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Chapter Text

The meager stained glass was no insulation against the icy mountain air, and the Inquisitor shivered as he moved from the desk, pulling on his coat.  It may not have been much warmer out in the courtyard, but the sun would be overhead and give the illusion of heat.  Besides, he was late to the afternoon's most important engagement, and shaken after reading Josephine's report.  Fresh air would help.

The Inquisitor was still shrugging awkwardly into the button-up jacket as he jogged down the first stairwell, where the sunlight didn't reach.  Stars blurred his vision, his eyes incapable of adjusting to the darkness quickly.  He heard the steps but was moving too fast to avoid the dark figure at the landing.  The two collided, and a jovial laugh let the warrior know he'd barreled directly into--

"Dorian!"

"Oh, I'm so happy to see you too!" the mage laughed again, and soon his hands encircled the other man's waist, pulling him in for a kiss.  The Inquisitor was getting used to these small bursts of physical interaction, after solidifying their relationship and--in Dorian's eyes, playing hard to get--but a part of his heart still pounded with fear when their lips met, mustache against dark stubble.  

The altus pulled away only slightly, his hands brimming with backside, just as he liked.  "Ready to watch our favorite golden-haired boy lose his mind over a chess game?"

"Am I," the other answered in honest relief. 

"Inquisitor," Dorian said pointedly, when the snowy-haired warrior had moved past him, descending the stairs, and the other man stopped, his body language clearly still uneasy with the title that others so easily used to call on him with.  The mage's hand slid into one of the warrior's as if to reassure him; Dorian's was smooth, silky, warm.  The Inquisitor's was cold, calloused, and peppered with old and new cuts.  

"Darren," Dorian tried again, though it was obvious he had misgivings, calling the Inquisitor by something as non-esteemed as his given name.  "Although I do enjoy these coy little grabs of you that I get, and the....favors--" Such a polite way of putting the most scandalous usage of any Herald's mouth, ever --  "And all the sweet nothings..." He moved closer, an unfamiliar hesitant pause on the dark lips.  

It was just light enough and the Inquisitor's eyes adjusted enough to see Dorian's grey irises glimmering against the ambient firelight, wide and with an unnaturally vulnerable fear visible within them.  He raised a dark brow, instantly changing demeanor to his usual sarcastic, joking self.  "I do want to consummate this relationship before the next age, you know.  I care about you, you know...desperately.  I never hoped for more in Tevinter, more...emotionally, true! But I also never went, well, without, for more than a fortnight.  Longer, only when hangovers kept me from it.  Or you know, chafing...from the riding leathers.  Now that I think of it, maybe this is a me problem, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry," came the instant, almost reflexive reply.  "I know I haven't...I need to....It's just..."

"Is it me?  Am I being unreasonable?"

"No, no.  I want...I want that too.  The physical part."

"Is it....you can tell me, if you've never been with another man?"

"It's not that.  And...well, I have, but..."

"Is it your highly chaste moral compass?"

The Inquisitor snorted loudly, and they both chuckled.  

Dorian began to move, finally, steering them both toward the next landing.  "Well, that's good news."  He sighed, and slid an arm through the Inquisitor's elbow gap.  "Let's have an...intimacy chat when you're up to it, shall we?  No pressure, no ultimatums...I just want to understand, you see.  We're stuck together, it should be addressed.  Because, well.  I adore you, and you cannot change that, no matter what."

"Good."

"You're supposed to say you adore me more."

Another snort.  "And if I don't?"

"You know I can set this entire wooden staircase on fire with a flick of the wrist, don't you?"

-----------

Darren wished he could relish the sight--Dorian, standing over seated Cullen, the Tevinter giving an eagle-eye view of the game and muttering strategy in the commander's ear, while flexing his well-manicured, dark-skinned fingers along the ex-templar's shoulders.  It had taken their little unofficial chess group an unreasonable amount of time to convince Cullen that a shoulder rub from another man wouldn't cause a smiting by the Maker or a march of exile by the spirit of the Divine herself. It took twice as long as that for Cullen to admit that platonic physical touch was enjoyable, even healing.   

It was only a week before today, upon the Inquisition's return from Adamant, that Cullen had almost clocked the Inquisitor with a flying lyrium kit.  And Darren, who was nothing if not keen-witted, could see the dark circles, telltale blond stubble, and the grimaces that meant Cullen was in pain, and likely not sleeping well.  He would make a mental reminder to nag the commander about seeing a healer soon, but then again, Dorian's shoulder rubs were in a league of their own.

And there they were, in their little corner of sunlight and foliage, Cullen challenging Solas this time, while Darren sat with his book and Varric painstakingly cleaned and oiled Bianca.  Again, it would have been lovely to indulge in the heartwarming sight, but the chill that crept up the Inquisitor's spine in his own quarters had not left.  Along with a growing pit in his stomach, it gnawed at him.  Cullen paused in whatever stratagem he was considering, to lean back and close his eyes at the altus's catlike, kneading rhythm.  

Solas took the opportunity to sit back, crossing one leg over the other knee, and bouncing his half-bare foot in a disengaged way toward the white-haired human.  Darren's strange, closely-cropped shock of hair didn't age the human: he still looked young with nearly black stubble, thick black eyebrows and lashes that could pass for eye makeup.  His skin was peachy underneath its scars, and yet Solas's eyes picked out far more than the human would've liked. 

"Inquisitor, you look positively ill," the elf remarked in his usual somber tone.  "Are you all right?"

"He's sweating after that letter from the Fereldan King, no doubt," Dorian quipped, eliciting a groan from Cullen, which made Varric chuckle.  Solas quirked an eyebrow, and the Inquisitor sheepishly shrugged, pulling the book higher to hide his expression and flaming cheeks.  

"That...might be it."  The Inquisitor offered with a squeak.  "It...Denerim...it makes me...anxious."

Cullen hadn't opened his eyes yet.  His voice was floaty, detached.  "The Winter Palace was only three nights ago.  I can't blame any man for not wanting to endure another...royal event."

"Oh, come on, Curly," Varric said, his fingers deft and familiar with the crossbow, his eyes trained on it as he worked, "You know Fereldan can't throw half the bullshit pompous fiasco as Orlais.  It'll be more like shanty night at the tavern, mark my words.  Nobles arguing over whose boots are the muddiest."

"I have not heard of our latest invitation, it appears," Solas responded, foot bouncing idly again, his strange violet eyes passing from Varric back to the Inquisitor as if assuming something. 

"That's because he's trying to pretend it doesn't exist," Dorian said cheerfully, helpfully.  Solas's stare continued to penetrate in its unyielding, uncanny, and yet not-quite-overbearing way, until the Inquisitor sighed and snapped the book shut. 

"The King....he, well, whoever he sent made it clear to Josie that most of Fereldan absolutely believes it was Andraste behind me when I came out of the Fade.   Perhaps worse for me, the King had someone relay to him my judgment of Ser Ruth." 

"I hadn't heard this part, Ser Who?"  Varric inquired. 

"The Warden who wanted to be executed--"

Solas's voice was dry, almost annoyed.  "The one you spared, who said you--"

"Had more faith in the Wardens than the Wardens themselves.  Solas, you're judging me, that's your judgey look." 

The elf sniffed, and turned his head sharply away, casting his glance down at the chess pieces, a hand coming up to stroke his chin delicately.  "I suppose there's no mystery then, the Warden King would absolutely want to shake your hand after such a display of reverence for the Grey Wardens."

"If this is the same King we met in Redcliffe, I can't say I get the fear, Inquisitor," Dorian remarked--was Cullen asleep?-- "He seemed a bit like a fluffy puppy, if I recall.  The kind you go, "ohhh goodness that's cute" when they growl."  

"King Alistair wouldn't argue with that one, if you said it to his face," Varric said with a bit of a grim smirk.  

Darren's golden gaze wavered, and he too suddenly appeared very interested in the chessboard.  He was unusually quiet, and fidgety, and the others were uncomfortable enough to not comment on it, save for Varric, of course.  

"Do you...want to skip the event?"

"No, that's not...I can't."

"You just came out of the Fade a week ago, and then stopped an assassination plot right after.  I'd say you could send an ambassador in your stead and say you're sleeping, or dead, or whatever."

"Josie already said we'd go.  She also looked like she might stab me if I suggested changing a single minute on her social calendar.  I think she likes the idea of the good we're doing, after us being mistrusted for so long."

Varric shot back, "And what do you think?"  

"I think I want to kill Corypheus, and I don't know that meeting anyone in Denerim will do that, but we need soldiers...supplies...support."  

"Fair." 

"Is it a formal event then?"  Solas was still stroking his chin.  "I could be wrong, but I've never considered Denerim to be...shall we say, ballroom-equipped."  

Varric was toying with a handful of removed screws, turning them in his palm, judging their state.  "I don't think it's a ball...but it's a party, sure.  Dancing there is more likely to look like drunkards putting out a fire on themselves, and might actually include someone putting out a fire on himself.  I'd call it more 'what you see is what you get' than Halamshiral."

"Ah, so this Denerim is the quaint, countryside bumpkin party of the South that I've been looking for!"  Dorian's chuckle was followed by Cullen's soft snore.  

"Now's your chance, Chuckles," the rogue nodded at the chessboard.  "Move his pieces!"

-----------------------

The Herald's Rest was becoming the Herald's Headache; the partying every night hadn't stopped since Adamant.  The Iron Bull's advice was sound: let them get the fear out of their system by way of rowdy carousing and inebriation.  Truthfully, the Inquisitor was just happy to set foot in the place and not have everyone bristle at his presence, even if he wasn't a party animal by nature.  

The broad-shouldered human leaned against a banister, trying to stop the knots in his stomach long enough to enjoy his wine, and watching the drama of an arm-wrestling tournament that turned into a handstand competition.  His eyes also drifted with interest toward Krem, who unlike the rest of the carousing Chargers, sat looking rather unimpressed by the whole display.  He could go talk to Krem.  Ask....confess.  He could have someone to talk to who knew, understood...maybe Krem would tell him to just blurt out everything to Dorian.  Maybe Krem knew other things that Darren had no hope or way of knowing.  

The Charger met the Inquisitor's eyes as if he knew the other man was watching, and Darren froze, quickly averting his gaze and wishing he could disappear into the wine that he now gulped, feeling his ears burn even after he sensed that Krem had looked away.  

Solas appeared at the Inquisitor's side, causing the human to slosh wine all over himself, and the faintest of smiles crossed the elf's face when the warrior emitted a long string of startled, half-choked curses.  Darren licked dark red liquid from his lips and wiped a hand across his chin.  

"Come to gloat at me?"

"Never.  Do you wish to discuss it?"

"No," the Herald said honestly, and drank deeply from his mug, tilting it back.  Solas's hands were behind his back, one hand loosely holding the other wrist.  As usual, he looked annoyingly un-ruffled.  Solas awaited the follow-up statement. "But I guess I should, shouldn't I?"

"It might help," Solas answered gently.  "Shall we go to Cole?"

With a miserable sigh the Inquisitor emptied the mug, and placed it on a shelf nearby.  "Can you put up a ward?  Soundproof?"

"Of course," Solas said, his eyebrows raising together now.  "I'm intrigued, Inquisitor.  Is it to do with...."

"My past, yes," Darren snapped, his voice already slurring from the alcohol.  "What else.  But this part, it's worse, and it's...coming back to haunt me, I swear."

"Let us walk and talk, and tell me what you mean."

"Leiliana," the Inquisitor threw his hands out as they departed from the crowd, moving toward the staircase.  "So buried in her grief, she doesn't notice, so I feel..... it's all right, then..., Maker's breath, Morrigan!  Now, I have to go to Alistair.  I...."  he shook his head, a look of disgust crossing his features.  

"Forgive me, but I do not know what those things have in common, Inquisitor."

"You'll see," the Inquisitor said miserably as they drew toward the second flight of steps.  He and Solas had explored his own memories in dreams before--it was how Solas rather accidentally found out the truth about the Inquisitor--but Cole was a welcome guide on their strange, non-physical journeys into memory and the Fade.  

Of course, the Inquisitor felt uneasy; the only two people in the world who knew his darkest secret were two of the arguably strangest people he'd ever met.  

But he had no choice other than to trust them with this.  It felt as if his past were suddenly catching up to him at breakneck speed...and maybe word-vomiting to two of the least-shakeable companions he'd ever had would at least accompany the vomit he could also feel rising in his chest. 

Chapter Text

ONE MONTH EARLIER
INQUISITOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL

It finally happened. I don't feel safe even writing this down.  Maybe I will burn this parchment after I get this...out of me.  I cannot believe what I saw, even though it was, apparently, my memory? 

Cole kept talking in front of the others about what he thought was a woman, my sister or something.  Solas caught on, confronted me in private.  I guess he knew the truth about me ever since I got the Anchor and had to watch over me.  I'm relieved he kept my secret, and that he was my healer, and not some Chantry mage.  After we talked, we went to Cole about it, and I felt I had no choice but to trust Cole as well.  The person Cole and Solas saw in my memories weren't another woman, they were me...from before.  When I told them I couldn't remember what happened during the fight with the Archdemon, they offered to help me find those memories.  I think Solas thought it might help, especially with remembering what happened with the Divine.  It didn't help with that at all.    

We went into the Fade while dreaming (how am I able to do that? I'm not a mage...) and I saw myself there.  It felt like a lifetime ago.  I never wanted to remember any of this.  I left the name Cousland behind.  I left it all behind, but now I remember it...and I still don't understand it.  Neither do Solas or Cole, so it was all for nothing.  

But here's what happened.  

--------------------------

IN THE FADE

The Inquisitor stood on a hill, maybe.  It was hard to say what it was, since Cole stood on a mossy rock, but was sideways, and Solas was standing on another hill at an even stranger angle.  But all three stared upward; the sky had been replaced by the underwater view of a lake.  Spirits flowed around a figure in battered armor.  She was unconscious, dropping into the deep murky blue water and leaving a cascade of bubbles that rose to the surface as she slowly fell deeper.  

"Is this...Crestwood?" Solas guessed, staring interestedly at the scene over their heads.  

"No, this is after the fight with the Archdemon," the Inquisitor said in a low tone.  "Look at my armor."

"It bit you, twice, it broke every bone in your chest, shattered scales, in the shape of a dragon's mouth," Cole said reverently, his face hidden by his hat, but he was clearly shaken.  "How were you breathing?"

"I don't think I was," the Inquisitor frowned, watching the white-shadowed, ghostlike figures swarming around the sinking woman.  They had thin, lithe arms, and nimble fingers were untying her armor straps, the Inquisitor realized.  His eyes widened.  "Solas, who, or what, are these spirits?"

"I'm not certain," he said, sounding almost delighted.  "I have seen similar only in memories of others' dreams, never on my own exploration of the Fade.  They radiate power." 

"They're trying to save her--save you," Cole supplied.  "They can make their fingers real, to save you.  And the kiss, it's to give breath."

The figures looked almost mermaid-like with only head and arms and torso visible.  Their lower bodies floated into mist, looking like the tails of comets; one removed the woman's chest plate, another pulled a pauldron away gently.   A third swirled upward in the current, no face visible, but its head lowered toward the woman.  Her hair was long and red, and fanned out around her lifeless and blood-covered face.  Another spirit reached its arms out, glowing brightly, and placed something around the woman's neck.  

"Your necklace," Cole said excitedly, his head tilting.  "I thought it came from Flemeth?"

"I thought it did as well," the Inquisitor frowned, touching his own chest where the strange glass gem sat.  

"She took you from the fight after the Archdemon was defeated," Solas nodded, "You did not have the jewelry on before, correct?  She must have...dropped you into this lake?  But why?"

"I cannot read anything from this memory, she is a dragon, it's all fire and heat.  But these spirits, they're even more fire and even more heat.  They aren't spirits from this place.  Or even from the Fade." 

"Interesting."  Solas was enraptured. 

"I'm glad my death is so fascinating for you," Darren drawled in a faux-annoyed tone, and Solas actually almost smiled.  

"Death is almost always fascinating, but this one is particularly confusing.  Look--as they breathe life into you, your hair!"

"It's different life.  Magic life."

"I guess that explains my hair, then."  The Inquisitor's closely cropped hair was shockingly white, something observers often commented on, much to his chagrin for the last ten years.  "The Dalish Keeper said it was probably one of the Elven Gods marking me." 

Solas's lip curled as it often did when anyone spoke of the Dalish, but he conceded, "It appears, like the Anchor, to distinguish the strange magic that infused with you." 

"Lucky me."  

"Technically yes.  You should have died here.  You DID die here. I wonder if these beings are how the taint was removed?  You are no longer a Grey Warden.  And there are not many known ways for that to happen.  They might have extended your life by doing so, if that were the case.  Although, the Anchor..."

"What about it?"

"It...." Solas hesitated.  "It seems come with its own set of challenges, that is all I meant." 

For several long minutes the trio watched the now nearly-naked body of the woman rise toward the lake's surface, limbs still trailing lifelessly as the spirits dove and circled, each taking turns breathing air--or something--into the woman's lungs.  As they did so, her body changed, peach skin turning pale, red hair and brows losing pigment.  She would still be a woman, however, when she broke the surface of the water.  The spirits had nothing to do with that change...that was all the doing of the man himself.  

The next memory would appear afterward; that same woman washing up into a river near a Dalish camp, their hunters hauling the shem out of a lagoon and uncertainly seeking answers about what to do from the Keeper.  The Keeper of the clan was struck by the oddness of the human and what she described as 'holy magic'.  She had dreamed of the arrival of this person, she said--but it had been a man she dreamed of, not a young woman.   The Dalish would nurse her very bruised body back to health, and she would spend several months hunting alongside them and learning their customs, before a nobleman and his wife would find a stout young human man who reminded them of a long lost son.  

Solas at least had to agree with the Keeper on the oddness of the magic that enveloped the Inquisitor, strangeness he'd only thought to blame on the Anchor.   In a rare show of solidarity, Solas also approved of the Keeper's sentiment about the human's wishes.  It was in the Dalish camp that the former Grey Warden embraced his true self. 

Anyone could tell the young woman was self-conscious and lost, but she was particularly uncomfortable in her reborn body, without the Grey Warden armor and helmet to hide behind.  The Keeper's words would ring in the Inquisitor's head even in the Fade--this part he remembered well, no spirits or mages needed.  The memory was poignant. 

"You do not feel your body is yourself, even now."

"I...don't.  I suppose never have."

"You have been given rebirth, I am not sure what deity chose you or why.  But now is the time for you to become yourself.  I know that as surely as I know you were saved for a reason."

"But how do I....?"

"There are many ways," the Keeper started mysteriously.  "Let us walk and talk about who you truly are, and how we might help." 

-------------------

AFTER THE FERELDAN ROYAL SUMMONS
CHAT IN THE COURTYARD DURING CHESS
AND CULLEN FALLING ASLEEP

Solas and Cole were both standing in the attic of the tavern, watching the Inquisitor pace.  As promised, Solas had put up a sound barrier, as the Inquisitor was always paranoid of others overhearing any conversation about his past.  Solas's expression was one of mild interest; Cole's, as usual, was hidden.  The Inquisitor looked twice as angry and frustrated as he had back at chess.  And with Solas's chiding, "Go on, let us hear it," he began to rant.  

"You don't understand what...what it was like.  Before.  I'm still reeling at seeing Morrigan and she didn't recognize me either.  All of this past.  I can't...escape it.  And yet it's somehow hurtful to me, to not be known for who I am.  And I don't even remember what I looked like, I just know it was different." 

"From what we have seen of your younger years, Inquisitor...it's no wonder you go undetected.  You look quite different."  

The Inquisitor paused, and stared deeply at Solas.  The elf blinked, nonplussed.  

"It was a compliment."

The pacing returned, and with it, more shakes of the head.  "It's not that.  I know that I'm different.  It's...going to Denerim.  It's the ... Alistair and I. We. Were."  A hissed elven swear word, then another.  Another distasteful, grimaced head shake.  

Cole's voice was soft.  "A rose.  He said, you were like the rose.  He'd never been kissed.  His cheeks get red even when there's no sun.  He smiles with one side of his mouth, and his eyebrow too." 

"Yes, well," the Inquisitor's pacing doubled, and Solas leaned against the windowsill, his gaze drifting out thoughtfully over the garden.  

"Do you suppose he will remember you then, because you were intimate long ago?"

"I can make him forget, if you want me to try," Cole supplied helpfully.  "Like with Leiliana, though, grief blankets her, she does not see most people.  But I still help when she has the feeling she knows you." 

"That's not it.  I mean.  Part of it is.  Yes, Cole, I want your help if he does have any inkling of who I am.  But there's something else odd about this, it's one of the main reasons I stayed away from Denerim, even after the Trevelyans sponsored, then adopted me.  It was only rumors, I stayed away anyway.  And I was only able to confirm it from a reliable source after the Inquisition was formed, strangely enough."

"And what's that?"

"It was in Leiliana's personal notes."  His pacing was going to wear a hole through the floor.  "She's kept them dating back years.  I asked to see old journals and she never wondered why, assuming I just wanted to gawk at stories of the Blight like everyone else who'd read them.  She was at the castle a year after the Blight ended.  Did some advising to the crown on behalf of he Divine, but I suspect she also just wanted to check up on him.  Alistair.  And she notes many times how strange it was that Alistair seemed to have no...shall we say, sentimental memory of..."  the Inquisitor paused, his gaze softening, realizing that he was indeed the same person he spoke about so flippantly.  "No memory of me." 

"Odd, indeed," Solas supplied.  "What did Leiliana think of it?"

"She wrote that she asked him several times about...about Danica.  And he didn't even seem to recall the name.  He wasn't upset at all that she...that I...had died, vanished.  He couldn't even tell the sculptors what I looked like, for the statue commissioned by Arl Eamon.  She thought he'd asked for some sort of memory spell, to...to forget me.  That was her conclusion"

This sour statement was followed with silence.  Neither companion seemed to know what to say to console the Inquisitor, who now rubbed his hands down his face, scratching at the stubble there.  

"I know Alistair, well, I KNEW him, better than anyone at that point in his life.  I can't believe he'd just....forget.  He puts on airs of an idiot, it's a defense mechanism, but what does he have to gain from that?"

"Perhaps the memories brought him distress?"

"But Leiliana was there.  She was my friend too.  It wasn't like he was talking to a stranger about me.  And Duncan brought him distress...he still talks about Duncan, I've read the letters about his speeches.  If it was about distress, wouldn't he have forgotten him as well?"

Solas left his lounging spot to pace in the Inquisitor's stead.  After another emotion-filled silence, the elf said simply, "I would like to go with you to the Capital, if you would have me, Inquisitor.  I suspect there is more at play than simple forgetting, as was the case with your...transformation?"  

"I don't want to even go," the other man snapped, fidgeting as he turned away.  

"If you closed this chapter, would you feel more comfortable with telling...certain people, Dorian perhaps--the truth?"

That one stung.  The Inquisitor felt the anxiety slice through his chest like a knife, and his tense, drawn up shoulders instantly fell as if disappointed in something.  Himself, probably.  

"Maybe? Maybe Alistair will look at me, know who I am, blurt it out like I fear he will, and then I'll be condemned forever as--"

"A hero, who saved your people, and then miraculously came back, and for whatever reason, did it all over again." 

"Right, I'm sure that's what they'll all say."

Solas chuckled darkly.  "One man's villain is another man's hero, Inquisitor.  Chin up."  

"I don't understand," Cole spoke up, "His chin is at a good level, should he be looking at the sky?"

Chapter Text

Darren had packed the ornate steamer trunk, which lay open in his quarters, but the once-neatly folded jackets and breeches and spare boots were flung in disarray over the stone floor.  The Inquisitor noted this silently over his book, but did nothing other than frown as he returned to the pages.  He was laying on his bed, legs crossed at the ankles, and had been trying to de-stress in his final hours before travel to Denerim. But any hope of relaxing disappeared when the other man insisted on checking his clothing choices for the negotiations trip, and the loose "celebration" that King Alistair had referenced. 

Dorian was currently lecturing him, though half of the words were unfamiliar Tevene.  The mage tossed his hands in the air several times, with exaggerated eyerolls, and finally gave a gentle kick to the steamer trunk, his hands falling to his sides, landing on his hips.  

"Are you paying attention?"

"No," the other man said curtly, raising the book higher, so that the brunette couldn't catch his very focused-on-being-unbothered expression.  Dorian made a pulling motion with his hand, and abruptly the tome left the Inquisitor's grasp, flying across the room.  The warrior's heart skipped at the casual, yet still thrilling use of magic, and his cheeks were already aflame. Darren's pale eyes widened, and his frown was halfhearted, and most likely due to his own blushing.  

"What is it with you and throwing books?"

"What is it with you and insisting upon wearing blue everywhere you go?"

Darren had no comment on that, and sat up awkwardly in the bed.  "Is there...something wrong with blue?"

"What if your Fereldan King wears it?  Isn't he very...into, the Grey Wardens?"

"So, what if?"

"Well, think of how it'll look! You could make an enemy of the man.  Trying to be his equal, same dress to the party, peacock this and all that." 

Darren's chuckle escaped his lips before he realized it, and at the rare sight of the laughing Inquisitor, Dorian's mustache barely hid a besotted smirk.  His thick lashes batted as he awaited what was funny about his statement.  The Inquisitor supplied with a shrug, "Alistair, make an enemy over clothing choices?"

"He is a King," Dorian pointed out. 

"He's not that kind of king.  Not even what he wanted, even if he is suited for it."  Darren, absent a book, lay back down, threading his hands behind his head and staring up at the beautiful vaulted ceiling of the room.   

Dorian, ever studious and calculating, stared with his dark eyebrows lowered. His tone was flatter than usual.  "You speak as if you've met the man." 

Instantly, Darren's heart hammered in his chest, red rising in his ears this time.  He forced himself to remain still, clenching his fingers together, feeling his fingernails digging into his own skin.  "I...no, I just meant...he's...."

Dorian waited, clearly confused, and Darren shook his head.  How could he be so careless, stupid?  He couldn't speak about Alistair in any familiar way, in any way at all, without risking his own anonymity.  The thought was like a stone on his chest, and it smothered him as he lay there.  The Inquisitor was frozen in a panic, unsure where to go with his next words, but luckily the altus took pity on him, and he felt the weight of the other man near him as Dorian moved to sit on the bed.  

"I'm stressing you out, aren't I?"  The tenderness was back in his voice, the gentleness that often went away when Dorian was following a tangent, whether that was academic or simply argumentative.  He slipped a dark hand over Darren's arm, and the warrior's bicep unclenched, his own hand rather defeatedly slipping away from his head.  Fingers threaded together, both men stared at the contrast of their skin and seemed to contemplate what to say. 

Staring at the intertwined, thick and long fingers--one set pale and scarred, the other tan and smooth, seemed to revive both men's spirits.  

Darren awkwardly cleared his throat, and began with a cringe at himself, "Did you...want to pack for me?"

"Oh, splendid," Dorian exhaled, "I thought you'd never ask.  That will solve all our problems, won't it?"

"Most of them, I expect." 

---------------------------

He could hear noise from the courtyard; horses were being prepared, wagons were being loaded.  Soldiers loitered, excited at the prospect of travel, and some were preparing letters to send back home with the convoy.  It was a warm evening full of ale and mead and laughter. 

The sounds filtered up the large open windows, and despite his reservations the Inquisitor could feel that he was growing excited for the journey.  They would leave tonight, by light of the moon, and have one full day of riding before stopping at a tavern just hours from Denerim.  It was timed in such a way to allow the Inquisition's leaders a nearby rest and good scrubbing and preening before they arrived picture-perfect.  An early morning, golden-sun backed arrival--all Josephine's insistence.  Such things likely didn't matter to anyone in Denerim the way they would matter to Orlais, but Darren had no desire to argue with the ambassador.  

And though the timing behind the golden sunset filled him with dread, it was also beautiful and thrilling in a way.  Bittersweet, just like the giggles and shouts that floated into his echoey quarters, bouncing around like happy little ghosts.  Dorian had made good on his promise to pack earlier.   Now it was the altus who read while reclining on the bed.  Darren's pale head was planted on the mage's chest, and he'd given up reading after the other man outpaced him for twenty consecutive pages.  Instead, his eyes were closed as he lay, the orange sunlight lending the darkness behind his closed eyes strange patterns.  He snuggled closer, inhaling the scent of Dorian again, and got a tender thumb across the back of his shirt for his affection.  

This was where their intimacy had gotten, and stalled.  Darren was too anxious to feel almost any arousal, but his nervousness was steadily being outpaced by a huge wave of guilt.  The guilt became crushing when the mage leaned his head forward and nuzzled the Inquisitor's scalp, eyes still on the book as his dark mustache tangled with the snowy hair.   He knew that despite their tender moments, Dorian wanted more...what had he called it? Primal.  Dorian was actually angry at the Inquisitor when he'd turned down sex, though now Dorian seemed thankful for the chance of a real relationship.  

But likely, a relationship included seeing others without full clothing.  

The thought would have been thrilling, were it not terrifying.  

This swell of guilt and fear and the perhaps budding desire for more led the half-awake Inquisitor to murmur a very strange question that he instantly regretted.  

"What do you think of Krem?"

"Of--what?"  Dorian, unlike the leader of the Inquisition, was wide awake and sharp as ever.  He drew back, closing the book onto his thumb and lowering it to his lap, demanding more clarification by the strange look he tossed Darren's way.  The Inquisitor's eyes shot open and he instantly grimaced before rolling away from their lazy embrace.  Dorian instead turned on his side to look at the other; Darren shook his head preemptively.  

Dorian's eyebrows raised.  "Cremisius?"

When Darren nodded, Dorian's confusion doubled, and the Inquisitor fumbled on his words.  He considered how fast he could make it to the window and throw himself out of it, before the mage commented breezily, "Marvelous fish wraps, I've heard." 

Instantly the warrior's panic-stricken face melted into an involuntary, pained chuckle, and Dorian's smile flashed, dazzlingly.  Then the altus propped himself up, palm against his own temple, and the shrewd, contemplating stare returned as fingers brushed the sides of his facial hair.  "I suppose....in what way?  I have seen him fight, he's been trained well so far as I can see.  The Magisterium is full of mercenaries, but they hide better than any of the Chargers ever could.  He seems to be a bit enamored with that poor bard, though I doubt if he's ever approached her...wait, why are you asking me?"

Now a shred of doubt, of worry, clouded Dorian's expression.  Darren was smiling a very sad, wistful smile at Dorian's assessment of the other Tevinter.  He plucked a stray wave that had landed on the mage's temple and brushed it back into place.  This led to his fingers getting more entwined in the thick black hair, which was a feeling so enchanting that he completely forgot to answer Dorian. 

After a moment of silence, in which Dorian watched the Inquisitor watch Dorian's hair, the mage tried with an amused grin, "Lost in some sort of fantasy, are we?"

The tease snapped Darren back into his uptight, embarrassed demeanor and he scoffed several times, blushing at the skeptical expression of the Tevinter mage. Finally, he managed, "No! I meant....stop looking at me like that...have you ever heard of his, his...background?"

"Ah."  Dorian's brows were down again.  "I thought you and I were due an intimacy chat, but let's talk again about how Tevinter is a horrible land full of treachery that destroys everyone's lives.  I know my homeland's faults, Inquisitor.  And I do feel genuinely bad for him that his father's shop wa--"

"Not that, Dorian."  At first, the mage's cluelessness had been endearing, but now it was beginning to put another pit of dread into the Inquisitor's stomach.  "I'm talking about his...military background."

"What of it? He deserted, and Bull found him."

"But..."

"Is there something I'm missing here?"

"I...."

"As absolutely fascinating as his reasons for leaving the military probably were, I would rather talk about you.  Us."  The mage's finger traced teasingly around the Inquisitor's neck.  "Unless you're interested in what the Orlesians would call a ménage à trois." 

"WHAT?!"

"You brought it up!"

"I most certainly did not! I---"

"You're blushing." 

"There's more to the story," Darren sputtered desperately, and eyed the rapidly darkening mountains past the window, contemplating the jump again.  He very quickly realized this pathway of talking to Dorian about gender was a dead end--if Krem had never disclosed anything about his past to the mage, it was certainly not Darren's place to do so.  Another stone felt as if it had dropped onto his chest and he exhaled deeply, flaring his nostrils, mentally closing that door as quickly as he'd opened it.  "But it's all right.  We can talk about intimacy." 

"Goody.  Let's."  The mage shifted closer, his grey eyes sparkling with excitement.  He drew back when he saw how utterly nauseated the Inquisitor appeared.  After some moments of awkward silence, Dorian started hesitantly, "It seems you're attracted to me, so I won't question that.  Many men in Tevinter hide that attraction, confine it to the bedroom, but you've been open to the others about..us. So if you were ashamed of being with a man--"

"I am absolutely not." 

"--that's why I said IF you were, it makes no sense that you would defend our relationship.  You do everything backwards."

A pause. 

"But you care.  And so do I.  And yet...."

"I've told you before, it's not you." 

"Is it something in your past, then?  Did...something happen?"

"It is.  It...was.  And I want to tell you, I just don't really know how.  It's never, er, came up before, with anyone."

The sounds of the courtyard were soon the only sound in the room; Darren's palms lifted and he rubbed his eyes, keeping his hands pressed over them as if he could will himself out of existence.  After more silence, Dorian supplied quietly, "These things take time.  But, you can tell me anything."

"I...can't.  Not right now.  I..." Darren rather accidentally grasped another fear that lay coiled in his chest like a snake, running his fingers through his white hair as it, like the question about Krem, flew from his lips seemingly without his own consent.  It spilled out, almost a babble. "I'm so worried. I...I have reason to believe this visit to Denerim is a trap of some kind.  I do know of the King, I know of his past, and things, the way he's spoken, aren't adding up.  It's something our spymaster has pointed out in journals before as well.  It's been making me uneasy.  What I have to tell you, if others knew...if, especially, the Royals in Ferelden knew....I'm terrified--" 

Dorian's grey eyes were wide with the endless possibilities this vague, yet very juicy bit of information gave him.  "So we leave one cut-throat royal soirée, to probably walk right to another."  He tsked.  "I knew that little town of, what was it? Redcliffe?  Quaint, but dark energy.  Full of secrets.  All kinds."  His tone again brightened.  "At least I met you!" 

Guilt washed over the Inquisitor.  His secrets didn't exactly have everything in the world to do with the Fereldan King, but truthfully, the timing to build up courage about his own identity couldn't have felt worse.  To explain not only his change of gender, his change of name, and in fact, the falseness of his title and land and parentage, one noble family to another--right at the same time the organization with Darren at the helm was called to his former lover for royal praise and continuing negotiations with neighboring entities.

A mess. 

If anything was found out, it could destroy the Inquisition.  He didn't need a spymaster to know the uproar that would spark.  A crazy double life of a leader--one their enemies would use to distract the people away from the good work of the Inquisition.  And now the Inquisition was an ally to Orlais--which meant it could be seen as a threat to Ferelden, for now.  Which was probably precisely why Alistair had borderline begged for an appearance--he was not being kind, or sociable, or funny, he was trying to keep control of his country and get ahead of any political alliance that threatened Ferelden.  

The Inquisition was important, it did matter, but the deepest fear had nothing to do with losing the Inquisition. Every time the Inquisitor had a grain of courage in his heart and imagined the freeing feeling of explaining what was between his legs to Dorian, he remembered their exchange on the stairwell.  It was a warm day like this one, sun filtering in through the window as they flirted for possibly the first time.  

I could watch you roam Skyhold all day.  I suppose it's more fun this way.  For me, I mean.  You are rather strapping.

How the praise had made him swoon.  He'd longed to hear something like that his entire life.  And it was from a man--who liked men.

The warrior was melting into his hands again, his palms now pushing up on his own temples, as Dorian contemplated, nodding thoughtfully, seemingly toward himself.  The contrast was an archetypal mirror of the pair; one mildly introspective; he easily came to terms with the dangers of elevated status in society.  The other-- a face of strength and stoic leadership who was having an absolute, silent meltdown while laying in bed, hair splayed crazily as he tugged on it.  

------------------------------------

"Inquisitor--Ser--ehhum...Varric has asked you to meet with him right away, my Lord," the nervous soldier said, clearly starstruck with the disheveled pre-travel Inquisitor.  Darren, dressed of course in blue, was in Skyhold's main hall when she approached.  He ignored her fumbling of titles in favor of frowning toward the hallway portion Varric usually haunted.  

"I wonder what's so urgent; we're all leaving together in several hours," he pondered aloud, and then nodded graciously to the messenger.  "Where is he?"

"The tavern, Ser." 

"I'll head there now." 

Iron Bull passed by, indicating the axe flung over his shoulder, then the door to the Undercroft with his thumb, to which the Inquisitor nodded.  He spoke brusquely as he passed by, "Better get over there Boss, your mage's eye is wandering." 

"Excuse me?"

Bull chuckled, but didn't stop his saunter toward the blacksmithy.  He tossed nonchalantly over his shoulder, "Dorian's down there too.  Been talking with Krem." 

Chapter Text

If the magister's son noticed the unease with which the tailor's son regarded him, he ignored it completely and continued to lean in, ushering Krem to drink the abysmally expensive bottle that Dorian had brought into the tavern.  A Tevinter vintage, he'd said, completely disregarding the fact that they were in a tavern that served drinks, and also ignoring that Krem had only ever been seen drinking ale.  

"Now you must tell me what makes the Inquisitor so fascinated by you," Dorian instructed, too eager to drink his own glass, and Krem sputtered a laugh into the crystal.  The altus's dark eyebrow arched elegantly, and he waited.  

"Uhhh...he is?" 

"It seems to be that way.  Does he talk to you?"

"Not so much, no," Krem reflected, an awkward look on his face.  "Is...something wrong?  I know you two..." he made a strange mashing motion with his hands, which drew a sly smirk from the altus.  

"Nothing is wrong.  I simply seek to understand him--he is an oddball, isn't he?"

Krem sipped.  "I....yeah."

"Anyway, I find the most reliable way to understand someone is understand the people they surround themselves with.  The people who, perhaps, come to mind for them."  

Krem's face was so red it looked as if it was dimming by the flickering firelight.  Dorian tilted his head.  After far too long staring into his wine glass, the Charger muttered, "Maybe he...looks at me a lot.  Guess he does that to everybody, though, what with being the Inquisitor and all?  Looking at people happens?"

Dorian's chin landed in his palm interestedly.  "No. I think we are certainly getting somewhere.  He decidedly does NOT look at everybody.  In fact he goes to great lengths to avoid it.  Worse than Cullen, some days." 

"Oh."  Krem's fingers danced on the table before he moved back to the wine in a desperate attempt to focus on literally anything else. The soldier was used to pounding alcohol on a drinking night, but he found it almost unbearable to chug the bitter liquid.  Perhaps it was doing its job, however, as words were coming more easily to him.  Even with the almost viper-like grey stare he was currently squirming under.  

"Probably just...the same reason others look at me.  Y'know."

"I do not know.  Do tell."

The warrior uttered a quiet phrase in Tevinter, which caused Dorian to draw upright immediately.  "Oh--OH! Oh! I see."  Dorian collected himself immediately, and a large smile broke over his features, white teeth dazzling in the low light.  Krem felt himself sliding lower on the seat and prayed for Sera or someone else to cause a distraction--a fire, a cabinet falling down the tavern steps again, or something...anything.  He hadn't expected such a succinct, understanding response, especially from a magister's son, but then the Inquisition was nothing if not filled with utter misfits who were impossible to read.  

"You know, I have a marvelous friend in the Imperium--it doesn't matter.  I'm sorry I didn't even think to...think of!"

"Don't think it's something an apology is needed for, exactly." 

"You are correct.  And if it makes a difference, I hadn't noticed."

"Uh, thank you?"  Krem snorted, and Dorian's smile widened.  

After a pause, the mage inhaled.  "Still--" Dorian's utter delight shifted to contemplation as his mind continued to turn, unhindered by alcohol.  He was too excited to drink.  His gaze left Krem and moved thoughtfully along the flame-shadowed wall.  "Does the Inquisitor know?"

"Yeah," Krem said easily, and he didn't even cringe this time at the wine's taste.  Dorian's studious, captivated thinking frown was wide, and somehow hopeful.  Krem added shyly, "Didn't...ask a lot of questions.  Just accepted.  Was nice, actually."

"That, I'm happy to hear," Dorian said, satisfied, and he finally allowed himself to sit back and sip lightly on the wine, content with pausing his interrogation. 

"Why'd'you ask? Something I can...do?"  Krem looked deeply uncertain about this question.

Dorian was candid, and shrugged as he spoke.  "He brought you up and didn't say why.  He likely didn't have you in mind as a tactical reason, and I never thought you two had any...ermm...?"

"I'm...I..."  Krem's eyes wandered toward the barmaid, and Dorian finished, "You don't swing that way."

"Right."

"I'm sure the Inquisitor, like myself and others, simply finds your wit and charm endearing.  Or he admires your haircut. Perhaps that is all that it was.  Or perhaps, he has a curiosity with some of the er...equipment?"

"Maybe."  Krem shrugged.  "Odd that if he did, he wouldn't ask."

"He's very awkward, despite all the big speechy-ness.  Maddeningly polite, as well."

"Fair enough." 

Krem was feeling emboldened.  After a pause, he continued, "Can I ask YOU something?  Being a mage and all.  From back home."

"Why, certainly.  I've absolutely interrogated you, you are owed an interrogation in return."   

"I've seen mages who can...do things---" he gestured rather broadly at his face and torso.  "Things I heard rumors about.  Elf magic, maybe?  Maybe it all is.  I dunno.  No mages in my family.  Transformations, or, alchemy or something.  Changing, other things."

"Are you talking about...ah, I see.  Is that something you're interested in?"

"Would be nice to just...grow a beard," Krem admitted wistfully, and Dorian chuckled.  

"Terrible things, absolutely vile when eating, even worse when drinking and dribbling, don't get me started on the ways that they interrupt an intimate encounter."  He'd finally gotten Cremisius to laugh.  Dorian looked very smug indeed after that. 

"To answer your question, yes, there are magical interventions.  It's not really my realm of magic, but we can always outsource that information.  Fiona might be a good ask, and I'm certain I have a friend who could help.  Someone who has done what you're speaking of.  I'm not sure what would be feasible in Ferelden, but she would know."  

"Really?  You'd...."

"Of course I would!"

"That'd...well, it'd..." 

"I'll see what I can do to send word to her," the altus reassured him confidently.  

------------------------------

Darren didn't even have a chance to make it into the tavern before he almost tripped into Varric at the bottom of the main steps.  The courtyard was chaos with all of the convoy packing up, and the merchant prince was far more at ease than the diplomat.  The dwarf thumbed toward the carriages.  "You gettin' in that ugly thing? Or...?"

"No, it's a decoy, as usual," the Inquisitor said distractedly, his eyes drifting toward the pair of stallions dressed and waiting near the rear.  "Whoever gets that seat will ride cozy."

"Unless they take an arrow through the head."

"The roads are getting safer," Darren protested.  "You er, needed me?"

"I think I need to warn you," Varric said guiltily.  "You know that town we're stopping in the night before Denerim?  Making camp?"

"Of course."

"Well, there's a certain band of folks who will be leaving Denerim...who might could maybe bump into us, if I send word ahead.  Was thinking of having Harding tell them we want to have a meeting--not in any formal capacity, I know you hate the diplomat crap," Varric was waving his hands apologetically.  "It'd be a guilty favor indulged.  And he might even say no."

"What on earth are you talking about, Varric?"

The dwarf gestured toward the trail, where the pair could walk undisturbed and probably avoid any unwanted ears.  The human fell into step beside his shorter companion, arms held behind his back, one hand loosely gripping the other wrist.  In every way he was Varric's opposite--his shirt was buttoned up as high as possible, threatening to choke him.  His hair and facial hair were kept annoyingly pristine, even his eyebrows seemed brushed and trimmed.  And while his posture indicated ease, everything else on his countenance did not.  Varric either didn't notice or didn't care. 

"You spoke with the Seeker after....Adamant, yes?  Did she ever....calm down?"

"I have to imagine so.  I think she just wanted to meet Hawke."

"Was that all?"  The rogue's tone was withering. 

"Well, I think she wanted him here instead of me," Darren chuffed, humored.  "But she saw your point.  Cassandra may not admit it, but she thinks the world of Hawke, and I know his...endorsement of the Inquisition means a lot to her.  If Hawke ever....wait."

Varric's grin was almost painful. Darren stared, his eyes widening in the moonlight as he realized the rogue's plan.  

"You're going to...?"

"ONLY if you think it's a good idea.  Now that she's said her peace and tried to kill me and got all that out of her system, I wouldn't mind...eh...." Varric shrugged. "She can get an autograph." 

Darren was staring.  All of his anxiety about whatever Dorian was doing had dissipated entirely.  His mind was heavy with the imaginings of what Cassandra might do upon meeting the Champion of Kirkwall.  

"You tell me.  Bad idea or a moment we can hold over her head together, forever?"

The taller man stared, and then abruptly began walking, a faint smile on his face.  

"She's going to faint." 

"See, that's where you're wrong.  I was envisioning a scream."

"Willing to bet on it?"

"Five sovereigns?"

"You're on." 

Chapter Text

“I won’t be able to braid it if you don’t hold still!”  Leiliana’s voice could turn exasperated and motherly easily.  She’d become more demanding and impatient since they’d entered the city.  Danica shifted in her seat again and her eyes drew down as she huffed.  The bard had finally, barely succeeded in dressing the warrior in something other than blood soaked armor; after a nightmarish ordeal at Arl Howe’s estate and then the Landsmeet, it seemed everyone was excited for the night’s celebratory feast.  Everyone except the Wardens, one of which had just been elected by the Landsmeet as King.  And the other who was being subjected to a makeover by her friends.  

On the floor were her garments, spread haphazardly across the stones.  Though they were all threadbare and soaked with blood, there were newer, fresher red splatters across the chest and arms.  Spots where Loghain’s blood had shot past the steel armor.   She could still feel the warmth.   

As her eyes traced over the splatter marks, she recalled Alistair’s grim farewell.  The normally good-natured Templar was ferocious, his anger causing the room to boil, and even Eamon took a subtle step backward and away.  Alistair’s tone had been nothing like his usual sing-song.  It was spiteful, hateful.  The words were almost spat from his mouth before the swing, as he held a tangle of Loghain’s hair in his fist.  

Loghain Mac Tir.  Friend of my father.

Leiliana and Zevran were gossiping while the Warden replayed the execution over and over in her mind, until the conversation turned into his plea to braid the Warden’s hair.  He was actually scolding the Orlesian in his native tongue—not that the Warden could understand any of it.  But Leiliana relented, and he sprang forward, already dressed in a smart-looking velvety-green tunic for the celebration ahead.  

“Leave it to me, ladies.  I am very good with hair.  It is your job instead to figure out how to not walk back the very bold statement made by the Warden earlier.” 

“You do not think her capable of ruling alongside her oaf boyfriend?” Morrigan almost sounded offended.  

“He’s not an oaf,” Danica managed, raising an eyebrow and glancing up at the hated mirror.  Zevran’s braid was so far faster, sharper, and more elegant.  She gave a small smirk at his focused expression; like Alistair, Zevran was usually so busy being charming and goofy, that it was hard to find him in a serious and focused moment.  He looked serene while handling the hair.  

“I just think it was putting the cart ahead of the horse, as you say,” the elf remarked nonchalantly,  his attention more on his work than on Morrigan’s disbelief.  “Two rulers, both Grey Wardens, both preparing to fight an Archdemon.  That is…quite the tall order to deliver to Ferelden.” 

“Does it bother you that Alistair didn’t execute Anora?”  Leiliana’s motherly tone had disappeared; she was all cut-throat, blunt gossip again.  Danica shrugged, and got a flick of warning from the elf, who winked at her in the mirror.  She blushed and looked away.  

“I don’t think so?  I don’t like her.”  There.  She’d said something negative.  It would feed their hen-like pecking about the situation for awhile, or so she could hope. 

“She is very unlikeable,” Zevran snorted, and Leiliana scoffed.  

“She is also still possibly a threat to your throne, if that’s…something you truly want.”

“Indeed.  You haven’t quite said,” Morrigan pointed out.  “Even though you were the one who suggested it.” 

Zevran tutted.  “Did you see Alistair’s face?”

“Oh my, he was blushing so much his armor was pink!  It was delightful!” Leiliana’s giggle was girly.  

The truth was simple; Danica was capable of making tactical decisions on the fly.  She pondered this for a moment, wondering what she actually did want, but Morrigan was faster, her shrewd yellow eyes on her friend.  “You didn’t know you were going to say it, did you?”

“It seemed…wise at the time.”

“And so it was.  You are well-liked and well-bred.  Fellow Fereldens would stand behind you and your Maric offspring based on charisma alone.”

“I know it’s difficult to think about what we’ll do after the Blight, but you must realize that you’re a leader.”  Leiliana was watching the braiding intently.  Zevran had made multiple small braids cascading in almost a veil behind the Warden’s head, that lazily looped over the loose waves like a waterfall.  It was stunning, even Danica had to admit, and she was not one for enjoying her own hair.  

With a flustered wave of her hand, Leiliana urged her to turn in her seat as she held out the hated pigment kit—makeup too, of course.  They’d not yet successfully wrangled her into it, but now seemed inevitable.  And the other three had already painted their faces—even Zevran had a thin line of black around his stunning honey-colored eyes.  “You’d make a wonderful queen.  You can speak well, you make hard decisions with wisdom.  Thedas needs a woman like you.  Besides.  Alistair would be lost without you.”

This got a chuckle from the Warden and a hesitantly lifted lip from Morrigan.  Afterward, she nodded her raven-black head in agreement.  

“It would not be as exciting as our current endeavor, but I would venture to suggest you would not be remiss with some quiet.” 

“I don’t know that being the Queen of Ferelden is a quiet job, unfortunately.”

“Compared to fighting a dragon, most things likely are.”

Danica couldn’t respond; she was too busy blinking her eyes frantically against whatever murderous brush Leiliana was holding near her eye.   Zevran was now the one watching intently.  

“Look on the bright side,” he said in his usual peppy tone.  “If you want to go back on your word, you can always die fighting the Archdemon as an excuse.”

This joke got a true laugh out of the Warden and an annoyed sigh from Leiliana, who cursed under her breath and wiped away some runaway eye color.  After another muttered curse, she tried conversationally, “If you were to be Queen, there would be a lot more of this, and probably almost no bloodstained armor.”

“I like my armor.”

“You would.  We could commission you a custom piece.  Fitted to all your curves.  Like Andraste’s armor.  Something…busty.  Hmm…ornamental, feminine.”

“Since when have you seen her be feminine?” Morrigan again sounded indignant.  As usual, she was quicker to the truth than even Danica, who fought away a smirk. 

“Even tomboys clean up!” Leiliana argued, and brushed a strand of hair away.  “Besides, this hair is feminine.  It’s beautiful.”

“I only kept it long because my father liked it,” Danica admitted.  “He would have fainted if I’d cut it.  His mother had red hair.  I suppose I could cut it now,” the last sentence was spoken in a subdued, empty tone.  Zevran tsked and risked Leiliana’s ire by stroking the ends of the Wardens’ tresses.

 “Done,” Leiliana said in a pleased tone several minutes later, and she dipped an excited curtesy, gesturing to the mirror again.  Morrigan stood from her landed perch and the trio of companions all backed away to take in the full view of their friend.  

Danica was in a long, luxurious dress of blue satin, an off-shoulder kirtle that thankfully pressed her chest flat and perhaps not so thankfully, stayed taut against her stomach down to her hips, where the dress flared.  

“Perfect,” Leiliana breathed as the Warden stood uncertainly.  “Blue—supporting the Wardens.  A good signal, were anyone in Orlais watching the throne passage.  And I promise you, they are watching. .” 

“It is not too much of a statement to your country’s…well, the lesser of nobility,” the assassin agreed, nodding into his hand, stroking his hairless chin.  “I believe the word is demure.”

Morrigan didn’t simper.  “I would have shown more skin, but it is not too late to add an array of jewels if you wish to be properly costumed.”
“I dont—“

“We could ask the Arl if there is a treasury—That which was Cailan’s is now Alistair’s, no? I would not mind seeing the royal jewels.”  Zevran giggled at his own joke. 

“A circlet would complete the look, and show that you intend to keep your word to rule,” Leiliana agreed.  “We have time, come!  And YOU—Don’t you move!”

They were gone in a flurry of fabric and the Warden sighed.  She braced herself, closing her eyes tightly and feeling the unfamiliar pull of cream makeup over scrunched-closed lids. At least, she decided as she turned on her own toward the daunting glass, she wouldn’t have to fake a pleased reaction to looking like a painted dolly, in front of her friends.  They meant well, and this all started when she had the bright idea to volunteer as a royal earlier in the day.  She would never want to disappoint them. 

The truth was that she had no answers to their many repeated questions.  She envied the others’ comfort in their own sexuality and presence—and she enjoyed all of them as companions and examples of authentic people.  But she could not extend the same comfort or security in her own experiences.  It was sometimes an empty void, a sensation of something that was gone.  Other days things were far less clear, and still other days, things like that didn’t matter, or even enter her mind.  Archdemon and all that.  

Before Duncan, she had the luxury of not worrying about the gnawing feeling deep inside, a feeling that loomed since she and her brother began wearing different garments.  Her parents were so delighted with their first grandchild that they paid their daughter’s destiny no mind, and they were encouraging with her studies and physical prowess.  

And now, after Duncan, there was Alistair.  Like her, he was in a word, inexperienced.  He had no answers for her about sexuality and seemed to only know that he had fallen for her as accidentally and unexpected as she’d fallen for him.  Their love story was almost sickeningly sweet, as Morrigan never failed to complain about, and it was only getting more ridiculous with the Landsmeet officially putting Alistair on the throne.  What would that mean for her?  Once again, she realized as she forced her eyes open—it didn’t matter.  Nothing would matter until the Blight was over.  She had an excuse to push away her own discomfort, and ignore it.  

Again. 

The sight in the mirror wasn’t as strange or dismaying as she thought it would be.  Her fingers stroked down the wooden frame.  Save for the different hair color, she simply looked like her mother.  It wasn’t an unwelcome gaze.  It was kind and oddly familiar.  But her ornamented eyes were sad behind all of the expertly applied colors.  She turned away, and the Warden disobeyed her friends entirely on accident.  The confrontational stare into the mirror reminded her of what she’d lost, and as a lost person is liable to do, she wandered without real purpose.  She waltzed into the darkened hallway.  This was the guest wing, and only a short flight of stairs away, servants and guards awaited.  

She wasn’t drawn toward them in her sorrow, however; she instead moved toward the end of the hallway, where the torchlight cast shadows on something.  A curtained painting, she realized, its frame glinting gold in the firelight.  The draws were pulled, and larger than life on the wall stood a royal portrait of…someone?  The skirt dragged on carpet, her shoes catching on the underskirt as if she were entirely unfamiliar with how to walk in a dress.  The redhead drew nearer the dark oil painting and craned her neck back, staring up at a rather doleful looking family.

 
VANEDRIN THEIRIN   

The royal plaque engraver had not bothered naming the woman and the two children in the photo; both were boys, dressed in ruffles up to their ears and in hose that would make anyone chafe.  Perhaps that’s why they looked so dreadfully unhappy.  The hall was quiet, and dark, and the boys in the painting stared at the Warden as sharply as she stared at them.  Her eyes finally drifted upward, to the even more stiff-looking Queen.  The fashions were centuries out of date, and the Queen was barely recognizable under a huge ornamental headdress and sleeves that took up twice her torso.  

The baubles on this woman’s neck and ears and fingers would have absolutely delighted the Warden’s companions, she decided with a hint of a smile, and then her gaze turned toward the king.  

He was serious, grim even.  There was a little of Alistair in him—golden hair, a sturdy frame.  But the Warden focused on his armor instead of his accusatory stare.  The armor was painted well, and looked clean and polished.  It wasn’t ornamental, it was practical, and she thought it interesting that the King had stood for a portrait without his crown.  Again the young noble became lost in her own thoughts.  Truthfully, she enjoyed the hard, unassuming shell of armor.  It was strong, it was heavy, it was reassuring.  As if it were a cloak of muscle added to her frame.  

Every time she tried to look again at the Queen’s fur and lace, she was drawn back to the King instead.  It dawned on the Warden that she didn’t look at men in armor in a lustful way—rather an envious way.   She could not fill out a suit of armor that well, nor likely walk in one so large.  Was that why she often stared at Alistair in his? It was a worrying thought, and soon her heart picked up its pace as she considered. 

“Maker’s breath, there you ar—“ Alistair’s soft footsteps in the dark hallway were unusually light; she jumped, turning, and he jumped in response, his eyes widening.  “Oh, wow.”

“Excuse me?” Why was her voice so gravelly? The Warden thought she might jump out a nearby window to avoid his gaze, but then she was distracted by the sight of Alistair in…well, nice clothes.  A black and white tunic, a silver-laced doublet, and a striking black velvet shoulder cape.  

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said flatly, and then snorted.  “But I guess, that’s what I’m doing, isn’t it.  You look…”

“Like a painted, stuffed turkey.”

“I was going to say beautiful.”  His voice was soft and kind, and he stepped forward despite his clear shyness about approaching in what he likely saw as a ridiculous costume.  “I get it.  It feels strange to not be…” his gaze moved past her and up the portrait.  “Going out to die in our armor.”

She chuckled; Alistair wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Before this mess of a dinner I have to ask you something.  What you said earlier.”

“My you’re handsome.  So dashing in this.  What is that, Faustian velvet?”

“About being Queen.”

“They should paint your portrait.”

“Is that really, truly what you want?” 

She huffed, but eagerly and gratefully accepted his hug.  It was rare that they could touch each other without someone’s armor bumping in the way, after all, and neither of them usually smelled this good.  The Warden inhaled Alistair’s scent deeply, burying her nose against his neck and causing him to tighten his grip around her waist.  

“It’s all right if it’s not,” he added quietly.  “I just want to know.”

“I don’t care about being Queen,” she said simply.  “I care about you.  I wanted to support you, and I still do.”

Alistair exhaled a sigh of relief.  “So you….you aren’t going to change your mind.  I thought perhaps it was…”

“A snap decision? It was.  But so was my decision to be with you.  Right just feels right.”

“Oh!” His cheerful caricature was back; his smile reached his eyes.  They wrinkled into a squint.  “So glad the fate of Ferelden is safe in your long-pondering head.  Eamon will be relieved that every court decision will be ins—“

“Alistair, would you rather I persuade you to marry Anora?”

“Oh Maker, no, she’s awful, isn’t she? Vile person.  No, no.  You know I want to be with you.  I’d e heartbroken if you…don’t even suggest that as a joke.  But just so you know.”  His voice fell from its sing-song abruptly, and he put a hand on the Warden’s cheek lovingly.  Alistair wasn’t shy with eye contact, unlike his paramour, but she was always able to meet his gaze where she could not meet others.   His stare was as serious, as grim as the man’s in the painting.  

“I didn’t fall in love with you because you dress up well, or because you…along with the rest of the world, are not as upsetting of a choice as Anora.  I will do my duty to my country, and if this is it…well.  I can only beg you to stay.  And if you want to stay as a Warden, in full armor, you have my blessing.  You’re still beautiful.  And besides, that’s how I fell in love with you.”  

Danica’s heart felt as if it would sink to her feet; had he somehow overheard her thoughts?  Was she that clearly uncomfortable in a dress?  Morrigan’s stinging remark entered her head momentarily.  

Since when have you seen her be feminine?

“I won’t forget you said that,” she answered, and just when a smile threatened to break across both their faces, he leaned in for a kiss, with all of the warmth that the severe painting behind the pair lacked.  

Chapter Text

The Inquisitor was stalling; well, actually, he was reminiscing.  A gloved thumb stroked over the small portrait; a royal artist had sketched the King's likeness along with several banners and insignia that came attached to the invitation and official letter.  The crosshatched ink was already worn and feathered thanks to Darren performing this motion far too many times, almost as if he could will away Alistair's lopsided, eyebrow-raised smirk with enough gentle brushes.  The Queen's likeness was also on this artful, gold-leafed page, above a beautiful sketch of the castle in Denerim.  Her portrait was on the other side of the Theirin seal. Unfortunately Anora's ink had somehow been marred by the undistingushed stray dribbles of Darren's tea.  She was a faceless blur next to her softly smirking husband. He'd wiped the tea off with ungraceful slaps, and a few threats of a letter opener--maybe just to her eyes.  

Alistair's face was the only one he needed to look at anyway.  The last time he saw such a sketch, it was years ago, and he put a dagger through both of Alistair's eyes.  For a man who lost the love of his life to a dragon, he certainly could smile with ease.  

Darren--or, Danica, at the time--had never gotten an answer why Alistair chose to marry Anora after the fight with the Archdemon.  He was closer than ever to getting an answer, but, did he want it?  

He was waiting on his horse to be brought up to the gates; Darren would ride at the front of the group, alongside Cullen, as he often did when they traveled.  Behind him the long convoy of Inquisition officials were scrambling onto their horses or into their carriages, accompanied with firelight and song.  Silhouetted around the fortress were curious gazes, shadows of soldiers and charges who would stay behind in Skyhold.  The night was beautifully clear, and the singing was oddly calming, but Darren couldn't bring himself to look up at the stars or stare with love at his people.  He was too focused on gently buffing Alistair out of existence with the gauntleted thumb.  The Inquisitor didn't know if this gesture was nervousness, or love, or hate, or a mixture of all of them.  That heavy weight was on his chest, but this felt different than the anxiety from earlier.  It was grief, and it made him feel as if every bone was a sunken anchor, pulling him to the sea. 

The song's final words ran out, petering to a cheer, and then a soft silence fell across the garden and gates.  No, that wasn't a teardrop that had fallen on the letter, it was a raindrop, he decided firmly.  The Inquisitor's hand was shaking, and he was for a moment, entirely lost in the emptiness of quiet.  

Until, of course, the elven members of the Inquisition began humming a new song in the wake of the emptiness of the last tune.  This new melody was a song he knew well, and a grim smile was hidden on the Inquisitor's lips for the first few moments, as he listened in awe.  He knew there was an official, chosen Elvhen name for the dirge, but for a decade he'd simply called it Leiliana's song.  

At once, Darren reflected on two things that weren't Alistair's smug smile; firstly, why were they singing a death song before departing, when it was supposed to be a positive, diplomatic outing?  And second, why wasn't Leiliana singing? He could pick her voice out of any choir.  The white-haired man folded up the letter quickly, willing the King's boyish, curled lips away from his thoughts as he searched the line of travelers that awaited behind him.  

No sign of her, or her voice, but the beautiful song floated into the night along with Skyhold's many burning embers.  Drifting into the orange sparks was a light spell that Dorian gently wove with his hand as he backed alongside the convoy.  The light that rose from his spell was teal, almost too bright to stare at.  It resembled lazy smoke, drifting and weaving with the song.  Dorian didn't notice him--a concentrated grey stare turned toward the illumination spell and his muscled arm flexed as it controlled the somatic component.  He was beautiful when spellcasting, and it was a rare thing to witness outside of battle.  Soon, he had disappeared into the singing crowd and Darren watched the light instead.  A familiar pair of pointy ears emerged from the group, a bald head turning toward Darren almost accusatorily. 

Solas looked positively ethereal, bathed under the uncanny turquoise light.  When Darren caught the elf's gaze, he smiled a genuine, if shy, smile.  Solas leaned on his staff, unimpressed, and stared back with something imperceptible.  It was clear he didn't approve of the song--did he ever approve of songs?--and his mild annoyance would have been indistinguishable from his usual gaze to anyone but the Inquisitor.  

When Solas realized that Darren was smiling sheepishly at him, his ears turned pink, and just as quickly as he'd emerged from the crowd with his grouchy, lowered eyebrows, his face brightened, and he spared the Inquisitor an amused wink before turning and striding along the wagon train, likely to aid Dorian with protective wards.  Where Dorian moved with poise and even swagger, Solas moved with almost military-like purpose, his back stiff, his grip on his staff almost pained.  And yet when he raised his left hand toward the magic it was elegant, soft, in a way his expressions and posture never were.  

Darren supposed he could never love, or connect, with anything or anyone the way that mages could connect with the Fade.  

Cullen approached rapidly on horseback, hoof beats breaking up the swaying melody of Leiliana's song as they drew nearer.  From astride his horse, he held one arm out, leading the Inquisitor's steed along, reins held easily in his hand.  "Your Worship.  Sorry for the wait."

"Cullen," Darren sighed his thanks almost in exasperation--why was the Commander himself handing over a steed, when they had a stable full of capable workers?  But then, Darren knew that Cullen's every off hour was spent with the horses.  He rarely did much else, other than train the soldiers.  Several of the higher-ranking warriors often joked that he had a bed in the stables when he was missing from his own quarters.  Equine therapy, perhaps.  The curly-headed blond looked more serene than usual as he handed the reins to his fellow Fereldan.  

Perhaps unlike Solas, Cullen was lulled into comfort by the song, Darren thought with a snort, and he wasted no time fitting his boot onto the stirrup and hopping up into the saddle. He adjusted himself in the seat and fitted the stirrups better, his golden eyes tracking behind Cullen.  

Josephine would be in a carriage, of course, but...

"Where's our spymaster?"

"Not coming."

"What?"

"She's near the West gate if you'd like to try to change her mind."  Cullen's drifting, diverted eyes were unusually steady as he nodded toward her, his voice low and contemplative.  "I sense that she is wrestling with some emotion."  His eyes were haunted in the blue light.  "A feeling I understand, the thought of returning to a place of woe.  Encouragement from you might help either way."

"Two minutes," Darren promised, knowing his convoy was eager to leave, and he led the horse rapidly toward the ramparts.  It never failed to amuse him, and perhaps flatter him, how quickly his people parted in front of him.  As though a mere touch from him might set them on fire.  That is, of course, everyone parted with haste except a certain Tevinter mage, who drew up his broad chest and wagged dark eyebrows as he inspected the Inquisitor sitting proudly, even comfortably, on the horse.  

His voice was loud even amid the singing.  

"My! A man on horseback, how rugged, how charming.  Can you do it naked, I wonder?"

"Maker," Cullen could be heard griping, and Dorian flashed a devious smile before moving with purpose toward the Commander.  

"If you can get him to do it without magic, I'll ride double," the Inquisitor threw over his shoulder without thinking, and Dorian gasped.  "Such incentive!"

"MAKER--YOU TWO!"

Darren was laughing as he approached Leiliana, who stood amid a circle of her mercenaries.  They were busy feeding the birds, he realized, and his laugh caused a smile to flit across her usually serious features.  Darren's face quickly fell when he remembered the reason he had moved to speak with her.  

"You're not coming?"

"Don't worry, I've sent my best," she said breezily, but despite her gentle and unworried tone, the group slowly parted, slinking into shadows like everyone else the Inquisitor neared.  Leiliana leaned against the grey stones, not bothering to hide her doleful expression.  "You will be protected.  And Morrigan will be there."  This last was said with a hint of humor.  "The King will be...pleased, no doubt."

"I'm not worried about any of that," he said sternly, with an Inquisitor-like frown that caused Leiliana's chin to jut out in defiance.  "I thought you had a history with King Alistair, what with the Blight and all."  The horse stomped impatiently and drifted.  Darren tried to keep his own voice light and just as breezy as Leiliana's. "Wouldn't you want to...say hello to an old friend?"

"He was a friend, once," she admitted hesitantly.  Darren didn't know how comforting or successful his prying for information would be when he was astride a counting, stepping horse, but he focused his efforts on keeping the animal still, and keeping his gaze on her.  His old friend.  Leiliana was likely deep in her own memories of this song, though Darren couldn't very well tell her that he knew such a thing.  She sighed and turned her eyes toward him, one of the rare instances she met his eyes completely and directly.  And though he usually had no problem staring at others, especially when they had information he wanted to know, he fought to maintain the gaze.  

She could look at him and see.  She could know.  But how he longed to connect with her--something he'd fought not to do since Haven.  

"I had another friend once, you see," she began, haltingly, clipped.  "We were far closer than sisters.  Not like that.  Our bond was closer even than lovers.  I can only say it was the most pure and true friendship, young girls.  Orphans.  I pledged my cause to her, not to the crown or any human alignment.  In my eyes, she was nothing short of the Divine.  No.  I believed she was from the Maker.  I could feel it."

After a deeply uncomfortable pause, he dismounted, and angrily gestured at a handler to hold the horse's reins.  Leiliana watched this rare display of annoyance with amusement, until Darren stood in front of her, his expression serious, his jaw ticking.  He shook his head, trying to recapture the intimacy of the conversation.  His golden eyes swam.  "The Warden."

"Yes.  And if I loved her with my whole heart, Alistair loved her more.  In fact, I heard the details quite loudly, thanks to being camped nearby."  His nostrils flared, and he smirked, recalling the sketch of the bastard king again.  

"They were to be married.  Not many know this, but we who were there knew. And yet, after her death, what did he do?  A statue! Not even a good one.  It looks nothing like her." 

"Bit rude of him," Darren said tightly, forcing a frown. 

"He does not act like a heartbroken man.  Now it would be different, but then...how could he?  My heart was broken twice.  Once by her leaving, and again by his forgetting. I know that grief affects us all differently, but still."  Insects were singing in the night, accompanying the Elvish song that she'd sang to him at camp all those years ago.  

He wanted to say something, yell, hold her hand.  Tell her IT'S ME

I'M HERE

That long ago forgotten, young but determined, frightened but brave, warrior woman yelled inside him, as if in a prison.  Emerging only when there was despair. 

But Darren was frozen.  "I begged him not to, but didn't make it back to Denerim in time.  Everything fell apart so fast.  He was not the same.  And I suppose, neither was I.  But I missed my friends, I missed what we had--even Morrigan, though she will never say the same of me."

"Morrigan paying anyone a compliment might be cause for them to burst into flame--it's not just you, don't worry," Darren joked, and she lifted her lips in a faint smile of agreement.  He swallowed the growing lump in his throat.  Suddenly, the funeral song seemed appropriate after all.  

"I'm certain of a few things, first being that I would rather not be in a room with Morrigan, Alistair, and Anora."  

"Fair enough."

"The second--if he forgot his greatest and first love, what chance do I have to be seen with respect to the past?  Alistair has been cordial with me, but our bond was broken after that night when he brushed off her death.  Perhaps he wants to remember things as they were.  And if that is so, he must remember me as the young and stupid, ditzy Chantry sister that he met in Lothering.  Incapable, and without a cause, I latched onto her.  And to him.  And perhaps I want to remember him as the valiant Templar Warden who loved a woman who laid down her life for that noble cause.  Perhaps the past is better left in the past, and dreams are better left as dreams.  I dream of those days, but that's stupid, isn't it?  Those were horrible days, very near the end of the world.  I must be stupid, indeed, for dreaming of it."

"I can't see you as stupid, Leiliana, and you're certainly worth remembering as far more than what you think."

"I appreciate that, Inquisitor.  But I have plenty to tend to here."  Leiliana finally pushed away from the wall and sighed, averting her eyes before her next, carefully constructed words.  "Be careful around the Queen.  She is no Orlesian, but whatever game she has played leads me to believe she's just as dangerous as the dowager.  Anora wanted the throne more than anything, and she was not saddened by Cailen's death, as Alistair was not saddened by my friend's.  It feels...wrong."

And then the redhead was gone, walking away from the mages' path of light, and instead, into steps of darkness that led back toward the silent and unlit garden.  She left him to contemplate the shadows of her absence, before he again motioned for his horse, and sought out the illuminated golden curls of his lion-maned Commander.  

Chapter Text

Darren stumbled proudly out of the washroom, smelling of whiskey and manly perfume; he was eager to utilize the tavern room's mirror.  Now that his stomach burned with alcohol, he could look at himself properly, and talk himself into approaching Dorian.  Tonight was the night!  

The Inquisition convoy had arrived several hours earlier at the small town of Helmfirth, which was less of a town and more of a port that connected settlements across the Bannorn to ship-brought goods.  Despite its lack of general amenities, it did have a spacious tavern for its many visitors.  And all anyone could talk about for the last two hours was Hawke's impending arrival.  No doubt Cassandra was either vibrating into another dimension or wringing Varric's neck for keeping the meeting from her until the pub had a large audience with which to embarrass her.   

As someone who had recently garnered a large audience despite his desire to live in a foxhole, Darren had no jealousy toward the other man, and in fact pitied whatever he would endure around a crowd of adoring fans.  The Inquisitor's thoughts were far away from the Inquisition as he pulled the curtain open in the otherwise dark room.  Rain pelted against the windows, and none of the buttery lamplight from other structures filtered past it.  But that's how Darren preferred to look in the mirror, anyway--the less light, the better.  He scrubbed his wet, clean hair haphazardly with the linen in his hand, and then wrapped it around his waist.  

His vision was muted as he stared, studied, his own chest area.  The sight of it wasn't what bothered him; he quite liked his chest.  But he squinted, wondering how the Tevinter mage might see the scars.  Would he see scars at all?  They were pin thin, old by now, but Darren's lack of chest hair made every dip or cut in his torso more pronounced and visible.  He again reassured himself, his head fuzzy with liquor, how Dorian had called him 'strapping'.  The Inquisitor gulped, suddenly giggly, and he realized with glee that all of his usual trepidations were fading to the amber liquid.  Good. 

Golden eyes stared back from the mirror.  So strange, and so inhuman-looking.  And yet he knew others with a similar color.  Morrigan, for one.  Cullen's had a golden tint to them, and Alistair's were honey-colored.  Maybe it meant something that his eyes changed after he was brought back from the dead.

Well, the first time he came back, anyway.  If one were counting the whole Fade experience at the Conclave--that would have been the second time.  

The dim grey-rain light made his white hair appear almost blue.  He was beyond unrecognizable to himself, but somehow, he looked...right.  This was the Inquisitor that everyone looked up to, saw as strong.  The Inquisitor that Dorian was waiting patiently for.  Was he ready, then?  The Inquisitor traced a finger across the mirror, pulling his gaze away from his own uncanny yellow stare and toward the reflection of his fingernail tapping on silver.  It would be different, of course, but that was all right, wasn't it? 

How would he deal with....well, the part where Dorian would feel between his legs?  Maybe he just wouldn't say anything.  

Or maybe, when Dorian grabbed air, "Surprise!"  "Gotcha!"

No, that didn't seem right.  

But stopping in the middle to throw out a disclaimer of "the cup is just for decoration, it's not protecting anything" seemed unlikely to go over well either.  

The door opened, and it was only because of his many buckles and silver accents glinting in the light that Darren knew for certain who entered.  He stepped forward, without speaking, perhaps subconsciously slipping away from the window's light and toward the shadow that embraced Dorian.  He could smell the other man now, and inhaled deeply before his lips found the mage's.  

Dorian made a small surprised sound, but his tongue slid along the Inquisitor's lip and then further, before he drew away slightly.  A mock tsk sound issued, and then he said in a knowingly coy tone, "Been drinking, have we, Your Inquisitorness?"  His hands were surprisingly rough and calloused, which was curious given Dorian's personality, but they moved to slide around Darren's backside and squeeze the copious muscles there.  

"Don't call me that," Darren laughed with slurred speech, seeking the other's lips again, finding them in the dark.  He inhaled deeply and felt the nuzzle of mustache hair as Dorian's bedecked, metal-studded robes bit into his skin from shoulder to bellybutton.  

"As you wish," Dorian responded playfully, but he was pulling back again, leaving a void where their bodies didn't meet.  Darren realized his heart was beating so fast he could hear it thrumming like bird wings in his own ears; despite the alcohol, a fear still lingered in his body, the fear of deception, of what was about to unfold.  The fear of intimacy--the lack of what should have been excitement.  But Dorian's hands were going up, not down, and they grasped Darren's veined forearms instead of...well, anywhere else.  

The mage gently stepped back, and his gaze was unreadable in the dark.  The hesitation in his voice was clear.  "I'm...very tempted, amatus, but...I can't do this right now."

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, for one, you and I agreed to have a talk, didn't we?  Before we tried this."

Darren scoffed mightily, a sound that caused Dorian's eyebrow to raise in the dark.  "Talk?!  I ....then, let's talk!"

"In Tevinter, there are men like us, you know.  Who enjoy the company of other men.  But a subset of them...well, those men can't reconcile this truth within themselves.  They use magic to forget encounters, or, barring the right spell, copious amounts of alcohol."  Dorian's curt, almost insulted head nod accompanied this statement.  "Those methods work well.  Cause one to forget what one hates, when the hate is toward oneself.  I can't say I ever felt that way myself, but I bedded plenty who did."

Darren's bleary, confused blinks glinted in the dim light.  "You...you think I hate...this part of myself?  That's attracted to men?"

"Do you?"

"No!"

"Curious then, why the come-on includes such a level of inebriation."  Dorian's hands found Darren's, and he threaded their fingers together.  "It's not your fault, I just...can't do that.  To myself or to you.  We have to talk about this when you're in your right mind."

"I'm IN my right mind!"

"Then you'd agree that I deserve better than a drunken night in a tavern being my first time with you!" Dorian's voice rose shrilly with this sentence, and when he stepped forward, Darren stepped back, wordless after the rare flash of anger.  The altus's glare softened almost immediately into a gaze of sadness, almost as if he pitied the Inquisitor.  

There was silence between them for a moment, before Darren closed his parted lips, and agreed in a quivery tone, "Yes, you do."

"Exhausting, standing up for oneself all the time," Dorian said, attempting to call forward his usual breezy, easygoing tone, but he was still hurt.  "Sometimes it's harder to have standards."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"I will go nurse my hurt feelings with alcohol and take a nice piping hot bath in your suite, as it's the biggest, and we've decided I deserve more than this.  You should go make an appearance at the tavern.  You're the Inquisitor, after all."  The last two sentences were said with more than a hint of disdain, and Dorian pushed past the other man to enter the large second room, closing the door without another word. 

---------------------------

The Iron Bull waved Darren toward an empty, quiet seat; most of the Chargers were out in the large room singing drunken ballads, or they were passed out near their Chief's table.  Bull winked toward Cassandra, who was feverishly gushing over an embarrassed-looking Hawke in another side of the building, and Darren snorted.  He was still so drunk that he tottered as he walked toward his Qunari friend, and almost fell over the other warrior as he found a seat.  

"You look pale, Boss," Bull commented.  "If you're gonna puke, do it in somebody else's boot this time.  Need mine for the fancy castle."

"But yours are big."

"And expensive.  Puke in someone else's boot, that's that."

"You're no fun."

"Hmmm."  Bull chugged from an entirely too-large mug--was it a pitcher? and Darren eyed the drink warily.  He could go for getting absolutely lost in alcohol, but then again, he didn't have a good puking place anymore.  He must have looked miserable, because Bull was still eyeing him warily.  When Darren met Bull's gaze, the former spy lifted his eyebrows knowingly.  "What'd you do."

"I messed up."

"You piss off your mage?  The pretty one."

"He--aren't there a few pretty ones?"

"Are you kidding me?  Viv is like ice in a velvet dress.  That witch...well..she's...she's somethin', but I don't think 'pretty' covers it." 

He burped.  "I guess Solas COULD be pretty.  He'd need different clothes."

"Something with armor?"

"Yeah!  Thigh armor.  Maybe a fur stole."

"What is a stole?"

"Boss, will you get to the point?  I need the gossip.  And you look like you need a friend."

Darren sighed, and his voice dropped, not that it needed to, with the loud hum of patrons.  "I wanted to...well, consummate the relationship.  I started drinking.  I came onto him after a bottle of Mackay's Single Malt."

"Ooh, yum!"

Darren's unamused expression caused the Qunari's smirk to fall.  "Right.  Well, I'm kinda surprised you two hadn't gone at it like rabbits already.  Two pretty boys in silk shirts, nice big castle, lots of...hair oil...?"

"Bull."

"Anyway, Boss, that's like day one shit.  You wanna keep fuckin', you don't do the first time drunk, first time's gotta be sober.  Thought everybody knew that."

Darren sighed loudly.  Maybe he had known that, a bottle ago, but he'd forgotten somewhere in the middle of his own bath.  He'd spent nearly an hour psyching himself up for the moment, after days of watching Dorian flit effortlessly between wagon and horseback.  The first day was sunny, and the mage sweated--Darren had never seen him sweat--his curls came loose from their style and draped over his beautifully dark-skinned brows.  His grey eyes were piercing in the sunshine.  When their eyes met...well.  It was enough to drive anybody crazy.  

"He mad?"

"Yes.  He kicked me out of my own bath."

"Hah! Nice.  Wonder if he'd want company?  To soothe the burn of--"

"Bull!"

"What?!  Unlike you, I'd have the decency to let him know it's just sex."

"I don't want just sex!"

"Then why come onto him drunk?"

Darren hesitated, his lips parting, but then Bull sputtered on his own drink.  "Wait, Boss.  You're telling me, that you wouldn't say NO to that?"

"To which?"

"To me propositioning your mage."

"I...er....Dorian's a big boy," Darren stuttered, "And anyway, he's mad at me, it's probably never going to happen."  This sentence was punctuated with the Inquisitor slamming his head onto the table unexpectedly; Bull raised his eyebrows, but took another chug from a different pitcher on the table.  

"Interesting.  Verrrry interesting. So, what's got you scared?"

"Scared?  How do you know I....wait.  You."  Darren sat up, hair askew, and a red mark on his forehead.  "You're doing that damned spy thing."

"Just readin' em like I see 'em, Boss.  Might as well tell me."

Darren hesitated only briefly.  Christ, half the Inquisition would know his secret before Dorian, at this rate.  The Inquisitor rolled his eyes at himself, and leaned in.  "Bull...this has to stay between us."

"Right."

"It's very important."

"Uh-huh."

"I am serious."

"I know."

"And you can't...freak out, or be surprised.  Just stay in spy mode, or whatever it is you're doing."

"I'm drunk, Boss."

"I...I'm..." his voice was almost a whisper; Bull's horns were intimidatingly huge, horrifying, when he leaned in.  "I'm...like Krem."

Bull's expression turned to a strange one; confusion.  

"A...tailor's son?"

The Inquisitor rolled his eyes, and then sat spreadeagle, opening his torso and legs toward the warrior in an overly-manly stance similar to Krem's.  Iron Bull drew back, still drunkenly contemplating.  "I've fought with you, you're no shield spammer.  I KNOW you're not Tevinter.  So, what do you--OHHHHHHHHHH!"

"SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Bull immediately drank from another pitcher, and Darren slunk back into his prior posture, nursing his forehead in one of his palms.  He listened to his companion chug for a moment, before Bull burped again.  His voice was low and breathy as he leaned in. 

"You mean the born-the-other-way part, or the liking chicks part?"

"W...bu....I....the....first part."

Bull stated matter-of-factly, "That's hot."

"Excuse me?!"

"Yeahhhhhh! Don't get me wrong, Krem is...like a brother to me.  I don't see anything in him that way.  But give me a strappy, meaty human warrior--" he curled his hands into very large claws, as if grabbing at meat-- "Nice jawline, big shoulders, but he's got double the fun equipment--"

"BULL!"

"There's a whole variety of things I like, but...that one?"  He nodded enthusiastically before drinking again.  "That...I like."

Darren didn't know what to say, and a moment later, Cole appeared, sitting on the table instead of on the bench, to say, "His face isn't pale anymore, that's good, now it's red.  Maybe a compliment will help his confidence--but I meant it."

"Kid, no offense, if you don't quit doing that, I'm going to stick your head in this mug and make it fit, do you catch my meaning?"

"Sorry," Cole grinned, and glanced at the Inquisitor.  "But you are very red.  What was the compliment?  Do you feel better?"

"I'm losing my stiffy here, Boss," Bull said with lowered brows.  "I'm gonna go sniff out your bath boy.  Tell him you sent me."

"Don't you DARE--BULL!"

Too late--the warrior was already up, and stretching as if the drinking session had been a good warmup.  He patted the Inquisitor innocently on the head.  "I mean what I say, Boss.  I don't think he'd care.  Don't make such a big deal outta it."

After Bull disappeared into the throng of people, Darren turned to Cole, who was staring dreamily out at the group, his usual thoughtful expression as good of a cue as any for Darren to seek reassurance.  

"Do you really think he wouldn't care?"

"If he daydreams of touching hundreds of parts of you, and dreams of your soul the most, what's so wrong with the one part being different than he dreamed?"

"Some people would say it's a pretty important part."

"But you would have it if you could.  It's not your fault that you can't."

"I...I've never heard anyone say anything quite like that.  Thank you, Cole."

"Varric is....baffled about something," Cole supplied, easily changing the subject, and drawing one leg up toward his chest.  "Strange feeling for him, always so in control and plotting options of what's next."

"He might be baffled that he's still alive, after embarrassing Cassandra," Darren offered, but his eyes found the approaching dwarf, and together, the pair sat while Varric picked his way through the partygoers, and then over the passed-out Chargers, to stare skeptically at the Inquisitor.

"Varric."

"Inquisitor."

"You look..."

"I'm baffled," he admitted, and Darren smirked at Cole, who was simply staring serenely at Varric. He tilted his head, his whole hat shifting like a big shield, and stayed quiet as usual.  Varric shrugged, looking agitated.  "All this socializing must've caught on to the Tevinters, or somebody spiked their drinks, or something."

"Which Tevinter are you referring to?  Dorian's upstairs, and Krem is asleep."

"Asleep is a very kind way of putting it, Inquisitor," Varric said with a huff laugh.  "No, I'm not talking about either of those.  Uhhh....Hawke's companion.  He...wants to see you.  Said he had some very important business.  Was actually pretty pushy about it. And I'm not about to turn him down, because I've never heard Fenris demand to see anybody.  Usually he demands NOT to see people." 

"Fenris? Do you mean...."  The Inquisitor, like most, knew the tale of the Champion, and knew the names of those who fought with him in Kirkwall. The elf was a large part of the story, and though Varric had probably taken creative liberties, he was one of the most popular characters in the novel series written about the Champion.  Cassandra could screech all she wanted, but Darren had eaten up those stories just as much as any courting girl.  Fenris was a swoonworthy, somber elf with magic tattoos and angst.   Or, so the stories went, anyway.  

"The broody one, yes.  So, I need you to go talk to him, because I need you to tell me every word he says.  He wouldn't tell me what it was about."

"Fenris is here?"

"I know, I'm shocked too.  He's...keeping his distance.  Come on, I'll show you."

When Darren stood, Varric stared up at him skeptically.  "You're not gonna puke on him, are you?"

"It would round out my night, to be honest," Darren shrugged, steadying himself as they walked. 

Chapter Text

The Inquisitor's anxiety seemed to melt into the frosty night air when he exited the tavern; he had the alcohol to give him the illusion of warmth, and his spirits were high once more.  And the cold wind brushing over his flushed cheeks was welcome.  Indeed, the surge of dizziness that accompanied his walk instilled him more of the false-whiskey-confidence, and by the time Varric led him toward the docks, the Inquisitor was practically smiling.  

"I've missed Fereldan's towns so," he muttered quietly, and Varric supplied with a throaty chuckle, "Oh yeah, the fields of manure and lingering aroma of fish mixes so well in the palate."

"You're not going to ruin this for me tonight," Darren said enthusiastically, golden eyes searching the few scurrying forms that still dallied in the moonlight of the hub, wondering which of them was the notorious elf.  

"Get laid, did you then?"

"Not exactly."

"Dorian, not in the mood? I can't believe that."  Varric was definitely leading them toward the docks, where several well-crafted boathouses stored smaller vessels that were not carrying cargo.  

"Er, well, he didn't appreciate my drinking," Darren said with a flush returning, and his smile turned wan.  

"Performance anxiety? It happens!" Varric waved a hand so dramatically that Darren flared his nostrils in response, but before he could think up a witty retort, he faltered even more at the lean figure that turned from its shadowed perch against the boathouse railing.  

"Aha! There he is.  Would recognize those spikes under any cloak."

There was probably a white shock of hair under the cloak; Darren couldn't see, but he could see the pronounced eyeroll that the elf offered.  Visible too was the silhouette of his sharp ears.  The cloak was not hiding the basic Fereldan garments of wool and cotton; it covered sharp armor that glinted against the dim lanternlight. 

Most people would have spoken by now.  Bowed, or stuttered.  Or done that strange, excitable shoulder-shimmy that the Orlesians perfected. Fenris did none of these, and in fact he barely spared a glance at the Inquisitor, instead holding out a clawed hand toward the dwarf.  The gauntlets startled Darren at first; they were so well-articulated they could have been dragon hands, but the metal shining was finally a giveaway.  

He didn't understand the meaning of the gesture, but Varric did, scoffing and digging into his own pockets.  "I told you if you gave me another few hours I'd win it back at the table!"

The claw fingers beckoned with Fenris's chuckle, and on the inner palm, Darren saw a ghostly white...line? It must have been the markings the elf was famous for.  He tried not to stare, instead turning skeptically toward Varric. "I've never known you to lose card games.  You always cheat."

"That he does," Fenris said in what was decidedly a not-broody, rather upbeat tone, but it was still a low, velvety baritone.  Darren did a double-take at a deep voice emanating from such a slender elf, as Varric blew a raspberry and dropped a coin purse into the awaiting hand.  

"Well, that's clearly not true at all now, is it?"

"The city guard was watching you the entire night," Fenris countered, a smile hidden in his tone.  

"And THAT is why I'm going to my own private suite to finish gambling.  I'll see you there, later, won't I?"

"Course."  

Varric's eyes twinkled toward Darren.  "Inquisitor?"

"Absolutely not.  I've made enough of an ass of myself for the evening.  I don't need to end up in my smallclothes outside of a tavern."

Varric found this entirely too hilarious as he walked away, and the Inquisitor finally turned from the howling, laughing dwarf, back to his new acquaintance, who was still hidden in shadow.  Fenris gestured with a head nod toward the railing, where a low roof shielded them from both wind and curious eyes.  The Inquisitor followed, almost spellbound, as the other almost slouched against the thick oak railing, and finally shook the hood away. 

Good thing it was dark; he was blushing again.  He hadn't expected Fenris's hair to be tied back, or long--it was in a series of small leather bands, pulled away from his face, and cut short on the sides, with a long ponytail that draped forward over his neck.  The strange light from the moon picked up the white of his hair, along with the almost faintly luminescent lyrium markings that brushed his chin.  

"If I'm that strange-looking, I can put the hood back on," Fenris teased at the almost stunned expression, and Darren cleared his throat loudly. 

"Absolutely do not do that," the Inquisitor said in his bold, strong, Inquisitor voice.  "I don't know why you'd ever put it on to begin with."

"The stares, they get exhausting," Fenris argued, large green eyes sliding to one side as he watched a couple walk past down the breezeway.  "I thought you might be one of few people to understand that."

"Perhaps," Darren said, holding up his left hand almost cheekily.  For a moment it was bare, until he focused his energy on the mark, and a deep green pulse lit up his own face, as well as the elf's.  Fenris's cool, stoic gaze melted into one of curiosity and interest, his eyebrows lifting and lips parting at the sight.  In response he lifted his own hand and a bright white-blue emitted, causing a strange sheen over the skin.  Both men's spark show ended rather abruptly, and their hands lowered nearly simultaneously.  The Inquisitor, thank the alcohol, found his words easily again.  

"Is there anything I can do for you, Fenris?"

"Possibly.  But first, a question."  The wonder was gone from his eyes, the catlike slouch was back in his shoulders.  His stare looked almost threatening as he tilted his chin out toward the human.  "What are your thoughts on slavery?"

Well, THAT wasn't anywhere...near...what?  Darren blinked, confused, and then licked his lips.  "I...don't?  I don't approve of it, I mean, of course."

Fenris's nostrils flared.  "And yet you travel with a magister's son."

It was Darren's turn to lean against the rails.  He stared over the water, considering this for a moment, before nodding.  "So I do.  We've spoken of it.  It's something he understands is wrong--"

"Does he now?  The Pavus family keeps slaves, many of them, in fact."

There was a venom in the elf's tone that definitely seemed more in line with the way Varric wrote him; when Darren's eyes met the other again his face was twisted into some mixture of anger and disdain.  But Darren was too full of alcohol to be bothered by it, and coolly retorted, "Shall I hang him at sunrise then?  Would that suffice?"

Fenris rolled his eyes.  "You've been around Varric too long."

"No, this is all me, I assure you.  I can be witty by myself."

The elf's gauntlets rapped impatiently against the railing.  Darren blinked steadily.  

Finally, the request came, from nearly gritted teeth.  "I am in need of..." A sigh.  More teeth clenching.  "Would...he...be willing to discuss....never mind, it was a stupid thought."

"What! No, go on, please.  Though, I will say, if it's a conversation about slavery, you'd probably rather have that one with Solas.  I'd call him our...slavery rebellion history expert."

Fenris's eyes lit up.  "Rebellion?"

Darren's eyes lit up in response, and his voice lowered, though he could still not match the pitch of the other man.  "Is that what you're interested in?"

Slowly, with a squint, Fenris nodded, a hint of a smile returning to his lips, as if he approved of this method of interrogation.  "It is.  I need..." he sighed.  "Allies.  Though I'm loathe to make any of a Tevinter mage, and yet, those allies seem necessary, and well advised.  The thought of asking disgusts me."

"I thought the same, when Dorian showed up, but then he saved all of our asses."

"Mmm."  It was a noise of disgust.  Fenris was looking over the water again.  Oh, he was definitely broody.  Swoon-worthy brooding.  Darren's chin fell into his own palm as he watched the elf ruminate in silence.  

Though he was loathe to interrupt, Darren sensed that this brooding and observation might perpetually continue, so he offered, "I would be happy to talk to him about it.  Perhaps you could come to Skyhold.  I'm certain Solas would speak with you as well, if you wished.  We've got the whole..problem in the sky at the moment, but it won't be there forever, ideally.  And I've no qualms against sending help your way to stir up trouble for slavers.  They don't deserve to live in peace."

This last part caused a smile to trace over the statuesque lips, and Fenris actually smirked at the other man.  "I may see what others see in you, Inquisitor," he said vaguely.  

The Inquisitor blushed deeply.  He waved a hand dismissively, but when he saw the other move to pull his hood back up, he found his voice again.  "Wait! A moment.  There is something I wanted to ask you.  Uhhh.  If you don't mind."

Fenris quirked a dark brow, and lowered the hood, resuming his lean against the rails.  

"Go ahead." 

Chapter Text

TEN YEARS EARLIER

Danica sat by a small pond and huffed as she tried to get the unfamiliar and stiff white tresses to lay in a pleasing way.  They refused.  It was nearly a month ago she was pulled from the river by the Dalish.  They'd all said she emerged with these long white strands, but all the oils and herbs in Ferelden couldn't get the hair to smooth or wave the way it had before.  Which, she should have just put it in a ponytail and forgotten about it, as she often had while traveling during the Blight....but.  There was a reason for her fretting.  

Zevran had entered the camp days earlier.  Despite his brown-nosing to the Keeper, she knew he only sought the Dalish when hiding from Crow scouts.  But their reunion had been a happy one, full of many relieved tears from both.  He agreed to keep her survival a secret--not that he was in the business of speaking with any of their former companions.  He traveled to and from the towns to trade in the days after, and today his news was joyful, though--or would have been, if she could fix her DAMNED hair.  

The Coronation date would be announced soon, and word in Denerim according to the Antivan spy friend was that Alistair had another important news piece to share.  He would speak for the second time after defeat of the Archdemon.  Had Zevran had the ability to convene directly to Alistair, no doubt he would have surreptitiously told the king-to-be that his love hadn't perished in the fight with the monster as everyone believed.  Denerim was locked up like a fortress after the attack and the castle even moreso, no doubt to prevent any assassination attempts before the transfer of power.  

Regardless, several messenger birds had been sent to the castle from the Dalish, with a similar, if not more cryptic, message for the king, about the whereabouts of Lady Cousland.  Two of the pigeons had returned with notes, though the shorthand on them simply read 'confirmed' with no more information or word. 

It was all very strange.  But none of that mattered.  She was going to go to Denerim, she was going to see his speech, she was going to hear his announcement.  She would surprise him.  Would he know her? Of course he would.  Wouldn't he?  He would see her and everything would go back to the way it had been.  It was all a strange dream and they would see each other and she would wake up.  And suffer through whatever being Queen entailed.  She had readied herself for that terrible position when they first made the plans.  A lifetime of hiding.  A lifetime of "Her" Majesty.  Probably the worst dresses Ferelden had to offer.  Elaborate hairstyles with her now untameable hair.  

It wouldn't matter--she would be with Alistair, that's what mattered.  

She stared into the pond morosely, wondering what Alistair might think of her changed look.  Nothing else had changed.  Just the color of her hair, and eyes. The Dalish had their own reasoning for this, but it involved an elven deity.  Danica didn't quite know what to think.  And regardless of the mechanism of change, she otherwise looked the same.  Unfortunately.  Danica peered more closely, hating the heart-shaped chin, the feminine shoulders.  Here, she wore simple clothing, no armor to bulk her figure, hide her chest.  She'd confided with the Keeper about...changing.  But now she couldn't entertain that, could she?  Not if she were to go back to Alistair.  

"Perhaps a braid?" Zevran said in his usual peppy tone, sauntering up with some type of warm biscuit in hand.  She smiled at him when he offered her half, and he knelt beside the slumped woman and her reflection beneath them.  

"He always liked my hair down," she admitted with a sigh.  "Will you come with me? I'm...afraid."

"Afraid!" He scoffed, biscuit nearly choking him in the act.  "It was only a month past that you two planned your wedding!"

"I just have a bad feeling.  I don't know.  I can't explain it."

"If it's the hair, I'm certain we can find some red stain to get it where it was before.  I hear the Orlesians have--"

"It's not that.  I can't explain it.  But you'll come? To his speech?"

"Of course."

-------------------

She wore a hooded cloak; that made hiding the hair easy enough, anyway.  Danica and Zevran moved smoothly through the crowd of Fereldans, both looking Dalish with their green and grey robes amid the mustard and treebark wool of Denerim's finest.  The flowy, loose garments got the pair a few curious stares, but most eyes were turned toward the castle, where the main balcony was decorated with flowers and plastered with many Theirin family banners.  They fluttered in the afternoon breeze as if excited for what would come.  

Flowers, that was it...why hadn't she worn a flower crown?  That would have been a statement for the young King.  But then, why would she have thought to do that?  The agony of wearing a dress was enough--why add more torture?  Cousland had considered wearing other attire, but most of the Dalish clothing wasn't gendered, and a robe and a kilt both had the same effect on her mood. 

Zevran's stare toward the balcony was one of curiosity.  His blond head turned to her, though, and his shoulder pressed into hers.  His penetrating gaze caused her to finally look away from the balcony, meeting his sly stare.  The elf was a bit shorter than the human, and she always enjoyed when he batted his lashes coyly up at her, as he did now.  "Excited, are we?"

"Ugh."

With little warning, a blond head appeared at the edge of the balcony, followed by a small crowd and a line of black-armored guard.  The King's guard, still wearing black to mourn Cailan.  With a jolt, she inhaled.  It was really him!  Just...there, sauntering to the edge where the flowers quivered in the wind, leaning toward the crowd, palms on the stone.  Her heart caught in her throat, and she stood on her tiptoes to stare past the farmer's hat that partially blocked the view.  The crowd began cheering, but the woman and her companion stood breathless as Alistair met the edge of the balcony, a forced half-smile on his face.  It was still dazzling, and her heart soared and fell.  He was so handsome.  

Suddenly, she wished she had a large gaudy bow on her hair, or the afore-thought-of flower crown.  And lots of makeup.  And maybe painted nails, like Leiliana had talked about.  And maybe fancy underclothes.  

As she struggled to look upon the golden-haired prince, she heard more than a few murmurs--

"He looks like Calian!"  
"He truly is his brother!"
"Only half brothers?"
"So handsome!"

Danica's lips were pressed into an anxious smile.  She wanted to be up there, by him.  Not for any royal status or glory, simply her love for the other.  Her hands wrung anxiously in front of the forest-colored dress.  He would speak--he hated speaking, but he had been finding his footing with it after the Landsmeet.  His mouth opened and after a pause, Alistair began to speak.  She couldn't focus on his words.  The crowd around her, though hushed, still made enough noise that his voice didn't quite land from this far.  It was kingly business, of course, thanking his people.  Her ears rang with a strange mix of foreboding and excitement.  

Her now-golden eyes studied him the best she could from this far, in lieu of catching every word he said.  Alistair looked thinner, she decided.  Unwell, even, as if he needed sleep.  He looked strangely small in a simple black and blue ensemble, with no heavy pauldrons encapsulating his shoulders.  He seemed paler, too.  Perhaps he was nervous.  And his speech was more even and metered than Alistair usually spoke.  Had he actually practiced what he would say?  That seemed...unlike him.  The warrior's heart fell when the same bad feeling rose again, but Zevran was poking her with his elbow, and inching forward through the crowd.  She trailed along, eyes still on her fiancé.  What a strange thought! But then, he'd already confirmed his wants in Denerim.  They had plans.  Why didn't it feel that way?

Closer now, and Zevran was slowing in his weaving pattern.  Her worries melted as she saw him clearer now, and struggled to hear his words. 

"---would I be, without my wise counsel these last few weeks, so of course I have asked Arl Eamon to remain regent as the coronation approaches.  And after.  His advice and leadership will guide the Throne in Maric's stead.  And, the announcement."  Did he look...ill?  Or maybe he was just tired?  Alistair's normally twinkling eyes were almost glazed, or dim as he stared over the crowd, his gaze missing her entirely with every planned, regulated sweep of the crowd.  She was digging her nails into Zevran's arm.  The elf flailed silently in pain as Alistair continued.  

"We all know that there was one woman who carried Ferelden through this Blight, who worked tirelessly behind the scenes to ensure her people were taken care of.  A woman of noble blood who is no stranger to leadership.  She could see this country through its darkest time, including the loss of its King.  And the loss of her father."  

"He got the messages!  Perhaps he will send out a royal call for you!"  Zevran hissed excitedly, and Danica's hopes soared despite the grave sensation that overwhelmed her.  

"Why would he mention my father and not my moth--"

"After much counsel, I am pleased to announce the coronation will also be a wedding party.  Even if you must have the bastard king, you will not have a bachelor king."   This, and his exhausted smirk, got quite the roaring laugh and cheer from the onlookers.  

Both Zevran and Danica froze, too confused to even exchange a glance, so focused were they on Alistair.  The prince turned and beckoned.  From the group behind him a young woman, rather dramatically and with enthusiasm, rushed to his side.  She barely looked at Alistair, and her strange pat on his shoulder was a wet fish answer to his stiff beckon.  Her wide smile was all for the people, who were now cheering again.  

"ANORA?" Zevran said in a loud, disgusted scoff.  Several of the crowd turned to stare sharply at his loud groan of displeasure.  Then he was forced to abandon the noises of shock and spite to cradle the sinking warrior as her legs gave out from under her.  Soon she was rising, tripping, tearing away from her friend and elbowing her way violently through the crowd, leaving Zevran to curse in Antivan and attempt to jog his way through the crowd toward her.  

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Danica returned from the pond after hours of crying, and ripping up the Denerim flyer.  It had a wooden stamp, hand painted, of the Theirin house insignia.  Now it was pulp at the bottom of the pond.  Her face was red and streaked with tears.  Zevran was pacing, and she stormed toward him, holding up a dagger to the assassin, who lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender before his eyes tracked upward.  

"I didn't know I--whoa," he said, his voice changing on the last syllable.  Her hair was wily, short, and at least four different lengths.  One of her ears was cut wide open, and he could see traces of blood on the dagger.  Danica's chest wracked with another sob, and Zevran lowered his hands slightly, hoping she would calm, but he couldn't stop looking at her deranged hair.  The elf's head tilted to the side.  

"Don't say a word," she warned, breathing heavily, on the verge of tears again.  "Just...fix it."

"Erm, I uh...." his fingers flexed.  "A word?"

"WHAT?"

"Fix what?"

She lowered the dagger, her anger waning.  But her voice was still full of venom.  "My HAIR!"

"And ehm, okay. but.  How would you like me to fix it?  I cannot regrow it."

"I want it all gone!" she snapped.  "I am tired of looking like this.  I want...I want to look like..."

His eyes lit up, and Zevran's head nodded so furiously it was almost comical, even with the dagger pointed at his chin.  

"Say no more.  I understand.  Let us...as you say, fix it." 

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Darren's eyes traveled to the pale, colorless tresses that hung over Fenris's brow.  The elf noticed this change in gaze, and his eyebrow raised even higher, his nostrils flaring slightly.  The Inquisitor, despite his inner reluctance at every word spoken, plowed on ahead with little regard once he'd gotten permission to ask. 

"I read...well, and spoke to Varric about it..."

Fenris's posture changed from guarded to lethargic, as if he were already tired of the question, but his stare remained attentive anyway.  He was either stiff or polite.  Maybe both.  

"According to him, your...hair.  It was only this color after...."

Fenris answered for him, his stare lightening slightly, as if he hadn't expected the question.  With a nod, he confirmed.  "When I...got my markings.  The ritual."

"Forgive my ignorance, but...do you know why that was?"

Fenris shrugged, his gaze returning to the misty waters.  His profile was so beautiful, Darren decided, as he noted the way the elf's chin jutted out to match his full lips.  Or the way the blue-tinted magic light held in the lanterns made the dark skin look even darker, save for the white traces that almost reflected moonrays in their curves.  He was quite glad he'd invited the elf to Skyhold.  One could imagine how a snowy mountain backdrop would make the profile and skin look.  Or better, the warm light of the tavern.  

"I've heard differing opinions, each as likely as the next.  Several templars have said it's something to do with lyrium, as they've known Templars who had premature white hair after years of partaking.  Elves, particularly those who are...hmmm, interested with their gods, say it is a blessing or a sign."

"A sign of what?"

"Ghilan'nain, usually." 

Darren scoffed a laugh.  "Unbelievably, I've heard the same about mine."

"You don't put faith in those stories?"

"I'm a human."

Fenris's smile flickered back across his face.  He instantly looked younger.  Almost mischievous.  "Perhaps the Elven gods don't discriminate."

"Tell that to the Dalish." 

Then it happened; the Blue Wraith chuckled.  It was gravelly, and wavering, as if he rarely made such a sound.  For a moment, it was followed by Darren's satisfied grin, and then the elf hesitantly ventured, "I must assume, since you ask, that your hair appeared...different, as well."

"You assume correctly."

"Was some magic rite involved?"

Darren shook his head, and withdrew the necklace that he'd worn since he washed up from the river outside the Dalish camp all those years ago.  It was plain, by most necklace standards, but Fenris's forest-colored eyes landed directly onto it as the Inquisitor's thumb hooked the chain.  The elf's arms unfolded as he leaned forward, the large, spiked gauntlets brushing up against the fabric of the Inquisitor's shirt with the softness of silk.  Before he touched the small orb, his gaze flickered back to Darren, and he interjected delicately, in that growl, "May I?"

"Please."  Darren stuck his neck out, feeling at once brave and very shy, as if he might catch on fire at any moment.  He stared at the rafters of the boathouse roof.  "I had a near-death experience, one might say.  I...er...almost drowned."  Close enough.  "When I was found by hunters, my hair had changed color.  I was also wearing this necklace."

"This is...familiar to me," Fenris said ponderously, and the pads of his fingers glowed lightly as he turned the glass-looking pendant.  His wide eyes moved into a squint.  "Though I cannot place from where.  Not Tevinter."

"Dorian said the same."

"Hmmm."  The elf hesitated.  "I once saw a pendant with a similar setting, though it held a locket, not a stone.  Years ago."  Fenris almost abruptly straightened, his shoulders pulling back as if he found the necklace, or perhaps the Inquisitor, unacceptable to be so close.  

"In Kirkwall?"

"Mm."

"Well? Where was it from?"

Fenris gave him an awkward glance, and then scratched at the back of his own neck.  "It was given to Hawke by Flemeth.  She later...appeared from it.  She seemed to carry herself in the jewelry, somehow."

"FLEMETH?"

"The setting was similar, but not the stone," Fenris repeated, as if to halfheartedly reassure the Inquisitor.  His head shook slightly.  "I cannot make sense of most magic, but there is some sensation in what you wear."

"HOPEFULLY NOT FLEMETH!"

"Agreed," Fenris answered in what was almost a jockish scoff.  The elf almost chuckled again at Darren's wide eyes and shocked expression.  "I do not think it is.  She is powerful, is she not?  Likely one of your mages would have sensed such a thing.  She was released from the locket by mages.  Elves.  As I recall, you've both in your company."

"I...yes.  But...still.  Now I have to go ask Hawke if he can double check it."

"I'm certain he would appreciate a break from the doe-eyed stares in the tavern."

"Do you want to come with me?  Get some doe-eyed stares of your own?"

"I would rather not."  Fenris's broodiness flared back into existence, and his brows lowered in annoyance, his aristocratic lips curling upward in a disdainful, sour frown.  Too late, he recognized the jovial, almost stupid smile across Darren's face as one of a joke, and his shoulders sagged.  "You were...joking."

"I could stare at you for awhile longer, if that's more tolerable."

"It would be," Fenris said quickly, perhaps too quickly, but then he folded his arms again, backing away to lean against the railing, happy to gaze out at the water.  "But I've other business to attend to."  To the Inquisitor's surprise, the elf met his eyes again, this time without the brooding, accusatory stare.  "I will take you up on your invitation, Inquisitor.  I will send word before venturing to Skyhold."

"We would be honored with your presence, Fenris.  I'll speak with Dorian beforehand."

"Thank you."

"One more question, and I'll let you get back to brooding."

"Mmm."

"Varric never said.  What color was your hair before?"

Fenris snorted, and shifted his shoulders.  "If I tell you, how do I know it won't end up in one of Varric's lie-filled stories?  Most likely, the absurd romance between--" a disdainful snort, "Fenrir and Sanders?"

Darren blushed deeply, absolutely unwilling and unable to tell Fenris he'd read the copy of that particular trashy romance at least six times.  He coughed awkwardly, unable to stop smiling.  Fenris's piercing look was almost sensual.  It was made worse when he licked his lips. 

"Brown."

"I...see."

"And yours?"

"Red."

Both men stared at the other for a moment longer, each imagining a former self, before Darren awkwardly bow-curtseyed and tottered away, leaving the Tevinter elf to finally raise his hood and hide the milky strands from any would-be doe eyes.  

Chapter Text

After everything they'd gone through during the Blight, perhaps she shouldn't have felt strange about being nude in the river--the same river she'd been plucked from by the Dalish, nearly lifeless, after being dropped by the dragon and seemingly drowning.  She should not have felt strange that Zevran was there as well, all pretense of clothing forgotten, and her back was to him as he made cuts and tugged at tufts of hair with his dangerously sharp dagger.

The water skirted around their waists, hiding the most vulnerable parts anyway, and her arms were stiffly crossed about her chest.  She had no more hair to cover her breasts with, she thought oddly, watching pieces of white strands fall into the river and cascade away without a thought.  Was it so easy, to let go?  Of pieces of herself?

Zevran's fingers were light, his movements steady and assured.  Yet his voice did shake when he attempted, "I simply do not understand...how he...why he."

"It's all right."

"But, my contact...this makes no sense.  Surely, if Alistair only knew for certain you were alive--."

"Which contact?"

"An old friend from a guild that worked with the Crows.  Human, mostly, thieves.  She told me at her latest barter the news that spread among them like a disease. A tavern full of witnesses...the to-be-King, drunk and pathetic in a lowly Ferelden bar, sobbing into a stein over the loss of his Hero.  His Arl had to come and find him, and take him away.  Quite the scandal." 

She cringed at the thought of this, and tried not to stare at their warped, shimmering reflections in the river.  Zevran's blade made strange, sharp noises as it cut through the hair.  She didn't see it, but he pocketed a few strands for his own sentimentality.  

"So you're saying he hasn't forgotten, but maybe he's been..."

"Brought into line like a good pup?"  The derision in the elf's tone was clear.  "Far more likely, I would say." 

After a few more tender, quiet moments of this grooming, he added with a sly, charming chuckle, "They say he got a tattoo that night, you know." 

"Oh, stop," she chided, and when he argued again, she spun on her heel, forgetting she was on slippery rock.  The human faltered, leaning on her friend for support, but playfully slapping his bare shoulder when he laughed.  

"That isn't funny!"

"I am not joking!"

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The Inquisitor would make his way back through the tavern room to where a disgruntled, sleepy Dorian would allow (after some half-awake chiding) the other man into bed, where they would curl up in each other's arms as they usually did.  Dorian would complain about the Iron Bull knocking at his door and wanting to interrupt his bath, and the Inquisitor could only awkwardly chuckle at realizing the large Qunari was still asleep on the floor nearby.  

And then his dreams would turn toward the past--toward the Blight, as they had since getting the King's invitation.  He would flip through the painful memory-book yet again, and though he wouldn't know it, Dorian would awake long enough to hear the Inquisitor's soft mutters of Alistair's name. 

But before those events, the Inquisitor would pause on his way to the tavern's room stairs, spying the array of artwork and dates and names scrawled all over a large wooden frame.  Some were works of art, some were crude, other were announcements and notes for patrons.  But one sketch had caught the Inquisitor's pale eyes; he recognized the distinctive, out-of-fashion haircut and the nose in the profile.  A man stood over Alistair's unclothed shoulder, an instrument in his hand.

DRAGON 9:31
TODAY ANNOUNCED FROM DENERIM

ORDER OF SUCCESSION IMPLEYS CAILAINS BRUDER TAKE THRONE 

LANDSMEET CONFIRMS
BLIGHT IS VANQUISHED HERO OF FERELDEN DEAD
HEARTBROKEN LIEGE STOPPED TO MOURN

SINGING TAVERRN SONGS, BRAWL, TATTOO, SLEEPING IN CHAIR
ROSE FOR HIS WOOD BE QUEEN
TAKEN AWAY ARL EAMONS GUARD BEFORE DAWN LIGHT 
SPECTABCLE OF HUMANITY FROM ROYALTY HEIER WITNESSED BY

And a long list of names afterward. Clearly, there were scribes in these rural parts of the country, though their literacy could be challenged.  Dorian would have called it quaint.  The Inquisitor's eyes traveled down the long list of names, now stained and warped by droplets and the passage of time.  A warriors calloused fingertips brushed over the little parchment almost lovingly.  It was, without a doubt, Alistair depicted.  If the drawing hadn't been so obvious, the text made it so.  

Perhaps the tool the other man held was for the tattoo, then.  

How was it possible that Zevran was right? 

And if he was right, how could Alistair simply marry Anora without a second thought, or even a mention of his fellow Grey Warden and the heartbreak her death caused?  

Nothing made sense.