Part Forty: Promises
Dorian wakes to find a pair of blue-green eyes staring at him. Sunlight filters through the stained glass windows, throwing jewelled droplets of light on the bedclothes. He has a vague memory of moving them inside sometime in the middle of the night. The elf hadn't stirred, but he's clear-eyed now, watching Dorian in silence, his face partially obscured by the overstuffed pillow that is his one concession to human luxuries. He's so beautiful it aches, and Dorian can't help wondering what he sees staring back at him. Beauty? Betrayal? Smeared kohl and unkempt hair? All of the above, perhaps.
"Hi," the elf says.
"Good morning." It's harder than it should be to frame even those simple words. Being in this bed again, waking up to that face… He hadn't meant to. He'd had every intention of bringing the sofa back inside and sleeping there. But he still doesn't know where things stand between them, whether they're broken beyond all hope of repair, and the thought that it might be his last chance to fall asleep with his arms around the man he loves… He couldn't bear to let it go. "I hope it's all right," he murmurs. "That I'm here. Terribly presumptuous of me, I know."
"It's all right."
Silence pools in the twisted bedclothes between them. Somewhere outside, a winter songbird trills, and Dorian realizes how quiet it is out there. No soldiers drilling. No hammer ringing off the forge. For once, the Inquisition is at peace.
"I'm sorry about last night," the elf says.
"Maker's breath, don't be sorry." Dorian reaches out under the covers and finds the elf's hand, giving it a squeeze. "That bill was bound to come due sooner or later. It's a miracle you held out as long as you did."
"Did I make a scene?"
"A scene? You?" Dorian smiles. "My dear Inquisitor, you are a scene. A walking, talking spectacle, and a rather fetching one at that. But no – I don't believe most people noticed that you were feeling out of sorts."
He starts to say more, but at that moment something monstrous leaps onto the bed, and Dorian starts up with a curse. The elf, meanwhile, props himself on his elbows, and Maggie takes this as an invitation, walking between them and flopping down on her belly.
Dorian wrinkles his nose. "She's allowed on the bed now?"
"Maggie. Ma dur." The pup jumps down, but not before giving Dorian a bit of lupine stink-eye. "The bed felt a little empty," the elf says awkwardly, avoiding Dorian's gaze.
He sighs. "I'm going to clean up, and then we're going to talk, you and I."
He heads for the washstand, warming the water with a careless wave of his hand. But as he reaches for the soap, he pauses. His razor is still there, and his combs, and his moustache oil. He hadn't had the heart to send someone to fetch his things, so he'd simply replaced them. He assumed the elf disposed of it all, but there it is, arranged neatly beside the washstand, as though he never left.
"Ah," he says with forced levity. "That's convenient."
He washes, cleans his teeth, and lathers up for a shave. All the while, the elf watches him in the mirror. Dorian has always enjoyed being stared at, especially by this one, but the intensity of his gaze is downright disconcerting.
"I don't recall you being this fascinated with my ablutions before," he says, as lightly as he can manage.
"I've missed it."
"You've missed watching me primp?"
"Your primping was part of my morning routine." He pauses, mouth quirking slightly. "An extremely long part of my morning routine."
"Yes, yes, very droll." Dorian works around the patch on his chin with an expert flick of the wrist. "Perfection takes time, after all."
Especially when you're stalling, which he very definitely is. When he's through, he's going to have to say the thing, and he's so bloody nervous that he's lucky he hasn't opened his own throat with the razor.
The elf notices. "Your hands seem a little unsteady."
"Yes, I'm afraid I've become something of a drunkard of late. A glass of wine will sort me out." If the elf sees through that, he doesn't let on, still watching in the mirror with that inscrutable expression.
When he's through, Dorian heats up a fresh basin of water, trying not to let his gaze linger too long as the elf strips off the tunic he was wearing last night. The sight of him in nothing but those snug leather breeches is just a little too distracting under the circumstances, so Dorian heads out onto the balcony to wait while the other man washes up. With every passing moment, his pulse quickens a little more. This might just be the most terrifying thing he's ever faced – which, considering he recently flung himself off a two thousand-foot cliff, is really saying something.
He busies himself relocating the sofa, using magic this time, though he unaccountably forgets to bring the Antivan rug along. It will be a terrible shame if it gets ruined out there.
By the time that's done, the elf is ready, clad in fresh breeches and a simple green tunic that brings out the aquamarine of his eyes. He lowers himself onto the sofa, and Dorian gets a whiff of pine that makes his heart buck in his chest.
"So, you're planning to stay with the Inquisition." His tone, his posture – everything about him is guarded. Not that Dorian blames him.
"If you'll let me."
"Why would you do that?"
Dorian sighs. "I really have cocked things up, haven't I, if you have to ask? You're the man I love, amatus. I want to be with you."
"But what's changed? I was the man you loved before. And you never wanted to leave. You felt you had to, and I supported your decision. Why go back on it now?"
Because it's too hard. Because it hurts too much.
The elf drops his gaze, and when he speaks again, it's as if he's choosing his words carefully. "I think it would be a mistake to change your mind because you want to spare me pain. I'll get through it, and so will you."
"But that's just it. I don't think I will."
The elf goes on as if he hasn't heard. "The last thing I want is to stand in the way of your dreams. For you to wake up a year from now, two years from now, and resent me. I love you too much to let you do that. It would be better—"
"Stop. Just stop talking, Inquisitor, and listen to me." Leaning forward, Dorian takes the elf's face in his hands. "You are my dreams. That's what your name means, isn't it? Waking dream?"
The elf blinks.
"Yes, I've been doing a little reading. Imagine my surprise when I learned what it means, this beautiful word I've been calling out in the heat of passion. Because that's exactly what you are. What you've always been to me. A waking dream. Something impossible, too good to be true. I might have other dreams, but none of them are more important to me than you. They never have been, but for a time I thought that didn't matter. That to be the man I wanted to be, someone worthy of your love, I had to be as selfless as you. But then I realized – far, far too late – that as selfless as you've been, you still made room for me. For us. If you could do that, even with the fate of the world on your shoulders, then I can certainly do the same. I don't have to give you up. I won't."
Reaching into his pocket with shaking hands, Dorian draws out an amulet. It's a thing of exquisite beauty, dragon bone carved in the shape of interlocking halla horns. The elf's breath catches. His eyes fix on it, and when he glances up again, it's in disbelief.
Holding the amulet against his heart, Dorian speaks the words he's been practicing. "Ame mar, Setheneras Lavellan, sul bellanaris."
Dorian offers him the necklace, his heart pounding in his chest. The elf takes it with a numb expression, and now his hands are shaking too, even worse than last night, and Dorian is half afraid he's going to fold again. He's not ready for this, he thinks. This was a terrible idea.
"My accent was atrocious, of course? You can tell me the truth, I shan't be hurt. I should have run it by Dalish, perhaps, or Loranil. We can add that to the list of things I've cocked up." He's babbling now, trying to fill the silence, and just for a moment, he feels as if he's falling from that two thousand-foot cliff all over again, only this time, there's no one to catch him.
When the elf looks up again, his eyes are wet. "Dorian…"
"You don't have to say anything. My promise is my own. I understand if you—"
The rest of the sentence is smothered by a kiss, so sudden and fierce that Maggie actually barks. Dorian kisses him back – passionately, desperately, hoping against hope this means what he wants it to. And now the elf is laughing, his lips flitting over Dorian's mouth, his cheeks, his eyes, and both of their faces are wet with tears and reckless kisses and it's a great syrupy mess and Dorian has never tasted joy like this in all his life.
The elf pulls back suddenly, his gaze falling to the amulet in his hands. "I don't have one to give you. I did have, but after you… I couldn't look at it anymore, and I…" He bites his lip. "Maybe Cassandra will give it back."
"I'm sure she will, but if you like, I took the liberty…" Still trembling a little, Dorian draws a second amulet out of his pocket, identical, save that this one is carved from actual halla horn.
The elf laughs as he takes it. "But sleeping in my bed was terribly presumptuous."
"What can I say? I was overcome with a heady mixture of optimism and determination." Also, a good deal of alcohol, but he doesn't feel the need to mention that part.
"Halla horns. And dragon bone for you. It's perfect." He shakes his head wonderingly. "Where did you get them?"
"I had them made in Val Royeaux. You can thank Dalish for overseeing the project."
"You sent a mercenary to procure promise necklaces?"
"These are difficult times, my dear Inquisitor. I needed a grand gesture to win you back." The elf's brow stitches, and Dorian holds up a hand. "And before you say anything – no, that's not all this is. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. And I want to bring about change in my homeland. I haven't worked out how it all fits together, but there's plenty of time for that, and I have you to help me. You are a clever one, after all."
"Dorian." The elf's eyes are serious again. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been so sure of anything in my life."
Solemnly, his gaze never leaving Dorian's, the elf hangs the dragon bone amulet around his neck. "Ar ematha mar dirtha'var'en." Dorian isn't sure what it means, but happily, he translates. "I embrace your promise." Then, holding the halla amulet against his breast, he makes his own vow. "Ar dirtha'var'en ara'len to ma, Dorian Pavus. Sul bellanaris."
Dorian lowers his head, and the elf slips the chain around his neck. "I embrace your promise," he whispers. He kisses the amulet, and then he kisses his lover, slow and deep and lingering, still tasting the tears of joy on his lips.
They nestle down onto the sofa, the back of the elf's head resting in the crook of Dorian's shoulder. He toys with the halla horns around his neck, watching the sunlight glint off the gold. My little magpie, Dorian thinks, kissing the silver hair. "The promise necklace you found in the Emerald Graves. You gave it to Cassandra?"
He nods absently, still turning the amulet in his hands. "She cried," he murmurs. Then he twists abruptly, giving Dorian an alarmed look. "Don't tell her I told you!"
"My lips are sealed, Inquisitor." Laughing, he adds, "I must admit I'm surprised, however. I'd have thought she would threaten to cut my head off."
"Oh, she did that too. Both of your heads."
Dorian's laugh is chased with regret, and his arms tighten around his lover. "I'm so sorry, amatus."
"I'm not. It was hard, but if that's what it took to get us here, then I have only joy." There's a pause. Then he rolls over and straddles Dorian, and the heat in his eyes is unmistakable. "Well. Maybe not only joy." His mouth falls to Dorian's, and his hips rock against him meaningfully.
"I believe I can help you with that, Inquisitor."
He pulls back, hands braced against Dorian's chest. "I love you, Dorian Pavus."
"My dear Seth, I certainly hope so, seeing as we've just promised ourselves to each other for life. What is that called, anyway? Is there a word for betrothed?"
"Vallas'dir."
"Vallas'dir," Dorian echoes thoughtfully, even as his fingers start in on his lover's laces. The elf is already hard, Maker bless him, and the smile curving his full mouth is wicked.
"I should warn you, if you thought I was frustrated after the Winter Palace…"
"Promises, promises," Dorian murmurs, and he pulls his lover's head down into a kiss.