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The Emerald Graves fill Lavellan with a feeling of familiarity that lacks any kind of logic. He knows that he has never been here before, would remember trees like this, the smell. If his Clan had ever had a fixed point of habitation, he imagines it would feel like this. Like home.
Lavellan's utterly captivated by the view from the northernmost edge of Southfinger Watch, by the immense vastness of it.
He wonders what Solas could tell him about this place, about its history. About what he had seen transpire in the Fade — for surely he'd have come here before, to witness it play out before his own eyes.
For a moment Lavellan actually considers bringing Solas the next time they travel here, but quickly discards the idea again.
No amount of possible information is worth listening to one of their own disparaging his people like that. Lavellan can't deny being quite frustrated by this all over again — another elf, a brother, much more studied than he could ever hope to be and yet, what good is all this knowledge and experience when it is gated behind an impassable wall of loathing?
Lavellan closes his eyes for a moment, sorting through the impressions being left on his senses. The smell of pure, undisturbed nature, the sounds of it: rustling leaves, communicating animals in the distance. Bull and Cole adamantly discussing if the dragon they passed earlier will still be there if they come back for it later.
He smiles, the peaceful calmness firmly back in his mind. Another look into the bright valley, and he spots new ruins in the distance, different looking than the others.
He turns to Dorian next to him — still staring at his shoes and complaining about something he thinks he stepped on — gently grabs his arm, pointing forward.
The word look is barely past his lips when the arm is violently snatched away from his loose grip.
Lavellan is left looking at his now empty hand in confusion, then at Dorian's furious face. Dorian doesn't say anything, just throws a meaningful look at their thankfully distracted companions, and then, so Lavellan assumes, the open vastness behind them.
Lavellan lowers his hand, turns back to the view that suddenly seems to have lost its appeal. Manages to mumble something that sounds apologetic.
Dorian's heartfelt sigh sounds louder than it possibly could have been. “Well, what is it?”
At least he doesn't sound angry, just carefully indifferent. That's almost worse.
“No, it's alright. It wasn't anything important,” he answers, trying for a smile. Lavellan is very good at ignoring problems until they go away. “We can head back for the stream and see to your boots, if you like?”
After a tense pause Dorian murmurs his assent and together they head back to the rest of their group. And if Lavellan is now carefully studying his own boots, well, he's just making sure that he hasn't stepped into anything, either.
After a brief and illuminating stop at the river bend near the ram mural (“I knew it! If these shoes can't be salvaged, then I'll personally demand compensation from the Inquisition!” — “You gonna say that to Redhead's face?” — “Are you mad? I was going to write a strongly worded letter to Lady Montilyet.”), they are on the way back to the closest camp, when they encounter a small group of humans clustered around a broken-down wagon. To be more accurate, they actually hear one of the humans well before they even come into view of the scene.
“I should have left you all behind, you useless pieces of shit!”
And just as the enraged bellow promises, the human in question is a truly turgid-looking man. His outfit is pompous and flashing, so he could be of some sort of nobility. From his demeanour, it's obvious he perceives himself as such.
“Those demons would have torn you apart and done me a favour with that!”
Lavellan considers ignoring the spectacle — they obviously hadn't been spotted yet — but something about the other three humans stops him. Two men and a woman, attractive enough, considering their dirty and worn appearance, a sharp contrast against the man screaming abuse at them.
Lavellan cannot tell if they are slaves or badly treated servants, and that is what finally makes him decide to intervene.
He approaches slowly on the rough terrain close to the stream, not bothering to soften his steps like he usually does, signalling to his companions to stay around but not to follow too closely. The clanking of his armor has the desired effect of drawing the attention of the still raving man.
The following return of the muted forest sounds, however short-lived, is a blessing to his ears.
“And what do you want?” Considering he is smaller than Lavellan, the man has to tilt his head back in a way that almost looks painful so that he can still look down his nose at him. It would be almost comical if it weren't so infuriating.
It's a pity Leliana and Josephine aren't around to see him be all restrained and politically attentive for once. They'd probably pat each other on the back for it.
With that in mind, Lavellan is very proud of himself for actually getting out a reply through his clenched teeth. “Do you need any help?”
The man turns back to the wagon and the three other humans, and launches into a long tirade about his remote summer estate, the Rift that opened near it, and how he had lost his soldiers and his best servants during his flight here.
Lavellan stops paying attention rather quickly, wonders when he can finally beckon Bull closer to help with the repairs.
“And just when we were trying to leave this cursed stretch of land, a horrendous beast of a bear started following us! I made us leave the road quickly, but it just wouldn't stop. Following. Us.” He hisses and spits into the riverbed. Lavellan's fingers twitch with a distant urge for violence.
“And now the wagon is broken and those three might as well not be here for all the good they are doing!” He jabs his finger at the remaining servants, and they flinch but remain quiet. Seemingly satisfied by that, he turns away from them. Lavellan's fingers twitch again when he feels the man's eyes on him. After a disconcerting pause the tirade resumes. “I should have known nothing good would come of entering a place of your kind.”
Lavellan stares at the man in disbelief. He's red in the face now, apparently having successfully talked himself into a false state of bravado. One of his hands actually goes to the useless ceremonial sword he's carrying at his side, as if he's seriously considering attacking Lavellan with it.
Faced with these levels of ridiculousness even the Inquisitor should be excused for being quite surprised by what follows next.
“You”, the man wheezes, voice shaking now with anger, “it's all your fault! You and your wretched kind! Did you dare to put a curse on me, knife-ear?”
Familiar, red-tinted rage settles over Lavellan's mind and he welcomes it, letting it wash away any foolish notions of restrained and politically attentive. It has been a long time since anybody dared to say that to his face.
Thanks to the isolated walls of Skyhold and the protection with which his position in the Inquisition provides him, Lavellan had almost forgotten how truly ugly the world outside of it is to his people.
Lavellan's arm moves to his back and clutches the hilt of his sword.
He'll make this disgusting shemlen regret reminding him of the bitter truth.
Almost absently he wonders if the servants will be smart enough to stay out of it or if some misguided sense of loyalty will make them stay and fight for their lord. If their blood will need to be spilled as well. Lavellan is just adjusting his stance to allow for the second possibility when his entire body freezes mid-movement.
Much later Lavellan will thank the entire elven pantheon that even when his mind is lost to the Reaver's bloodlust, his body will always remain attuned to Dorian. Now, there is only a tingling in his left hand, and for once, it is not the magic of the Anchor causing it. Dorian is gently gripping his hand.
“Please, allow me,” he whispers into Lavellan's ear, and as always, Lavellan's entire body is just all too happy to obey him. He relaxes visibly, right arm falling back to his side, seemingly without his conscious decision. Dorian squeezes his hand, and manoeuvres Lavellan behind himself before taking the stage, smoothly taking over and dazzling the stunned shem who will probably never realise just how close he was to death at this moment.
Effectively dismissed, Lavellan walks away, rubbing his left hand absently. He stops just long enough to instruct Bull with a brief look to take his position at their mage's side. He might be feeling a bit dazed, but he's still a Dalish hunter. He's still their leader.
From the wide smirk seemingly splitting Iron Bull's entire face when he acknowledges the order, Lavellan will never hear the end of this.
It's probably time to go look for Cole, Lavellan decides hastily.
Cole is neither up- nor downstream. After a moment of mounting worry, Lavellan finally spots him after walking around an impressive stone formation.
Cole is sitting on the top of the tower overlooking Direstone camp. Lavellan throws a look back over his shoulder, gauging the distance. Cole is not so far away from the others that he would be unable to intervene, should any unexpected danger arise, just far enough so that they are out of sight... and that he himself is out of sight as well.
Had Cole known, in that way of his, that the mood would turn volatile and had he consciously decided to remove himself from the situation before it could come to that? Lavellan is not prone to lying to himself, has learnt long ago that others are doing that enough for him (to him). He would have spilled blood, innocent blood, had it come to it. Here, in this revered place of remembrance. Without even the justification of defending himself. Or maybe Cole had known Dorian would interfere and defuse the situation. Lavellan climbs over the uneven terrain in front of him, his eyes on Cole, considering him, and...
Of course, he sighs, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
Cole's feet are dangling freely over the parapet he's sitting on. The very narrow, very old, and probably not very stable parapet. Lavellan quickens his stride.
As he approaches his destination, Dorian's laughter reaches his ears. It's his fake, affected one. Obviously, talks are proceeding a lot smoother in his absence. Lavellan knows it's idiotic, but he can't help feeling resentful of Dorian's ability to make nice with scum like that. It's idiotic, because Dorian would very likely be dead if he hadn't learned to hide amongst his Tevinter peers, hadn't learned to be careful with his opinions, his entire being.
And yet, Lavellan can't help but wonder how this would have played out if the servants had indeed been slaves. Had been elven slaves. Would Lavellan have left their tormentor alive if Dorian had interfered — would Dorian have tried to interfere in the first place? They briefly talked about the subject back in Haven — it already feels like a lifetime ago — when Lavellan had first approached the latest, weirdly intriguing addition to the Inquisition.
Dorian admitted to never having thought about slavery before, never questioning it, making it out to be a preferable option to living in the slums — as if there was some sort of contest there. His unbelievable naivety, acting as if being a slave was merely another factor to life, like it wouldn't eventually define you, wouldn't taint your entire being...
That Lavellan has no trouble recalling Dorian's exact words even now is proof enough that they need to talk about this again. And yet, he prefers not thinking about it. Outside of battle, he really is a coward.
Cole's melodic voice draws him back out of his dark thoughts. “It eats at him, day and night, day and night. He's so very lonely. But He Who Hunts Alone will never admit to it. So many years behind him, such a vast number still to follow.” His feet have stopped kicking the empty air.
Still feeling on edge, Lavellan follows his gaze — thankfully directed downwards into the camp and not behind them. His tense muscles relax, and he lets himself consider the two Inquisition soldiers below them curiously, beyond grateful for the distraction. Cole is obviously not talking about the requisition soldier. The man in the impressive armor, then. … what depressive and weird thoughts lurking under all that metal.
“No, not him,” Cole says, like it should be obvious. To him it probably is. “Him.”
Lavellan follows Cole's pointing arm. The tree in the centre of the camp? Well, that's not the weirdest thing he's ever heard. Not even the weirdest thing he has heard today, if he's being honest.
Cole laughs, a joyful sound, still pointing downwards. He shakes his head and looks at Lavellan expectantly, his face open and childlike in his delight.
Lavellan knows that Cole is not a child, that he might not even be human. He knows that Cole has murdered without hesitation, believing himself in the right. That he could be - is - very dangerous. Cassandra's warning echoes in his head. Lavellan rotates his shoulders, easing the tension there.
Seeker, Grey Warden, Mercenary, Mage, Altus.
Friend of Red Jenny, Apostate, Merchant.
Commander, Ambassador, Spymaster, Inquisitor.
Who of them isn't dangerous, isn't a murderer?, he thinks, not unkindly, dressing yourself with a more pleasant title doesn't change the truth.
Decision made, Lavellan unfastens the heavy sword from his back, carefully places it on the rock outcropping next to the tower top. Close enough to reach swiftly in case of an emergency. After one last sceptical look at the pale stone, he hops over the parapet and sits down next to Cole, who resumes kicking his feet, pointing again.
From here, Lavellan can finally see the statue of a Knights' Guardian, previously hidden under the green foliage. The tree suddenly seems like the more plausible option. He considers Cole's words carefully. Wolves don't usually hunt alone, preferring the security of packs. Still, the Knights' Guardians were said to be impossibly brave and intelligent. Different. So couldn't it be possible for one of them to have had such thoughts, felt strongly enough for Cole to hear, even now?
Cole is still looking at him expectantly, obviously wanting him to understand... something. Lavellan doesn't understand anything. Grasping at something to say, he asks, “Do you know the tale of Fen'Harel?”
Cole beams at him, nodding vigorously, as if Lavellan has said the right thing, as if he has understood. Lavellan is too grateful to question his luck.
“I know it, but I've never heard it told before!”
Lavellan chuckles, gets himself as comfortable as possible on their chosen seating, and begins, “Long ago, in ancient times...”
Dorian and Bull rejoin them not long after, though they refuse to climb onto the tower. From their good mood, it's obvious that they have been successful in their endeavour.
“I don't think that's architecturally sound enough for me, boss.” Bull sounds so sincerely disappointed by that, Lavellan has to throw him a quick smile before continuing with his tale.
Dorian is quietly complaining under his breath about having to sit on hard and dirty stone, when the camp is right there, but after he's seated himself, he listens as attentively as the others.
Lavellan knows he's not a very good story-teller, having always lacked the passion for it. He tries to make up for that by slipping in every possible detail he remembers from the countless times he has been told the tale. (The Dalish version — the real version — is a lot longer and more complicated than the one you find printed in books.)
One of the Inquisition soldiers brings them food and drink, and on Dorian's demand — and to their great amusement — a cushion.
They talk about inconsequent things. They rest. Lavellan is determined to soak up the brilliant feeling of peace while it lasts.
Once dusk arrives, it becomes clear that Dorian is in a mood, and it is not a good one.
That much is obvious even before they withdraw into their respective tents. Bull and Cole in one, Dorian and himself in the other. (The ever watchful Inquisition soldiers insist that they have rested enough during the day and will be comfortable with some spare blankets around the fireplace. The Inquisitor needn't worry himself.)
Lavellan can't deny being grateful for this development, just as he's glad that Cole and Bull get along well enough. Leaving Cole alone during the night outside of Skyhold's walls is not something he would be comfortable with, even knowing how ridiculous that thought is. Lavellan knows it's pretty selfish, but he wants to spend this night (every night) with Dorian.
Dorian, who just walked past him and into their tent without even acknowledging him.
Something must have happened to ruin the companionable atmosphere from earlier — but what? When? No enlightening realisation follows, and so he finally braces himself and follows Dorian into the gloomy tent. There's a candle in one corner offering some weak light, unnecessary for Lavellan's eyes. Dorian has his back to him, his posture tense while he undresses himself. He looks about as approachable as a stone statue.
Lavellan turns around and closes the tent, then begins undressing himself, trying not to make too much noise with the heavy metal pieces of his armor. He takes his cue from Dorian and remains silent, attuned to the other's steady breathing.
So Lavellan is very aware of the deep breath Dorian takes before he closes the distance between them in one quick stride, not surprised when he's drawn into a bruising, close-mouthed kiss. Dorian's hands latch onto his hips, holding him in place, not allowing him to lean closer, and Lavellan suppresses a groan, eyes falling shut against the onslaught on his senses. He mimics Dorian's hold and frowns — the smooth material on Dorian's skin does nothing to hide the unnatural tension in the muscles underneath.
Alarmed, Lavellan's eyes snap open again.
Still pressing their mouths together insistently and with his eyes firmly shut, Dorian looks like he's in pain.
Lavellan makes a small, unsure sound. He presses his thumbs into the soft part of Dorian's thighs, wanting to draw him back to the here and now, tries to soften the kiss.
Now Lavellan is taken by surprise — Dorian turns them around and pushes him backwards without any warning. The bedding under him barely softens Lavellan's awkward landing. He's already guaranteed to have very interesting bruising on his back come morning, and the night has barely even started.
Dorian is standing above him, still not speaking, just... considering him. Lavellan licks his tingling lips, chasing Dorian's taste. His tongue comes away mainly tasting wine. How much wine did Dorian have? Lavellan usually avoids paying attention to Dorian's drinking habits, like he does with almost all the things that could cause unnecessary friction between them. (Maybe it's finally time for him to reconsider his usual approach to complications that can't be solved with violence.)
After another moment, Dorian sinks to his knees with an effortless grace that leaves Lavellan breathless. He crawls over Lavellan deliberately before heavily settling himself astride his lap. Thanks to the thin material of their night clothing, Lavellan is acutely aware of everywhere they touch. And he might be wrong, but Dorian seems very pleased with the effect he's having on Lavellan's body.
Dorian towers over him briefly before cupping his face with one hand, firm and yet still mindful of Lavellan's sensible ears, holding him in place again. The kiss that follows is rough and now Lavellan knows better than to try to gentle it.
Dorian has something to prove and he will let him.
The sound of their parting lips and their loud breathing seems almost obscene in the enclosed space of the tent, and if it weren't for the ever-present sounds of the forest around them, Lavellan would be very worried about gaining an audience.
Usually Dorian's kisses have a playful feel to them, almost as if he'll be forever amused by Lavellan's weird fascination with his moustache, with the feeling of it on his skin. Now there's only Lavellan's mouth and the skin around it left tingling more than usual in Dorian's wake, almost unpleasantly.
Lavellan opens his eyes reluctantly, but he needs to see Dorian's face if he at least wants a chance at trying to figure out what is bothering the other man. There's a storm brewing behind Dorian's eyes, that much is obvious even from the small glance he manages to steal before Dorian's breaks their eye-contact again, hiding his face in the crook of Lavellan's neck and shoulder.
Warm breath meets the sweaty skin there, where it is thin and sensitive. Lavellan shudders and throws his arms around Dorian's shoulders, fingers gently scratching the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, simply holding him.
A loud gasp tears out of Lavellan's throat, his eyes wide open, staring incomprehensively at the dark fabric above them. His back arches reflexively, but hands on his shoulders keep him from dislodging the teeth at his throat.
Dorian is biting me, Lavellan thinks disbelievingly. His fingers dig into Dorian's shoulders helplessly, probably leaving red indentations behind. The teeth withdraw as quickly as they have come, replaced by sucking lips, sure to leave a mark that will be impossible to hide.
Lavellan does his best to calm his screaming instincts and relaxes back into the softness of the bedding, now gently caressing the skin his nails had abused just moments before. When Dorian finally seems satisfied with his handiwork and lets up from the aching skin, Lavellan sighs softly, loosens his embrace.
Dorian withdraws almost immediately and sits back on his knees, his hands deceptively loose on his thighs. Lavellan raises himself up on his forearms, following him. Being eye-to-eye is not an option right now, considering their current position, but it calms his nerves anyway.
He has learnt long ago that ingrained instincts can only be ignored for so long.
Dorian's not saying anything, but then, he doesn't have to. Lavellan quells a tender smile, knowing it would not be welcome, at least not yet. Dorian's face is carefully blank, apart from a barely there smirk that tries to appear haughty, but the effect's entirely ruined thanks to his helplessly dishevelled moustache. His eyes give away nothing as to what he is thinking. Thankfully, Lavellan has always been good at reading body language.
There's a small tremor to Dorian's hands, his posture more rigid than confident.
His lips are so bruised and dark, but there's no blood on them, Lavellan notices absently. Considering the insistent ache radiating from his neck, he wouldn't have been very surprised if there had been.
Dorian's thighs flex around him.
Fight or flight, fight or flight.
Life's oldest instincts.
Lavellan's heart aches in his chest — Dorian's body language is practically screaming for flight.
During his study, Dorian's eyes had wandered to the no doubt already spectacularly bruising skin on Lavellan's neck.
Lavellan touches it almost absently, and Dorian's eyes finally settle back on his face. Seemingly ruffled he crosses his arms in front of his chest — a defensive motion, but now he's looking expectantly at Lavellan, one eyebrow artfully raised.
Ah.
A challenge, then. A dare. A dare for him to complain? Complain about being marked? This is new territory for them, yes, but what has brought this on so suddenly, and so violently? Lavellan blinks, quickly sorting through the day's events. But there's nothing —
His left arm tingles, but this time, it actually is the Anchor's magic bound there. This time. Of course. The debacle at Southfinger Watch. Dorian's unusually tactile handling of him shortly after. The heavy drinking that followed.
He had unwittingly forced Dorian out of his comfort zone and now Dorian is trying to push him back, to teach him a lesson. No — knowing Dorian, to teach himself a lesson. He's expecting rejection: rejection of the act of marking each other visibly, rejection of himself.
Lavellan's heart aches again. Sometimes it's so easy to forget that Dorian carries so much pain inside of him, wounds that have barely begun to heal.
At least in the safety of his own head he allows himself to curse Tevinter and its stifling rules, the damage it has wrought.
But he's also relieved. It's easier to see what he has to do, now that he knows the cause of this, knows what Dorian expects. He will give him the exact opposite.
Lavellan reclines back on the bedding, makes himself comfortable. Slowly he raises his hands, making sure Dorian can see the motion clearly, and settles them softly on the tense thighs surrounding him, looking at Dorian through half-lidded eyes.
He has Dorian's complete — if slightly confused — attention. It's a heady feeling. This is obviously not at all how Dorian had seen this play out.
Lavellan hopes that the pitiful glow of the candle will be enough for Dorian to see it, and only then does he allow the tender smile to show, to convey his feelings without disturbing the silence between them. Slowly he tilts his head...
And offers Dorian the other side his of his neck.
The effect is almost instantaneous.
Dorian shatters.
There is no other word to describe his crumble and subsequent fall into Lavellan's welcoming arms. Heavy shudders wreck his body, but he makes no sound. Despite the people around them, Lavellan almost wishes Dorian would allow himself to cry openly. But that is not for him to decide. Instead, he offers Dorian what he can: his chest to hold on to, his arms to cradle him, to protect. His hands to gently touch, to caress. His voice to quietly murmur soothing nothingness.
The shudders slowly subside and Dorian presses his face back into Lavellan's neck. Just breathing, if sometimes with an audible stutter. On a whim, Lavellan begins to hum some songs from his childhood, then the more appropriate ones from the time after. He's just beginning to wonder if he'll have to admit to knowing most of their Minstrel's songs by heart when Dorian exhales loudly. He presses a tender kiss to Lavellan's neck, then slowly raises himself up on his elbows.
Lavellan wants so badly to talk to him, to help him heal however he can — but Dorian's not even meeting his eyes, and so he swallows everything he yearns to say, and instead takes his inspiration from Varric (of all people).
“I can't wait to hear how you're going to explain how a tiny, ravenous nug managed to slip into our tent in the middle of the night, and why it then very obviously tried its best to devour me alive,” he whispers, trying to infuse his voice with as much amusement as he can muster.
Dorian blinks, startled into looking at him again. After a moment of hesitation he settles himself more comfortably onto Lavellan's body. There's a calculating gleam in his eyes, and Lavellan has trouble looking away from his smirking lips. Still so attractively bruised, partly framed by the equally attractive, uncharacteristically dishevelled black hair.
Lavellan wants that view painted and hung on every wall in Skyhold.
“It was a deviant nug sent by none other than Corypheus himself, obviously”, Dorian starts, equally quietly, and very clearly getting into the idea. Lavellan smiles, all too happy to enjoy the show.
“Faced with this malevolent creature, and its surprisingly huge teeth — hush now, don't laugh — you were frozen in shock and struck mute in horror when it attacked you in the dead of the night. So completely at its mercy, I shudder to think what would have happened, had the tangible sense of danger not awoken me.”
Dorian pokes him in the chest reproachfully — Lavellan plays along, looking appropriately chastised.
“I killed the beast with a single, well-aimed spell, without hesitation and without hurting even a single hair on our precious Inquisitor's head.” At that, his hands gently card through said hair, scratching just slightly, making Lavellan's toes curl.
Dorian's voice is husky when he continues, “And to show his eternal gratitude for sparing him from this untimely, and quite frankly, ridiculous death, the Inquisitor has sworn to fulfil my heart's deepest desires.”
They are so close now, just sharing the air between them. Lavellan would barely have to raise his head to meet their lips together. He doesn't, though, has to know, his voice breathy, “Oh, has he now?”
But Dorian seems to be done with spinning the script for their theoretical novel for now (Giddy in Emerald Graves...? He should probably leave the writing to Varric). The confident front he has so carefully built for years is back, but his smile is genuine. And that will have to be enough for now.
For a moment they are content with just looking at each other, but once their lips meet again, the kiss is almost overwhelming in its intensity, unhurried but messy. Lavellan cradles Dorian's face in his hands, licks at his mouth, sucks on his tongue. He fantasises about purifying him of the toxic influence of the wine, just through this, about pulling out the poisonous thoughts cluttering his mind one by one.
Their bodies press together even closer, enjoying the thrill of the friction, even knowing nothing more will come of it this night. When they part, Dorian surprises him by rolling them, and gently arranging Lavellan until his head is resting on Dorian's chest.
“Let us sleep now. You're absolutely intolerably when you don't get enough rest,” he says evenly, and only the hand softly carding through his hair keeps Lavellan from protesting this blatant lie.
Instead, he nestles his body more comfortably into Dorian's side, lets the solid heartbeat under his ear soothe his worries. Still, it takes him longer than usual to calm his mind. He's just about to drift off when Dorian answers his already forgotten question, voice barely a whisper, not meant to be heard by anyone.
“Don't leave me, please.”
The traitorous breath in Lavellan's chest doesn't hitch on his next exhale, but it's a very close thing. When the candle dies down, much later, he is sure Dorian is fast asleep. Only then does Lavellan allow himself to press a fleeting kiss to Dorian's chest, on the skin right above his heart.
I won't, he vows, for as long as my heart is still beating. He will never stop fighting for this, for them. Two splintered halves fitting together despite their uneven corners and sharp ends.
Dorian is worth any lingering ache in his chest.
He always is.