear everything. There is enough light within the tent for you to see their shadows inside, though at the moment you only see one person on their feet, with someone kneeling at their feet.

"You do not make demands of me," you hear Amell snarl.

"But, amor-"

"Silence!" Amell roared, followed by another sharp crack as the arm of the standing figure lashes out and rocks the kneeling figure with a full strike of their hand. "You will please me when I demand it. I will use you when it pleases me. If it pleases me to give you to Avernus, I will. If it pleases me to watch you suck every cock between here and the Korcari Wilds, you will. But you do not make demands of me."

"Yes, amor," Zevran says, voice subdued.

Amell chuckles, the sound dry as dust. "You did well in acquiring the costumes we will need for this mission, however. That pleases me."

"Thank you, amor." Now Zevran sounds almost happy, and you shake your head in frustration. Surely the elf can see what Amell is doing to him?

"And all it took was one evening and a bit of humiliation," Amell notes, then suddenly leans down as the shadows of his arms merge with the shadow of the kneeling elf. You hear the rustle of cloth, and then a soft moan. "Or did you enjoy the price, hmm? A fuck toy for a night, with your ass and mouth the prize for a group of drunken nobles as they enjoyed a game of cards?"

There is a hiss, followed by another moan, and you wonder just what is going on in there. "I th-thought only of you."

"And is that why you returned to me with your demands?" Amell croons.

"Please, amor," Zevran begs, almost sobbing. "Can you just try to-?"

There is another sharp crack, followed by the silhouette of Amell suddenly lifting Zevran from the ground and holding him high. "You know my difficulty," Amell says in a dark tone. "The taint has taken its toll on both my mind and body. Is that why you enjoyed being the prize for a card game? Because those Orlesians could give you what I cannot?"

"N-no, never!" Zevran chokes out, obviously struggling for breath. "You are absolute perfection! I need no other!"

Even as you try to puzzle through Amell's words, the two shadows merge, and your ears deduce that a rather savage kiss is underway. It ends abruptly, however, when the shorter figure drops to the ground. "Then accept that you do not make demands of me."

"Yes, amor." Zevran's tone sounds defeated, and an odd thought strikes you.

:Perhaps:

The words sits in your host's mind, swirling in the middle of a barrage of thoughts which move too quickly for you to follow, until suddenly more words emerge from the cloud.

:Perhaps Zevran can be turned against Amell:

"Do not worry, my love," Amell tells Zevran as he walks across the tent. "You will have your own toy back again once his task is finished and I have confirmed his renewed seed has found fertile ground."

"He is not you, amor, " Zevran whispers.

"And if I tell you to fuck him?" Amell asks in a harsh tone.

"Then I will. Of course I will." The barest moment of hesitation before he speaks, however, says far more than his words ever could.

A note of dry humor enters Amell's voice as he asks, "And if I tell him to fuck you?"

Again Zevran hesitates, albeit briefly. "May I pretend he is you?"

"When I give you leave, you may." Amell's tone shows his indifference to the question, but also-and more tellingly-his indifference to Zevran's preferences and, presumably, happiness. "But only then."

"Thank you, mi amor," Zevran replies, this time with a bit more enthusiasm which leaves you again baffled. Surely the elf realizes how badly Amell treats him?

And then... it happens. The burst of eldritch magic washes over you, just as it did before, raising your hackles and making your body tense as something ephemeral pulses from within the tent. Again you feel the almost-panic of your host, and feel him fight the urge to run far, far away.

When Amell next speaks, you hear the difference in his tone and diction, and can't help but feel as if there is something familiar about his speech. When you can't see the change in Amell's body, you realize it sounds even more striking, as if it is another person speaking entirely, heralded by that burst of energy .

"Do not forget the reason for our mission, slave," Amell says in sonorous tones. "Your targets have been assigned, your task set."

:It's here:

The panic rises up in your host, and without thinking you exert yourself just enough to keep him in place. You need to hear this. After a moment your host sags to the ground, alert and terrified, but also with the thought that staying put is better than risking attention by running.

:Maker keep me safe:

"Yes, Master." Zevran definitely sounds different. Gone is the beaten down man trying to appease his abusive lover. Now Zevran sounds like any other servant of a bad master: weary, respectful, and with a touch of resentment beneath his tone. "And the Inquisition?"

That snaps your attention to a laser focus. What is Amell planning next? Does he mean the ball, or something else entirely? You mentally curse as various scenarios dance through your head, but in the end you can only listen closely and try to glean what you can from the conversation.

"Ignore them unless interaction proves necessary. We know what that idiot Sethius wants, and we must ensure he does not acquire it, by any means possible." Suddenly an arm shoots out and lifts Zevran into the air. "Do you understand? I will be most wroth if you fail me in this, and I will hold you personally responsible for all failures."

Sethius? You frown. That is certainly a Tevinter name, but you cannot place it within the Magisterium or the soporati with whom you are familiar. Is it one of Corypheus' Lieutenants? One of Calpernia's assistants? Surely Leliana would have learned the name of all of the prominent Venatori by now. You file the name away for later analysis, turning your attention back to the scene inside the tent.

"Y-yes, Master!" Zevran says in a hoarse, choked voice, then makes a strangled sound.

"This is your second chance to prove your worth. I am a generous man. I will allow you three. If still you have not proven your worth, I will make you worthy." With those words, Zevran is again dropped, though this time the landing sounds more painful. "Now leave me. I have matters to attend to."

You do not hear Zevran's response, as Amell's words galvanize you into action. Quickly you sneak back through the small camp to your tent, slipping inside and making your way to your sleeping roll. Arranging yourself so that you face the entrance, you relax into a sleeping posture, and hope it will be enough for what you are sure will follow.

A few tense breaths later, you hear Zevran enter. As you watch through slitted eyes, the elf falls to his knees next to the sleeping roll of the man still gently snoring in slumber. You notice the dark bruise around one of his eyes, the same eye that is now swelled shut, and again wonder at Amell's hold on Zevran. You see him reach out, but pull up his hand just short of touching the sleeping man, and you wonder if perhaps Zevran is under a spell of compulsion as well.

In the next moment, the elf unbelts his trousers with clear intent, his gaze fixed on the man lying before him. You shut your eyes, suffering through the noises as Zevran works himself into a frenzy, unable to completely block out the sounds but at least grateful he is doing it without forcing participation. After a while, however, the sounds change enough that you don't recognize them, and carefully you open one eye.

:Impossible:

You feel your host's astonishment at the sight of Zevran hunched over, one hand still wrapped tight around his swollen length as he jerkily strokes himself towards release. The surprise comes from the fact that Zevran's other hand is clamped tightly over his mouth, trying to muffle the sounds of his sobs. Even in the dim light of the tent, you can see the glimmer of tears on the elf's face, and see the heaving of his shoulders as his muffled cries try to escape past those tightly closed fingers.

:He never cries:

And yet, as you watch, it becomes more and more undeniable that Zevran is doing just that, even as the movement of his lower hand grows increasingly erratic. You watch in pained fascination as his back suddenly arches sharply and his hips thrust forward, a strangled scream cut short as an all-too-familiar scent fills the tent. Zevran breathes heavily, hand still covering his mouth, as he rocks back and forth for a what seems like an eternity but which likely is only a few minutes.

Finally he shudders and shakes himself bodily. He pulls a kerchief from his tunic and carefully cleans himself, then tucks it away. Another clean one is tugged out and scrubbed vigorously over his face to clear all traces of his tears, then similarly tucked away. At one point, you think you hear him whisper. "Soon it will be perfect again."

But you cannot be sure.

In all this time, you somehow manage to maintain your façade of slumber, processing the oddly vulnerable scene you've just witnessed. Your thoughts whirr round and round, wondering if you can take advantage of the disagreements between Amell and Zevran, or if it would be too dangerous to even try?

When Zevran turns towards you, you immediately shut your eyes completely, not wishing even a glimmer to warn the elf that all is not as it seems. This time you feel a hand lightly stroke your hair, leaving your skin crawling as you feel a pressure on your ear. A kiss? A glancing touch? It doesn't matter, and soon the sensation lifts as another whispered word reaches you: "Soon."

Then the footsteps recede, leaving only the soft snores of the other man to fill the tent at regular intervals.

A cautious glance around the tent shows that Zevran is indeed gone, and you roll onto your back, shaking with the effort of lying motionless throughout those long minutes. After a moment, you take a deep breath and slowly sit up once more, cautiously reaching into the hidden pocket you've painstakingly worked into your pillow. You withdraw some paper and writing materials, remembering quite clearly how dearly you'd paid for every part of it.

It's almost time, and you need to be ready. Hopefully it will all be worth it.

Or rather... your host needs to be ready, though you're not quite sure what he needs to be ready for, or how he is preparing for it. You push away from your host's thoughts and simply observe as he slowly draws on the paper, but gain no clues. Whatever his thoughts are, they aren't loud enough for you to hear, and finally you give up on trying to determine the details.

Instead, and for the first time in one of these dreams-that-are-not, you turn your attention outward, trying to locate the being who you believe is responsible for your presence here in the first place. Before, it always came to you, but you wonder if perhaps you could hunt it down instead. The incident in the jail with Livius means that you need answers, and for that, you have to take risks.

You cast your awareness out into the very edges of your host's mind, forsaking visions of the real world for the uncertain world of your host's soul as you search for a hint of the one who has before always sent you thither from the dream. The steady, booming pulse that is always present in this place swells in your mind as you do so, as if aware of your curiosity, but you sense that to be a peripheral matter and unrelated to the being you seek. At first you find nothing, and feel no eyes upon you, and you wonder if your search may prove to be futile in this dream-that-is-not.

In the next moment, however, you find it-as if it were waiting for you to come looking.

You only have a moment to process what you see: a man in worn trousers with feathers sprouting from his shoulders and hair pulled back in a tousled queue, leaning on a staff of obsidian. He tilts his head, a strange pattern of dark purple energy blooming to light in his face and eyes, and smiles.

"That's enough for now. Wake up."

Dorian roused from his sleep all at once, pulse pounding in his ears as any notion of further slumber fled from his mind. Who was that? He reached up to touch his face, and noticed his mark flickering in a steady, persistent pulse. He swallowed harshly as he realized that the rhythm was now intimately familiar, and wondered at the connection between the pulsing mark and these dreams-that-were-not.

The being he'd found, though... Dorian's brows drew together in concentration, trying to remember every last detail. It certainly didn't appear to be a demon, though appearances could be deceiving. It didn't feel quite like the spirits Dorian had interacted with in the past, but then, those spirits had been under magical control. The light pattern on that being's face, the glowing of the mark... Was that what Cullen had seen in the jail? Was that spirit in the dream, whatever it was, trying to gain some sort of hold over Dorian?

Or had it already succeeded? The dreams, after all, had returned.

With a groan, Dorian fell back into the bed and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Maker," he breathed. "I do not need this right now."

In the following few seconds of silence, he heard a short, firm knock on the door, and frowned. A glance at the window showed only the faint light of pre-dawn outside, indicating that most people would not have roused from their beds yet given how late the apparently riveting card game had run. As he pushed the blanket away from his legs, he eased himself from bed, surprised to find he was still a little weak. That, more than anything, convinced him that the dream was definitely not only a dream: he had expended quite a bit of magical energy during his slumber. "Who is it?" he called as he looked around for his robe.

"Your father."

Dorian paused, staring at the door for a moment. Finally he snagged his robe from where he'd flung it onto the chair and pulled it on. "One moment." Quickly he went to the mirror and ensured his hair was in order with a flick or two of magic, then rolled his shoulders and drew himself to his full height. Only then did he move to the door.

"Father," he said cheerfully as he opened the door. "You're starting this most marvelous day at a rather early hour, aren't you?"

"It's a little too early for that, Dorian," Halward said with a pained expression.

"Oh, not at all." Dorian laughed merrily and pulled the door open more widely, inviting his father in with a wide sweep of his hand and a bow. "Do come in, would you? Shall I ring for breakfast? I'm sure someone is awake down there, the poor soul, and I'm fairly sure one of the ceiling cords around here will summon someone, no matter how hungover they are. Apparently the card game was quite the event last night."

"Dorian." Halward paused and sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before he nodded and stepped into the room. He waited until Dorian had closed the door before turning to him. "I thought this would be a good opportunity to speak with you."

Dorian made a tsking sound. "So very early? Were you hoping to catch someone in my bed and make me send them away in shame? It wouldn't be the first time."

Halward's expression turned to stone for a moment before he turned away. "Would he have made you happy?"

The question caught Dorian completely by surprise, and in the next moment his levity vanished. "You mean Rilienus," he said softly. Suddenly not wishing to discuss the matter on an empty stomach, Dorian headed to the carafe of something that spoke of alcohol on the sideboard. "He did make me happy. He didn't tell me to leave in the morning, for one thing. Of course, I'd already been dragged kicking and screaming from his bed by your thugs at that point, so I can't be completely certain."

A shift in Halward's shoulders spoke of extreme discomfort, but his father again surprised him. "Your mother never invited me to stay. After our marital duties, I mean. Once you were born, we became friends at the table and in political matters, but rarely more. I ignored the satisfactions she found on her own, and she ignored mine. I suppose… I suppose I thought you could manage the same."

Dorian slowly poured himself a good sized portion of what on first sniff turned out to be cognac, remaining silent as he stoppered the carafe. Picking up the glass, he pretended to admire the color for a moment. "That wasn't what you told me."

"No. I told you to obey me." Halward snorted softly. "As if you hadn't spent your entire life showing me that obedience wasn't your strong suit."

"You also told me something else. 'Get out,' you said. 'You are no son of mine.'" Dorian remembered Halward saying that in all his icy glory, the last thing his father ever said to him on Tevinter soil. And those words still hurt, even after all this time.

Again Halward sighed heavily. "I know. And I wish I could claim it to be only anger, and not sincere, but at the time... Yes, at the time, I meant it."

At least he's honest about it. Still, that merited more than a small sip, and Dorian quickly downed half the glass before he squared his shoulders and turned to face his father. "Until I became Inquisitor," he pointed out in a harsh voice. "Is that why I'm part of the family again? All I had to do was become a power in Thedas and suddenly you'll welcome me back to House Pavus with open arms?"

Halward rubbed his face vigorously with his hands, then slowly turned on his heel. The weariness in his actions spoke of a long, restless night, and the way he reached up to scratch at the scar on his neck spoke of a nervous habit newly formed. "No. And in some ways, it is still hard to think of you as my son. Not because you are not worthy to be my son, but because I find it hard to think of myself as worthy to be your father."

"I-" Dorian paused, then shook his head as he tried to reconcile what he'd expected to hear with what his father had actually said. "Pardon. What was that?"

"I once told you we are much alike," Halward said in a quiet tone. "It's been a long time since I was your age, and longer since I was a child, but I remember dreams and aspirations that did not involve power and politics. At one time, I had an ardent desire to be an animal trainer for the arena, after my parents took me there for my tenth birthday."

"I can't imagine that went over well with your parents," Dorian said in a neutral tone.

Shaking his head slowly, Halward said, "I never saw the arena again. And that year they sent me away to the Minrathous Circle, where I learned my place."

For a long moment, Dorian considered his father. Finally, he said, "You weren't trying to change me because you were angry at me, were you? You were trying to change me into you."

Halward winced. "You see more clearly than I did. The older I get, the more I realize how much of my father is in me, because his was the hand which shaped me. But you… you are not me, not wholly. I don't know if it comes from your mother, or some other element entirely, but for all that I can see the similarities, the older you get, the more I can also see the differences." Making a vague gesture to the world around them, Halward said, "I could never have done what you have done since you left home, and it all started by rejecting my plan for you."

"You almost sound proud, Father," Dorian said, then quickly cleared his throat before it could close on him. "Not that I would necessarily know what that would sound like if you were. I almost don't recognize you as it is."

Halward's hand rose to touch his neck again. "I cannot claim to have loved your mother, and you would call me out for the lie if I did claim it, but our lives wound together in many ways. What we lacked in love, I would like to think we shared in purpose. And losing her… it made me rethink my purpose."

Dorian stared at Halward, not quite sure what to say in light of his father's words. Finally he drained the glass and set it on the table without looking, trying to reconcile this man with the man who had declared Dorian was no longer his son. "If I didn't know better, Father, I'd say you've been humbled."

A very faint smile came to Halward's face. "Who is to say you do not know better? It is one reason I was so angry at you."

"I thought that was because I had a taste for cock," Dorian said, picking his words purely to provoke.

A provocation his father seemed to not even notice. "No. At least, not entirely. I was angry you flaunted it, angry that there were so many rumors about you because of it, angry about the compromises I had to make because of those rumors. And I was angry that you went to such lengths to be so impossibly stubborn about it."

Dorian opened his mouth to make a sarcastic remark about how much he knew about lengths , but then forced himself to close it again, the sarcasm left unspoken. He did want to hear what Halward had to say, after all, and there was only so far he should push.

For now, anyway.

A frown settled on his father's face for a moment as his gaze grew distant. "But no, my true anger arose because you could see what I would not. More than that, you acted on it. I saw the cage my father put around me, the cage of House Pavus and my duties to it, and simply accepted it. But you-" His eyes suddenly focused on Dorian, pinning him in place. "You noticed the door to the cage had no lock, and left it all behind. And I hated you for it."

"So you tried to pull me back in." Dorian tried to keep his tone neutral, but couldn't quite keep the acid from his voice.

Halward nodded. "And turned my back on every good thing I taught you in doing so. When I lay in the gardens of my estate, holding my dead wife in my arms as my life's blood poured from my neck, I suddenly realized that you had achieved more than I had ever thought possible. More than that, you were able to do so not because of what I gave you, but in spite of it."

A silence fell between them as Dorian stared at his father, brow furrowed as he analyzed everything his father had revealed. Eventually he felt compelled to offer his own observations. "I-I knew you were trying to protect House Pavus. Beneath all the pain and anger, I knew that. And I hated that I knew that."

"Are you not of House Pavus?" Halward countered. "I did a poor job of protecting it by driving you away. And so your mother told me. Several times."

Dorian had to laugh at that, picturing his mother during one of her lectures. "She always was good at letting you know when you were acting the damn fool."

"And I was never good enough at listening to her." The faint smile on Halward's face faded as he bowed his head. "Don't forgive me, Dorian. I can't ask that of you. I only ask that you be better than me."

"A week or two ago I would have said that would not be a difficult proposition," Dorian noted, then frowned as he realized he couldn't simply leave it at that. "I admit, however, that I've been thinking quite a bit about Mother since you arrived at Skyhold. And about you, and my childhood. You weren't always such a terrible father."

Halward gave Dorian a sad smile. "I taught you well enough for you to recognize when I did become one. But the courage to actually leave your home because of it? To join the Inquisition because it was the right thing to do? That was all you, Dorian. Your own strength. Your own courage. That, I could not teach you, for I do not possess it myself."

The words shook Dorian more than he cared to admit, more than he could truly process at the moment. "I don't know what to say," he admitted after a long lull. "This… this is the last thing I ever expected to hear from you."

"Then I am glad I lived to say it," Halward said, again unconsciously rubbing his neck. "And I am sorry that I caused you such pain."

Dorian half-turned to reach for the glass again, intending to fill it once more, before pausing in mid-motion as he pushed himself past the initial anger those words awoke. Deliberately closing his hand in a fist, he faced his father again. "I'm not sure that's enough, after what you've done."

Halward's eyes closed for a moment as his brows drew together. "I know. I don't think it ever will be."

Eyes narrowing, Dorian crossed his arms across his chest. "Then why apologize at all? I'm certainly not going to be rushing into your embrace any time soon."

"Because..." His father smiled ever so slightly, though the expression also reflected a wistful sorrow. "Perhaps because someone very wise once told me that sometimes, you must do a thing because it is the right thing to do."

The words hung between them for a long moment as Dorian's heart clenched in his chest. He recognized those words, the same words he'd flung in frustration at his father during their confrontation at Redcliffe. Normally he would have accused Halward of using them out of spite, and dismissed them entirely.

This time...this time, he found he simply couldn't. Perhaps it was the news of his mother's death, and the weight of all the words he wished he could have said to her. Perhaps it was a foolish hope that there was something between the father and the son which could be salvaged. Or perhaps, he simply realized that hate, even justified, tended to lead down a path he didn't have the energy to follow.

In the end, he simply sighed and gestured to the small table for two set in front of the window. "Father, would you care to join me for breakfast?"

Halward glanced at the table, clearly surprised by the offer. "Are you certain?"

Taking a deep breath, Dorian forced himself to see the man in front of him now. The towering figure whose approval and affection he'd sought for years was gone, withered down to a man whose own actions had left him very much alone. The memories of what had driven them apart were still there, and Dorian remained uncertain about whether he could ever truly forgive the man. Yet, he could remember the desperation he'd once felt in trying to earn his father's love, and understood a bit more of what had happened to Halward when he'd been in the same position.

It didn't absolve Halward of blame, of course, but it did serve to make him more human.

With all that in mind, he nodded in answer to his father's question. "I thought we could reminisce about Mother. She did so adore parties, after all, and we're going to a ball tonight. Perhaps between the two of us, we could remember enough of her wisdom to aid us in the coming day. I believe she would approve."

Halward bowed his head for a moment. "I agree, she most certainly would." When he lifted his face, there might have been a sheen in his eyes, but Dorian knew better than to draw attention to it. "Then yes. I would like to join you."

As Dorian moved to pull the cord which would summon a servant, he muttered a silent prayer that he hadn't committed a colossal mistake. Today, of all days, he simply could not afford any.

The fate of Thedas hung in the balance.