Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lavellan is sitting at his desk, staring, firmly ignoring the reports scattered around him.

There are four bottles on his desk.

He found one by accident, when his quill fell and his hand knocked against something hard under his desk when he bent down to pick it up again. After he got over the shock of the hidden bottle, he went hunting through his quarters, looking into every nook and cranny.

The reward for his determination are four bottles in total.

He has arranged them side by side in front of him.

Lavellan picks one of them up, critically eyeing the label reading Legacy — finest Tevinter Wine.

His fingers clench around it, and he resists the hot and frustrated impulse of throwing the damned thing against a wall.

Lavellan doesn't like how often he sees Dorian with a bottle in his hands or a with glass carrying the same content. Or how often he finds Dorian in the tavern.

At first Lavellan thought there was a pattern to it, something that he could figure out, and then prevent from happening.

Like a mission he has to solve in a certain way so it doesn't end up with everybody disapproving of his actions in the end. But this is nothing like it.

Sometimes it's just a random comment directed at them while they walk Skyhold's halls together, something harmless, an observation, Oh, Inquisitor, are you making the rounds with Lord Pavus again? How delightful!

Lavellan barely acknowledges the chatter, but it never fails to get Dorian into a bad mood.

Other times it is nothing Lavellan can even pin-point.

The results are always the same, though: Dorian will either be tense and silent after, wanting to be left alone. Or he'll be moody and tart, in need of being coaxed back into being himself. Plenty of alcohol ends up being poured in both cases.

Lavellan doesn't know which version of Dorian makes his heart ache more.

He imagines the bottles hitting solid stone one after the other, shattering into pieces, their toxic contents spilling harmlessly onto the floor.

It's a nice daydream, but it wouldn't help with anything.

He sets the bottle down again, next to its poisonous siblings, and sighs wearily. I need a plan.

Lavellan will have to be careful in his approach, he knows. Dorian is smart and observant and Lavellan doesn't even want to imagine what could happen if he was found out.

He curses at Tevinter and Halward Pavus again for the damage they've done, for the pain they're still causing, the pain that Dorian needs to dull with alcohol.

Slow and careful, he reminds himself, while forcing his tense muscles to place three of the bottles back into their hiding places.

The fourth one, the Tevinter wine, he gifts to Vivienne. Not in person — even he could never be that brave or stupid — but together with a simple note of thanks left on her table.

Despite the heaviness inside his chest, the impending lecture from Vivienne about inappropriate gifts brings a smile to his lips.

When Dorian doesn't say anything about the missing bottle, even after a few days have passed, Lavellan is sure he's on the right path. He gets rid of another bottle.

They are both tired after another long and tiring trip to Val Royeaux, and Dorian only follows him into his quarters after a lot of coaxing and insisting.

“Fine, I capitulate. I'll come with you, but only if you'll quit whining.”

Lavellan frowns, and Dorian laughs softly, shaking his head. “Don't pout, Inquisitor. It's unbecoming of you.”

Once inside Lavellan's gloomy quarters, they undress in silence. Lavellan muses that he'd prefer to fight a handful of bears on his own than to deal with Orlesian nobles ever again.

At least with the bears you always know what you are getting yourself into.

Having a simple garment has the advantage of being free from it quickly. Lavellan falls onto his bed, eyes falling shut immediately, too tired to even groan in appreciation. He slips under the covers almost entirely and rolls into the middle of the bed, waiting...

“I don't know why anybody thought you should be able to pick furnishings unchaperoned,” Dorian complains under his breath, and Lavellan's ears twitch in his direction. “Lady Josephine is responsible for the finances of the Inquisition, isn't she? Does she know about the amount of coins you wasted on this...” His voice falters, and it sounds like he's struggling with the difficult clasps that make up more than half of his clothing.

Lavellan is smiling so widely it's actually starting to hurt a bit.

There's a small sound of triumph, the resisting clasp apparently defeated, and Dorian continues, “...does she know how many coins you wasted on this undistilled Orlesian horror? Or does she not care because she doesn't frequently have to witness it's dreadful appearance?”

Lavellan turns his head, chuckling soundlessly into the fluffy pillow under his head.

Dorian growls. “Don't think I am not aware that you are laughing right now! Honestly, the Imperium would never allow such a monstrosity to cross its borders. I can't believe I haven't burned it down yet...”

The grumbling continues, and Lavellan dozes off.

The familiar sound of a bottle being opened rips him out of it, setting his heart pounding. The softer sound of liquid being poured follows, and the hastened beat calms slowly.

Lavellan turns to the sound with uneasiness, opening his eyes again.

Dorian is naked, leaning on the desk still overflowing with reports, drinking deeply from the glass in his hands.

He notices Lavellan staring at him, and crosses his free arm in front of his chest, hand coming to support the elbow of his occupied arm.

Dorian drinks and Lavellan watches him. There's a slight downwards tilt to Dorian's smile.

“A... colleague of mine will be arriving soon.” He empties his glass, then refills it.

Lavellan watches and doesn't say anything.

Dorian sighs, staring into the dark liquid. “She wants to offer her support with the Venatori situation.” Another sip. “We didn't always agree on Tevinter customs...” The glass finds its way to Dorian's lips again, stays there. “There's probably nothing to worry about. She's never given me a reason to mistrust her.”

Then why are you emptying that bottle on your own and not lying next to me? Lavellan wants to ask, to demand, to yell.

But he stays silent, watching and waiting for Dorian to join him.

There's only one candle still glowing when he finally does, movements slightly off, and Lavellan shudders at the coldness of Dorian's skin pressing against his own.

Dorian envelopes him into his arms, chest pressed against chest. He mumbles something, and the only thing Lavellan understands is the horribly sweet breath filling his nose, making his teeth clench and his stomach rebel.

Lavellan doesn't fall asleep for a very long time.

When Dorian leaves the next morning, tired and irritated and with the opened wine in hand, Lavellan doesn't get up for a long while. When he finally wills his muscles to move, he searches his quarters again.

He finds five bottles this time.

A furious, ugly sound tears out of his throat, and he gives in to the urge screaming at him to act.

The sound of glass shattering against unrelenting stone is even more satisfying than he could ever have imagined.

When one of Josephine's assistants knocks on his door and delivers an urgent request for his presence in her office, Lavellan cringes, his muscles tensing in alarm.

Both Cullen and Cassandra pass him on the way there, each offering him a nod and a weak attempt at a smile. The grim lines on their faces and the tenseness of their movements don't help easy Lavellan's worry any bit.

The meeting with Dorian's colleague yesterday went wrong, he thinks, something like panic fluttering in his chest.

They arranged the meeting in Redcliffe's tavern. “A fitting place for it,” Dorian said with a smile that made Lavellan wonder. At first he has even insisted on going alone, but he — the Inquisitor — had put his foot down in this. With Blackwall and Varric at Dorian's side, Lavellan was sure nothing could happen to him.

At least, so he thought. If the Tevinter woman hurt him, I will kill her. He enters Josephine's office, his head filled with promises of red-tinted violence.

He comes to stand in front of Josephine, his fingers clenching with the need for his weapon.

“Please, take a seat, Inquisitor,” she says, her voice firm, and just as strict as her eyes on him.

Lavellan falls into the chair in front of her desk, his energy gone just like that.

“Tell me he was not taken or killed,” he tries to demand, but his words falter, lost in a convulsive swallow.

Josephine looks surprised for a moment, and her posture eases slightly.

“Dorian and the others are back in Skyhold.” She draws in a deep breath, then finishes with a tilt of her head. “The only thing he hurt is his ego.”

There's not a hint of her usual friendly nature to be found anywhere, and her accent is thicker than usual.

Lavellan tenses, the urge to go find Dorian overwhelming inside of him.

Under her piercing gaze he stays glued to the chair.

“I will be as concise as possible. Yesterday Dorian met with another Altus, Modesta Scipio, in the 'Gull and Lantern' in Redcliffe village, with the formal permission of the King of Ferelden, Alistair Theirin.” She looks at the report in front of her.

Lavellan considers how much time it would take him to make it to the door.

Josephine's voice is now entirely disapproving when she continues. “They proceeded to make a dent into the tavern's stock well into the evening.”

For a moment their eyes meet again, the fine hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck rising.

“I do not know the reason for it, but they had an argument that escalated rapidly.” She sighs, massaging her temples with two elegant fingers. Lavellan notices the tired lines on her face, and the unexpected creases in the golden fabric she is wearing.

He wonders if Josephine has slept at all.

“One of my agents is currently trying to pacify the tavern owner and the other patrons, estimating the damages that were caused.” She looks at him again, and Lavellan tenses. “The King is refusing to receive my other agent.”

Lavellan waits for her to continue, but she doesn't. Maybe he can check on Dorian now?

Josephine sits up, leaning forward, closer to him, both of her hands coming to rest on the desk. It's not a loud or forceful movement, but his wandering attention returns back to her immediately.

Her voice is very, very calm. “Inquisitor, do you understand the ramifications of this?”

Lavellan's hands tighten on the material covering his upper legs.

We had permission, things got out of hand. Those things happen, right? He frowns, looking away from her. He doesn't want to think about politics right now. He wants to go to Dorian and make sure that he is okay.

Josephine sighs, clasping her hands together. “Dorian is in our tavern. He has been for a while now.”

Lavellan's eyes snap wide open.

“We send him back to Redcliffe under the banner of the Inquisition, and he and another Tevinter mage lost control there, not only causing considerable materialistic damages but also hurting other patrons.”

Lavellan's nails are biting into his thighs. He's such an idiot. He should have followed Dorian, even if he it would have ended with him shouting at Lavellan. No— he shouldn't have tried to help Dorian on his own. Wasn't this exactly why he had so many people around him, because he couldn't get anything right without them?

“King Theirin has every right to see this as an attack on his people. He has reached out to us before, after we secured the mages from the Venatori, but this could very well annul all of our efforts to make an ally of him at once.”

He manages to nod, voice subdued like his thoughts. “And Dorian has been in the tavern the entire time?” He can't stomach to look into her eyes, too afraid of the thoughts he could find there. Afraid Josephine is assessing him, and finding him wanting.

She doesn't answer right away. “Lavellan,” she prompts, but he doesn't move. Out of the corner of his eyes, Josephine smiles thinly at him.

“I will continue our efforts in reaching out to the king, and devise appropriate plans of reparations we can offer.” Her voice turns wry. “Leliana is sure he will not move against us, considering all the humiliating information she has about him, but I disagree with her approach. The King is a sensible man, he will not want to endanger his people even more in making another enemy of the Inquisition. Cullen agrees with me, and he is sure our troops would be able to repel any theoretical retaliation.”

He nods weakly. If anyone can save this, it's his advisors.

Maybe Lavellan should just leave every decision to them right away, from now on.

Josephine moves, pushing a book to him. Curious, he glances at the title of it, then instantly back to Josephine's open and expressive face.

When she speaks, her voice is softer, familiar again. “My cousin, Roderick, lost his best friend during a hunt. It was a senseless and horrible accident.” There's a quill in her hands now, and she touches the feathers of it absently. “He was not the same man again after that.”

Her words weigh on him heavily, and he swallows the claims he wants to make in Dorian's defence.

This... this is not only his mission anymore, too huge for him to grasp and solve on his own.

He takes the book into his hands slowly, like it could burn or cut him if he isn't careful enough with it. He manages to look at Josephine again.

“If there is anything you need help with, you only need to ask, Lavellan,” she says, and he doesn't doubt the honesty of her words.

He nods at her in gratitude, and with the book firmly tucked under one arm, he returns to his quarters. He hides there for the rest of the day, and thankfully, nobody disturbs him.

Lavellan hates the book. It's Antivan in origin, but translated into the common tongue. It's fairly thin, but difficult to understand and it keeps insisting he should talk to Dorian about his problems, confront him about them, so he can ‘begin to heal without leaning on unhealthy crutches’.

He's just on his way back to his quarters, having left the stupid book on Josephine's desk so she can look at his questions yet again, when he catches sight of Dorian, leaning skilfully next to the door leading to his quarters.

They haven't really spent time with each other since the Redcliffe incident, but Dorian has seemed slightly off whenever Lavellan managed to catch a glimpse of him. He looks well put together again, now, Lavellan notices relieved. Maybe I can finally ask him about what made him lose control like that.

The smile on Lavellan's face dims slightly when he spots the bottle in Dorian's hand.

“I have some questions about our latest mission, if you can spare a moment of your valuable time, Inquisitor.”

“Of course, Dorian,” Lavellan answers in an equally neutral tone, mindful of the handful of people still gathered around despite the late hour.

They are both silent on the way up the steps.

Once inside the quarters, Dorian places the bottle onto the desk in the corner. Lavellan has been glaring at it behind his back the entire time, feeling as if it is another person, a rival, that he has to battle for Dorian's affection.

Frowning, he shakes the weird thought out of his head, and throws his arms around Dorian before he can make a move to open the bottle, gently kissing Dorian's neck.

Dorian laughs throatily. “Give me a moment, amatus. I appreciate your vigour, but this fine wine deserves to be tasted tonight.”

Lavellan tightens his grip, mumbling into Dorian's skin, “You don't need the wine, Dorian, we can—“

Abruptly Dorian frees himself out of Lavellan's hold, putting a few steps between the two of them.

Lavellan is too afraid to look him into the eyes, too afraid to see what Dorian will make of it all.

Silence hangs heavy between them.

“So you really are trying to change me.”

Lavellan's eyes snap to Dorian's face, and the betrayal he sees there is a sharp contrast to the emotionless tone of Dorian's voice.

Lavellan sucks in a breath, almost buckling under Dorian's obvious pain, like it's a physical blow dealt to himself. He's not like Dorian's father — he's not — but of course Dorian would make this connection. This is exactly what Lavellan has been so scared off, why he wanted to be so careful.

He almost backs off.

He can't, though. Left on his own, Dorian will only keep destroying himself slowly, and he's far too important for Lavellan to see that happen.

“Yes,” he whispers, admitting to it, feeling ashamed despite himself.

Dorian crosses his arms in front of his chest. He doesn't say anything.

Then an arrogant smile deforms his face, and Lavellan knows he's losing him.

“So, if I were to order you now to stop being a Reaver, what would you do?”

Lavellan draws himself up, standing taller. His voice doesn't hide the feelings fighting inside off him. “I would, Dorian. For you, I would.” The do anything remains unspoken, but from Dorian's slight flinch, he has heard it loud and clear.

For one long, terrible moment, hope remains beating inside of Lavellan's chest.

Then Dorian shakes his head and leaves without another word.

They don't talk, don't even see each other, for almost two months.

The tavern quickly becomes Dorian's new haven.

Honestly, he doesn't even remember why he ever preferred to spend his time anywhere else.

Iron Bull joins him quite often in the beginning, amiably boasting with tales of his conquests.

Dorian is too busy trying to forget the way Lavellan felt against him — both clothed and naked, tender and rough — to properly uphold his end of the conversation.

The memories hurt less with every bottle.

Dorian is in the tavern, like he has been for days now, and Lavellan is in his quarters, staring at the ever-growing pile of reports that demand his attention.

Lavellan was— is a Dalish hunter, and that life has made him more than familiar with pain. He has the scars to prove that, and he remembers how he got each and every one of them.

He traces over the line splitting his bottom lip, and closes his eyes. A shem, broad and ragged, bursting through the thicket. A stone in his own hand, his only means of defence. A lesson well learned: head-wounds make for an exhausting and messy kill.

He inhales and imagines the three deep gashes on his hips stretching with it. A bear, just as desperate and hungry as Lavellan and his clan. Blood in the snow, a fallen brother. The sure knowledge that both defeat and retreat will mean joining him.

Puckered skin on his right foot. Training with his brothers. A gleaming, naked chest, a moment of distraction. A stray arrow piercing his skin and muscle, rooting him to the dirt underneath the sole of his foot.

Yes, Lavellan is very familiar with pain.

But he didn't know he could hurt like this, without having a wound to show for it. No open gashes, no bones poking through flesh and skin. Nothing that will leave a visible scar behind.

Dorian is in the tavern and Lavellan is in his quarters.

He could stand up now, leave his rooms, and be with Dorian within moments.

But Lavellan has forced Dorian into a corner, forced him to decide. And Lavellan is not what he has chosen.

But he misses talking with Dorian, misses touching him. Tracing over the mole on his face. Drawing invisible lines on his body to connect the other moles usually hidden under his elaborate clothing. Annoying him until he humours Lavellan, and reads books aloud that are far above his understanding. Listening to Dorian complain about the horrible, southern weather. Feeling his dark hair under his palms, and the roughness of his moustache on his skin.

Lavellan even misses Dorian's troubling ranting about things that Tevinter apparently does better than its neighbouring countries.

He's aching without Dorian, feeling miserable and lonely. But the invisible wound of the rejection has turned him harsher than usual, has him turning down every offer for company from the others.

Lavellan doesn't want to be seen like this, weak and hurting. Like an animal, caught in a steel trap, desperate enough to gnaw off its own leg to escape.

Dorian is in the tavern and Lavellan is in his quarters.

He could stand up now, leave his rooms and go to see Dorian — only a glimpse of him, stolen from the doorway or the balcony above.

He presses his knuckles into his eyes until spots bloom in his vision.

There's a human-sized wound inside of him, and Lavellan keeps pulling off the scabs at the edges of it to ensure that it will scar.

A sound escapes his throat, and he's too slow to prevent it from happening. It echoes pitifully in the empty space closing in on him.

Lavellan was a good hunter — it was his entire purpose and his calling. But he can never return to his clan. He has been tainted by the time he has spent in the Inquisition, in the company of so many humans. Even though it was the Keeper's orders that have put him here in the first place, he's not so blind as to believe he'd ever be welcomed back.

That his clan has reached out to ask for the Inquisition's help only shows how desperate they must have been.

Lavellan cannot return to them. He cannot stay in Skyhold, either.

He focuses his blurry eyes on the report he has been pushing around on his desk.

Sightings of Red Templars in the Emerald Graves.

Lavellan remembers the peace he had felt there, being small, unimportant and free in its green expanse. Maybe the hurting will be dimmed there, he wonders, already making plans to leave on the next day.

And if not, at last the Giants roaming the forest will give me another sort of pain to focus on.

In retrospect, Dorian almost can't believe how foolish he has been, how naive. To think he has let himself believe Lavellan actually accepted him, wanted him, exactly as he is.

No one ever did after all.

Not his father. Not Alexius. Not any of the lovers he has had before. Why would Lavellan be any different?

There's always something Dorian has to change to be deemed worthy of having his affection returned.

His sexuality, his views or his appearance, and most often his need to be treasured, to be the only one in the other's life.

“You know how important you are to me, Dorian, but this marriage is just the opportunity I've been waiting for, you understand that, don't you? That doesn't mean we have to stop seeing each other!”

At least Lavellan has found a new fault in Dorian.

Drinking, of all the petty things imaginable.

He huffs in weary disbelief, swallowing the last gulp and with it the pain in his chest, beckoning the barkeeper closer.

Today he'll definitely need something stronger than usual.

Blackwall tells him he's awful company when he's bitter like this.

“You are always awful company,” Dorian sneers at his retreating back. It's a fairly weak insult, by his standards.

He convinces himself the next swallow he takes still tastes like victory.

Dorian tries to go back to how he has been... before.

Walking Skyhold's halls leaves his skin prickling, whispers seemingly all around him.

The armor of his carefully constructed appearance fails to offer him the usual sense of security.

He falls heavily into his armchair, picking up a random book from the pile next to it.

He seeks the familiar warm embrace of the written word, the invigorating sensation that gaining knowledge has always granted him. But the feeling of peace eludes him entirely.

Instead, the memory of Lavellan's breath ghosting over his neck intrudes upon him, his voice echoing in Dorian's ears.

Read to me, please.

A snarl rips out of Dorian, and he throws the book away violently. It lands in a corner, pages falling open, surely leaving unsalvageable kinks in the paper. He rests his head in the cradle of his hands for a moment, focused entirely on getting enough air into his lungs.

Of course Lavellan wouldn't be satisfied with only robbing Dorian of his heart, the damaged, pitiful thing that it is.

He would take this from Dorian as well.

He suppresses the laughter threatening to burst out of his throat, fearing he wouldn't be able to suppress it again once he let it out. This is no different than the countless others times he has been betrayed by someone he trusted, is it? And yet, Lavellan seems to have wormed his way into the cracks of Dorian's so carefully constructed veneer, seeped into them, tainting the core lying beneath.

He breathes deliberately, in and out, in and out.

When Dorian is sure he won't fall apart in the next instant he stands hastily, glancing at the depressing sight of the discarded book.

And even if it almost feels physically painful to do so, as if he's abandoning another part of himself, Dorian decides to leave it exactly like that.

He escapes to seek the one oblivion that hasn't failed him yet.

Iron Bull is persistent, Dorian has to give him that. He even invites him to join his Chargers for a drink.

Dorian is just feeling mellow enough to accept the offer.

He ends up staring at the Dalish mage the entire time, whatever great tale of companionship Bull is trying to tell him is entirely lost on him. He's never really paid attention to it before, that she also has these ridiculous markings, just like—

Why would you ever permanently mark your face like this? What a barbaric and short-sighted practice! He scowls at her garish and wobbling markings until she slips into a chair behind Iron Bull, looking uncomfortable and confused.

Iron Bull finally stops talking and sighs heavily.

Dorian leaves to get himself another drink.

Iron Bull has finally given up on trying to converse with him, but he remains close by, day in and day out, like a particularly huge and smelly guard dog.

Sometimes — when his mind is not yet dulled enough — Dorian thinks he feels another set of eyes on his head from the railing above.

He orders another drink and the feeling vanishes rather quickly again.

The barkeeper is a vile, dull and hideous creature. Dorian tells him exactly that, making sure to enunciate every word very slowly and clearly.

“Your sweet-talking might work somewhere else, Tevinter, but it won't sway me. You won't get another drink here.”

Dorian tries cajoling. “I'm sure an impressive fellow like you has a wife and children to pamper and spoil. My coins would be more than pleased to support that noble effort.”

The barkeeper looks at him, face entirely unimpressed.

Dorian switches to threatening. “I'm renowned Altus Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. And you will serve me.”

The barkeeper raises an eyebrow at him, and Dorian despairs inwardly. He tries cajoling again. “Rest assured, this is either a mere misunderstanding or a gross injustice. Who asked you to do this? There's a few coins with your face on it for the answer.”

This attempt is met with a weary sigh. “Just go, Tevinter. Even my cheapest ale is wasted on you in this state.” He shakes his head at Dorian, dismissing him and going back to cleaning the bar.

Dorian's just about to give him something real to clean up when Iron Bull interrupts his spell mid-casting. He escorts Dorian out of the tavern with a firm and heavy arm thrown around Dorian's shoulders.

Dorian shakes free as soon as they are outside, grumbling about finding somewhere else to spend his coins.

Iron Bull calls his name, but Dorian doesn't stop.

He's a distinguished Altus on a crucial mission, and yet again, he's entirely on his own in this.

Twilight has settled and Dorian is lingering in a remote corner of Skyhold's garden, far removed from any prying eyes. The bottle in his hand is as cold as the stonewall behind his back.

A whispering couple passes his alcove, merely shadowy contours, so close together they seem inseparable.

A memory assaults him, reverberating through him like a slap to the face.

Lavellan in his arms, their bodies pressed close. A feeling of pure warmth enveloping him. He remembers the words Lavellan had whispered to him in his sleep then, half an eternity ago.

Ma vhenan.

Why would the elvish words come to haunt him now, and not when he had tried to recall them before? His fingers clutch around the cool glass, helplessly — faced with this cruel twist of fate.

He will not investigate or inquire their meaning — there's no reason to it anymore. But he picks at the memory so it remains a fresh and weeping wound: Lavellan's voice an endless loop in his mind, sleepy and burdened with emotion.

Ma vhenan.

Dorian now fears it might have been love.

He opens the bottle hastily, and after that, he doesn't feel anything for much longer.

It gets more and more difficult to acquire something to drink with every passing day. The shopkeepers in Skyhold don't have any reason to stock alcohol, seeing as there's an established tavern already there.

His reserves are running out, and Lady Montilyet has made more than sure that the wine cellar is barred to him.

He considers approaching Sera or maybe Cole about it. Surely they won't mind helping a friend in need?

Dorian hums thoughtfully, realising he hasn't actually seen Cole around since...

Since.

After another moment, he shrugs. He would have heard if anything had happened, and he really doesn't need any more concerns right now.

Dorian is back in his former retreat, critically examining the dust that has collected on his bookshelves. Someone has placed the book he has discarded so despicably onto the table nearby.

Merely looking at the books is making his temples throb.

He's just wondering if he should try his luck in the tavern again when he is finally approached by one of the others.

Dorian has not seen Lavell— the Inquisitor for a while, only as a mirage at the edge of his vision, manifesting when he hasn't had enough to eat but too much to drink.

Rumour has it the Inquisitor has become very diligent in exploring the regions he visits, even going so far as to delegate any work table business through their best and fastest scouts. He has been entirely absent from Skyhold's walls for a while now.

Dorian is just glad he doesn't have to see him outside of his dreams as well — they are difficult enough to endure on their own.

Vivienne walks into his alcove, her heels clicking rhythmically on the stone, and then dully on the rug when she reaches him.

The sound doesn't help Dorian's headache in any way.

He can't help arching an eyebrow at her when she sits down in his armchair, as if she belongs there, hands delicately folded in her lap.

She looks like a queen ready to hold court.

So, this is it, then.

Dorian has wondered who would approach him, though he can't deny being surprised it is not one of the advisors. Maybe Leliana is petitioning the others for his efficient and clean murder right at this moment. Or arranging a horrible accident for him.

That option seems more likely.

Vivienne doesn't do anything as mundane as coughing to regain his wandering attention.

She doesn't have to.

“You know why I am here,” she states, not even a hint of a question in her voice.

Dorian's headache intensifies immediately. He frowns, trying to bargain himself some more time to prepare. “Is this really the right place for this?”

Vivienne gestures, a small and elegant hand-wave, encompassing the room in front of her. “It seems as if your former neighbours have others places to be at this moment.”

Dorian looks sideways and into the open space of the tower. He blinks in disbelief.

There's not a soul in sight.

Cunning play, he marvels, conceding her this first instance of their dance.

He leans against the bookshelf he has been inspecting before, arms crossing in front of his chest before he can prevent the motion. He places an ankle behind the foot stabilising him against the shelf, hopes he looks disinterested and completely comfortable in his skin.

Not even a flicker of movement passes over Vivienne's face, but Dorian knows that she is well aware of her superior position.

I really shouldn't have let her take the chair, Dorian thinks morosely.

“Go on,” he says evenly, like he is indulging her, “say your piece.”

Vivienne nods, a barely noticeable motion.

Her voice holds no pity, and for that, Dorian is grateful.

“This is not a tolerable state of affairs. The Inquisition is not able to act in any meaningful way like this.” She inhales, her head lifting slightly. “We need the Inquisitor at his best performance.”

Dorian remembers that he needs to breathe. Then he retorts, sounding anything but regretful, “I apologise, but I'm afraid you'll have to be more concrete about what it is exactly that you are expecting of me.”

“We need the Inquisitor,” Vivienne repeats, more forcefully, as if Dorian is being unnecessarily childish.

He only wants for her to say it aloud.

Something unexpected happens then — there's a slight crack in Vivienne's façade.

She looks away from him to hide it, to compose herself again. “I had hoped it wouldn't have to come to this.” Vivienne shakes her head, closing her eyes for a moment. Then she looks back at him, and suddenly Dorian realises why it's her approaching him, why it couldn't have been anybody else.

Vivienne and he, they both resemble each other, even more so than he had thought before. They see what needs to be done and when no one else around them is brave enough to do anything, they place their feelings second, and act, no matter the consequences.

“You are an important member of the Inquisition, Dorian. Without you we would have lost our mages to the Venatori. We would have lost the war at Redcliffe.”

Dorian doesn't know what to say. And even if he did, he doesn't think he could actually voice any words through his suddenly tight throat.

Vivienne stands up and Dorian is frozen still when she approaches him, coming to stand before him.

Her voice is almost soft, a hint of a smile on her lips, and that scares Dorian more than anything else. “You are a valued companion, I do not want you to ever forget that.”

And just like that, any trace of gentleness vanishes from her composure.

Vivienne might as well be an enemy facing him on the battlefield.

And in a way, she is.

“But if it comes to a decision between you and Lavellan... there is no Inquisition without the Inquisitor.”

Dorian nods, hoping the movement isn't as jerky as it feels. “I know,” he manages to whisper.

Vivienne nods as well, a single, contained motion of her head. “I know that you will do what is right, my dear.”

She turns to leave. Dorian wishes he had only half the conviction in himself that she seems to have.

“Oh, and one last thing, darling.”

Dorian lifts his eyes to her again. The perpetual gloom of the library hides her face.

“I'm glad to have made your acquaintance, and wherever life will take you now, I wish you luck. Goodbye, Dorian.”

Long after the sound of Vivienne's footsteps has faded, and people have started to return to their familiar places around him, he's still lost deep in thought.

Lavellan is sick of the Hinterlands.

He's sick of a lot of things right now, but the Hinterlands manage to overshadow everything else that is wrong with his life.

With far more force than necessary, he smashes his greatsword into the Terror demon attacking Varric. When the gangly limbs stop twitching, he yanks it backwards, smiling in vicious satisfaction.

More blood trickles into his eyes, and he smears an impatient hand over his face in an attempt to stop it.

Off to his left, Cassandra is taking care of the other Terror demon well on her own. As she should, he thinks grimly. After all she's the one who wanted this damn Rift closed.

Lavellan knows he's being an idiot. He knows this Rift is too close to the farms. He knows they could very well lose this area again to the demons, making all the trouble they went through with the mad wolves and the Watchtowers for nothing.

He knows all of this, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

There isn't a muscle in his body that isn't aching, no part of him that doesn't hurt in one way or another.

He huffs.

It doesn't matter.

Another glance confirms Cassandra has her enemy well under control. Varric must have come to the same conclusion, because he's supporting Blackwall up in the riverbed, trying to help with taking the screeching Despair demon down.

Lavellan hates those things. Probably even more than the Hinterlands.

He rushes to them, and it feels like his body is rebelling against him when he draws on the Reaver's power inside of him. Lavellan grits his teeth, wishing they had taken more potions with them, wishes they had magic—

Lavellan stomps on the thought brutally before he can finish it, pushing his body even further to reach his companions.

There's no use to wishing Cole and Dorian were still fighting at his side, it won't change a thing. Whatever it was he and Dorian had, Lavellan has ruined it. And somehow Cole seems to have vanished out of his life shortly after Dorian had. At least he knows that they are both still there, that Varric has spent time with Cole, and that Bull is watching out for Dorian, has promised to keep him out of trouble.

Dorian.

Dorian is in the tavern and Lavellan is out here. But he could—

No. He snarls at himself, stomping on that thought as well.

Knowing that Dorian, and Cole, too, are both still safe in Skyhold will have to be enough.

Lavellan needs to concentrate on the battle. He fights like he's overcompensating for a missing limb now, he knows that, and he is missing a limb, but there's nothing to be done about it.

He hopes Blackwall, Varric and Cassandra will take longer to notice the destructive urge that has taken root inside of him. Apart from Cassandra, who has insisted on accompanying him this time, the others haven't seen him in action when he had still been with Dorian.

When he had still been whole.

Lavellan really shouldn't have spent so much time honing his battle skills with Cassandra. It has been all for nothing anyway. There's no reason anymore to try to fight without the Reaver blood inside of him — to deny its powerful call — without Dorian by his side.

Maybe he can take Corypheus down before she notices and before he manages to get himself killed.

Lavellan doesn't actually want to get himself killed. He doesn't want to die.

He just doesn't know if he has the energy to prevent it from happening anymore.

He gave Dorian his heart and then betrayed him. There's no hope of ever having it returned, not that he wants it back. After all, it's right where it—

”I'm going back to Tevinter. I wish I could say it has been a pleasant experience, but we both know that would be a dreadful lie. Goodbye, and I sincerely hope we won't be seeing each other ever again, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan stumbles, almost falling to his knees.

He doesn't understand. That is Dorian's voice he is hearing, but Dorian is back in Skyhold, safe—

”I truly wish we had never met.”

He sucks in a rattling breath, turning his head—

Disgusting teeth fill his vision. Disgusting teeth overlapping even more disgusting teeth, hovering directly in front of his face.

Magic gathers at the Despair demon's hands, its mouth gaping open in a loud, victorious screech.

Lavellan can barely hear it over Dorian's words ringing inside of his head.

He knows these two things are connected.

Dorian's voice filled with loathing in his head.

The second Despair demon in front of him.

He knows, and his drained body tenses in anticipation, but he can't make it move, Dorian's voice in his head paralysing him.

Somebody shouts his name in alarm, and Lavellan manages to rise an arm to shield his head, turning away—

It's too late.

The grapevine of Skyhold travels faster than anyone who might have been on their way to tell Dorian the news in person.

He's staring blankly at a book, wondering which ones he should take with him when he leaves in a few days. He's feeling horribly hangover and is just considering if more alcohol is worth the effort of standing up when two researchers run up to Enchanter Fiona, almost barrelling her over.

“The Inquisitor, he's—!” — “I heard he might—! By the Maker, what will we do!?” They continue like this, talking over each other in their panic, until Enchanter Fiona shushes them with a wary glance to the crowd they are attracting.

A shudder crawls up Dorian's back, and he raises his eyes.

Leliana is standing at the upper railing opposite of him, her fingers clenched tightly around the wood.

There is no mistaking the cold look she is regarding him with.

The book falls from Dorian's hand.

His feet carry him into the hall that connects to the Inquisitor's quarters, before he gives them the conscious order to do so.

Cullen and Cassandra are standing in front of the door leading to the rooms, arguing in hushed and urgent whispers. He doesn't acknowledge them when he walks past them, too afraid of what he might see on their faces.

Lavellan is pale between the dark sheets, so pale, and bloody and still.

He's dead.

He's dead and he died alone, lying on the Orlesian atrocity he only kept because Dorian's exasperated comments about its existence never failed to amuse him.

He's dead and Dorian wasn't there to prevent it from happening.

He's dead and it's Dorian's fault.

In the next instant he's at Lavellan's side, Rise a violet presence at his fingertips.

He can still fix this. Bring him back and then keep bringing him back until they can figure out a way to make it permanent. The forbidden books in his father's library, he can arrange for them to be taken, to be brought here, there will be something of use hidden in their pages, something not so abhorrent that the others would refuse—

There's movement to Lavellan's chest, only a hint of it.

He's is still breathing.

Relief cuts the strings holding Dorian upright, the magic he was weaving evaporating, unspoken. He falls, and his knees meet the unyielding stone, the impact of it mere background noise.

Dorian presses a sob into the dark bedding, shudders wrecking through him.

He's still breathing.

Dorian doesn't leave Lavellan's side again.

If he has ever entertained any notions of moving his belongings into Lavellan's rooms, it certainly wasn't anything like this.

Nobody challenges or questions his permanent residence in the Inquisitor's rooms, at least not in his presence. Some familiar voices even offer their help, but Dorian walks Skyhold's halls as a ghost, eyes cast downwards, acknowledging no one. They quickly learn to simply leave him to it.

Dorian is glad for it. He's really not in the correct state of mind for verbal duels at this moment.

And blood is always such a challenge to get out of his robes.

One day passes. One day.

It's a miserable blur. When Dorian resurfaces, he realises he's on his way back to the Inquisitor's rooms with a bottle of wine in his hand.

Dorian doesn't remember deciding to leave to get one, much less where he got it from.

He pushes it into the hands of a tittering Orlesian noble loitering in Skyhold's halls, manages to mutter a haughty, “You look like you need it more than I do,” before vanishing behind the sturdy door, hidden again from any curious eyes.

He proceeds to get violently sick as soon as he enters the bathroom, losing the meagre breakfast he must have eaten at some point earlier that day.

It doesn't take long for him to begin shaking, something he hasn't experienced in a very long time. Sickness turns his tongue dry and sharp, a weapon cutting violently into anyone foolish enough to enter these rooms — their rooms now.

He can only hope he'll never have to rely on Skyhold's healers and caretakers to save his own life.

It's not Dorian's fault, though. Their efforts are simply not worthy of the Inquisitor.

As should be painfully obvious to everyone else, Dorian thinks bitterly.

Lavellan's wounds just won't heal. Apart from the gruesome frostbite covering his left upper arm that Dorian can't stomach to look at, they are just minor things, cuts and abrasions.

With a lot of magic, potions and salves they are at least able to stop them from bleeding any longer, but there is no visible improvement apart from that.

Healing magic is not Dorian's forte — it never has been, it never will be. Yet, when they are finally left alone again he tries it often enough to know it's not a lack of proficiency on the healer's part that keeps Lavellan like this.

They have ruled out every known kind of magic and widespread poisons as the reason.

He's as perplexed as everyone else when it comes to figuring out what the it could be that is trapping their Inquisitor in this broken state.

Somebody keeps bringing Dorian food and drink. Mostly, it's simple dishes that his stomach is able to keep down on good days.

Sometimes it's a plate filled with cookies that he's too weak to resist, even if it leaves him feeling nauseous for the rest of the day.

He never sees the person bringing the meals, but he doubts it's one of the people treating Lavellan.

After all, Dorian hasn't died of poisoning yet.

Specialist Thram and Cassandra enter after two weeks have passed, entirely unannounced.

They are lucky Dorian is too tired to kick them out on principle.

Thram looks at Lavellan for only a moment before she huffs in disdain.

Dorian feels on edge in her presence. He wonders if he could take her on, should she try anything... suspicious.

“It is what you and I feared,” she tells Cassandra in clipped tones. She leaves again without even acknowledging Dorian.

Cassandra's face is a frightening mask of displeasure, frustration radiating off of her rigid posture.

Dorian has no delusions about besting her in a battle. He doesn't move a muscle when she joins him at Lavellan's side, falling heavily onto one of the chairs grouped around the bed. She looks at Lavellan and sighs, a quiet, defeated sound.

Dorian waits until he runs out of patience, which is stretched rather thinly these days. “Well?”

Cassandra startles.

On closer inspection, she looks as tired as Dorian feels. “What did you find out?” he asks her again, less aggressive this time.

Cassandra's fingers flex in her lap, tensing and releasing around each other. “He overtaxed himself, made too much use of his Reaver ability. We noticed, the last time we headed out, but I didn't say anything. And then it was already too late.” She grinds her teeth, her fingers clenched tightly, uncomfortably looking.

Dorian wonders at the we, then bristles. Why didn't they approach him? He has never had any scruples about confronting Lavellan about his fighting style, idiotic, reckless—

He exhales shakily, realising the reason before he voices any of his thoughts. He inhales deliberately, calmly.

He won't fall apart in front of Cassandra. He still has his pride, even if it is in tatters right now.

She considers Dorian out of the corner of her eyes. Dorian wonders what else she has to tell him, and if he will have enough energy left for it.

They sit in companionable silence, watching, waiting for something they both know won't just happen in the space of a few breaths.

Dorian begins to feel slightly anxious. After all, how likely is it Cassandra will have some good news to share with him for a chance? Out of a newly developed habit, Dorian gently takes one of Lavellan's limp hands into his.

Memories beckon of all that has transpired been between them, of what might be lost to him forever now. Reliving the memories does help, he has noticed, once the initial ache of sorrow has passed.

They remind him that the two of them barely touched upon what they could be, together, united — of the sheer vastness of possibility lying ahead of them yet.

He examines the fine, long fingers, the ugly bruising and unhealed cuts. Can't help marvelling at them, how they still look less abused than he's sometimes seen them on a day Lavellan has spent only in Skyhold's secure walls.

Next to him Cassandra huffs, followed by a small chuckle.

Dorian almost drops Lavellan's hand in shock, but ends up clinging to it instead, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at her.

It's not just his duty to be here at Lavellan's, his amatus', side — it's his right. If Dorian tells himself this often enough, so he hopes, it will eventually overwrite the stifling script etched into his mind.

Cassandra is smiling slightly, her eyes on their joined hands.

Dorian relaxes. Though he trusts them — for the most part — he doesn't give the Inquisitor's inner circle nearly enough credit. It's another oversight he's trying to remedy.

“I must admit, when he first approached me about these training sessions, I did not know what to think of it.” Her smile turns rueful. “Though I did approve of Specialist Breaker Thram's invitation, I had not wanted for him to choose the path of the Reaver.”

Her eyes wander to Lavellan's face. “When he told me he wanted to relearn how to fight without relying too heavily on the Dragon's blood inside of him, I was relieved.”

She shakes her head, expression wryly amused. “Even if his insistence on having his sword slapped out of his hand is an interesting way to go about it.”

Her eyes turn back to Dorian, and he's taken aback by the warmth of Cassandra's gaze. “I always meant to thank you for the good influence you have on him. No, not just influence— It's more than that. You ground him in a way I never would have expected.”

One of her hands comes to rest on his arm, a barely-there touch Dorian could easily shake off.

“If it wasn't for you, I don't think he would still be with us.”

Her hand squeezes slightly.

It feels like a brand.

It feels like a benediction.

“Thank you.” And to make matters worse, she sounds as if she actually means every word of it.

She's so horribly mistaken, Dorian doesn't even know where to begin. Something must have shown on his face, because the hand falls from his arm again.

“I put him in this state,” Dorian forces out between clenched teeth. “I left him for—“ He's unable to say it, the words stuck in his throat, choking him. “I left him for nothing.”

Cassandra remains unaffected and collected while she endures his outburst, looking at him calmly. Judging him, Dorian is sure of it.

He shakes his head. “This isn't a story in one of your books, Cassandra. There might not be a happy ending to this.”

Her immediate reply surprises him. “I know,” she acknowledges evenly and her posture changes.

Suddenly, she's not an exhausted advisor anymore. In front of Dorian's eyes she transforms into the Seeker, imposing and unwavering, a force to be reckoned with.

“The Maker will not grant us a happy ending simply because we wish for it to happen. But that only means that we all have to fight even harder to achieve it.”

A knock on the door saves him from having to find an answer to that.

A harried-looking kitchen hand serves them two trays of food before quickly leaving again, either attuned to the heavy atmosphere in the room or to go on about his business.

They eat in silence, and it is far less unpleasant than Dorian would have expected. He doesn't remember when he has last eaten in the company of someone awake.

When they are done, Cassandra sighs. “There is more.” The wan smile on her lips does very little to reassure him, but Dorian appreciates the effort.

“There is no reason for Lavellan not to recover, even if he exhausted his body beyond it's capacity. He's still young and healthy.”

Dorian has the feeling she's hiding something. “But...?” he inquires, ignoring the dread sitting heavily in his chest.

Cassandra visibly steels herself, hesitating for a breath, but then she shakes her head decisively. “No, it is nothing. He only needs time, I'm sure of it.”

Dorian lets her words hang in the air, while they both turn their gaze back to their Inquisitor.

They might even both believe them eventually.

On bad days Dorian barely has enough energy to dress himself, much less to eat and to drink.

Books are too heavy for his shaking hands, and the words tumble about the pages, taunting him while they evade his understanding.

He stares at Lavellan and thinks, I could have prevented this from happening.

Lavellan's voice echoes in his head, mocking him, tormenting him. “I would, Dorian. For you, I would.”

And Dorian had known it to be the truth. Lavellan has never understood the purpose of lying, of bending the truth when a situation called for it.

It has always charmed and frustrated Dorian in equal measures.

That's why he left him. Ran, like a coward. Lavellan had been willing to give up a part of himself for Dorian, and Dorian hadn't known if he could do the same for him.

Hadn't even wanted to try, too assured in his disposition and in his pride.

So he fled, buried what was between them underneath the content of innumerable bottles and didn't look back until it was too late.

Dorian's fingers dig into the wooden armrests. It's painful, but not nearly as much as Lavellan's words resonating inside of his mind, reminding him that he was unworthy of the depths of truth inside of them.

He wakes up from an uneasy doze to Cole sitting at the foot of the bed, humming Dorian's favourite childhood rhyme, horribly off-key.

Some colour has returned to Lavellan's face, but his wounds remain garish and open.

Cole looks the same, even if he seems skittish. Dorian's relief to see him again is short-lived.

“I tried to take your pain away. Again and again, but it just wouldn't work. You two wouldn't let me heal you,” Cole says despondently.

Cold and all-consuming terror seizes Dorian and for a moment, he can't breathe. Cole has been in his head, in their heads, repeatedly, trying to... trying to change things around? Trying to make them forget each other? Dorian hasn't even seen Cole this entire time, at least not that he could recall—

Dorian can't get enough air into his lungs.

Cole's hand lands on his shoulder.

Dorian hasn't even noticed him move. He fights the urge to shrug it off violently, to lash out.

“I'm sorry. I only wanted to help.” The pale hand falls from his shoulder again, and Cole takes a step back.

Dorian inhales shakily.

They shouldn't have ignored this for so long, only because they have a soft spot for him. But until now it has been so easy, to only see the people he helped without acknowledging that Cole haunts the spaces between them like a spectre, intruding on and unravelling the thoughts and memories in their minds at his leisure.

Dorian sighs wearily. Who has decided he should be to the one to deal with this?

“No more of this, Cole, promise me.”

Cole stares at him in incomprehension. Then he glances at Lavellan's still form.

Amusement and fondness well up in Dorian's chest, taking him entirely by surprise. So now I'm a stern parent in this dysfunctional family of misfits that we boldly call the Inquisition?

He's never seen himself as stern, and much less a parent.

No matter, Dorian will have to be both for now.

“I'll speak with him when he wakes up, but he will agree with me. It cannot go on like this any longer.”

He's losing Cole, it's obvious, pure unhappiness radiating off of him. Dorian might only be imagining that he's fading before his eyes. Considering the circumstances, Dorian's really not at his best right now.

“I'm not saying you need to stop helping people,” he placates.

Cole seems to become more solid, but again, Dorian wouldn't actually bet any coins on it.

“But you need to speak with the person you want to help first. Ask them, if they want to forget what is tormenting them, and then you can...” He waves vaguely, encompassing Cole.

Cole seems to consider this, looking at Lavellan again with something that might be mulish longing.

“Promise me, Cole,” Dorian insists.

Finally, thankfully, Cole nods. “I will ask them before making the hurts go away. I understand.”

Relieved, Dorian looks back at Lavellan. He can't wait to tell him about this first family dispute that Dorian has resolved on his own.

Despite the luscious taste of triumph in his mouth, Dorian frowns slightly. Between the two of us, he decides idly, Lavellan will need to take on the mantle of the stern parent as soon as he is able to. It just doesn't suit Dorian, its colours clashing violently with his personal preferences.

He realises that there is no doubt in his mind any longer — Lavellan will wake up and then they will talk, mend the gaping chasm between them.

“He's not healing because he thinks you have already left him. Your voice, but not, echoes in his head and drowns out any light before it can reach him.”

When Dorian turns to look back at Cole, questions on the tip of his tongue, he's already gone.

Figures. It's probably revenge for Dorian scolding him.

He considers Cole's words.

And Dorian's next exhale shudders out of him, as realisation pierces through his mind, bringing with it Cassandra's voice echoing inside of it, we were closing a Rift in the Hinterlands, chased by Varric's, Despair demon got the drop on him.

It's the only logical explanation, but still he rebels against the very idea of it, that Lavellan — headstrong, stubborn, unbelievable Lavellan — could ever be susceptible to a Despair demon's influence, that he could fall because of it. If only Dorian had been there with him—

He inhales deeply, composing himself again. He has wasted more than enough time with impractical accusations and self-hatred.

Dorian will not allow for a Despair demon's wretched magic to steal Lavellan away from him.

He begins to speak to him more often, haltingly at first, but becoming more sure once he accepts that he will have to fill the silence without the aid of a book.

He should have done so sooner — Lavellan has always enjoyed Dorian's voice, and why shouldn't he? It's a marvel to hear, after all.

He feels slightly more like himself after Cole's visit, tongue slightly less sharp in his still dry throat. Apparently deemed acceptable company again, he's occasionally joined by one of their companions in his bedside vigil.

When Vivienne first graces their quarters with her presence, Dorian feels even more heavy-footed than he did during their last meeting.

After brushing some invisible dust off of it, she glides into a seat on the other side of him. Then she faces him, raising an immaculate eyebrow.

Dorian realises he has not looked into a mirror in a long while. He straightens up, uncomfortable.

“Please, Dorian, be a dear and explain to me why Tevinter fashion always values style over functionality. One would think that with your constant need to solve all your problems with blood magic, you'd made sure your skin was not hidden under numerous and unsightly layers of material.”

He's so shocked by this outrageous claim, his forgets what he was just worrying about.

They proceed to have the quietest shout-whisper debate about Tevinter and Orlesian fashion they've ever head.

It's invigorating.

They part, firmly in agreement that neither of them would ever be found dead in Antivan clothing.

In his mind, Dorian tries to call her a friend. The word feels unfamiliar and frightening, but it also feels exhilaratingly appropriate.

The jarring sound of Varric's quill moving on paper leaves Dorian grinding his teeth.

Especially because all Varric seems to be doing is scratching out everything he has just written. When Varric's face contorts after he takes a deep swallow of the cup filled with water next to him — clearly having expected something else, something stronger — Dorian sympathises with him. He really does.

But he has also really had enough.

“What are you writing?” he asks, hopefully not too desperate and obvious in his attempt at distraction.

Varric looks up, placing quill and paper on the chair next to him. Quite frankly, he looks utterly relieved at the excuse to stop writing.

“My editor wants me to branch out, to conquer untapped markets,” he grumbles, his gesturing hands making more than clear what he thinks of that idea. He takes another swallow from the cup, grimacing again.

Dorian sips on his own water glass, unable to hide his own displeasure at the bland taste.

Varric tilts his head then, and raises his cup to Dorian in acknowledgement. He continues speaking before Dorian has enough time to think about how to react to this.

“I'm supposed to write a female protagonist, can you believe that? Do you know what happens to authors who try and fail to write an acceptable one?”

Dorian shakes his head, slightly taken aback by Varric's vehemence.

“Of course you don't! Nobody talks about the body parts or the lack thereof. Not good for publicity,” he finishes with a huff.

He stares despondently at the quill and paper next to him, slumping further down into his seat. “Maybe she wants me dead. That's it. She has more lucrative horses in her stable now, so old Varric has to go, and make space for a younger and shinier version.”

“If it's that dangerous, I'm sure she'll accept another book idea from you with a male protagonist,” Dorian tries to assure him.

Varric's hopeful eyes on him prompt him to continue.

“You are the author of 'Hard in Hightown', after all. I think that series even has fans in the Imperium!” Dorian embellishes boldly through his smiling teeth.

“... really?” asks Varric, posture straightening. He picks up his quill again, considering it.

Dorian replies earnestly, one hand pressed over his heart. “I'm a Tevinter mage, Varric. Would I ever lie to you?”

They grin openly at each other, picking up their glass and cup, toasting each other.

“You're good company, Sparkler,” Varric tells him, before picking up his notes again.

Dorian watches him write with newly found energy, then his eyes wander back to Lavellan's sleeping form.

The scratching of the quill is easily bearable now.

Dorian doesn't ask anybody to bring him a drink, and nobody offers to get him one.

Sometimes Dorian hates them so much for it, each and every one of their calm and friendly faces, he's consumed by it entirely.

Other times gratitude overwhelms him.

He doesn't know if he's strong enough yet to say no.

Sera is loud and obnoxious with absolutely no regard for the ailing, and Dorian gives up rather quickly on trying to shush her.

She sits down next to him, legs crossed under her, posture awful enough to make his body ache in sympathy. She tells him about some of her most recent pranks, about what she hid under the cookmaid's bed, and in the bushes in Skyhold's garden.

Despite himself, Dorian is slightly amused.

Her sharp eyes notice, and she prepares to reel him in. “Ready for the real howler?”

Dorian decides to indulge her. He nods.

“So, Cullen, he's from Ferelden, right, and Ferelden's have this weird obsession with dogs, right? There was this farmer next to the stalls. He had an entire bag filled with dog hair. He didn't even know why he kept it! But I knew this bag was meant for something bigger.” She leans closer to him, voice lowered slightly for the first time since she has entered. “I've stuffed his stupid chair with the smelly dog hair, and I still have enough left of it to keep going for weeks!”

A sudden burst of laughter escapes, taking him entirely by surprise. Sera as well, considering her widened eyes.

He keeps laughing, unable to stop, until he's crying. “... promise me,” he gasps, “...I want in on your next prank...!” he demands, wiping his eyes.

Sera is delighted, her eyes dancing with mirth.

Dorian catches some murmured words from her as she's leaving, scheming already.
“The possibilities... magic... not to forget the bees…” She gasps, clapping her hands together. “...bees on fire!”

The door falls closed after her excited exclamation, and he's mildly alarmed by what he has apparently unleashed.

Cassandra appears again on her own this time, only accompanied by a book she carries in her hand.

They nod at each other in greeting before she sits down on one of the chairs at the other side of the bed, quickly becoming engrossed in her story.

Dorian eyes her in jealousy.

He considers the pile of books next to him. Until now he has only occasionally picked them up to longingly trace their bindings, wary of another disillusioning rejection.

Across from him Cassandra inhales sharply, apparently very engrossed in her reading.

Before he can hesitate for even longer, he picks up the topmost book.

He needn't be afraid — the words welcome him warmly back into their familiar, printed arms.

His fingers are shaking, but this time, the reason for it is not Dorian's body longing for its poison. Instead it's the pure joy rushing through his veins, so vigorous and prominent, he feels as if he should be glowing with it.

He feels like he's being reborn, remade, with every word he inhales.

Dorian is relieved to find Cassandra's face hidden behind her own book. There might be a slight, wet shine to his eyes and he'd rather not have her see it.

They read in companionable silence. Relatively speaking. Dorian would never have thought Cassandra Pentaghast to be an audible reader. On anyone else he would describe the quiet gasps and the other small sounds to be adorable.

This still is Cassandra Pentaghast he's thinking about, though. So he settles on describing it as... charming.

Lavellan has always tried to tell him that Cassandra is more than just the sum of her title combined with her zeal for duty and justice.

Dorian certainly has no trouble believing that any longer.

At one point, a servant quietly enters the rooms to light the candles around them, and Dorian becomes conscious of his tired eyes and mind abruptly.

He wants to soak up more knowledge, now that its vastness is finally within his grasp again. But when his glances linger for longer and longer still on the Orlesian atrocity and the place next to Lavellan that has become his, he acknowledges that he's too tired to continue.

Cassandra still shows no inclination to leave.

Dorian considers his options.

“Did you know Varric is working on a book again?” he asks, fingers nonchalantly tracing over the volume in his hands.

He feels Cassandra's eyes boring into him. “He is? Do you know if it is a new book?”

Dorian makes a vague noise, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes. He waits.

Cassandra straightens. “Is it a continuation of 'Swords and Shields'?” she asks, voice hushed.

Dorian has to fight to keep his face carefully blank.

He looks at her when he is sure there's nothing showing on it that could betray him. “I apologise, I really don't know,” he answers, looking at her with wide eyes. He's probably overdoing it, but he's having too much fun right now to care.

Cassandra seems to actually vibrate in her chair. “I have to— I forgot— I need to go,” she stands abruptly. “Good night, Dorian,” she adds, long strides taking her to the door.

I hope Varric won't be too resentful with me for sacrificing him like this, Dorian thinks wistfully.

That night he falls asleep next to Lavellan with a faint smile on his lips.

Solas is barely through the door and they are already clashing on every topic they so much as breach.

“Maybe if he had not insisted on leashing the mages when we freed them, one of them would have stepped forward with a solution already!” Solas insists.

Dorian almost can't believe that he is arguing against him on this. He shakes off the dissonance he's feeling, and responds, “If this is how they show their gratitude, then maybe they deserved a few years of servitude in Tevinter!”

They frown at each other, arms crossed in front of their chests, both sure in the knowledge of being in the right.

Without an intervening third voice it becomes rather obvious there's precious little common ground between them.

Solas looks at the door, clearly having decided that this has been a mistake and a waste of time.

Seeing an opportunity walking out on him, Dorian opens his mouth before he can talk himself out of it. “There's an Elvish phrase that's been on my mind...”

Solas piercing eyes find their way back to him. He raises a sardonic eyebrow at Dorian.

Dorian carefully breathes in and out again, then continues “I wondered if you could translate it for me.”

“Of course,” answers Solas, posture easing slightly. Sharing their knowledge might actually be something they both enjoy.

“The phrase I heard is 'ma vhenan',” Dorian says, slightly rushing the words out to be done with it.

Solas' face hardens. He first considers Dorian and then Lavellan with that disapproving look.

This was obviously a mistake, Dorian thinks warily.

Just when he's sure Solas won't answer him after all, Solas moves, coming to stand in front of Dorian.

Solas is dressed in the featureless, horrendous clothing he's usually wearing in Skyhold, just as unsightly as the outfit Lavellan always insists on wearing. And yet, Solas suddenly seems... taller. Imposing, almost. Which is perfectly ridiculous.

Dorian feels cowed by him and he doesn't understand it. He grits his teeth and stands his ground.

“It's an endearment.” Solas' face contorts slightly, as if saying the words is physically painful to him. “Ma vhenan means 'my heart'.”

Solas leaves without waiting for Dorian's reply, letting the door fall shut with a heavy, final sound.

Dorian shakes himself, taking a few unsteady steps before falling ungainly onto the Orlesian monstrosity. It's so firm and sturdy, Lavellan doesn't even jostle.

Dorian will insist on having it replaced as soon as Lavellan opens his eyes again.

He makes himself comfortably on his side, only hesitating for a moment before he begins to trace over the tattoos decorating Lavellan's face, thinking.

There's three words — two in Tevene — that Dorian never says. At least not anymore. Not since they've been used against him — or worse, were thrown back at his feet in disgust.

Even when he has hoped for this surprising entanglement between him and Lavellan to be more, hoped with everything he is, hoped despite his doubts and experiences, he has not been able to say them, even for Lavellan.

Instead, he has masked the words in a language barely anyone in Ferelden has sufficient command of to understand. He's compressed them, and hidden them — even from himself — to allow himself to voice them.

Dorian now realises that every time he has called Lavellan amatus he's been rebelling against his own insecurities, against the thorny confines Tevinter's society has pressed him into.

He has never even considered Lavellan would do the same, that instead of using those three tired words he would tell Dorian what he means to him in a different manner.

Dorian searches through their interactions, noticing all those reassuring touches that always seemed to happen just when he needed them the most. The surprising tenderness, seemingly at odds with Lavellan's usual brash nature. And of course...

Ma vhenan.

My heart.

Deep in thought, Dorian continues his exploration of Lavellan's face, noticing Lavellan's dry, cracked lips. He reaches blindly for the salve next to the bed, always close by, gently applying it with by now practised ease.

Once he's satisfied, he slips under the enchanted covers keeping Lavellan warm, and rests his forehead on the naked shoulder hidden underneath it. He breathes in, the smell of the salves and herbs almost overpowering anything else.

Another inhale reveals what he has been seeking: Lavellan's smell, hidden under the unappealing soap he's been cleaned with.

Though it should be my soap he smells of, Dorian decides idly, an idea forming in his mind. He smiles, no doubt looking like the besotted fool he apparently is.

He places one of his hands on Lavellan's chest, only long enough to confirm for himself that the steady beat against his palm is still there.

“It seems we are both fools.” He chuckles weakly, making himself comfortable, one of Lavellan's hands clutched into his.

Dorian closes his eyes, murmuring softly, “Maybe we deserve each other after all.”

Cullen visits for a few games of chess.

Dorian wonders how he can still win every game, when all he seems to be doing is complain endlessly.

“Leliana wants her agents to scout the area and make an example of the fire-raiser. Josephine knows the Arl of the land, and thinks we should petition him to assist with the rebuilding.” Cullen scratches through his hair.

He sounds completely exasperated when he continues, “We don't even know if the barn was burned down! I say we send a handful of soldiers there and do the rebuilding on our own!”

Dorian nods absently, moving one of his pieces.

A moment passes, far longer than his opponent usually needs to contemplate his strategy. Dorian looks up, then follows Cullen's glance to Lavellan's still form on the bed.

Cullen's voice turns soft, reminiscing. “I don't know how he manages to deal with our different approaches without losing his mind.”

By pathetically complaining about your stubbornness to me until I present him with something much more interesting he could do with his mouth, Dorian thinks absently, unobtrusively pushing another one of his pieces.

Cullen sighs again, rubbing his neck. After a short glance at the board, he makes his move. “You know, I've been thinking... it would be nice to get a mabari.”

Dorian's head snaps up.

Cullen's voice turns defensive. “I've never had one before!” He grumbles under his breathe, then continues sullenly, “Honestly, I don't even know where that thought came for. I don't have the time to take care of a pet, much less of a mabari.”

Dorian is too busy stifling his laughter to even attempt to cheat again.

When Cullen leaves after the game, after a even more thorough victory than usual, he's eyeing Dorian rather suspiciously.

At noon, a caretaker arrives to change the Inquisitor's numerous bandages, and Dorian dutifully lays aside the book in his hands to observe them.

He scowls slightly, when he sees that it is the old woman he can stand even less than the other ones taking care of Lavellan. She's better at ignoring him, seemingly deaf to his helpful advice and comments.

She places the basket carrying her utensils on the bed, freeing her patient from the blanket, but not before sending a dark look towards Dorian.

He's more than happy to return it with an obnoxiously wide smile.

The expression on her face remains unchanged while she untangles the bandages on Lavellan's right arm.

She gasps, the muscles on her face contorting.

Dorian is at her side before the echo of the sound has settled around them.

Her widened eyes turn to him for a breath, then back to Lavellan's arm.

Dorian swallows, fearing the worst — infection or dying skin — fears Lavellan wasting away in front of their eyes while they are helpless to prevent it from happening. Reluctantly, he follows her gaze.

Dorian knows Lavellan's body, every scar, every tender spot. He's familiar with the constantly itchy patches of skin on Lavellan's back, the ones he always complains about, just as much as with the irritated ones on his hips that he never properly takes care of, no matter how often Dorian berates him for it.

He has memorised the persistent patchwork of cuts and bruises marring him now.

The fist-sized discolouration they are both staring at has turned lighter around the edges. But... it's barely noticeable.

It is only the light playing tricks on their eyes.

A wizened finger carefully traces the contours of the bruise. “The young man is finally healing,” she mutters, looking back at Dorian expectantly.

He wants to trust her judgement, her experience — needs to. Dorian feels his carefully neutral expression slip from his fingers. He swallows, fighting against the hope that wants to engulf him in false and treacherous arms.

She considers him for a moment, then nods. “You might as well make yourself useful for once.” She presses a vial and bandages into his hands, and he fumbles with them for a moment.

They turn their attention to Lavellan's leg, unveiling the long, thin cut there.

The edges of it are dark.

Despair and vindication battle for dominance inside of Dorian, turning his tone sharp and unforgiving. “You and your colleagues need to be more thorough in cleaning his wounds of dirt or we'll end up losing the Inquisitor to a mere infection.”

She scoffs, taking the vial from his tight grip. “It is a good thing we did not leave his treatment to you.” She spreads the vials contents first between her fingers, then carefully around the cut. “That's scab, boy, if you would only take a closer look.”

He does. Even dares to touch it, hesitantly, still sure it is all a ruse.

Hope's looming embrace seems more and more welcoming.

Still, Dorian shudders, closes his eyes, unwilling to give in so easily.

“Andraste would not take him from us like this. He's her Herald, and she will provide for him so that he can deliver us in turn,” she says quietly, conviction and believe colouring her every word.

Dorian looks at her, feeling his face crumble, his calm composure deserting him.

Her expression softens. “If you cannot trust in Andraste, then believe in the young man himself.” There's a mischievous glint in her eyes when she continues. “I'm told you are more familiar with him than any of us. Then you should know, better than anyone, that the Inquisitor would never abandon us like this.”

Her words shatter his collapsing resolve, and hope rushes in to fill the empty spaces gaping in its wake. He focuses his blurry eyes on Lavellan's healing wound, his hands fisted into the bedding, gasping for air that seems to be eluding him.

He's healing, he's healing, he's healing. He swallows the sound that wants to escape his throat, unsure if it is a sob or a laugh — or a heady mixture of both.

Dorian hides his face behind his hands, but only long enough to get rid of the wetness on it.

He turns to her, and his voice barely trembles when he finally echoes her earlier verdict, “He's healing.”

A wide smile takes over her face, changing the deep lines charting it.

Dorian feels his own lips mirroring hers.

If Dorian weren't afraid she would hit him for it, he would pick her up and twirl her around the room.

Dorian is reading a book while Blackwall carves away at an unsuspecting chunk of wood.

Occasionally, they trade pleasant insults over Lavellan's still form.

“While I am grateful you at least brought a bucket for the shavings, don't you have another pastime you could be indulging in right now?” Dorian asks with a disapproving glance at Blackwall's busy hands.

Blackwall looks up at him, one eyebrow raised. “Like what?”

“Something civilised, for one,” Dorian replies, waving the book in his hands in a helpful suggestion.

Blackwall snorts. “Why don't you go sit down your ass on a throne made of books, then? After all, that chair you are lounging on right now can't possibly be civilised enough for your soft behind, your Lordship.” He goes back to maltreating the unlucky piece of lumber in his hand.

Dorian sniffs disdainfully, decides against deigning this with a reply. He returns to his book.

If it weren't for the trails of wood chips Blackwall leaves behind — despite the bucket, Dorian would almost say he appreciated the barbaric and stoic company.

After surveying the opulent quarters for a moment, Iron Bull declares, “You know, I thought about getting the two of you into a bedroom with me, but this isn't quite what I had in mind.”

Dorian puts his head into his hands and sighs.

A large and heavy hand pats his back. “I'm sure we'll be able to improvise, don't worry.”

Exasperated, Dorian uses all of his energy on getting him to leave again.

With Dorian successfully distracted, Skyhold's healers and caretakers finally get to tend to their Inquisitor in peace, for once.

Lady Montilyet gives him an Antivan book that she had obtained for Lavellan — A Life of Vice.

She remains silent at Dorian's side, while he first inspects the unremarkable binding — hesitates when he reads the title — then the dog-eared pages and the scribbled notes and question marks scattered all over the pages in Lavellan's unreadable handwriting.

“For what it is worth, I've rarely met a pair of stronger-willed men than the two of you,” she finally tells him, emotion thickening the accent in her voice.

Dorian almost chokes on the words of gratitude he wants to pour at her feet. “I— thank you. Lady—”

One elegant hand is placed onto his hunched shoulder, her voice unbearably gentle. “Please, Dorian, call me Josephine.”

He manages to nod, and she leaves him to his thoughts with one last look at Lavellan and a small, shaky smile on her lips.

Dorian stares at the book clutched in his hands, then at his amatus, still and oblivious to the proceedings around him.

With these people gathered around you, Dorian decides, overcome by emotions he cannot name, there's nothing in this world and the next that could possibly stop us.

Dorian doesn't know how much time he spends flipping through the book Josephine has first given into Lavellan's hands and now into his own. He's not reading it — he can't quite make himself do so, yet.

For now, it is enough to look at the illegible notes Lavellan has left on the pages, to follow the path he has carved for himself through its challenging content. To contemplate the length Lavellan has gone in his efforts to understand — to help Dorian.

He smiles softly, tracing over a particularly vicious question mark that has been scrawled into the space between two paragraphs.

Lavellan's obvious frustration shining through this imprint is almost enough for Dorian to forgive him for irrevocably defacing a book as thoroughly as this. Almost. And even taking into consideration that it is only an Antivan one.

As it is, they're going to have a lot of words about the proper care of books once he's awake again.

Dorian glances up to Lavellan's sleeping form, a habitual confirmation that he's still there.

Bleary eyes are looking back at him.

For a beat, they both stare at each other.

Lavellan's voice is a raspy croak, painful to the ears. “You look horrible.”

Dorian puts away the book in his hands, then walks over the few steps to the bed. Once there, Dorian finally makes his mouth move. “Have you looked into a mirror lately?” He helps Lavellan sit up, pressing a cup of water to his lips. Dorian doesn't let go of him after the cup is empty and put away, holding Lavellan in a half-embrace.

All these things he wanted to tell Lavellan as soon as he got the chance, and now his clever mind seems to have abandoned him entirely.

“I thought you had gone back to Tevinter,” Lavellan finally whispers, disbelief colouring his every word and marring his face with deep lines.

“I haven't. Obviously.” He tightens his hold on Lavellan for a moment, to further prove his point. “This is exactly why you need me around — your skills of observation are absolutely appalling.”

He presses a kiss to Lavellan's creased brow, the first kiss he has allowed himself in all this time.

Lavellan lunges for him, shaking hands fisting into the material of Dorian's clothing, his dry lips pressed desperately onto Dorian's.

One of them makes a sound like a dying nug.

Dorian doesn't care.

Lavellan's lips burst from the force of the kiss, the taste of blood seeping into it, permeating it, mixing with Lavellan's truly awful breath.

Dorian has never tasting anything more exceptional.

They part, but remain clinging to each other. Lavellan licks his lips slowly, blinking, staring up at Dorian again.

He tenses under Dorian's hands.

“Dorian,” he whispers, tone unidentifiable, and Dorian steels himself for every possible outcome: rejection, dismissal, welcome—

“What happened to your hair?” Lavellan asks, lips pressed into a mournful line. His hands, still uncharacteristically unsteady, brush over Dorian's head before tracing over his cheeks and chin.

And it's this, of all things, that finally breaks through Dorian's composure: Lavellan's unwavering fascination with Dorian's hair and moustache. Two things he has well and truly neglected recently to take care of him.

He presses Lavellan to his chest, his face to Lavellan's own unruly mop of hair.

“You look far more dreadful than I ever could,” he chokes out after a few deep breaths.

Lavellan's hands tug at him until they are facing each other again, then they gently frame Dorian's face.

Dorian endures the thorough scrutiny silently.

“The beard makes you look so old,” Lavellan mutters finally, frowning again.

I feel old, thinks Dorian. He presses a kiss to the disapproving line of Lavellan's eyebrows.

“I had hoped it would be hideous enough to scare you awake,” he murmurs against the skin underneath his lips.

Lavellan tries to snort, but the sound becomes stuck in his throat. Dorian strokes his back, trying to calm the violent coughs wrecking through the body in his arms.

“I'm going to get more water,” he exclaims, once the worst of it has passed. Dorian has barely begun to disentangle himself when Lavellan's fingers tighten their hold on him.

Dorian blinks at him in confusion and Lavellan blushes, ducking his head before letting go of Dorian.

Smiling, Dorian brushes his knuckles gently over Lavellan's heated cheeks until he meets Dorian's eyes again.

“I appear to have squandered my chance to quietly slip away back to Tevinter,” he tells Lavellan quietly, carefully examining the bloody mess they've made of his lips with a careful finger. “So you might as well get used to enjoying my incomparable presence for longer still,” he finishes firmly, using the same finger to push Lavellan's chin up.

Lavellan's shaky attempt at a smile hurts in the best way possible.

In the bathroom, Dorian takes a moment to collect himself, hoping to calm the shaking in his hands, and the stutter in his breaths. He chances a look at himself in the mirror there, the first one in longer than he can properly recall.

He almost faints.

Somebody should have told me that I am beginning to look like Blackwall's attractive twin, he thinks feebly, only just stopping himself from lunging for the nearest sharp utensil lying around.

Apart from the black atrocity that has once been his prized moustache — and that is now apparently conspiring with the unkempt strands of his hair in trying to take over his entire face — his eyes are another horror to behold, sunken-in like they are, with dark circles underneath them.

I will need to murder everyone who saw me like this, he decides, only mildly hysterical.

The disaster that is his reflection nods at Dorian in fatalistic understanding.

There's a whisper of a sound from the doorway and Dorian turns to it, only to find Lavellan clutching at the doorway, the blanket that he has been wrapped in trailing after him like a gown.

Dorian takes in Lavellan's widened eyes, then the relieved way he slumps against the wooden-arch supporting him in the next breath.

Probably afraid I was only a dream, he thinks fondly, then turns to his reflection one last time.

The hairy abomination is still staring back at him, but the smile that has now appeared on its lips seems to... transform it.

Dorian has never looked better.

Feeling invigorated, he approaches Lavellan quickly, afraid the shaking legs will not support him for much longer. Dorian makes Lavellan lean into his side, then carefully guides him back to the bed.

“I know you always complained —“ He stumbles over the word, and almost over the blanket trailing after them as well. “...complain about how much time I spend in the bathroom, but this is really taking your criticism a bit too far.”

Lavellan huffs in answer, playfully nudging his hips into Dorian's side, nearly taking the both of them down with his clumsy movement.

Dorian thinks about scolding him to be more careful, but there's only joy humming through him right now, and he quickly discards the thought again.

He helps Lavellan gently back onto the bed, then goes to the open balcony to retrieve one of the water jugs from it.

He feels Lavellan's eyes on him the entire time.

After another sip of cooled water Lavellan's eyes begin to drift shut again.

Dorian climbs into bed with him, arranging them so they are lying face to face, their limbs entwined. Dorian's skin brushes the rough scarring of the frostbite, successfully ignored until now, and Dorian doesn't flinch.

His breathing only stutters once.

“I'm sorry, Dorian,” Lavellan whispers into the space between them.

Dorian shushes him before more apologies can follow, voice firm. “No, you— you were right.” He inhales sharply, and continues before he can second-guess himself. “I will try— if you still want to help, if you still want me—“

“Yes,” rushes Lavellan into Dorian's stuttering non-question. Lavellan's eyes are shining when he presses their foreheads together, smiling, repeating the word fervently once more.

Dorian echoes his smile, feeling whole again for the first time in months.

Long after Lavellan has fallen asleep Dorian is still marvelling about him, and at his own luck.

If there is one thing he has realised, it's this:

It isn't change, what Lavellan wants from him, it's betterment. And for Lavellan — no, with Lavellan — Dorian is willing to try.