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“Here at last I find out absent hero, hidden away despite the efforts of all Orlais to find you.”
Out of nowhere, Lady Morrigan appeared, shrouded in her customary grace and beguiling mystery.
“The elves raise glasses in your honour while the newly crowned emperor glowers. ‘Tis quite the spectacle.”
Hopefully, Briala would keep her word. That the elves of Orlais could finally be allowed to prosper—or at the very least, to escape the plight in which they had long been forced to live.
“That’s what I do. Fall out of the sky, make bad decisions, and somehow everyone still follows me.”
Morrigan chuckled.
“So they do. It seems I am also to join that esteemed crowd. By imperial decree, I have been named liaison to the Inquisition.”
It was no surprise that Gaspard would want nothing to do with Morrigan and would send her as far away as he could. Despite his mistrust, the Inquisitor knew better than to make an enemy of Morrigan. A mage so powerful, whose knowledge few could ever claim. Against Corypheus, there was no such thing as too much help.
“Welcome to the Inquisition, Morrigan,” Lavellan said.
“A most gracious response,” she replied. “I shall meet you at Skyhold.”
With those words, Morrigan stepped off the balcony. She passed someone without so much as sparing him a glance. But it would take far more than that to offend the Tevinter mage.
After such an evening, Dorian Pavus seized his opportunity to be alone with his Inquisitor. Running through the Winter Palace corridors together to hunt down Venatori had rekindled something in them. Something they had been trying—badly—to extinguish.
“There was an ancient dowager looking for you. Said she had twelve daughters! I told her you’d left already. You can thank me later. Or now. But you look lost in thought. Somethin’ on your mind?” Dorian asked, approaching the man he ached for.
Such a sight for sore eyes… and yet, Lavellan could not lie to him—or to himself.
“I expected Solas,” he confessed.
It was not fair to Dorian; it was the truth nonetheless. Dorian inhaled faintly, caught off guard. Then he smiled. How could he smile? How could he? Such a sweet smile, tainted with wistfulness.
“Fortunately for you, it’s the better of the two who showed up instead,” Dorian teased him.
Lavellan chuckled softly. He should not have said that. Yet, Dorian acted like nothing happened. Or was it all a façade—meant to keep the bitterness out of sight? Hard it was to see behind the mask a man had spent decades forging. Lavellan fled his gaze and changed the subject.
“This isn’t over yet. Corypheus will strike back at us for this loss.”
“Eventually,” Dorian replied. “Not right this second. Even when he does, it’s not as if we won’t be expecting it. Not this time.”
Lavellan sighed. Orlais’ throne was secure once more, and with the civil war finally at an end, the Empire stood more prepared than ever to face the coming threat. Yet the Inquisitor had never been more anxious about what lay ahead. The fate of Thedas rested upon his shoulders. So many responsibilities, so much pressure. More than one man should ever have to bear.
“What you need is a distraction. I have just the thing: let’s dance.”
Dorian extended his hand toward him. A dangerous invitation, one Lavellan accepted without a moment of hesitation.
Curious gaze behind fans, and hushed whispers under masks. People will talk. Neither of them cared.
“I was hoping you’d ask.”
“Thank goodness one of us has a little initiative.”
Taking Dorian’s hand in his own, Lavellan placed his free hand upon his partner’s shoulder while Dorian’s hand settled at his waist. Carefully, they eased into a gentle waltz. They stood so close they could catch one another’s scent, so close they almost forgot the coolness of the night.
“Is it Josephine who taught you how to dance?” Dorian asked.
His breath felt like fire on Lavellan's skin. And Dorian knew it.
“My father,” he replied laughing quietly. “He lived in Orlais for a while.”
His heart ached at the mention of his father. Years would not heal the pain. But the Inquisitor was but a memento of his father. Every grace, every keen wit Lavellan possessed had first belonged to him. Through him at least, he lived.
“You are full of surprises, Inquisitor,” Dorian suavely sighed.
“You have no idea,” Lavellan teased, his hand slipping onto Dorian’s neck.
“You love playing with fire,” Dorian whispered.
“It must be in my genes,” Lavellan replied playfully.
Slowly, their little dance faded. Slowly, they got even closer. Slowly, Lavellan’s hand slipped. Unconsciously, he brushed Dorian’s neck with his fingertips. Staring at his lips, nothing else seemed to matter.
A lingering memory resurfaced in Lavellan’s mind. Heat. Growing desire. Feelings he craved.
Even though it was wrong.
Closing the distance between their lips, guilt grew inside the Inquisitor. It would ruin everything, with everyone.
Not now. Not yet.
“There is… so much to do,” Lavellan whispered against Dorian’s lips.
Biting his lip, Lavellan stepped back. Kissing here was wrong. It was not fair to anyone involved. How could Lavellan complain about Solas playing with his heart when he himself had been trying to keep one foot in both camps?
Turning on his heel, he barely thanked Dorian for the dance.
“If he truly wished to be by your side, I wouldn’t be here,” Dorian hailed him.
Lavellan stopped. Biting his lips, he held his tears. Then, he turned his face to look at Dorian.
“I know,” he replied, his throat tightened around the words.
Dorian walked to him. Holding Lavellan’s right hand, he ran his thumb across the back before pressing a tender kiss on it.
“Goodnight, Inquisitor,” he whispered against his hand.
“Goodnight, mister Pavus,” Lavellan softly replied.
His gaze lingered on Dorian as he stepped back into the cacophony of the Grand Game. His footsteps were swallowed by the carpets as Lavellan tried to smother his feelings in turn.
Never before had his heart beaten so fast. Was it their inexorable attraction? Or the taste of the forbidden? Even he could not tell.
Neither could Solas.
From afar, he had been watching—yearning for his love. It should have been him. Dancing with pretty clothes and close hearts… Dorian and Lavellan… it seemed… so simple, so easy, so natural. Solas and Lavellan? It was everything but simple.
Alas, it would have been too cruel—to give Lavellan hope for a future with him when his mind had already been set. And so, jealousy would be Solas' sole companion of the night.
Solas watched his lover standing at the edge of the balcony. Was it a tear Lavellan wiped off his cheek?
That was why he refused to succumb. That was why he had to leave. Yet Solas could not help himself. He could not leave him alone to face his sorrow.
His fingers idly wove through the air until an ethereal butterfly emerged. With a single breath, he sent it to his love.
It was too late… the Inquisitor was going to be hurt, one way or another. If only Solas could ease his pain, if only a little.
Lit by moonlight, the butterfly drifted toward the Inquisitor—so solitary amid the evening’s finery. The palace’s noise no longer reached him.
The little creature settled on Lavellan's finger to keep him company, in place of the one who feared his own presence.
And even if he hurt him.
And even if he left.
And even if Lavellan loved another.
He would never be able to forsake a bond that reached beyond flesh and stone.
“Come what may, var lath vir suledin,” Lavellan whispered as a faint smile curved his lips.