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When Solas returns to Skyhold, Dorian shadows him until his presence turns to physical oppression and can no longer be ignored. Fen'Harel bares his teeth at him and Dorian shrugs.
That puts him off.
Solas just says nothing. He stands perfectly still. For all his power - a tidal wave at his back which hurts Dorian's temples if he comes too close - snarls and unrestrained intent for murder, he looks quite lost. It's a beautiful sight.
"I mean," Dorian begins, rolling his shoulders, "what did you expect?" A quick, shameless look over. "I see you cleaned up. Oh, no, I am so dreadfully sorry Dread Wolf. Did my comment about your appearance upset you? Well, no matter. If tough love works for you then who am I to chide."
Solas' hand curls into a fist at his side. "I am not here for you."
Dorian conjures an apple. The Veil is down, magic in its purest form is abundant, and he can do nearly anything now. And that means producing an apple.
Dorian bites into it.
"Where is the Inquisitor?"
Juice dribbles down his chin; he wipes it away. Contemplates the lovely, polished curve of his nails.
Solas' eye begins to twitch.
"Grew your hair out, I see," Dorian says. "Wow - pardon the juvenile expression, but simply wow. If I wanted to go incognito I'd give myself a scar or something to that effect. Maybe change my skin tone. Acquire an accent. Vishante kaffas, even a beard is a better idea. For one so ancient, you really are quite dull."
Another bite.
Solas stalks past him, making for Lavellan's quarters.
Dorian tsks. "She's not there."
A hiss. "Pray tell, where is she then?"
"Oh, who can say. Where are any of us? On a quest for salvation, absolution, happiness? Some take the road less traveled, others set off on a pilgrimage of ennui. It's a very personal journey; you must find your own path, not follow another's."
Solas growls. The man actually growls, and isn't that an interesting development. Dorian chews. Slowly. Just when an appropriate response comes to mind a very angry, very loud, and very shrill voice explodes into a colorful tirade of curses. Expletives that would put any Tavern dweller to shame.
He could almost wipe away a tear, so proud he is.
Lavellan, her white tunic stained with dirt and hair a veritable bird's nest, has just emerged from the rotunda. Dorian isn't sure where the dirt came from, but it adds to her justified look of a savage beast. She has her finger brandished straight at Solas, her arm in the same arc as whenever she cast her Death Mark upon an enemy.
And Solas shifts from foot to foot.
He says, "Vhenan..."
Dorian eats his apple.
Lavellan spits at her feet and storms back into the rotunda, making a dramatic display of slamming the door. Dorian can almost hear the hinges come loose.
"I do not think that's an invitation for some heated reconciliation sex," Dorian remarks, his face purposefully blank. "Ah, but I am a simple Magister. I may be mistaken."
He's seen Solas in the heat of battle, observed his fluid movements and came to acknowledge the man possessed an agile type of grace. But witnessing him run is a privilege Dorian was never given. Which is precisely what he does now, somewhat awkward as he lurches after Lavellan, his staff constricting the swiftness he may have otherwise had.
Oh, well.
Dorian trots to an adjacent door, climbing three steps at a time to reach the library. He leans on the railing to watch the drama unfold.
Ah. This is better than sex indeed.
"...come back here?!"
Solas parts his arms; his staff is propped against the wall. He moves to embrace Lavellan and she promptly shows him the finger. He stares at the gesture as if trying to recall if the meaning has changed since the fall of Elvhenan.
Dorian conjures a bowl of grapes. Pops one into his mouth. Licks his fingers.
The sound draws Solas' attention and his head immediately snaps up.
"We have an audience," he says through gritted teeth, his hand rubbing a soothing pattern over Lavellan's shoulder despite her best attempts to shake him off. "Perhaps we should..."
"We are staying right here," she snarls at him.
Dorian waves at Solas. Eats another grape.
Solas' gaze falls to his feet. "Right here," he repeats. "Ma nuvenin."
Lavellan is positively radiant in her fury. She's a wolverine. "Go on, say it. Say it, damn it. Say it to my face."
"Ar lath ma."
Lavellan moves to take his staff, balancing it with her only hand. "Try again."
Solas takes a calculated step in her direction. "Ir abelas. Words cannot express how sorry I am for the pain I have caused you."
"Yeah, whatever." Lavellan rolls her eyes. "One last try."
"I love you, I am sorry, I love you so dearly."
"Wrong answer."
Lavellan brings his ancient staff crashing against the wall. The crystal at the end shatters, and so does the deftly crafted bone surrounding it. She repeats the ministration until she's quite satisfied, panting and gasping, her lonely arm trembling from the effort. Then, for good measure, stomps on the shards.
Solas physically forces her away. "Emma lath, you will cut your feet."
She grips him by the throat. He smiles; she's finally touching him. Lavellan groans.
Dorian throws a grape, aiming for Solas' head. His hair is long enough now, a vain work of art composed of braids and dreadlocks, for it to get trapped in there and rot. It misses by an inch, hitting him in the back instead.
His voice rises, creating an enraged echo which bounces within the confines of the rotunda. "Leave us be!"
"No," says Dorian from above and cracks his knuckles.
There's a prolonged silence while they forget about him once again.
"Say it," Lavellan orders.
Solas' voice is very small; it trembles, it bleeds regret. "There is nothing out there for me but you. I no longer have a purpose."
"Mm-hm. So now we can make this work, right? Wait - what was that? I will never forget you. I walk the dinan'shiral."
"Vhenan."
"You took my fucking arm."
"No need for obscenities."
"My. Fucking. Arm. Solas."
To his credit, Solas wears the expression of one properly berated, but Lavellan doesn't stop there. She punches him and it's especially beautiful since he's caught off guard. That tiny thing of a woman manages to make him lose his balance; he cradles his jaw in wonderment, eyes wide.
Lavellan hisses through her teeth, shaking her hand, in pain but savoring every second of it.
Solas tries to take her face between his hands and for a second she allows it, before retreating, settling on pacing furious circles around the rotunda.
"The world is as it should be," Solas calls after her. "I am as free as you are."
Lavellan huffs and puffs. "You could have said 'vhenan, the mark is killing you, we need to amputate' and I would have understood. But no. Leave it to Fen'Harel to make a riddle even out of this. I wake up and hey, best birthday present ever - no arm!"
"We are still on this, I see."
"YOU MADE HALF MY ARM DISAPPEAR."
Dorian decides that fate can't deny him twice, and chances another throw. This time, however, Solas is quicker and the grape changes course midair and seeks out Dorian's own forehead.
Well played.
"Please," Solas entreats, "let us speak."
"We are speaking."
"No, this is certainly not speaking."
Lavellan shakes her head a thousand times. "I suppose you would know. You know everything. How's that Elvhen Glory thing going, by the way?"
"The People are free."
"Oh. Good for them."
Another pregnant pause during which Solas busies himself with caressing Lavellan's hair; like his, it's grown too long. She allows it. It seems to appease him.
"Solas?"
A tentative smile. "Yes, vhenan?"
Lavellan smiles back. She lets her fingers run along the already-blossoming bruise on his jaw and his eyes flutter shut. She whispers, "I say this with all the respect that you are due, for despite everything you really are owed a fair share. Solas," - Dorian sees him lean into her touch, perhaps anticipating a kiss - "please go choke on a bag of elvhen cocks."
Dorian explodes into boisterous cackling, clapping his hands, dropping the bowl of grapes, and looking every bit a seal as he runs out of air. He applauds her performance.
Solas appears flustered. His sigh is powerful enough to move mountains, and his fingers trail over Lavellan's wrist as she pulls away from him.
"We will speak another time, vhenan," he says, struggling for words. His hands are raw and red from wringing. "I see I have upset you."
Lavellan briefly looks up. That's enough of a signal; Dorian provides her with arsenal, throwing books down until she catches a hefty tome and chucks it at Solas. Then another, and another, until he's stumbling out.
"Yes," she yells after him, "you've greatly upset me, vhenan! Promising to end the world usually has that effect! As is being dumped twice!"
Solas gets a book to the temple and shuts the door before more come.
Dorian runs downstairs. He and Lavellan share a moment of contemplative quiet before giggling like maniacs.
"That was the most powerful mage in Thedas," he cries, wiping away tears that are anything but fictitious this time. "A god, by your outdated Dalish standards."
Lavellan can't breathe. "And you threw grapes at him!"
"You punched him!"
"And I loved it."
"I have to wonder how that hair feels in bed."
"I'll let you know," Lavellan promises.
The door opens once more and a very surprised Varric walks in. He can't stop glancing over his shoulder. "Was that Chuckles?" he asks. "Is he back from destroying the world already?"
Dorian roars, bringing his hands to his eyes and wheezing, panting, dissolving into an undignified mess. Lavellan isn't much better.
"Yeah," she says, grinning. "Don't worry, he'll return soon enough. You can ask him all about it then."
"Are you morons up for Wicked Grace?" Varric inquires and yes, they are, how can they not be.