The instant he heard the door open, Dorian was on his feet. He rushed at Varric with nothing more than a brow raised. The dwarf ignored him, heading towards his room so he could write down whatever it was that he wrote after talking with Alarion.
"What did you discuss this time?"
"How we met, actually." Varric shook his head before sitting down in his chair. "Even when I repeat stories I know I've told him before, he never seems to notice; but I still hoped he'd recognize his own stories. I wondered if I just didn't mention it was how I met him, maybe he'd make the connection and remember me at least a little. But, no." He sighed, pulling out the parchment. "I can't seem to get him to remember anything of the past, whether his or history in general. Far as I can tell, his memory only started about a month ago."
"Have you tried asking him anything of importance?"
"Yes, great plan! Scare the elf so badly that he clamps up and doesn't talk to me anymore. Why haven't I thought of that?" He let out a sigh before continuing. "Look, Sparkler, this isn't easy for me either, but I shouldn't snap at you. But if you're so damn set on what we should discuss, maybe you should go and talk to your elf. After all, I'm still waiting on word back from my elf."
That clearly signified the end of the conversation, even without having him turn his attention to his papers. Without a glance back, Dorian went out of Varric's room and into his own. He took little notice of the cheap barely comfortable bed and instead went straight to the small wooden desk next to it. He hastily opened the drawer, only to find it empty. Slamming it shut, he opened the drawer below it, only to find it empty as well. Avoiding screaming his frustration, he stormed off to the kitchen and tried there as well.
After searching for a bit, he only found a single note written in precise handwriting.
I took the last two bottles. You've had more than had your share and I deserve to get shitfaced too.
Cursing the dwarf and everything about him, Dorian crumbled up the note.
With little else to do, Dorian turned his attention to the small wooden table lying in the middle of the pitifully minuscule kitchen. On the corner of the table laid the book Dorian had been reading earlier that morning as he waited for Varric to finish talking with Alarion.
For the first conversation or two, Dorian laid pressed against the wooden door, the thinness allowing just the barely thread of their voices to sink through. Soon after, though, he made himself stop. He wondered, not for the first time, when he had become so pathetic that just the slightest hint of the elf's voice made being such a blubbering mess worth it. The moment he realized he was thinking like that, however, he made himself stop.
Because what a mess he was. Sighing louder than he had to, Dorian dropped himself unceremoniously into the chair and attempted to start reading where he had left off. The last few weeks, he had not been acting like himself, but he wasn't sure how to exactly snap out of it. Every moment that pasted, Dorian knew he was on the verge of crying. He had hoped, rather selfishly, that once backup would come and he would no longer have to concoct those dreadful knockout bombs, that somehow he would be happier. A 'misery loves company' of sorts.
But having Varric around was only making things harder for him. Now he had little excuses that would convince himself as to why he was being such a big emotional wreck when there was an audience around.
Maker's breath, he still couldn't believe he allowed himself to weep in front of Varric. If the dwarf never let him live that down, it'd be too soon.
A memory of a sheepish looking (and crying) Alarion pushed to the front of his mind. Willing it away, Dorian forced himself to ignore it by turning his attention to the book in his hands.
Although lyrium will allow a mage to send his conscious mind into the Fade…
"It bothers you, doesn't it? That I cry so often?"
'No!' He mentally snapped at himself. 'This is an important book. Read it, you pathetic excuse of an altus.'
…into the Fade, blood would allow him to find the sleeping minds of others…
"Of course not, amatus. Does it bother you I cry so little?"
…sleeping minds of others, view their dreams, and even influence or dominate their thoughts.
"Never, ma'arla." He whispered quietly to himself.
Dorian's grip tightened on the book's binding. Fingers trembling against his grasp, he lifted it to throw it across the room, but thought better of it.
"Maker's breath." Glad to be alone in the room, Dorian instead dropped the book and raised his hands to cover his eyes.
Why? Why was this harder to deal with than when he was mourning?
But Dorian knew the answer to that.
He had been so miserable at first, locked away in a room at Maevaris's home with only brandy for company. Dorian spent more time wasted than sober, making it difficult to gage exactly how long he stayed like that. Nothing but countless times crying to the sky, begging the Maker to give him back his amatus for any price, mixed with memories of drunken sobbing. The only thing that interrupted the endless cycle of alcohol and numbing depression was when Maevaris would barge through the door to take care of him.
It didn't take long before that moved onto anger. He had demanded through uncountable letters to so many people for names; Dorian would get his vengeance even if it killed him in the process. But when Leliana had been unable to find out anything more than the bandits that got him were all slaughtered (supposedly with Alarion with them), Dorian had realized that there was little else for him to do. If Divine Nightingale couldn't find out more, there was no chance of Dorian uncovering anything further.
Still, he had clung to the anger. It was easier to deal with more than that numbing endless misery.
He had been livid with the Maker, for taking away the one light left in the world.
He had been furious with the elves Alarion had saved, for being the liabilities in the first place.
He had been angry at Alarion for sacrificing himself, though only at times…
But above all else, Dorian knew he would never have forgiven himself for not being there for the elf when Alarion needed him most.
And that anger that bore unbelievable loathing towards himself, and most of Thedas itself, was so undeniable easy to feel. It was uncomplicated as it was all consuming. Dorian had failed Alarion. It didn't matter how so many people tried to convince him otherwise; Dorian knew the truth. And it was that crystal clarity of that made his grieving seem more reasonable therefore, as an extension, easier to accept. All of this pain was happening because Dorian botched just one more thing in his pathetic existence.
The only reason that knowledge didn't consume Dorian whole was the counteracting knowledge that Alarion would never forgive him if he gave up like that. Dorian had to believe he'd see the elf again one day, and he wanted to be able to look him in the eye when that day came.
So he had forced himself to keep going knowing that's what Alarion would have wanted him to do.
But now? Dorian had to be constantly reminded of his dereliction. His ultimate failure to protect the one he cherished above all else was now a door over, staring him down at every moment. The relentless reminder of his negligence.
And that wasn't even the hardest part. It killed Dorian to see the elf flinch at him. He was the last person in all of Thedas that wanted to hurt him, and he also was the one that Alarion was most terrified of. The Maker did have a sense of humor…
Before when Dorian entered the same room as the elf, Alarion would instantly brighten, and made no attempt to hide that fact either. Whether across the library or at the ball at Halamshiral, Alarion nearly always smiled whenever their eyes meant. Now, trembles of fear. Pleas of mercy. Things that only seemed reserved for Dorian, given the elf's already fondness over Varric.
"But if you're so damn set on what we should discuss, maybe you should go and talk to your elf."
How easy for Varric to talk. No doubt this was difficult for him to lose such a dear and close friend, but he didn't have nearly as many memories together as Dorian did. He didn't have to look that face and have reminiscences on how it should be, and wasn't anymore. Varric didn't lose his amatus. Dorian did. And it was all his own damned fault.
But was this how it was to be for the rest of his life? Dorian mourning what should be while the elf just became even more distant? To wake up every morning knowing that he could never have that again? To commend himself to a life of anguish, but still hoping that Alarion found at least a shred of the happiness he deserved?
Maker, Dorian hoped not.
In a sense, though, it would be easier to 'give up' as Varric so delicately put it. To let this merciless guilt overpower all other emotions until he was utterly spent. Perhaps become nothing more than a mindless, albeit handsome, pawn of vengeance.
But Dorian Pavus was a fighter.
No reserve, not in war and not in love.
Before the flare of hope and determination could leave him, Dorian leapt to his feet. He walked two feet to the wall of drawers and cabinets. There, he found two apples. After taking a moment to breathe deeply, he walked over to Varric's room to find the door still ajar and the dwarf still hard at working writing and reading various papers.
"I'm going to go and see him, Varric." Dorian told his back. Varric gave a small start and began to turn around. "Thought you should know in case you need to, how'd you say? Ah yes – 'smooth over any feathers'."
Without waiting for a reply, Dorian left and marched straight towards the door. Once in front, he took a deep breath again, and willed his resolve to stay. Feeling nerves tickling the ends of his fingers, he gave a soft knock on the wood and waited for the shaking voice on the other side to reply a quiet, "Yes?" before pushing it softly.
Despite all his mental preparing for the last few weeks, it was still a shock to Dorian's system to even see the elf. Lean handsome face, wide green eyes, a mess of dark brown hair atop of olive skin… There were a few differences than from Dorian's memory of the man. His hair was longer and extremely unkempt, and his skin was lighter than he could remember, likely from the lack of sun. But it was still him. Alarion, alive…
Despite all the turmoil still raging inside, Dorian had to muster all the willpower he had not to rush at Alarion. To feel him in his arms again. The touch and taste of his lips against Dorian's. Maker, it had been so long.
But all of that changed with an instance's notice.
The elf's face was perked when he had opened the door. His mouth not quite smiling, but almost. His eyes were bright and excited.
But once he landed sight on Dorian, his entire face dropped. His mouth fell open with a wordless cry. Eyes opening wide. The entirety of his mien warred between fear and shock before fear finally won.
"Please, don't be afraid." Dorian heard himself beg before he even realized he was talking. Quickly, he raised the two apples he had brought. He hesitated only a moment before his voice dipped serious. Far, far too serious for a simple question. "I was hoping we could share these apples together?"
Alarion paused for a long time, eyes never leaving Dorian's face. It was if he was searching for something amongst Dorian's expression. Finally, the spell broke in one swift action.
The man began to weep violently. His whole body shook with sobs, but his tearful eyes never left Dorian's face.
"Please, please let me go. Please don't hurt me. Please! I'll be good. Please, don't hurt me!"
The words felt as though a dagger was twisting into his gut. Struggling to hold back tears of his own, Dorian only nodded. Dipping down, he set both pieces of fruit on the floor before turning away. The door closed gently behind him, but the force sent his body tumbling forward. Shutting his eyes, Dorian made his way to his room by touch and memory only. From there, he shut and locked the door behind him before curling up into a ball with his back against it.
Excerpt from Codex entry: Blood Magic: The Forbidden School
I'm not sure if I have to mention this or not, but I don't actually think it's Dorian's fault. It's not. Just to be clear though: Dorian thinks that, I don't.
Random facts:
With memories, Alarion's greatest fear is being unwanted. Dorian knows this and that knowledge feeds into his sentiment that Dorian "abandoned him" when Alarion needed him most.
Without memories, Alarion's greatest fear is pain.
My greatest fear is losing my memories. That wasn't the inspiration for this story, it's just a random tidbit.