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They were spending the week in bed.
At least, that was the promise as Arcturus led the trek back up the stairs at Skyhold. There were, of course, the ceremonies—the soldiers of the Inquisition wanted to behold their victorious leader. The nobles, and their allies, wanted to behold the man who cast down the first darkspawn and his pet archdemon.
Which meant a party, and Dorian had to admit that Josephine performed admirably. Even Ishkari—still reeling from Solas’ sudden departure the poor dove—had managed a few weak smiles and a bit of laughter. A valiant effort, and more than he would have expected from the heartbroken woman.
Still, in the end Dorian was promised a week in bed, and his amatus intended to deliver.
Of course, the first two days were entirely lackluster; they were exhausted, drained of mana and energy, and they slept for most of the time. When they woke, it was almost exclusively to eat; the servants seemed to know exactly when to bring the food—or the dishes were enchanted—to keep it warm for when they eventually woke.
It was like something out of a dream, hand feeding each other in between sleepy kisses. Arcturus curled around him, long, tanned legs tangled up with his own, his head resting on Dorian’s chest as he nibbled at an apple slice. Languid, lazy contentment filled the Inquisitor’s quarters, blissful and serene as Dorian felt Arcturus grow heavier, his breath slowing as they drifted off once again in the golden afternoon sunlight.
The third day wasn’t spent entirely in bed; they were awake, well rested, and absolutely filthy so, naturally Arcturus pulled him into the massive tub. A technicality, really, and one Dorian was willing to let his… his fiancé get away with. He did just save Thedas after all, it was the least Dorian could do for him.
Especially considering the fact that this beautiful, wonderful, man wanted to spend the rest of their lives together.
A year and a half ago Dorian wouldn’t have considered himself a romantic man. He knew what it was like to be a port in the storm, mutual pleasure taken and then ways parted. Most of the time he had remained on perfectly civil terms with his old… flames, so to speak. So long as he never referenced what they did behind closed doors.
His eyes caught on the band of bottle green glass, shot through with flecks of gold and perfectly crafted to fit on his finger. It was proof, and it was a promise, that he was more to Arcturus than just pleasure and good company. It was a promise for the rest of their lives, and whatever came after, proof that this was real beyond the confines of mutual stress relief while trying to circumvent the end of the world.
A year and a half ago Dorian wouldn’t have considered himself a romantic man. And yet even if that third day wasn’t spent exclusively in bed, it was spent making love. There was no other way to describe the slow, unhurried way they moved against each other, desperation and reassurances pressed into skin. Dorian knew sex, he knew fucking, but this? This was something all its own, and something he’d only ever done with Arcturus.
The third day was good, was great, but the fourth…
Something had to give.
* * *
Arcturus was drawn out of a light nap by a sharp tap tap tap on the glass of the balcony door. His face pinched together in consternation as he rolled onto his side, pressing his face into Dorian’s chest in a vain attempt to ignore it. Instinctively the human tightened his hold, dragging the edge of the blanket over their shoulders.
For a moment silence stretched through the room and Arcturus let out a content sigh as he felt himself drifting off again.
Tap tap tap. Tap! Taptaptaptaptap!
“Void damn you.” He groaned, sitting up. “I’m coming.”
Dorian made a quiet noise of protest as he pulled himself out of bed, tugging at one of the pillows in replacement. “What in the bloody hell is that?”
“One of Leliana’s stupid ravens.” He answered, his heart melting at the look of sleepy confusion on Dorian’s face. “Go back to sleep, vhenan.”
“Don’t keep me waiting.” Dorian warned, voice sluggish and already half asleep.
“Of course not, my lord.” Arcturus teased.
The tapping came again, louder, and more annoyed. Ears twitching in annoyance Arcturus snatched his leggings up off the floor, shoving each leg in and tugging them up over his hips. It was instinctive, a half-formed thought, that had him making a detour at the desk to grab an elfroot cigarette. Rolling it between the fingers of his right hand, he used the left to push back the curtain on the doors.
“Alright you idiot bi—” It was not a raven that was perched on the balcony, and Arcturus felt his stomach sink as the large heron regarded him.
He stood frozen in shock for a few moments until the bird tilted its head, giving one last, insistent rap on the glass. That was enough to get him moving again and with one last, furtive, look at Dorian—still asleep thank the Creators—he slipped out onto the balcony.
“What are you doing here?” He asked, and outwardly it would seem insane that he was talking to a bird. “You shouldn’t be here, I thought you were in Wycome.”
The flash of silver light and the plumes of steam were as familiar as his own magic, and Arcturus took a step back to lean against the stone balcony as he watched his mother. There was a new scar, silvered and arcing over her eye, but otherwise she looked… well. Healthy. Safe.
“Is a woman not allowed to want to see her son?” Istimaethoriel asked lightly, lips pulling up into a crooked smile. “My children disappear to go save the world, they don’t write, and then I hear you fought a monster on a floating city? What was a mother supposed to do?”
“Mamae.” His mother smelled like vanilla, wood smoke and worn leather, just like when he was a child and she’d hold him tight after a nightmare. “I’m sorry, I meant to. It’s been a rough week.”
“I know, da’len.” She smiled indulgently, taking his face in her hands. “I’m proud of you and Ishka both. I’m just glad you’re safe.”
“I could say the same to you.” His brows pulled up and his eyes crossed slightly when she tugged him down to press a kiss to his forehead, no doubt leaving a lipstick mark. “Councilwoman.”
Istimaethoriel let out a soft laugh at that, snagging the cigarette out of his hand. “Your father is tickled pink by that, by the way. He’s also enjoying the time spent in Wycome—plenty of business to drum up. We sold some of your pieces, the yellow pitchers, though I think if we suggested that they were made by the Inquisitor we could have gotten triple.”
“Always the businessman.” He shook his head, lighting the end with a bit of magic. “Ishka will be glad you’re here though. She’s… hurting right now. Our friend Solas left after the final battle.”
“And they were involved.” Istimaethoriel took a drag, passing it over to him. “I see. Would that I could have prevented her this pain, but such is life. I will go see her, she needs to be back with the Clan. As do you.”
Arcturus made a pained noise at that, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Mamae…”
The balcony door opened again, the only warning before Dorian pressed up against his back, blanketed arms curling around his chest. “You kept me waiting.”
His voice was low and rough, body practically dead weight. Dorian was still mostly asleep, hair mussed and nuzzling into the elf’s shoulder. Under any other circumstance Arcturus would be utterly charmed—he still was honestly—but he could see the way his mother’s eyebrows shot up and his face heated in embarrassment.
Embarrassment which was only made worse when he started pressing sleepy kisses to his shoulder.
“Dorian, vhenan,” Arcturus began, squirming slightly as his ears turned bright red. “I, ah, I would like to introduce you to Keeper Istimaethoriel. My mother. She’s come for a visit.”
It was like a switch was flipped; Dorian stiffened and lifted his head, his grip turning tense and tight. “Come again?”
“Andaran atish’an, Dorian.” She greeted, hiding a smile as her hazel eyes flicked between the two of them. “My son has told me a lot about you, it is a pleasure to finally put a face to the words.”
“I… ah. Good things, I assume.” He pulled back, trying to smooth his hair. “Of course you told her good things.”
“I told her very good things, vhenan.” Arcturus promised, turning to face him. “Would you be so kind as to go send for breakfast? And my sister? I was thinking a private meal would be nice.”
“Breakfast.” Dorian looked unconvinced, and like he’d prefer to be anywhere else. “Right, that sounds perfect. I’ll bring it up here, we can eat at the table.”
“Ah, plenty of fruit for me, please.” Istimaethoriel gave him a kind smile. “I’m afraid meat doesn’t agree with me.”
“I shall make sure you have the most bountiful selection.” Dorian returned a charming smile, slipping back into that poised, fake mask saved for entertaining their allies.
Beneficial when remaining polite to assholes, but not something that Arcturus wanted to see turned towards his family. Not that he could blame Dorian, he understood—Creators he wished it wasn’t necessary—he understood why Dorian closed himself off, put that distance between them. It hurt, but he wouldn’t deny his fiancé that defense measure; meeting his sister was one thing, had gone over better than expected, but meeting the parents was a whole other.
“He’s skittish… does he not like me?” Istimaethoriel asked once they were alone again. “Should I worry at what you told him?”
Arcturus shook his head, lips pursing. “It’s not you, mamae. He’s just nervous. Tevinter isn’t nearly as welcoming an environment as the Clan is.”
Understanding dawned with a slight scowl as she nodded. “You finally asked him? I saw the ring, da’len, I know your work. I’m happy for you.”
“Then you understand why I can’t return to the Clan, not permanently.” He sighed. “The Inquisition needs me, and I… I don’t want to leave it. I don’t want to leave him.”
“Ah, da’len.” She stepped forward, placing a hand on his arm. “Of course you don’t. And I cannot blame you for that. It is not the news I wanted to hear, but it’s not surprising—you don’t dedicate yourself often, but when you do, you do it completely.”
Arcturus leaned against her as she looped her arm around his. “You’ll perform vows at the Clan though. If you are to wed, it will not be without us.”
“Of course. You could all just come to Skyhold.” He offered with a smile.
“Tempting. There is old magic in this place, the bones of something ancient and beautiful that I would like time to study.” Istimaethoriel admitted, letting herself be led inside. “We’ve been given permanent holdings near Wycome. The Clans of Ferelden have permanent holdings in the south, in the…?”
“The Hinterlands.” He supplemented. “There are a lot of bears, and the land is recovering from the Blight, but they are thriving. Especially with their relationship with the Crown.”
“Things are looking up for our people.” Istimaethoriel smiled. “We’ll see how long it lasts, though I suspect the Dalish Inquisitor will continue to garner us positivity.”
“I endeavor to.” He chuckled, pulling on a loose shirt. “Though, I have to admit, there’s plenty of bad publicity from my decisions. Supporting the mages, and the Gray Wardens, willingly associating with spirits, and mercenaries, and murders.”
“Not to mention a Tevinter lover, I’ve heard the rumors.” She chuckled. “Your cousin is going to kill you.”
“Dev will come around. Dorian is a good man, I imagine at the very least she’ll give him a chance.” He shook his head with a laugh. “Still though, it’s a good thing she found out with a sea between us. She’s always been hotheaded.”
“Not without good cause.” Istimaethoriel helped him clean off the desk, dragging over a stool, and a trunk for them to sit on. “Those mercenary friends of hers came to help us as well, during that fight. They’ve been good for her. Your aunts are happy to see her again.”
“Their little girl, all grown up and cutting people in half.” His features brightened when the door swung open. “There you two are! I was wondering when you’d—what’s wrong?”
Dorian led the way with a tray of food, his expression troubled. More alarming was the way Ishkari trailed after him, features drawn and dark circles under her eyes. Istimaethoriel shot to her daughter’s side, drawing her into a tight, close hug.
“Emm’asha, what is it?” Tremors wracked through Ishkari’s body as she clung to their mother. “It’s okay, you can tell us.”
“Ishka.” Arcturus soothed, throwing Dorian a confused look. “What’s wrong? Is it… is it Solas?”
“Ir abelas.” She sniffled. “Ir abelas.”
“You have done nothing wrong, my darling girl.” Istimaethoriel stroked a hand through her brown hair. “Take your time, talk to us when you are ready.”
Ishkari shook her head, sucking in a quick breath and holding it before slowly letting it out again. She repeated the process, grasping the bracelet on her wrist and counting out each of the wooden beads as she calmed herself. A grounding activity, he remembered her showing him once when his magic first came in; Arcturus had accidentally set a bush on fire, had been terrified and panicking, and his sister had taken his hands, had him count out each one.
Eventually she reached up to wipe at the tears in her eyes. “I’m pregnant.”