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Arlaros was missing. Well, missing was an exaggeration, but he wasn’t at dinner, he wasn’t in his rooms, and he wasn’t in the library. Dorian had even asked Varric if anyone had seen Arlaros head to the tavern. Nothing. Of course, he could ask Leliana, who no doubt knew exactly where their noble leader was, but that felt like an invasion of privacy. Besides, he wasn’t certain the Lady Nightingale would tell him even if she knew.
Perhaps he was in the renovated mages’ tower? Typically Arlaros preferred to leave that space to the lot from Redcliffe, but it was worth checking. He had mentioned he wanted to research more about how his Rift magic was connected to the weakness in the Veil that seemed to be popping up everywhere.
Turning on his heel, Dorian strode out the door of the main hall and down the steps. It took a rather long time to reach the mage tower with all of the stairways and such, but he moved quickly. It wasn’t even that he particularly needed to see Arlaros for anything; he simply desired to be in his presence. Wasn’t that novel?
He decided not to think too hard on that, and pushed open the door to the tower. Warmth billowed out, and a content sigh escaped him unbidden. Skyhold was fantastically defensible, but it was also even colder than Haven, and Dorian was starting to think his toes would never be warm again. These mages seemed to have found a magical way around the cold, though, and as he looked around he saw small orbs of fire floating in the corners. They were far enough from any books or loose paper that they weren’t a concern, and Dorian took a moment to admire the precision and concentration of the mage who had cast them. Fire was an unpredictable thing, unruly and difficult to force into any one shape for long. Clearly this mage had considerable experience.
Blinking, he shook himself from his thoughts. He could chat with the mages (assuming they would talk to the scary Tevinter mage) later. Right now he was looking for a certain someone.
He moved through the tower carefully, sidestepping people bent over books, drawing sigils in the air, and in all stages of spellcasting. He even saw a group of young children--no more than twelve he thought--listening to a mage carefully explain the importance of understanding the consequences, good and ill, of a spell before attempting to cast it. What he did not see was any trace of Arlaros. He climbed to the very top of the tower and looked out over Skyhold, but the quickly darkening scenery offered no clues.
Finally, he gave up. If Arlaros did not want to be found, Dorian would respect that. The thought that Arlaros might have retreated to face his struggles alone worried him, but he pushed it away. The burdens that lay on his partner’s shoulders were heavier than he could ever imagine, and it made sense that he would need to escape from it all from time to time.
He turned away from the parapet and began to make his way back down the tower. He had just reached the door when a voice stopped him. “Pavus.”
He turned, eyebrow raised, and found himself face to face with Grand Enchanter Fiona. She looked at him with narrowed eyes for a moment, seemingly looking for something in his face. It was a look Dorain was all too familiar with, and he sighed internally even as he submitted to her scrutiny. Eventually, she gave a small nod.
“You should visit the garden. It is often peaceful this time of night.”
He was about to dismiss the statement--the Grand Enchanter was often giving cryptic advice--but he stopped. She wore a knowing look on her face as she so often did, but this time there was a certain…softness there.
“Thank you, Grand Enchanter,” he said after a moment, bowing slightly. She nodded and turned around, quickly becoming absorbed by the bustling tower.
Dorian blinked after her for a moment. Then he shook himself and strode out the door, angling for the Skyhold gardens. As he walked, he berated himself for not checking the garden earlier. He never spent much time in it personally--too many Andrastian sisters wandering about--but it was peaceful. A little patch of green among the stone and snow.
Eventually, he reached one of the doors to the garden, but he hesitated to open it. What if Arlaros truly wanted solitude? Who was he to intrude upon that? If Arlaros was struggling, there was little he could offer besides kind words and his presence, but would he even want that? What they had was still so new and fragile, and Dorian was terrified of putting a foot wrong.
He let go of the doorknob, but his feet refused to cooperate and carry him to his room. Unbidden, his mind conjured Arlaros’s soft smile. If he were alone and struggling to bear the weight of Maker-knows-what, Arlaros was the first person he would want at his side. Just seeing him made his heart lighter, made all this madness they were trying to accomplish seem possible. If he could offer even a portion of that in return, shouldn’t he try?
Maker, why was this so difficult?
He shook his head, and, before he could change his mind, opened the door and stepped through.
Grand Enchanter Fiona was right, the garden was peaceful this time of night. The sun had finished setting on his walk over, and the moon now shone down, dappling the plants and walkways with silvery light. It was quiet, with only the shaking of leaves in the wind to disturb the silence.
Careful to keep his footsteps quiet, he stepped out of the stone awning and into the garden proper. He scanned the shadows for a sign of Arlaros but the darkness made that difficult. After a moment of hesitation, he moved toward the small group of pots that held various medicinal herbs.
The royal elfroot that had been planted in three of the pots shone brilliantly under the moonlight, the purple and blues of the petals catching the light in a way that made the whole plant seem to glow. He had never seen anything like it, so simple and yet so elegant. A far cry from the ostentatious plants that had grown on his father’s estate.
He was so caught up in the plants that he didn’t hear the soft footsteps behind him.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?”
It took all of Dorian’s willpower not to jump a foot in the air at the sound of Arlaros’s voice. As it was, he still couldn’t help the “Maker’s balls!” that escaped him. That drew a chuckle from Arlaros, a soothing sound that brought peace flooding back to him.
Dorian turned, a comment about how it was rude to go around terrifying people like that on his lips, but the sight before him stole his breath. Arlaros’s black hair gleamed in the moonlight, fanning over his shoulder like a midnight waterfall Dorian wanted to get lost in. And his clothes! Instead of his usual travel-ready outfits he wore around Skyhold, Arlaros was dressed in long green and white robes with a high collar that accentuated his already-prominent cheekbones and open-soled boots that went up to his knees. He looked positively regal, and Dorian had the distinct feeling he should bow.
Arlaros raised an eyebrow, and Dorian forcibly pulled himself from his reverie. “New robes?” he asked, thanking the Maker silently that his voice stayed level.
Arlaros looked down, seeming to study his clothes for a moment before nodding. “The schematics were a gift from Keeper Deshanna, and Harrit’s team finished them today.” He tugged at one sleeve in what looked like an almost absent-minded gesture. “Dagna helped make the design more practical for the field--there are dragon scales embedded in the chest and shoulders, but Harrit’s team was able to hide them from view.”
Dorian hummed appreciatively and allowed himself to study Arlaros more closely. The outfit suited him, and not just because of the elven style. It sat perfectly on his shoulders, giving him an air of authority without being overbearing, and the length emphasized his height. The cut of the robes looked like they would billow behind him as he walked, and it was easy to imagine him striding through the great hall to meet with some diplomat or discuss strategy with his advisors.
Yet there was something in Arlaros’s face. He wore a slight smile that set Dorian’s heart beating faster than it had any right to outside of physical activity, but there was sadness to the expression. No…sadness wasn’t right. Arlaros’s eyes were distant, even as they watched Dorian’s, and his hands still fiddled with his sleeves.
Dorian took a half-step forward and leaned toward Arlaros. Testing a theory he pitched his voice to a low rumble. “You look glorious, amatus.” Arlaros’s smile widened, and a slight blush stole over his cheeks and up his ears, but the expression quickly faded. Whatever was on his mind went deeper than being simply lost and thought.
Still, Dorian had spoken the truth. Arlaros looked ethereal in the moonlight, as if at any moment he might disappear into a better world, one that truly deserved him. Dorian held out an arm, and Arlaros accepted it, linking them and letting Dorian guide them deeper into the garden. They walked slowly with no real destination, giving Dorian time to unravel what was disturbing Arlaros.
“I haven’t heard you mention your clan often,” he said, keeping his tone casual. He of all people understood that family and home could be difficult topics to broach. “You are the First to the Keeper, correct?”
Arlaros stopped and turned to a flower beside the path. It was a species Dorian didn’t recognize, with long red petals that drooped toward the ground. Arlaros knelt down and stared at it for several long moments, and Dorian got the feeling that it wasn’t the flower that occupied his mind. Eventually, still crouching, he said, “I was. Keeper Deshanna had trained me to follow in her footsteps as a spiritual and practical guide for the clan for years. That’s why I was at the Conclave--she sent me to learn more about the mage/templar war so that the clan could be prepared for whatever happened next.”
Of course Arlaros had been a leader in his home as well. As much as he disliked the weight of the burden he had to carry and the decisions he had to make, the Inquisition’s progress was proof that he was good at what he did. Dorian had met many people throughout his life who shouted orders and commanded soldiers but only a small few who could truly be called leaders of the people who followed them.
He crouched down next to Arlaros. “You were the First?”
Arlaros sighed, his finger running gently over the petals of the flower. “I was assumed dead for weeks after the explosion at the Conclave; the clan had to move on. Nemaya was chosen as First a month after the Conclave. I found out a few weeks later, when Keeper Deshanna first contacted the Inquisition.” He stood suddenly, and Dorian followed, letting Arlaros lead.
He steered them toward the small pavilion at the back of the garden, the air heavy with words Dorian could tell Arlaros wanted--needed--to say. The silence held. When they reached the pavilion, Dorian leaned against one of the supports, keeping his posture open and hoping Arlaros could see his readiness to listen to however much or little he wanted to share.
Arlaros stopped in the middle of the pavilion and turned to look back out over the garden. “Nemaya is a good choice. She came into her magic two years ago and was chosen as the Second to the Keeper. She’s young, but she was always a quick study, and her connection to the clan is strong. People love and trust her, and she will be able to guide them toward safety and stability.” A small smile came to his face. “She used to talk to every bug and creature she could find and tell them stories about the clan and ask for stories in return. Then she’d come back and tell us stories about the lives of all of the creatures she spoke with.”
“It sounds like you have a good relationship with your clan,” Dorian said when it became apparent that Arlaros wasn’t going to continue. “Do you have blood relatives there?”
“A few cousins,” Arlaros answered. “My mother was from a different clan that usually roamed the Orlesian wilds, but when I was born, she returned with my father to his clan. They decided that the Free Marches where Clan Lavellan traveled were safer than Orlais. My mother died of sickness when I was a few years old. My father died in the Blight. Their death-trees have grown strong in the years since.”
“My sincere condolences.”
Arlaros smiled softly. “Thank you. The entire clan is family, really, so I was never alone. In fact, traveling to the Conclave was the first time I had ever been outside the clan on my own.”
“And your first time seeing the wider world involved everything being blown to smithereens followed by your arrest and subsequent release because you had gained an ability no one else had. Maker…”
The shoulders of Arlaros’s robe rose and fell in an elegant shrug. “I would have preferred something more peaceful, certainly. But my place in the Inquisition means I’ve been able to help the clan when they’ve been threatened by nobles in the Free Marches.”
Dorian startled. “Your clan was threatened? When? By whom?” How had he not known about it earlier? Had Arlaros mentioned it and he had forgotten? Surely not. But then why had it not come up before?
“At first the clan thought it was only bandits. We’ve been harassed by them before, and usually it's nothing the hunters and Keeper can’t handle.” Arlaros said it so matter-of-factly, and Dorian’s heart ached with guilt and sorrow. “This group was far more organized and well armed than normal bandits, though, so Keeper Deshanna reached out to ask if there was anything the Inquisition could do. I sent Leliana’s scouts to investigate, and they discovered Antoine, the duke of Wycome, had funded the bandits.” Arlaros’s voice grew hard. “He wanted to use the clan as scapegoats.
“Keeper Deshanna reached out a few more times, and each time, I was terrified I would make the wrong choice. Was it better to send troops as a show of force? Diplomats to try and negotiate with Wycome and show them that the real threat was Venatori and not the clan? Spies to eliminate the root of the problem? Waiting for the letters was the worst. Every time I opened one I was certain it would be news of the clan’s destruction due to my choices.”
Arlaros’s hands were clenched in fists at his side now, his gaze distant and glazed with tears. That sight unfroze Dorian’s feet, and he stepped forward and pulled Arlaros into a hug. He kept his movements slow and his grip loose so that Arlaros could step away if he wanted, but he just stood there. Dorian wanted to say something, offer some kind of comfort, but what was there to say? None of this was fair.
“I got a letter this morning that the Keeper, a city elf, and a few humans have been chosen to sit on a new council that will lead Wycome,” Arlaros continued, as if Dorian hadn’t moved. “The duke was conspiring with Corypheus and was killed when Clan Lavellan, the city elves, and most of the humans banded together. An army of Free Marchers had come to the city intending to put down an ‘elven uprising’ but the sight of Inquisition troops stopped them. If those troops had been even a day later, my clan and the city elves would have been killed.”
Instinctively, Dorian hugged tighter, and this time, Arlaros returned the embrace, his grip near-bruising. They stayed that way in silence for several minutes. Dorian was content to stay there all night if Arlaros needed, but eventually his amatus pulled back.
He seemed to hesitate for a moment before stepping back into the garden and beginning to move along the western path. Dorian followed, walking close enough that their hands brushed. His mind spun with all he had learned, but he kept those thoughts at bay. Right now he needed to listen, not dissect every bit of information he was given.
“I apologize for not telling you about this earlier,” Arlaros eventually said as they gazed up at the branches of one of the larger trees in the garden.
Dorian’s response was immediate. “There’s no need. You don’t owe me your entire family history or an account of every decision you make.” He reached out and ran a hand down Arlaros’s arm before twining their fingers together.
From the corner of his eye, Dorian watched as Arlaros shuddered and swallowed. “I thought I could keep them separate--the Inquisition and my clan. I thought…I wanted to preserve my clan as it was and keep a piece of myself there. A place where I could simply be Arlaros instead of the Herald or the Inquisitor or any other title that people have thrust on me.”
That was a feeling Dorian could understand, if in the reverse. He had been desperately searching for a place where he could be free from the expectations of others and live as himself for years. Of course Arlaros wanted to hold on to that.
Arlaros began to walk again, guiding them to the center of the garden where the small well stood. He leaned against it wearily, and even the brilliant gleaming of the moon couldn’t hide the lines of sorrow on his face.
“The letter that included the schematic for these robes also had a note from Keeper Deshanna,” he said, quietly, meeting Dorian’s eyes and holding them. “She said that as long as I am a symbol of the Inquisition and wield political and martial power in Thedas, it would be unwise for me to return to or even visit the clan. My presence would bring unwanted attention that the fragile peace between humans and elves in Wycome might not be able to withstand. The robes were a parting gift. Her way of saying thank you.”
A dozen white-hot emotions shot through Dorian, making his skin burn. Magic pooled in his hands, itching for release, and it took him several deep breaths before he was able to dispel it. He held Arlaros’s gaze, though, letting him see the emotions he knew he wouldn’t be able to find words for.
“The Inquisition has taken more from you than any person should have to sacrifice.” Dorian said the words quietly, not trusting his voice to stay level if he spoke any louder. This cause put Arlaros at risk every day, and now he didn’t even have a home to go back to.
A sad smile crept over Arlaros’s face. “I am one of many, and I cannot place my sacrifices above what others have given. Did you know we’ve had a few Orzammar dwarves join us? They can never return to their homes or families, and they knew that. They gave that up because they believe in the Inquisition’s cause.”
“They had a choice.” The words were out of Dorian’s mouth before he had the chance to consider them, but they were true. “Arlaros, those people chose to join the Inquisition. You had to. And don’t tell me that you could have walked away, because I know there isn’t a world where you would have. Cassandra and the others held you prisoner, blamed you for the death of the Divine, and you still helped them at the first opportunity.”
Arlaros stayed silent, his face pinched in pain.
“You are allowed to mourn what you’ve lost.”
There was a heavy silence. Dorian wanted to move forward and wrap Arlaros in his arms again, but he stayed still, giving him space to process and decide what happened next. Finally, Arlaros spoke, and Dorian couldn’t believe a whisper could hold such pain.
“I miss them,” he admitted. “I want to dance with them again, listen to the hahren tell stories of the past--his voice always seemed to make them come alive. I was supposed to go to the Arlathvhen with Keeper Deshanna in two years.”
“The Arlathvhen?” Dorian kept his voice quiet and moved so that their hands were brushing once again. Arlaros tangled their fingers together and squeezed briefly.
“A great meeting of the Dalish that only happens once a decade,” he explained. “It’s where we gather to share the lore we’ve learned as well as exchange important artifacts and histories. Every clan tries to preserve that which we’ve lost, and the Arlathvhen is when we combine all we know. We are so far removed from what we once were, but we try. I had hoped we would be given one of the ancient tomes to protect.” He fell silent for several moments. “Nemaya will attend now; she’ll love it.”
The wistful, sorrowful expression on Arlaros’s moonlit face pulled at Dorian’s heartstrings. There was so little he could do to ease his amatus’s suffering. He was no replacement for the clan he had grown up in, and he wouldn’t want to be. But perhaps…
“Tell me about them,” he requested, perching himself on the edge of the well and turning to Arlaros with expectant eyes, squeezing the hand he still held.
Arlaros blinked, surprise replacing sorrow for an instant. “What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you wish to share,” Dorian answered easily. “Tell me stories of your childhood or your clan’s history. Anything. Who caught my amatus’s eye before I did?”
That startled a laugh out of Arlaros. “When I was sixteen I fell madly in love with Devyl, an apprentice hunter.”
Dorian hummed. “Tell me about him.”
Dorian couldn’t be certain how long they sat on the edge of that well, but he knew he wouldn’t trade a single second of the experience. As Arlaros spoke, Dorian learned things about his amatus he had never known. Arlaros had fallen in love for the first time at age sixteen and although they decided they were better as friends, he treasured the experience. He came into his magic when he was only nine. The vallaslin he wore were in honor of Mythal, his chosen deity. He had memorized every story of the old days he could because he felt it was his duty to preserve the history of his people and pass it on when he became Keeper. He had once ruined a hunting trip because he got distracted by a rare herb and startled the game away. All of that and a dozen other things Dorian learned as he listened, and he held each bit of information close to his heart, grateful that Arlaros trusted him enough to share these pieces of himself.
Finally, Arlaros shook himself and blinked several times, as if he had only just remembered where he were. Then he looked at Dorian and his eyes widened. “Dorian, it must be freezing out here to you. Why didn’t you stop me?” he chided. “And judging by the stars it’s nearly midnight. You didn’t need to let me ramble on like that.”
Dorian shook his head. “But I did. A little cold is a small price to pay to see you smile like you did when you told me how Taemen taught you to sing. I’ll be expecting a performance.”
The moonlight highlighted the rosy blush that rose to Arlaros’s cheeks. It was a positively gorgeous color, more than worthy of being immortalized in paint and song. One day he’d get Arlaros to sit for a proper portrait, without all of those Inquisition trappings so the world could see him as he truly was.
“Thank you,” Arlaros said after a few moments, still blushing wonderfully. He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on Dorian’s cheek before moving to rest their foreheads together. “As much as I miss my home and family, I am grateful I met you, ma vhenan.”
“And I, you, amatus.” Dorian shifted so he could kiss Arlaros properly. His amatus yielded to his touch, and for a few moments nothing else seemed to exist. Then Dorian drew back, and a gust of wind sent a full-body shiver through him. Arlaros laughed at his expression.
“Let’s get you inside and warm you up,” he chuckled, standing from the well and pulling Dorian with him.
Dorian pressed himself against Arlaros’s chest. “I can think of a few ways to accomplish that,” he purred, his eyes darting to Arlaros’s lips again.
Arlaros laughed again, and the sound chased away the cold. Then, he leaned forward until his lips were hovering next to Dorian’s ear. “I saw the way you were eyeing my clothes earlier. Hungry, are you?”
“You make me ravenous.”
Arlaros leaned back, his smirk wicked in the moonlight, and Dorian allowed himself to be pulled through the garden toward Arlaros’s quarters. But even as his mind turned toward just how much he wanted to worship Arlaros in those robes, he held onto the peace that lingered in his heart. He had been gifted with trust, and it was a gift he swore he would not waste.