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Dorian sat in an armchair, hidden from wandering eyes by the tall bookshelves that filled the library of Skyhold. The sun was setting behind the mountains, the last of its warm light resting on the table beside him. The light illuminated all the dust motes and flecks of dirt that danced between the window and the objects strewn across the surface of the desk.
He leaned back in the chair, hand absentmindedly fiddling with a buckle. His eyes were distant, revisiting the conversation he had earlier with the Inquisitor. He leaned forward and grabbed the amulet lying on the table. Sitting back, he turned it over in his hands, inspecting the piece of jewelry that he never expected to see again. His birthright, proof to a bloody and painful heritage, back in his possession. It looked so small now, resting in his hand—a simple gold chain, the highest quality and carrot of gold, to be sure, but simple by Tevinter standards.
And the amulet—a ruby set in gold bindings, his family’s crest delicately etched into its surface in white gold. It is a truly elegant piece, and light in weight. Too light for the power such an item can bring; too light for how much it costs.
He rolled the amulet between his fingers, letting the fading light catch the many facets of the gem. He watched fire dance inside the ruby as he remembered other hands holding it. Worn leather gloves, holding the amulet out to him. Worn leather gloves that lingered a little longer than necessary.
Dorian let out a huff and leaned back, closing his hand around the gem. With his other hand, he ran his hand through his hair, mussing up the carefully spiked peaks, as he had the same argument in his head that he’s had with himself many times before. He did not want to be indebted to Inquisitor Lavellan. He tells himself that it is a matter of pride—he doesn’t need the Inquisitor’s help. He is a fully capable Tevinter mage of some repute and standing. He knows that this is just as much a façade as his commonly worn bravado. Dorian doesn’t consider himself a particularly moral person, but he has learned to live with that. But the thought of him using Lavellan, of taking advantage of his kind heart and warm eyes and soft lips—
No. He leans forward to brace his head in his hands, feeling the cool press of the amulet to his temple, chain dangling between his fingers. He can feel his pulse quicken. He can practically hear all the rumors, all the whispers behind backs and closed doors, gossiping about how the Magister is manipulating the Inquisition for his own needs. He is not afraid of the words themselves. Growing up in Tevinter builds up some sort of callus to words and daggers hidden in entendre. He is scared that the words would be true. If he lets his guard down, if he becomes used to Lavellan doting on him and seeking him out and doing him favors, would he end up just using him? Taking advantage of him, true to the Pavus legacy, to his father’s legacy. No matter how far from Tevinter he runs, will he still become nothing more than his father’s son?
He opens his hand and looks at the amulet again. The sun has finally gone behind the mountains and darkness settles around the library nook like a patched blanket. The gem seems cold without the warmth of the sun’s light. Dorian remembers the Inquisitor’s eyes, eyes that make something in him melt and quiver, watching them gently close as he leans in for a kiss. There are some beautiful things that cannot be trapped in gold. He stands up and tucks the amulet into his pocket. He leaves the library, the armchair and books fading into night’s shadow.