Heart & Comics

Rilienus, skin tan like fine whiskey, cheekbones shaded, lips curl when he smiles. He would have said yes.

How long has it been since he last thought of Rilienus? But any reminiscence or nostalgia was washed away when Dorian saw the look in Alistair’s eyes. Curiosity, confusion, fear. The Inquisitor didn’t say a word. Not then and not when they returned to camp. The younger mage remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the day and the trip back to Skyhold. Even at night, when they would share a tent, Alistair just went to sleep curled on his side when he usually would seek Dorian’s embrace.

And now he can’t be found anywhere in the fortress. Dorian just wants this game to end so they can talk properly so he can be clear that Rilienus is past, and Alistair is the one he wants. The only one he loves. A small laugh escapes the mage’s lips, self-deprecated and bitter. Who would think that he would be in this type of situation? Sighing once again, Dorian walks to the gardens and just look at that! The Inquisitor is there, talking with Elrya. She notices him first and Dorian doesn’t really like the smile that shows up on his friend’s lips.

She leaves the Inquisitor and walks past him still smiling but rather than think about what his friend may be conjuring up, Dorian goes straight to Alistair, who looks a bit surprise to see him.

- Tired of hiding yourself, Lord Inquisitor? – Dorian questions to the younger mage's confusion.

- I wasn’t hiding, Dorian. I have been in Skyhold the whole time.

- Hiding from me. – the words are muttered, and Alistair can’t miss the anger in them.

- I wasn’t hiding. I just… - a sigh escapes the younger mage’s lips – I was just preparing myself before talking to you. In case… In case I didn’t like the answers waiting for me.

Alistair isn’t looking at him and the nervous stance in the Inquisitor makes all the anger in Dorian disappear. With all the praise and adoration always shower upon him is easy to forget that Alistair is just a man. And not a very confident one. Dorian knows that his magic, his eyes, his scars… All serve to dimmish Alistair self-confidence. And in Alistair nervousness Dorian can see himself from before. The fear of being tossed aside, of not being important enough or good enough, of being a second choice, a placeholder. Everything that Alistair definitely isn’t.

-I’m sure Elrya told you that there was nothing between Rilienus and me.

- She did. – and yet Dorian is kept from the white eyes he likes so much.

Stepping closer, Dorian invades the Inquisitor’s personal space, his lips almost touching a reddening cheek.

-You know… - the older mage whispers – I’m glad that never was. After all, I have something better now.

And finally, Alistair’s white eyes focus on him. A little hesitant at first, still uncertain and fearful. So, Dorian let his eyes show the truth of his words, of everything that he thought that he would never have but that he found with Alistair. Love. A real, deep and strong love. A place to be himself without fear. A home at Alistair’s side, in his arms.

-Better? – the Inquisitor repeats, the fear and doubt slowly leaving his eyes.

- Much better. – Dorian answers with a smile, one that grows at seeing Alistair smile too.

A kiss is the Inquisitor’s answer. Holding Dorian by the back of the neck, Alistair kisses him with passion and possessiveness, with a relief that only grows stronger when he is met with equal fervor, Dorian hands holding him by the hips in a strong grip.

The first word on his head is “No”.

This can’t be happening. It is an illusion, a trick of the Fade.

Dorian can hear Cassandra and the others, everyone looking for the Inquisitor. But he is the one who found him. Fallen in the grass. Immovable.

After what seems an eternity he moves, running to the Inquisitor and falling to his knees at his side.

“Alistair?” he calls. His voice trembles but he doesn’t care “Alistair!” he shakes his beloved’s body but there is no answer. His hands move searching for wounds and find the hand with the Mark, the skin burned as if strike by lighting, the veins a purple almost black.

Dorian searches for a pulse, for the beating of the heart he loves so much. And finds it. Barely there.

“Please…” he asks. Please don’t die. He cannot say.

He barely hears when the others arrive. His hands clutching at Alistair’s armor, his mind begging the Maker for his love’s life. He realizes when Elrya starts to take care of the Inquisitor, her healing magic the one Dorian trusts the most. But his eyes remain on Alistair’s face, his heart asking for his beloved’s eyes to open once again. There are tears pricking his eyes, but he doesn’t care.

He wants Alistair healed. Alive.

And then… A weak cough leaves Alistair’s lips, his body trembling under Elrya’s hands. And Dorian can breathe again, his hands cradling his amatus’ head, feeling his breath against his skin.

- What are you doing? - Fenris questions without turning his eyes away from the book.

- Am I not allowed to look?

The questions capture Fenris' attention and his green eyes watch as the smile on Hawke's lips try and fail to be innocent.

Still smiling Hawke approaches the sitting elf, one hand cradling the marked neck. Fenris allows the touch, searching for the mage's eyes and finding only the gentle and patient love always present in Hawke. Lowering his head, Hawke rests his forehead over Fenris', a trembling breath escaping from his lips.

- Thank you. - Hawke whispers - For remaining at my side.

The offer of a kiss prevents Fenris from answering but on the lips that taste like lyrium Hawke can savour the promise that is repeated in the touch that abandons wine and book to claw at his clothes, his skin.