A/N: This was written in response to a prompt on tumblr that asked for Lavellan/Dorian and "the ways you say 'I love you'". The Eledin Lavellan in this story is a slightly different version of Eledin than the one in "For You, the World". In this continuity, he is NOT Inquisitor, but rather a hunter of Clan Lavellan who escaped the clan's massacre in The Tempest's Shadow. (You do not need to read that story to understand this one). Rating is for language.

Thanks for reading!

Impossible Possibilities

A Tevinter altus.

A Tevinter altus.

What in Mythal's name was he thinking? Hahren Therion would be appalled. Hahren Viseran would be appalled. Keeper Istimaethoriel wouldn't be appalled, but then would have to act like she was appalled in order to keep the hahrens from being appalled at her.

This was exactly the kind of mess Eledin had wanted to avoid when Venara invited him to Skyhold. He should have stayed tramping around the Free Marches with Fenris, hunting down slavers and Venatori. At least then he knew his steeled heart would have been safe.

Veltassan. Don't think of it like that.

But it was hard not to think of it precisely like that.

He knew the possibility of where this was going and it both entranced, intrigued and terrified him all at once.

When he had arrived at Skyhold, three months past Venara's invitation, covered in blood, his daggers blunt, his traps broken, his potions run dry, he had been likened to a feral kitten. Stalking the castle halls in shadows, lashing out at anyone who got to close (save for Venara, of course). While she appeared to be healing from the loss of their Clan, Eledin was… not. It was a wound that gored him through to the heart. It ran so deep he doubted it could ever truly heal. And if it did, it would leave a scar—and scars were messy things.

Fenedhis. That's a fucking awful metaphor. Don't get lost in it, you stupid prat. You're not some eloquently spoken mage locked up in his stuffy library.

Eledin's eyes wandered up from the rotunda to the stuffy library above, where a certain eloquently-spoken mage was prattling on about some magical theory Eledin couldn't hope to understand. He crossed his arms petulantly, gnawing on his lower lip as he prowled back and forth, gazing upwards.

As if the stuffy altus was going to look over the balustrade at him.

"Eledin," a weary voice said from the corner. "While I appreciate your presence here, I think I must inform you that your incessant pacing is getting on my nerves."

Eledin glanced over his shoulder. Solas, splattered with paint, was glaring at him from his newest fresco.

"I do that," he said.

"Please leave," Solas said.

Eledin snorted and turned to leave the rotunda. He paused for a moment, contemplating whether or not he should climb the stairs to the library, but at the last minute he let out a frustrated sigh and banged through to the door to the great hall.

This was all so, so wretchedly stupid.

At the beginning, he had been a guest of the Inquisition, a guest under constant watch (he knew Leliana's eyes were on him every waking moment, even though she denied it—he could sense her spies just as well as they could sense him). He wasn't allowed to follow Venara on any missions—her advisors were uncertain if they wanted him as an agent. He could leave the castle grounds, but it was made very clear to him that if he left, he would not be welcome back, with or without the Inquisitor's approval. He made them nervous, and once he saw Venara's change in demeanour when she was around them, he knew he was far too Dalish for their comfort.

And far too hurting.

And so he spent his days doing—doing what? Watching the others. Spying on all the little dramas that took hold under the castle's soaring towers. The maid who went to hysterics whenever Cullen passed. The gossip about a scout who was caught sleeping with a rebel mage. Whispers of rumbles in the west in Orlais and troubles in the south in the Arbor Wilds—Corypheus' agents on the move, planning counteract after counteract, trying to move one step ahead of Venara and her advisors. And slowly he began to realized that his friend—his best friend, his dear friend—had been truly drawn into something beyond his imagination, something much bigger than Clan Lavellan and Wycome. It had been just had she had told him, and he had failed to believe her.

He had resigned himself. Since he couldn't save his clan, at the very least he could help the other remaining member of Clan Lavellan save the fucking world.

And that was precisely when the gods had decided he should meet Dorian Pavus.

He had heard Venara speak fondly of him. A talented mage, a good friend, a confidant—someone she trusted without fail, despite his origins. "You'll like him," she had said. "Once you get past the overly dramatic exterior, that is."

Eledin didn't like him.

"You look more like a peacock than I thought," Eledin had said when he rounded the corner in the library and found himself face-to-face with a man dressed so extravagantly he wondered if servants had to assist him every morning.

(Also, why was half of his wardrobe constructed out of belts? Who did that?)

Dorian had not yet said two words and already Eledin had turned around and marched back down the stairs.

Their second exchange was just as short.

"Oh, look at what the cat dragged in," Dorian said, peering over the top of his book as Eledin dragged himself down the stairs from the rookery, cleaning bird shit out of his hair (a result of Leliana's abrupt dislike of him).

Their third exchange was slightly more involved.

"I can't imagine for the life of me why our dear Inquisitor enjoys the petty likes of you," Dorian had said, eyes narrowed at Eledin as he shouted at him over the boisterous noise of the tavern.

"Funny thing that," Eledin replied. "Our Clan would be appalled that she made friends with a mage from Tevinter."

"Please do not treat that like it is my defining characteristic," Dorian snapped. "I'm sure you wouldn't want to be seen as merely 'the feral elf Inquisitor Lavellan rescued from Wycome', now, would you?"

"No," Eledin hissed.

Dorian sighed. "You're doing a very poor job at disproving my point."

The man was insufferable, but somehow, no matter how hard Eledin tried to stay out of his way, their paths always found a way to cross. Upon seeing each other, they would exchange a flurry of insults, before continuing on their merry way. This lasted for a couple of months until their comfortable rhythm of throwing snark at each other was interrupted. Eledin had finally negotiated accompanying Venara on a mission into the Emerald Graves and the peacock, of course, was joining them.

Outside the confines of Skyhold, everything was different.

They were tracking something—Eledin wasn't sure what. Bandits. Smugglers. Renegades. Red Templars. Agents of Corypheus. The Inquisition had so many enemies, Eledin couldn't remember them all. But an enemy was an enemy. When he was in the field, he was the knife, he was the dagger, he was the arrow loosened from the bow. Point him in the right direction and he would strike true.

They were ambushed—he suspected they would be, the woods was too quiet, he should have scouted ahead—and the fight was short, bloody and brutal. There were… things in the woods. Men twisted with red shards, bloated and bursting with the corruption in their veins. Eledin had seen their like before—at Wycome.

He flashed back to the burning forest glade and Nerien's death. He remembered the city and the screams and the odour and the stench of death. A powerful mage's magic gone awry. He fell, frozen, in the middle of combat. He saw the blade arcing for him, but he could not move, pulverized as he was by his own memories, men and women torn asunder by magic and red shards, their screams echoing in his heart and mind. And then a blue barrier encased him, knocking aside the monster's sword, and a mage was at his side, blasting their enemies back with a wall of fire.

"Are you all right?" Dorian asked, holding out a hand to Eledin. His hands were still sheathed in magic.

Eledin nodded and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

It wasn't until much later—days later, when they were holed up in some tavern on their way back to Skyhold—when Eledin decided to explain what had happened that day on the battlefield. How he was transported back to the ugliest moments of his life, when he witnessed slaughter and carnage unimaginable. He spoke softly, recounting something he sworn he could never share. Though the tavern was loud and packed, there really was only one person whom he noticed: the mage from Tevinter.

"Then you have as much reason to hate Corypheus as the rest of us," Dorian said when he had finished. "It's personal now."

"I don't know who or what he is," Eledin replied. "All I know is that what happened in Wycome—what happened to my people—can never happen again." He paused, fingering his tankard. He was drinking water—the Orlesian ale of choice in this area of the country was profoundly disgusting. Oddly enough, Dorian drank only water, too. The tavern was out of wine. "I don't know why I told you all that. It's nothing you haven't heard already—I'm sure Venara told you. I suppose I needed an excuse for freezing in battle."

"Her experiences are not yours," Dorian said. "If you needed to tell someone, then I'm honoured it was me."

Eledin raised an eyebrow. "Don't get too full of yourself there."

They fought together, side-by-side, since then. They were often on the same missions, delving deep into the strife-torn Orlesian countryside to counter Corypheus' agents. It was different when they were on a mission. At Skyhold they were the Tevinter mage and the Dalish elf, two people from separate worlds, born to be each other's enemies. They insulted each other as they passed—though as the months wore on, the insults became intriguingly playful and competitive—as if they had to live up to the expectations of Leliana's spies and Josephine's diplomats. The world's eye was on Skyhold and all of the people who lived, worked and died there. But somehow, when the world wasn't watching, when they were beyond Skyhold's walls, they were different people. Truer people. Truer to themselves.

He didn't know when it happened. It just happened. One moment he was fine, and the next he was facing the dawning realization that he liked this insufferable man who could conjure flame and witty remarks in the same breath.

Perhaps more than liked.

Dorian was attractive. He knew that. He had known that from the moment he had met him. But it wasn't something he had allowed himself to think about. Especially now, when Nerien's death was far too close for comfort. It would be disgraceful to turn his back on his memory now.

And so they continued as they were, he and Dorian travelling together, fighting together, mission after mission as the war raged on. He kept the thought simmering in the back of his mind to himself, a secret for him and him only. But as the months wore on and this inclination, this instinct, this damn, fucking feeling refused to go away, Eledin realized he had to do something about it.

He was falling in love again and he didn't like it.

Which lead him here. To Skyhold's great hall, pacing and wheeling about with such gusto that even Varric raised his eyebrows.

"You okay, kid?" he asked.

"Just thinking," Eledin said.

Varric shook his head. "Don't think too hard there or you'll end up hurting yourself."

Eledin rolled his eyes. Just say something, damn it. Just go up there and say something.

So he went.

Eledin pushed the rotunda door open again, ignored Solas' protests and marched up the stairs to the library. Dorian was exactly where he was supposed to be, perusing one tome of magic or another. Eledin stopped several paces away from him and leaned against the wall, arms folded.

Dorian peered at him from over the top of his book. "Oh, look, it's the cat again. Come to give me an unwanted gift?"

"Not this time," Eledin said briskly. "Well. I'm not sure."

"No niceties this time, then, Eledin?" Dorian said, putting his book down. "It's straight to business? I'm a bit surprised. I do enjoy our delightful banter, even if the other scholars here do not. It is a library after all."

"You know," Eledin said, shaking his head, "sometimes I think you talk so much just because you're in love with the sound of your own voice."

"Hm. I have been accused of that, yes."

"How tragic."

"It is! I have a lovely voice!"

"I'm not arguing that."

"Then what are you arguing?"

"Nothing," Eledin said. "I'm not trying to arguing with you!"

"Oh?" Dorian said, standing up.

Fenedhis. You sound like an idiot. What are you even doing?

"Dorian—"

Eledin's hand was on his lower arm. He hadn't meant to reach for him, yet that was what he had done. Dorian noticed the gesture. He caught Eledin's hand and gently pushed it aside.

"There is nothing you have to say if you are not ready to say it," he said. "You have lost more people than I can imagine. If you wish for there to be nothing between us, then there is nothing between us."

Eledin breathed. He stared at Dorian, unable to look away.

Shit.

Fenedhis, fenedhis, fenedhis.

Why did this have to be so complicated?

"Then it's not just me, then," he said.

Dorian chuckled. "No, no, I assure you, it is not. You are a remarkable man, Eledin Lavellan."

"Huh. I have heard that one before. You're running low on originality there."

"Am I? Then I shall simply have to keep trying—"

Eledin kissed him. It was an impulsive action, but after months of doing nothing, the impulsivity felt good. Almost as good as the kiss.

"—or perhaps I need not try any longer," Dorian said, drawing away, a smile dancing on his lips.

"Good," Eledin said. "That's settled then."

Dorian chuckled. "Eledin, do you really think this is the only thing that needs to be settled between us?"

Eledin smirked. "I have a few ideas. I think I can spare the time to show you."

"That's what I like to hear."

The hahrens would be appalled, Eledin thought, later that night as he looked thoughtfully at Dorian's sleeping form. But then, all things considered, the hahrens probably wouldn't understand.

fin