Cullen's coin rolls over his knuckles, back and forth and back and forth, gold catching in the flickering candlelight in Elena's tent just outside the Valley of Sacred Ashes. A parlor trick Dorian taught himself on the march to their (hopefully) final confrontation with Corypheus. He worked on the skill while on horseback as they stomped through the Ferelden countryside, in the tent he shared with Vivienne when the reality of what's to come chased away desperately needed sleep, as he ticked down the days, then hours until their final assault.

Even as Elena rehashes the orders for her inner circle gathered in her tent, makes sure they all know what they will do and where they will be, Dorian has that coin twisting between his fingers.

"Are you paying attention?" Elena has her hands on her hips, the near constant worry in her eyes turning to annoyance as she stares at him.

The coin slides too far as his head snaps up, slips across the back of his hand to clink onto the ground. His eyes follow the coin as it rolls a few feet away, and only when it stills does Dorian meet Elena's eyes. Beneath the bland look that feels plastered to his face he feels skittish; he can feel the weight of everyone's gaze as Elena draws attention to him pressing him into the floor.

But is that what he feels? Or is it the eyes of the spectre of death watching them all that settles so heavily on his shoulders like a cloak made of iron?

Dorian bends down to collect the coin from the dirt masquerading as a tent floor. "Of course, darling Elena," he says, the words leaving his lips by rote as he straightens. With the coin in hand he feels… grounded, he supposes. Like, no matter what may come, things will turn out for the better in the end.

He's smart enough to know it's all in his head, that this coin he grips so tightly in his fist offers as much protection as a potato sack, and yet he grips it all the tighter. Somewhere in the back of his mind Dorian wonders if Cullen is doing the same with his ring, fist so tight that the edges of the ring cut into his skin, a solitary tether to hope for the future.

Elena stares at him hard but he does not flinch, does not shrink, and after a long pause she returns to giving orders that she's given five times in the last twenty four hours. The coin begins to roll across his knuckles again but she doesn't comment with anything but a twitch of her brows.

There's something about the release of anxiety and fear that's absolutely exhausting. It's what weighs Dorian's eyelids as he stands at a table in Skyhold's main hall, a cup of wine in one hand as he pretends to listen to an unrecognisable noble from Orlais coo and gush over his part in Corypheus's downfall. The fact that this woman - along with many of the others gathered today - were just weeks ago treating him like Mabari shit on the bottoms of their pretty little shoes hasn't gone unnoticed, but Dorian knows well enough to let them play their game for now.

Wouldn't do to cause some sort of diplomatic calamity and ruin all the festivities.

Even as the woman talks and he gives his "hmm"s and "uh huh"s and "go on"s, his eyes search the crowds of mingling people, looking for that unmistakable cloak amidst the lace and petticoats. Sometimes he thinks he catches a flash of red and black but it always resolves into another dress, another coat, another feathered fan fluttering in front of someone's face in their ridiculous attempt at coyness. The rest of the inhabitants of Skyhold seem to be enjoying the extra attention, taking advantage of these social vultures going out of their way to appease them. Only Sera, Bull and Blackwall are missing it seems, though they're undoubtedly in the tavern, enjoying the company of people who weren't trained at birth to look down their noses.

For a moment Dorian wonders if Cullen escaped to the tavern as well. It wouldn't surprise him - Cullen never was one for nuance and double talk, even now after spending so much time in Dorian's company. But in that moment it's as if the crowds have parted like clouds to reveal Cullen, the sun. Even from across the hall Dorian is warmed by the sight of him.

Quarry found, Dorian finishes his drink and bids the talkative Orlesian adieu, leaving his cup on the table as he beelines for Cullen.

Cullen must sense him coming because he looks up from his conversation with Josephine and when their eyes meet it's like electricity in the air, coursing through Dorian's veins. Words float through Dorian's mind and he's sure Cullen is thinking the same as he approaches.

We made it out alive.

This is not the first they've seen of each other since the final battle, but it is the first they've seen of each other where one of them isn't pulled away by duty and post-war clean up. For a moment it looks as if Josephine is going to try to keep Cullen's attention - whatever they're talking about is surely important - but when she turns her head and sees just who it is that has drawn Cullen's eye, she flashes a smile at the two of them and moves off to converse with someone else.

Dorian crowds up into Cullen's space once he's close enough to do so, breathes in deep the scent of him. It's like coming home to a cabin deep in the woods, one built just for him. Cullen's hand comes to rest on his hip, fingertips rubbing circles into the leather of his top.

"And here I thought you'd run off to hide from all the lords and ladies," Dorian says, taking the bite off his words with a soft smile.

"Truthfully, I did try, but Elena threatened to shave me bald," Cullen replies, and Dorian can't help but laugh at the idea of a bald Cullen.

"A good thing you didn't flee then. I'd be quite put out if you lost all this lovely hair." Dorian's hand comes up to touch Cullen's hairline right by his right ear, fingers ghosting over the skin before he lets his hand fall. It's enough of a touch to bring a flush to Cullen's cheeks; the hand on Dorian's hip tightens its grip.

Dorian tilts his head. "Perhaps I can steal you away later for our own festivities. Elena can't go through with her threat if I'm the one to drag you off." His hand comes up to tangle in the fur mantle of Cullen's cloak, tugging the man ever closer. Here, in this moment, the exhaustion he felt scant minutes before is chased away by desire to drown himself in Cullen, in the reality of their survival. The need overrides his wariness of any sort of public affection, of having eyes on him while he's being close with the other man. It still itches there in the back of his mind, that fear of being seen, but not enough to deter him.

Cullen must sense his mood, though, truth be told he'd have to be daft to miss it. The smile on his face slips into a smirk, his lips pulled up on one side by the scar cutting into them. His hooded gaze sends shivers down Dorian's spine and he drowns in those ochre eyes that darken with thinly veiled heat. Were they in a more secluded area Dorian would be dragging Cullen to his quarters, but it will take a bit of extraction to remove themselves from the festivities without alerting everyone to what they're galavanting off to do.

Laughter from across the hall cuts through the heated silence between them, and Cullen looks up towards the source of the noise by instinct. Dorian uses the distraction to snag the last cup of wine from a passing serving girl's tray; she blushes and curtsies deeply, the gratitude on her face plain as day. It makes him a little uncomfortable, all this adoration and thankfulness. Not that it's the first time he's experienced it, not in the least. The longer he spent with the Inquisition, the more commendation he received, his Tevinter blood a footnote to his character rather than his defining feature. He gives the girl a nod and a friendly smile. She clutches her tray to her chest and bobs another curtsy before hurrying off into the crowd.

"Hard to get used to, isn't it?"

Dorian returns his attention to Cullen, who is watching as the serving girl weaves her way through the mingling nobles and lords towards the kitchens. "Used to what?"

"The blind hero worship." Cullen shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, free hand moving to rest on the pommel of a sword he isn't wearing. His hand hangs awkwardly for a second before he lets it drop to his side, though the other remains on Dorian's hip. "They should be down in the camps thanking the soldiers and mages, not here fluttering their eyelashes at us."

"I enjoy their eyelash fluttering," Dorian quips, flashing a smile at the exasperated look on Cullen's face. "You downplay your role in our success far too often, amatus. Without your training they would have been children trying not to poke themselves with the sharp ends of their swords, and without your tactical skill, we would have all died months ago."

Cullen's brows furrow. "That may be true, but it wasn't me that was in imminent danger during those battles."

Dorian scoffs and swats at his arm. "Liar. I distinctly remember a dragon trying to bite your head off." The terror he'd felt seeing those powerful jaws snap so close to Cullen had nearly done him, and the memory of it is enough to make his chest tighten. "Enough self-deprecation for now, hm? Let's get away from here." He leans in close, his mustache tickling at Cullen's cheek. "Twenty minutes, my rooms."

This close, Dorian can feel Cullen's breath hitch at their proximity, at the promise in those words, and it's enough to chase away his memories of the final battle to make room for more intimate thoughts.

It's far easier for Dorian to slip away. Not only because he has the social skill to both greet people and escape their attempts to draw him into conversation, but because there's still some infamy associated with him and it's enough to make some hesitate, which gives him enough time to breeze by without interruption. Cullen isn't so lucky, pounced upon as soon as Dorian leaves his side. Dorian would feel sympathy, but perhaps it's time for Cullen to act as the lion everyone calls him and stop cowing before these simpering insipid aristocrats.

Free from any social constraints, Dorian makes his way from the hall toward his quarters. He'd be loathe to admit it, but there is a bit of a skip in his step. The end of the world didn't rain hellfire upon their heads, the people he cares for most are still alive and well - what more could he ask for?

Well, there's much more he could ask for, but he'll settle for being alive and well and surrounded by people who care for him.

He ends on that thought as he makes it to his rooms and simply walking through the threshold is enough to get the anticipation building in his blood, pulse pounding in his chest at the idea of finally having his commander to himself. Dorian works quickly to make his rooms more… romantic, he supposes. Making the bed, adding blankets, lighting some candles in strategic places instead of having his usual wisp of light affixed to the wall to light the room. He even goes so far as to lay out a few more rugs and furs on the floor to mask the cold stone underneath in even more warmth and decadence.

By the time Cullen knocks at his door, Dorian is stripped to all but his small clothes and laid out on the bed like a feast; Cullen's eyes devour him the second he's through the door. Dorian can't help but shudder under the weight of his gaze, the sheer desire that pins him to the bed as the Commander approaches slowly, shedding armor and clothing until nothing of the Commander is left except the man beneath the title.

Dorian shivers again, visible enough for Cullen to notice. "Cold?" he asks.

"Mm, a little. Come make me warm." Dorian beckons with the crook of a finger and Cullen is all but happy to oblige him.

Dorian watches Cullen's hands as he twists the signet ring Dorian gave him what seems like a lifetime ago on his middle finger. He's caught him doing it before when his hands needed something to do, idle fingers searching for something to touch as his fought to keep his emotions in check. That ring has been his solace in this last year, when paperwork mounted, when skirmishes were fought and won. The fact that Cullen twists it now because of Dorian breaks his heart.

"When do you leave?" Cullen asks, and Dorian tears his eyes away from Cullen's hands to meet his stare. The pain there almost makes Dorian flinch but he stiffens his back against the inclination.

Dorian wets his lips, swallows down the lump that forms in his throat as the silence between them stretches. And that silence speak volumes; his ribcage feels like it's going to crack under the pressure of that silence pushing down on his chest. He opens his mouth to speak and no words come on the first try, but on the second he manages to say it.

"Two weeks. Enough time for me to ensure I have the provisions for the trip."

Andraste help him but it hurts to say the words, and his voice cracks like a child going through puberty.

Cullen's nod is slow, his fingers twist Dorian's ring.

There is little said between them for the rest of the day. They hide from each other, from the pain of what's to come.

Dorian can't help but feel bitter at Cullen's reaction. Surely he knew this was coming? They may not have discussed it explicitly, but the implication that he was going to return to Tevinter eventually was always there between them. He must know how important this is to him, how important it is that he returns home and works to make it a better place, a Tevinter to be proud of, a Tevinter capable of interacting with the rest of the civilized world without it coming to another war. The fact that Dorian, the pariah of house Pavus, has the chance to actually make a positive impact on his homeland… it's more than he could ever hope for.

Cullen will just have to understand. No matter how much it hurts.

Only in the dead of night, in the safety of his own bed, does Dorian acknowledge just how much it hurts him, too.

He sleeps with Cullen's coin clasped in his hand, the metal biting into his palm.

This here is the risk, Dorian thinks as he faces Cullen in the courtyard. His mount dances behind him, ready for the two-week ride awaiting them. Dorian should feel something, anticipation, fear, worry… but he's numb. There are no tears left to shed, no words left to say that haven't been said a hundred times in the last two weeks.

This is what he gets for thinking that intimacy is a good thing. This pain, this black hole in his heart threatening to swallow the world, comes from believing that love could be something good, that he shouldn't avoid it but should welcome it with open arms until it drowns him. He stands here now, staring at his love personified, and remembers why he's avoided this his entire life. And Maker help him but he wants to hit Cullen for being so accepting of this, for letting him go, for being such an amazing, trusting man, a man who has been so deserving of his love and affections. How dare he be so understanding?

Dorian's thoughts tangle and for a fraction of a second his calm facade cracks, his face crumbles. But Cullen is there, leather clad hands on his shoulders holding him upright as he threatens to fold in two. It's enough to give Dorian time to collect himself and he breathes deeply through his nose, fills his lungs to bursting before sighing his exhale. After a long moment Dorian finds the strength to lift his head and nearly falls apart again at the look in Cullen's eyes.

Cullen's grip on his shoulders tighten; one hand slides up to cup the back of his head. "Until later," Cullen says, and his voice is thick with his own emotions and it's all Dorian can do to repeat those words back to him, those words that aren't goodbye or farewell, but leave hope for them to meet again.

"Until later, Commander."

Dorian sits at his desk in his study, windows thrown open to allow the cool breeze of winter into the room. Most are bundled in layers against the chill but Dorian? No, he's fared far worse cold than this. It's practically spring.

A headache is building behind his eyes, exhaustion weighing his eyelids every time he blinks. Every time he thinks he's caught up on his work a servant brings in another stack of missives and letters and invites to parties and soirees, more things to respond to and collect information on.

He yawns, and his jaw cracks. It's not even dinnertime and he's already fighting to stay awake. There was a time he could work for days on end with little more than a power nap to get him through, but those days are long behind him, whisked away by the passage of time. Dorian stands and stretches, sighs with relief as bones realign and pop. The years have been kind to him, kinder than it has been on others, and yet even he can't escape the signs of aging. Grey peppers his mustache and streaks his hair at the temples, and once tight skin has begun to sag. There are more lines in his face from stress than from laughter; he considers them battle lines, a line for each fight won in his eternal battle to right the wrongs of his homeland.

Much has been done since his return - slavery abolished, though it resulted in a few cities seceding from the Imperium, more rights for the Soporati, though not enough to balance out just how much power the Magisterium still wields. All of this was possible because of his ties to the Inquisition and Leliana's masterful spywork, of course, but even with such clout it's taken him nearly a decade to get this far.

Maker. It's almost been ten years.

Dorian sighs and decides to leave his study, intent on finding something to eat and possibly something to drink before he falls asleep. He's almost to the door when there's a knock, and he crosses the rest of the way to answer it. Dorian finds a servant, little Lanya, on the other side of the threshold, and the girl drops a quick curtsey, flashing a smile at him that he returns readily. "You have a caller, ser," she says.

Dorian quirks a brow. "Is that so? Were we expecting visitors?" He walks into the hallway, pulls the door to his study closed behind him.

"No, ser. We've put him in the gold room for the time being." A faint blush dusts Lanya's cheeks. "He's quite handsome, ser."

"Oh? We best see who this mystery man is, then." It's truly a sign of the times that Dorian can make such an undisguised comment about a man's attractiveness with little worry for his reputation or well being.

Dorian beelines for the waiting room Lanya mentioned, the girl following behind him as they make their way through the halls. This place would be called a mansion in Ferelden, but here in Tevinter it's considered a modest home, especially for someone with his last name and his connections. It still seems too much, after staying in Skyhold; the only reason Dorian even lives here is because it's expected of him. It would much harder to be taken seriously in negotiations if he lived in anything smaller. Much as he's changed, that certainly won't change in his lifetime.

Though he can't help but wonder about this visitor as he walks. One doesn't simply drop by someone's residence without invitation or warning. A part of him worries that it's another assassination attempt, but at this point in the game he doesn't particularly care if someone makes another try at taking his life. With all the work he has left to do today, maybe he'll let them succeed just to escape the piles of paper.

Soon enough the arrive at the gold room, and Lanya opens the door for him. "Lord Pavus," she announces stepping back to allow him into the room. Dorian's greeted by dark mahogany furniture gilded in gold, black and gold tapestries hanging from the walls depicting some of the greatest stories in history. Lush carpets line the floor, mosaics of blacks and reds and golds that intertwine into gorgeous patterns and designs. The east wall is lined with windows hiding behind gossamer swaths of gold fabric.

And standing at one of those windows is a man.

Dorian doesn't need to see his face to know who he is, for his heart to know who he is. It's enough to see him standing there, hands clasped behind his back, sun playing through his blond hair streaked with white.

His hand grabs at the coin hanging around his neck by instinct, and when the man turns and meets his eyes he can't help but gasp.

"Amatus."

Cullen smiles at him, a soft smile that's both fond and forlorn. The years have changed him as much as they've changed Dorian, the wear and tear of battle evident in the wrinkles of his face and the fresh scar across his cheek. But they haven't changed those eyes, those eyes that seem to see straight into Dorian's soul.

"Dorian, its… good to see you." Cullen swallows visibly. "So good to see you."

There are words Dorian wants to say, words that sit on the tip of his tongue but he can't force out of his mouth. So much is going on in his mind that it's all he can do to cross the room and pull Cullen into his arms. For a moment, one terrifying moment, it's as if Cullen will not return the embrace, but then his arms are wrapping around Dorian's waist, pulling him flush against his body.

It's like something's been completed, two puzzle pieces that've finally found their match after being apart for so long; Dorian sinks into Cullen's warmth, buries his nose in the man's neck. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes but he blinks them away quickly, sniffling daintily.

There's so much they need to talk about, so many questions left unasked and conversations left unfinished, but Dorian doesn't want to begin that just yet. It will be painful, it will be difficult, and for now he just wants to enjoy them being in the same country for the first time in far too long. After a long while they pull apart, each searching for what to say, what to do.

A thought comes to Dorian's mind and he smiles. "Would you like to play a game of chess?"