Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Something was wrong.

Trevelyan woke from fitful, swirling dreams burdened with an ache in his limbs and a burning stomach. The sunlight seared his eyes the instant he moved the blanket away from his face, so he hurriedly threw it back over his head.

He was awake and it hurt. It wasn’t even his usual tepid grogginess from a night poorly slept, this felt like an active assault against his senses. His skin was raw and sensitive, his mouth tasted fuzzy and unclean. Every sound scratched at him, burrowing into his brain to pound against the walls of his skull.

It was like he’d been poisoned. It was like—

Oh, yes, he had been poisoned.

He’d poisoned himself.

…With Conscription Ale.

 “Nnnnngh,” he groaned, slowly trying once more to crawl out of bed. A caterpillar pulled too early from its cocoon, when it was still runny mush and not yet a butterfly.

Thunk.

The world spun and rung and hissed at him for a good minute as he slowly processed that he’d fallen onto the floor.

Stop. Assess.

It was morning, and he was in pain. He was in pain because he was hungover. He was hungover because he had been drunk the night before. He’d been drunk the night before because…?

Blank.

--Trevelyan did not get drunk very often. As a man with a great deal of himself to keep carefully hidden in polite company, he despised anything that caused a lapse in his self-control. Anything that made his baser nature come to the surface, made his words slur and his sentences become lengths of loosely strung together fragments. Though he wasn’t sure if the physical clumsiness was any better—it brought him some measure of peace to have a body as well-tuned for all the climbing, running, and general murdering he got up to, and being unable to put one foot squarely ahead of the other was intolerable. It was not something he enjoyed, certainly not for its own sake.

Last night he had something to run from, perhaps. …That usually didn’t happen. Trevelyan certainly hadn’t lived a life without regret, but there was precious little that preyed on him. Little he would subject himself to this for, when he had so many…other ways of escaping his stress.

Last night he…Last night…

A knock on the door scattered his thoughts, and sent another stampede of horses through his mind.

It was one of their messengers. The ones who scurried to and fro about the keep, passing along notes and gifts when appropriate. This one a young man, scraggly with hair that seemed to rebel against being combed. He was carrying a small glass bottle full of pale green liquid.

“Er, Lord Pavus said you might appreciate Ser Adan whipping up a tonic for—”

Dorian.

Last night.

Trevelyan swiped the bottle out of the man’s hand and downed its contents immediately.

Like most potions, the effect was instant, albeit starting out small and blossoming in intensity over the next few seconds. The light in the room dimmed. The squeezing ache on his body lessened its hold.

“Yes, thank you—” He paused, winced as his senses briefly sharpened. “—Yes, and where can I find Lord Pavus now?”

“He is in his spot at the library, but if Your Worship is busy I can go convey your thanks to—”

“No.” Trevelyan flinched at the sound of his own voice ringing in his ears, pausing to close his eyes and settle himself again. The messenger was giving him an odd look. “…I want to go talk to him in person.”

The man nodded, after another moment of hesitation, and left Trevelyan to it. Doubtless busy with a myriad of errands. His kind, they were the only ones in Skyhold who did as much running around as Trevelyan himself.

The library. Yes.

Trevelyan threw the bottle carelessly away when he’d downed the last drop (it clinked, rather than breaking), and started to head out. Then he stopped, jogged back to the mirror he kept on his nightstand, turned it up, and looked himself over.

Terrible. Just terrible. The tonic had helped his headache but he was still sickly pale, shadow-eyed, hair all over the place, some kind of…puffiness about his jaw…

Trevelyan slammed the mirror back down, cursed and went rifling through his drawers for a comb.

He was mid leap down the stairs when another young man, this one looking deathly ill, suddenly appeared along the railing, very nearly sending him vaulting up the wall to get some high ground before remembering that he didn’t have any arrows or knives on hand.

“He’s going to kill her.”

“…Cole, this isn’t a good day for it.”

“You know it. We…both saw it.” After a moment, when Trevelyan put a hand to his forehead, the spirit clarified, “The Empress.”

“Oh, right.”

At Therinfal. Where they'd met, the two of them.

The whole trip had been so vastly unpleasant that Trevelyan had been reluctant to ever turn his thoughts back to it. Not to say that he’d kept his mouth shut about that bust of Empress Celene’s head with the knife on it, he’d reported all he saw to Leliana during her debrief, but…that had been when he was just an agent of the Inquisition, and not its leader. There had been an unspoken assumption that someone else would take care of it, and then when he’d become that someone else, a great deal more urgent fires had popped up in the meantime.

Cole continued, undaunted. “They want to talk about it today—will talk about it today. You need to be there, in the war room. The…end war, room?”

The other reason it hadn’t seemed important was that Celene already had several people openly vying to take off her head already. The one doing it from the shadows just wasn’t all that big a deal by comparison.

Well, if Corypheus thought it was a big deal, then it probably was, but… “That’s all very well and good but I’m going to see Dorian right now, so—"

“Drink to hide from hurt, but hurts more later. Now.” Cole didn’t laugh, but there was a weird little smile of amusement on his face. “Silly. If you want to forget, I could help with—"

“No, no forgetting, not ever, you promised.”

“But my way would hurt less,” he whined. “And I would erase it better.”

Trevelyan wagged a finger in his face, then resumed his trek downwards. It was only when he got to the bottom of the stairs that it occurred to him he could just ask, and he turned around. “Hey, Cole, is Dorian--?”

Ah, Cole was gone.

Oh well. He’d gone most of his life without a spirit giving him tips on reading minds, surely he could muddle through another conversation without him.

The great hall fell like an obstacle in and of itself when he made his way out into it. If this had been early morning he might have found it mostly empty; unfortunately, sleeping in had allowed time for pilgrims and sycophantic hopefuls to crawl in from out of the stonework, and he had no illusions over his ability to restrain himself should they walk up to him. The only real advantage Trevelyan had was that his visage still had yet to be shipped across Thedas on the back of a book jacket or souvenir painting; he could make himself look the part of “Inquisitor”, but hung over and dressed in simple clothes, he could slip through the crowd as long as he kept his head to the ground.

Their chatter was too loud. His hands twitched, but he shook his head. Better things to think about than clearing the hall. Better fantasies for this morning.

With his eyes on his feet, he almost barreled right into a dainty slip of a woman in a yellow dress.

“—Lord Trevelyan.”

He came up short, posture straightening on reflex. Lady Montilyet, clutching her clipboard like a shield, or maybe—as he’d come to think of it now—a weapon to beat him with (metaphorically of course, as the thought of her engaging in violence of any kind was the sort that left him giggling for an hour). Her clothes were immaculate, her hair was tied up without a single strand out of place, and her makeup blended so flawlessly into her natural look that you could only tell she was wearing it if you’d seen her shivering and drenched in a snowbank before. She was looking at him with her eyes lit up. Not from joy, but rather the excitement of a carpenter finding his favorite tool.

“You’re just in time,” she began, gaze running over her papers briefly. “We have much to discuss today. We just received a petition for aid from the Exalted Plains not two hours ago, in acknowledgement of our new capacity here. I suspect that our dealings in Crestwood have done much to give the Inqusition a reputation boost in Orlais.”

“That’s—that’s very nice, Josephine, but I really do need to—"

“The petitioner in this case is Grand Duke Gaspard.”

Trevelyan closed his eyes and rubbed his hand along his forehead. “And whyyyy would the Inquisition start picking sides in their civil war?”

“The aid he requests is not in fighting Celene’s troops,” she explained, brows drawn in. “There has been Venatori activity in the area.”

 Shit.

“Yes—yes, well—” That would require a War Table meeting, naturally. And he’d have to remind them of the whole thing about Celene being assassinated. And so even if they were careful not to pick a side—eventually they would have to get involved in the civil war. If only to figure out what Corypheus’ stake in it was.

But Andraste’s ashes, he couldn’t be arsed to care about the destruction of Orlais.

“—We can talk about that during the war meeting, I’m very—”

Josephine startled, likely taking in his still-slightly-disheveled appearance and drawing her own conclusions from there. Yes it must not have occurred to her, she had probably gotten up and put herself in order hours ago. “Oh! Goodness, you’re right, you haven’t had a chance to breakfast yet. Perhaps—after lunch, then?”

Trevelyan voiced probably twenty different assurances and mindless platitudes as he carefully shoved Josephine back in her office and closed the door.

Now.

The library.

Was it obvious in the pace of his stride? The way he had to hold himself back from sprinting? He took the stairs up the rotunda two at a time, heart catching in his throat, hangover all but forgotten, not sure if he was planning to pounce or what but as more of last night came back to him in bits and snatches he knew with absolute certainty that he wouldn’t be able to think of anything else in the world until he’d gotten to speak with—

“Dorian.”

There he was.

Trevelyan abruptly ground to a halt at the top of the landing, not realizing at first that he’d spoken out loud until Dorian looked up from his book.

The sun was on him.

Sometimes the light was candles and torches, if Trevelyan should happen to catch him later in the day. Flickering, deep orange and dim. But when the day was just beginning, rays of sunlight made their way through the window behind his chair, golden and bright. More than half of his perfect face would be in its shadow, illuminated by the softer light of those candles but hopelessly outmatched by the halo glow of morning along his cheekbone and jaw.

Trevelyan kept staring.

Dorian didn’t burst out in a grin, not the way Trevelyan did instantly. Rather a slow, teasing smirk tugged at his mouth, and he lightly closed the book with a piece of parchment marking his spot.

“So he wakes!” He stood, ambling over in that leisurely, strolling way he did. “And not nearly as dreadful as I’d been fearing. You did get the remedy, then?”

“I did.” And then Trevelyan added untruthfully, because his brain wasn’t working properly, “I came over to say…thanks…”

“Think nothing of it. In the future, I would recommend you watch yourself. Just because I can go through seventeen bottles doesn’t mean you should.”

In his head, he had it planned out, of course, what he was going to say. But then there was the other thing—he was remembering more and more how he’d behaved the night before, and growing increasingly mortified at how forward he’d been. And now they were suddenly in a conversation, and he’d rushed over without rehearsing anything--

The end result was that instead of saying what he’d intended to, Trevelyan blurted out, “Could you remind me? What…we…talked about, last night?” Sheepish. Drawn in. “My…memory is a bit fuzzy.”

Dorian sucked on the inside of his cheek, letting out a soft click before he spoke. “Ah, yes. So many things we…talked about.”

Trevelyan flushed.

Of course he knew that. Of course it was burned into his brain (a few choice sense memories anyway). But to hear Dorian say it that way, with that smooth voice, almost caramel in its intonation, not that—not that Trevelyan really liked caramel, Dorian’s voice was more like a salted dark chocolate that had been conched for hours…

Still teasing, Dorian narrowed his eyes at him. “It looks like it’s coming back to you.”

“I.” Trevelyan cracked his fingers. “When I’m drunk, my conduct can be a bit…Unhinged, I’ll call it.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“I don’t normally…” Perhaps it would have been better to do this when he was rested. “—That is, I hope I didn’t give you the impression that I—You’re a valued f-friend to me, I would hate to think I’ve--I mean I generally, I prefer to—"

There was a hand before his face, stymieing his words. “Ah, say no more, Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan felt his teeth clack as his jaw snapped shut.

Heedless, Dorian continued, no longer sultry and smooth but brisk, maybe even dismissive. “You wouldn’t be the first man to lose his head with me after a bit too much wine. Rest assured, no one need know of your little slip up. We won’t speak of it, and continue with the whole Venatori killing thing as—"

“—No.”

And then he just looked affronted. It went away pretty quickly, buried under another reasonable smile, but Trevelyan saw it.

Trying to speak more delicately, he elaborated, “No, you misunderstand what I’m getting at.”

“Oh?” Dorian cocked his head to the side. Looking somewhat off balance, and…my, wasn’t that an attractive look for him? “…Then please elaborate, dear Inquisitor. What is it that I’m misunderstanding?”

“Hold on.” Trevelyan looked up at the ceiling, tapping his thumbs against his fingertips. “Give me…give me a moment to put it together. I don’t want to stammer.”

Then he moved in to kiss Dorian.

As he’d done last night.

--But carefully, this time.

Careful.

He’d been…sloppy, then, he was sure. Said way too much. Pushed much too hard. So he was careful, now. A gentle kiss, mouth closed, done before he could lean too far into it.

Trevelyan wasn’t sure if it was a good sign or not that Dorian’s eyelids were fluttering when he pulled away.

“Ah…” came the reply, pleasantly slow and considering. Voice lowered an octave again, rich and sonorous. “I see.”

“I’m not generally…very forward,” he explained, strangling his wrists. “When it comes to—to—” The word ‘love’ came to mind, he took a hard turn away from it, absolutely ludicrous. “—dalli…ances, I can be rather…stubborn. So I like to take my time before I…get that comfortable.”

And though he was confident that he had completely butchered what he was trying to communicate, Dorian gave an understanding nod, a wave of his hand. “Then consider me at your disposal, Inquisitor.”        

“Really?”

“Why ever would I not? You think all my previous remarks have been just idle flattery? —Well, granted, idle flattery isn’t outside the pale for me, but nonetheless, consider me intrigued.” He put a hand to his chin, head cocking to the side. “Maybe I’ll even get to see you naked.”

The first blush had only just been receding from Trevelyan’s cheeks when it came back in full force. “I would think so, yes. Eventually. …Maybe with fruit…”

“Fruit?”

“Food?” He blinked. He was thinking of chocolate again. Maybe chocolate covered fruit? Chocolate covered fruit…on things? “Or…pancakes…”

Dorian gave him a patient stare.

“--I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“Ah!” Before he knew what was happening, Trevelyan was being spun around and gently (but firmly) guided towards the stairs. It occurred to him that Dorian could actually just shove him down them and he probably wouldn’t mind, at the moment. “Then it seems the nakedness will have to wait. Shoo, go down to the tavern and eat before they’ve finished off that mush they call eggs.”

Trevelyan twisted, trying to get him in sight again as he was pushed along. “Would you like to join me?”

Dorian’s eyes flickered. “—I’ve already eaten.”

“You hate the tavern food.”

“Which is why I won’t subject myself to it a second time.”

“You don’t have to eat, you could…” Trevelyan’s mind fizzed unhelpfully. “I mean, we could still go down together…?”

“Sadly, I have research to take care of up here.” When they were at the landing of the stairs Dorian released him, and gave a gentle pat to his shoulder as though threatening obliquely to actually push him down the steps. “I would rather not get the books greasy.”

There were a thousand solutions to that, Trevelyan thought, but as he opened his mouth again he suddenly realized what was happening and stammered out an “alright.”

“Do be sure to visit me again.” It couldn’t have been that he was annoyed or…disliked his company. The smile on Dorian’s face as he turned to go back to his nook was making Trevelyan’s insides bubble. “And we’ll see if I can’t get you…comfortable.”

Trevelyan stood there on the landing for a moment, fingers twitching again. He suddenly didn’t want to go to breakfast—he wanted to turn around, to walk back, to do—something, something you weren’t supposed to do in libraries—

But then his stomach growled at him rather angrily.

Only then did he look back.

Caught Dorian’s eyes staring after him.

Watched the man hurriedly duck back inside the alcove the moment their gazes met.

Trevelyan hopped down, taking the steps two at a time and salivating.

Chapter Text

Fighting corpses was one of those things that should be fun, and usually was for about half an hour, and then you remembered that corpses never got tired like you did, and their bodies were all rubbery so nothing fun could come out, and they smelled so terrible that the stench of decay lingered with you hours after your fiftieth bath.

The only upside to these ones was that unlike Crestwood and Fallow Mire, the Orlesian dead were dry and relatively fresh. The sun had baked a few, and that was unpleasant, but Trevelyan would take that over the squish of brackish water in every step.

Generally speaking, the Exalted Plains was not a nice place.

They had yet to reach the war fortifications that Gaspard’s missive had spoken of. After listening to Scout Harding’s report they had set out, and pretty much immediately were set upon. First it was a few wandering undead; they were a pretty regular occurrence, enough to imagine a swarm out there somewhere that these had split from, but that was no surprise. Then it was shades; wormed through the thinned Veil where the fighting of the war had rendered a farmhouse to a burned husk, a village trampled through by cavalry. Many of his companions had spent a good deal of time shaking their heads at this; Trevelyan did his best to appear suitably appalled, if only to not be demoralizing in his callousness.

Then it was a rift. Demons pouring out, all fangs and cruel, whispered words. It was mostly Despair, which put a damper on the buoyancy Trevelyan normally got from fighting, though there was at least one Pride demon that came at them with a whip until Cassandra and Vivienne got it down.

Once that was done, and they were all sufficiently annoyed, they were surrounded by a pack of snarling black wolves.

Trevelyan told them all his hand was hurting too much to go on (it wasn’t) and so they set up camp for the night.

There he was now. The others were still out and about—scouting, building tents, following up on a lead or two for the requisitions officer. Both Solas and Cole had offered to go further to the ramparts to see what the situation was, which Trevelyan allowed only after securing a promise to remain out of sight. For his part, he’d busied himself with skinning and butchering the dead wolves to calm his irritation, and it had done a pretty good job at that.

But before he knew it, busy hands were taking the meat from him, and he quickly got wired up again.

“Blackwall,” Trevelyan complained from his side of the campfire. “You never let me do any of the cooking.”

Blackwall paused to glance over at him, a brow lifting.

“I’m the one bringing in most of the meat. It doesn’t feel fair.”

Somehow the warden seemed in better humor tonight, because he looked almost amused at the whining. “It isn’t my fault you never learned to cook.”

“It isn’t my fault either,” Trevelyan grumbled. “I would have gladly learned. They locked me out of the kitchens.”

“And why was that, I wonder?”

He blinked at Blackwall innocently. “Cook was a harsh woman who hated seeing children happy.”

That made him roll his eyes. He was gathering out items from his pack, odds and ends he must have taken when they left Skyhold, or picked up on the way through the plains. Once the odd assortment was laid out before him he paused, a small frown twisting at his beard.

Then, suddenly, he waved a meaty hand and gestured Trevelyan over.

Trevelyan felt his heart jump inexplicably, scrambling to his feet and moving in a half jog around the fire.

“Here. You like knives. Get to cubing all of this for me. We want even chunks.”

“Even chunks…” he repeated, taking the proffered blade and starting to cut.

Misinterpreting the grin on his face, Blackwall added hastily, “Don’t get too excited. I’m no chef. I know enough to get me through travel without having to stick to dry rations all the time, but it’s nothing fancy.”

“It’s more than I know.” The knife was sharp and sliced cleanly, to his delight. Through the meat and even when it came to the accompaniments, the onions and carrots and potatoes and…He squinted. “These vegetables…Are they from…the farm we just passed?”

Blackwall shifted uncomfortably as he finished getting the pot ready. “It’s not like the old farm owners were going to eat them.”

“Well no. They’re dead. –Thought most of it was torched, though.”

“…There was a patch the soldiers missed.”

While he cut, Blackwall prepped the rest, crushing a few cloves of garlic and coating the wolf chunks in flour and salt. Trevelyan watched eagerly when it came time to sear the meat, the hiss of flesh against the bottom of the pot like a melody in his ears. It reminded him of people getting cooked alive in their armor from lighting blasts…

Blackwall nudged him when what little fat the lean meat had was rendered out. “Throw in the vegetables.”

Then it was crushed tomato, water, a splash of red wine (“Don’t tell Dorian, I nabbed this one from his stash”), and a few sprigs of some herbs Trevelyan didn’t recognize.

The stew was thickly bubbling away when Blackwall put the lid over the pot. Apparently satisfied, he let out a small hum and sat back. “Now it’s just the waiting.”

Waiting. Oh, maybe cooking wasn’t for him after all. Trevelyan felt his attention immediately dip, starting to play with a loose thread on one of his gloves. It was actually quite absorbing, trying unsuccessfully to cut the little thread with his teeth to keep himself from unraveling anything with it. It took a very long time to notice that Blackwall was still there—was, in fact, sat right next to him, a curious expression on his face.

“Word…is that you have been spending a lot of time at the library,” he started.

Trevelyan looked up at him, spitting floss, blinking.

Then crumpled in laughter.

“Dorian said that you all would start talking,” he giggled. “But I didn’t expect you to be the first one.”

Blackwall flushed. “I—I simply wasn’t sure if I had misheard. …There is a great deal of speculation about you in the tavern, most of it rubbish. But lately it’s seemed—more credible, so I…”

“Oh, yes, I did hear that. They’ve been gossiping about it since before it was true.” Trevelyan nodded. “I have been going to the library more often lately. I like to read. And sometimes Dorian is there! It’s a very nice state of affairs.”

There was no intent to mock Blackwall in his tone; he could not, after all, imagine their stern Grey Warden stooping to the level of rumor mongering himself. But he could see the man grow a touch defensive, ears reddening. “You are less—guarded around him,” he hedged. “Than you used to be, I mean.”

“I know him better now. I’ll remind you I was pretty prickly with all of you at the start.” Well. Prickly with some of them even still.

“That I understood. Becoming a figure of faith for so many people—it’s a lot to adjust to.” Faith. Sure. “But with Dorian, it—” Blackwall coughed into his hand. “Well, I didn’t realize someone like him was of any…interest to you.”

Trevelyan felt like holding something sharp, amusement rising. “Why not? He’s an extremely interesting man. Would you like me to count the ways?”

That got him to hurriedly withdraw. “I beg your pardon, it wasn’t my intention to pry.”

“No, it’s alright. It’s not a secret, even if we’re not announcing it.” His head tilted, bangs falling about his face loosely. They’d been on the road a while, and his hair could use a trim. “You don’t like Dorian.”

“I—" Sometimes Blackwall would get this expression on his face. Like Trevelyan was being too blunt, throwing him off guard. Yet, he seemed to respect that bluntness. It was an odd piece of hypocrisy. “We aren’t on the best of terms, no. I would say the feeling is mutual. Maker knows I’ve heard enough of his complaints to see that.” And then, abruptly. “Ah—I should—stir the pot, a little. Keep things from burning at the bottom.”

Trevelyan watched him, the cloud of steam that rose when he lifted the lid. Then he stood up. Blackwall flinched away as he leaned in to pick a leaf out of his hair. “You know, he seems to think that you don’t put any thought into your appearance at all, but I don’t think that’s true.”

Blackwall’s whiskers quivered, a flinch in his expression. Gestures with no significance—that was what Trevelyan saw, always. Perceiving every little thing, but not the meaning behind it.

So he pushed. “I think you know more of grooming than you let on. This…’unwashed Grey Warden’ thing is a remarkable look—but it’s still a look.”

There he was again. Being too blunt. His sisters used to tell him so, warn him that he couldn’t just go around telling people what he thought they were. The misstep became apparent as Blackwall’s eyes clouded, wary and maybe a little suspicious. More than the embarrassed flush. “What exactly are you trying to say, Inquisitor?”

“I mean we all—” Trevelyan fumbled, for a moment, retracted. “We all have preferences for how we want others to perceive us, don’t we?”

“We…do, at that.”

“Whatever you were before you became a warden—that man was very different from what you are now, wasn’t he? That man didn’t dress like this. Didn’t get twigs in his beard. –It’s fine with me, I--” He couldn’t help a laugh. “Maker knows I prefer myself now to who I was years ago. I won’t pry. –Even if I sort of want to.”

“I…appreciate that.”

“—Dorian is like that, that’s where I’m going with this.” He cleared his throat, taking over stirring. Bubbling, cooking, the smell of meat with the raw acidity of the vegetables simmered away. Caramelizing? “…He’s careful about what he lets people see. Lets you think there isn’t anything more. But there’s a lot more. He contains…multitudes. And I like—finding them.”

“…I’ll take your word for it.”

The lid went back onto the pot. The sun was beginning to go down, the sky just starting to burn with orange over long shadows. It wasn’t until the next time they stirred that Trevelyan spoke up, “I wish you two would get along. I’ll tell him to stop calling you a hairy lummox.”

Blackwall finally shook his head, a dry chuckle on his lips. “No, it’s alright. I shudder to think of what else he’d come up with if you took that one away.”

Trevelyan gave a dreamy sigh, resting his cheek on his gloved hand. “He’s so creative, my Dorian.”

“Dear me, my ears are burning.”

And suddenly there he was. Leaning in close (Almost right over Trevelyan’s shoulder) to get a whiff of the stew, that little curl of disgust he was so good at on his lip. “Doing your usual bang-up job of sucking out all the flavor, Blackwall?”

“We were just talking about you,” Trevelyan greeted him brightly.

Dorian glanced at him, expression mute. “Were you?”

“The Inquisitor had a hand in it this time,” Blackwall interrupted, giving the stew another stir and then ladling out a large portion for Dorian. “So if you have any criticisms, you know who to direct them to.”

“Ah.” The bowl received another healthy glare of dissatisfaction before he took it. “I shall choke it down, then. I shan’t like to get thrown out of the Inquisition for wounding his pride.”

“Because that’s a thing I would do,” Trevelyan agreed cheerfully. “Sit next to me, I want to hear you choking.”

Dorian coughed and spluttered mid-tentative sip.

According to Solas’s report, the bulk of the undead weren’t coming from just any random slip in the veil like the ones in the Fallow Mire. Nor were they stemming from a drowned rift like they were in Crestwood. Instead, they seemed to be a result of an animation spell. The Venatori presence that they’d suspected.

Moreover, Cole had returned with one of the officers in tow. A Marshal, Bastien Proulx.

“They would have killed him. And he needs to talk to you.”

Proulx was at the outskirts of camp now. He’d needed seeing to by the healers, recuperating from what was, apparently, quite the battle. Doubtless he had things to say; Trevelyan would have just preferred not to hear them.

“Has anyone here spent any time with proper Orlesian soldiers?” he asked as he pushed a piece of potato around in his bowl. “Do they play the Game too? How likely is it they’ll be straightforward when we talk?”

Most of the Inquisition’s Orlesian recruits were peasants and refugees. Not any point in playing the Game for those who could never hope to advance in it. The men at the bottom rung in the army were likely much the same, but this was an officer.

There were some shrugs. Sera—who had food all over her face—gave a half-hearted call of “all liars” as she ate. Eventually Vivienne gave quiet sniff, inclining her head slightly towards Blackwall.

Blackwall coughed. “The higher officers do play the Game some, but only when they have to, when they’re among other nobles and the like. In my experience—which I’d like to make clear was a long time ago—they’ll be straight with you for a mission.”

“Even if it makes them look bad?”

Bull laughed from his side of the campfire. “No one tells the truth if it makes them look bad.”

“I don’t see why he should lie to you at all.” Cassandra, this time; stew largely eaten and sipping thoughtfully of the broth leftover. “Whatever the Game wishes of the Inquisition, we have a shared purpose here, one which won’t be helped by obfuscating the troubles ahead. Unless he desires to see his people perish on the field. Remind him of that, if you are so concerned.”

Trevelyan’s lips twitched. Good advice. “…Yes, you’re right. …Leliana’s just got me paranoid, that’s all. We had a meeting on the way out of Skyhold.”

“The paranoia is infectious with her, it’s true.”

“I suppose I’ll get talking to him. We’ll come up with our plan in the morning depending on what he says of the situation.” He stood, stretched, gave a mournful glance at Dorian as his right side was quickly growing cold without him pressed against it, and turned to head over to camp edge where the man waited.

“Hey, Smiley—Before you go.” Varric pushed two mugs into his hands. Trevelyan frowned down at them. “One in your left’s a hot whiskey with honey and lemon, other one’s chocolate. I figure buttering him up with alcohol can’t hurt his honesty any.”

“Why is mine different,” he muttered at the mugs.

“Didn’t I hear you loudly moping the other day about never touching alcohol again?”

“I—oh.” He paused. Smelled the sweet aroma curling around him. “…Thank you, Varric.”

Bastien Proulx looked…pretty much what you would expect of an Orlesian officer in the army, albeit a fair bit more battleworn and ichor-coated. His armor was sturdy, pounded out of something that gleamed faintly from the distant firelight, and cushioned by elaborate fabric underneath. It wasn’t necessarily impractical, it was probably responsible for his still being alive now, but it was also a far cry from the simpler platemails that other soldiers of rank preferred.

There were also lion paws carved into his boots; that was cute.

He did wear a mask, an elaborate thing with golden sunbeams climbing high off the top, but like the rest of him it was battered and broken. A large chunk of the lower half of his face was exposed, though pride seemed to prevent him from taking the rest off. Much of that splendid armor lay in tatters on the grass beside where he sat; too damaged to salvage.

Trevelyan took in a breath, tried to look friendly, and held out the whiskey. “Marshal Proulx. I’ve been told you’d like to speak to me. How are you? Comfortable?”

Proulx looked lost at the sight of him, perhaps a bit fuzzy from the healing potions he must have been given, but he seemed to straighten up some after taking a sip from the hot mug in his hand. “Your accommodations are well enough, thank you. Funny thing, I…don’t quite remember how I got here.”

“You’re with the Imperial army, is that right?” Trevelyan pressed him impatiently.

“Yes—yes, I…” The man cleared his throat. “I am. I fight for the Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, rightful Emperor of Orlais. –Though with the peace talks in place, it is demons and undead that we face in battle. Maker forgive me, but I think on days fighting mere men with some fondness, now…At least then it was for a good cause, against that usurper Celene…”

Before he could help himself, Trevelyan blurted out, “Usurper? Strong words for the Empress.”

From the hole in the mask, he saw his nose twist in a sneer. “Bah. She is no Empress of mine. She won her position through trickery and deceit. The Grand Duke—now he is a man of honor. A chevalier, and one who follows the code to the letter.”

“He must be quite creative,” Trevelyan mused appreciatively.

“But Celene—She makes a mockery of the Empire. The dignity of our people, our soldiers. If you had seen the display she made when that dog lord came to visit…” Proulx shook his head. “I apologize. You did not come over to hear me talk politics.”

“Well, no, I actually wanted to ask about—"

“And then there was her negotiating with the Divine, at the start of this whole affair. To have her solve this ‘mage rebellion’, and sacrifice more of our freedoms in the process. Can you imagine? Is it any wonder the Grand Duke saw fit to step in?”

That got Trevelyan to perk up a brow. “…Oh yes? I thought Orlais was chummy with the Chantry. The Grand Cathedral is in Val Royeaux, after all.”

Rather, a popular political opinion in the Free Marches as Trevelyan understood it (that is, as explained to him in one of his brother Percy’s long diatribes) was that the Chantry was an extension of Orlais. Though it could be beloved by the people, it needed to be watched, carefully, for any signs of overreach or negligence to their local benefactors. Or else they’d have more nastiness like what was going on in Kirkwall before the rebellion.

--How interesting that Orlais seemed to have the same fears.

“The Orlesian Empire proudly serves the Maker. But with all things, good ser, there must be balance!” Growing passionate, was his interlocuter. Proulx was releasing spittle through the mask. “We cannot simply kneel to the Divine at every problem! We must maintain some degree of independence!” He gestured at Trevelyan with his mug, spilling a few drops. “After all, you wouldn’t be here if the Chantry were as perfect as Andraste.”

“Hm. I can’t argue with that,” Trevelyan conceded, wiping at his front.

“It is not a popular opinion. But we live in pragmatic times.” The marshal appeared to settle down after a moment, letting out a long and weary sigh. “We must be able to stand on our own, without owing anything to anyone.”

“…And yet, Gaspard asked the Inquisition to intercede here.”

“Don’t be silly.” He gave a sly smile at that. “Your Inquisition intercedes because it is the right thing to do. Not because Grand Duke Gaspard has bargained for your aid. …You do wish to stay neutral in our affairs, after all? Repayment would be uncouth for a good deed done out of generosity.”

Some of his insides flared. They live and breathe it, they see it even though it’s invisible, you don’t know the rules and you don’t know how to play but also you are very good at throwing the board across the grass and breaking the pieces, so--

“Still, you need not worry so much of such things out here. Battle does not mix well with the Game. The same can be said of the Grand Duke.” Proulx took another heavy gulp of his drink. “In truth, I do not think he cares for it much, the double-dealing, the fake niceties. Being a man of action—like yourself.”

Josephine had briefed him on Gaspard before they left, though most of it was family histories that went over his head. He’d have to talk to her again. “Speaking of the action. What exactly is going on with the ramparts? Why are there undead everywhere?”

Proulx gave a weary sigh. “I suppose you have heard of the ‘Free Men of the Dales’?”

“Our lead scout did have something like that in her report.”

“Cowards, all of them. Deserters who have abandoned their posts, their people. Too soft for war; expected only a few skirmishes and balking at having to do real battle.”

“How atrocious,” Trevelyan agreed tonelessly.

“It was not our doing, you see.” Ah, there it was. “It was those Maker-damned Freemen. The moment the ceasefire was called, they started this whole mess. They wish to take the Dales for themselves--preposterous. Hence the name. They attack whoever they can get their hands on for supplies. Even fleeing refugees.”

By the devastation that Trevelyan had seen as they ventured across the countryside, this was standard practice even for loyal soldiers. But he held his tongue.

“There is one of them—we don’t know his name. But when the traitors declared themselves, he revealed himself an apostate. Cast some sort of spell over the ramparts, lights like blue fire. The dead walked soon after.”

“Do you know where this apostate got off to?”

“How could I, in this madness?” Proulx drooped, finishing off his drink and setting the mug aside. “Let me think…The dead grow in number by the day. The eastern and western ramparts are both overtaken…I sent Corporal Rosselin out to retake the west, but I have not heard back from him…It was my hope to find him, to see if the work could be done, but I fear it is a lost cause now.

“There is also the garrison by the river—we have not heard from them in quite some time either. I sent a patrol, but…”

Trevelyan rolled that around in his head for a moment. “We’ll get them all tomorrow.”

Proulx goggled. “All at once?”

“Not counting myself I’ve brought nine very highly trained specialists with me.” Trevelyan shrugged. “How hard can it be?”

Bolstered by the declaration, Proulx stood. His legs seemed shaky—one of them was noticeably stained with blood, but whatever the healers had given him it seemed to have repaired most of the damage. Still, Trevelyan tensed, prepared to catch him if need be. “It was my intention to return to Fort Revasan to coordinate from there. But with all the arcane and undead, it has been locked down. If you could help us secure even one of our outposts--” He let out a breath. “Well, perhaps my people may survive this yet.”

“Consider it done.”

The hole in the mask revealed a smile—not a kind one, or overjoyed. It looked like relief. A burden lifted.

Trevelyan wasn’t sure why. Yes, he did have every confidence he could keep to his boasting, but Proulx didn’t know that.

Could his reputation have improved so quickly?

Considering the matter finished, and quite grateful to turn off the friendliness, Trevelyan moved to leave, to return to the warmth of the campfire even as he could see several of his companions packing in for the night. But the marshal coughed, gestured in his peripheral vision.

“By the way—while you are here, I would keep your eyes open. Before this unpleasantness, our scouts have reported run-ins with some…wild rabbits in the area.” After another moment he said, as though to elaborate, “They may cause your Inquisition as much trouble as any undead.”

Trevelyan looked at him curiously. “I can kill rabbits? They’re quite small, I doubt they can do me much harm.”

The night chill hung in the air between them as the words sank in. Proulx stammered, “Ah, you see—when I say that, I truly mean—"

“You know, I hunt a wide variety. Rabbits are on the list, although they’re not on the top. Actually I’m fond of killing much larger animals, like bears or…lions, even.”

He paused mid-gesture, watching the little Orlesian man suddenly laugh. It wasn’t particularly mocking, more a small, self-reproachful chuckle. Cheeks reddened from the whiskey.

“Forgive me. You are but a Marcher.” Proulx made an unpleasant glottal sound as he cleared his throat. “In Orlais, sometimes certain things have meaning behind the literal. You must be careful you are not misunderstood.”

“…Yes, I suppose I should do. I would hate for anyone to get the wrong idea about me.” Trevelyan brightened his tone, dumping out the rest of his chocolate. “So, the ramparts tomorrow?”

“--Yes, yes. If you could. We would be most grateful to the Inquisition. --Formal debt or no.”

By the time he’d left the little meeting, Dorian was already in his tent.

Trevelyan sighed and went to his own bedroll for an uneven sleep, having missed his opportunity for distraction. For that sweet, effortless way that Dorian could turn his mind off.

They were here for the Venatori. They were here for their usual good deeding so the Inquisition could continue to amass power and influence against Corypheus without blowback.

He was not going to get himself involved in a spat between feuding cousins, he would not.

Chapter Text

Three teams, for three fortifications.

Dorian, Cassandra, and Varric were heading for the Western ramparts. Vivienne, Blackwall, and Sera were after Victory Rise. Which left Trevelyan, Solas, Bull, and Cole to take out the Eastern ramparts. By all accounts these were all three the main source of everyone’s headaches. It wasn’t the sum total of Gaspard’s camps in the area--the River Garrison was still unaccounted for--but as far as plans go Trevelyan thought he was being quite efficient.

The Exalted Plains was draped in a faint morning mist that obscured the patchy ground, and travel was no easier than it had been yesterday. While they were sleeping, several more undead had managed to pull away from the pack, and so they spent most of the early morning simply trying to make headway. It seemed the straightest path was the one most heavily infested; eventually the Iron Bull suggested a more roundabout route through a nearby pass, to which Trevelyan begrudgingly agreed.

It was here that they ran into the “wild rabbits” that Proulx spoke of, hemmed in by walls of rock and set upon by corpses.

It might have been easy to just leave them to it—it wouldn’t have even required any callousness on his part. The Dalish were clearly skilled at fighting, and though there were enough undead to cause them grief, it was clear no one was at any risk of dying. They could save their energy and just move around, letting both parties distract each other.

But if Trevelyan was that sort of man, he wouldn’t have been appointed Inquisitor.

So he introduced himself, with an arrow flying through the eye socket of a shambling warrior already carrying a sword in his gut. Between the lot of them, the rest went down fairly easily. …In spite of the rescue, the Dalish archers regarded them warily, hands still clenched over their bows as they cautiously drew more arrows from their quivers.

Right, they really hated elves here.

Trevelyan put away his weapons and held his hands up. Not a surrender—more of a wave as he approached. Only Solas followed him; the Iron Bull hung back, and Cole was nowhere to be seen. “Hello there! Dreadful wildlife, isn’t it?”

The elf in the front—the one that seemed to be in charge, more or less—mimed the gesture back, stepping forward with his hands empty and his delicately tattooed brow furrowed. “Yes…The dead should stay dead, wouldn’t you say, friend?”

“Yes. As opposed to the living, who should—” Trevelyan narrowed his eyes at the archers in the back. “…Usually…stay alive.”

The thing was that he actually rather liked the Dalish and would prefer not to kill them. Granted, he’d only ever properly known the one.

The elf gave a smile (a tense one that didn’t reach his eyes) and gestured over at the archers. They—albeit much more begrudgingly than he—lowered their weapons too.

When everyone seemed to have calmed down, Trevelyan gave a curt bow. Manners. “Inquisitor Trevelyan. Here to deal with the undead problem, as it were. And yourself?”

The elf’s brows raised. “Inquisitor? …I’ve actually heard of you. –You may call me Olafin. I hunt for safe passage through the plains for my people now that the shemlen war has ended. …A task more difficult than I had expected at the outset.”

“There’s a whole clan around here?” That piqued Trevelyan’s interest. Moreso than the undead nests, at least. “Where? Perhaps the Inquisition could help you.”.

But Olafin shook his head. “Please, I mean no offense. But we are not eager to have outsiders in the camp. Not after Virnehn.”

“Virnehn?”

“Clan Virnehn. They were something of a protector here in Orlais—one of the better organized of us, receiving intel on human troop movements and training, and using that knowledge to protect other clans against raids. Shortly after the war started, they were silenced by the intervention of several humans who found themselves stumbling into their camp. The whole clan just…gone. Save for the children, and their Keeper’s First.” The way the grief twisted at the tattoos on his face was fascinating to watch. “It…was a difficult winter that followed us then. –We have no desire to risk anything like that again.”

“But was that truly the fault of the humans?”

Trevelyan looked behind him, at Solas.

Solas who was looking rather annoyed, suddenly.

“The clan you spoke of, they made certain mistakes. And you would do well to make sure your own does not repeat them.” He had a hand on his staff, leaning on it hard like it was a walking stick. The jawbone necklace he wore swayed gently in the air. “There is unrest with the spirits of this area—can we be sure that you did not contribute to this?”

Olafin’s eyes hardened. “We have done no such thing, flat-ear. We Dalish are not so foolish as to tamper with the Beyond, unlike human mages.”

“And yet you try to obscure the dealings of a clan that has done just that.”

The color left the scout’s face.

“Clan Virnehn was…different,” he admitted, after a pause. “Their Keeper had certain ideas about the way to reclaim our culture, our…lands. Many of us disagreed with the risks he took, the opinions he expressed. In truth, my own Keeper was…not surprised when news came our way. –But that does not change the fact that were it not for the humans, there would never have been--”

Ignoring him, Solas turned to speak to Trevelyan directly. “What he is still so aptly trying to avoid mentioning is that Clan Virnehn summoned a powerful demon, hoping to bind it to their will. It is this creature that killed them.”

This time Olafin made no effort to hide his bewilderment. “How do you know this?”

“How could I not?” Solas waved a hand like this was the most childish question in the world. “The force of such a being pulled from the Fade had a ripple effect across the breadth of the Veil. I could have felt it from anywhere.”

Trevelyan glanced between them. There was some sort of hostility going on here, though he didn’t understand why. There was no recognition between them, no reason for Solas to look so pissed. He cleared his throat. “A demon? Well, tell us where it’s got to and we’ll take care of that one too.”

“No, Inquisitor.” Indeed, Solas had never looked so stern before. “A Forbidden One is not just another Pride demon to be knocked out in an afternoon.”

He opened his mouth to say something brash, but thought better of it. “Okay, then…”

Olafin piped in again, voice much wearier than the bright brogue that had initially greeted them. “Besides, it’s left the plains anyhow. As we hope to. There were fewer raids on our people under their ‘Celene’, but that is a status quo we cannot afford to trust now that the situation is changing. We would have been gone long since were it not for the human forces trapping us here.”

“We’re currently in the process of dealing with this…undead problem.” Trevelyan tried smiling to counter Solas’ scowl—it was always difficult to gauge how much he should smile to look friendly, but he didn’t think he was doing too bad a job. “When their business here is concluded, you should find the way open soon enough.

“That is good to hear.” Though something still lingered in Olafin’s expression.

They were on a mission, and time-sensitive one that that. So they really couldn’t afford to be getting side-tracked with every little problem that presented itself on the plains. Still, Trevelyan had a good nose for opportunity. It had gotten him this far.

“And, if once that is done, and your clan still finds itself lingering—consider accepting help. No soldiers. Just me and my…friends, here. I promise not to unleash anything dangerous you have squirreled away.”

The Dalish were out of earshot when Trevelyan turned to look at Solas. “We will be taking care of it at some point though, right?”

“Hm?”

“The demon. We’ll get around to it?”

A sigh pushed past Solas’ lips. “Inquisitor, I think it is best we focus on the task at hand. The Venatori are enough of a threat on their own, for now.”

Trevelyan didn’t waver. “Well no, not now. But sometime later? Oh Solas, you can’t just bring up a super special demon and expect me not to be interested.”

“I…ideally, yes, the demon should be stopped from bringing harm to others. However—"

“I’ll mark it in my journal. This way I won’t forget.”

They received their first raven when the ramparts were in sight. The Iron Bull saw it first, held his arm aloft for it to perch. He took a quick once-over of the parchment scroll that had been tied to its leg and then handed it off to Trevelyan to read.

It was a familiar penmanship; precise and elegant like the intricate workings of the symbols that Trevelyan would watch him practice in his spellbook. He felt something soft in his own expression, a tensed muscle relaxing as he read.

Hope this message finds you still breathing, etc etc. Report:

The Western ramparts have been cleaned out. Found that stray soldier the Marshal spoke of just outside the battle, half dead from exhaustion but otherwise unharmed. Gave the poor thing a nip of brandy and sent him back with Varric once the battle was over. The undead were a bother but lit easily, minimal injuries save the noxious scent of burnt pork. The Arcane Horror accompanying them was a fair bit more irritating but we are well; Cassandra is a vision. Will return to nearby base camp to replenish supplies.

A note, Inquisitor. Take caution. While we didn’t find the mage responsible here, on examining the leftover workings I have no doubt that we’re dealing with a necromancer of some talent. Not as much talent as my good self, you understand, but all the same. Would rather not (here it was underlined three times) have to close rifts with your arm on a stick.

Fortuna benefaria,

D         

When he was done reading it, Trevelyan gave the letter a tentative sniff and was gratified with the familiar spice of Dorian’s cologne. He folded it up carefully to put in his pack.

A necromancer. Yes, that was exciting. He wondered how they compared to Dorian in style. Perhaps they would encounter him soon, and they could compare notes back at camp. The thought gave him a strange, pleasant chill.

It was odd, though.

There were a lot of dead men fighting, that was true.

The funny thing was, hardly any of the corpses looked like they could have once been civilians.

Gordian was a fun one.

The ramparts were about as bad as expected when they got there. The dead swarmed about it like insects, all flailing limbs and broken swords. Trevelyan had mentally prepared himself for drudgery just like in Crestwood—running against a tide that could never hope to beat him back, but could certainly make it difficult to enjoy himself the way he wanted to.

But then, who should appear but the mage behind all this mess!

Trevelyan was positively gleeful to have someone to kill who could bleed properly.

He dressed the part of an Orlesian noble, of course. The ridiculous ensemble with the bright, clashing colors. But when he spoke—some annoying speech about “easily twisting the minds of these downtrodden soldiers like a child plays with putty”—there was no mistaking the tones in his accent. Perhaps he’d put in effort to hide it before, but it was clear now. This was a Venatori.

“Hello!” Trevelyan had called out to him, cutting him off mid-speech.

Gordian had stared at him, lip curling, eyes hidden under his mask.

“—So the Inquisition seeks to take the Dales from the Freemen! The lands that belong to us by right!”

Ah. He wasn’t going off script, then. Alright.

As the man started in another speech—this time accusing Trevelyan of working on behalf of a “trumped up backwater chantry that will one day kneel in the presence of a true god”—he grinned and got to work in earnest.

It was a simple matter, really.

Solas corralled the workings of his entropy spells. Bull drew the undead towards him, cleaving them apart as he went. Trevelyan kept Gordian’s attention, interrupting his speeches with the odd bit of laughter or jeering, staying light on his feet and never in one place.

And Cole crept up behind him and slit his throat.

In all the stories that he’d encountered, from Antivan operas to Orlesian adventure serials, there was always a big monologuing villain behind it all. And that villain was often secretly a mage, and if they were feeling particularly over the top they would even make them secretly a Tevinter Magister. And this person would have grandiose speeches about their motives before being cut down by the heroes, and once that was done the battle would end, and all the magic would be undone.

This did not happen here.

“Well, we killed the idiot with the fancy hat,” Trevelyan called out, loosing another arrow that shattered the skull of a corpse about to gnaw on his leg. “Now what?”

With Iron Bull sweeping his great-axe through the horde, and Cole zipping through the field hamstringing and disemboweling, it was Solas who responded.

“It seems his necromantic spell is self-sustaining. Dismantling it is an option.” One of the undead wrapped his teeth around Solas’ staff, requiring a Mind Blast to thrust him away. Some of the wood had splintered. “--However, it is one that may take too much energy and concentration to end this fight quickly. I would instead recommend—”

“Solas.”

Solas scowled, raising his cracked staff to carve a path through the horde “—Rob it of bodies to use, Inquisitor!”

It was easier said than done. In preparation for probably this very situation, Gordian had erected a barrier over the worst of the body pit where Gaspard’s troops had so helpfully gathered all of their dead for him. That barrier, like the spell, still held strong. It took more than a few explosives to get it down.

The upshot was that they were breathless, nicked, and stumbling by the time Trevelyan could douse the pit and set it alight.

When the stragglers were done, Trevelyan stood there and watched it burn.

The usual battle high mixed oddly with his exhaustion. Leftover adrenaline made him tremble, body numbing to the muscles he’d shredded; that oddly pleasurable ache where his legs might give out at any moment. Not because he was at his limit—oh, he could go much harder than this—but because the job was done and he was letting go. Letting it swarm through him, cloud him over.

How much time passed staring into the fire, he wasn’t sure—in the background he heard the sounds of looting, his companions combing through the mess for usable supplies—but he was broken out of his fog by another raven with a scroll on its leg.

Trevelyan was reading—this time the report from Sera, telling of their success at Victory Rise in the form of a dirty limerick—when over his shoulder he heard the Iron Bull call out, voice still fresh from the exhilaration of earlier, “Nothing like a good battle in the evening, right Boss? Really gets your blood pumping.”

The sky was grey, mostly a blanket of clouds, but the sun was visible at a distance where they broke. It wasn’t quite evening. More late afternoon. Trevelyan began to curl up the scroll.  “I sincerely doubt that the things you feel when we fight, and the things I feel when we fight, are the same things.”

“Hey now. Fun is fun.”

“You’re doing that thing again where you pretend we have things in common. Or--No. It’s real, you’re just picking and choosing which parts of yourself you want me to see. The parts I’ll find ‘acceptable’ and relatable.”

Trevelyan had heard this game with the others, when they traveled. He relished sneering at it now—I see what you’re doing.

But Bull just smiled. “Hey. Let’s be fair now. I’m a lot better at it than you are.”

The sneer turned to a snarl.

“Aw, come on. You’re really starting to make me miss the days you didn’t know me well enough to talk shit.” He was wiping guts off his front, tone still light. Maybe faking the slight tinge of exasperation. “This is why you brought Solas over here, isn’t it? So there could be two of you giving me a hard time. I’m on to you.”

Trevelyan saw Solas roll his eyes from across the way, studying the enchantment they’d stymied with interest. He recalled the last debate between them—arguing with Bull seemed less of a game to Solas, for reasons that were a mystery. Always sounding much more personally offended than Trevelyan himself was by the Qun and what it stood for.

He did notice that Bull had almost entirely stopped poking the bear with that one, so to speak, whereas with Trevelyan…

“Still, surprised you didn’t invite Dorian out here instead.”

Trevelyan twitched, gears shifting in his mind at an alarming speed.

“Bet that was his idea, though, right? Bet he said he didn’t want anyone speculating about you two.”

He turned back to look at Bull.

It had been, actually. Dorian’s idea. It was the first thing he’d said to Trevelyan that morning. Quickly followed up with ‘Wait a moment, let me get a look at your shoulder blades before you put that jacket on; marvelous’, but…

Bull shifted his posture, letting his gore-streaked axe hang over his shoulder like it weighed nothing at all. “Hey, it makes sense. I wouldn’t read anything into it. He’s probably just being politically savvy, which isn’t a bad thing to be in Orlais.”

Trevelyan felt heat flush on his back.

“Sh—shut up,” he stammered out. “What?”

“I just mean that it’s good to be smart about this stuff. You know how people are.”

“What stuff? —No, nevermind. Dorian is great. There’s nothing—Nevermind.”

The damage was already done. Composed, poised sentences all scattered. Ears red. Why was the gruff mercenary better at playing this game than he was?

If he were still talking to Blackwall he could just laugh it off. But it wasn’t like with Blackwall at all; Blackwall was earnest, he said what was on his mind only to say it. He didn’t play games, he didn’t manipulate, he wasn’t like the Iron Bull, he wasn’t…a liar.

And then, from across the ramparts, he heard, “Insincere as he may be, our Qunari friend does raise a good point.” That smooth voice Solas used when saying something he knew to be disagreeable. “It is not particularly advantageous to be romancing a Tevinter altus at this stage.”

The Iron Bull grunted, smirk dripping from his face.

Now this was just getting irritating. “You both sound like Mother Giselle. At what point has he done enough, hm? Where does the suspicion end?”

“It’s not about suspicion,” Solas argued, again with that placid tone. “It is about reputation. Something you ignore at your own peril.”

“I like peril,” Trevelyan responded automatically.

“Ah, lest we forget.” Thus chastised (but not looking particularly remorseful), Solas turned from him again. “It is none of our business, of course. Your affairs are your own.”

“Um, yeah.” Bull hefted the ax off his shoulder and coughed into his other hand. “You just pay me to hit things. So.”

Flustered, voice still catching, Trevelyan whipped his head around as Cole suddenly appeared in his line of sight. “What about you? Have any insights to share?”

“So many friends and family standing on the other side of the field, wearing the wrong color. …He turned their hands elsewhere, and they listened so they didn’t have to cut them down. But it was a mistake. Now they’re all taken.”

Trevelyan tugged the brim of his hat down. “Wonderful.”

The scouts had set up another Inquisition base camp closer to Fort Revasan, wherein they all reconvened when their respective tasks were done.

Proulx was waiting for Trevelyan when he returned. They all were; all of his companions some measure of battle-bruised, doing repairs to their equipment or simply taking a load off at the campfire. But Proulx was standing in the way of joining them, rocking on his heels like he had news to impart. His mask had been repaired or at least replaced, expression obscured by the carved mouth and eyes.

Trevelyan tried to get around him, first. Tired, wired, wanting to sit at the edge of the conversation and not say anything for the rest of the night. “I told you we would finish the job, and we did. No need to make a fuss over it.”

Proulx shook his head. “You don’t understand. The Grand Duke—he is here, on the plains. He wishes to speak to you in person.”

Gaspard? “Why?”

“To—to congratulate you, I am sure.” Proulx seemed put out by the question. “I would not keep him waiting; he is not always able to make it to the front like this in his condition.”

Trevelyan looked at the fire, where his companions were starting to break bread and tell stories of how their respective missions had gone.

At Dorian. Who was laughing and smiling with the rest of them and then shooting glances back to catch his eye. Maybe just to know where he was.

He thought about sitting down and letting his exhaustion get him high for the rest of the night while warm voices chattered around him.

Then he sighed. “Where is he?”

First Trevelyan stopped to drop off his weapons with the quartermaster to be repaired, only keeping with him the small blade he collected potion supplies with. He didn’t expect things to break out in violence, nor would he be concerned even if he did.

Gaspard, Gaspard…Oh, what had Josephine told him, again?

What had Leliana given him in her dossier before sending him out?

And then the others…Vivienne was so tight-lipped about her own standings but he knew the disdainful sniff she would give if the man ever came up in conversation. And Blackwall—he seemed to reserve some kind of bottled fury at the topic of the power struggle he’d started, though never with explanation.

He dug through his brain for information, anything that might be useful. But then, it was impossible to know what precisely would be relevant, wasn’t it?

The man was a chevalier. …One of those lunatic types who meant it when they said “on my honor”. Trevelyan would have liked to think this made him predictable, but he knew better.

They met alone. No one else was there at the edge of camp when he arrived, and no one accompanied him either. The greeting was smooth, formal, but not overly long. A curt bow and a, “Inquisitor Trevelyan. It is an honor to meet you in person at last.”

Gaspard stood before him in armor both practical and regal—not quite the illustrious robes of an Emperor, but then only because Trevelyan imagined an Emperor sitting on his ass and ordering other people to do the fighting for him. Certainly it was still lavish and elaborate; were he comfortable stepping in close he could probably make out the details on the embroidery for the fabrics that made up his family heraldry, the gold flourishes on the breastplate. But it was also functional, too—not the ceremonial stuff that crumpled and killed its wearer in a real battle. He could see that even at a distance.

And then there was the mask. Gold, inset with emeralds, with a single yellow feather adorning the brow.

Trevelyan’s eyes didn’t linger on the mask long. It didn’t interest him.

The man’s movements were stiff. He favored one side over the other, and he held his sword arm in a way that implied weakness—or rather, an attempt to cover it. There was no need to ask him why; most of Orlais knew already, could hardly have missed it the day he walked into one of his captured cities too injured to do battle again.

One of the tidbits from Josephine he did remember. Gaspard had tried to do things the direct way, killing Celene himself, and had eventually gotten maimed in the process.

Trevelyan pushed the thought down. “I’m not talking to you with your face covered.”

There was a pause, a stillness in the air, as though the smoke drifting up in the plains was holding its breath.  Then Gaspard chuckled. “As you wish. …I so rarely have the opportunity to reveal my face. Do forgive me if I seem to be relishing it.”

Relishing it. Yes, he did take his time; his movements slow and careful, almost like setting down a sword or shield. Trevelyan let his gaze slide away from it, unwilling to catch his eyes when they were exposed; waiting for when he could just take in the whole picture. Underneath was a thick, bushy mustache that was nonetheless well groomed, and slicked-back hair that was deep brown with noticeable threads of gray.

When it was all laid bare, Gaspard inclined his head, brushing his fingers to smooth a strand that had fallen against his temple back into place. “There. Am I as fearsome as you imagined, Inquisitor?”

“I didn’t imagine you fearsome at all.” He was handsome, actually, albeit not particularly attractive. Trevelyan had been expecting…Well, maybe a broken nose. A few more scars over rugged cheekbones, a granite jaw. But he looked more noble than warrior, even though by all accounts he was both. Skin untouched but by wrinkles, symmetrical and measured features. Glittering, intelligent eyes under a heavily sloped brow. “…It’s just easier to lie with a mask on.”

“Ah, we are in agreement there. I do wish to be honest with you.” Gaspard smiled amiably, gesturing to the path ahead of them. “Walk with me?”

Already feeling strangely unsteady, Trevelyan only nodded.

They were about a minute into their walk when the conversation began properly; it was clear that this was not some idle pacing—Gaspard walked with purpose. “I will not mince words with you. It was my hope in inviting you here to form an alliance with your Inquisition.”

There it was. “Why?”

“Is it not obvious?” There was a smile in his tone, though a practiced one. “The Inquisition is a neutral party. Much like the Chantry, you operate above the petty political squabbles that have paralyzed Thedas in recent years. You make yourself a reputation for solving problems, and the world has begun to take notice of that. Surely this is not news to you? As a man with little patience for the tea parties myself, I have been quite intrigued.”

“Have you, now.” Trevelyan felt his fingers twitching for the little knife on his belt.

“This would not be a one-sided arrangement, you understand.” It was curious—even without the mask, it was hard to tell what Gaspard was truly thinking as he spoke; not from profile, and not whenever he would turn his head to speak directly. A type of stoicism that was more familiar back home than in Orlais. “Were you to secure my rightful place as Emperor, I would be more than happy to use my powers in aid of your cause. I do not forget my friends.”

“You say that, but I know where your ambitions lie. I’m not exactly a fan of the world conquering bit.”

He laughed again at that. “And I am sure all of your advisors have told you what a terrible idea it is to do business with that war monger Gaspard de Chalons, am I correct? I saw Madame de Fer in your entourage—did she have choice words for me?” Without waiting for a response, he mused, “And yet, you answered the call anyway.”

“…To kill Venatori.”

“And that is what I like about you.” He started to gesticulate. His hand gestures were…interesting, distracting. It was a little difficult to look past them. “You do these things because they need to be done. Because your code demands it.”

“I’m not a chevalier.”

“No. I suspect you live by an altogether different code. But it is a code, nonetheless.”

“So…” Trevelyan paused. Gritted his teeth, because he couldn’t argue. They had stopped in their walk; the path had opened up some, fields all on one side and what looked like a ruined town on the other. In the distance he heard the babbling of a river. “So where does that leave you?”

“You do not want an alliance?” Gaspard shrugged. “Then we will not talk of an alliance.”

“--Just like that?”

“I should like to point out Celene will not be so accepting when she inevitably tries to twist you around her finger, but yes. Just like that.” He waved and began again, this time heading towards the sounds of the river. The ground sloped some, obscuring it from view, but it was growing louder. “I have something else to ask of you, instead.

“You have done so much to secure the safety of my men. Very soon we will be ready to move out when I give the orders. I have you to thank for that. But Celene has forces too, and a troop was stationed at another outpost not far from here. When I took this front, they escaped over the river, and blew the bridge so we could not follow. Now that the fighting is over, we have still heard no word from them. Nor has any word reached them, either. Simply put—I fear for their safety. I wish to re-establish contact.”

Trevelyan kept his gaze on Gaspard. Easier when they walked; when there wasn’t a risk of their eyes meeting. “To be clear, you are talking about people that you were planning to kill less than a month ago.”

“They may have been my enemies. But we are in a ceasefire, and they are still citizens of Orlais. What I have done, it is because I love my country, and do not wish to see it fall. I would not see them die needlessly.”

“And of course, you’d be losing perfectly good soldiers for if you eventually become emperor.”

Gaspard snorted, but did not argue. “If they see my men or my banner, they may believe they are under attack. Whatever charge we have—I would like your people to lead it. To avoid further bloodshed.”

Unable to help himself, Trevelyan let his lip curl and said, “Oh, does bloodshed bother you? Then we might not get along after all.”

The only response he got was another warm, rich chuckle.

He shook his head, frowning, as Gaspard slipped the mask back over his face. A woman was approaching them, all brass buckles and clashing fabrics. Behind her the bridge was visible; just as shattered as promised, chunks of stone vanishing into a fragment of its original arc.

The woman looked upon the pair of them with mild interest, but to Gaspard alone she snapped to rigid attention.

“How is it looking?” he asked her, his voice now clipped and business-like. “Is the repair work possible?”

“Yes, Grand Duke. There’s a stone mason in Val Chevin we can call on for next—”

Trevelyan cut in, “I want to be able to cross it tomorrow.”

The woman looked at him, mouth open like a fish. Her gaze shot between him and Gaspard.

At that, he did try to sound more encouraging. “I can have my people get some planks together or something.”

“Planks of…of wood?”

Gaspard waved a hand beside him. “You heard the man. See it gets done. The artistry…that can come later, yes? The longer we wait, the less likely there’ll be anyone left to salvage.”

“Right—Yes, of course, Your Eminence.” She bowed, stiffly. “The bridge will be ready for you in the morning.”

As he watched her scramble away, Trevelyan caught the duke leaning in to murmur, almost like a private joke being exchanged between them:

“I think we will get along just fine.”

Chapter Text

Before Trevelyan had gone to bed that night, he’d found a letter tucked into his bedroll.

Do not let Gaspard take the credit for the Inquisition’s rescue. -L

He’d slept with that letter under his head, and dreamt of the conversations until dawn.

It was not very fun. He preferred to dream about combat instead.

But, when he awoke the following morning, everything had settled neatly into his mind and he felt refreshed. He went for his pack and dug around until his fingertips touched leather.

The armor was new. Fully ready to be employed, neatly tucked away. Trevelyan hadn’t minded the extra weight; he’d gotten a few strange looks from the others that he wasn’t wearing it, that he’d had the piece commissioned and then put on his scuffed, scorched, ragged leathers for the mission. They didn’t get it. He wasn’t ready to change yet.

On the breastplate of this new piece was stamped the eye of the Inquisition.

He’d hoped he could find something to destroy the old armor first. Maybe one of those dragons Bull kept going on about. Oh well. Once the armor was on him, he stood there for a moment, stretching. Testing the feel of it on his body, the way it held snug without being too tight. It still needed some breaking in—but this was a perfect opportunity for that, wasn’t it?

Then suddenly he felt hands at his waist, confidently cinching up the sash so that it sat more tightly than how he’d tied it. He turned his head just in time to see Dorian leave with an affectionate flick to his ear.

In the early morning light they saw that the bridge was fixed as promised. Nothing fancy or elaborate but the boards were thick and traversable, and that was really all that mattered.

Not appearing particularly impressed outwardly by the new threads, Gaspard was waiting there for them, freshly remasked and joined by a small accompaniment of soldiers.

Overkill, Trevelyan thought.

And then, because the new persona he was trying to build did not involve being a withdrawn loner in the corner letting others make decisions for him anymore, he told him so.

“As you and your men have surely just witnessed yesterday, I have a highly trained team here. We function best in small units, especially when dealing with close quarters. An excess of soldiers would…” He waved his head from side to side for a moment as he thought about his wording. “—Spoil the fun.”

Behind that mask Gaspard was smiling, that was for certain. He nodded graciously, inclining his torso with the act. “Oh, of course. That was not my intention.” And then, straightening, “I, however, am coming with you.”

That threw him slightly, although it shouldn’t have. “What? Why?”

“Because you need me there.”

Trevelyan fought very, very hard not to stammer. “It’s my understanding that your fighting days are over.”

But Gaspard shook his head. “You misunderstand. You do not need me for the battle. Maker knows, I have seen your work and am quite impressed. No, you see, I have been neglectful. This garrison is not stationed in any ordinary military structure. It is an old elven ruin.”

Behind him, Trevelyan heard Solas let out a bland, “Ah.”

He looked back. “What does that mean?”

Again it was Gaspard who spoke. Patient, almost jovial. He had a pleasant cadence. “It means that it has certain security measures that may, shall we say, impede your progress.”

“And you know about this how?”

“I have not always been one side of a civil war, may I remind you. I have been stationed at that garrison as any other soldier would. I might not be able to claim any mystical ability, but I am familiar with its layout as well as the traps inside.”

Trevelyan once more glanced back at Solas, a wordless nudge. Solas nodded, slowly. “…It would be helpful to have such knowledge, yes. Many elven ruins are laced with enchantments that still pose threat, even centuries later. Navigating is difficult enough when not in the thick of battle.”

With a faint sneer on his lip, Trevelyan bit back, “It’s also difficult when you’re babysitting an invalid.”

Gaspard didn’t rise to the bait, his response smooth. “Naturellement, I do not expect to be coddled like a child, nor would I wish you to. I can still hold a shield. If this puts me in danger, it will be of my own doing. I accept that risk.”

He thought of Leliana’s warning. It was obvious that this was a ploy to ingratiate himself in the rescue attempt, but reasonably how well could that work? Even if few people seemed to recognize him on sight as the Inquisitor himself, it was at least clear who he worked for. It was obvious that he was the one giving orders. How much damage could Gaspard do from the back?

Moreover, what would it say about him if he refused this assistance point blank? Everyone the Inquisition worked with in the plains loved this man, some even more than they loved the Chantry.

Maker, he hated the Game. Gaspard was clearly much better at playing it than he let on.

“I’ll need to adjust my strategy some,” he conceded, pulling back. “Let me confer with my allies.”

If Gaspard was smirking, it was, again, hidden under the mask. But Trevelyan did see his jaw move slightly.

The Iron Bull was leaning against his axe as he made his way back, observing his scowl with that dispassionate eye. It was him, Solas, and Varric today. The others were occupied with other undead in the area, mopping up stragglers from yesterday. The other two looked ready to get going, Varric in particular sweeping eyes across the scene with a restless air, but Bull looked expectant and Trevelyan sort of hated that about him.

“Definitely not faking the injury,” he said unprompted, once they were far enough to speak privately. “…But he’s better recovered than he wants to let on. Keep an eye on him.”

“You’re sure?”

Bull flexed his finger stumps. “Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”

The Citadelle du Corbeau was…interesting.

Trevelyan hadn’t been to many ancient elven temples (well, any of them, really) but he did somewhat recall the architecture, at least insofar as it reminded him vaguely of the scant Tevinter architecture remaining back in Ostwick. He could see that it had been altered over time with crude human work—additional walls, wooden scaffolding, a hasty portcullis, turrets that had clearly not been there before. Training dummies and hay bales made it all seem more disappointingly rustic, and he could only imagine what had happened to the art or artifacts left inside when the Orlesians found it, if anything. Essentially what he was left with was the sensation that this place was a relic of great intrigue that had all the interesting bits scooped out.

Except for the pillars of fire that licked along the ground, aching to consume them.

Like the other fortifications that they had dealt with yesterday, the necromancer Venatori had been summoning undead here too. They did not have an Orlesian warrior to guide them through the mazelike twists and turns of the old structure, and so Trevelyan got a good look at them as they cooked, shambling through the path of the blaze.

In fact, the magic was so effective that he wondered at there still being any undead at all days later.

When he voiced this to Solas, the elf hummed and frowned up at the tower where the fire originated. “I suspect that these defenses were not activated by the Venatori, but rather Celene’s men. It may be that they hoped there was some way to turn the battle in their favor. Only to find themselves trapped once it became active.”

Behind them, The Iron Bull grumbled, “Shows what you get when you mess with magic crap.”

“I have not had good luck with elven ruins myself,” Gaspard chimed in cheerily. “Tell me rabbit, do you know why the ancients were so obsessed with fire?”

Solas’ eyes flickered with disgust. “I couldn’t hazard a guess.”

“Play nice with my people, Gaspard.” Trevelyan drew back his bowstring. “—Here’s another wave.”

Some enemies were more fun than others. There had been Arcane Horrors out front, and demons of rage and terror inside. They were a nice change of pace from the bulk of the horde, with their magic that wasn’t magic, their flitting to and fro.

On the other hand, Trevelyan didn’t know how to feel about revenants, watching with fascination as one began to crawl physically from some cracked ground, heavy armor slicked with mud. On the one hand, fighting just straight demons always carried a little bit of frustration—their bodies were never quite corporeal enough to make each blow satisfying, they never died in a way that felt real. And they were constantly trying to whisper in his head besides, which was annoying and distracting. Revenants were real—they moved solidly, with purpose, eyes aglow with dark fire and silent save for the scrape of a sword on stone and the clank of armor. And unlike corpses, who were also real, they weren’t boring after five minutes.

But, he had to admit, as it drew its hand out and yanked him into range of its blade, fighting them had its disadvantages.

As it brought its sword down on him, Gaspard was suddenly there, shield in hand to repel the blow. Ichor splattered against the metal as the Iron Bull brought his axe through the revenant’s neck, magic sizzling in the air.

The mask had been discarded early on. No point in it on the field, and it would have sacrificed his peripheral vision. Only an idiot would have continued to wear it, and Gaspard was not that. But it meant that Trevelyan now had easy access to the man’s expression. Even spending most of his time in the back lines as he was, the vicious glee that seemed to light him up on the battlefield, it was—

Well, familiar.

He was still carrying his spymaster’s advice in his head, and so at least some of his battle rush had to be tempered down anyway so he could pay attention. The thing was--what was clear to him now, that had not been earlier--if Celene’s people saw their enemy valiantly fighting his way through demons and viscera to rescue them, it might not matter if he verbally took credit or not. Who would stick in their mind as their rescuer? The head of an organization they didn’t yet respect? Or the man who should have been emperor that was, until only a few weeks ago, making mincemeat of their army?

No, an intervention was required. It was only as they cleared the last wave, the holdout of the trapped soldiers nearly within reach, that an opportunity presented itself.

They had separated. The pillar of fire sweeping across the courtyard had done that, forcing them to scatter out of its path, Varric cursing as it caught the ends of his jacket. There were still enemies about, so it was perfectly natural that Trevelyan pulled his bow again. Drew from his quiver and fired.

The arrow spiraled as it flew, launching right through an undead soldier menacing Gaspard—

--snagged the fabric collar of his elaborate armor—

And fastened him to a crack in the wall.

It was probably one of the best shots Trevelyan had ever made and he kicked himself relentlessly that he couldn’t celebrate it.

Had to pretend like he hadn’t noticed.

The rest of the battle went easily enough. Their enemies vanquished, they rushed to the tower and disarmed the mechanism spitting fire everywhere. Then, only then, were they able to speak with Celene’s troops, release them from the trap they had activated on themselves.

And while Trevelyan did not lie about Gaspard’s involvement, he waited until they had gotten an eyeful of his Inquisition armor before he explained at whose behest they had come to the soldiers’ rescue.

When he went back for the man, he found him still stuck there. It seemed that the arrow had gotten stuck on the side with his bad arm; unable to lift it higher than his shoulders he had struggled to get any leverage on the shaft, and trying to use his other arm jarred his injured side too much.

Trevelyan smiled at him.

“It looks like my aim was off.” He reached out, and plucked the arrow from where it had the man pinned. “No harm done.”

Gaspard straightened himself out. Perhaps the position he’d been forced into had pained him, but he gave no indication. Instead there was this…look on his face. Something like amusement. Touche, it seemed to say.

So, the Inquisitor wasn’t completely terrible at this.

Hours later, after the others had rendezvoused with the rest of the army, Trevelyan found himself back out in the field with Dorian.

“…the human body. Surely they had anatomy textbooks in those backwards schools of yours? Once you’ve seen the diagrams I can’t imagine there being much mystery left.”

“You need to open up more people.” After a moment, he realized how that sounded. “—Our enemies are unique snowflakes, Dorian. They don’t all look like the diagrams when they’re dead. Actually I would say that almost none of them do.”

“Really.”

There had been too much celebration, after the battle. Too many people grasping his hands with tears in their eyes, too much gratitude and cheering. The Iron Bull had noticed him twitching and easily shepherded him out, which Trevelyan had resented some but not enough to protest. Take a walk to clear his head, that’s what it was. “Cool off”.

Dorian was with him. That wasn’t typical for a cool-off walk. But he found he didn’t mind it much.

He’d been distant when they first met up again. Not coldly so, just the way he’d been before. Just a follower, nothing more. It had seemed so natural that he hadn’t questioned it, but then once they were alone suddenly they were in lock step, and Dorian was so close he could feel the heat from his shoulder, occasionally catch a bit of his breath.

Easy comradery. He still wasn’t used to it, and so Trevelyan swallowed the questions that came to his mind on reflection.

Do you not want me to be seen with you?

I thought you said you didn’t mind the gossip.

I thought we talked about this already.

“…So what are you thinking?” Dorian asked finally, after their banter had lapsed into silence, preoccupied with the onset of another skirmish site. “About…all this. What we’re doing here. Is the Inquisition going to meddle in another war?”

Trevelyan felt his mood sour, some.

When they’d first set out he’d explicitly told himself no.

The fact that it was now a “maybe” seemed like a pretty clear indicator of where the winds were blowing.

“I think that people ought to be more cautious about inviting the Inquisition in to fix their problems,” he muttered. “I would be content to live and let die—” Dorian gave a soft chuckle to his left. “—But now that I’m out here and I’m actually applying myself to it, I do find myself wanting to…fix the problem.” He pried up a body, this one weeks old already. No satchel or parchments on it. “And people generally don’t seem very happy about the solutions I come up with when I do that.”

“I do think it’d be great sport to watch you destroy the Orlesian empire as you did the Templars,” Dorian mused. “Well, before Corypheus does whatever it is he’s planning by it. Seize power in the aftermath, most likely.”

“I don’t think it would be very sporting. Orlais practically destroys itself,” Trevelyan mused, toeing at a corpse with his muddied boot. “…Come on. –I don’t want to think about this anymore. Let’s do what we came out here to do.”

Technically speaking the excuse that they gave was to inspect the corpses still on the battlefield for letters home. Apparently Orlesian soldiers were avid writers and many of them had missed their chance to send a pigeon to their friends and loved ones. Trevelyan actually didn’t mind the task, because reading other people’s mail was a favorite pastime he hadn’t been able to indulge since joining the Inquisition.

People’s dying words tended to be pretty hilarious, he thought.

Of course, there were entreaties to the Maker for forgiveness and protection, lonely musings on the cold beauty of life or its utter indifference to suffering, but those weren’t the ones they read aloud to each other.

I bequeath my collection of cheeses to my dearest cousin Arnaud, may they choke on each block—

Do not listen to what you hear from others, trust me, your son, for I would never lie to you—

If I do not see battle in the next fortnight I swear I shall die of boredom--

One of particular note was a letter hastily drafted to intercept another that had been sent back to the wife when it was intended for a mistress. Trevelyan put on his best accent as he recounted it, slipping in a few Orlesian words here and there (though he was pretty sure he pronounced them wrong). "'In conclusion, you must regard such ravings as the words of a madman and take them in the jest they were intended'." With more flourish he amended, "'Forever faithful, your darling Pierre'."

“You are a ghoul, Trevelyan,” Dorian chided him between snickers—before breaking out cackling as he opened another letter. “Oh, listen to this one. 'Regarding our previous correspondence, the balm has done wonders for the itch'--”

There was the sound of a hacking, wet cough from among the bodies.

The two men froze. Then there was a second cough, and Trevelyan started forward, pushing and leveraging at the bodies until they found the one squirming underneath, the crumpled chevalier with blood on her lips that, as it turned out, was maybe not quite dead after all.

As his arms were full, it was Dorian who knelt by her side instead. His hands were already glowing with magic—but it was pretty clear even at a look that there wasn’t much to be done about her stomach wound. Or perhaps there might have been, if they’d gotten there sooner. Still, the moment he was in range, she reached out a gauntleted hand and gripped his wrist.

And then her lips opened, and she said in a croak, “Who…who’s there? Phillipe, is that you?”

Trevelyan almost asked her if Dorian looked like a “Phillipe”, but at a glance he saw the woman’s eyes were filmy and sightless with blood.

Dorian, meanwhile, appeared to have more humanitarian intentions. “Hold on—we’ll get you to a healer, the Inquisition is just nearby—”

“No point,” she coughed out. There was a rasping sound that accompanied every breath, black spittle emitted with every wheeze.  “Please—” She pushed something into Dorian’s hand. His fingers seemed to close around it unwittingly, hiding it from Trevelyan’s view. “Take this to Commander Jehan, in the citadelle to the—to the North. Tell her…”

Blood trickled from her mouth.

“Tell her…”

Whatever she was about to say vanished into a wet gurgle. Without ceremony, her foaming eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed back to the ground.

Dorian looked mutely down at his hand, grip loosening to reveal what was inside.

A small, silver ring.

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Trevelyan wanted to go back to laughing about the letters. But Dorian’s entire body language had changed, grown stiff and cold. Still staring down at the woman’s parting gift, the corpse that looted itself.

“We could…” He fumbled uncertainly. “—We could go return it? Commander Jehan, she said?”

Dorian closed his eyes, looking for the world like he was struggling to swallow down something distasteful. Then he opened them again, relaxed, and pressed the ring into Trevelyan’s hand. “Something best left to the Inquisitor, I think.”

“Me?” Trevelyan lifted a brow. “Not you?”

“Oh yes. I’ll go return the missives.” He quickly tied off the letters with a bit of twine, smile not reaching his eyes anymore. “I have no desire to step back in that disgusting little ruin, and there’s a fire waiting for me back at camp.”

“I—” Something had just happened. Something had caused a switch in the atmosphere. It had passed him right by. Not for the first time, Trevelyan shrank from his own ignorance. “…Alright.”

With an amiable wave of the letter packet, Dorian headed off in the direction of the ramparts. Leaving Trevelyan all by himself.

He sighed, glancing down at the ring that had been foisted upon them.

Yes, as expected, carefully inscribed upon the inside were the words “forever, my love”.

Trevelyan was sorely tempted to chuck it into the brush.

But instead he turned around and started the long hike back the way he had come.

Chapter Text

The War Table actually made a pretty comfortable chair.

Trevelyan had taken to arriving in the war room early for their (now semi-regular) meetings. Not necessarily because he worried about leaving his advisors waiting, but because there was something about it that eased the pressure of having them. That he was already where he was supposed to be, that he was there alone, that he could observe whatever he wanted to without being observed in turn.

It used to be his only real pleasure, being alone.

He was sitting experimentally on the great map when the first of them arrived, Commander Cullen. He broke through the door with an impassioned stride, which was not entirely unlike his normal gait but with significantly more energy than usual. The man had several missives in his hand, and his eyes lit on Trevelyan with the gaze of someone who had found what they were looking for.

Trevelyan didn’t have time to be upset about this development before Cullen spat out, “It’s true, then? The Inquisition is allying with Gaspard de Chalons?”

The sharpness of the question got him to laugh, short and surprised. “Are we? This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

“You went out to the plains on his behalf. And,” he turned his eyes back to the parchment he held, re-read it as though he needed to make sure it said the same thing now that it did when he had read it last. “—And while you were there you established several military alliances. Without consulting me.”

“For keeping down what’s left of the Venatori there.” Trevelyan cocked his head. “His were the only soldiers with any presence in the area. Celene withdrew most of her troops ages ago.”

“But this could easily be taken as support of his bid for the throne.”

“Not really. But even if it did, so what?” He laughed again, sort of a nervous jitter, not entirely sure what was happening here either. Cullen had become much easier to read lately but not all of the signals he put out seemed to align into something coherent. “For a man who disdains politics as much as you do, I would have thought you’d be more supportive of the leader who’s interested in a strong army.”

“Gaspard is a war monger. The moment he’s put in power he’ll turn those armies on anyone he thinks he can conquer.”

Trevelyan examined him for a few seconds before he snapped his fingers. “Oh! You’re Fereldan. That’s right. I understand.” He glanced down. “I’m sitting on it right now…”

Cullen lunged forward, eyes bloodshot. With a jolt, Trevelyan lifted his leg to plant his boot on the man’s chest, kept him a good distance away. “Is this a joke to you?”

Ah, alright. “You’re looking tired, Cullen. Is this a bad morning?” A little bit of malice tugged at his smile, and he kicked. “Feeling particularly blue today?”

The push sent Cullen back, almost stumbling to the wall. His expression grew stricken, some mix between impotent fury and horror. “I—No, that’s not—I, I—"

And that was as far as he got before the rest of the council arrived. At their shocked looks Trevelyan was quick to assure them, cheerily, “It’s alright. The commander just needs some sleep, that’s all. I think he woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

Outnumbered, Cullen wilted. Whatever fire he’d started with doused completely.

“We are playing,” he forced out, his speech slower and a hand on his temple. “A dangerous game.”

“The only kind Orlais knows how to play,” Leliana agreed.

--Though, somehow, she and Josephine seemed to view this with less trepidation than the men in the room.     

Impatient and starved for relaxation, Trevelyan had made a beeline for the library once the war meeting let out. Vivienne intercepted him midway there as he crossed through the hall.

She didn’t give him so much as a hello, elegantly taking him by the elbow and turning him a full 90 degrees off course without breaking his stride. “Ah, Inquisitor. Wonderful, I have urgent need of you. Come, you’ll change into this suit, let us see how it looks on you.”

They were already approaching his room when he realized what had happened, words stumbling. “I—we—what?”

On one arm she held him, and draped across the other was some sort of outfit made with an off-white fabric. He’d told her once that he liked tailcoats, and she’d clearly remembered the information. She shoved the garment into his hands when she’d finished maneuvering him up the steps. “Don’t mind the color, we can select a different one later. But we must see how the pattern fits. Hurry, we have very little time, I need to contact the tailor by the end of today.”

Knowing better than to argue after what happened last time, Trevelyan did as he was told, but couldn’t help asking after he’d vanished behind his privacy screen, “Would you mind telling me why I am changing into a suit?”

She clicked her tongue, and he could see the shadow of her pacing about his living quarters. Probably with a judgmental eye, as he’d already started his personal decorating. “My dear, if your intention is to meddle in this little dispute over the throne then you must make sure you are seeing the civil war on all fronts.”

Trevelyan usually played ignorant with Vivienne. Not because he wanted her to think he was stupid, but because he knew his half knowledge was worse than knowing nothing at all. “Are there…more undead to put down?”

“Worse. There is soon to be a celebratory gala at the University of Orlais, and you have been invited.”

“Oh. That is worse.”

When the day came, they all took separate carriages to the event. Trevelyan had wanted to sit in a trap with Dorian, but everyone disagreed with that. Especially Dorian. So when Vivienne urged him to sit in hers, he didn’t argue, though it was admittedly with a touch of pouting.

Though the other members of the Inquisition attending had forgone facial coverings, she was wearing a mask inlaid with opals and delicate, swirling patterns. Her contacts had secured the invitation, of course. Perhaps he should have balked at how heavily the Inquisition was relying on the Iron Lady but such things didn’t bother him. He liked the way she killed things.

She was telling him about the Council of Heralds, and it was all very good information and he probably should have been listening to it, but Trevelyan really struggled immensely when it came to caring about anything that went on in Orlesian high society. He’d barely found the scheming and backroom deals of his own home country interesting. Really, it was only with the inclusion of mages killing each other in duels (such as in Tevinter) that politics became exciting for him.

“I’m more interested in Duke Bastien,” he murmured, without entirely meaning to, cheek on his fist.

Vivienne glanced more sharply at him through the mask, the Serault glass window of the carriage frosting a touch. “Oh? Due in no small part to his daughter’s role in Celene’s ascendancy, I presume?”

Trevelyan shook his head, sitting up. “No, because he trained with the Black Fox. –Can you imagine? I have so many questions.”

She stared at him in something of mute surprise for a moment, before letting out a rich laugh. A genuine laugh. “Oh, Inquisitor. You wear your heart too much on your sleeve.”

“Should I pin it to my lapel instead?”

“That was the fashion several seasons ago.” Vivienne hummed and glanced away in thought, lightly tsking and fluttering her fingers—like some obscure spellcasting gesture, though no magic was forthcoming. “When he is no longer indisposed, perhaps we shall see about setting up an interview. I am sure he would love to retrace those memories, he holds them fondly. –But we are here now, let us talk no more of it.”

The University of Orlais was, like most things in Orlais (at least, that which was frequented by nobles), enormous and ornately gilded. Trevelyan could see the bronze domes of its chantry glittering from within the famous courtyard, the marble walls gleaming in the sunlight. For his tastes the affair was much too bright, but he wouldn’t say that. Dorian had told him once of Tevinter’s towering black structures, dark stone to make the magical inscriptions shine all the brighter in the darkness.

Trevelyan was aware of the eyes on him as he climbed from the carriage, and grateful for the clothing Vivienne had commissioned him, even if it wasn’t his usual style. It felt like armor. He didn’t exactly blend in but he at least felt like he belonged there—just like how wearing blood and mud-stained leathers helped him “belong” in camps full of his soldiers and scouts.

He followed the clack of Vivienne’s heels, trying to see the others among the crowd and finding them largely swallowed up. He was trying not to direct his eyes too much on the ground, but there were so many faces around him. So many eyes he might meet, and though it was easy to stare down a crowd when they were beneath him, before him, cast in shadow at the light he gave off, it was much harder when he was just one of many and an oddity instead of an inspiration. He was trying not to do what he always did around too many people.

And there she was suddenly in front of him, the sea of bodies parted for her like a forest clearing.

Empress Celene.

The woman herself was not so remarkable as the outfit she wore, of course. Elaborate headdress, terrifically expensive silver mask that matched her delicate and sparkling shoes, a deep green dress overflowing with fabric like a mossy waterfall. In fact you could hardly see any of her underneath it, and frankly at this moment Trevelyan didn’t care to. Somehow it was less nerve wracking, like he was to be conversing with a shop mannequin instead of the ruler of Thedas’ most successful empire.

She was flanked by three ladies in comparatively more modest dress, all wearing identical dresses, hats, and masks. It was they, not her, who approached Trevelyan, and it was they who spoke, interchangeably and at times in unison. It was unnervingly like some elaborate ventriloquist act, for Celene moved and inclined her head as though she were the one speaking.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan. It is so good to—” “—meet you at last. You come with—” “--such esteemed company.”

Trevelyan passed his eyes over them as Vivienne brought up her chin at the acknowledgment. They sounded Orlesian, of course, but their Trade was less accented than he was accustomed to, here. He wondered if that meant something. Perhaps they were bards. “I’m honored to be invited to this occasion,” he replied a touch mechanically, thoughts occupied.

“The Empress has been most pleased to discover—” “—that the rumors about the Inquisition spread through malicious gossip among the Chantry clerics—” “—were most untrue.”

“Oh yes?”

“Lady Montilyet is an ambassador of impeccable character.” “You are lucky to have a woman of such letters and taste—” “—in charge of your organization’s diplomacy.”

Josephine had said that she was reaching out to her contacts in Celene’s court. She had not, however, said that she was in contact with the empress herself. Since it was unlikely for her to lie to him even by omission, Trevelyan could only conclude that Celene had eyes on some of the nobles that Josephine was appealing to.

A threat? A warning? …A compliment?

They kept talking. “We would be remiss if we did not take the opportunity—” “—to bestow upon you this sign of Her Grace’s favor—” “—in recognition of your services to the Orlesian people in the Exalted Plains.”

Trevelyan startled as the one in the middle stepped forward, holding out a brightly colored shortbow. No one had told him he would be receiving anything.

“I—” Don’t stammer. Don’t. “—Of course, the Inquisition gladly accepts.”

The woman in the smooth white mask bowed her head and passed the bow into his hands. It was ornate, elaborate floral gilding much like the university walls. Probably not a genuine weapon intended for battle, it looked delicate and brittle and the string was made out of gold. Symbolic, then. Josephine would know what to do with it. But, he only had a few moments for these thoughts before they started talking again.

“Enjoy the festivities, Inquisitor.” “We hope to be in communication with your representative again soon.”

Celene—and the strange trio of women—peeled away from him with three curtsies and a polite nod. Trevelyan watched them go, holding stiffly onto the bow before realizing that everyone around was watching him.

He saw Vivienne purse her lips.

“Oh, clever Celene…” she murmured.

Trevelyan glanced between Vivienne and the Empress, now addressing her people on the new university wing. “What? What just happened?”

“In giving us such a public reward for our service in the plains, she has just implied that it was at her behest.” Vivienne didn’t sound particularly upset, though there was a steel edge to her tone. “She now has all the credit for our rescues.”

He tried not to gawp at her, he really did. “That can’t be—what?”

She clucked her tongue. “Still. Events are yet underway. The Inquisition can benefit from being seen at attendance. Make connections, that sort of thing.”

The frustration, the broiling heat in his gut, the feeling of having been tricked like an idiot he hated when they were able to talk around him he wanted to cut everyone’s tongue out—it was difficult to maintain when the conversation was sweeping to its next topic. Maybe she was doing that on purpose. Trevelyan’s jaw worked. “Does the country truly care so much for the university?”

“Of course!” Vivienne tilted her chin up, and he realized too late he was in for a spiel. “Under the Empress’ support, the arts and academia have flourished in Orlais. Where before the classes here were merely to entertain bored nobles too soft for the martial arts, here one can now develop true intellect and scholastic merit. Why, it’s a bastion of knowledge and natural sciences undreamed of in her predecessor’s time.” After a moment she looked at her nails. “I’ve often thought the Circles could benefit from such structure.”

“…Right.”

He should feign more enthusiasm, but very little of the higher academia truly interested him the way it had in his twenties.

Except libraries.

When he asked her about it, she smiled.

The library seemed relatively untouched by the cluster of people, slightly removed from the new wing being debuted today. In fact it was five minutes before they encountered their first other patron, a man carrying a stack so high that it completely obscured his face, almost resulting in a collision with Trevelyan during a moment when neither were paying attention.

“Oh, excuse me, Messere.”

Trevelyan tilted, trying to peer around the moving pile of books. The accent didn’t sound Orlesian at all. A Marcher? But as he moved, he nearly ran into the other figure walking beside the man, slighter and with pointed ears. A servant? He scrambled back in retreat.

Vivienne caught him looking as the pair went about their business. “A student,” she observed, correctly guessing his thoughts.

“Really?” Trevelyan recalled the words of Gaspard’s commander in the plains. “Is that new?”

“Relatively. It is one of Celene’s more controversial acts, to open the Academy of Orlais to the scholarship of elves with evident academic gifts. ---As long as they are with a noble sponsor, of course.”

Ah. Trevelyan’s lip curled. Yes, and how many elves in Orlais would be able to even talk to a noble, let alone get one to sponsor them? Did this elven student have a single other one of her kind in the whole university? “Of course.”

Since the worst of the social manipulation had already passed them by, Vivienne eventually left Trevelyan to his own devices so she could finish networking.

When he was alone, the pressure lifted. He ambled through the shelves, admiring their labyrinthine structure. The rotunda library in Skyhold was too open to feel this level of freedom, covert and private. He could browse at his leisure, without feeling the eyes of a whole keep tracking his movements. Granted, the sensation of being watched had faded to a dull background noise since becoming Inquisitor, but every now and then he felt how omnipresent it was. Especially when it was gone.

So many books. Natural philosophy, history, mathematics…

Ah. Theatre. Yes. Folk stories, epic ballads—

Overwhelmed with the sudden array of choice (and surprised at his delight to find a fiction section in an academic library—they would have to buy some for the Inquisition next time they were in Val Royeaux…), Trevelyan went for something he’d read already.

He was halfway through Small Legends: Of Nugs and Foxes when he was pulled back by the ringing of a familiar voice, imperious and sharp.

“Edicts of the Black Divine? That is what they pick for their display on Tevinter studies?”

Trevelyan quietly ducked around a set of shelving, hunting for a good vantage point between the tomes.

He liked watching Dorian without Dorian knowing he was being watched. He’d started doing it more after their kiss, which maybe he shouldn’t but there were a lot of things he shouldn’t do that he did with great frequency.

When Dorian was being charming on purpose, he had this sort of slinking, purring way about him, an aura that sort of reminded Trevelyan of the best variety of villainous magisters in theatre. He didn’t use it often around others but he’d ramped it up with him when they weren’t on the field and it was intensely distracting. Now, though, he was himself, unvarnished. Flitting from book to book and not caring who saw. He would take one out, quickly skim through it, then either place it back with a huff or drop it unceremoniously to the ground, muttering to himself. The pompous and self-righteous snobbery on fashion and alcohol and the company he kept, those things were an act—but that wasn’t so when it came to books.

Delightful man.

A sound in the far corner of the library briefly drew Trevelyan’s attention, a slight wariness of discovery. He saw nothing—a door had closed in a far off wall, and it had brought no one with it.

When he turned back, he saw that the book covering his face was now in Dorian’s hand, and the man was looking right at him from the other side of the shelf, smirking.

“Well, look who we have here.”

“O…Oh! Dorian!” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to lie or not, so the words came out limping and tilted. “What a…surprise to see you…here?”

“Were you watching me?” Dorian asked innocently, batting his pretty eyes. Playful, but then sometimes he looked like that when he was angry. It had happened before.

“Um. Maybe.”

“Maybe.” Trevelyan still couldn’t read the expression there. Once, as a smaller boy, he’d snuck up on one of his sisters just to see what she was drawing without interrupting her, and when she caught him looking over her shoulder she’d hit him with the drawing board. Dorian didn’t have a drawing board in his hand, though. “See something that interests you?”

Floundering, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Well I just, I wanted to…talk to…you.”

Another winning smile. “Oh yes? Then I am, as you say down South, all ears. What’s on your mind?”

There were a lot of things on his mind, but with Dorian right there one of them won out.

“Come—back here first,” he stammered. “…If you have a minute.”

Dorian stared at him.

Then he was laughing, peals that made Trevelyan feel at once elated and foolish.

“’I wanted to talk to you,’ he says.” Dorian reached through the shelves to give him a light tap on his nose. “Wait there but a moment, Inquisitor.”

Though an Altus from Tevinter and not an Orlesian scholar, Dorian wove his way through the labyrinth as though he’d been visiting the academy all his life. In no time at all he was there, no more barriers between them, no books positioned at their faces for safety.

Trevelyan took in a breath.

Dorian put a warm hand on his neck, on the junction where it met his jaw, and kissed him.

Oh. Oh.

How many times had they done this? Once or twice, that first night, when he was drunk? And then a few times since, but it hadn’t become a regular occurrence. If he wasn’t Inquisitor he might have been bolder but there was still so much to navigate regarding his new self and station, it hadn’t reached the point where he felt confident that he could just casually go up and initiate.

It felt good. He still struggled with the emotional component but physically at least Dorian’s lips were so warm and soft and they moved in all the right ways. And his hands would move, skittering in ticklish places before finding a handhold, grasping to control the angle of his head, or just to keep his body close. And because Dorian did it—he knew he could do that too.

That was what he did.

Mirroring.

Trevelyan knew he was doing it. It might not have been on purpose but he was never blind to the motions of his own body, not ever.

Mirror them. Behave like them. Take only what they took, offer only what they offered.

As much as he wished he could move past it, it had to be this way. Like marionette strings plucking up on his hands. He couldn’t help himself. It was the only way he could be sure that he was being acceptable, that he was matching their standards.

Because the moment he started acting like himself…

Dorian gave a little moan as his lips swiped a particular spot on his neck. Fine—Trevelyan applied more pressure, nibbled. Rather than moaning louder, as he would have liked, Dorian muffled himself with his free hand, head falling back against a book and knocking it back from where it had been neatly aligned on the shelf.

He didn’t know what he would do when Dorian finally changed his mind.

Sulk some, probably.

The sound of hushed voices brought them out of their reverie with each other. Trevelyan stood there dazed for a second while Dorian looked alarmed at what was over his shoulder, quickly pulling up his collar to hide whatever bite-marks were blossoming there and shoving himself back to an opposite shelf as though they were simply browsing together.

Trevelyan just became more flabbergasted when he turned and saw that weaving through the book cases towards them was none other than Empress Celene.

Out in the sunlight, she had glittered like a diamond, but here in the dimmer library lamps she looked much more human. He adjusted his stance, one hand drawn back as though ready to pull a dagger hidden in his ensemble (he wouldn’t. But it made him feel better to think he could).

She stopped at the mouth of the little alcove. Arms held delicately around herself, bent at the elbows, back straight.

“I hope you will pardon the interruption, Inquisitor. You are a hard man to meet with privately. …Though it seems some find it easy enough.”

There was a feeling about her voice, sort of similar to what he had thought listening to the women speaking on her behalf. Perhaps they had been trained to imitate her—the quality of her Trade, he would almost call it manicured, an Orlesian accent that stayed light and airy instead of scraping against the throat.

After a minute he realized that he was supposed to react to her being there instead of staring. Trevelyan fumbled to bow, running through script again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dorian, face shoved in a book as though he could possibly pretend he wasn’t paying attention. “--Forgive me, I wasn’t prepared for an audience with you directly, Empress. Did you have further business to discuss?”

Instead of replying right away, Celene gracefully knelt (not an easy feat in that dress) and swiped up the book that had fallen to the floor. She brushed a hand over the cover contemplatively, and then replaced it back in its correct spot.

“Love is not always convenient for one’s political standing, is it?” she said softly, conversationally. “And yet, the heart’s wants cannot be denied. I see you are a man who understands this as well as I.”

As well as I.

An idea entered his mind. Celene had made a token effort to allow elves into the University of Orlais. Had she been trying to impress someone?

But then, she was talking about him.

Trevelyan hesitated, words freezing in his throat.

He was not ashamed of Dorian, and not even embarrassed to admit his fondness to the very Empress of Orlais. But if Dorian really wanted secrecy—if that was why he always nudged for them to meet when there was no one else around, when they couldn’t be seen, when there was no one to report any gossip… He stole glances over at him but found no answer or encouragement there. Dorian’s countenance looked like stone.

“…Where I come from, we speak more plainly than this,” he said finally.

A twitch of a smirk crossed the part of her face he could see. Ah, yes, you silly little Marchers, it seemed to say. But it was gone in an instant; replaced again by that cool humility, so convincing in its structure if you forgot who you were talking to.

“I wish to entrust you with a personal matter,” said Celene. “You brought aid to my soldiers, and I understand that the Inquisition seeks to pursue the Orlesian refugees who have fled from their lives. I believe that in doing so, you may…find yourself seeing another side of this war.” She pulled a piece of parchment from within her skirts, an apparently blank sheet. “I only ask that when the time comes, you consider the willfulness of your own heart in pursuing that which matters to you, even when it would put a black mark against you…and advocate for mine with the same fervor.”

Trevelyan cocked his head slightly.

With that, Celene kissed the blank parchment with a slow press of her lips, then folded it up into Trevelyan’s hand. “You will know what I mean. Au plaisir de vous revoir, Inquisitor.”

And with that she departed.

Odd.

He did not think of his heart as willful.

He did not think of his heart at all.

Trevelyan turned back to Dorian, relieved to be alone with him at last, but once again the mood seemed to have deserted them. The Tevinter was frowning at the books behind which Celene had vanished, his nose wrinkled like he’d smelled old fish.

“Charming woman, the Empress,” he said only.

Before Trevelyan could interrogate the much-too-bright way that Dorian said those words, he had already turned on his heel and left.

Chapter Text

“I mean, they’re both shite. Prissy arse nobles using people as game pieces. But what’s it matter which butt goes in the throne? Same throne. At least Celene’s easy on the eyes.”

Trevelyan took a drink of his cider, sitting lazily in one of Sera’s over-padded chairs. “You think the system of rulership is independent of who’s doing the ruling?”

“Look, people talk a big game, but it all comes down to the Game, yeah? Celene’ll say she likes elves, but she only really likes likes elves, you know what I mean? Soon as the Game tells her, she’ll toss ‘em like any other. Meanwhile, Gaspard says Orlesian glory, la di da, but it’s all just one giant pissing match, innit? A rose is a rose is a rose, or whatever.”

They had just come back from their little “reward” for the Verchiel march. They hadn’t spoken much on the way—it was really only supposed to be a minor diversion from a rift-closure mission they already had going out in the field, and Trevelyan had been eager to return back to Skyhold. When they arrived, however, Sera had invited him back to the Rest for drinks as an “apology for things going tits up”.

Trevelyan had thought it was actually a rather nice trip, especially seeing Sera smash Lord What’s-His-Name into paste, but he suspected she was upset about her Friends dying and so held his tongue.

How they had gotten on politics, he wasn’t entirely sure. Every conversation seemed to circle back to it.

“But Briala. This whole pissing match could have been done by now if it weren’t for her. Go back to a nice normal without people’s homes being on fire every day of the week.” Sera finished off her beer and said conclusively, “So, yeah, Briala’s a bitch. Says she looks out for little people, but look at all the ones she’s tossed over.”

Briala. Leliana had information to give him on the woman, which was to be expected, but he hadn’t thought Sera would know. For all she insisted that her Friends weren’t an information network, she seemed to draw a surprising amount of gossip from it.

“Like what happened with Verchiel?” he asked innocently.

Sera learned forward, knobby limbs gesticulating. “Exactly! Nobles checking to see who has the bigger tits and who gets the short end? People just trying to live their lives! If you ask me—”

“No, I don’t mean the initial squabble.” Trevelyan finished off his drink and set it down on the table in front of her. “I mean when you asked me to get the Inquisition marching through. And in retaliation, that noble had some of the peasants involved killed trying to draw out the Red Jennies. Is that not the same thing? Unanticipated blowback against innocent parties while you’re trying to stick it to their ‘betters’?”

She stared at him like he’d told her that she had an eleven year old qunari son she’d never heard about. “No it isn’t. –It’s not the same thing at all. You don’t get it. She wants to change things and I just want to—well some things should change, but not—” Her nose wrinkled and she snarled, “Well if you think the whole thing was a wash then you can piss off!”

He knew her well enough by now that her anger didn’t bother him. “Alright, leaving Briala aside. I’m just saying, Sera, you keep rabble rousing like that and it’s bound to cause more men like him to lash out. And these, uh, these Friends and Little People that you care about so much, they’re going to be the first ones hit.”

“So—what? You’re saying we just let his lot get away with it? Let them think they're better than people?” she demanded incredulously.

Trevelyan frowned. “What? No. I’m saying next time we need to go kill his lot first.”

Sera settled back down in her seat, albeit still with a look of caution in her eyes. Like he wasn’t saying the thing she expected him to.

What did she expect from him, at this point? “No, the killing of Lord uh…whatever, that was really funny.” He’d been planning to do it himself, but he’d dragged out his questioning too much. Took too long savoring the moment. She’d thought he wasn’t going to.

Sera snorted. It seemed to be a multifaceted expression with her, able to convey a great many emotions. “...Yeah, could tell. Laugh like a hyena, you. I mean, it’s alright, but.” She put her finger in his face. “You’re not right.”

He could probably lean in and bite the tip off. “I’m glad we had this chat, Sera. You’ve given me an awful lot to think about.”

“Oh, whatever. Go on, being all smarty. …But don’t be a stranger, yeah?”

As he left their little tete a tete, his feet were slow enough to hear her call after him, “’Cause you? Really frigging scary as a stranger.”

The chatter of the bar faded away as Trevelyan let the door slam shut behind him, feet taking him through the courtyard back up the steps to the main hall. It was a brisk day out, colder in Skyhold than down closer to sea level where they’d been before. They had been working on providing a little bit more insulation for the Keep, make it less drafty, but the most effective way to do that was magic and Josephine said it would upset the other nobles too much.

He wanted to go see Dorian, but they were in another strange patch.

Perhaps. It could have been imagined on Trevelyan’s end. Leliana had pulled him aside before the march out to Verchiel to inform him that Dorian had been witnessed by some of her agents making multiple frustrated attempts to purchase an amulet from a vendor in Orlais. Trevelyan had gone to ask him what it was about, if this was something he could potentially help with.

And Dorian had been weird.

Disgruntled that Trevelyan had even heard about it to begin with. Tight lipped about what it did. Trevelyan had practically had to corner him in his alcove before Dorian finally admitted what it was that was so important he had made 3 separate trips out to Val Royeaux.

“My birthright.” His arms folded, brows lifted imperiously. “A thing you flash at peons to make them tremble. Every important Tevinter family has one.”

Sold in a time of desperation, when he wanted nothing to do with his country and was in a foreign land without a copper to his name. Regretted, when cooler thoughts resurfaced. He had waited, all this while, until the Inquisition had enough coin to give him a decent stipend that could cover more than just a thin mattress and gruel in the morning.

“But the blighter won’t take the money,” he’d grumbled.

“Who is it?”

Dorian’s eyes had flashed. “And why should you need to know that information?”

Leliana had it already. “Maybe if I talk to him—”

“You will do no such thing.” Somehow, without knowing how, that had made him angry. He’d bared his teeth. “I got myself into this mess. I will get myself out of it.”

“But don’t you think—”

“You have all and sundry bidding for you to solve their problems! I will not be one!” Dorian had actually pushed his chest, put a hand to his sternum like he was holding back a dog. “Leave it be.”

Trevelyan hadn’t known how he was supposed to respond to that.

After a minute, as though suddenly conscious of his tone, Dorian had melted back into the slinking sweet talker. Like an apology, but unwilling to actually form the words. Trevelyan was coming to prefer speaking without the artifice, and had shortly excused himself.

Both were too busy to have talked much since. Really, all they had time for was making out in the alcove between missions. A terrible state of affairs.

Trevelyan had opted not to inform Dorian that he was having Josephine look into the matter. See why the merchant was being so stubborn.

Maker.

He was enjoying the puzzle of it. So it wasn’t a problem. But being in a relationship with Dorian was proving to be very complicated.

Or, at least, trying to make it a successful one.

He sighed and turned in the direction of the War Room instead.

They’d received more entreaties for help. It was unbearable. The civil war itself was on hold, but with the Freemen still at large the fighting raged on. Now there was a contingent of refugees in the mix, a slightly more stable group that had organized itself into some sort of militia. Their leader, a man called Fairbanks, was the one to pen their most recent summons.

It was less distasteful than getting requests for aid directly from either Celene or Briala, but it still shouldn’t have been their concern. Trevelyan’s advisors had all agreed that it wasn’t their business.

He was about to make it their business.

Out there, in that mission before Trevelyan had gone on his daytrip with Sera, he had found some journals belonging to the leader of the Freemen of the Dales, a man by the name of Maliphant. It didn’t have much useful information in the way of troop movements or group makeup, but it was a diary effectively cataloging Maliphant’s opinions on how the Freemen were faring, the direction that the deserters had taken in their fruitless war for “independence”.

It spoke of the Venatori that had infiltrated their ranks, the one that Trevelyan and the rest had killed out in the Plains. But it also mentioned that they had been approached by Templars. Unusual Templars that terrified them. Unsettled them. Demanding more and more…

Probably growing Red Lyrium in their veins.

First a Venatori agitator behind the scenes, and now hints of Red Templar involvement?

Yes. Trevelyan could continue to pretend, at least for a little while, that this was just more Inquisition work. That he wasn’t sticking his head in this particular hornet’s nest, only…standing beside it.

But it seemed pretty inevitable that eventually they would have to get at the root cause of this disorder and chaos in Orlais, instead of just treating its symptoms.