#but no instead I found the wide range of things that velvet has mentioned dream in

[sandsofdteam-moved]

ant and velvet being the biggest dream defenders will always be one of my favorite things because you can tell that those guys have such a massive amount of respect for each other and even if they disagree at the end of the day they'll have each others' backs

[thronesofshadows]

Absolution || Cecily & Evelyn

TIMING: Last night/this afternoon (following this) PARTIES: Cecily (written by @mor-beck-more-problems) & @thronesofshadows SUMMARY: In order to help Morgan, Evelyn takes things into her own hands. CONTENT: Mentions of infidelity, fun nightmare times

It wasn’t very difficult to figure out which room Cecily was staying in. All it had taken was a few hundred dollars given to the front desk staff and a pout on her face that said just how sad she was that a visit with an old and valued family friend had ended so abruptly. Evelyn hadn’t gone to visit her, even though she knew that she had a bottle of the Lady’s favorite scotch at home. No, Cecily didn’t deserve pleasantries any longer. If she wasn’t going to play by the rules of proper society and actually help, then Evelyn didn’t have to play by the rules either. It was evening which meant that she could work everything to her advantage. It was going to help Morgan, and even if it didn’t, she hadn’t fed on any of the English elite in a long time, and there had always been a certain fascination that she’d held with it, as a child. The way that it could reveal their secrets, ones she’d whisper in their ears at parties if they were especially keen on bothering her. Which Cecily had done. Evelyn waited until it was significantly dark out, until past nine p.m. when she knew Cecily took her last cup of tea for the evening and went to bed. Turning invisible and intangible, she made her way through the wall of the hotel and up to Cecily’s room. Well, her father certainly was still in favor of believing his daughter was human, because Cecily’s door was easy to slip through and Evelyn quickly made her way over to the bed, brushing a strand of hair away from the woman’s face in a movement that could have seemed kind under any other circumstances. Pressing her palm against the woman’s temple, she let the nightmares begin.

Cecily had gone to bed with her usual nightcap cocktail and bedtime mystery. White Crest was ever so much the disappointment, and her appointment with Evelyn had soured so dreadfully. The bowl would fetch a pretty price if she could get a more professional opinion on it, and that would do nicely for her enterprises, non-profit and...otherwise. What she needed was a good night’s sleep to put it all behind her, so she might be at her best for the following day. Her stay was almost up, and perhaps she might find something worth enjoying in it. She felt drowsy as soon as her head hit the pillow, but rather than the velvet oblivion of a wonderfully medicated sleep, she instead found herself in a hotel room in Paris. Robert Hoffman was on his side of the bed, taking a business call. By this time, he was always taking business calls, and she would try and try to coax him out of it, reminding him that she was much more interesting than his shares or his truly odd little wife. Her attempts never worked for long, but the urge to soften those hard lines in Robert’s body pulled on her now, as if she could never learn. “Oh, darling, look what I have for you, hm? Darling, please, won’t you? I think the world will stay on its axis for an hour or two without your supervision.” She reached for him, but he was like marble--no, he was marble. He wasn’t real at all, and she was alone with this facsimile creature.

Cecily screamed. A stone hand fell on her own, crushing it. The false Robert turned to her, faceless and uncaring. “They’ll find out,” a voice said. It was coming from the speaker on the hotel phone, but it seemed to fill the whole room. “They already know. They’re just waiting for the right moment, Sissy. They know. They’re waiting.”

One of the things that fascinated Evelyn most was how much nightmares could surprise her. What surprised her was the sudden transition to Paris in Cecily’s dream, but what surprised her more was the sudden addition of Evelyn’s own father. Had Evelyn had the ability to dream, she was certain that her father would have ended up in a dream or two of hers, but as it stood she could not (save for the brief and unfortunate incident months ago), which meant that this was Cecily’s. She pushed forward, focusing on the words. Both her father and Cecily were much younger here, but she wasn’t focused on that. Darling? Evelyn shook her head outside of the dream, watching what felt like an incredibly private moment. What was, though she hardly cared for that, it was in her nature and this was who she was, though this particular case seemed to be worth looking into more. If she’d initially gone just to pay Cecily back for causing her to seize up with a worry she didn’t know she was capable of, she was now far more keen to discover just what was going on. Evelyn didn’t flinch when the version of her father in the nightmare turned out to not be real. The words that followed, echoing around the room, were far more interesting. Far more relevant to the task at hand. She pushed harder, willing anything else to be drawn up and out, be it her worst fears or anything else. Evelyn paused for a moment, hand firmly on Cecily’s forehead, realizing, for a brief time, that her father looked almost just as he had in the few photos she had once found of him and her mother. “You deserve whatever is coming for you.” She whispered, unnoticed.

The phones continued to blare and Robert was still staring at Cecily faceless and horrifying. He put one of his marble hands on her, hard enough to crush her neck. But there was no oblivion, just the pain around her neck, throbbing down her whole body. The stone mouth opened, and Robert’s voice whispered, “You give me a fine time, dear. A fine time indeed.” It was what he always said when they parted, and she, full that she was, hung her reputation on it all. She reached for something, anything to break the stone grip on her, but instead of her taser, she found the phone he had given her. It was vibrating with messages, one after another after another. A fine time indeed, my dear. We know, you fool. You’ve been the most delightful joke. A fine time, dear. There was no escape for her. The sound rang to a deafening peal, and she screamed for it to stop...but the sound grew, replaced with the church bells in the cathedral her father had always brought her to. She was inside, each ring cutting into her ears and the hands around her weren’t Robert, but the gargoyles that flanked the tower. Its stone mouth opened in a silent roar, and it seemed to Cecily that it was quoting Dante and the fate of adulterers. She struggled in the gargoyle’s grip, screaming against the painful sound of bells, and then she was flung into the air, plummeting to the steps where she would surely die, a mockery, a disgrace…

She watched, in a certain morbid fascination, as the events unfolded. As the words that her father said far too similarly echoed words she’d heard before and even spoken herself. Evelyn shook those thoughts away, her focus instead turning to feelings of disgust. How dare Cecily speak to her the way that she had when she was hiding this? Part of her supposed that she was supposed to feel bad for Cecily, but she couldn’t bring herself to. She noticed her falling, down - down - down and she removed her hand suddenly, just before Cecily hit the pavement. Guaranteed to cause more grief and worry in the long run. She ran her fingertips over Cecily’s hair for a moment, resisting the urge to pull at it like some small child. She should have, back when she was a child and could get away with such actions. Would have, if she’d known the specific details of Cecily’s relationship with her father. How could he have done that to her mother?

She snuck out of the room, footsteps silent, as she made her way to the concierge desk. Nobody was there, not now - and so Evelyn wrote a note in perfect script - Cecily Ashford has a meeting with Evelyn Hoffman tomorrow, 2pm. Remind her when she awakens.

The next afternoon, Evelyn found herself again in the lobby of the hotel, two glasses of sherry in front of her when she noticed Cecily enter the lobby, a look of confusion apparent on her face and having forgotten her lipstick. Evelyn couldn’t help but smirk. “Cecily, hello!” She waved. “We had a meeting before you return home. Will you sit, please?” She looked up at her.

There wasn’t enough makeup in this godforsaken area code for Cecily to successfully hide the bags under her eyes. After awakening from her nightmare, she had been up the rest of the night, fearing to look at her phone and fearing to leave it alone for more than five minutes. She didn’t recall making the appointment with Evelyn, but by the time she called the front desk to have her meal brought up, it was too late for her to reach out to the girl. She stumbled on her way into the lobby, not quite masking the throb in her head from exhaustion. “H-hello, dear,” she said. She didn’t have enough wherewithal to mind being invited to sit in her own meeting. “Do remind me what it is we had left to discuss? We parted so abruptly, I’m afraid I can’t recall.”

She looked terrible, and Evelyn had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. No, right now she finally had the upper hand and she was more than keen to use it. “Hello, I do apologize if I woke you.” She turned her look to one of pity, perfectly masked behind her own put-together lipstick and outfit. She hadn’t known exactly how Cecily would appear, but she did know that most people didn’t look their best after an evening of nightmares. Particularly if they weren’t used to it. “I had a few more questions about the bowl.” She took a sip of her drink, crossed her legs. “We parted terribly abruptly, so much so that I forgot to mention something.” She bit her lip and let her eyes grow wide for a moment. “You mentioned my father, and something only clicked after we had parted ways. So please.” She let her lips fall from their gentle curve into a harsher line. “Sit.”

Cecily didn’t sit so much as collapse into the armchair opposite Evelyn. She had tried to soften her morning with several glasses of sherry, but the loosening of her mind only brought her nightmares to the front of her groggy mind. “I did, yes,” she sighed. “A lovely man. I’ve been meaning to get in touch with him.” Her ache for him was an insidious thing. Perhaps part of her wanted to be damned for it. And there would be something delicious in having something he wanted so badly. Sitting on it alone would have given her a thrill were she not clammy with dread.

“So I can imagine.” The lobby was relatively empty. “You always did find him lovely, I recall.” She didn’t - wouldn’t have, outside of the knowledge she has now become privy to. Though she did recall her nannies scooping her up when she’d been a child at parties, whisking her away to her bedroom to spend time brushing her hair until she decided it was just right. How they’d usher her away from her father if Cecily came over to talk. Evelyn’s mouth twisted into a frown for a brief moment before taking on a more pensive expression. “You are going to give my friend the bowl.” She bent forward, hair spilling over her shoulders. “You will do so, or else I may have to speed dial to someone who knows someone who writes for The Guardian, and what a wonderful article they would have on you. I doubt that any of your charities would wish to have anything to do with you if they knew what I know.”

Cecily had enough sense in her mind to know that Evelyn was up to something. She looked like the cat that ate the cream. But Cecily couldn’t pin down what it was. Even when she started flexing her pert little muscles, the picture of a girl in dress-up, Cecily never guessed. “And what is it that you know, or think you know, Eva dear?” She said, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “I have a busy day and limited time in which to indulge you.”

“I know you have been seeing my father in what is certainly not a professional capacity and have been since before I was born. Including when he was married and including when you were - are - married.” Evelyn smirked. “You refuse what my friend and I have asked and I will make such a scandal out of you that you will never have a chance of returning to high society. Do not try to deny this, when I have a feeling about things such as this I have yet to be wrong. I am certain that I could find others to confirm too, if you’d like?”

Cecily’s stomach turned. Had she not been kept awake all night by that very thought, she might have kept a better poker face, but her jaw fell slack like some gaping child. She could hear the voices in her head again, that awful ringing of the phone. “How do you know this?” She asked, unable to keep the fear from her voice. But they all knew. Some part of her understood and dreaded the fact that everyone new. “You little trollop, this is blackmail!” She hissed.

“I remember things.” Evelyn looked over to Cecily, eyes growing wide. “I was tiny and quiet when I wanted to be, sometimes being buried in a book has its benefits. I remember all sorts of conversations.” It wasn’t true, but she had overheard snippets before, though nothing to make full sense of what was going on. “Fancy word for it, though I do have the lipstick for it, and  if you mean to insult me you will have to do a whole lot better than that. These are school games.” She smirked. “Give us the bowl and whatever else we might ask for, and I will not breathe a word of this.” For now.

“What kind of assurance do I have that this will be the end of it? Who is to say you aren’t going to drag this out the next time you want something?” Cecily challenged. Pride kept her arguing, but she knew deep down that she would give the girl what she asked for. The bowl was one of a kind, but it was just a venture, an ideality. Her reputation, her friends, Robert-- she couldn’t be so reckless. Cecily sat, seething in her discomfort, her hands tensed with the urge to clench into fists or scratch the girl with her manicure. She didn’t even wait for Evelyn to reply. “Very well,” she said.

She offered a shrug at first, not wanting to speak. She wasn’t about to give Cecily any more power for anything than she deserved, and she certainly did not deserve this. Evelyn took a sip of her drink. She relished in how uncomfortable Cecily seemed, and she knew it was perhaps childish of her, but she missed it. She did not mind all of the softness that had come upon her since arriving in town, but this was a game she missed, and one she was pleased that she could still play a full hand at. “Excellent.” She giggled, then. “It is always a pleasure doing business with you, Cecily. You also will not tell my father that you saw me. Understood?”

Cecily nodded, sinking deep into her chair. She understood too well.

She knew that she had won, and Evelyn found herself deeply proud of that. She nodded at Cecily, motioning for her to go and retrieve the bowl. She knew that she had her in the palm of her hand now, and so she didn’t see it fit to follow her. If she didn’t come back with the bowl, Evelyn would not hesitate to call in her favor. She found quickly that she didn’t have to, as the older woman returned with the bowl and Evelyn took it from her, holding it carefully. “Thank you. That will be all now. Hope you have a restful day.” She smirked. “And a safe flight back, of course.” With that, she turned and walked out the door.

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/ Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 22: Skies Of Autumn

The gang travels to Crestwood to meet Hawke’s Warden contact. One would think that a mission like that would be simple enough, but when is anything ever simple?

Read here or on AO3!

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The large tower bell struck noon. The bright light streaming in through the wide windows of his quarters was half blinding. The stack of reports on Tristan’s desk was almost a foot high.

The pitcher of mulled, watered-down wine next to it was thoroughly empty.

He leaned back on his plush armchair, pinching the bridge of his nose as he let out a soft exhale. He had rolled out of bed well before day break once more, the grey rays of the early morning sun slithering up the eastern mountain range, a sword’s edge along the horizon. There was no end to the duties he had to take care off before leaving for Crestwood, so he had decided to make the best of his lack of sleep. And now I’m paying for it, he thought with a scowl.

The headache that was creeping along his temples now was probably the least of his worries. Lady Josephine had very helpfully informed him the previous day that some distant relatives of his were creating a raucous in the Free Marches, claiming that they were “close friends with the Herald Inquisitor”. In fact, some of them had begun spreading outrageous rumours, saying that they had been present when he and Tilly had been born. A thrice-removed half-uncle of his even claimed to be his godfather. It wouldn’t surprise Tristan if he found out that someone claimed he was their long lost son, born after an illicit affair with his mother.

Now, that would have been amusing. Not to mention inventive. He didn’t want to know what his mother’s thoughts would be.

Josephine had presented him with a list of those that had started the entire thing; Tristan remembered them all, either by face or only by name. His mother had always insisted on both him and Tilly knowing every single person related to House Trevelyan, whether by blood, marriage or allegiance. Even those lesser families, that were only ever associated with them because a Trevelyan half a century before had lost the way back to his marriage bed and fell in some tavern maid’s bed instead, or that one distant cousin of his that had eloped with a silk merchant and sailed to Rivain, thus denouncing fortune and heritage. Tristan knew them all, right down to the number of sovereigns they liked to keep in their coin purses.

Keep an eye on your friends, two eyes on your enemies, and both hands at your family’s throat, his mother always said. A wise woman, Esme Trevelyan. The Free Marches were made up of independent city states instead of a single, unified nation, with the oldest and wealthiest families having more influence than the ruling Counts. When it came to political machinations, power struggles and plots, the Free Marchers could put Orlesians to shame. Thus, making sure that your own family members wouldn’t try to stab you in the back when you weren't looking was the first thing any Free Marcher worth their salt learnt.

Instinctively, he reached for his silver wine goblet and cursed out loud when he found it empty. With a last, heaving sigh, he picked up his pen to sign off on the report before him, that would decide how the Trevelyans would be dealt with. During the council meeting, Leliana had suggested sending an assassin to shut them all up. Tristan had stared at her in disbelief, and her lips had curled in a cunning smile.

“Not an actual assassin,” she had explained in her silvery voice. “Just the threat of one.”

Cullen had bristled at the Trevelyans’ blunder, declaring with a stern voice that the Inquisitor’s name is not one that should be thrown around lightly. “Denounce them,” he had insisted. “Those people and their outrageous rumours are soiling our reputation.”

Josephine’s approach had been much milder and level headed. “Promise them future favors,” she had suggested. “You don’t have to keep them, of course. But it will be enough to satisfy them for now, and stop them from making quite as much noise.”

It was with considerable reluctance that Tristan dragged his pen along the paper. As much as he had wanted to scare his slackwit relatives into silence with assassins or open denouncements, he knew them all too well to know that insults like these would only make matters worse. Free Marchers, and the Trevelyans in particular, were nothing if not loudmouths and insufferable gossips. So, false promises and assurances it was.

A good rider knows when to give his horse the whip, and when the apple. His mother also said that. He wondered idly if he was becoming more and more like her by the day. If Tilly were there now, watching him, he was sure she would have laughed until she cried. “You’re starting to look like her, too,” she would say, nodding at the wrinkles that had recently started to form around his eyes, and laugh even more.

A dull, hollow ache thrummed in his chest. He missed hearing her laugh.

He shook his head and brushed the thoughts away, the memories dissipating like smoke in the wind. His fine golden pen glided on the thick parchment with a soft scratching sound as he signed his name and title at the end of the report. A quick glance at the wine pitcher reminded him that it was still empty, and he frowned.

“If you scowl at those reports any harder, I’m sure they’ll grow arms and write themselves. If they don’t set themselves on fire first.”

Dorian’s voice made Tristan half jump out of his seat. His pen flew out of his fingers, trailing a ragged line along his carefully written report, irreparably marring it. He cursed under his breath as he crumbled it up in his fist and threw it in the hearth.

“Well. I believe that takes care of the latter.”

Dorian was standing before his desk, his lips curled in a soft, teasing smile. The long, flowy robe he was wearing was the softest shade of cream and blush pink, the halla leather belt keeping it in place decorated with golden buckles. One bare shoulder peeked through the carefully arranged layers of fabric, a bronze swath of skin that shone in the sunlight. His heady cologne reached his nostrils, and Tristan’s mouth went dry. Maker, he was a sight for sore eyes.

“Dorian,” he breathed.  “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Weren’t you? That’s odd. I could have sworn that one of your guards - Maighdin, was it? - came to the library but an hour ago to inform me that you had asked for me. Perhaps I was mistaken. One does get used to seeing mirages from time to time in this place.”

Tristan bit his lip as a faint blush crept up his cheeks. Of course he had asked for Dorian when Maighdin had come in to bring him a fresh pack of letters a while before. With this and that, he had completely forgotten. Had he started losing his mind?

He rubbed his eyes and huffed a laugh. “Forgive me, I… I didn't get much sleep last night. And this wine seems to have been a bit stronger than I anticipated.”

Dorian’s smile faltered just a hair before he gave him a warm, tender look. He sauntered around his desk, long fingers gliding along the edges of the polished wood, and Tristan pushed his chair back. The weight of Dorian’s body felt warm and comforting when he sat on his lap, and his lips tasted sweet as honey and sharp like toasted cardamom when they brushed over his own. He lost himself in that taste, that scent, that moment, the tension that had built up in his shoulders bleeding out of him.

“Couldn’t sleep again?” Dorian asked softly, wrapping his arms around his neck.

Tristan shook his head at Dorian’s concerned expression and reached up to cup his neck, running his thumb down the tendons of his throat. The tender skin felt like velvet under his fingertips; warm, smooth, pulsating with life. He leaned forward, burying his nose in that pulse point and inhaling deeply. “Not when my mind is filled with thoughts of my beloved.”

“Oh, no.” Dorian edged back, wrinkling his aquiline nose. “Not with the sappy poetry again, I beg of you.”

“What sappy poetry?”

“Wasn’t this a line from one of those dreadful poems I keep finding in my pockets?”

Tristan smiled wryly. He had made it a habit to sneak small notes into Dorian’s pockets or under his pillow before he left for his meetings in the morning. It was customary in the Free Marches to leave a letter or a small trinket where one’s lover would find it. It was supposed to make the heart grow fonder in one’s absence, and Tristan hadn’t thought much of it at first. Dorian’s reactions, which usually verged between amused and horrified, had surprised him. Naturally, he had resolved to do it all the more.

“Is it so bad that I want to express my admiration for you in the way I know best?”

Dorian crossed his arms before his chest and fixed his sterling grey eyes on his. The tiny golden flecks in them shimmered in the dancing light of the fire in the hearth. “Yes. Yes it is. Any more of that, and I’ll be running for the woods. Just you wait.”

A slow, throaty chuckle escaped Tristan’s lips as he pulled him flush against him and nuzzled his ear. “That’s a shame. There’s more where that came from. Care to hear it?”

"Do I have a choice?" he asked, rolling his eyes.

“I’ll take that as a yes." Dorian tilted his head up as Tristan placed a soft kiss under his jaw, and Tristan couldn’t help a smile. Dorian could pretend he hated this all he liked, but Tristan could see right through him. "I arise from dreams of thee, in the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, and a spirit in my feet has led me -who knows how? To thy chamber window, sweet! Let thy love in kisses rain, on my lips and eyelids pale-"

“Maker.” Dorian sat up and gave him a suspicious look through his narrowed eyes. “Are you trying to make me hurl up my breakfast? Because it’s working.”

“What? It’s a lovely poem. I think it’s particularly fitting. Don’t you?”

Dorian harrumphed and rolled his eyes again.

"Wait," Tristan said, holding up his hand, "I have another one. I think you'll like that one better. You are a sky of autumn, pale and rose; But all the sadness in my blood surges, and ebbing, leaves my lips morose- ”

"Oh, for the love of-" Dorian groaned and pressed his lips on Tristan's. Tristan chuckled at his desperate attempt to shut him up, but welcomed the feel of his mouth against his.

They kissed for a long while, until Tristan could feel his blood stirring. Since coming back to Skyhold it felt like he was in a rush, and moments of idle enjoyment with Dorian were becoming increasingly harder to come by. Stolen moments, a kiss here, a touch there, a lingering glance across a crowded room; those were not enough to sate the fire that coursed through his veins whenever he saw him.

Yet now, for the first time in what felt like aeons, he had this all to himself. He let his fingers trail over the rich fabric of Dorian’s robes, feeling the taut muscles underneath. Dorian hummed against his lips, running his fingers through his hair. “You know,” he said, “you never struck me as a man of poetry."

Tristan gave him a cheeky grin. “You bring it out in me.”

Dorian chuckled softly, smoothing his palm over Tristan's chest. "Now, before I bring something else out in you," he whispered, "care to tell me why you called for me?" He slid his lips along his cheek, catching his earlobe between his teeth. "I hope it's something naughty."

Tristan’s hands tightened about Dorian’s waist. “It could be,” he replied. “I’ll be leaving for Crestwood tomorrow. You can join me, if you’d like.”

“You’ll be leaving so soon?” Dorian asked. He sat up, turning to face him. The slight movement of his body on his lap almost made a sharp hiss escape his lips, but he bit it back. Dorian’s tone was a touch apologetic when he spoke. “I have a lot of research to catch up on. I don’t think I’ll be able to finish it by then. I would say I’d love to come, but from what I’ve heard of the place that would be a lie.”

“You can’t come?” Tristan asked, his stomach falling past his knees. He forced a small smile on his lips, hoping his disappointment wasn’t too obvious. “And who will warm my bed at night?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

“I doubt it would be as good as having you by my side.”

Dorian chuckled under his breath and leaned against him. “So, who will you be taking with you? And I don't mean as a bedwarmer.”

Tristan thought for a moment. Now that Dorian wasn’t coming, he would have to decide on the composition of his party again.“Blackwall needs to come. He’s the only Grey Warden in our ranks. He might be able to give us better insight on… whatever it is that Hawke’s contact will be telling us. I’ll ask Solas to join us too. A mage is always needed. And Varric will want to travel with his friend.” In reality, Tristan had wanted Varric to be there more as an assurance that Hawke wouldn’t be driving them straight into trouble, rather than to give them time together. Perhaps the man didn’t care much for the Inquisitor, but he woudn’t willingly place his friend in danger. Tristan still wasn’t sure how much he could trust Varric, but he could say with some certainty that he didn’t intend to hurt him. At least, not fatally.

Dorian quirked a perfectly groomed brow and tilted his head to the side, the light catching on the side of his throat. Blight, at times it felt like every single one of his movements was practiced to perfection to drive him mad. “You’ll be travelling with Hawke, then?” he asked. Tristan nodded, and Dorian let out a low humming noise. “Tell me,” he said, “how is Hawke? I’ve heard all sorts of rumours about him.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s got quite the reputation.”

“Indeed,” Dorian said idly. A long, beringed finger traced Tristan’s jaw, sending a shiver down his spine. He seemed more absorbed in the movement of his finger than their conversation. “Apparently he is very handsome.”

“Who told you?” Tristan asked, brows furrowing in curiosity.

Dorian’s eyes flashed. He snatched his hand away and glared at him. “Oh, so he is handsome!”

He edged back, arms crossed, the very air seeming to ripple around him. Tristan bit his lip. Damn him. Dorian had laid out a trap, and he had walked right into it.

“That’s not what I said,” he said quickly, in a weak attempt to smooth things over. “I just-”

“Oh, please.” Dorian waved his words off. “Spare your breath. We both know you are a hopeless liar.”

“I am not lying,” he said through tight lips, and was about to say more, when realisation dawned on him. “Wait. Are you... jealous?”

“Jealous ? Ha! The things you say,” Dorian scoffed. “As if I could ever be jealous of a backwards Free Marcher.”

“He’s only half a Marcher,” Tristan corrected, then frowned at the derision in his voice. “I also happen to be a “backwards” Free Marcher, you know.”

“My words exactly.”

Dorian fixed his gaze on him, hard and unyielding, his mouth set in a straight line. His irritation startled Tristan. He returned his glare with a confused look, but then let his lips curl in a smirk. Of course, Dorian was just joking. He must have been. He snaked an arm around his waist, pulling him close.“Alright, I’ll admit, Hawke isn’t hard on the eyes. But there isn’t a man in the whole of Thedas that could hold a candle to your beauty. Besides, he’s an infuriating oaf if i ever met one.”

He had expected Dorian to laugh his usual teasing laugh, but the mage’s eyes were all fire and indignation. They simply stared at each other for a couple breaths, until Tristan couldn’t help but let out a small, nervous laugh. “Dorian, you can’t seriously believe I’m interested in Hawke.”

Dorian looked at him for a moment longer before shrugging indifferently and turning away, his gaze sweeping over his quarters as if appraising them, and finding them wanting. “Whether you do or don’t is of no consequence to me. I don’t mind if you find Hawke good looking, or any man. You’re the Inquisitor. You are free to do whatever you please.”

His words were an icy shower after a warm bath, harsh and unexpected. Tristan blinked and swallowed hard, hoping that he had misheard. “I am?” he breathed.

“Of course.” Dorian leaned back, further away from him. The rings on his fingers clicked when he started idly fixing his hair in place. “It’s not like we’re exclusive.”

Tristan felt like he had suddenly been punched in the gut. “We’re not?”

Dorian’s stern expression quivered for a moment, a blink of an eye. He opened his mouth, then closed it. When he did speak, he didn’t sound quite as confident as before. “I- well, we haven’t exactly spoken about-” He stopped himself and cleared his throat. “Unless my memory betrays me, we never exchanged vows of eternal love and loyalty or anything of the sort. We’ve had our fun. Perfectly reasonable to keep it this way.”

“But…” Tristan started, then paused. This conversation had taken a turn that he had never anticipated. Ever since the Emerald Graves, he hadn’t doubted for a moment that what he and Dorian had was… something. What exactly, he could not say - he had never had any experience in that sort of thing, after all - but he knew it, with a certainty that startled him at times, that this wasn’t like the other flings he had had in the past, void of emotion or meaning. This, this, was different. But did Dorian feel the same way?

He looked up into his eyes, and felt like his heart would jump out of his throat. “Dorian, I-”

Heavy bootsteps echoed along the narrow staircase, and Tristan cursed under his breath. Dorian stood up in a flowing movement, straightening his robes just as Maighdin appeared on the stair landing. Her face was stony when her eyes fell on Dorian fixing his clothes and on Tristan’s no doubt flushed cheeks. If she realised she had interrupted, she showed no sign of it.

“Your Worship,” she said, “I’ve brought you the requisitions for the hold renovations you requested.”

Tristan cleared his throat and nodded sharply. “Thank you. Is that all?”

“My lord,” Maighdin said and bowed. She turned around to leave, and Tristan almost let out a sigh of relief, when Dorian walked after her.

“Dorian,” he said, but the other man barely stopped his course.

“I’m afraid I have to return to my work,” Dorian called over his shoulder. “I do hope you enjoy the weather in Crestwood.”

******

Crestwood. Dark, dank, Maker-forsaken Crestwood. The rain pelted against his hood, soaking him to the bone, the spiralling wind sending the fat droplets flying in all directions. Thunder echoed in the distance, the flash of far away lightning brightening up the sky, that hung over their heads gloomy and overcast. The clouds were so heavy, that it almost felt like if he stretched his hand he would touch them. The day was so dark, that it seemed like night, even though it was most certainly not quite noon yet.

Wrapped up in his thick cloak, Tristan shivered and scowled and muttered curses under his breath.

His companions didn’t seem to be in any higher spirits. Varric looked miserable enough, swaying on his short, stubby gelding, while Solas peered straight ahead of him as they rode, exchanging but the most basic of words with the others. Blackwall and Hawke seemed to be getting along well, chatting away as if oblivious to the rain and the wind.

Hawke’s tall, brown stallion was a magnificent beast, its large hooves splashing in the muddy puddles that had formed along the road. Anderfel Chargers were prized warhorses in the South, and Tristan had only seen them occasionally during the Grand Tourneys in the Free Marches. He wondered how Hawke had come across such an animal. From what he knew, he possessed neither the coin nor the connections to acquire it. Then again, a man like Hawke could slither his way into anyone’s good graces, the way Tristan saw it. Perhaps even his, if he tried hard enough.

Doubt and suspicion itched at the back of his mind. As if aware of his stare, Hawke shifted on his saddle, turning his head to give him a glance over his shoulder. His face was hidden by the shadow of his cowl, but Tristan could tell that he was smiling.

“Everything alright back there, Inquisitor? Haven’t heard you grumbling in a while.”

Tristan grunted his response and looked away. The man’s very presence grated at his nerves. He could feel Hawke’s gaze lingering on him for a long moment - careful, examining, just a touch amused - before he turned to Blackwall and resumed their conversation. Their voices were drowned out by the thunder and the wind and the patter of rain on the old, worn cobblestones, and even if Tristan were even slightly interested in hearing what they could be saying, he had no desire to strain his ears to eavesdrop. He gently kicked Almond forward, until he was riding next to Solas’ hart.

The mage gave him a short bow with his head in greeting, then let his gaze drift towards their right. The day’s dull light reflected on Crestwood lake’s troubled waters, ever shifting and turning with the wind. The rift that lay in its middle was the only thing disturbing that endless expanse of grey. It was bright and sputtering and ugly as an eyesore, and one of the largest rifts Tristan had seen in a while. It gave him an odd sense of foreboding, and he frowned at it, but Solas was simply staring at it impassively, the side of his face painted a sickly green.

“I’ve never seen a rift in a more inconvenient location,” Tristan said, more to himself than to Solas. “Even if I’d wanted to get close to it, it’s impossible to reach.”

The elf turned smoothly, giving him a careful look. “There must be a way. We just need to find it.” His voice was low when he spoke again. “Rifts like these imperil both this world and the Fade. Even one rift left as is, is one rift too many.”

Tristan was about to ask whether he had any bright ideas about how to reach it, when the rift crackled, sputtering green light. A stab of pain shot up his left hand, a ripple of electricity that travelled up his veins and numbed his senses. He bit his lip to muffle out his pained groan, clutching his hand up to his chest.

Solas’ eyes widened; alarm and concern mingled with curiosity flickering in their dark grey depths. “What’s the matter, Inquisitor? Is the mark troubling you?”

Tristan rubbed his palm, wincing. It was glowing faintly from within the folds of his cloak, but the pain was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. He shook his head and waved Solas’ concern away. “I’m alright. I think. It just pinched a little.” He glanced at the rift in the lake, that was relatively peaceful now. “I can’t remember it doing something like that before.”

Solas’ brows drew together in a thoughtful frown. “The Veil is thin here.”

“It certainly feels like it,” Tristan grumbled. Solas opened his mouth to say something more, but shouts and the clang of swords in the distance stopped him. They exchanged a wary look before urging their steeds forward.

After a moment of confusion, the others followed them. The clop of their horses echoed against the tall rocks that edged the narrow paved road. A turn later, and they were all pulling on their reins, dirt and mud flying as hooves dug on the wet ground. Two armed men were standing in the middle of the road, swords brandished and bewilderment evident in their expressions when they gazed at the mounted party before them. Three mangled, wretched corpses lay at their feet.

Almond whickered nervously, her nostrils flaring and her ears standing on end as the acrid smell of darkspawn blood reached them. Solas’ hart took an uneasy step backwards, while Blackwall’s and Varric’s mounts tossed their heads back, the whites of their eyes showing. Hawke’s stallion didn’t move a muscle.

Tristan clicked his tongue softly, reaching down to pat Almond’s neck. Most animals, and indeed most people, were unsettled by darkspawn, their very presence denying any logic or explanation. Dead that weren’t quite dead, and that were only driven by a mindless urge to kill. Void and damnation, they made him uneasy as well.

One of the armed men - Grey Wardens, Tristan realised when he took a good look at the griffon symbol etched on their shining breastplates - wiped his sword on the cloak of one of the fallen darkspawn and placed it back in its scabbard. “Greetings, travellers,” he said, his voice muffled by his helmet.

“Greetings,” Tristan replied, sitting tall on his saddle. “What’s going on here?”

The Warden regarded him curiously. “Who’s asking?”

Tristan glanced momentarily at Hawke, whose face remained impassive and half hidden by the shadow of his hood. The others remained silent, waiting for Tristan’s response. In the brief second of silence that passed, his mind raced - Hawke had mentioned that his contact was hiding in a smuggler’s den. That he had reached out to him because he was concerned about corruption in the ranks. And now there were two Grey Wardens before them, their armours shiny and well kempt, as if they had just arrived. Crestwood did not hold any Grey Warden outposts that Tristan knew - Blight, they were in the back-end of Ferelden, no one had any reason to ride through there-  so, what were the Wardens doing? A couple darkspawn hordes could hardly be a reason. It was a well known fact that many places in Thedas were teaming with undead, yet the Wardens hadn’t even bothered to send a party to clear them out, or two.

There could only be one reason, the way Tristan saw it.

“Willem of House Henley, of Starkhaven,” he said quickly in his best imitation of the heavy Starkhaven accent, hoping he hadn’t stayed silent long enough to arouse the Warden’s suspicions. The lie came easily to him, without much thought. If the Wardens here were after Hawke’s friend, announcing his real name and the Inquisition’s presence would only attract unwanted attention, and that was a risk he was not willing to take. He gestured towards his companions. “These are my household guards.”

The man blinked at him. His eyes swept slowly over Hawke and Blackwall, pausing for a moment on Varric, and stopping dead in their tracks at Solas and his hart. “You’re a long way from home, my lord,” he told Tristan slowly when his gaze returned to him.

“Indeed,” Tristan said. “We’re on our way back, as it happens. Care to point us towards the nearest port?”

“If it’s the West Hill port you’re headed for, you’ve just earned yourself an extra day of travel. Should have gone North after Kinloch. Roads are better that way.”

Tristan pretended to be surprised, then exasperated. He nodded his sour gratitude at the man, then glanced at the darkspawn, wrinkling his nose. “What about them? Will we be seeing a lot of them?”

“Quite a few, I’m afraid. I would avoid the main road if I were you. I doubt your guards here can defend you against darkspawn,” the Warden said, shooting a glance of veiled contempt towards Solas before checking himself.

Hawke snorted. Tristan cleared his throat to drown out the sound, glaring at him. “Yes, I doubt that as well. Not that many darkspawn in Starkhaven, as you can imagine. Good thing you’re here, though. It’s a relief to see your Order taking care of business as usual. I hope you’ll stay long enough to clear this place out.”

The Warden shook his head. “Our orders forbid it. Crestwood was only a detour. We’ll be leaving soon.”

“A detour?” Tristan said with genuine surprise. “I thought Wardens went wherever the undead are. Isn’t that your job?”

The man bristled at that. “We’re here on important Grey Warden business. None of your concern.”

Tristan let out a small, mocking laugh. “What business could be more important for a Grey Warden than killing darkspawn?”

The other Warden, that had stayed silent all the while, took a step forward. “A rogue Grey Warden is wanted for questioning. Warden Commander Clarel herself has ordered his capture! That is important business,” he spat, his youthful voice filled with indignation.

The older Warden gave him a stern look, and the youth fell back. He turned his gaze to Tristan, cold and dripping with disdain. “Best be on your way now. This is no place for a lord .”

Tristan gave the man a minute bow with his head, and urged Almond forward. His companions followed suit, steering their horses carefully clear of the darkspawn corpses. As soon as they were safely out of view of the Wardens, Hawke’s mount caught up to his.

“That was clever, giving them a false name,” Hawke said, his voice lowered to a whisper. “Although your Starkhaven accent needs a little bit of work.”

Annoyance flared hot in Tristan’s chest when he turned to glare at him. “Next time, I would appreciate it if you warned me in advance that your contacts are wanted criminals,” he hissed.

Hawke blinked at him, startled for only a moment. “He’s not a criminal,” he said earnestly. “I told you before that I had reasons to believe there was corruption in the Grey Warden ranks. The corruption may have spread more than I thought. If they’re after him, they could be after others who have dared voice opposition as well.”

Or, Tristan thought, your friend is a madman, or a killer, or a traitor, and the Grey Wardens are looking for him to bring him to justice. He scowled as he pressed on, following the small mountain path that veered off the main road. Hawke let his horse fall back, riding beside Varric instead.

No one spoke much until the mountain path trailed upwards, leading them to the hidden entrance of the smuggler’s cave. It really was the perfect hideout spot; narrow, low, the steep slope before it making it barely noticeable from the main road. Tristan swung one leg over his saddle and slid off his horse, tying her reins to a thick root that was growing from the rock. He shifted impatiently on his feet until the others dismounted, thumping the hilt of his daggers. Whoever was in that cave, and whatever he had to say, he wanted nothing more than to be done with it.

Hawke strode confidently forward, pausing at the entrance of the cave to gesture for Tristan to walk ahead. “After you, my lord,” he said in a ridiculous Starkhaven accent, the smile that was plastered on his face wide and mocking.

Varric chuckled, and Blackwall huffed in amusement, but they both cleared their throats and looked away when Tristan stomped ahead, shooting Hawke his iciest frown before passing him by. He regretted it very soon after - the long, narrow passage of the cave was dark and incredibly dank, and he could barely see past his nose, save for the feeble moonlight reflecting off the wet stalagmites.

The passage widened into a room, faintly lit by torches. Tristan gazed around, but other than an old, moth eaten desk, some broken crates and an empty barrel, there was nothing there.

He turned around to glare at Hawke. “I swear to the Maker, Hawke, if this is a trap-”

The sound of a sword sliding out of its scabbard behind him made his blood freeze. He immediately reached for his daggers, dodging out of the way of the blade as he pulled them free.

“It’s alright!” he heard Hawke saying. “It’s just us. I have brought the Inquisitor.”

The man whose sword tip was aiming for his throat was in his middle years, his raven black hair streaked with grey. He had a hard face and hard eyes; cold, aloof, vigilant. His icy blue gaze slid slowly from Hawke to Tristan before taking a step back, sheathing his sword in one seamless, fluid motion.

“Warden Loghain Mac Tir,” he said in a deep, raspy voice. “I believe we have a common cause, Inquisitor.”