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“For the last time, absolutely not.” Dorian said, already beginning to lose his façade of nonchalance. “Maker, could anything be more out of the question?”
Varlen felt his expression darken before his thoughts had even properly formed, and hot words found his lips faster still. “What? So I’m supposed to just sit around here like a good little pet, waiting with wagging tail for his master to come home? Is that it!?”
Dorian baulked for a moment, his anger flickering like a candle, but it reignited just as fast and it burned hot. “Master? Pet? Oh yes - of course!” His words were sharp, as though forced out through a mouthful of glass. He raised his hands in mock surrender, grey eyes hard as flint. “How shrewd. You got me. What a fool I was, to think I could pull the wool over your eyes. Whatever will the other vipers say upon my shameful return to the pit?”
Clenching his jaw, Varlen said nothing for a moment, trying and failing to collect his thoughts through a fog of bitter resentment. His fists were held tightly at his side, shaking with the weight of things unsaid. Things that clawed at his chest and pushed against his stubbornly pursed lips. As a result, Dorian spoke first, cutting through the silence with a gesture of his hand. It was sharp. Dismissive. Not of Varlen, but of something more. Something intangible.
“So that’s it then, is it?” Dorian said, and for the first time since initiating the conversation there was ice in his voice instead of fire. “That is what you truly think this is? What we are?”
Immediately, Varlen could tell this conversation had steered far from the direction he had intended. In truth, he knew he was largely to blame for it. The words he had chosen were poor, spoken in mindless indignation. That had been a mistake. They had talked of such things before. Varlen knew that was not how Dorian saw their relationship. In fact, Varlen had been set at ease with such swift reassurance that the thought never again crossed his mind. Or so he thought. Yet there he was, glaring at the man he loved, and the words that had leapt to his tongue spoke nothing of equals. They spoke of a distant lover – a relationship of convenience. For Dorian, at least. Perhaps.
“No.” Varlen eventually hissed between his teeth. “But you have to admit, I’m not wrong for thinking it. After all, you don’t even want me seen at your side. Why? Afraid I’ll ruin your image back in the glorious Imperium? The great Magister Pavus and his lowly Dalish lover? No, you’re quite right. Best to keepme as far away as possible.”
Dorian closed his eyes for a brief time. He took a shallow breath and released it, slow and calculated. “It has nothing to do with image,” he said, “buteverything to do with the Imperium, yes. On that point, you are quite correct.” Dorian shook his head like a tired parent, and Varlen felt himself bristle indignantly with the motion. “Listen to me, Varlen. If I could safely have you by my side, I would. There is truly nothing I want more. But I can’t. With the way things are, it simply is not safe for…”
“… For?” Varlen pressed when Dorian trailed off. The mage brought his hands together to toy with a silver ring on his middle finger. The gesture was familiar to Varlen. It was something Dorian did when he was anxious. He spun the ring. That damned ring. This time it was Varlen’s turn to force the conversation forward on his terms. “Well? Not safe for what? An elf like me? Because of course, you’re right. I can’t take care of myself, and you can’t be expected to babysit me all day, can you?”
To Varlen’s surprise, Dorian did not immediately rise to the bait. In fact, there was a distinct flatness about him. The kind that spoke of hurt. Not one that was new and fresh, but deep and rooted in who he was.
“You say it as though it is not true. Like my concerns are not warranted.” Dorian said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “But it is true. A man like you, who stands out and possesses connections to important, arguably problematicpeople… I dread to even think of what could become of you. What I intend to do… it will place a target on my back. A big one. Power and prejudice are terrible things, Varlen, and those who possess it want nothing more than to keep it. To try and take it away is dangerous enough from a position of equal power. But with you there…”
He trailed off yet again. Varlen’s bitter frustration was almost tangible. Almost an actual taste in his mouth. “Right. Sure. I’d be a liability. I’d make the target even bigger because then they’d have something to hold against you. You know, that pesky treating elves as though they are people not beasts thing. What a horrific thought. Wouldn’t want that hanging over your head. How would anyonetake you seriously?”
“That’s not it.” Dorian finally turned to catch Varlen’s eyes. The flint was gone. They were just grey now. Soft, muted grey. Like a hanging cloud, unable to even muster rain. “Although I am beginning to see there is no point arguing the matter further. But I will say this: if something happened to you because of my choices, I would never forgive myself. I couldn’t. You are too important to me, amatus. I cannot put you in that position. Do not ask me to.”
The sincerity of his words was not lost on Varlen. To say it didn’t stir some kind of warmth in his chest would be a lie. But what is a ray of warmth amidst a blizzard? The answer is fleeting and of no real use to anyone.
“And what if something were to happen to you?” Varlen countered, folding his arms tightly across his chest. “What then? A note of condolence, sent to me all safe and sound in Ferelden? Imagine you are me, Dorian! What if I ran off to try and do good in a place that would only want me dead for it? Can you honestly tell me you’d be okay with being left behind for your own safety?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Dorian admitted with far less hesitation than Varlen expected. “But at the same time, it is your choice to make, not mine. I would never want you to put yourself at risk for my sake, or even your own, when the blame for the danger itself falls solely on the choices I have made.”
Varlen shook his head stubbornly. “Well, maybe I agree with the cause! Maybe I think Tevinter needs to change, too. And maybe – just maybe – I am not okay with sitting here worried sick, hundreds of miles away, waiting to hear that the person I love has been butchered! I… I can’t survive that. Not again, Dorian.”
It was Varlen’s turn to lose traction. To choke off as he spoke, and let his eyes slip away to wander helplessly around the room, glassy and burning. Out of the corner of his eye, Varlen saw Dorian instinctively twitch towards him, as though to reach out. To walk over, wrap him in his warm arms, and comfort him. Let him cry. Let him remember the clan he had lost, when the rest of the world hadn’t even bothered to pause and take a breath. But before he could do any such thing, Varlen continued. His voice was tight with restrained emotion.
“No. If you go, I go. It’s as simple as that.”
Silence. Then, there was a sigh from where Dorian stood. Like a soft breeze, wisping beneath a door. Varlen was surprised he had even heard it. That alone spoke volumes for the heaviness of the silence. It reminded him of the coldest days of winter, when it hurt to breathe and everything was still.
“… I see.” Dorian said eventually, and his gaze slid away. His shoulders sagged. Lost the elegant poise with which he always held them. His head was nodding ever so slightly, as though in reluctant agreement with something unspoken, but Varlen doubted it was a conscious movement. “Well, as you well know, I cannot allow that.”
“You also cannot stop me.” Varlen said coldly, the threatening tears mercifully subsiding. Again, Dorian continued with the nodding. Stronger this time.
“That is also true.” Dorian agreed. Then, he tore his eyes from the far wall. Dragged them back to meet Varlen’s. “But I wager I can deter you.”
Raising an eyebrow, Varlen cocked his head. A scathing gesture, filled with silent mocking. One that said oh can you, now? Yet once again Dorian met his taunting with little more than the resigned indifference of a man standing on a threshold.
“Perhaps what we have has run its course.” he said, before hesitating upon seeing the look on Varlen’s face. He spoke from behind a carefully structured mask of impassivity. “Met its natural end, so to speak. As such things often do.” Then, he gave Varlen a small, rueful smile. It was barely there. “That’s not to say it was not nice while it lasted.”
The words rang in Varlen’s ears, sharp as a chantry bell and twice as deafening.
Run its course… Natural end… Nice while it lasted.
He wasn’t serious. He couldn’t be. Because of this? No, there was no way. Varlen was convinced that he had simply misunderstood his lover, and gave Dorian a dry, shaky laugh.
“What?” he asked, not bothering to keep the incredulity out of his voice. The word sounded heavy and inadequate. When he said nothing more, Dorian stood tall. He squared his shoulders. Gave himself the look of a man who had made up his mind. His face was regal behind the lines of grief.
“I am… calling it off, Varlen. Us.” he stressed the word, and took a long, meticulous step towards Varlen. It was not a comforting movement. It was finite. “My attentions from this moment forth will be elsewhere. Namely with the Inquisition, my homeland, and matters of similar import.”
For a time, Varlen tried to determine whether or not he was dreaming. He went through the things he had learned from his magically gifted friends. He thought about how he got there, and his stomach sank when he could remember. They had come from a meeting, where they had received word from one of Dorian’s contacts in Minrathous - Maevaris. That was what had sparked the whole argument, after all. Then, Varlen did some simple calculations in his head, and the answers came easily. He glanced across, and found his face in the mirror. It stared back, and at first he thought it was proof of a dream. After all, surely that pale, stricken looking thing was not really him?
But it was.
Varlen was not sure how long he had been silent for, but it must have been significant because Dorian began to move. He made his way towards Varlen, and the elven man felt his heart clench tightly in his chest, as though holding onto its beats. Just in case. Dorian drew near, his face impassive, his eyes grey as ice. Then, he moved past. No word. No contact. Nothing. Varlen turned mutely to follow his movement across the room. He watched helplessly all the way to the door, unable to pick out individual words in the tumultuous mess that was his thoughts. They churned and crashed against the inside of his skull.
Wait? Stop! Don’t go. Please? I’m sorry. Stay. I need you.
No.
Wait! Stop? Don’t go! Please! I’m sorry? Stay? I need you!
What to say? How to say it? Everything had to be so careful. Utterly perfect. But the situation was too far gone and a part of Varlen knew it.
He reached out on reflex, snagging the corner of Dorian’s sleeve. The wrong move. Dorian barely even glanced back before tugging his arm free of Varlen’s trembling fingertips, his other hand wrapped firmly around the handle of the door. For a second Varlen thought he might stop. Turn back, apologise for scaring him, and say it was all just to prove how serious he was. That he’d never truly leave him like this. But he didn’t. Wordlessly, Dorian began to turn the handle, and two words managed to escape and find Varlen’s now-pale lips.
“W-Wait, vhenan…” Varlen’s voice sounded distant, even to himself. It was hollow and weak and pathetic. It was exactly how he felt. Dorian heard it too, and to Varlen’s surprise, his movement of opening the door faltered ever so slightly. The lock half-clicked in confusion, snapping the silence like a thread. Dorian did the rest. He looked back just enough to catch Varlen’s gaze. Those grey eyes had never been more lifeless. Like the ash of a long-dead fire. The lines on Dorian’s face seemed heavier. His mouth was drawn.
“No. Do not call me that.” he said. Varlen would have preferred if he had scolded him. Anything but that flat, threadbare tone. “In fact, it would be best if we limited contact with each other. As you know, I have important work to do. Work that will not benefit from unwanted distraction. I trust you understand.”
Dorian opened the door. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”
Then he left.
Just. Like. That.
Varlen stood, staring at the heavy wooden door long after it had thudded closed. The sound of his breathing filled his ears with a low rushing, and his legs went tingly, then strangely numb. Without much thought, he staggered to one of the cushioned chairs and collapsed onto it, bracing himself on the back of it even as he sat. As though in need of the extra support. It all felt so outwardly dramatic. Like he was physically reeling from the shock of it all. The suddenness. Maybe he was.
The truth was he didn’t know. He had no idea what to do. What to think. A part of him was certain it was all a ploy. An attempt to make him see how much this meant to Dorian – to see the lengths he was willing to go to, and take it with adequate seriousness.
But the practical side of Varlen knew that simply wasn’t true. Dorian was not cruel - not like that. He would not make a game of such a thing. Varlen had clearly made a fatal error, yet also could not see any other way. Given the time again, perhaps he would have approached the subject with more empathy. More quiet understanding and compassion. More listening. But in the end, his decision would have been the same. No path he could mentally walk down led him elsewhere, and the realisation sickened him to his stomach because it meant there was no room for him in Dorian’s life. That there never had been. Dorian would no doubt walk his own mental paths in his own time and come to the same conclusion.
Can two immovable things possibly bend to each other’s will? Compromise? Meet half-way on such things?
No.
The short answer, Varlen realised with mounting dread, was no.
Clearly Dorian had seen it too. Reached it in the heat of conversation, while Varlen, ever the slow learner, had been left scrabbling somewhere at the back. They had reached a crossroads, chosen different paths, and couldn’t continue together. What they had just endured would be nothing more than a small taste of a greater argument they would be having for the rest of their lives.
But despite that. Despite knowing it was true. Despite knowing that he was as likely to relinquish his convictions as Dorian, Varlen felt a hot sensation building at the back of his eyes. Not tears. Not yet. But the pressure in his throat increased. Tightened. His hands trembled like a leaf blown free of its tree and sent tumbling to the ground to be lost among the litter. His chest did not ache. It did not thump or stand still, or even stutter in panic. It just was. It existed in an empty, hollow kind of way. The way a dead tree continued long after its leaves had been stripped away by the cold, cruel months.
And that, Varlen came to realise, was so much worse.