**So look, at this point I think we all deserve a little smut. If that's not your thing, please feel free to skip this chapter and I will post a note at the top of the next one catching you up on the developments. But in the meantime… NSFW.**
Part Thirty: Bellanaris
Dorian stares out over the bailey of Skyhold, watching the snow drift down in fat, swirling flakes. The soldiers on the ramparts below huddle deeper into their cloaks, their breath clouding as they light a brazier for warmth. Already, a thin white gauze blankets the fortress. The gate is still open, but not for long; the Commander's orders are to close it during snowstorms, lest it freeze in place and leave the fortress vulnerable. Anyone caught outside after that point will be, as they say down south, shit out of luck. That includes a certain Witch of the Wilds and the wolf cub in her charge.
Dorian isn't terribly concerned about Morrigan. If she wants to get into the fortress, she'll find a way. At the very least, there's a good chance her shapeshifting repertoire includes a flying creature or two. (Dorian is sick with envy about this. The closest he's come to flying was a particularly memorable hallucination while high on divinorum.) Maggie, though, cannot fly, and Dorian frets that she won't be able to wriggle through the portcullis. It would have been a tight fit already, but Maker only knows how shaggy her coat will have become after two days in the frigid wilderness.
"Are you still out here?"
Dorian jumps, sighs, and readjusts the blanket around his shoulders.
"Sorry." The elf gives him a guilty smile. "I swear I don't mean to. It's just how I walk." He steps out onto the balcony, glancing up at the whitewashed sky. "It's snowing."
"How observant of you."
"I'm surprised you're out here when it's snowing."
"That makes two of us."
The elf lifts the fleece from Dorian's shoulders and drapes it around his own, folding himself against Dorian's back and wrapping them both up in the cocoon. "She'll be all right," he says, resting his chin on Dorian's shoulder.
Dorian starts to deny that he's standing out on this frigid balcony worrying about a puppy, but it's pointless. His lover can read him too well. "Of course it had to start snowing," he growls.
"Wolves are built for snow. It won't bother her one bit."
"You're right, of course. I'm fretting needlessly." Dorian sighs. "It's this gloomy weather, I expect."
The elf tucks his face into Dorian's neck, lips brushing just below his ear. "Sounds like someone could use a distraction," he says in a dangerous murmur that has Dorian's nethers twitching even before the hand slides down between his legs.
It's almost embarrassing how quickly his body responds, swelling beneath the elf's touch. He closes his eyes as his lover nips at his ear, sending a delicious shiver over his skin. "Shall we take this inside?"
"What for? The snow is quite lovely, don't you think?" Deft fingers tug at his laces, and a moment later, a warm hand slips inside his breeches.
Dorian's eyes snap open in surprise. The wall walk below is crawling with soldiers, every one of whom has a clear line of sight to the Inquisitor's balcony. He laughs, half incredulous, half nervous. "Why, Inquisitor, whatever are you doing?"
The only answer is a firm grip at the base of his cock, bringing him to full attention. The elf strokes once, gently, and Dorian's breath catches. "We're under a blanket," the Inquisitor says idly, as though he wouldn't much mind if they weren't. He strokes again, more firmly now, the outline of his arm moving up and down under the fleece.
"Yes, but this is perhaps not as stealthy as you think. I daresay the motion you're making is"—Dorian's breath hitches again as his lover passes callused fingers over the slick tip of his cock before resuming his languid stroking—"the motion is… familiar… especially to… lonely s-soldiers…" He's losing the will to argue, losing the will to do anything but match that sweet rhythm, rocking into each stroke. The elf has always been very good at this. There's nothing especially unusual about his technique, but he is unnervingly well attuned to his lover's responses. A good hunter reads the signs, he'd told Dorian once, and it must be true, because he always seems to know just how hard or how soft, how fast or how slow, how filthy or how sweet, and it's terribly inconvenient and also fucking magic and Dorian is climbing toward ecstasy, and climbing and climbing, but it's just out of reach, an epiphany he can't quite glimpse, and Sweet Maker it aches, and he can hear the frantic pitch to his breath and he's so close but still the elf holds back just enough to keep him from release. "Fasta vass," he hisses between his teeth, "why are you such a tease?"
"Because you like it," the elf whispers. His hand jerks once, and Dorian comes with a gasp that must be audible all the way to the guard tower.
There's a stretch of silence broken only by Dorian's panting, his breath clouding the air in furious little puffs.
"Warmer?" the elf murmurs, kissing his neck.
"You never cease to surprise, amatus. A quickie in the forest is one thing, but this… We might as well be on a stage up here." Though if anyone's paying attention, they're doing a good job of pretending otherwise. Dorian's glance rakes the battlements, but not a single head has tipped up in their direction.
The elf laughs. "I'm not quite so brazen as that. Note our strategic positioning behind the pillar."
It's true, Dorian realizes with a sigh of relief. Though the balcony rail doesn't quite reach his waist, the pillar between sections adds a crucial few inches of height, enough to conceal what was going on under that blanket. "You could have told me," Dorian says. "Spared me the worry."
"Where's the fun in that? Besides, you didn't seem all that worried."
Dorian straightens himself out as best he can before extracting himself from the blanket. "Your turn," he says, pushing the elf backward through the balcony doors. What he plans to do will very definitely be visible from the ramparts, strategically placed pillars or no. He locks the doors with a flick of his wrist, then sets about freeing the glorious erection straining the elf's breeches.
Inquisitor Lavellan isn't the only one who knows his way around the male body. Dorian can give as good as he gets, and he's feeling vindictive, so he takes his sweet time, bringing the elf to the brink with nothing more than a clever tongue – only to pause for a glass of wine, leaving his lover in a quivering puddle of unfulfilled need.
He relents, of course. Eventually. By which point the elf is ravenous and Dorian is ready again and it all culminates in his second highly satisfactory orgasm of the day. And here it is not even dinner time.
Afterward, they curl up under the fur coverlet on the bed, tucked up like a pair of silver spoons in a cloth. "Ar lath 'ma vhen'an," the elf whispers. "'Ma vhen'an bellanaris."
Aha, Dorian thinks. The perfect opportunity to try putting the last two days' readings to good use. The first part is straightforward enough. I love you, my heart. Or, alternatively, my home. One word, though, he hasn't encountered before.
"Bellanaris?" he asks.
"Forever," the elf says, kissing his shoulder.
My heart forever. My home forever.
Dorian's stomach clenches. It's like falling through time, dropping from the sky into the exact moment when the elf first said I love you. The same panic, the same bright arc of denial. You can't. You mustn't.
What is it with this man and his devastating post-coital declarations?
He accepted the elf's love long ago. Returned it with all that he has, all that he is. But forever. Forever is a beast he can't look in the eye, let alone welcome into his heart. Forever is like that moment of ecstasy, fiercely desired but just out of reach.
He's been quiet for too long. The elf has certainly noticed. "Amatus." Dorian rolls over and meets those blue-green eyes. "I love you with all my heart. But forever isn't something I can promise. Neither of us can."
"Because of Corypheus?"
"For a start. Cullen's forces march for the Arbour Wilds as we speak. The end is in sight, one way or another. And even if we survive… I don't know what comes after. For either of us."
"Nor do I," the elf says. "But I know that whatever it is, I will love you. Forever."
Dorian's heart aches so much it brings tears to his eyes. "Very well," he says in a shaky whisper, "that much I can promise. Whatever happens, I will always love you. Forever."
Bellanaris, he thinks as he winds his limbs around the elf. It sounds similar to the ancient Tevene word for beautiful. Bella. And also bellum, for war. How very apt. They could all fit together into a single thought, couldn't they, the elven and the Tevene, twined together like halla horns on a promise necklace.
Our love will forever be beautiful. And it will forever be war.
