Notes:
I'm back from hiatus! Thank you all for being patient with me and sticking it out. Here is an extra long, extra fluff filled chapter to make up for it. Please enjoy.

Aldaron tugged uncomfortably on the collar of his jacket, taking one last look at himself in the mirror to ensure everything was in place. He did not like this uniform. It was too fitted and stiff, he felt like he couldn't move or breathe properly, the fabric was heavy and itched, the gloves were too bulky on his slim hands, and the boots were even more uncomfortable than his usual ones – brand new and not yet broken in. How anyone expected him to catch assassins wearing this he had no idea. He tried one last time in vain to smooth his hair into place, and then gave up.

That was enough stalling; if he lingered any longer they would be more than fashionably late to the ball.

The Inquisitor's entire inner circle would be in attendance of Empress Celene's masquerade, but the Inquisitor himself was the one on whom all eyes would be trained. Aldaron had been dreading the event since the first time it was mentioned, and now it was only moments away. He had been a bit of a nervous wreck the entire three days they spent on the road to Halamshiral. They had traveled at the slightly more sedate pace of luxuriating nobles, or so he was lead to believe, staying at inns along the way instead of camping.

Reluctantly, Aldaron finally left his room at the inn and headed downstairs to join the rest of his companions. They were all there already, in the common room of the inn, dressed and ready, although Leliana was still attempting to get Sera to wear her uniform properly.

"Good, you're here," Josephine caught his attention immediately, "We really must be going."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize everyone was waiting on me," Aldaron said. If he'd known he wouldn't have procrastinated as much.

"It's quite alright," Josephine replied, smiling as though she hadn't just contradicted herself. "We have the time, but we don't want to risk being late."

"We aren't at risk of being even fashionably late yet," Leliana cut in. "Perhaps we should wait a bit longer?"

Josephine shot her a displeased look. "We would not want to risk insulting the court by arriving too late in the evening," she argued.

"Let's just go now, if everyone is ready," Aldaron interrupted. He wanted to get this over with. That was how he felt about all matters of politics. He wasn't made for politics. His goals for the evening were simple: find an assassin, kill the assassin, avoid embarrassing himself, and avoid offending anyone (the last one would be the hardest). Then go back to Skyhold and get back to hunting demons. To think he'd reached a point in his life where he looked forward to fighting demons. But they were easier to deal with than nobles.

Slowly the others filed out of the inn, showing varying degrees of excitement and dread. Aldaron trailed behind, still procrastinating for as long as possible. He was fidgeting he was so nervous, tugging again at the uncomfortable collar of his jacket.

"Look at you," Dorian intercepted him before he could step outside. His eyes raked over Aldaron's form noticeably enough to make the elf blush faintly. "This is a good color for you," he commented, reaching out to brush imaginary dust from Aldaron's shoulders. "Much more interesting than those drab things you usually wear. But I see you still couldn't be bothered to comb your hair."

"I did comb my hair," Aldaron said almost defensively.

Dorian winced slightly, "You poor man," he sighed. "Well, you look dashing regardless."

"It's uncomfortable," Aldaron complained while no one else was around to hear him.

"We all must make sacrifices for the sake of fashion," Dorian said solemnly. "Just be happy you don't also have to wear one of those ridiculous masks."

"That would be worse," Aldaron was forced to agree. They looked uncomfortable. He couldn't imagine why anyone would want to go around with a heavy piece of ceramic or metal strapped to their face. And how could they see properly out of those things?

"Dorian!" Josephine's voice cut through, ruining the moment. Aldaron looked over the man's shoulder to see her standing impatiently in the doorway. "Would you please stop distracting the Inquisitor? We are going to be late."

"Yes, yes, we're coming," Dorian said with a roll of his eyes, finally turning away from Aldaron to stride out of the inn as though he had not a concern in the world. Well, he certainly had less concerns than the Inquisitor. Dorian at least was used to fancy clothes and fancy parties and politics and dancing. Aldaron was still nervous, his stomach full of butterflies as he let Josephine usher him out the door and into an awaiting carriage.

For the admittedly short ride up to the palace he had only Josephine for company. Aldaron was happy to have her, at least, though he would have been less nervous with even more of his companions at his back. This was all about politics and appearances, however. He was supposed to be the leader of a rising political power; he had to stand on his own. As the Inquisition's ambassador, Josephine's presence at his side could be explained away to an extent, though she could do little more than offer advice from the sidelines.

"I must warn you before we arrive," the ambassador said as the carriage began moving. "How you speak to the court is a matter of life and death," she warned as though he had not heard the same lecture a dozen times already. "It is no simple matter of etiquette and protocol. Every word, every gesture is measured and evaluated for weakness."

"I'll keep my guard up, don't worry," Aldaron assured, and managed to sound more confident than he felt. Of course, by now his façade of confidence was so well rehearsed it was nearly flawless.

"The Game is like Wicked Grace played to the death," Josephine continued, "You must never reveal your cards. When you meet the empress, the eyes of the entire court will be on you. You were safer in the Fade with the fear demon."

The mere mention of it was like an icy claw gripping his heart. Aldaron sucked in a harsh breath and fisted his hands in the fabric of his pants as he forced himself to remain calm, to maintain a straight face. Don't think about it, he reminded himself. This is nothing like that. Josephine doesn't know what she's talking about, she wasn't there.

"That's not the most encouraging comparison, Josephine," Aldaron replied when he was certain his voice would remain steady.

"Perhaps a bit of an exaggeration," Josephine relented, "But The Game is no less ruthless than open war. Don't worry. Everything will be fine."

If only she sounded more certain of it herself. It wasn't comforting. Aldaron spent the rest of the short trip attempting to keep himself calm, repeating to himself over and over that everything would be fine, all he had to do was smile and be polite and not trust anyone. It wouldn't be that hard.

When finally they pulled to a stop the Inquisitor stepped out of the carriage and took his first look at the Winter Palace. Pride of the Orlesian Empire built atop the ruins of his people like some sort of disgusting trophy. Aldaron hated it immensely. But as he stepped through the gates he put on that well-rehearsed smile and spouted all the pretty words these shemlen wanted to hear. He might hate every minute of it, but he would show them that the Dalish were not savage barbarians and that the Inquisition was a power to be respected.

The evening was long, and frustrating, and bloodier than he'd expected, but absolutely as miserable as he had expected.

Their mission had been a success, however. At least in the sense that the Inquisition had done what they set out to do. The Empress was alive, the assassin exposed, and an elf sat in the shadows behind the throne. Maybe some of his advisors weren't terribly pleased with that last part, but Aldaron liked the idea that one of his people – even a city elf – had a say in how things were done. Maybe it would help.

Political success the evening had been, but too many people had died to see it done. Too many for it to feel like a victory.

There was also that mage woman, the Empress' 'occult advisor', thrust into the Inquisition without his consent. The Inquisitor did not trust her. He did not trust anyone here who was not already a part of the Inquisition. Aldaron now knew first hand just how duplicitous Orlesians could be. Every one of them only out for themselves in a sordid scrabble for wealth and power. Their selfishness was revolting. Every time he was forced to meet with an Orlesian noble or dignitary Aldaron hated them more, with very few exceptions. He would have happily washed his hands of this entire country, but the Inquisition was at war, and it needed the support of such a powerful nation. At the very least, it could not afford to make Orlais an enemy.

Aldaron sighed and leaned heavily on the railing of the balcony he had escaped to, seeking peace and quiet and air untainted by perfume. So much had happened this night that he did not fully grasp. He was still unused to his actions carrying so much weight. To think someone like him – a Dalish elf, a hunter – could influence politics that effected the entire world. It still boggled the mind.

"There was an ancient dowager looking for you," Dorian's familiar voice brought Aldaron out of his thoughts as the man walked out into the balcony, "Said she had twelve daughters! I told her you'd left already. You can thank me later. Or now," he was grinning as he leaned against the railing beside Aldaron, but the smile faded somewhat when he saw the look on Aldaron's face. "But you look lost in thought. Something on your mind?"

"I'm just worn out," Aldaron told him honestly. "Tonight has been… very long." He'd spent the entire evening running around the palace, talking, dancing, fighting, climbing the architecture. What he wouldn't give just to sit down for a moment and breathe.

"You won!" Dorian laughed, "You saved the day. Literally, the day is saved. You should be celebrating! Enjoy yourself while you can."

Aldaron didn't feel much like celebrating, and it didn't feel much like a victory. He didn't feel like he had changed much of anything. They had stopped the assassination attempt, yes, and had ensured that Orlais would remain stable for the time being. But two wings of the palace were drenched in blood, much of it innocent, most of it avoidable. Were human politics always so bloody? Aldaron didn't like it.

"What you need is a distraction," Dorian observed. "I have just the thing: let's dance." He smiled again as he stepped back from the railing and held a hand out toward Aldaron.

The elf couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips as he finally pushed himself upright. He had hated dancing with the Grand Duchess, it had been stiff and stressful; a constant worry about slipping up either in his steps or in his words. But he remembered practicing with Dorian in the privacy of his quarters back at Skyhold and how much he had enjoyed that. A chance to dance with him would certainly make the evening more bearable. "I was hoping you would ask," he said, taking Dorian's hand and letting the man pull him close.

"Thank goodness one of us has some initiative," Dorian teased. As before he took the lead, allowing Aldaron to relax and simply follow along. And it was relaxing. Faint strains of music drifted out from the ballroom, just loud enough to give them something to dance to as Dorian lead them smoothly through the steps. So much more enjoyable with someone else doing all the work, and without what felt like half the world watching his every move.

Aldaron wondered absently what all those tittering nobles would think if they saw him now. "We're quite a pair, aren't we?" he asked without humor, "The evil magister and the knife-eared savage?"

Dorian's brow creased in concern. "Have they been calling you that?"

"Not to my face," the elf murmured, and then amended, "Mostly not to my face. But the ears aren't just for decoration."

"Although they are lovely decoration," Dorian was quick to reply, an attempt to brighten Aldaron's mood that wasn't entirely unsuccessful. "Ignore them, amatus. They are clearly jealous of your position, charm, and stunning good looks."

"That's your unbiased opinion, is it?" Aldaron asked, faint dusting of red on his cheeks and a tiny smile tugging at his lips.

"Of course," Dorian assured. "I admit that some time ago I may have… had similar thoughts about your people. Then I met you. And I may have put my foot in my mouth several times during our acquaintance, and I may find you absolutely baffling at times, but you have changed my opinion drastically for the better. As have Solas and Sera, for that matter. The point is, anyone who has had half a conversation with you could not possibly be stupid enough to think you deserving of such insults," he paused and pulled Aldaron flush against him before leaning down to press their lips together very briefly, "My opinion of your good looks may be biased, however. There's no accounting for taste, and obviously these Orlesians have none."

"How is it you always know exactly what to say?" Aldaron murmured, blushing faintly, but smiling as well.

"One of my many talents," Dorian replied proudly.

"Are you still mad at me?" Aldaron blurted out, surprising even himself with his lack of tact. Perhaps he'd already used up all his tact for the evening.

"Mad at you?" Dorian asked, dumbfounded, "About what?"

"About before," Aldaron mumbled, let his gaze fall down to his feet. Dorian had stopped moving, though they still swayed gently to the music. "When I yelled at you and left you behind."

"Ah, that," Dorian replied, his voice a sigh. "No, I'm not mad at you, amatus. Do you think I'd be here dancing with you if I was?"

That was a fair point, but Dorian had been enjoying the punch quite a bit while Aldaron was running around. They had never spoken of the incident since Aldaron's first tearful apology. Dorian hadn't been avoiding him, had still joked and flirted, but they hadn't been spending the nights together, either. That had left Aldaron feeling confused and shy in his interactions with Dorian, he was reassured to finally hear in words that the man was not angry with him. "I'm glad," the elf breathed a sigh of relief.

"Did you think I was all this time?" Dorian asked.

"I… wasn't sure," Aldaron admitted.

"I'm sorry, that wasn't my intention," Dorian replied. "I just needed a bit of time to calm down. And then you were a nervous wreck about this ball and I didn't want to give you any more cause for stress. I apologize if that gave the wrong impression."

"It's… fine," Aldaron said slowly. Dorian was probably right, he had been a wreck in the days leading up to this one, and it was hard to say whether Dorian's presence would have been a comfort or just make it worse. "I'm glad you're not mad at me," he sighed again and rested his forehead against Dorian's shoulder, allowing his eyes to fall closed for a moment.

"As am I," Dorian replied. "It was terribly difficult, trying to be mad at you."

Aldaron didn't know how long they had been like this, hands entwined as Dorian moved them gently to the beat of the music filtering out onto the balcony. He'd lost track of the time, and frankly didn't care anymore. After everything they'd done that night he thought he deserved a little fun.

"What deep thoughts are you thinking now?" Dorian asked softly.

Aldaron raised his head from the man's shoulder to look up at him. "I'm wondering at what point tonight I'm allowed to get spectacularly drunk."

Dorian laughed aloud. "I'd say we've reached that point, wouldn't you?"

"Creators, I hope so," Aldaron breathed, and somewhat reluctantly stepped away from Dorian. He really needed a drink. And some food. He was starving. "Do you think there are any of those tiny cakes left?"

"Let's go find out," Dorian said, and arm in arm the pair ventured back into the ballroom.

Three hours later they staggered out past the gates of the palace along with the last straggling members of the Inquisition. The Inquisitor had one arm around Dorian's shoulders to keep himself upright (though the man wasn't looking particularly stable himself) and had a half empty bottle of wine in his other hand. At the gates he paused and handed the bottle over to a servant along with a slightly slurred apology about all the blood they would probably have to clean up. The elven servant accepted the bottle with a slightly stunned expression and watched as the Inquisitor and his companion were ushered into the awaiting carriage.

Finally away from the prying eyes of various nobles, Aldaron immediately began removing the various pieces of his uniform that he hated the most. His gloves hit the floor of the carriage as it started moving, the top two buttons of his jacket came undone, he bent to remove his boots and stopped, not quite drunk enough to forget where they were.

"Not that I'm not enjoying the show," Dorian commented from his seat, eyes watching Aldaron's every move, and maybe not as drunk as he'd let on, "But you might want to save the final reveal for when we actually get to bed."

Aldaron let his head fall back against the seatback with an unhappy groan and stretched his legs out in front of him as much as the carriage allowed. "I don't like these clothes," he whined. They were too stiff and too hot and his feet hurt. He wanted out.

"I prefer you out of them also," Dorian replied, "But we can't let half of Orlais see you naked. I'd be jealous."

The elf let his head roll to the side to look at his lover. "Would you really?"

"Of course," the mage smirked. He wrapped an arm around Aldaron's shoulders and pulled the elf closer in order to press a kiss to the tip of his ear.

Aldaron squirmed in his grasp, "That tickles," he laughed.

So Dorian did it again, and Aldaron squirmed more. "They can dress you up and parade you around all they like," he murmured against the shell of his ear, and his voice sent a pleasant chill down Aldaron's spine. A chill that was trailed by Dorian's hand as it slid down from his shoulder to his waist and then even lower, "But this part of you is mine. And I don't like sharing."

Aldaron was already flushed from the drink or he would likely have blushed at the implication. As it was he only laughed breathlessly and shifted to sit a little closer to Dorian. He lifted his head to press a kiss to the man's lips, tasting the last of the wine they had shared and wishing belatedly that he hadn't given it away. (Although that servant certainly deserved a bottle of wine.)

"Inquisitor, I do believe you're drunk," Dorian purred when their lips parted.

"So are you," the elf replied.

"Yes, that's true," Dorian laughed, and hauled a willing Aldaron onto his lap to kiss him again.

Aldaron had missed this. Being close. Not worrying about doing or saying the wrong thing. Since their fight he had been constantly concerned about doing something that would drive Dorian off for good. Now finally he felt like everything was going to be alright between them. Dorian wasn't mad. Dorian still liked him, still cared about him, still wanted him. Aldaron hadn't even realized how much the uncertainty had been weighing on him until it was lifted. Now he wanted nothing more than to be as close to Dorian as possible, to drown in him in order to make up for the weeks apart because of his stupidity.

Eventually Dorian pulled away from the kiss, leaving Aldaron panting and wanting more. He even leaned in for another kiss, but was halted by a finger on his lips, a hand gently holding him back. Confused, Aldaron frowned at Dorian questioningly. The man certainly didn't look like he wanted to stop.

"This is another thing we should save for bed," Dorian breathed. Again Aldaron wondered if he was really as drunk as he let on. But he wasn't drunk enough not to realize that Dorian had a point. So with a whine and a sigh Aldaron rolled off of Dorian's lap to sit beside him again. They could not get back to the inn fast enough.

The rest of the trip back to the inn passed in both an instant and an eternity until finally the carriage came to a stop in front of the inn and someone pulled the door open. Aldaron barely remembered to grab his gloves off the floor before letting Dorian drag him out by the hand. They stumbled through the front door and toward the stairs, up toward the guest rooms and through a door. Aldaron wasn't even paying attention to where they were; he had eyes only for Dorian. But he recognized what it meant when the door closed behind them. He let his gloves fall to the floor again, and they were quickly followed by belt, sash, jacket. Then he sat down heavily on the bed, practically falling back onto it. He pushed, pulled, kicked his boots off and tossed them across the room. Good riddance. Stripped down to his pants – the only part of this uniform that he did not hate – Aldaron flopped backwards onto the bed and stretched happily, flexing his feet and toes. Freedom at last.

Beside him the mattress dipped, as Dorian sat down beside him. He'd done away with his own outerwear as well, though it sat folded nicely atop a chair and not strewn about the floor like Aldaron's. "You really hated those boots," he observed with amusement, bending to take off his own.

"They hurt my feet," Aldaron said defensively. He wiggled his toes again, still relishing the ability to move freely again.

"Ah, our poor Inquisitor," Dorian sighed dramatically. He slid off his boots and set them by the foot of the bed. "Forced into proper footwear. How you suffer for the sake of us all."

Aldaron pouted and stuck his tongue out in protest, a move that backfired in the best way possible as Dorian leaned down to kiss him. Immediately Aldaron was kissing him back, arms looping around Dorian's shoulders to pull the man closer.

Aldaron woke with not the worst hangover he'd ever had – although it was only his second ever hangover – but an incredible headache none-the-less. He was sprawled half across Dorian in a bed that was barely large enough for two people to sleep comfortably. Carefully, he risked cracking his eyes open, and thankfully the room was still only dimly lit, fire died down to embers and curtains drawn, though there were cracks of sunlight peeking in around the edges.

This wasn't his room, Aldaron realized, still blinking sleepily. It must be Dorian's, then. He wondered how long he could hide here before someone came looking for him. Hours, maybe. If he was lucky. They would know he was here as soon as they figured out he wasn't in his own room, but how long before anyone had the courage to come in? Aldaron had just closed his eyes and was trying to go back to sleep when his stomach grumbled, reminding him that he'd had nothing to eat the night before except a variety of pastries and entirely too much wine.

So much for hiding in bed all day. He definitely wouldn't be able to get back to sleep now.

Sighing, Aldaron opened his eyes again. For a moment he stared blankly at the wall, then carefully he moved off of Dorian and slowly sat up. Getting food meant leaving the room, which meant getting dressed. And there Aldaron found a dilemma. He glared at the bits of clothing littered across the floor where he had discarded them the night before, then nudged the body next to him. "Dorian." The man grumbled in his sleep and rolled over. Aldaron nudged him again, "Dorian."

"What?" Dorian sounded mildly annoyed, still half asleep.

"I don't have any clothes," Aldaron said.

"They're on the floor. You said you hated them." Dorian's voice was muffled against the pillows. "I didn't realize you were that drunk."

"No," Aldaron groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. He knew where they were and why he wasn't wearing them, he hadn't been that drunk. "I don't have anything to wear," he tried again. He couldn't really form the sentences needed to explain his dilemma. He was hungry and his head hurt and he didn't want to walk down the hall to his own room wearing the same thing he'd worn the night before.

"Finally realized how dreadful your usual outfit is?" Dorian asked. He rolled onto his back again and blinked sleepily up at Aldaron. "All that Orlesian finery finally inspired an interest in fashion?"

"No," Aldaron whined. Being upright was too much work, so he flopped back onto the bed beside Dorian. "I'm hungry," he pouted, "But I can't leave. I don't have any clothes."

"Ah," Dorian nodded slowly and raised a hand subconsciously to straighten his moustache. "The Inquisitor can't be seen doing the walk of shame." Aldaron didn't know what that was, but it definitely sounded like something he wanted to avoid. "I don't see why I had to be woken up for this. What do you expect me to do about it?"

Dorian had clothes. He could leave without drawing attention to himself.

"No," the man said before Aldaron could even open his mouth. "Don't make that face. I'm not getting out of bed to get you clothes. Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Aldaron did not. But the sun was up, so it was later than the Inquisitor usually slept (even when he managed to sleep). He doubted Dorian knew what time it was, either. "Please, Dorian," he whined.

"No. Stop with the calf eyes. I'm going back to sleep," the man protested, pointedly rolling away from Aldaron. As if on cue, Aldaron's stomach made itself known again, complaining embarrassingly loud. Aldaron was mildly mortified, but it prompted Dorian to look over his shoulder again, expression incredulous. "Was that your stomach or is there a bear loose in the inn?"

"I'm hungry," Aldaron mumbled, wrapping his arms around his waist as though that would prevent any further noises. "The only thing I ate last night were those tiny cakes."

Dorian sighed and rolled his eyes. "Why didn't you eat anything else?"

"I was afraid I might throw up on someone important," Aldaron admitted. With how nervous he'd been leading up and during the ball it had seemed like a very real possibility.

"That would have put a damper on our relationship with Orlais, yes," Dorian was forced to admit. He sighed melodramatically and pushed a hand through his messy hair. "Very well, I'll go find you something to wear," he relented, pushed himself upright and stretched. "The things I do for you, amatus. You had better be grateful."

"I am," Aldaron said, sitting up as well. He looped his arms loosely around Dorian's waist and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, then his cheek. "Thank you, 'ma'nehn."

Dorian turned his head to return the kiss quickly, "I hate you entirely," he said before breaking out of Aldaron's arms as he climbed out of bed.

Of course Dorian couldn't just dress and waltz down the hall to Aldaron's room and back. No, he had to make himself perfectly presentable first in case anyone saw him. It took an hour for the man to shave, dress, and style himself sufficiently to be seen in public. In the mean time Aldaron pulled on his smallclothes and undershirt from the night before and watched his lover's routine from underneath a pile of blankets on the bed. Dorian was just putting the finishing touches on his hair when there was a loud and rather pointed knock on the door. He paused, looked over at the door, and then at Aldaron. "I think you've been found, amatus," he commented, and curled the ends of his moustache around his fingers before going over to the door.

Aldaron pulled the blankets up over his head to hide, but he heard Dorian open the door. "Lady Montilyet, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this fine morning?"

"Is the Inquisitor here?" Josephine asked. Straight to the point and no frivolous greetings this morning, she must have been looking for a while.

"You're not here to see me?" Dorian asked with false affront in his voice. "I'm terribly offended, Lady Ambassador. I will accept apology only in the form of full access to the Skyhold wine cellar." There was a brief pause in conversation. Josephine did not reply, but Aldaron could imagine her unimpressed expression. "No? Very well," Dorian sighed. "Yes, he's here. Our fearless leader refuses to leave the room until someone brings him a change of clothes."

Aldaron was suddenly very glad that he was hiding under a pile of blankets. Just announce it to the entire world, Dorian, thank you.

"He… what?" Josephine asked, obviously surprised.

"Well, the Inquisitor can't very well be seen going back to his room this morning wearing the same thing he did last night," Dorian explained. "What would people say? It's been weeks since anyone thought I was stealing his soul, and we'd rather like to keep it that way if you don't mind."

There was another moment of silence before Josephine spoke again. "Shall I send someone to fetch his clothing for him?" she asked.

"I was just about to do so myself," Dorian waved her off, "But perhaps you could send up some breakfast for us? It is still early enough for breakfast, yes?"

"Very well." Aldaron could hear the exasperation in Josephine's voice even as she agreed to Dorian's request. "Please let the Inquisitor know that we need to be on the road as soon as possible if we are to keep on schedule."

"Yes, yes, we're well aware," Dorian said flippantly. "Can't go traveling on an empty stomach, though, can we? We'll be down as soon as we're able. Thank you, Josephine."

Aldaron did not come out of hiding until he heard the door close, and then he peeked out over the edge of the blankets. Dorian was still standing by the door, but he was looking back at Aldaron now. "Thank you," the elf said.

"Fending off your keepers was not part of this deal," Dorian told him, but didn't seem too annoyed. Aldaron thought he actually enjoyed riling up Josephine. Or anyone, for that matter. "Suppose I'd better get you something to wear before someone comes to drag you out of bed. Shouldn't be gone long, it's not as though you have many clothes to choose from."

And he was not away very long, just enough time for Aldaron to finally force himself out of bed and gather the various pieces of clothing still on the floor and fold them into a neat stack on the foot of the bed. When Dorian returned it was with a bundle of clothes under one arm and a pair of boots in hand. "Josephine is hovering rather impatiently at the bottom of the stairs," he informed, holding the clothes out to Aldaron, who took them and quickly began dressing. "I imagine she'll be dragging you off to Maker knows what as soon as you set foot outside. Never a moment's rest for you, is there?"

"Doesn't feel like it," Aldaron sighed. There had been a bit of time to relax the night before, but he wasn't at all surprised his advisors already wanted him back to work even as they traveled back to Skyhold. No doubt Josephine wanted to inform him of every insignificant thing that had happened at the ball and the impact of every word he'd said. Leliana probably also had plenty of new blackmail material to share with him, as though he cared or understood the relevance of who said what to whom. He was not looking forward to it.

Their food arrived by the time Aldaron finished dressing and they ate quickly. Then there was no further reason to stay holed up here. Despite his reluctance to face the day, Aldaron did want to leave the city and be back in Skyhold. He hadn't liked this city the moment he stepped for in it, and he still hated it.

Good riddance. If he never saw the Winter Palace again it would be too soon.