Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rushing forward like a river, time erodes and consumes all in its path. Volcanoes erupt under its flow, they erupt and gush forth and solidify. All in an instant. Time pushes onward, uncaring and unfeeling, dragging all life down under its current. Eggs, embryos, children, adults. The elderly. Everything is crushed under its water, everything is brought under.

As the river flows, life with it. The People, some with skin as dark and loamy as the ground below, others as pale and pallid as the glare of the sun. They live, warring and raging, all committed to their moral cause. Time takes them all, for though they claim immortality, their blood is spilled by their commanders, their heads lie on the ground as the soil drinks their life force.

The Evanuris.

They wage war, they fight. Some fight for the cause of the right, the true, the moral high ground. They are murdered. Others fight for their own power, for their vanity, for the need to take and control.

They too, are murdered.

And so the last of them sleep, but their names live on, worshiped and revered. Elves, splitting and splitting, like eggs, like cells. But they do not form a whole, not any longer. They split, and split, and split, spreading across the land, meeting humans, kossith, dwarves. And still, they divide.

The old gods, corrupted and rotten to their core rose, each one bringing about the end of days. Countless lives were taken by their leathery wings, by their decayed and ancient souls. Each time a hero arose. The fifth of these heroes sacrificed themselves for the good of all.

The world did not deserve her.

Out of the deepest slumber, they say a pale man arose, and here, accounts blur. Perhaps he was a kind man, caring and compassionate. Or perhaps instead he was cruel and unyielding, yearning for the days of old. Some say he was eight thousand years old. Others said he was merely a mortal, a tyrant in search of something that no longer existed.

The accounts are as corrupt as the Archdemons of old. For just fifty years after the pale man disappeared with no trace, the world fell to a Qunari invasion. The army struck Ferelden first, sending their dreadnoughts down to the port of Denerim, slaughtering every last person that tried to resist. No alarm was raised, no dead spoke the warning of the war to come. Ferelden fell, then Orlais. Nevarra was next, the Free Marches barely stood a chance. Tevinter gathered a resistance, gathered its massive army of mages and fought, but the Qunari had prepared for them.

The Qunari templars were able to wipe the field of magic before the army could gain a foothold.

Resistance came from an unlikely source: Rivain. The Seers of Rivain were unlike anything the Qunari had prepared for. They'd overlooked the tiny country—with its Qun settlement and sizable Qunari population, they could not view it as a threat. Three Seer women coordinated mental attacks, dropping massive portions of the invaders. They were able to revive the mages of Tevinter, and it is said that for a time, the entire free world owed its existence to three elderly women. The Dragon Age ended with a whimper, a wounded beast licking its scarred body.

The next Age was called Sight. It took nearly the entire age for the world to rebuild from the terrible destruction done by the Great Invasion. The Qun of old never recovered, the Qunari of Par Vollen choosing instead to restructure and grow in a new way. It was at this time that Darkspawn began to mysteriously drop off, corpses clogging the Deep Roads. The fifth blight appeared to be the last.

Sight ended with the era of Sun. The Chantry began to fall apart in these years, slowly losing its grip on the governments within Thedas. Mages and Templars alike turned against the church, refusing to engage in the system and instead developing their own. Divine Maria was unable to turn the tide, and the era of Sun ended with a complete separation of the Chantry from the governments of Antiva, Rivain, Ferelden and Nevarra.

The twelfth age was known for a time as Cruel. For the first twenty years, war raged throughout Orlais, the poor and disenfranchised rising against their oppressors. It was not to succeed, and the Chantry of Orlais ordered an Exalted March against the last Dalish of their nation. Ferelden was called upon to put a stop to the slaughter, and several Dalish heroes of the country ran an underground escape route. It is estimated that they saved over one hundred thousand elves through their efforts. This earned the age the name Savior, and ushered in a new day of hope.

Hope began with a shift, one of the largest since the last days of Arlathan. The dwarves rebuilt their roads, and Paragon Maeorcan was named after developing a high speed rail system to bring the dwarves across the old roads. Commerce for the children of the stone shot up to unprecedented levels, and surfacers were offered full pardons. The dwarves of Orzammar became the Dwarves of Thedas, trading and communicating with the rest of the world like never before. Darkspawn hadn't been sighted in one hundred years when the last of the old dwarves died.

The river of time picked up its pace, sweeping the people of Thedas along with it. The Diamond Age saw a revolution of technology, as mages, no longer locked into Circles, were given the schooling and control they needed to harness their gifts. Dangerous gas lamps were replaced with calm and safe witchlights. Sending crystals were miniaturized, smaller and smaller until they could convey pictures and video. The harvesting of food became an easy task. Horses and dracolisks were replaced with cars and buses, trains and airplanes.

And so the fifteenth age saw an end to wars, and instead a new era of information. Technology boomed, bringing with it its own set of troubles. Poverty and homelessness was still rampant throughout racist and backwater Orlais. Antiva City, Minrathous, Dairsmuid and Cumberland became the culture capitals of the world, Orlais reduced to a relic in a world moving past it. The fifteenth age of Thedas was known simply for one thing:

Peace.

Chapter Text

They called it the rainy season, though it did not compare to the monsoons of Rivain and Par Vollen. Instead, Antiva City was subject to three months of near constant drizzle. Water ran in rivulets down the cobbled streets. It bounced off leaves but stuck to windows, leaving them stained and grimy. The grey of the sky glared down onto the city, a vast and oppressive being. Something to remind the citizens that though they may cower under their roofs and take comfort in their indoor plumbing, they were still ruled by nature.

Tonight Prime Minister Avilian will address the nation in regards to the peace treaty with Ferelden. Attending the conference is the president of Ferelden, Anora Mac Tir, and Vice President Teagan. Though our nations have not been actively warring for some time, we expect tonight's event to usher in a new era. This Age will truly live up to its name: Peace. Roberto Marconis, KRZY News for Thedas Public News Network. The time is ten minutes before the hour. Coming up-

Ishalle brushed his finger over the pale blue power rune and turned the radio off. Jazz would come on after the news and he wanted quiet instead. The rain continued its drizzle. He cracked his knuckles, unthinking and went back to his easel. Three years this little gallery had been open; three years of making his hobby his career. He blended the red and orange pencil together on his paper, trying not to get his hopes up for customers.

Rosala had been skeptical of the location. Belltown was the oldest district in Antiva City, some buildings dating nearly four hundred years old. It was one of the only places in the city that did not fall to utter ruin during the Great Earthquake of the last Age. The ancient alienage gates still stood, though they were bolted open. Down on Vine street, the old Vhenadahl still stood. On nice days he'd visit it, sketchbook in hand. It was a good place to draw; elves still frequented the place, hanging their prayers from the massive and sprawling branches. Lately, it had become somewhat of a tourist destination, but not as popular as the Arts District.

Outside, the waving embrium in the window planter caught his eye. Rosala eschewed modern medicine in favor of Dalish poultices and herbs. He grew the embrium for her, a little nod to the aunt who had given him so much. The gallery was even named for the plant, and if he wanted to stretch any additional meaning to it, he could say that it was a source of new growth for the community. Or at least, that was the idea.

The door's soft bell tinkled as Lyon walked in, shrugging his coat off his shoulders. “Hey. Cold outside?”

“No.” Lyon hung his coat on the hook and walked over to where Ishalle was standing. “How are you?” he asked, kissing his cheek.

“Bored, if I am honest.” Ishalle stepped back from the paper and glared at it. “I cannot make this one work.”

“What time are you closing? I thought we could go try that new Dalish place down the street.”

“About fifteen more minutes.” It didn't matter how many times Ishalle had explained to Lyon that there was no such thing as 'Dalish food.' The Dalish were spread throughout Thedas, each region hosting its own clans, cultures, and cuisine. He decided to let it slide.

Lyon sat down next to the cashier podium, stretching his thin legs out in front of him. “I'm hungry now. Close early.”

“Non, I cannot. I did my books this morning and I must sell at least three paintings to be in the black by the end of the month.”

“Think you're gonna sell them in the next fifteen minutes, do you? Nobody's outside.” Lyon pulled out his phone and started browsing. His boyfriend was pale, so pale his blue veins showed under his arms and hands. He wore his fine brown hair in a long tail down his back, and sometimes wisps would stick to his forehead. Pretty eyes though, bright blue. Ishalle sometimes found it hard not to compare himself to Lyon.

Like the way he'd turn red when exposed to any temperature changes. Bright pink at the tip of his nose, bright red on the apples of his cheeks. His skin was naturally olive toned, though the weather had him paled. He could tan under a witchlight, and the Antivan sun would bring out the natural yellow-browns of his skin. His hair was thick, wild black curls that refused to be tamed, even under the strongest of gels. For the most part, he left it alone.

Ishalle was about to speak when the door opened again. Two shem girls walked in, one loudly sucking on a stick of rock candy. They tracked water as they stepped in, and Ishalle sighed. “Please wipe your feet.”

“Huh?” One of the girls looked over at him. “Oh, sure. Whatever.” She made a show out of scraping her boots on the mat at the door before walking up to Ishalle. “Cool tattoos.”

“Vallaslin. Not this 'tattoo' as you say.” He locked the pencils away, hoping they'd buy something and leave.

“What do you sell here? Pictures?” The girl with the candy made a loud sucking sound and started thumbing through the prints.

“The prints are twenty sovereigns, em, thirty five if you buy two.”

The other girl laughed. “You're having us on, right? These are tiny!”

Ishalle looked to Lyon for some sign of support but he was buried in his phone, foot tapping out his impatience. “They are printed down the street on a historic press. The process is labor intensive but the result is much better.” The girls looked skeptical at his response.

“You ought to just use a real printer, then you could charge less.” Lyon didn't look up as he spoke.

The girls shrugged and left, leaving the prints stacked haphazard in their crates.

Ishalle felt the bile of bitterness rise in his throat as he straightened them out. His bank account was distressingly low and he didn't know if he'd get through the end of the month at this rate. Perhaps he should bring an offering to Falon'din's shrine next time he was at Rosala's house. Something to bring sales, anything. He turned to Lyon, disgusted with his comments. “Are you ready now?”

“Yeah, let me finish this.” Lyon typed a bit longer, leaving Ishalle to stand and wait. “Alright. Let's get out of here.” They walked out onto the street and before heading south to the restaurant, Ishalle dropped the heavy metal gate down. Rain had turned to mist, barely coating his skin.

“Why did you say that to those girls?”

“Hmm?” Lyon was texting someone. “What?”

“Back at the gallery. You said I should charge less...” He wasn't sure what to say. Lyon was so good at twisting his words around until he was dizzy with the effort of keeping up.

“Maker, you're sensitive.” Lyon put his phone in his pocket and pointed ahead. “We'll turn left up here. It's in a garden. I've heard loads about this place.”

“I was not being this sensitive. They were going to buy something.” The rain was making his hair frizz, the deep brown curls losing any semblance of neatness.

“They weren't going to buy anything. Girls like that don't have any money. I was doing you a favor, they'd just get their fingerprints all over your pictures and then what would you sell? Anyway, stop trying to pick a fight. This restaurant is nice, maybe we can just have a pleasant meal for once?” Exasperation colored his words. Lyon opened the garden gate and they went inside the little brown house.

Lyon was still in his suit. He favored neat, plain clothes. Today his shirt was a soft buttery yellow, and his jacket and pants were a steel grey. He wore his long brown hair in a tail down his back, and a straight silver pin held his tie in place. The Orlesian Embassy had appointed Lyon to work in the office of the Ambassador, one Leliana Nightingale. And the ambassador was said to run a strict ship. Dress codes were enforced, not that Ishalle minded.

Ishalle liked Lyon's style, and he especially liked his face. His skin was a bit pale but his pink lips were cute. It was too bad they were in public. Ishalle wanted to touch Lyon's hand, but his boyfriend refused any and all public displays of affection. Instead he shook out the menu and looked it over with a critical eye.

It's a good thing Rosala isn't here. This menu would make her cringe. There were sepia toned pictures of dour faced Dalish in traditional dress, preparing various dishes. Ishalle didn't see a single set of pointed ears working in the restaurant. Each meal description was lurid, ascribing a strange sense of voyeurism to the elves. He tried not to laugh. The last thing he wanted was to set off another useless argument.

Lyon ordered the goat stew, the single most expensive thing on the menu. In Orlais, the Dalish ate rabbit, nug, or fish. He'd heard of some Antivan clans using goat, but it was rare. None of the food on the menu really seemed to represent anything that Ishalle had seen. With a shrug, Ishalle ordered the spicy sweet potato stew, deciding it was the safest option.

Fucking shems don't know how to cook. Ishalle's stew didn't taste like anything. He could picture his uncle laughing at the spread. Lyon's goat stew came in a giant plate, a tiny portion mounded in the center with a single elfroot leaf perched on top. Of course, it's always elfroot. The plant was more common in Par Vollen cuisine than among the Dalish. Lyon praised his food, and ordered a bottle of wine for the two of them to share. Ishalle shrugged at a second glass, and listened as Lyon talked on and on about his day.

As Lyon spoke, Ishalle found himself not listening. Instead he thought of the gallery, wondering if he ought to host some sort of street fair or perhaps a sidewalk sale. For a second, he thought about asking Lyon's opinion. He wouldn't care. Lyon never really understood the gallery. He and Ishalle had more than one argument about his pricing, his methods, his chosen career.

Lyon is still talking.

They'd been seeing each other for a year, more or less. Before then, Ishalle and Lu were heading to fetish nights in downtown Antiva City, a warehouse full of black PVC and polyester gags. Lu never had a problem finding a play partner—she liked both men and women and was gorgeous to boot— but Ishalle was far more picky. Too many large men assumed he was a bottom, and too many women approached him, all pleather and high heels and whips. Lyon was different, dressed in neat grey clothes and looking shy in the corner. He and Ishalle were a good fit, and they started seeing each other outside the dungeon not long after.

The bill arrived. A hundred and twenty sovereigns. Creators. Lyon wanted to split it down the middle, pulling out his phone to calculate the tip. “Lyon, can I not just pay for my food? This is very much.”

“You should have said you wanted to go somewhere cheaper.”

“I am not the one who ordered the most expensive thing on the menu.”

Lyon narrowed his eyes. “I work very hard for my money, Ishalle. You want me to take you out to dinner, you need to say something first.”

And I don't work hard? Ishalle had gone to bed around four in the morning and risen at eight to work on one of his paintings. An hour before noon he'd gone downstairs to get his books in order, to send emails, to work on the next six months of shows. He was tired, deep in his bones. His feet hurt, his wrists ached, and his shoulders had more knots than a piece of cheap lumber. Lyon looked well rested, and comfortable. It wasn't worth arguing.

“I am only asking for you to be reasonable.” Ishalle put down two twenty sovereign bills. “I have told you already that the gallery is not in the black, I have told you what I must sell to have extra money. This is-”

“Fine.” Lyon pocketed the money and put down his card. “Happy now?”

Ishalle sat back in his chair with a sigh. It didn't used to be this bad. Did it? Lyon watched every bill he spent like a hawk, often chiding Ishalle for his own meager purchases. They'd argued about it so many times that Ishalle eventually stopped buying things in front of him. As they left, Ishalle shoved his hands in his pockets, glaring at the concrete sidewalk in front of him. The rain had stopped completely, but now it was dark, soft yellow witchlights floating in the streets to light the way home.

“What are you upset about now?” Lyon whined.

Ishalle kicked a tiny stone up the street. “Those girls from earlier.”

“Maker's fucking breath, Ishalle, let it go.”

“Why? You lost me sales. Why should I let this thing go?”

Lyon was following Ishalle up the wooden stairs behind the gallery, and he leaned against the railing as Ishalle fumbled for his keys. “You're making way too big a deal out of this.”

Maybe you are not making a big enough deal out of it. “I am going to go to bed early. Thank you for dinner.” Ishalle unlocked his door, stepping inside before Lyon could kiss him. He shut the door, his head aching.

Minutes later, after he'd toed off his shoes and dimmed the witchlights, he heard Lu's telltale knock at his door. She'd been his neighbor for three years, and his friend for ten. He ushered her in, and made his way to the living room window. She sprawled on his sofa after grabbing a bottle of tea from his fridge and asked him how things were.

“Fair. I suppose that is the word for it.” He sat on the sill, lighting a cigarette. Smoke traveled out into the cool wet air.

Lu was in her pajamas. Bright pink, with tiny flowers printed all over them, cuffs trimmed in cheap lace. Her lipstick was bright pink, but she wore no other makeup. Her horns were curved down and covered by plain silver caps with a tiny tassel dangling off the end of each. With a shiver, she grabbed Rosala's afghan and wrapped herself in it. “Where's Lyon tonight? Thought I heard you guys talking out on the landing.” Her phone buzzed and she hissed at it before tossing it into his cushions.

“He...went home. We went out to eat, that is all. Expensive bullshit restaurant.”

“Mmm.” She gave him a look. “How much longer are you going to put up with his crap?”

“Lu...” He took another drag. “Please, don't.”

“I'm just worried about you. He doesn't make you happy.”

Ishalle frowned at that. He flicked the ash out the window and looked down the street. Squat brick buildings lined Somni avenue, with short trees planted, three or four to a block. It was trash night, and people kept emerging from their homes to dump bags in the bright yellow bins. He watched as a dwarf woman walked home, her kids helping with the lumpy bags of groceries. The air was wet and cool, and he felt a sense of hope and peace as he looked around his neighborhood.

Lu was right. Lyon hadn't made Ishalle happy in a long time. About the only time they seemed to enjoy each others company was when they were fucking. Hardly sustainable, this thing. Lyon was always bringing Ishalle gifts, things that were totally unsuitable for him. He would tell Ishalle about how much effort he put into the gift, asking the girls downtown what elves liked, and going off of that. He really didn't need yet another elfroot candle. Or another shem authored novel about the slaughter of his people.

If he was honest, candles and who was paying for dinner was hardly the worst of it.

“It's just that,” Lu tried to catch his eye. “You can do so much fucking better than that guy. You deserve better, don't you believe that?”

“I-” Ishalle looked down at his right wrist, covered in a leather cuff. Putting the cigarette in the ashtray, he grabbed his wool sweater and wrapped himself in it. It was about three sizes too large. Perfect. He took a last drag. “He does make me happy, sometimes.”

“Not enough times,” she mumbled.

“Do you think I am too sensitive?”

She pursed her lips. “Where did that come from? Too sensitive about what?”

“About...my work.”

“No. Maker fuck me, you've worked your ass off for that gallery. And I know it will pay off.”

“Lyon said I was being sensitive. Some human girls were in the shop and he told them my prints cost too much.”

“Andraste on a stick. No, that's bullshit. Fuck.” She held her head in her hands and muttered something he couldn't hear. With a sharp sigh she looked up at him. “C'mon, let's watch Maledictus, it's streaming finally and I've been wanting to see it. Take your mind off things for a bit, okay?”

“Sure.”

After the gallery closed the next day, he met with Case. The Ferelden elf had moved to Antiva city three years ago, and after showcasing his ceramic sculpture in Ishalle's gallery, the two men had become friends.

“Really ought to think about expanding your online shop.” Case brought a pitcher and two glasses to the table. The Blue Nug was a bar Ishalle adored. It was run by a fellow Dalish, a woman called Ghost. She was as pale as her name, skin whiter than Case's even. Her vallaslin was barely visible. A freak accident, some said. She kept the place slightly dingy, on purpose she'd told them once. Some punk band was setting up their equipment, but the music wasn't set to start for several hours.

“I have a website.” Ishalle poured for the two of them. “What else is there?”

Case leaned back. “I signed on with a print company. Everything's done in their factory, but it's cool. I took a tour of the place and it's really great. Run by elves too. Anyway. You sign up, send them high res scans, and they print to any size, on demand by the customer. Get a good cut out of the deal too. I've been taking pictures of my sculptures and selling those.”

Ishalle frowned. “I already make prints. I like the company I work with.”

“Believe me, I understand. But have you gotten your books in the black yet?”

“Non.” He conceded the point. “People are coming into the shop but they do not buy much. My originals sell from time to time, but not this often as I like.”

Case pulled a deck of cards from his pack and started shuffling them. They were bent and soft, but Ishalle didn't think they'd ever been played in an actual game. “Consider them. I'll send you the link. You can even limit your prints, so there's more demand. And the quality is good.”

Ishalle didn't like the idea, but he decided to think on it. “How is Harlowe?”

Case's normally cheery face fell. “She's pregnant. My fucking fault, too.”

“What will she do?”

“She's gonna go into the clinic on Moonday. Get the, uh. The procedure. She said she doesn't want to be a mother. It's fine. I'm just fucking sorry I put her through this. Only been together six months. I'm not ready to be a dad. I'm not even sure I wanna be with her forever, you know?”

Ishalle sipped his beer, looking across at his friend. Case was twenty six. He'd come to Antiva to get away from his massive family, sprawled across Denerim. The Angosts were said to own two thirds of the shops in the old alienage, now a forgotten relic. Case had fled the shadow of his family for a chance to spread his wings, though he kept in contact with his siblings.

He was a bit of a slob. Ishalle favored loose clothes that hung off of him, but he also liked them clean and without holes. Case was wearing a t shirt that looked like it had come from the previous Age, holes in the neck and sleeves. Whatever logo was on it was cracked and faded to almost nothing. His pants were stained with glaze, with oil, with...was that ketchup? It was hard to say. But he had a head for business. His own studio was downtown, and prospering.

But then, Case didn't have problem showcasing human works. It was a sticking point with them, one they'd argued countless times. And it didn't help that Case was doing well, where Ishalle was still unsure if he could make his rent. Lily had been kind to him, giving him extra time when he needed it. So far he'd only been late twice, but his landlord didn't seem to mind.

Ghost strolled over to the table, leaning on it with both hands. “Ishalle, you still looking for artists?”

He nodded, hopeful. There were holes in his schedule for the next month.

She sniffed and sat down, ignoring Case. Ghost wasn't exactly a friendly woman, but Ishalle liked her well enough. She'd bought some of his prints last year. And she kept a stack of his business cards for customers. Ghost kept her face in a permanent scowl, all the better to keep the assholes away, she'd told him.

“Got this group of kids for you. They're street artists, they usually paint under the bridges. One of them—” She turned to shout the location of the rune strip to the band. “It's behind the stage, I told you that already!” A screech of feedback let the entire bar know they'd found it.

“Graffiti artists?” Case pinched his lips together. “Hard to sell graffiti.”

“Photographs of it.” Ghost waved her hand, dismissing Case. “Anyway, one of them is really good. She's a skinny thing, name's Jayne. Born and raised in Antiva City.”

Ishalle nodded. “Send her my way.”

The band started tuning their guitars, and testing the sound quality. She leaned back in the booth and glared. “I'll do my best. Jayne's skittish as shit. I don't even know if she has a phone number. But you have got to see her work, it's fuckin' great.”

Case spoke up. “More prints for you, mate. That's what you need to be selling. That'll give you more time for actual painting.”

Ghost slapped her hands on the table. “I don't know shit about running a gallery, so I won't tell you what you need to do. Anyway, I gotta get back to the bar, but I'll give Jayne your card next time I see her.” She scratched the back of her neck. “And uh, just to warn you, she's not exactly pleasant.”

Ishalle snorted. If Ghost thought someone was unpleasant, they were likely to be downright hostile. But his schedule needed filling. They said their goodbyes, and Case and Ishalle spent the rest of the evening talking business and life. It was nice. For a while, he was able to forget the books, and the troubles with Lyon.

But not for long.

Chapter Text

“The name Missati Valois has been on everyone's lips since the airing of Maledictus. We're here tonight with the author of the book. Miss Valois, thank you for joining us. Let's start by talking about the effects of the series. Tourism to Zazzau has increased drastically since the airing. How is that affecting the city?”

“Tourism has always been a great and easy way for a country to increase its revenue. To me, Zazzau is an important but oftentimes forgotten part of Rivain’s core history. A city that was never taken by the Chantry or the Qunari? To me, that’s a city whose story is worth telling. With Maledictus, readers and viewers alike are given a slight glimpse into that history, and if it whets their curiosity enough to visit it in real life? More’s the better, I say.”

“There was a lot of backlash at casting Nafisa Abdul in the role of Hadiza. She was such an unknown, and I think people were expecting someone more famous. What lead to her casting decision?”

“It’s rare that a writer has total control over the process of casting, but I was very specific and stalwart in my choices. I didn’t want A-list celebrities...revenue wasn’t my aim, here, even if the producers tell you otherwise. I wanted screen presence and someone who could easily slip into the role of Hadiza without overacting or half-assing it because they’re trading on the luster of their fame. Nafisa’s audition blew me away with how vulnerable it was, and to me, that’s such an integral part of Hadiza’s character, as we’ve seen in the series.”

“We know so little about the events. What inspired your interpretation of the Inquisition?”

“Well, as you know, there’s a lot of conflicting accounts of what actually happened during those events. So many people focus on how the actions the Inquisition took to ensure safety and peace, that no one remembers that the Inquisitor was a person too. Doing research for the interpretation took a lot of work, and sifting fact from fiction. Finally, I wound up deciding to blend both. There are events we know for sure happened, as there’s evidence all over Thedas, but I wanted to tell a story about the Inquisitor, and not the Inquisition itself.”

Ishalle switched the radio off at the sound of the door chimes. Cold wind followed the woman, ruffling Ishalle's curls. With a shiver, he wrapped his sweater around a bit tighter and stood to greet her. She looked wealthy.

Dalish, absolutely. The thick black lines of June's vallaslin told him she was likely from the Free Marches. She wasn't beautiful by any stretch. Her cheekbones were sharp like broken marble, her actual cheeks appeared sunken in. Whether that was the contrast of the black ink against her pale skin, or from lack of food, he couldn't tell. Her fine hair was a deep, dark red— dyed most likely— and her green eyes were unnerving in their large size.

Her clothes were that sort of woven, soft fabric that rich Dalish women liked so much. Muted colors, intricate patterns. He saw a strange knot pinned to her blouse. It had an ironwood bead in the center, with the glyph for 'knowledge' painted on its lacquered surface. Her handbag was white halla leather, clean and squared off. Ishalle straightened his back.

“Well. This is a nice shop you have here.” Definitely a Marcher; her accent was thick and bounced along like a rubber ball down a sidewalk. “Who are the artists?”

“This wall here is my work. And behind me is the work of Ignacio De Solasan.”

The woman's thick eyebrows shot up. “You painted these? Who is your clan?”

How to explain... “My family name is Zorić but we are allied with Clan Athim, of Antiva.”

“But you're Orlesian? Oh, don't mind me. I haven't even introduced myself!” She chuckled. “How rude of me. My name is Neria Lavellan, our clan is in Wycome. I'm run the department of Dalish Studies at Antiva Royal University.”

“I see.” He wasn't sure why this woman was here. She looked at his art, with a scrutiny that unnerved him.

“You don't charge much.”

“I must sell my work.”

She continued, breathless. “Understandable. I heard about this gallery on Parchmnt recently, someone shared an article, Best of Belltown, did you know you were featured? It was a great article, I can send it to you. Are you on Parchmnt? I'm looking to get some artwork by actual Dalish for my classroom. Do you have prints available?”

He gestured to the print table. Boxes were lined up in a row, the prints matted and slipped into clear plastic coverings. She started to flip through, talking all the while, prattling on about social media and Belltown and other nonsense. His head spun trying to keep up. “How much for the prints?”

“The smallest are ten, the medium size are twenty and the large are thirty.” He watched her make a pile of the largest. “What is it you teach?”

“Well, I only personally teach Dalish History and Dalish Literature. But my department runs the gamut from language to art, to culture.” She brought a stack of ten prints to his register.

“Who takes these classes?” he asked, wrapping each print in soft cloth.

“Mostly elves, big surprise, right? I get a few Dalish students, but for the most part, city elves are there. The occasional human will join in, that's always a riot. Dwarves too, sometimes. But elves make up the bulk of my students. It's gratifying, teaching the younger generation about our past.”

“Bien sûr.” Each print was stacked and placed in a sturdy cardboard crate. “Much has been lost.”

“So much,” she agreed. “I go on expeditions every year with a friend of mine from Minrathous. He teaches physics, not history, but we uncover a great deal every time we go. The magic our people use is so much more complex than what they teach in Tevinter!” She kept talking, telling him of the nature of the veil, of the rituals used by various clans around Thedas that she'd uncovered.

All he could think about was his mother and father, and the damage they'd done to him. Maybe one day he'd be more comfortable with mages, but the two who raised him did their best to instill a fear that cut as deep as a blade. He rubbed his wrist, twisting the leather cuff.

Neria paid him three hundred and forty sovereigns, telling him to keep the change. “I'd like to have you give a guest lecture sometime if you're interested?”

“I do not know what I would say.” He pictured her talking over him, nonstop.

“Take my card. You can contact me there.” She picked up the crate, tucking it under one arm. “Thank you for the prints. I'll await your email,” she said, leaving no room for discussion.

Despite the rain, he managed to get a decent stream of visitors to his shop. He sold six more prints, enough to push him just under the amount due for rent next week. He breathed a sigh of relief as he looked over the books, and when he went to bed that night, he felt a ray of hope. It had been a while since he looked forward to the future.

Painting came naturally to Ishalle. He set up a large canvas, nearly his height and started work. Long strokes for a dress; he'd fill in the shaded details later. Arms outstretched, hands spread wide. For the skin he used a mix of blues and greens, giving Sylaise an otherworldly complexion. Her hair he piled high, as a crown. Vines would be added later, thick wood and sharp leaves.

He lost himself in the work. Sometimes he felt as if he was sinking into the painting itself, arranging the colors and lines, letting the art emerge on its own. He gave Sylaise a wide smile and laughing eyes. The eyes were the hardest part. Fine brushes brought out the expression. Squinting as he worked, he detailed reflections off her irises. Sylaise was the Hearthkeeper, the Creator of Home. Her gaze would welcome everyone who looked upon this.

He wanted it to be his best work.

The face was coming out, rounded cheeks, a bit of soft flesh to contrast with everything else he was planning. One of his favorite books was a historical fantasy about Sylaise, and how she would defend her realm with fire, keeping her people safe. The book had detailed a scene where she commanded an army, hundreds of thousands of elves, loyal and unflinching. He thought about adding them in the background, and toyed with the idea as he worked. The bell chimed, pulling him away from his task, and it took him a moment to clear his head.

His customer spoke, before he could say a word. “I am Vivienne De Fer. How do you do?” The woman introduced herself with a smile. In contrast to Neria, she was gorgeous. Deep brown skin shone in the bright witchlights of the gallery. Her hair was shorn close to her scalp, giving her a commanding appearance, though her voice was gentle and richly accented. The name was Orlesian, but her accent sounded closer to Ostwick. Her clothes were smart, a tight royal blue suit, pointed high heels and long silver earrings.

“Good afternoon. Ishalle Zorić.” Ishalle found himself intimidated by this woman's straightforward manner and luxurious clothing. Vivienne De Fer...that name rings a bell. “Wait, are you the-”

“Dean of the College of Magical Arts and Sciences, yes. Antiva Royal State University.” She sidled onto the tall stool in front of Ishalle's cashier's stand. “Perhaps you've heard that we're rebuilding Rialto Hall? The whole thing was razed to the ground,” here she waved her fingers and smiled, “and designed from scratch. My office will be relocated there, and I require new art for both my personal studio and the reception hall. The hall was in such a state of disrepair. I look forward to no longer finding mold in my office,” she said with a soft laugh.

Dean De Fer was known across the city for revolutionizing the way magic was taught. Her methods were said to be unusual, but Antiva City was quickly becoming a beacon for mages across Thedas. Her laugh put him at ease and he relaxed his shoulders.

“Em, I had a visitor from your college yesterday.”

“Yes, my dear. She is a colleague of mine. She told me of this place, and I decided to see for myself. It's a lovely gallery. And your art is quite good.”

Ishalle made a note to email Neria as soon as the Headmaster left. “Are you looking to commission, or perhaps purchase the existing piece?”

“More than one, I should say, my dear. I'm fond of that one over there,” she said, pointing to a ruined temple in a field of blue flowers “but I'd prefer some painted just for this project.”

They spent the next hour working out the details. Ishalle tried not to act too excited, but it became difficult once the subject of payment came up.

Everyone told him he should value his work, and in truth, he did. But somehow, charging what the paintings were worth was something he'd never been comfortable with. It was just paint. He reminded himself that he'd opened this gallery to make a living, and a living he must make. Channeling Lu's easy confidence, he doubled his normal rate for the Dean.

And to his utter shock, she agreed.

She put down a deposit, and a deadline. Two months to finish three paintings. It was going to be two months of sleepless nights. But his rent and bills for the month was paid, and he'd have a bit extra to set aside for next month. For the first time in three years, his books were in the black, and his account secure. Thank the fucking Creators for her.

“Your talent is obvious.” She stood, clasping her handbag shut. “And I look forward to seeing the completed work.”

“You may, if you wish, stop by before they are done to see the progress. I can make the changes if you require such a thing.”

“I'll be sure to do just that. I'll be by next week?”

“Oui. That will do well, I will finish the sketches for you.”

He went ahead and paid Lily right away, enjoying the surprised look on her face when he dropped off the cash. That night, he bought a six pack of mid range beer and invited Lu and Case over for celebrations.

“You didn't invite Lyon?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. Case glanced up at the question, but kept his mouth shut.

“I thought about it, but we argued about the money last time and it would be difficult to tell him about today. I do not think he would be happy for me. He would probably ask me to pay up for dinner, even though he is the one who ordered the expensive food.”

Lu gave an over exaggerated sigh. “Ishalle. Do you want to marry this guy?”

A laugh bubbled up from his chest. “Marry? Is this a joke?”

“It's not.” She twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “I've been doing some reading lately. Found this blog, you'd like it, but anyway the author gives really good advice. Basically, if you can't see marrying the guy, you should end it.”

“That seems rather...harsh.”

“Nah, look, mate.” Case said. “You can hook up with people, go on dates, get to know them. But, you two have been going out for a while, right? What is it, a year?”

Ishalle narrowed his eyes at them.

Lu nodded. “So...if marriage is so unthinkable with him, why are you wasting your time?”

He distracted himself by digging around for some snacks in the fridge. A jar of black Rivaini olives, a stick of hard cheese. Need to go shopping soon. “Do not worry for me. I like Lyon. It's fine.”

“He treats you like shit,” she retorted.

“Enough.” He didn't want to think about it anymore.

She glared at him, but stopped. Case microwaved some popcorn for them, babbling on about some customers. Ishalle knew he was trying to break the tension in the room, but it didn't quite work. They spent the rest of the evening catching up on Maledictus before Lu and Case went home. Ishalle sat by himself, smoking on his windowsill and thinking about their argument. I don't know if I ever want to get married.

He didn't bring it up, either to Lyon or himself. Lyon came over later that week, all cologne and smiles and soft kisses. They turned aggressive, and Ishalle took him, trying not to think about his friends' words. For the first time, Ishalle faked his orgasm, grateful he'd worn a condom so Lyon wouldn't be able to tell. As usual, Lyon left shortly after. Rare was the occasion he would spend the night.

Do you want to marry him? Ishalle lit a cigarette and watched an owl swoop through the sky. No. I don't. It was a foolish question anyway; he'd never even once seen Lyon's house. It's always a mess, he'd said. Sometime I'll get the place cleaned up. I'd be embarrassed to have anyone over. Ishalle flicked the ash and thought some more.

Why am I with him? The question burned. The more he thought about things, the worse he felt. Lyon hadn't ever asked him anything about his heritage. He wore bold black vallaslin on his face, a relic in a city that was moving ever forward. Young shems would get tattoos in similar designs, gibberish on their ankles or wrists. And Lyon didn't seem to care. How would he know? He knows nothing of the Dalish. Of what we went through.

It was three more cigarettes before he went to bed, but sleep eluded him. The question of marriage still danced around in his mind, harassing him. Lyon didn't love him. Maybe he was rich enough, but he couldn't see living with the man. Waking up next to him. Sharing bills and expenses. Vacations. All of it was utter madness. Even his artistic mind couldn't imagine it.

His thoughts turned to Maledictus. The book he'd read, of course, before it was adapted for television. Missati Valois had made waves with the story, envisioning the Inquisitor as a woman of Rivaini blood, a mage even! The book scandalized the Orlesian Chantry, and they'd denounced it before it was even published. It sold anyway. Every bit of the story had caused a stir. The Rivaini, of course, were pleased to claim the fabled Inquisitor. Nobody even knew if the stories were true, if a hole had truly ripped through the Veil, if the Pale Man had indeed orchestrated it.

But that wasn't the part he thought about.

Instead, he thought of the passage where Hadiza had woven her fingers into Samson's hand and said “I want to be your wife.” Her conviction! She knew she wanted marriage, and all that it meant. Their love had been enough. It was mutual, a love that was wrought of blood and magic and dreams and hopes and shared experience.

And...respect.

Ishalle didn't see any of that with Lyon. He couldn't see Lyon fighting for him. Or standing by him when things got hard. Hadiza had been traumatized, and Samson comforted her, worked with her to ease her suffering. Lyon would never do those things. He would never...

So why do I stay?

Why?

Chapter Text

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Ishalle's shoes scuffed up dust as he and Lu made their way down the gravel road that lead to Rosala's home. Seeing it lit by the gold of the setting sun made his heart rise a little in his chest. Here was the first place he'd known peace. Here was the first place he'd seen unconditional acceptance. Here was hope.

The sound of clucking hens traveled from the backyard. Rosala's house was a squat and sprawling thing, sitting on the ground like a mother hen. White clapboard siding was accented with traditional Dalish paintings. Ishalle had done most of them, during his year of recovery. A herd of leaping halla danced over a group of abstract warriors with bows. And on the side of the house, the aspect of Mythal wrapped her arms around the windows.

The house had been built by Rosala and Moska with their teenage children lending a hand. They started with a two bedroom home, expanding it as their family grew. Now there was a workshop in the back where Moska made his traditional ironbark bows. Cherry trees—which by late spring would be bowing under the weight of sour fruit—were the prize of the Zorić home. A chicken house and a wide pen with halla supplied the small family with most of their needs. They had no use for meat birds, keeping instead a large flock for eggs. The halla does supplied their milk and cheese, and the bucks pulled the plows. There was no longer a need for such an archaic lifestyle, but Rosala was proud of their self sufficiency.

Plus, halla fawns sold very well to other Dalish.

When they arrived, Rosala was on her knees in front of the flowerbed, a stack of wilted weeds gathering at her side. Lu called out to her, waving. His aunt turned and rose, putting her hands on her knees for support. She wavered slightly, and Lu rushed forward to help her off the ground, much to Rosala's consternation. He jogged over, in time to hear her muttering about how she didn't need help simply to stand.

Lu bent down and kissed the smaller woman on the forehead. Rosala shook her head and gave Lu a squeeze on the arm. “It's nice to see you, dear heart. Get inside, the kids have been asking about you.”

Lu laughed and pulled a small pouch from her bag. “Ha! I brought them some toys.”

Rosala hugged Ishalle and patted his back. “Smile for me, Little Bird.” He did, but his heart wasn't in it. Lyon had wanted to get together that night and stopped texting once Ishalle told him he was supposed to go meet his family. It ate at him, even as he walked through the bright green front door to Rosala's living room.

The screams of Sona's children snapped him out of his moping. Lu had brought them a building toy made out of spare leather and wood. The thing was very old fashioned, but Ashe and Morga were delighted with it. The two boys played on the floor, laughing and shrieking while Lu showed them the various things they could do with it. Sona's oldest son, Dras was setting the table, glancing longingly at his brothers.

Ishalle took over and waved Dras into the living room to go play. Ten was a hard age, or so he assumed. Dras was expected to do more chores these days, and less time with his siblings. Putting aside resentment at his own lost childhood, he went in the kitchen to help Moska.

“Uncle.” At Ishalle's soft greeting, Moska turned, kicking the oven door shut.

“Ah, good, you're here. Pick that basil for me. Don't look at me like that, I'm not going to make you chop anything.” Moska lifted the lid off a heavy iron pot, filling the kitchen with steam.

Ishalle set to work on the stack of herbs in front of him. Everything smelled so nice here, fresh air, tomatoes stewing on the ancient stove, the crush of basil between his fingers. And something smelled like garlic and frying oil. His stomach growled. With a start, he realized he hadn't eaten since the afternoon before. Since opening the gallery, he'd missed more than one meal out of forgetfulness. The pile next to his hand was growing. “How much basil did you need?”

“Oh, that's fine, that's too much. No, that's fine, give it here.” Moska swept it off the counter, whirling in place before shredding the leaves with a sharp knife. He'd forged it himself a few years ago, lecturing Ishalle on the finer points of the metals used, and how to hone a blade, and on and on until he thought he might actually fall asleep standing up.

Rosala walked into the kitchen, steadying herself on the wide wooden counter. Her veins were puffed high on the back of her hands, and he was hit with a memory; five years old, sitting on her lap. He'd push the vein down and laugh and she would tickle him until they were both giggling. Her hands hadn't been so spotted back then, her gait more steady.

“You are well?” he asked. She was breathing as if winded.

“Oh, just old and fat,” she chuckled. “Bring out those platters for me.”

Not long after, the table was heaped with food. A huge platter of braised vegetables was the centerpiece, big cubes of eggplant, tomatoes and summer squash all steaming and smelling deliciously of thinly shredded basil and aria blossoms. Moska had made potato pancakes. They were Ishalle's favorite. Brown potatoes were grated fine and stirred with garlic paste, egg and black pepper. They were a pain in the ass to make, and Ishalle thanked his uncle for the effort. He closed his eyes as he crunched through the outer layer. Fresh soft cheese mixed with caraway seeds and soaked in oil was passed around, along with everyone's favorite oyster dumplings. Ishalle smiled when he saw Lu politely take exactly one before passing the plate down.

Maddy was pouring sour plum brandy for everyone, and she handed the bottle to Lume. He diluted a small glass for Dras, filling the rest with fizzing water. Dras thanked his father and took a sip, barely concealing his disgust at the taste of it.

“You will get used to this thing.” He patted Dras on the shoulder and the boy shuddered.

“Hope not. Šljivovica is gross.”

“It's a grown up drink, sweetie,” Maddy said. “You'll like it when you're older.”

“No way,” Dras protested. “It's gross and I won't ever like it.”

Ishalle sipped his. Honestly, he had to agree. It was hot and dry, burning his nose with alcohol and leaving an odd dusty feeling in his mouth. But tradition was tradition and there was no turning down a glass before family dinner.

Everyone raised their glasses into the center of the table and Ishalle caught Lu's eye. She never could pronounce the toast properly. There were plenty of people there to do it for her.

“Prijatno!” they called simultaneously, and the meal began.

Ishalle ate, listening rather than participating in any conversation. Sona was cutting Dawn's food for her, the three year old chewing her food with an open mouth while swinging her legs and staring at the ceiling. Everyone chattered all at once. The weather, the problems with that one halla in particular, the art of bending ironwood, the gossip from Clan Athim. Lu's oyster dumpling had one single slice carved from it at the end of the meal.

After the meal, he sat outside with Moska, smoking. Moska had a cherrywood pipe, and this he filled with fermented embrium from a carved wooden box. It smelled sweet, like honey and vanilla. Moska puffed the pipe and leaned back in his chair. “How's the gallery?”

“Struggling, but I have the good news.” He leaned back, mimicking his uncle and for a moment felt a young child again. Moska was broad shouldered and quite tall. He kept his head shorn down to a bare black fuzz, and Ishalle was sure if he could have grown a beard that he would. June's vallaslin adorned his forehead and wide cheeks, a deep Nevarran blue that stood out against his leathery olive skin. Moska was a hard man, but like the bows he carved, he held flexibility and resilience in his bones. Ishalle told him of Madame De Fer's commission, and how much she had paid.

“That is good news. Congratulations, lad.” Moska opened his little cabinet and pulled out some cherry brandy. “A toast, for you.” He handed Ishalle one of the delicate coupes and they nodded solemnly before tipping it back and tossing the last drops on the patio for Sylaise. “What are you gonna do with the money?”

“I paid my rent, and set aside some for next month, in case I do not sell as much as I wish to.”

“Good. Smart. My girl taught you well. But,” he paused, puffing his pipe. “I want you to think about this gallery and its future.”

“Oui, je sais.”

“Ferelden, lad.” Moska didn't speak Orlesian. The man was from Nevarra, born and raised in the city of Cumberland. He'd met Rosala in Orlais, on active duty with the military. After his time was served, he returned and helped Rosala escape. They'd already had Sona and Maddy at that point, and Rosala wanted them out of Orlais before her brother could get to them and poison their thoughts. Moska was a kind man, but he had no tolerance for anything that reminded him of Orlais. Including the language.

Moska continued, his tone matter of fact. “You're going to need to get your shit together with this venture of yours. Don't think I'm belittling you, now. I just want you to be in a place where you don't have to wonder if you're going to make next month's rent. This commission is good, but you need to turn it to your advantage.”

“I am not sure how to do this thing.” Ishalle liked talking to Moska. His uncle was fair, and had an even temper. Different in every way from his father.

“You got yourself one big commission. Make sure you advertise that fact. Maybe get a picture of this dean next to the final work. Or an endorsement from her.” Moska lit his pipe again. “You got a website yet?”

It took some restraint to not roll his eyes. “Yes. I built one right away.”

“Good. Advertise the shit out of this commission on it. Put your rates on there. And you said she paid double, right?” At Ishalle's nod, he went on. “Make that your new going rate.”

“I was lucky she paid it.” Ishalle worried the hem of his sweater. “People might be scared to pay such a price.”

“Obviously Miss High and Mighty Shem thinks your work is worth it. So you make your work worth it.”

Ishalle wasn't sure. But he didn't argue. Lu came outside, letting the screen shut behind her. “Sorry to interrupt. Last train is in forty minutes, so we should get going.” Ishalle nodded and rose, shaking his uncle's hand.

“I'm gonna stay out here. See you two soon. Take care now.”

Lu went back inside and Ishalle turned to Moska. “Uncle. Is Aunt Rosala well?”

Moska puffed the pipe and rolled his eyes up to meet Ishalle's. “She's fine. It's a bitch to get old, lad. I don't recommend it.”

Ishalle nodded and went inside.

Rosala held Ishalle back for a moment, under the guise of an extra long hug. “That cuff is old and dirty.”

“I clean it,” he protested.

“It's leather, you can't keep it nice forever.” She looked around to make sure nobody was listening. Lu had Dawn on her shoulders and was bouncing the shrieking girl. “My offer still stands. I can make that scar go away. Just say the word.” She whispered to him, grasping his hands in her own. They were like ice in his palms.

“Do not worry for me. It does not bother me,” he lied. She'd offered before. He'd always refused. He couldn't adequately explain it, but somehow he felt that if the scar on his wrist was gone, he'd forget what his father had done. And forgiveness was not in his vocabulary for that man. “We must go. The train will leave without us.”

“Of course, Little Bird.” She squeezed his hands. “Come back soon, both of you.”

The train zipped along. Silent, save for the thump of the magnets on the rails. Ishalle leaned on Lu's shoulder as she read her phone. Outside only the occasional bright witchlight passed by, a blip of orange in the dark of rural Antiva. The inside of the train was kept slightly dim, and as usual the movement made him drowsy.

“Did my aunt give you more romance advice?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

“Course she did.” Lu put her phone away. “She's convinced I need to have babies.”

Ishalle laughed. It was an old routine with them. “Seven babies and you'll be happy, yes?”

“Ugh.” She shook her head. “I can't even find someone who wants to stick around for more than three dates.”

“What happened with Carla?”

“Said she doesn't date bi chicks. She could have told me that before I fucked her, but I guess I should have expected that.” She leaned her head against his, and they said little for the rest of the evening. Outside, the lights increased in frequency, until the orange and green lights of Antiva City splayed out before them. The train descended down the massive hill into the bowl of the city, and sleep weighing their steps, they walked home.

He was refining the lines on the first of Madame De Fer's sketches when she walked in. It was hard to suppress his pride when she praised his work. He had the feeling she did not hand out praise easily.

“I will assume we're still on schedule for these?” She clasped her hands together in front of her dress, the same shade and shine as an emerald.

“Yes. Next month, on the twenty first, correct?”

She nodded, as the bells on the gallery door tinkled. Ishalle looked up at Lyon walking in and smiled, surprised to see him.

But it was Vivienne who greeted him.

“Hello, Monsieur Du Montfort.” She gave him a perfect smile. “A pleasure, as always.”

“Ah, Madame De Fer.” Lyon nodded, his face a poorly composed mask of politeness.

“This is a lovely gallery, don't you think?” She waved at the paintings on the wall. Lyon hadn't looked at Ishalle yet; in fact, he was completely ignoring him.

“Yeah, it's alright.” Lyon shifted his weight from one foot to the next.

She looked down at her phone, before pocketing it. “You must stop in often?”

“No. Never been here before in my life.”

The blood left Ishalle's face. He gripped the edge of his desk, staring daggers at Lyon. You're supposed to be my boyfriend, he wanted to shout. It seemed childish now.

“Oh? Rather out of your way, isn't it? No matter.” She narrowed her eyes at Lyon, looking at him like something she'd scraped off her shoe. She stood, gathering her purse and briefcase. “I'll be back next week, Ishalle. Thank you for your time. Good day, Lyon. Do give Lady Du Montfort my regards.” The door shut silently behind her.

Ishalle felt ill. “You...denied me?” His stomach ached as if he'd eaten something rotten, and his hands itched, hot and unpleasant. He looked hard at Lyon, and the bastard couldn't even meet his eyes. Feeling as if he was in a bad dream, he rose from his desk. “You treat me so poorly and then you deny me? How dare you? I cared for you!”

“What the fuck do you want from me, Ishalle? She's friends with my—boss.” Lyon's face was pink, whether from embarrassment or anger, he couldn't tell.

“How long do you plan to hide me? Forever? Why stay with me if you will just hide me away? Are you that ashamed of me?” All his questions bubbled over, everything he'd been holding back for the better part of a year. “Is it not bad enough the way you treat me? You have no respect for me! For my work! For my fucking feelings!”

“Are you stupid? I can't let her know I'm with someone like you. It'd ruin my career!”

“Fuck your career!” Ishalle pointed at him. “And fuck you.”

Lyon's face curled into an ugly sneer. “I don't know why I wasted so much time with you anyway.”

“Get out of my gallery,” he said through clenched teeth. “I do not want to see you ever again.”

And Lyon laughed at him. “You don't want to see me? That's pretty fucking rich coming from you. After everything I did for you? I bought you all those gifts, paid for your food, put up with your boring fucking stories about the gallery? And now you're dumping me? You're lucky I spent any time with you at all. Have you ever really looked at yourself? Who'd want someone like you?”

Ishalle balled up his fists. Each word was like a punch to the gut, cutting off his breath, closing around his heart. Every muscle he had was shaking now, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Go,” he said through clenched teeth. “Get out.”

It was warning enough. Lyon slammed the door, or at least he would have had the springs in the hinges not stopped it. Ishalle shut down the gallery for the night, numbly locking his register. He's gone. He walked out front and rolled down the heavy gate. Fucking shems. The shakes in his muscles made him feel ill. Should have known better. 'Someone like you.' Someone like me... He called me boring. He said so many things. Ishalle stopped dead in his tracks. Something Vivienne had said as she left... He'd been so blinded by Lyon's behavior that he hadn't even noticed.

Give my regards to Lady Du Montfort.

It didn't take much digging online to find Lyon's wife. And two children.

Six beers in, Lu found him. Moving aside the empty bottles, she sat on the floor next to him and rubbed his back while he sobbed drunkenly. She only stood to cook a little food, still quiet. He ate some plain rice, slow bites to ease his sloshing belly.

He didn't want Lu to say she was right. And, Creators bless her, she didn't. She brought him tissues, and made him drink water, and smoked cigarettes with him, and slept in his bed with him. Her presence was a comfort, one he was nearly too drunk to notice. But he was so grateful for her, even in the small hours of the night when she eased his head over the toilet, making calming noises while he puked over and over again.

It was nice to have friends, even if he didn't have his lover anymore.

Chapter Text

“Abolishing the templar system really was the worst thing the Chantry could have done. Now in Orlais, our country is overrun with mages who suffer under possession. Just last week alone, a little girl burned her family alive. And you want me to feel sorry for these things? Mages are not people and if Orlais wants to be taken seriously again, they need to leash them.”

“That's all well and good, but you're not looking at the specifics of what happened. That little girl was seriously abused by her parents, a facet of the story the media is conveniently ignoring. And you can't be serious with that word, 'things.' Have you no compassion?”

“I don't need to have compassion! Welcome to the real world! You think compassion is what won us wars?”

“There's simply no point in bringing back the old system. Every other country does well without it. Antiva has the Officers, they meet with mages once a month to test for any demonic presence. That's not that difficult, and the mages there thrive.”

“I think you're ignoring the cold hard truth which is that mages are not to be trusted and anyone who says otherwise is a fool.”

“Clearly, you can't be swayed. Thank you for calling in. Next on Opinions Around Thedas: The Inquisition Legends. Are too many media companies cashing in on this story? We interview novelist Cassandra Pentaghast about the phenomenon. Call now to ask her any questions you might have.”

“Piece of shit shems.” Case spoke around his mouthful of pancakes, waving his fork around. They were at the Red Skull Diner, Ishalle's head pounding as he waited for his coffee to kick in.

“Aren't I technically a shem?” Lu delicately nibbled her toast. The faint bags under her eyes were the only sign that she'd been up late.

“I think if you use the old definition we're all shems? But you're a good one, anyway.” Case shoved bacon in his mouth, nodding like he'd made a good point.

Ishalle picked at his food. Hashbrowns, plain. It was all he could stomach. The smell of grease was heavy in the air, pink plastic booths nauseating him.

Lu turned to Ishalle. “Feeling alright?”

“No. He treated me badly, why should I miss him?” He dug his fork into the food and set it down, suddenly too tired to drag another mouthful down. My fucking head. Why did I drink so much? “But I miss him.”

“Don't force it.” Lu waved the waitress over, and handed over her credit card. “Yeah, he was shitty, but you cared for him. Doesn't mean you have to feel great about dumping him right away.”

“You should get a new piercing.” Case grinned. “More rings in your ears, it would be cute.”

“I've been thinking about it.” Ishalle had sixteen total piercings. Both nipples, eight in his right ear and six in his left. He'd been considering a barbell in his bridge. Might be time to get it done, now that he didn't have to worry about bumping it against Lyon's stupid face. His eyes started to burn. Fuck, please don't let me cry, not right now.

Lu handed him a napkin. “Let's get going. Case, you coming with?”

“Nah, I got a bunch of meetings today.” He spilled the last of his coffee down his shirt, and dabbed uselessly at it with a napkin, before throwing it on the table. Ishalle gave him a hug, and Case squeezed his shoulders. “Text me if you need anything, okay?”

“Oui. I will. Thank you.”

He poured himself into his work, thankful he was busy. Vivienne's commissions were not only large in cost, they were massive works, fit for a university hall. He worked all night, running on coffee, on instant noodles, on more packs of cigarettes than he should have been smoking. By day, the gallery remained slow. He brought the canvases into the shop, touching up details between the few customers he managed to attract. It wasn't the best way to get over someone, but it kept him distracted. Three weeks until the deadline. Three weeks to finish the biggest project of his life. A week had passed since the breakup, but he didn't feel closer to getting over the pain of betrayal.

When Vivienne walked into the gallery, she set a paper cup of black coffee down for him. A tiny red rune glowed on the side, keeping the liquid inside steaming and hot. He mumbled a greeting, still thinking of the sting of Lyon's words.

“You're upset.”

“Please excuse my behavior. That man that came in the last week...” he trailed off.

She took the stool in front of the register. “Lyon. The two of you were involved.” She said it without judgment.

Ishalle nodded, and took a sip of the coffee. “This is delicious. Thank you.”

“You're most welcome. I will assume you did not know of his wife?”

Ishalle rolled his shoulders back, feeling heat crawl into his cheeks. “I did not. I thought he was mine alone.”

Vivienne looked long at him. “I believe you. Lyon is a snake. I have long suspected he was dallying with someone else, though I did not know who. I'm friends with Lissette, his wife. She often complains of his absence. If she's intelligent, she'll finally leave him for this. I hope you are treating yourself well?”

He shrugged. Somehow, staying up until five in the morning, smoking on his fire escape didn't seem like taking care of himself. She didn't need to know that. “Yes.”

“I regret that I had a part in breaking that news to you. But you are an extraordinarily talented young man, my dear.” He waited for the clarification for an elf, but it never came. “I do hate to see youth getting their hearts broken.”

“I do not know what to say.”

“I am sure you have no thanks in your heart for me my dear, and I do not blame you.”

“With all due respect, madame, I have nothing but thanks for you.” He met her eyes, trying to press sincerity into his speech. “You have commissioned this art and I am grateful. And if you had not been there that day, I would still be with him. He treated me poorly. And he would have continued.”

“Well. I hope that you heal well, and quickly.” She cleared her throat before continuing, all business now. “Perhaps turn your focus to this: I would like you to be there when I unveil the new wing. You must present your work in person.”

Ishalle glanced up sharply. “You want me there?”

“Of course, my dear. It's only proper. I would request you wear something a bit more formal, but yes.”

Ishalle looked down at his clothes. His soft yellow t-shirt was two sizes too large, his jeans draped down over his feet, frayed cuffs just grazing the ground. And then there was the oversized black cardigan with the pockets blown out from shoving his hands in them all the time. I suppose I should find something more suitable. “May I bring a friend?”

“I'll put 'plus one' on your invitation. The twenty seventh, and be there precisely at six. Your invite will be in the mail.”

“Thank you, Madame De Fer.” He ducked his head, Lyon's poisonous words echoing as she looked over the progress of the paintings. She wants me to present my work. Who will even care?

The next day he was texting his aunt when a strange man entered the gallery. Tall, with skin like burnished bronze, he carried himself with the confidence of a very wealthy man. He wore black trousers, cuffed and creased, and a neat, white shirt. In the clear light, Ishalle noticed a white pattern of a snake across the back of the shirt, intersected by the man's black suspenders. His black mustache was oiled and curled, and a tiny gold septum ring rested just above it. He could see the muddy outline of a red tattoo on his right arm through the slightly sheer fabric.

Ishalle gave the man a cursory greeting and went back to texting Rosala. She'd had an awful lot of healer appointments lately. First it was for her balance, then something about her breathing. He had a feeling there was a lot she wasn't telling him. Any questions he had for her were deflected. It was rather like watching the mage contests at the Harbor Arena every year; for every thrown bolt of lightning, there was a counter attack to brush it aside. His inquiry about her latest appointment was met with an invitation to dinner that weekend, which he accepted, promising himself he'd get answers out of someone at the house.

The bridge of his nose hurt. The piercing itself hadn't been so bad, but every tiny movement of his face alerted him to the barbell. And he couldn't see the gold ends of the jewelry, no matter how he tried to look. It was getting difficult to not constantly cross his eyes. Rosala will tease me. He didn't mind that part. She had been more than kind to him over the years. He could put up with the occasional jab.

“Who does all these?”

Ishalle nearly jumped out of his seat, having forgotten his customer. The man's voice was soft as velvet, and softly accented. “Ah. Those on the wall are mine. Over here is a local artist, and the prints are, em. Mine, as well as older exhibits.” Creators, he was exhausted. He ran his hand over the lower half of his face, trying to wake himself up.

“These are yours?” The man looked over his shoulder back at Ishalle. “They are remarkable.”

“Em. Thank you.” It still wasn't easy for him to accept compliments. He flicked his finger across his screen and looked at Lyon's Parchmnt page. He was smiling, his arm around a pretty blonde woman, two grinning children holding flowers up. He wondered if this Lissette knew how much her husband liked getting his ass paddled. Jabbing the screen, he quit the program and put his phone to sleep.

The man was still in the gallery. Most people made a quick tour of the place, pretending to look just long enough to shout an awkward Thanks! before leaving. But this customer was sticking around, flicking through all the prints.

“How much are the larger ones?”

“Thirty.” He made a note to raise those prices as well. “I also have a framing service to recommend if such a thing is interesting to you.”

“Most of these are interesting to me! I quite like your original works. Could you tell me about them?” The man smiled, and Ishalle noticed he was wearing eyeliner around his soft grey eyes. Black, with tiny wings.

“What do you wish to know?” Ishalle tapped his fingers against his podium. “I do not normally present an artist statement if that is what you are after.”

He chuckled. “I see you paint a lot of ruins?” he prompted.

“Oui. Elven ruins, from the ancient days. Our people...” Ishalle trailed off. He suddenly didn't feel like telling this shem anything. His cheeks burned hot with shame. “I like ruins” he finished, lamely.

“I do too. I also dislike them. A reminder of what my people destroyed.” The man pulled out his phone and Ishalle noted that it was softly lit. “Ah, afraid I must be going. Lovely gallery you have here. I'll be back.”

They always say that. “Thank you for stopping in,” Ishalle said softly, opening up Parchmnt again. Lyon's face smiled up at him. I should delete this app. He'd only put it on his phone to search out Lyon and find the truth about him. His own profile was blank. Case had tried talking him into making a page for the store, but he wasn't up to it.

Lu helped him get dressed for the presentation. She didn't bother dragging him from place to place, instead finding something suitable in his closet and helping him put it together. He grabbed his cardigan and she sighed. “No.”

“What problème is with my sweater?”

“It's too big for you, for one. You look like you're drowning in it.”

“It is warm.” He clutched it under his hands. “And wool, wool is nice.”

“No. Wear this one instead.” She shoved a smaller cardigan at him. It was neat and soft, with narrow pockets and a row of tiny shell buttons. It clung to his arms and dragged static along his long sleeves. Sona had given it to him last year at Gozba, and the tags still dangled from the cuff.

“I hate it.”

“Yeah, well. You can hate it later.” She picked at his curls, trying to get some semblance of order to them. It was useless. “Go tidy up your hair. You look great. You'll be great tonight.”

“You should get ready too. She wants us there on time, and I do not think she is the type to wait.” He suddenly was very glad she'd agreed to go.

“Don't worry, I'll be ready in five minutes.”

It was closer to ten, but better than he expected. Antiva Royal University was a short ride on the 121 and a long ride on the Ferrocarriles Antivan Universitat. The FAU was a slow and bumbling train, with advertisements blaring at every stop. The noise was fuzz in his ears and he found himself unable to think clearly. There were notes in his pocket but the threat of the stage and audience was making his stomach turn.

ARU itself was up on a tall hill, and he was sweating by the time they got to the top. Fragrant orange trees lined the paths, and people walked arm in arm, wearing lots of bright silk and shining polished shoes. He felt distinctly out of place. Plenty of elves were there, but none of them wore vallaslin. He palmed his phone, wanting desperately to call a cab to take him home. Lu took his hand and squeezed it. “I'm gonna head in right away. I know you need to meet with the Dean first. I'll be cheering you on though. Be proud, okay?”

He nodded and watched her walk up the marble steps. Outside the tall university entrance, he lit a cigarette, stepping off to one side. My fucking hands are shaking. While he knew Vivienne was happy with the work, he desperately wished she hadn't asked him to give a speech. Explaining everything, to an audience who would likely be bored and hungry and uninterested in the creative process.

He took long, slow drags off his cigarette, watching the smoke drift off in the pink and orange sky. Antiva City stretched out below him, a maze of streets and old brick buildings among the new glass and concrete monstrosities. People were heading up the stairs to the new wing, all the people that would watch him talk, all the people that would judge his work. Dirthamen, grant me strength.

The building was impressive, he supposed . Crystal spires set in metal frames, all angles and sharp lines. The glass sparkled in the light, reflecting blue on one side and glowing yellow on the other. He didn't know the architect, nor was he particularly interested. I sell some paintings to such a famous building...is this too large for my little gallery? What will become of me? Fear gripped him in its icy hand and he remembered his father throwing his sketchbook on the fire and...

This is not the time to think on such things. Gathering his courage, he walked up the stairs, showing his invitation at the door. A ruddy skinned young dwarf with bright brown eyes led him down the hall and up the elevator to Vivienne's personal office. The Headmaster welcomed him in with a wave, thanking him for making the journey.

“Now, my dear, you mustn't worry. All you'll need to do is say a few words about your work. And trust me,” she said with a conspiratorial smile, “the more obtuse you are, the better.”

“Obtuse?” He tipped his head.

“Quite.” She straightened his collar before nodding sharply at him. “Take heart. This should be a very easy evening for you. After you present your work, simply step aside, listen to a few frightfully dull speeches and then you can eat and drink to your heart's content. I do hope you brought business cards.”

“Bien sûr.” He pulled the wooden case out of his pocket. One of Lu's designs. The box was a comfort, as much as his sweater, as much as his cigarettes.

His prayers did not relax him.

It could have gone worse. There was a microphone, but it was set up for Vivienne's grand height, heels and all. Ishalle stepped out to speak into it and couldn't figure out how to lower the thing. Someone came onto the stage and unhooked it so he could hold it instead and the act made him feel even more self conscious.

And then he forgot how to speak Ferelden.

All the blank faces looking up at him sent a pang of fear into his gut. I should have invited Rosala, she is going to be upset that I did not. It was all he could think about, how disappointed she would be that he'd failed to invite her. The glint of Lu's horn caps in the distant darkness were all he could see of his friend. He took a deep breath, holding the microphone in his sweating hands. His eyes flicked over the front row and he saw a familiar face. The customer from last week, with the mustache and the septum ring. The man smiled warmly at him, and Ishalle drew strength from that small act of kindness and greeted the audience.

Things flowed a little better after that. He thanked Vivienne for her patronage and talked briefly about opening Embrium Art and Prints, about the art he hoped to contribute to Belltown. There was an awkward moment when he realized he didn't know how to wrap up his speech; instead he mumbled his thanks before stepping off the stage in a cold sweat, eyes watering from the bright glare of witchlight.

The crowd wanted to talk to him afterward. He found himself handing out a number of cards, belatedly remembering that he hadn't updated his website in about six months. The mustache approached him, and accepted one of his cards between two fingers before walking away again. The room was hot and full of people, the food bland and unpleasant. Lu was next to him, keeping a hand on his shoulder, but he could only think of home. He pictured the blue solitude of his apartment.

His couch was worn and threadbare, but very comfortable. White wooden floors were cold all year 'round, but Rosala had provided him with some handmade braided rag rugs. He'd planted a variety of aria in little pots Case had made for him, and hung some of his own work, the pieces he loved too much to sell. His home was carefully cultivated, every bit of it for him and him alone.

And right now he desperately wanted to be there.

Music started up, flowing out of spheres bobbing around the room. Ishalle found a side door and made his way out, intending only to have a cigarette. He also intended only to go for a short walk, but his feet carried him to the train platform, and the next thing he knew, he was waiting for the 121 South to take him home. He texted Lu, and she sent him back a picture of herself flipping him off.

-Sleep well, anyway. You did good tonight, she wrote.

-thanks for coming with me.

Leaning his head against the fogged window, he watched the city go by, the bus thumping pavement through Belltown. There was the old vhenadahl, the Rutherford building looming behind it, resplendent in old wood, stone and stained glass. People were out in droves. Devout elves were praying at the tree, their hair wrapped in twists of bright red and yellow fabric in the old Antivan style. He saw young couples, and vendors selling food. The hawkers were part of Antiva City's lifeblood. As long as there had been people in the city, there had been people selling quick meals.

The bus turned down Somni avenue and he walked up the back stairs, more tired and drained than he'd realized. There was a bundle of mail; art supply catalogs, bills and an ad for next month's fetish ball. Should I bother going again? He pushed the thoughts aside and headed in, feeling as threadbare as his sofa.

Chapter Text

Ambassador Montilyet will be visiting with the Ferelden delegates for tonight's summit on the Arts and Sciences. A grant of over one million sovereigns has been agreed on, to put towards the arts in Rialto. Meanwhile, the City Council has lambasted the grant, claiming more taxes are needed to go towards solving their homelessness problem. Ambassador Montilyet said only on the matter that quote “We are taking Rialto's position very seriously.” End quote. The time is 25 minutes past the hour. Next, live from the Tower—

Ishalle turned the radio off, mulling over what he'd just heard. An art grant. For a moment, he allowed himself to daydream. If a grant like that was ever applied to Antiva City, he should apply. Case was a great sculptor, he was a decent painter. Together, they could use that money for some sort of public installation. The mail carrier walked in, dropping a bundle that snapped him out of his dreams. Vivienne had sent him a thank you card. Cursing his thoughtlessness, he rushed one out to her in return. Just as Moska predicted, business picked up, far faster than he anticipated. All day, customers were in the shop. He sold more prints than he had in months, and two original paintings. While grateful for the business, he began to worry about the time he spent behind the register, instead of in front of a canvas. Sylaise still wasn't completed. Neither was the temple of Andruil. Dismayed, he looked over his books that night, unable to fit an employee in his budget.

The next day, he was still looking over his numbers during a lull. If he didn't have to pay for witchlight maintenance he could afford an employee for one day a week. One day was hardly worth the expense and Rosala aside, he didn't know any mages. She was old and busy; he could hardly expect her to drive out every week to charge his runes. The bell rang, breaking him out of his thoughts, and in walked the kind man from Vivienne's soiree. Ishalle nodded at him and kept half an eye on him as he walked around the gallery, examining the art.

“Ishalle, is it?” The man quirked up an eyebrow.

“Em, EE-shalle, if you please.” He cleared his throat. “I do not recall telling you my name.”

“You were announced at the presentation. And it's on your card!” The man flicked it out before pocketing it. “Mine is Dorian.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Ishalle didn't know what this strange shem wanted. He seemed to just be standing there, waiting for something. “I, em. I saw you at Madame De Fer's-”

“At her party, yes. I run the department of Magic and Physics at the University.”

“Oh.” Ishalle didn't know what to say to that. Magic and math were never subjects he'd cared to study. He couldn't even think of an intelligent question to ask.

“At any rate, I was so impressed with the work you did for the dean, that I'd like to commission some of my own.”

Where will I find the time? Ishalle rolled his shoulders back and stuffed his hands in his cardigan pockets. “Em. Yes, of course.” He heard the soft buzz of a phone. Dorian took it out of his pocket and read the message.

“Shit. Felix is done already?” He pulled out a business card of his own, and handed it to Ishalle. “I'm afraid I have to run, but could you please email me? I'd like to discuss your terms.”

With a nod, he accepted the card and set it on his desk next to a framed drawing Ashe had done for him. Dorian smiled again, lopsided, before heading out onto the windy street. The card was brown, with gold embossed print. Dorian Pavus, PhD, Department of Magic and Physics. [email protected]. While the money would be welcome, he worried about managing his time. Guilt hit him hard. He should be grateful anyone wanted to commission him at all.

Lu tried talking him into the fetish ball, but he declined. “I do not want to deal with any of it.”

“I won't force you.” She lifted her hair up and he tightened the strings of her corset, one foot on her ass. “I do think maybe a quick thing with someone might get you over Lyon a bit faster.”

“I am over Lyon,” he lied. He tied a slipknot before changing his mind to a square knot. “But I want some time for myself.”

Bijoux prowled over to Lu's bed, circling her ankles and purring. She mumbled some nonsense to the large, cocoa colored cat and scratched her head. Bijoux turned and sneered at Ishalle, her eyes flashing a pale green.

“Lu, your cat's eyes just glowed again.” Ishalle was reasonably certain the cat was possessed but his friend would hear none of it.

“Leave my sweet baby alone. It's just the lights in here. Anyway, Marco might be there.” She said it as if she was offering up a special treat.

Ishalle shook his head. “I had fun with Marco once, but I do not need to fuck him again. He feels too many things for me. I am fine, Lu, I promise.”

“I know, I know. I'm just worried. How do I look?” She twirled and threw her braid over her shoulder.

Her corset was pink, and her skirt a bright white satin. She wore a belt with loops all around, and onyx horn caps that curled into sharp points. Bijoux flopped on the floor and yawned, making a half assed grab for her ankles. “Intimidating.”

“Good!” She put on shiny pink lipstick and grabbed her purse. “Thanks for helping me get ready.”

“Need a silent alarm?”

“Shit! I almost forgot. Um...let's say 3 am? Is that too late for you?”

“Non, I am going to work on that painting for the doctor tonight.” Dorian wanted something 'haunting' he'd said, and Ishalle had sketched out an empty field, a house in the distance and a looming shape in the sky. He decided on an owl, or the aspect of one, behind stormy grey clouds to give the general impression that something still lived beyond the natural world.

Dorian Pavus. He looked the man up on Parchmnt, finding nothing satisfying. Only a picture of the side of his face, and links to articles relating to physics and the veil. Why am I looking at this?

Lu sent her text at 3 am, letting him know she was home and in bed. He sipped his tea, glaring at the canvas. He hoped Dorian would like it. An odd feeling nagged at him, until he couldn't think anymore, until the lines wouldn't go where he wanted. He stumbled into bed well past five am, and nightmares blessed him with their absence.

Three weeks after the unveiling, he received an email, one that startled him. In between all the advertisements and artist's messages, one blinked up at him from the college.

Ishalle-

Every third Satinaday, Bastien and I hold a dinner at the university. Many of my colleagues attend, and it would be a good opportunity for you to meet them, and expand your audience. You may bring your friend Lu, if you would like. I am rather interested in her jewelry, and missed the chance to speak with her last time. If you wish to attend, please email me by the week before so I may include you in my preparations. This invitation is standing, should you wish to think on it.

Best-

Vivienne

He read the email three times. Networking. Moska and Maddy had both emphasized the importance of it when running a business, but he'd never really known how. Parties were a good way to meet people, but until now he hadn't known anyone that threw the sort of gathering that would earn him contacts. He texted Lu and she came downstairs a few minutes later.

“Dinner parties? Andraste, that's amazing.”

He could see the sovereigns dancing in her eyes. “Do you want to go?”

“Are you kidding? Yes! Of course. Oh, I need to update my catalog. Do you think I should bring a case of jewelry there? That's probably pretty rude, right?” She rubbed her hands together, pacing across the gallery floor. “The collective is gonna love this. Fuck, I have to get everything ready!”

He laughed a little. “Yes, but we have two weeks before the event? You have time.”

“Two weeks? That's hardly anything. I need new cards, I need to get more pieces ready, I need to update my website—“ She whirled around. “Have you updated yours?” she demanded.

“Yes, I have.” It wasn't completely done, but it was close. The prices were changed, and his inventory just about finished. “Who do you think we'll meet?”

“I don't even care who we meet, as long as they want to buy my shit. I'm going to the card shop, want me to pick yours up too?”

He nodded, and clicked over to the site to place his order. “This is good, right?”

“You got it. Good things are coming, I can feel it!” Grinning, she left, dodging some customers as she walked out the door.

Chapter Text

“An Inquisition story like no other... From screenwriter Dela'tash Hanin, comes a tale of intrigue and horror. The Antiva Chronicle calls Birthright, 'A dark and profoundly moving tale. Equal parts disturbing and intriguing.' A Dalish Hunter, cold as the mountains and strong as everite. She seeks her way, forever chasing the title of 'Maiden'!

[A woman, whispering] “You’re being overly sentimental.”

[A man, thickly] “I can’t help it. I missed you, Peach.”

Birthright, coming soon to a theater near you. This film has not been rated.

Dorian was pleased with the final work, tipping Ishalle nearly fifty percent of the sale. He made noises about hanging it in his office, gushing over the piece until Ishalle turned red and hid his face. The next week it surprised him when Dorian stopped in the gallery, seemingly to just say hello. They chatted, briefly, before customers interrupted him and then he was gone in a flash. A few days later, he was back in, and the same events repeated themselves.

He kept wanting to talk to the man, but every time he thought of something to say, Felix would text him, and Dorian would be off running. It occurred to him a few days into this little game that Felix and Dorian were involved, and that they must be quite in love. Little snippets of information would leak through as Dorian talked with Ishalle. Felix was undergoing kidney treatments; some disorder or another had taken hold. He was a math professor at the university, teaching post graduate classes. They probably met at work.

Ishalle felt inferior to Felix, like the other man was more intelligent, more witty. Probably more handsome, but he'd find out on the weekend of Vivienne's dinner if he was a professor too. He could tell Dorian loved him, loved him with everything he had. Ishalle felt a quiet sort of jealousy, the envy of what another man held dear. Dorian would still stop in the gallery, making small talk and looking over the showcase for rotating artists. Apparently, Felix's clinic was nearby.

“Is that Fenris?” Dorian looked over Ishalle's shoulder at his latest work. There were no customers in the shop, and he was taking advantage of the slow day to paint.

He nodded. “His story is one of my favorites.” He'd painted him without a shirt on, and the lyrium tattoos were just sketch lines for now. Mixing the colors to get the right glow was a challenge he was looking forward to. Breaking from tradition, he'd decided this painting would feature Fenris alone, and not with the Champion, whoever they had truly been.

“You know what I find the most fascinating about Fenris?” Dorian sipped a coffee, his eyes on the canvas. “He was a slave, led one of the biggest and most successful revolts in the Imperium and now in Tevinter, he's lauded for it. By the same families that would have enslaved him back in the Dragon Age. But they're all so quick to claim him. That statue of him in Minrathous was funded by families that were known to have owned slaves.”

“Have you read The Wolf and Champion?” Ishalle painted as they talked. “It is my favorite of the Fenris tales.”

“Yes, I love that one,” Dorian said. “Much better than some of the other drivel out there. I do prefer the stories that examine his complexities. Do you know that the Qun respected him? So much that they saved as many records as they could? Whole libraries were burned during the invasion, but we have actual primary documents about Fenris preserved intact!”

“Yes, I have a book about this thing. It has his letters.” Ishalle mixed the brown tones for the base of Fenris's skin. “He was a hero of mine growing up. I am hoping to paint him well.”

“You're doing a great job already.”

The compliment made Ishalle's stomach clench. He realized then that he was standing quite close to the man, close enough to smell the sweet oil in his hair.

Dorian's phone buzzed. “I must be going, I'm afraid.”

“Yes.” Ishalle pulled his sweater tight around his body, suddenly very cold.

Ghost's suggestion to introduce Ishalle to new artists had completely escaped his memory. He was looking at his empty roster for the month after next when he remembered, feeling foolish. A quick message through Parchmnt to the bartender and he'd agreed to meet the next evening. Dizzy from lack of sleep, he walked the mile to the bar, chewing over the work he had to do.

His thoughts would not settle. There was his studio, an utter mess. Lyon still taunted him from his subconscious. He hated himself for thinking about him after so many months. Part of him wanted to make the gallery a hit so he could have something to rub in his face if it was a success. That thought didn't make him feel any better. The dinner was tomorrow night, and that worried him as well. He had no idea what to expect; professors to be sure, but who else would be there? Silently, he prayed that Vivienne would not have invited Lissette. He didn't think he could look her in the eye after what he'd done with Lyon.

The streets were quiet at night. Distantly he heard the thump of bass, coming from some unknown nightclub. Someone ran past him, jogging with glowing headphones on. He turned left, hands in his pockets. The brick buildings were lit up, and he could smell roasting peppers, then a pot of beans. The distinct smell of smoked meat rose from one window, turning his stomach. He picked up his pace and made his way to The Blue Nug.

Ghost glared at him. “It's been more than two fuckin months, dude. You're lucky I was able to find her.” She handed him a beer and pointed at a booth in the corner. A girl with a knit hat pulled down tight sat at the table, a red portfolio in front of her.

Ishalle sat down, looking over this young woman. Like many native Antivans, her skin was a soft shade of copper. She wore a black tank top, and her arms were covered in bright tattoos. Mythal had not blessed this girl with a chin, but her eyes were lovely. Brown and flecked with pretty colors, like the Griffon's Eye gems Lu loved to work with.

“I am Ishalle.”

“That's what I hear. You got that gallery, right? Think you're hot shit? Too good to meet with me sooner or what?”

Ishalle blinked, confused. “Em...”

“Jayne!” Ghost stalked over to the table. “Knock it the fuck off. You wanna showcase your shit or what?”

Chastised, Jayne leaned back, dropping her eyes down to her lap.

“May I see your work?” Ishalle sipped the rather generous pint Ghost had poured for him. It tasted like raspberries and something bitter. Disgusting. Ghost refused to stock Orlesian ale, his favorite. He stopped asking after the second time; the look on her face had been enough to dissuade him.

Jayne flipped open the portfolio and showed him a photo of one of her murals. It was all bright colors, a woman with blue skin. She was nude, with long pointed ears and eyes that were entirely black. Long feathered wings sprouted from her shoulders, and she was on her back, her bent legs obscuring her genitalia. Her arms were over her head, as if she was laying on the sky. Leaves were falling around her, covering her small breasts. Below her was a field, filled with tiny buildings. The detail on it was incredible.

“You did this with spray paint?”

Jayne nodded. “It's gone now. Cops painted over it. Or something. Whatever.”

“Do you want something to drink?” There was nothing on the table in front of her.

“Don't drink. Rather have food instead.”

Ishalle paid Ghost—leaving behind the nearly full glass— and the two of them left, walking over to Coco's Fry Box. He bought the her a set of nuggets, fries and a milkshake and got himself an order of curly fries. Jayne ate like she was starving, shoveling the food down as fast as she could. Ishalle picked at his fries and told her of his terms.

“You show your work for one month. Any originals that sell, you earn full price. Prints of your work earn you thirty percent of the total, and those continue the, em, the run indefinitely.”

“Only thirty?” Jayne slurped the milkshake. “I'm doing all the fucking work.”

“That is not correct.” Ishalle was growing impatient with the brat. “Your work is displayed, but I arrange for the prints, and I must decide what sells and what does not. And the printing cost is high.”

Jayne shrugged again. “I guess it's better than what I'm making now, which is jack and fuck.”

“How can I reach you?”

“Nuh uh. I don't give weird ass men my number.”

If her paintings hadn't been so good, he would have left already. “I do not need your number, but I do need a way to get in touch with you, to arrange your showing.”

She hunched over the tray. “Fuck that. I'll show up when I want. Don't need you calling me, or looking me up online or whatever.”

He stood, trying to contain his anger. “Enough of this. If you do not want your work shown, you do not have to work with me.” He walked home, feeling worse for having gone out. And the fries didn't sit well in his stomach.

That night he dreamed the gallery burned, all his works going up in flames. He stood watching it, unfeeling. There was a part of him that screamed to save his building, to save what he could but in the dream, he just stood there, smoke curling around him.

Ishalle couldn't believe Jayne had the audacity to show up the next morning. He was rolling up the gate when she rounded the corner, making straight for him. “Yes?”

“Yeah. Look. I'm, um...” She kicked a rock into the street and it bounced off a car, leaving a white chip in the paint.

“Come inside.” Ishalle unlocked the door and touched the rune switch. Jayne gazed around, taking in the wall of Ishalle's paintings and looking at the guest work. Ishalle set his coffee down, started up the computer and turned on the heat. His head was pounding. All he'd had for breakfast was three cigarettes and the end of a loaf of stale bread. Anxiety was wracking him about the dinner. Part of him resented Jayne's sudden appearance, but he decided to see what she had to say anyway.

“Sorry.” Jayne started wringing her hands. “About yesterday. My mom said I need to be more friendly and shit.”

“It could not hurt.” Three little grey pills were in his cash drawer, tiny bright yellow runes inscribed on the top. He chewed them and glanced over the emails. They acted fast, killing his headache. “I assume your mind has changed?”

“I need money. I mean.” Jayne sighed. “I mean, look, I know I'm supposed to be in it for the craft or whatever, but I need to make money.”

That made Ishalle laugh. “If you want to make the money, art is not the way to do it. But your work is excellent. Do you have any pieces you can bring in, or is everything the photographs?”

“Got a few.” Jayne drew her eyes up from the floor. “You're still willing to let me show my stuff here? After yesterday?”

I'm getting desperate. Ishalle printed out the contract and handed it to her. “Oui. You can. My next opening is in two months. I usually show works for one month. The prints will run until you wish for them to stop. Read and please sign the bottom.”

Jayne gripped the contract in both hands. “I'll be back tomorrow. I gotta go help my mom out for the rest of the day. But I'll be back.” She rushed out the front door, leaving Ishalle alone with his grumbling stomach and aching shoulders.

The books were a mess. He went over them, adding up sales, subtracting rent and bills, staring over everything. Surely he'd missed something? He was in the black, by a decent amount. Tourists started coming in, and at one point he actually had a line in front of his podium. He thought of the blank canvases in the stock room, and wondered when he'd have time to work on anything new.

A dwarven woman with a short elven girlfriend bought one of his paintings. One of the originals, even. Ishalle beamed at them, pleased at how excited they seemed over his work. According to the elf, they'd just bought a house together and were decorating it for the first time. He made the arrangements to have the painting delivered and felt a strange pang when they left, hand in hand

Chapter Text

“In the vaults, there are some extraordinary paintings that we found, utterly extraordinary. There was one by Francoise Du Valmont, unfinished! You never see unfinished works from the great masters. Such a lovely image, a pair of hands cupping water, offering it to the viewer and in such detail, but the surrounding work is completely blank. It's as if Valmont is with us, suggesting to us that we complete the painting in our own minds. And modern art, these days, especially in Minrathous and Dairsmuid, this style is very popular. If he'd only waited a few centuries, it would be hanging in museums of modern art, I'm sure of it.
And we found many more unfinished pieces. Portraits only missing the face, houses with no walls, abstract works with color symbols drawn in. With this exhibit, we're challenging the viewer. How would they complete these works? It's a new way to engage with art, like never before. Ancient pieces, unearthed and dusted off and available now for all to see, though the artists themselves never intended for anyone to look. Rather perverse when we look at it like that, isn't it?”

The grand hall of the University was made smaller with deep blue heavy curtains, and hanging witchlights in pale yellow shone over the long table. An intimate dinner then. There weren't as many people as Ishalle expected. Vivienne herself greeted Lu and Ishalle. Of course, Lu knew all the right things to say, thanking her warmly and complimenting the décor. Ishalle tried to mimic her but stumbled over his words. Bastien shook his hand, and took him to the table for wine.

Cheeses were laid out on wide silver platters. There was an assortment of crackers, fine fruits sliced into small pieces, fresh herbs and olives on the side. He took a small plate and talked with Bastien, pleased to meet someone else who spoke Orlesian. They talked for some time, and Ishalle found that he quite liked the old man. He was pale but healthy looking, and had an easy smile that relaxed him. When Bastien brought up the topic of Val Royeaux, Ishalle shifted it to the architecture of the city, rather than his own experience.

“Ah, you like the old buildings I assume.”

“Yes, not that there are many left.” Ishalle found his words more easily in his native tongue. “Do you know, I would have loved to have seen some of the ancient buildings. I heard the Winter Palace was made of gold. Can you imagine?”

Bastien chuckled. “From what I understand it was not entirely gold, but the old royalty certainly spared no expense when showing off. A pity nothing remains of that gilded cake.”

Dorian entered somewhat late, Felix at his side. The two made their way over, Felix leaning on Dorian's arm. The man was handsome, from Tevinter, like Dorian. There was indeed a touch of sickly pallor about him, waxy skin and a slight puffy look in his face.

“You are not feeling well tonight, I presume.” Bastien looked hard at Felix, frowning.

“I'll be fine. Just a bit tired, nothing to worry about.” Felix gave a wan smile, and Bastien pursed his lips, unconvinced. “So you're the artist I've heard so much about?” Felix turned his attention to Ishalle.

“I do not know so much of what you have heard. I own Embrium Arts, in Belltown.”

Felix accepted a plate from Bastien, a few pieces of fruit and some white crackers were on it. He leaned against the table, relinquishing Dorian's arm. “That's what I hear. You're doing pretty well for yourself, aren't you?”

“Not yet, but I am hoping soon I will be,” Ishalle said.

“If you'd like, I'd be happy to help you look over your books. I'm the head of our math department, I can look things over, only if you want, of course.”

“I will consider this thing. Thank you.” He looked up as Vivienne and Lu walked towards the table, leading the rest of the guests into taking their places. Lu was seated next to him and she whispered something about being fucking starving in his ear.

The servers arrived, plated dishes in hand. Seafood stew, roast pork, delicate cheese souffles, salads made of fresh greens and pears and candied nuts. There were more vegetarians at the table, and he was pleased to not be the only one with butternut squash stew and grilled wild mushrooms. Ishalle noted that Vivienne had a special plate prepared just for Felix, delivered with the rest of the food. He saw how Dorian would pat Felix on the hand, or whisper things in his ear and envy ate at him. Lyon had never been so kind in public. Or private.

He decided to stick with getting financial advice from Maddy.

Lu was a natural at dinner. She laughed at all the right times, and developed an easy rapport with Vivienne and Bastien. Ishalle listened, mostly. Neria was there, as were several other professors from various departments. The conversations were somewhat out of his league. College had never really suited him; he'd dropped out after two years.

Neria engaged him, halfway through dinner. He'd had a question for her for a while now, one he was sure she got all the time, but he asked anyway.

“What do you think of the em, rumors that Clan Lavellan was involved in the Inquisition?”

She smiled, broad. Her teeth were crooked. “You're not the first person to ask! Most of my students last about a week before bringing it up.”

“I apologize,” he said, ducking his head.

“Oh, no! Don't!”

“Neria loves talking about it,” Felix said with a wan smile.

“Well, you don't have to listen, do you?” The retort was good natured and chuckles emerged around the table. “The truth is we don't know. The Qunari destroyed the records, but that's not what stopped my clan from knowing. Whether is was the Qunari, or humans, or whatever it was the Inquisition was truly fighting, most of Clan Lavellan was killed in the Dragon Age. Our Keeper tells us that the clan was very large and influential, but that's all oral tradition, stories scrapped together from the survivors. I mean, we're influential now of course, you can't go to the Marches without seeing us everywhere.” She paused for breath, and sipped a small spoon of her soup. “But, what's interesting, is the old Trevelyan line thinks they were the ones involved.”

Vivienne spoke from her place at the head of the table. “Yes, of course they do. They like to dig their claws into anything that resembles status. And there's a movement in Par Vollen to say that the Qunari were the ones to lead the Inquisition but I don't see how that's even remotely possible.”

“It could have been!” Lu said, her eyes lighting up. “I mean, not from Par Vollen, but certainly there were kossith in southern Thedas around that time.”

“Don't forget the dwarves.” A rotund dwarf was seated next to Bastien, her beard tied in a brown braid that hung to her chest. “Orzammar claims the Stone remembers that the Inquisitor was a dwarf.”

“With all due respect, Professor Cadash, how could that be?” Felix had finished eating, his fork and knife in an X across the top of his half filled plate. “The dwarves weren't even allowed above the surface until two hundred years ago.”

“Could have been casteless, we don't know.”

The debate continued, lively and friendly. Lu listened, rapt, nodding along and laughing at the exchanged quips. Ishalle's own interest in the Inquisition extended to Maledictus and not much else. He was more interested in other parts of Thedosian history, but the conversation was good enough to keep him engaged.

After the meal, Vivienne poured sweet wines and asked Ishalle how the gallery was doing. He told her that he was struggling to find time to work on any new pieces, especially now that business had picked up.

“Perhaps you ought to hire someone.” Dorian had a glass of red in his hand and waved it in Ishalle's direction. “You're running that shop by yourself?”

“I am. I need to work out the money. If this em...pace sustains, I do not think I can continue alone.” The problem was becoming more pressing. He was down to three original works.

Bastien lit a cigar and puffed the grey smoke into a circle. Vivienne dispelled the smoke with a wave of her hand while Bastien talked. “I have a few businesses of my own, back in Val Royeaux. Bringing in an employee is a good move, but can be a whole other headache. If I can offer some advice?”

Ishalle nodded, eager.

“Make sure they're as passionate about your shop as you are. Or near to it.” Bastien filled Ishalle's glass with more sweet wine. “If they care, you'll be in much better shape. You need someone who cares, do you understand?”

“It's true,” Dorian said. “A little passion can go a long way.”

“Most artists have this passion.” He took polite sips.

“Passion, my dear, is good of course.” Vivienne in her yellow dress was nearly a work of art herself. She folded her hands neatly on the table in front of her. “But you also need someone dedicated. When I hire my professors, I look at their ethics. Someone who cares about what they teach, but someone who won't let mistakes slide. You must harden yourself.”

“I understand, I am thinking. It is a long way off.” Ishalle was grateful he'd come. He still wasn't going to show his numbers to Felix, but he felt better about things.

Lu rejoined the conversation, adding some advice of her own. The Downtown Design Collective was her project and her five partners all had a say on who got to join and who was allowed to work there. He decided to continue coming to these parties. Any connections he could get would be good, for him and for the gallery.

Over the next two months, time slid out of his grasp like a slick bit of cloth. Sleep became less of a priority. He adopted a new routine; staying up late every night, working in the solitude of the closed shop, stumbling to bed at the smallest hours of the night. He painted the Rutherford. The details on the cornices were especially satisfying. He painted the vhenadahl, and the people gathered around it. He painted the city streets, slick with rain. He painted the temple of Dirthamen, dark and foreboding. Every morning he opened the shop, sleep weighing his steps.

Cigarettes and coffee were a poor substitute for rest and meals. Vivienne's invitations continued and he would attend, Lu at his side. Those were the only times he got a decent meal, outside of visits to his family. But they soothed him. And the conversations became easier for him.

Neria spoke with him about her classes, still trying to get him to agree to that guest lecture. Dorian talked about physics, and though he never thought the subject would interest him, he found himself rapt. Professor Cadash was soft spoken. She'd talk at length about theology; the Stone in particular. Felix would dip in and out of health, like a swimmer at a lake. At one of the dinners he was sickly and weak, unable to eat more than a few bites of food. Ishalle took notice of Dorian's worry.

It had to be difficult, he knew, for the both of them. The constant appointments. The need for Felix to avoid his favorite foods. The stress of medicine and treatments. Three times a week, Dorian would wait in the gallery for Felix to get out of his healer's appointments. For a sickening moment, Ishalle wished he had someone to look out for him the way Dorian looked after Felix. Their relationship bothered him in ways he couldn't explain. Felix, despite being sick, had someone there, had someone to drive him to the healer, had someone to fuss over him when he got home. He wondered if Dorian ever resented Felix, but the man seemed to show no sign of bother.

“How did you meet Bastien?” The dinner had ended and Ishalle stood with Vivienne, while everyone mingled.

She gave a small laugh. “It was frightfully romantic, if you can believe it. I grew up in the Marches, but moved to Val Royeaux to attend Serault.”

He nodded. The school was one of the most prestigious, and famous, in Thedas. Everyone knew of it. Some nights when he'd been cold and hungry, wandering the streets, he'd set up shop near Serault, drawing sketches for passersby. People with money were always in the district and it was a good place to earn cash for the next day. He wasn't surprised Vivienne had attended.

“Well, when I graduated from there, with my Doctorate in Magical Theory, Bastien was at the celebrations. The way he looked at me...” She gave a wistful sigh. “I shall never forget it. It was such a wonderful evening. There was dancing, and the two of us twirled all night. We've been together ever since.”

“He cares for you very much.” Bastien would look at Vivienne sometimes like he couldn't believe she was real, and sitting by his side.

“Of course he does, my dear. It's mutual, I assure you. But I would not settle for anything less. It is my opinion that nobody should. I have never settled for less than I deserve.” She waved one of the servers over for more wine. Ishalle declined a second glass. The wine Vivienne served was excellent, but his head was killing him.

He thought a bit about what she had said. The woman seemed to him like she was born into wealth, everything easy and smooth in her life. “You are very lucky, I am thinking.”

“Luck?” She laughed, sharp as cut glass. “No. In love, yes. I am grateful that I met Bastien, but luck was never part of the equation. This school, everything around you, everything I have, I have worked for. You don't see it but I have had to fight tooth and nail for what I am today.”

“But you have the magic. And the intelligence to use it, yes?”

“That means little. I have met mages of no small talent who squandered their gifts. In this modern day, people take everything for granted, but our world could not run without mages. Think of everything you use! Our homes, our cities, our streets, everything runs on magic. It's extraordinary, but it is also the result of thousands of years of work, and study. And if we want to make things better, as we should, we have to put in that hard work, don't you agree?”

“Like my gallery.” He rubbed his temples.

“You put a lot of work into your shop. And you should continue, perhaps double your efforts because the results will be worth it. Tell me, what is your goal?” She'd spun the conversation back to him with no effort at all.

Dorian joined them, strolling up with a fat glass of red in his hand, standing next to Ishalle. “Ah, are we talking the big questions? Those are my favorite.”

Ishalle rubbed his forehead again. “Yes, em. Goals.”

“For the gallery? What's wrong, do you have a headache?”

“A bit.” His temples throbbed angrily. Three hours of sleep was taking its toll.

“You should have said something, my dear.” Vivienne raised her hand up near his face. “May I?”

Ishalle held his breath, but nodded. At this point he'd take anything. A soft blue glow emitted from her palm and shot directly into his forehead. The relief was near instant. He felt pressure and then a sharp pop as his headache evaporated like steam. “Oh, Creators, thank you.”

“At any rate, if you're feeling better, answer my question.” She took a sip of her wine, meeting his eyes.

His goal. It was so lofty, he felt it silly, but answered anyway. He didn't think she'd let him get away without telling her. “I suppose I would like to get a piece into a museum. I think perhaps most artists wish this thing. My friend Case does, I know this much. But it is difficult.”

Dorian tipped his head slightly, but said nothing. He smelled good again. Ishalle swallowed, wondering where Felix was. It wasn't fair. Dorian was so composed. His clothes were nice, he smelled nice, his hair was neat, his fingernails painted and trimmed. Ishalle felt like a slob standing next to him, in his clean but cheaply made clothing. His hair was a fucking mess. Vivienne asked him something, but he wasn't paying attention. She cleared her throat, and he shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. “I am sorry, could you repeat that?”

“I asked what your plan was. How you intend to get your work shown.”

“I...do not have the plan. I do not know what I must do.” He felt cornered now, how did they get on this topic? “There is nothing special about my paintings.”

“I disagree,” Dorian said. “I don't normally spend hundreds of sovereigns on 'nothing special.' Have more faith in yourself.”

“I must go.” Ishalle's heart was racing. “I think I see Lu and she is tired.”

Vivienne narrowed her eyes at the lie, but stepped aside, letting Ishalle extricate himself.

He didn't know why Dorian's comment had upset him, but he was so agitated by the time he got home that sleep was out of the question. He worked on a new painting, a small one of a halla, struck through with arrows, agony twisting its face.

Chapter Text

Gooooooooooooooooooooooood Morning Antiva City! You're listening to Nugman and the Gooch [loudly] NUGMAN AND THE GOOOOOOOCH on Antiva's own 106.1, The SLAM.

[Maryden Halewell plays in the background]

“Hello, is this Anne?”

[on the phone] “Yes?”

“Hi Anne, we're calling with Frostback Marital Aids. We're calling to let you know we're issuing a recall on all Triple XL Purple Warrior Models. Do you currently own one or more of these?”

“A recall? Who is this?”

“We're with Frostback Marital Aids. Do you own any of these models?”

“Well. Yes, but I hardly see--”

“They're very dangerous and can explode at the highest speed.” [sounds of snickering in the background]

“Is this a prank? You bas--”

[Cut abruptly to music]

Winter enveloped the city. Snow in Antiva was rare. Instead, sharp winds funneled down the streets, whipping Ishalle's hair into a messy halo. Driving rains and grey skies were a daily occurrence. He hired a mage to come install extra heating runes in the gallery. Despite the foul weather, customers still came into the shop, buying prints and ordering commissions. It was the best winter of his life. But he still worried over his books, still wondered if he'd ever get enough to hire someone, passionate or not.

One chilly night after the dinner, Ishalle missed the last train home. Lu had stayed in for the evening; she had some big event coming up she wanted to prepare for. Ishalle had lost track of time talking with Vivienne and Bastien. He stood outside the university, checking his phone for a cab. Dorian walked up to him, and gave him a nudge, his hands shoved in his coat. “Need a ride?”

“I do not wish to trouble you with such things. I live above the gallery, and it takes some time to get there. I can take the cab.”

“No trouble.”

“Where is your home?” Ishalle's feet were rooted to the spot.

“I live in the east hills. Don't worry about that.” Dorian waved Ishalle along. “Come now, it's freezing out here. Let me give you a ride.”

“What about Felix?” What about him, why did you ask that?

“He lives here at the university. Ever since his kidneys went, he moved here so he can be close to his specialists, just in case.”

“That is difficult, yes?” He forced himself to take a step.

“If anything, it makes things easier. My car's over here, let's go.”

Dorian's car was nice, a sleek self driving Varghest with bench seats that faced each other. Ishalle found himself worrying his sweater cuffs as the car whirred down the hill. Dorian's presence was just so...much. He was starting to admit to himself that he found the man handsome. And that his jealousy of Felix wasn't coming from where he'd originally thought. Tonight, Dorian wore a black jacket, boiled wool with gold thread accenting it. It seemed to suit him. Black, and gold, shining in the lights that passed by the windows. If only I'd met him before Felix did...

“So what brings an Orlesian to Antiva City?”

Ishalle was grateful for the distraction. “I came here when I was nineteen,” he said, shortening the story to the barest details. Since the age of fifteen, he'd lived on the streets of Val Royeux, sleeping in an alley and drawing pictures for coin. Often he went to bed hungry, taking up smoking to ease the pain of his empty stomach. Dorian didn't need to know any of that. “My aunt lives outside town, and I stayed with her for a time.”

“Is she Dalish as well?”

“Oui. She keeps very much to the old ways. Em, more than me, I should say. Most Dalish prefer to stay out of the cities. She lives in the country, with the rest of my family. They have much faith in the Creators.”

“As do you, it seems? You honor Dirthamen, correct?”

“How-” Ishalle's eyes darted to Dorian's. “You know our vallaslin?”

“Neria and I are close friends, you know. We've travelled together, visiting old sites and ruins, and clans. The ones that would allow me. Three of them forbade me from visiting, but others welcomed me in. Nice people, but I can't the same about the wine.”

Ishalle wasn't prepared for that answer. He shifted in his seat, glancing out the window of the little car. They were heading down into Belltown. “You are of Tevinter, yes?”

“That's right. Minrathous, most recently, but I grew up in Qarinus. I never thought I'd end up in Antiva, but I quite like it here. It's a lovely place, don't you think? Despite the overwhelming presence of Antivans.”

“This is my street.” The car parked itself, shutting off with a tiny shudder. Ishalle felt suddenly very warm. “Thank you for the ride. Would you like to come inside for a drink?”

“I think I would!” Dorian held the car door for Ishalle and they walked up the stairs together, Ishalle wondering what exactly he was playing at. Do not flirt with this man, he is involved with someone. He is with Felix, he is not available. Do not repeat what you did with Lyon. Unintentional or not, he didn't want the responsibility of the failure of anyone's relationship. Not again. Every bit of his skin felt like it was on fire.

Taking a heavy breath, he unlocked the front door and brushed his fingers along the light rune. A dim blue glow gently illuminated his short hallway and small living room. “Em...shoes off, if you please.”

Dorian laughed and started working on his complicated boots. “An admirable policy, I agree, but give me a moment.”

Slatko. It was there, in the back of the fridge. A small earthen crock with a stasis rune on the side, glowing a deep silver. It had been a while since anyone new had come into his home; he hoped it was still good. Dorian stepped into the kitchen; of course his socks were black. Ishalle clutched the crock, feeling somewhat foolish.

“Slatko,” Ishalle said by way of explanation. He handed over a small silverite spoon, handle first. Dorian took it, looking bemused.

“I'm at a loss, I'm afraid.”

Ishalle swallowed. The ritual was old, but he couldn't ignore it anymore than the sun in the sky. “You taste it. It is a welcome to my home.”

“Oh!” Dorian dabbed the spoon into the crock. “What is this exactly?”

“Wild strawberries. Honey, walnuts. My aunt makes it.” His heart was pounding. What if Dorian didn't like it?

Dorian held the spoon to his lips. “Do I need to say anything?” The question seemed genuine, but for a moment he wondered if Dorian was mocking him.

“No.” He waited and Dorian ate it, smiling at the flavor.

“That, my friend, is delicious.” He reached the spoon to the crock and Ishalle moved it sharply out of the way.

“You must have a clean spoon, em, one moment.” A second taste. He will be welcomed back. Doing the slatko ritual was always a relief. The crock went back in, two bottles of Orlesian ale came out. “Do you smoke?”

“On occasion.”

“Join me outside?” He opened the window and stepped out onto the fire escape, feeling a bit foolish as the rich, well dressed man followed. But Dorian simply sat down on the metal grating and accepted one of Ishalle's cigarettes, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Ishalle lit it for him, and the heat of Dorian's breath near his own hand caused his stomach to flip.

“Where's your girlfriend tonight?”

“Pardon?” Ishalle clicked his lighter shut.

“Lu? She's your girlfriend, right?”

“I'm gay, Dorian,” he said, smiling at the idea of dating Lu of all people.

“Really?” He laughed, a slight blush crawling up his cheeks. “Well, I suppose that makes two of us.”

“I suppose that it does.” Ishalle sat in silence for a moment, not sure where this conversation was going. He shifted uncomfortably, wrapping his sweater around him a bit more secure. “How did you meet Felix?” He has a boyfriend, his name is Felix, you can't think about him like this.

“Oh, Maker, we grew up together. When I was about sixteen or so, I had some trouble at home. Our families were friends, still are, actually. Barely. Felix's father, Gereon took me in. It was easier than staying with my family. Felix isn't a mage, but we ended up accepted to the same college.” Dorian hugged his knees to his chest, and Ishalle noticed he was shivering. I need to get a rune out here. “It made the most sense for us to come to Antiva. Professors of magic are more common than rats back home. And the way magic was taught here before was simply appalling. Vivienne changed that school, it was a great opportunity for me. To actually reform how magic is taught! And Felix is just brilliant at mathematics. The school is lucky to have him.”

“Will he be alright?”

“His kidneys, you mean?” Dorian took a short drag and blew the smoke straight up into the air. “The healers say his prognosis is good. He'll be fine once he gets a transplant. He's just waiting on a lab grown organ now.” He took a small drink of the beer and smiled at the taste. “This is good.”

“One of the only good things to come out of Orlais is the beer, I think.”

“Oh yes. A few other things too, I should say.”

“I think I am confused.” Ishalle looked at the little plant hanging in his window, slowly rocking with the breeze. “Can the healer not simply fix his kidney with the magic? Why is a transplant, em...necessary?”

Dorian stared at Ishalle for a second, and he felt the question idiotic. But the professor shook his head and smiled, somewhat. “They could. If he'd gone to see them when he started pissing concrete, instead of waiting for the better part of a year.” Dorian paused, drinking again. “The problem is there's no structure there. It's like trying to repair a house with a crumbling foundation. Or, perhaps if you will, painting over a ripped canvas. It takes a bit of time to grow organs, but he should be good as new once they replace them. In the meantime, all they can do is support the barest of functions.”

“I see.”

Ishalle finished his cigarette, wondering about Felix. And not about his health. The two men had grown up together; there was no competing with that. He felt as he looked out onto the empty street a crushing sense of futility. Dorian was charming and caring and very intelligent. Not to mention handsome. An image flashed before his eyes, Dorian on his bed, moaning and covered in a sheen of sweat. Ishalle coughed, trying to get rid of the scene. Fuck, I do not need a hard on right now. At least his sweater covered it.

“Well. I...suppose I ought to be going,” Dorian said, his tone reluctant. “I have to be in the classroom at seven in the morning. Frightfully unfair if you ask me. My students aren't even awake at that hour.”

“Let me get the door for you, the lock is, em, difficult.” He pulled the door open just as Dorian finished zipping up his boots. The man stopped, just shy of too close to Ishalle and looked down at him, a gentle smile on his lips.

“Thanks for inviting me in.”

He could smell him now, the beer on his breath, the smoke resting on his clothes like a visitor. And a sweet smell, one he couldn't place. Ishalle hugged his arms to his body. “Thank you for the ride home. I em...” He has a boyfriend. He has a boyfriend. His hand twitched with the impulse to touch him.

Dorian grimaced. “Well. As I said, no trouble. I'll just...be going.”
“Goodnight.”

He didn't leave. Not right away. Not before taking another breath and appearing to want to say something. After too long of a pause, he turned and walked down the wooden stairs, not looking back.

Ishalle closed the door with an air of finality. He took his shirt off, wanting a shower before bed, wandering into his room. Everything ached. Too many late nights, too many long days. The lights were dim and blue, and he thought of Dorian standing in his hallway. So close he could have reached out and touched him. So close, he could have kissed him...

His bed called to him and he could not resist. He laid down, Dorian refusing to leave his mind as easily as he'd left his home. Absentmindedly, he twisted one of his nipple rings. A sharp tingle ran from the sensitive skin into his groin. Still hard. His other hand worked open the button on his trousers. He replayed the events of the evening, Dorian in his hallway, Dorian with the spoon in his mouth, Dorian on his fire escape, a bottle of beer raised to his lips.

Wandering, traitorous hands lowered his zipper, all thoughts of Felix fleeing like a breeze in summer. Dorian appeared strong. His muscles weren't huge, but they looked nice and firm under his clinging shirts. He pulled his trousers off, abandoning the idea of a shower. He closed his eyes, and Dorian appeared, nude and smirking. Creators, how good would he look naked?

He worked himself over, teasing like he wanted to tease Dorian. He imagined the man on his living room floor, kneeling. No, kneeling and tied. Wrists bound behind his back, yes. Bound, his muscles flexed, his naked body a gift wrapped in rope...Ishalle moved his hand down slow, pictured running his fingers along Dorian's lips while he stepped around him. Fantasies blurred together, from obscene to deviant. He couldn't help himself; he didn't want to stop picturing Dorian, on his kitchen table, begging. On his bed, wrists tied to the upper corners while Ishalle fucked his mouth. He imagined kissing, just kissing, and that gave him an extra thrill, the thought of kissing him while he came inside him.

Ishalle opened his eyes and looked down. His stomach was fluttering with fast breaths. More than anything, he wanted to hear Dorian knock on his door. He'd open it, drag the man to his room, throw him on the bed, kiss him until his lips were aching and raw. He wanted to strip him down, he wanted to kiss him all night. He wanted...shit, he wanted him. Clenching his teeth, he came, Dorian's image shattering after his burst of pleasure.

Guilt washed over him. You should find someone else to fuck. He has Felix. He wouldn't want you.

Chapter Text

“Some interesting news out of Weisshaupt this week. The remains of six griffons have been found, deep under the layers of the ruined fortress. Archaeologists found the remains preserved in tombs, surrounded by armor, weapons and in some cases, even jewelry. Leaders of the team believe the griffons may have been lauded for their service, and given a burial to reflect their status among the ancient order of Grey Wardens.

“Necromancers out of Hossberg plan to study one of the griffons, to learn more about how ancient griffons adapted to the Anderfels' harsh climate. Modern griffon conservation efforts laud the project, saying that studying how the ancient griffons ate may shed light on proper care. There are currently less than one hundred griffons left in the wild. The World Conservation Fund has placed these animals at 'critically endangered.' They released a statement this morning on the discovery of the tombs, expressing excitement to work with the mages of Hossberg. Adela Garza, Thedas Public News Network.”

 

“Sorry I'm late.” Jayne backed into the shop, dragging a cart behind her.

“You are more than late.” He stabbed his brush handle into the cup. “You should have been here three days ago. My walls are bare, I am not selling the empty spaces.”

Jayne's shoulders slumped. “I know. I'm sorry. I got a job, and then I got all fucked up with my schedule and then I couldn't make it, but I then got fired so I guess it doesn't matter.”

Ishalle lifted the black cloth off the cart. Ten small paintings were there, all on plywood. They looked bright and colorful and lovely. “Why did you get fired?”

“They were assholes.”

Ishalle looked hard at Jayne. She had her arms folded in front of her, hugging her thin body. The same black tank she was wearing when he met her hung loose on her bony frame. “Do not lie to me.”

Jayne sat on the stool and let out a long puff of air. It seemed to deflate her further, somehow. “I got a job washing dishes, downtown. Some fancy restaurant. It was fine, I didn't mind the work. But I...” she trailed off. “Look, I was late. I was two hours late. I wanted to finish these stupid paintings. That's all. They fired me. Said it was a no call no show and they don't allow those in the first week. So yeah. That's why.”

“Well. You are here now. Please hang your work.”

“You want me do it?” She looked at him as if he were laying a trap.

“I never hang the work of the guest artists.” He waved at the wall. “I think the artist should do this thing, no?”

“Yeah. Cause what if you break it?”

Ishalle smiled. “That too.”

While Jayne set to, Ishalle opened his budgeting program. Maddy had designed it just for him. Each sale divided the money, using a system of rune chips. It automatically paid the artists for their old prints, and shuffled the rest of the money into his set categories. At the rate he was going, not only could he afford an employee, he couldn't afford not to have one. His eyes watered from lack of sleep. For a moment he imagined actually sleeping in. What a luxury.

Jayne was hanging her pieces, her tongue between her teeth. Each one had been done with care, each work something any artist should be proud of. He noticed how she scowled at certain areas of the paintings.

“It is better if they are not perfect.”

Jayne nodded. “Yeah, I mean, nothing's gonna be perfect, that's fine. I just want this to be my best. I've never really displayed this shit before. All my stuff is under bridges, or painted over by now. Like, people are gonna come in here? And spend money on it?” She touched one of the paintings, resting her bony fingers on a bright green whale. “Actual money?”

Actual money. Ishalle had a hard time believing anyone would want his work, when he'd opened the shop. The first painting he sold had him riding high for a week, before the pressure sent him crashing down lower than before. He felt nothing he made would ever sell again, that he was a fraud, a sham. He pictured packing up his apartment and heading back to live with Rosala, to take care of children and clean up halla turds for the rest of his life. But he sold another. And then another. He recognized that in Jayne, saw her pride fall away when she wasn't interacting directly with her art. “Do you want a job?”

“Yeah, I mean. I gotta get something.”

Ishalle rolled his eyes. “Do you want to work here, is what I am asking.”

She turned and looked at him, wide eyed. “You serious?”

Just then, the bells rang and Dorian entered, his coat over his arm. “Ah, hello!”

Remembering the night before, Ishalle busied himself at the desk, hoping he wasn't blushing. He nodded politely at Dorian, unable to bury his shame. Jerking off to another man's boyfriend, and the things he'd imagined doing! And now Dorian had the nerve to come into the shop, smiling at him like that.

“Are you really offering me a job?”

Ishalle was yanked back into the present. “Yes. I would need you to be here three days a week, Wardensday to Firesday. Would that be acceptable?”

“I- I mean, yeah. Yes. Seriously? Yes.” Jayne danced from one foot to the other. “Thank you. I really need this.”

“You are welcome.”

“When do I start?” She cracked her knuckles and Ishalle saw Dorian wince.

“Tomorrow. Please do not be late. Come in at eleven, and I can start the training. We will discuss pay when you get here.”

Jayne grabbed the black cloth and shoved it back in her cart. “I gotta go tell my mom. She'll be really happy, thank you so much sir, this is really great.”

“Just Ishalle, and you are welcome. Do not be late.”

“I won't. I promise.” The door shut behind her, leaving him alone with Dorian.

Dorian waved at his sweater. “That looks warm.”

“I like my sweater,” he said, defensive.

“It looks good on you.” Dorian's eyes traveled up to Ishalle's. Heat flooded into his cheeks, and he turned away, before Dorian could see the effect his compliment had on him.

“How are you?” Ishalle asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Doing well. I was wondering what time you closed.”

Ishalle laughed a bit. “You came all the way here to ask such a thing? I have a website, yes?”

Dorian put his hands in his pockets. “Yes. But I was wondering if you were busy after work.”

Shit. Shit. Fuck. “I...am. Yes. I am sorry. I have the plans.”

“Ah, what a pity. Perhaps we could get a coffee sometime?”

He could only picture Felix, heartbroken. “I...Thank you, but I am...very, em, very busy. I must train my new employee and...I do not have the time.” Another cheater.

“Oh.” Dorian blinked a few times, frowning. “Alright. Well. If your schedule clears you know where to reach me.”

Ishalle nodded, folding his arms in front of him. All he could think about was Lyon's wife and children, smiling at him from his phone. I hope she leaves him to rot.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Lu packed the pipe with ground blood lotus and paused, her thumb on her lighter. “Are you shitting me? He asked you out and you said no?”

“He is in a fucking relationship, Lu.” He wiggled his fingers towards the pipe. She handed it to him and he took a long drag, holding the bitter smoke in his lungs for a moment before passing it back to her. “I cannot be his friend. All I think about is wanting to kiss his stupid face.”

She copied him, letting the smoke flow from her nose and mouth, looking up into the night sky. They were on the roof, watching what stars they could see. Blood lotus was nice. It gave a soft and mild high, a gentle rolling sensation that Ishalle particularly loved. He didn't smoke it often, but on this cold spring night it called to him. It hadn't rained in a week, and there were no clouds. Everything was chilled but dry. Strange weather indeed.

“How do you know?”

“It is this Felix. He drops everything to be by his side. Taking him to the...” he flapped his hand at her, trying to remember the right word. “Appointments. They sit together at Vivienne's parties, always. You saw them.” He took another hit, feeling his limbs relax, like he'd soaked in a too hot bath.

“So? You see them make out or what?” She opened a bottle of lime water and took a long drink before handing it to him.

“No. But you can tell this thing, he loves him. He should not be asking me to this coffee. And I do not need to be l'amant, not again.”

“Huh?”

“L'amant. Em.” His brain fogged a little. “The other man.”

“Fucking Lyon. I wish I could break his teeth. I'd get that flashlight of mine and just smash them all to powder.” She laid down on her blanket and gave the fire rune a smack. It flickered and he could feel the tendrils of heat rising off the thick pink throw. “Speaking of smashing, I met someone.”

“You did? Tell me.” He laid down next to her and she wrapped her arm around his shoulders.

“Name's Thom. He's old as balls. Got a big black beard and hairy chest.”

Ishalle giggled. “Gross.”

“No!” she sang, laughing. “He's very manly.” She pinched Ishalle's side. “Big strong lumberjack. He can crack logs with his face. And his arms are so thick.”

“Have you fucked him?”

“Not yet. He's a puppy. I need to be careful with him. Fucking want to though. He smells good, Ishalle. Like sawdust and cologne and man. Anything left in that bowl?”

“Mm.” He passed it back to her and let his head drop to her lap while she sat up to finish it off.

“Hey, the gallery's going good, huh?” Her words slowed as the smoke escaped her lips.

“Better, yes. I hired this Jayne. Perhaps a mistake, but I cannot tell from...” His vision blurred, and above the stars swirled and danced. “I think it might work.”

“Good. Good.” Setting the bowl down, she sprawled back on the blanket. “You deserve good things, buddy.”

“Toi aussi.” He patted her hand. “Toi aussi.”

Chapter Text

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Ishalle politely declined Vivienne's next dinner party invitation. He couldn't stand the thought of watching Dorian and Felix. Felix. The worst part was that he couldn't even make himself hate the man. The mathematician was sweet and funny, taking his bad health with a laugh and a shrug. If Dorian had to have someone, he was glad it was Felix. But then what kind of man is he to ask me out behind Felix's back?

His lie to Dorian wasn't entirely made up. Jayne needed training on every aspect of the shop, from counting money, to placing orders. At least she did him the favor of showing up on time. Training her was rigorous. She asked a lot of questions, and seemed enthusiastic but her drive somewhat sucked the energy out of him. Finally, he gave her a set of keys to the shop and attempted to sleep in. He woke at two in the afternoon with a jolt, feeling like he'd forgotten something. It was a few moments before he remembered that she was running the shop for him and it took him the rest of the day to remember how to relax.

Bastien's birthday party invitation arrived one afternoon. The envelope was gold, silver script and scented with jasmine. This party he would not be able to turn down. Vivienne had shown him more kindness than he could ever repay. He selected a smaller painting as a gift. This one would be right up their alley, a scene from Maledictus. Hadiza Trevelyan falling through the air, mid transformation into a cloud of brilliant white butterflies. There was no way he could legally sell it, but he knew how much Vivienne and Bastien would like it. Lu would come with him of course. She was all too eager to rub shoulders with as many rich people as she could.

He sat on Lu's bed, attempting to bring some semblance of order to his hair. She was in her shower, having told him she'd be ready at seven, he knew she really meant eight. It was a good thing Madame De Fer's party didn't start until nine. Preparing for Lu's tardiness was part of their routine. Silver and gold earrings were spread on the blanket in front of him, pretty ones that Lu had made, or Rosala had given him.

His phone buzzed with a text from her, reminding him of his cousin's birthday on the sixteenth. Threading his fingers through his curls, he flicked back to his home screen and looked at the Parchmnt icon. A hairdryer whirred in the bathroom and he opened the app, studying Dorian's profile. His picture had changed, a black and white over the shoulder shot, looking out on the Antivan harbor. Feeling a perfect fool, he closed the app and rolled his eyes.

Bijoux jumped on the bed and hissed at him. She walked past, head in the air, perfectly smug. It wasn't just his imagination— the cat's eyes were emitting faint green lines of smoke. He shifted away from the cursed animal, watching it carefully. But the cat just settled onto Lu's pillow and started licking its paw, ignoring him.

Vivienne's party was packed. It seemed everyone who was someone was there. Ishalle felt like a fraud more than ever; he was just a small gallery owner, what did he think he was doing there? Maryden Halewell was performing later in the evening. Guests swanned around the room and Lu stepped right into place with them, laughing with ease and networking like she was born to do it. Business cards appeared in her fingers like magic.

Ishalle hung back, watching her with no small sense of pride. When they'd met at school, she'd been a jeweler's apprentice, barely scraping together her rent in a terrible loft apartment with six other people. She was prone to getting into fights, and more than once he'd had to pull her out of bars, fists swinging in all directions. He'd very nearly given up on her but she'd always been fiercely loyal to him. One night she showed up at Rosala's house, tears rolling down her bruised cheeks. One of her roommates had broken her tools, and pissed on of her own design books.

Rosala gave Ishalle the money the next morning. “Invest in something, in your future. Please. And help that sweet girl while you're at it.” That 'sweet girl' was sitting on the floor, twisting bandages around her knuckles and stretching her newly healed jawbone.

The money covered a deposit and the first month's rent for both apartments and the gallery space. He'd worked every single day since then, setting aside a tiny portion every month. Lu contributed once the Collective picked up. Last night he'd put the last twenty sovereigns into the box. He'd give it to Rosala when he visited for his cousin's birthday, the debt finally paid. Rosala never said she wanted the money back, but he didn't care.

For her part, Lu had worked her fingers raw making and selling her jewelry. She had a heavy focus on custom horn caps for her fellow Qunari. Some of her work also involved painting vitaar on phone cases, rendering them theft proof by anyone other than her kind. Metal bracelets, earrings, diadems, and pendants filled her catalog, and just by looking around the room, he could see her work adorning quite a few people.

Felix was there, of course. He looked a bit better than normal, slightly less puffy and yellow. Ishalle's heart raced at the sight of him, for where there was Felix, Dorian was sure to be around. He busied his hands with a bottle of beer, and listened to nearby conversations, acting like he wasn't interested in Dorian's whereabouts.

“With a sunburst, yes. They'd cut the poor bastards off from the Fade. Severed of all emotions, can you believe it?”

“It's barbaric. I heard in some parts of the Anderfels they still do it.”

“No, that's just a rumor. You Antivans jump to so many conclusions!”

“Well, with the Wardens gone, they've got to get up to something up there!”

Ishalle walked through the party, pleased to see people still observing his artwork. A wide patio was near empty, though the doors were open. He was halfway through a cigarette when Dorian found him.

“Good evening!” The mage leaned against the railing where Ishalle was perched.

“It is very crowded in there,” Ishalle said, in lieu of an actual greeting.

“Quite. Vivienne's love for Bastien is at least as great as her love of displaying it.” Dorian looked down at Ishalle's hand. “I don't suppose I could trouble you for one of those?”

Ishalle popped open his case and lifted out a cigarette; the long green paper and silver filter contrasted elegantly with the carved wood. He lit it for him again, and his heart lurched when he saw how the mage closed his eyes as he took that first drag.

Dorian blew the smoke away from Ishalle and grinned at him. “So, now that we're alone, what do I need to do to get you to tell me about your artwork?”

Ishalle shifted on the stone railing. “I, em. What do you wish to know?”

“Everything.” Dorian looked him in the eye. “Why you paint ruins. What your other goals are. What you like to paint. Where you learned.”

Ishalle peered at Dorian, curious. The professor seemed genuine in his questions. Perhaps he could try to make the answers interesting. “I practiced by drawing sketches for money. I did them every night. It is a good way to learn to draw fast. But em, portraits are not usually what I like to draw. I like old things, it is much more interesting, non?”

“Oh, absolutely. It's really too bad about the earthquake, Antiva lost some great buildings.” Dorian hoisted himself on the railing next to Ishalle. There was his hand, so close to his own. Ishalle looked down at it and felt a rush in his head that was nothing to do with the cigarette.

“I like the Rutherford building best,” he said, quietly, staring at Dorian's fingers.

“That one is extraordinary.” Dorian asked him more questions, encouraging Ishalle to detail his work. And to his shock, Dorian listened, with interest. Ishalle spoke for some time, nervousness falling further away with the conversation. While he talked, people came spilling out onto the patio in clusters. Dorian didn't seem to notice.

“So, that is perhaps the most satisfying. I like to see people enjoy my work. I am thinking knowledge for its own sake is a worthy pursuit, no? But it must be shown. And so, em, the same with art. I can paint beautiful things, but there must be the person to look at it.”

“I agree.” Dorian's voice was soft, and he looked at Ishalle, tipping his head slightly. “Beauty should be admired, as it deserves.”

The crowd around them grew quiet to Ishalle's ears. It was all wordless chatter, just a river of sound in the distance. Dorian's grey eyes were shining in the lights. Grey, and soft. Grey, and kind. His left hand was on the railing, only inches from Dorian's. He could just move his little finger, just a hair. He could touch him, and what then? Would there be a spark? More likely he'd take his hand away, and demand to know where Ishalle got off with such boldness. Ishalle drew his hand to his lap. Best not to interfere. Instead, he mumbled an inquiry about Felix, the mage's boyfriend never far from his mind.

“Ask him yourself. Here he is!” Dorian waved Felix over. “We're being naughty and smoking on the back porch, while all the adults gossip.”

Felix chuckled. “It's quite warm in there, don't you think? Good party though, I think half the city is inside!”

Ishalle watched Felix and Dorian talk, a growing sense of unease crawling across his body. Felix was a pane of glass, a window to what he wished he could have. Dorian was warmth and sunshine, sealed away behind his lover. A woman made her way over, tall, blonde and elegant. She was about as pale as Dorian's friend Neria, and dressed in a peacock blue shift.

“Ishalle, this is my good friend Mae. She's visiting from Minrathous, for a short time.”

Mae gave him a short bow. “Lovely to meet you.”

He returned the sentiment, feeling quite trapped now. Three Tevinter shems surrounded him, oblivious to his discomfort.

“When's the wedding?” Mae's accent was soft.

“If father has any say in it, the twenty first of Bloomingtide.” Felix shook his head. “I'll be out of surgery by then, so of course he wants to do it as soon as possible.”

“I can't believe you're going to go through with this. All for the sake of tradition?” Mae sighed with regret. “I know you want your father to be happy, but this?”

“It will make him happy. And me.” Felix patted Mae's shoulder. “Besides, I want to get married. We both want this as much as he does, if not more.”

Ishalle couldn't take anymore. He slipped down off the railing and headed inside, feeling like an utter fool. Dorian and Felix were getting married; they'd get their happily ever after. Dancing had started while he was outside, Vivienne swirling across the floor with a beautiful smile lighting up her face. Bastien looked at her with pure adoration. He couldn't bear the happiness of others, and ducked out the front door. A train pulled into the station just as he made it to the platform, and an hour later he was home again, door bolted securely. To Lu he sent a text, saying he'd eaten something that didn't agree with him.

“Is he cute, at least?” Case pointed down the street. It was a lazy Makersday and they walked together down the noisy streets.

“Is who cute?”

“Whoever you've got your head fucked about, mate,” he said, avoiding a puddle.

“I do not know what you—“

“Come on.” Case rolled his eyes. They made their way down Vine street, Ishalle with his hands crammed in his pockets.

“Yes. He's cute.” There was little point in lying about it. Ishalle was in deep, and no matter how much he tried, he could not shake Dorian from his thoughts. Last night he'd worked on a painting, wondering if he'd like it and hating himself for wanting the man's approval. “He is also with someone.”

“Bummer.” They turned down Thorn avenue. Rain was trying to fall, pathetic drops that were more annoying than cold. “No chance for you then?”

“Non.” Ishalle gave Case the details, and he let out a soft whistle when he told him of Dorian's engagement.

“That's too bad, mate. Maybe you should get back into the scene? Meet someone there?”

“Ah, and that worked out so well last time. I will be fine, Case. And you? After Harlowe?”

Case shrugged. “S'alright. We weren't really compatible. Kinda started seeing this guy, but I'm not too sure about that either. He's a dwarf and he makes the worst puns I've ever heard in my life. Good in bed though.”

They arrived at the theater. Birthright was playing, a weird underground movie Lu had told them about. She had a special place in her heart for Dragon Age stories, and this one was supposed to be fairly historical. In secret, Ishalle just wanted to escape the real world for a while, not worry about the gallery, or Jayne, or Dorian and stupid Felix. According to the trailers, this would be just the thing.

Ishalle paid for their tickets and they watched the story unfold. Elain was driven and brash. The scenes were thick with blood and pain, contrasted with the joy of ritual and the fear of the Creators. It was a different take on the history of the people whose blood he shared. He saw familiarity in the Vallaslin rites, a scene that was at once difficult to watch and touching. He was able to forget about Dorian for a short while at least.

Afterward, they made their way to the Blue Nug. Ghost hadn't scheduled any shows, but the bar was thick with people. He and Case started talking business, but their conversation quickly devolved as the beer went down. A dwarf at the bar caught his eye. Cute, thick, strong arms and a wide jaw. Bright red hair with high widow's peaks accentuated his already large forehead. He stumbled outside with the man, half convinced he could force himself to forget about Dorian.

It didn't work.

They made out for a while, sloppy kisses in the dark alley. Ishalle enjoyed being the taller man for once, but the beers had gotten to him and he couldn't muster much more than frustration. They parted ways, the night ending as abruptly as it had begun. When he got home, against his better judgment he cracked another drink. And made the mistake of looking at his phone, at the Parchmnt page that now showed Dorian's face. He looked at it until he hated himself, until he wished he'd never met the man, until he wanted to run away from Antiva forever.

Morning found him on the couch, a dead phone stuck to his face and an aching body to show for his folly. It was Jayne's day to be alone in the shop and he allowed himself to stay inside for the whole day, sleeping and ordering takeout. Maybe being alone is not such a bad thing. Nobody to see me in this disgusting state.

Chapter Text

“But why is it that people are so obsessed with Inquisition stories? Every year, more books are written, we have a TV show about it, there are countless movies made, speculative fiction. Don't you think it's gotten a bit out of hand?”

“No. I don't. As a historian myself, I see the appeal.”

“But don't you think romanticizing this era is harmful?”

“How could it be? We have very few official records of the entire event. We have more information about the First Inquisition, not the second. All we have of the Dragon Age are the stories of the Great Invasion. I think people are so attracted to these stories because they are drawn to tales of hope and heroism. The Invasion was a terrible time for Thedas, so much of our history was utterly destroyed. The greatest libraries in the world reduced to ash. I think people tend to forget that. And so when we tell stories of those times, it's much more appealing to look to heroes and saviors.”

“History was never meant to be a fairy story. You can't possibly argue that this attitude today is valid or healthy.”

“I will ask you to not put words in my mouth. I have written an entire book on this subject, which is why you asked me to come on your show today. And so I am giving you the answer. Heroism is appealing. What more do you want?”

Maddy was turning forty. She was on her second marriage, this time to an elf that everyone seemed to like. His name was Paytro. Tall and skinny, with large ears, Paytro came from down the street. He'd mooned after Maddy for years. Their courtship was odd; three dates and Maddy brought him a bundle of rosemary and aria and told him quite bluntly that they were going to get married. Paytro agreed, reading a poem at the wedding about how all his dreams came true that day, marrying the woman he loved more than life itself. For her part, Maddy gave him a gentle slug on the shoulder and yelled to everyone about the open bar.

Ishalle arrived, stepping off the train with a basket of sweet buns, layered with cinnamon and chocolate for his cousin. She loved the ones from Marlon's Bakery and though it was out of his way, he could hardly begrudge her. A tin of oily coffee beans was tucked in the basket as well. For a while he'd drawn every birthday gift for his family members, pouring himself onto the paper. They were always kind about the gifts but he noticed how the art was never hung.

Buns and coffee were easier.

Kisses and hugs greeted him at his aunt's door. “Lu sends her love,” he told Rosala, hugging her plump body.

“Good. Tell that girl to try the aria pouch I sent her.” She looked up at Ishalle, smiling with crinkled eyes. Height was not in his family's genes. Rosala was a solid five feet tall, with thick hair that she kept off her face in an unflattering yellow scarf. Half her face was covered in Elgar'nan's vallaslin, a deep forest green that brought out the olive undertones in her skin. She shared Ishalle's sharp nose, but her face had rounded and furrowed with age. Moska was in the kitchen as usual, stirring a massive, steaming pot of cabbage rolls in tomato sauce. He hollered out a greeting, before stepping out of the way of one of his running grandchildren. “Morga! Be still!”

Sona had given birth to four children in the past decade, three boys and a girl. Her oldest son, Dras, was turning eleven next month, and Ishalle found the passage of time dizzying. He'd helped Sona when the baby first arrived, doing the washing and watching the infant while Sona took care of her personal needs. Her husband Lume had been away for the birth, much to everyone's disappointment. He was back now, sitting cross legged on the floor and reading to his four year old daughter. It was strange, somehow to visit Rosala's. Sometimes he felt like an intruder.

Rosala had left Orlais when Ishalle was just seven. She'd given him a sketchbook and a pack of colored pencils and kissed his cheeks. You write me now, Little Bird. Every chance you get, you hear me? He'd nodded, not fully understanding she was fleeing the terrors of rural Orlais. Life held little joy for Ishalle after she left. His parents had taken the opportunity to unleash themselves on him, and he dealt with their particular form of madness until running away one terrible afternoon at fifteen.

He hadn't sent a single letter to Rosala.

It was hardly his fault of course. Ishalle's mother hated Rosala, prohibiting him from even asking where she'd run off to. Rosala had started searching for Ishalle shortly after he'd run away, but it took her years to find him. One elf in the Val Royeaux slums was easy to overlook. Especially as he had no vallaslin to make him stand out. It was chance that led her to Ishalle's feet. He was asleep in an alley, leaning tight against a dumpster and she'd shaken him awake with a desperate cry. His eyes opened blearily, wondering who'd bothered to notice him.

The drive back to Antiva took a week. The two of them stopped in cheap motels, and she ordered him to scrub clean every night. Relying on the old ways, she'd provided him with homemade lotions full of elfroot extract and vandal aria oil. His skin had cracked and peeled on his elbows, his clothes were shredded. She bought him brand new ones. He was in the dressing room when she phoned Moska. I'm bringing him home to live with us...Yes, he's alive, thank the Creators... I don't know. If I ever see that worthless son of a bitch again, I'll kill him myself.

The words sucked the air out of him and he huddled in the dressing room, tears streaming down his face.

They made a stop before leaving Orlais. A temple to Dirthamen lay crumbled in a swamp, the ruins a monument to places long gone. In 9:97 Dragon, the temple had been mostly destroyed during the Great Invasion. But the center room still remained, its walls lined in shining, ancient mosaics. A guide took them in and Rosala had Ishalle kneel at the altar and pray.

His knees ached on the hard stone, but he put his hands on it and bowed his head, the way he'd done to the home altar of Elgar'nan that his parents insisted he genuflect at every night and morning. “No, Little Bird. Sit up.” She guided him up and had him look at the mosaic on the wall behind the stone. “Think of brave and wise Dirthamen. How he guided the People. How he held our secrets. His great love for his twin soul. Can you picture it?” She stroked his hair as she talked.

Staring at the haunted face in the mosaic, a vision passed before him. A man, shimmering in form. He held his hands out wide, against the bright white glare of the sun. Ishalle's eyes watered. If the man had a face, he couldn't see it. There was sound, he could just barely hear it. Wailing. One by one, smokey forms laid their burdens at the feet of the shape, two ravens on his shoulder clucking their disapproval. Or forgiveness. The sun was so warm, so bright. Lay down your misery, give it all to me.

Sobs wracked his body. Rosala simply stayed next to him, holding his hand in hers. “It will take time for you to heal, Little Bird.”

“My name is Ishalle.” He sniffled, wiping a stream of snot out from under his nose. “Ishalle.”

“Friend of the halla? A good name.” She pulled a notebook from her purse and handed it to him. “Write your old name on this.” He did, shaking hands spelling the word: D R Y N N E. She placed the paper on the altar and waved her hand over it. It smoldered and burst into flames, smoke licking up the stone. “They have no power over you, Ishalle. Never again. Your life is your own now.”

He stared up at the mosaic again. Secrets. And knowledge. “I want to do the rites.”

She nodded and helped him to his feet. “One year. One year from today. Think carefully on your decision. If you decide at that point that you want to go through with it, I will give you your vallaslin myself. But you have to think on it. Meditate.”

Ishalle was welcomed with love and without judgment. He had no job, no formal education. So he worked around the house, cleaning and watching the baby and tending to the garden. Rosala had him help her package salves and lotions, or Moska would have him do repairs around the house. He was busy, constantly, but he found himself warming up to the family he'd never known. Moska encouraged him to apply for art school. Maddy taught him books and accounting. She'd been doing it for years for Rosala and Moska's businesses.

One year after he'd arrived, Rosala, Moska, Maddy, and a very pregnant Sona all drove out to the eastern desert. There, Clan Athim still lived, following the old ways to the letter. The Keeper, and his First met the family outside a wind powered aravel. A herd of halla, wearing traditional Antivan embroidered yokes stamped around the sand, nickering. Rosala's daughters brought gifts to the clan, and Rosala herself traded crates of cherries for bone needles and ink. That night they went to the wild, arid desert and sat in a circle among the scrubby plants that grew there. Each clan member piled wood high, igniting a massive bonfire.

The Keeper gave him a tonic. “It will not numb your pain” was his only warning. Ishalle drank it and poured the last few drops in the fire, feeding Elgar'nan's endless hunger. He felt his eyes ache for a moment, and then he saw again a vision. This time a great bear lumbered through a glen, fur like shaggy moss. Two ravens sat on its shoulders, silent. They stared at Ishalle, turning their inky eyes on him.

Is this what you want? Their beaks did not move.

I will seek out knowledge, keep the secrets that belong to me. I will create in the name of the gods. He felt their wings buffet his face.

Perhaps June is who you seek.

It could be June. It could be. The ravens were conversing without him now.

Enough. A third voice joined and the bear padded towards him, on a stream of light. The gods choose. He has chosen you. Serve Him wisely.

The massive paw pressed hard against his face. It was only one fleeting moment, but he felt the leathery pad and the weight of muscle and fur. His vision wavered and fluttered into a white light before coalescing into the fire and the people in front of him.

“Dirthamen” was all he said, a low whisper.

Rosala prepared her tools. “Dirthamen it shall be. Last chance to back out, Ishalle.”

He nodded. “I am ready.” True to the old traditions, he did not cry out. The pain was a magnificent burning heat in his forehead. The other elves around the fire sang, a mournful tale. It was a story of Dirthamen, how he protected the knowledge lost in the days of Arlathan. Rosala tapped the needles into his skin, working with a meditative calm. She hummed along a little but did not sing.

Until that point, Ishalle didn't consider himself to be particularly devout. His parents fanaticism had driven him away from the Creators. But that night, he found himself staring into Rosala's skin, at the deep green ink she'd worn since she was seventeen. And there, in deep brown eyes, he found his gods. 

Rosala tapped her needle, working across his chin. The pain was greater there, but he practiced his breathing, focusing on the image of the bear and the ravens. The blessing—or curse?—of Dirthamen's aspect. He could feel blood rolling down his chin, but Rosala held him in her firm grasp, working the design into his skin. Later a ridge would form on one of the lines, a slight scar from her needles going a little too deep.

“You're doing well, Little Bird.” She wiped away the excess and he saw the smear of red, mixed with the black paste of the ink. “Consider the millions of ancestors who have done this for all the millennia that our people have lived. Consider them enduring as you do now.”

A line of shadowy forms stretched back in his mind's eye, men and women who sat, faces tipped up to the skies. A sneering shem clutching The New Chant told him once that the vallaslin began as slave markings. She'd said that there was a temple, somewhere in hidden Orlais that held a mural of a wolf removing the tattoos. Ishalle bristled at the idea of some shem taking this precious ritual from him, mocking its purpose.

Rosala had marked Maddy and Sona's faces too. Maddy had chosen Falon'Din. Her cheeks were bare, but the deep purple lines marked her forehead and chin. Sona had seen Mythal in her vision, and her whole face was decorated in the same green as her mother's.

Smoke from the fire wrapped around him, swirling into the air with the wind. The night was clear, the moons so bright they nearly drowned out the stars. Tears filled his eyes, from the smoke, from the pain, from the surge of emotion he felt as Rosala moved down the bridge of his nose. His neck ached, as did his tailbone. And his legs tingled and burned. But he did not move, lest he destroy the image on his skin. Time slowed to a crawl; he worried the clan might be bored. They sang another tale, this one telling of the love Falon'Din and Dirthamen shared.

Hours went by before his aunt finished her work, the dot on his left cheek ending the design. “We are finished. Nearly. You are a man now.” She helped him rise and turned him to the clan. Overhead the moons were lopsided things, a pair of pale eyes watching down below. “Clan Athim,” she called to them. “I present to you a man, no longer a child! He is Ishalle and he is of The People!”

“Son of Elgar'nan, son of Mythal. One of The People, and he shall be welcome.”

The memories had overcome him, sitting in Rosala's living room and watching her grandchildren play. Someday they would share the ritual, or at least he hoped. The living room was filled with all manner of things; tufted cushions on the floor, a television hidden behind a painted screen. Jars on shelves held oils and extracts, the lifeblood of Rosala's business. The house itself was built by Rosala and Moska, their bare hands hammering together the frame, erecting the walls, decorating.

It wasn't an aravel but it was Dalish.

And to Ishalle, it was home.

End of Part One

Chapter Text

“And of course, we can't forget the history of the Dales. After the Great Invasion, so much was destroyed but we do have some ancient records that show the Dalish being hunted for sport.”

“While that may be true, there are a number of humans who have interacted with the Dalish since then and they've found a peaceful society.”

“Certainly. But that does not invalidate the past. There are truths to be uncovered, and lessons to be learned. Fortunately digital records are being made public, so all can learn the history of our people”

“Thank you for your time. Merrill Sabrae's work can be found online at kirkwalldalish.org, and her book 'A Record of Time' will be published next year.”

Spring swept across the city, new leaves rustling in a soft wind. It didn't get as warm in Antiva City as it did in the rest of the country. Breezes were constantly rushing along the streets, carrying with them the smells of the harbor, the hawker stands, fluttering bits of paper and the cries of birds.

He hadn't seen Dorian since the party. Ishalle was too embarrassed to even consider contacting him, and no small part of him hoped that the mage would simply forget about him. He's married by now, has to be. A batch of postcards— one of Jayne's better ideas— came in from the printer and he sorted them out, idly fantasizing about Dorian anyway, annoying himself in the process.

That night Lu had a date, and Case was busy with his own work. Restlessness plagued him and he went for a walk, hoping to clear his head. His feet found the harbor, pulsing with life. Antiva City was shaped like a cup, buildings spilling down the hills into its famous bay. Once, the sea had carried sailors and pirates from all corners of Thedas, and the harbor had been where they'd landed first. The old market was still there; of course the ancient buildings had been repaired and rebuilt so many times that he doubted it resembled anything of the past.

Stalls selling trinkets and postcards and ugly shirts were open. There were craftsmen there, too. Traditional Antivan blades, leather goods, glass lanterns and pipes were all on display. He wandered among the stalls, pretending to look like an interested buyer. For a moment he imagined himself in ancient Thedas, back when dragons and gods roamed free. There had been a time when dragons flew over the skies. Now the last few hundred were in sanctuaries.

Dorian got married. The thought intruded, unwelcome, and danced like a puppet mocking him. Felix and Dorian, Dorian and Felix. This is getting fucking old. He walked for a time, hands in his pockets, a perfect picture of a moping young artist. No so young anymore, though. I'll be thirty in a few months. The thought startled him.

People were everywhere he looked, elven families juggling their children, teenage dwarves skateboarding off the park steps, humans lounging on blankets in the grass or haggling at stands. He saw a number of large Qunari men, many of them with one horn sawed off. It was the new fashion, Lu had told him. She refused to do it, rolling her eyes and telling him, “I'll keep my balance, thanks.”

A tap on the shoulder surprised him and he spun to see Dorian, giving him his usual lopsided smile. He was wearing a snug white t-shirt tonight, clinging to the muscles that lined his chest. The tattoo on his forearm was exposed, deep maroon ink in an abstract pattern of circles and lines. His eyes travelled across the tattoo and he wondered about dragging his fingers along it, forgetting to say hello.

“Ishalle? How are you?”

“Ah.” He coughed a little. “I am well. And you?” He looked down at the ground, wanting to hide.

“Better now. Pleasant evening, wouldn't you say? Are you meeting anyone here?”

“Non. Just em, walking. You?”

Dorian kept that smile on his face. “Alone. Care for some company?”

Ishalle couldn't make himself say no. They strolled along the harbor, the sun setting, leaving behind a navy blue sky. Dorian talked lazily about his classes, about the promising students that were in his program. The term had just finished, he explained, so he was taking a bit of time off to relax. As he talked, he conjured a little blue ball of energy and twirled it over his fingers. Dark red fingernails. Pretty...

“How was the wedding?” Ishalle asked the question, realizing that he sounded a bit too invested in the answer.

“Hmm? Oh, you mean Felix? I didn't go. Wasn't that kind of wedding.” Dorian pointed to a hawker selling Par Vollen style noodles. “Hungry?”

“Oui. Em...you...did not go?” Ishalle frowned. What?

“Gereon never would have allowed it,” he said with a small laugh. “Traditional Tevinter weddings follow a very archaic set of rules set by the Imperial Chantry, all made for show, really. We do love our funny words and secret rituals.” Dorian pulled out his wallet, nodding to the cook. “One, with cucumber, extra hot please.”

Ishalle ordered the same and was surprised when Dorian paid for both of them. “You did not need to do that.”

“I can take a friend out to dinner.” Dorian winked at him. “We are friends, aren't we?”

“Em...yes.” Ishalle pulled out a cheap plastic chair and sat at the rickety metal card table in front of the stand. “I do not understand Tevinter weddings, I am thinking. How can you be married if you do not go?”

Dorian looked at him, frowning for a moment before his eyes grew wide. “Married? What...Oh, no. You think that Felix and I are...Oh, fucking Maker.” He covered his face. “You think Felix and I are a couple.”

Ishalle could only stare, blinking. Had he truly been wrong this whole time? Lu was going to laugh her ass off at him.

“Shit.” Dorian rubbed his temples, laughing a little. “Everyone always thinks we're together. I should start introducing him that way. 'Hello, this is my good friend Felix, no we aren't dating.'”

Ishalle thought back, thought to seeing them talking and laughing together, and the warm way Dorian spoke of him, the worry in his voice when Felix was at his appointments. The whispers in his ears. “You care for him, yes?”

“Oh, of course I do. He's my oldest friend. As I said, we grew up together. He is, and always will be one of the most important people in my life. Say what you will about me, I take my friendships seriously.” Their food arrived, steaming bright red broth, shredded cucumbers mixed in with the bright white noodles. Dorian snapped his chopsticks apart and stirred some elfroot oil into his bowl. “I have never been attracted to Felix, and at any rate, he's straight as an arrow. But I do love him, as I love many of my friends.”

Ishalle ate his noodles, not really tasting them. He'd been avoiding Dorian, simply because he thought he was with another man. Fool. You should have just asked. Assumptions were going really fuck him up one of these days. They ate, Ishalle wondering where to take this conversation. Dorian talked a little about Tevinter weddings, but Ishalle's mind was racing and he couldn't concentrate. Is he even interested in me at all? It's been at least a month since he asked me to coffee. And I have been avoiding him for this long time. Creators take me, this was foolish. I should have just fucking asked him.

“Are you...are you with anyone?” Ishalle tried not to sound like the answer was the most important bit of information he'd ever heard.

“I'm not, no.” Dorian was deft with his chopsticks, somehow avoiding splashing red oil all over his white shirt. “Ishalle, allow me to be blunt, since I obviously haven't been yet. I'd like to take you out, on a date.” Dorian set his chopsticks down, and took a drink out of his styrofoam cup. “I hope I'm not making you uncomfortable, but I want to tell you that, especially in light of that misunderstanding. I'm interested in you and I have been for some time now.”

Ishalle was distinctly not prepared for this turn of events. He dabbed at his face with a flimsy napkin, trying to breathe properly. “I...em...” he trailed off, all words leaving his grasp. Dorian picked up their trays and carried them back to the stall, then returned and held his large hand out to Ishalle. He took it, and Dorian pulled him up with an easy strength.

“Walk with me?”

“Oui.” It was full dark now, but witchlights floated everywhere. Red, yellow, blue, and purple. Giggling children would jump up to try to catch the ephemeral orbs, but they'd simply bounce away, forever out of reach of tiny hands. Several dozen floated above the water like overlarge stars, illuminating the houseboats and sailing ships. Early gardenia flowers filled the park with their fragrance. Distantly, someone plucked at a guitar. It was a sad tune that bobbed with the lights. Ishalle's stomach was in his chest, walking alongside Dorian. Hidden in his pockets was a single sovereign coin and he played with it, keeping his fingers busy, out of sight.

Dorian seemed to have a destination in mind. They walked through the sellers, past the doughnut stands, below the shuttered souvenir shops. Neither spoke. Down beyond the tourist area, it was quiet, and a bit chilly. There was nobody around, and the sounds of the night were muted by crickets. A smaller park finished off the harbor. A bit run down and dim. But private. Hanging between two trees was a wide bench swing, complete with foot rest. Dorian led Ishalle there and took his hand again, steadying him as he sat on the moving bench.

“I do not know what to say.” Ishalle put his hands back in his pockets, trying to stay nice and still. His cigarette case brushed against his fingers, but he decided to wait to smoke. “My last boyfriend and I met under...different...em... This thing is difficult for me.”

“I'd rather not make you uncomfortable,” he repeated. Dorian sat near him, but not touching him. “My ex and I parted amicably enough, but I haven't really wanted to date in a while. Not until I met you. I'd like to take you on a proper date. Dinner, maybe dancing. All that nonsense. Whatever you'd like.”

“You have taken me for dinner just now.” Ishalle giggled a little. Was this a date?

“I suppose I have! I'd like to know if you're interested though. You, ah,” and there was that lopsided grin again. “You haven't actually said.”

“I am. Yes. Very.” Ishalle's heart was threatening to come out of his mouth. He took a deep breath, clenching his fingers together inside his pockets. “I am.”

Dorian tipped Ishalle's face towards his and kissed him. The move was not unwelcome. Rather, it was desperately wanted. His lips were soft, quite soft. And the way he kissed was different than Lyon, in a nice way. Lyon, as submissive as he was, always kissed Ishalle like he owned his mouth. Dorian was gentle, exploring and tentative. His hand left his face; instead his fingers ran along the length of his jaw, threaded through his curls and cupped the back of his head. Soft and softer still, his tongue traced Ishalle's lips, and Ishalle opened to let him in.

A flood of heat rushed up from Ishalle's spine, and he surged, stroking Dorian's tongue with his own. Hands, I have hands. Cautious, he touched Dorian's waist, thrilling at the feel of his solid body under the thin shirt. Fresh cucumber and hot chili was on his tongue. Dorian matched his movement, pulling Ishalle slightly closer, still kissing him. Ishalle's hands, no longer content with little touches, worked their way up his back, feeling the firm ripple of muscle. He must work out he thought, and wondered why that of all things had popped into his mind.

He broke the kiss, pulling back a bit to look up at Dorian's face. His lips were soft and brown, parted to show a row of neat, white teeth. That mustache was still well groomed, smooth, despite its recent activity. His eyes were still closed, but they opened slowly, and looked into Ishalle's. “Was that alright?”

“Yes. Very alright.” Ishalle smiled at him, trying to stay calm. “If I am honest, I am resisting inviting you back to my apartment.”

“I would accept.” Dorian's hand was working from his neck, down his back.

“I think...I need to wait.”

“I am perfectly fine with that. I like you. I don't mind taking things slow.”

Ishalle leaned back on the bench, suddenly feeling dizzy. He gripped the edge of the splintered wood, breathing in as slow and deep as he could manage.

“Are you okay?” Dorian's forehead furrowed and he put a hand on Ishalle's shoulder.

“Just...a little light in my head.”

“May I walk you home?”

“I would like that.” He smoked as they walked, the cigarette calming him slightly. Dorian took his free hand in his own, brushing his thumb along the side of Ishalle's palm.

“And is this alright?”

“You ask me such things.” Ishalle took another drag, blowing the smoke away from Dorian. “Yes. I will tell you if something bothers me.”

“I don't want to overstep.” They walked up Somni avenue, passing Coco's Fry Box, the Red Skull diner, the decrepit flower shop. Elves walked by, working class folks heading home, or out for the night shift, young party goers in bright colors. Still, Dorian held his hand, something Lyon never did in public. Because if anyone saw him and recognized him, they'd know. They would know he was cheating on his wife. And he lied to me for a year. Bastard.

They reached the gallery, the heavy metal gate covering the front of the building. Ishalle glanced up and noticed Lu's light wasn't on. He wondered how her date with Thom was going. Dorian led him around the back and they walked up the creaky wooden stairs to his front door.

“Here we are, then.” Dorian touched Ishalle's face, slow, with the back of his hand. He wore a few chunky rings, and the metal was cool against his skin.

“I want to invite you in.” Ishalle sucked in a sharp breath. “But I also want to wait.”

Dorian kissed him again, one long kiss and then three short ones. Ishalle's cock throbbed in his trousers, and his legs ached. It was getting more difficult to figure out why he wanted to wait. He'd lusted after him for months now, why put it off? Dorian's hands felt so good around his waist, moving constantly, tracing lines, fingers dancing across the small of his back.

“Dorian...” Just open the door, bring him in.

“I should go.” Dorian's lips found Ishalle's again. “I really should” and one more kiss, “I should go.”

“Oui. Yes.” He rocked his hips into him. “It would be best.”

“Don't invite me in.” He kissed Ishalle's cheek and bent to take his earlobe between his teeth.

“Non. I won't invite you in.” Ishalle's toes curled in his shoes. “That would not be wise.”

“And we must be wise.” Dorian's hands crept downward, just above the curve of his ass. “For some reason.”

“C'est juste.” Ishalle grabbed the back of Dorian's head and kissed him hard, wanting to spin him around and shove him against his door. Everything was lips and tongue, his fingers digging into the man's scalp. Dorian rumbled a soft noise in his throat and Ishalle would have dragged them both inside right then if it weren't for the crunch of feet on gravel.

Dorian heard it too, and pulled back, turning to see Lu walking up the stairs. The two men straightened out, and Dorian cleared his throat. “Goodnight, Ishalle.”

“Yes. Em. You as well.”

Lu nodded her greetings and went into her own apartment, not sticking around to interrupt. Her smirk did not escape his notice. Dorian kissed Ishalle once last time before turning and heading back down the stairs, leaving him to the solitude of his own home.

Chapter Text

“Good evening Antiva City, you're listening to 105.9, LOVE. I'm Imelda Rain, your host for this stormy night. We're taking requests and dedications, so call them in now. Hello, you're on the air?”

“Hi Imelda.” [Sound of a lonely sigh] “This is Maria calling from the East Hills.”

“Hello, Maria. Sounds like you're missing someone tonight.”

“Yeah. My girlfriend left for her scholarship program to Cumberland last week, and we listen to your show every week. Could you play 'Dreams of the Stars?'”

“Of course, I'd be happy to do that for you, Maria. What's your girlfriend's name?”

“Anna. And I miss her.”

“Okay, 'Dreams of the Stars,' for Anna. And Anna, sounds like you're a very lucky woman. Good luck in your studies, and enjoy the song.”

-Dinner?

The text arrived at three in the afternoon, while Ishalle was planning the next month's calendar of events. He touched his phone, wondering how to respond. A simple yes? Suggest a place? If so, what kind of place? What sort of food did he like? What kind of money did he want to spend? What kind of money did Ishalle want to spend? Cursing his overactive mind, he sent back a yes and a suggestion to meet at the gallery at seven.

After closing the shop, Ishalle ran upstairs, trying to figure out what to do with his clothes. Dorian hadn't suggested a place; he had no idea how formal he should be. After far too long— and several swear words lobbed at his limited wardrobe— he decided. A loose black shirt, with buttons. He rolled up the sleeves and cuffed them, showing off his forearms. He settled on a long pair of grey trousers, taking down his jeans.

He looked down at his wrist and sat back on the bed, a defeated sigh forcing its way from his chest. The scar from his father was an angry red. Halla leather was soft, but it still rubbed against the raised flesh. Memories came tumbling back, memories he did not want to revisit right now. Quickly, he laced up the cuff, tamping everything down.

I'm going to have to explain this to Dorian if I sleep with him.

Shaking his head, he decided to cross that bridge when he came to it. The trousers looked nice on him at least, and he tucked his shirt in, for once. One of Lu's necklaces graced his throat, a long chain with a raven's skull forged in metal at the end. She'd engraved Dirthamen's sigil in its crown. It matched the vallaslin on his own face. She'd made the one piece, destroying the mold after, saying she had no desire to see Dalish symbols on human necks.

His curls were hopeless. He tried his best, hoping they'd be polite enough to stay in place until after dinner. Unwilling to give up his comforts, he donned his favorite oversized black cardigan before heading down the stairs to meet Dorian. The mage was waiting for him, leaning against his car. His elbows were cocked behind him, hands on the roof. And he was grinning.

Creators. Dorian was wearing his usual black and white ensemble, complete with suspenders. But that white buttoned down shirt of his was tight, leaving nothing to the imagination in regards to his musculature. Gold stud earrings were in his lobes, and he'd used a touch of black eyeliner. Ishalle swallowed, hard.

“You look nice,” he said, trying to be casual. Dorian reached out and tugged him against his body, kissing him right there on the street.

“Sorry, I know I should buy you dinner first, but I've been thinking about doing that for a few days now.” Dorian gave him a wicked smile.

“I don't mind.” Ishalle flicked his tongue over his lips, and wrapped his sweater around himself.

“How do you feel about Tevene cuisine?” Dorian kept his hands at Ishalle's waist, his eyes on his mouth.

“I am afraid I know very little of it.”

“Good. I know just the place.” Dorian opened the car door for him and gestured. “Hop in, we're going to my favorite restaurant.”

The whirring little car carried them across town, up hills and down into the Diplomat's District. Dorian was a gentleman all around, assisting Ishalle out of the car, pulling his chair out for him. Vivamus was a cozy little place tucked into a row of trendy shops. Dark wood floors and low witchlights kept the place dim, and there was a wine rack the length of one wall. On the opposite wall was a dragon, done in spray paints. Its mouth was clamped shut with a steel plate.

Ishalle looked at the simple menu, a single sheet of paper with descriptions typed in short, frank rows. The cheapest thing on the menu was twenty eight sovereigns, and it was a grain salad. He said this was his favorite restaurant? Being a professor must pay very well. Ishalle bit his lip, agonizing over what to order. He couldn't pay attention to the food, just the numbers next to everything. Twenty nine, thirty two, forty five sovereigns for nug?  “Em...what do you suggest?”

“Oh, everything is great. I've never had a bad meal here. But, let me see, you've never had Tevene food, right?” Dorian leaned forward and tipped Ishalle's menu down. “The quail and rice is my favorite. Do you like olives?”

“I do. But I do not eat meat.”

Dorian pointed at another item. “Get that. It's stellar. And vegetarian.”

And thirty eight sovereigns. Ishalle had enough money, but this was significantly more than he was usually willing to spend on one meal. Forty sovereigns bought an awful lot of instant noodles.

Dorian ordered a deep red wine to go with and poured the first glass for Ishalle. All he could think about was the impending argument over the bill. Once, Lyon had demanded they split everything down the middle, despite the fact that Ishalle had only ordered an appetizer. Should have broken up with him long before I actually did. Lyon hadn't spoken to him for a week after than incident.

Dorian reached across the table and touched Ishalle's hand, running his thumb across his knuckles. The touch put him at ease. All was well here. Dorian was not Lyon. The restaurant was fancy, to be sure. But it had a certain comfort to it. There was interesting art everywhere he looked, and the restaurant was packed with people, but Dorian was focused only on Ishalle.

It was a nice change of pace.

“Tell me about Orlais. What was it like to grow up there? What part are you from?”

Ishalle rubbed the back of his neck. “It was not so nice there, actually. I know many people think it is a romantic and quaint place but em...I think if you are human it is easier? For me it was very difficult. I do not miss it.” Their food arrived, and Ishalle had to admit his looked very good indeed.

Half of a long and narrow eggplant was steamed until soft and custard-like, served over a bed of richly spiced lentils. The whole thing was garnished with shredded elfroot leaves and drizzled with white elfroot seed sauce. One cautious bite convinced him he was likely to be very fond of Tevene food. “This is nice, Dorian. Thank you for bringing me here.”

“Good! I'm glad you like it.” Dorian had settled on the quail. “You said you were nineteen when you came here, right?”

“Mm.” Ishalle nodded. “Oui. To live with my aunt. I studied at the Antiva School of Fine Art, but I did not finish.”

“I've heard some bad things about that school.” Dorian ate delicate bites, clearly used to upper class dining. “Not to say anything about its students, mind you. Just that their hiring practices are less than admirable.”

Ishalle took the hook and ran with it. He told Dorian about the lousy teachers, and about the soft, old human woman who had attempted to teach him about Dalish symbolism. Dorian laughed at that, shaking his head.

“You would not believe the standards set for Dalish studies across Thedas. Neria is constantly arguing for better textbooks, better sources. She's working on writing one right now, but it's a monumental task.”

A question nagged at Ishalle, one that had been on his mind since Dorian had first kissed him. “Em, have you...have you been with a Dalish? Or an elf?”

“No.” Dorian poured them both a second glass of wine, emptying the bottle. “I haven't dated much of anyone to be fair. But, I am of Tevinter and it's a very different culture up there. Marriages are still arranged among the upper class.” He took another bite of his food, thinking as he chewed. “I suppose it's time for a bit of family history. Bear with me. My father and mother did not get along, et cetera . Terribly sad, I know. But they were fairly united in their love of tradition. They wanted me to follow a very specific path. One that did not involve me being interested in men.”

“Ah. I have heard some humans have difficulties with this thing.” His own family didn't seem to care one way or another.

“Really only in Tevinter,” he said with a shrug. “Everywhere else in Thedas, it doesn't seem to be much of a bloody issue. Even then, only in certain circles. But my father wanted grandchildren and for that he had to marry his son to a woman. My betrothed was kind enough, but I just could not stomach the idea of pretending. My father threatened to disown me, we fought, I moved in with Felix and his parents.”

“Do you get along now?”

“Hardly. We exchange polite Satinalia cards. That's about it. My mother and I speak from time to time, and I suppose things could be seen as friendly. If you squint. And the lighting is dim.” Dorian shrugged again. “I focused on my studies back home. I wanted out of my family's shadow, I wanted to be free to live my own life. Once I finished college, I collected my things and moved here with my ex. Felix followed and it was providence that earned us our jobs at the same university.”

“Your ex? You were together when you moved here, yes?” Ishalle had finished his food, and felt somewhat stunned by the quality of the dish. The wine was settling in nicely and he felt like curling up next to Dorian and listening to him talk.

“Rilienus and I moved here together, yes. Young, and foolish. I said before that we parted amicably. It was a sad situation of both of us maintaining the relationship for no other reason than it being the easier choice. After eight years of it, I couldn't tell you if we truly loved each other. By the end we were little more than roommates. He left for Qarinus shortly after. I hear he's doing well.”

Ishalle nodded, toying with the stem of his wine glass. He had plenty of sexual experience, but very little in the way of real relationship knowledge. Lyon was the longest relationship he had, and it was hardly a healthy one. Marco wanted more than just sex; he'd been a great play partner, but Ishalle couldn't find much in common with him outside the scene. Speaking of which... Ishalle took another look at Dorian.

The man was quite a bit larger than him. Ishalle measured five feet, three inches when standing perfectly straight. Dorian was at least six feet tall, broad of shoulder and with well formed muscles. Truthfully, he looked exactly like the kind of man that would approach him at Dracolisk, wanting to tie Ishalle up.

“And what's on your mind?” Dorian leaned forward a bit. “Did you want dessert?”

“Oh, I do not care for the desserts. I would not mind if you got something sweet though.”

Dorian let out a low chuckle that sent a shiver down Ishalle's spine. The server came by, bearing a thin metal tray. Dorian didn't even look at the bill, simply dropping his card and nodding. Ishalle reached for his wallet but his date shook his head. “I said I'd like to take you out. And so I am.”

“This is the second meal you've bought me.” Ishalle wrung the corner of his sweater. “I would, em. I mean. If we are going to go out again, I would like to pay. Next time. If you would like.”

Dorian raised Ishalle's hand to his lips and planted a kiss on his knuckles, holding eye contact. “Absolutely.”

I am going to fuck this man. I am going to give him the best night of his life. I'm going to make him call my name and forget he ever had anyone else.

“Ready to leave?”

“Mm.” Ishalle stood on wine warmed legs. The night felt open with possibilities. Dorian led him out to the car, his hand resting on the small of his back. “Em...what is next?”

“Well.” Dorian ushered Ishalle into the car, sliding in after him. “I promised you dancing, but I would like to take you home with me instead.”

“Would you now?” Ishalle reached for Dorian's hand, wanting contact. “To...your home?”

“Yes.” The mage tapped the rune on the dashboard and the car hummed to life. “What do you think about that?”

“I am thinking I want this thing. But also I am not ready to have sex with you yet.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, clinical in this intimate space.

“I have no interest in pushing you where you do not want to go. I do have a rather pressing interest in kissing you, and maybe unbuttoning that shirt.”

Perhaps the nicest thing about the self driving car was that neither Dorian nor Ishalle had to pay the slightest bit of attention to the road. The little car simply hummed along, almost cheerful in its path to the east hills. It ignored Dorian kissing Ishalle, one lip at a time. It paid no mind to Dorian tipping Ishalle's head back and tracing his tongue along his throat. It didn't notice when Ishalle straddled Dorian's lap and ground into him. Orange and yellow lights flickered over their faces through the window, but in the car, all was dim. Ishalle didn't need to see, just to feel. The hard bulge in Dorian's pants against Ishalle's thigh was enough to test his resolve.

Ishalle felt the car ride over a small bump and back into a parking space. “Here we are.” Dorian eased Ishalle off his lap and again, assisted him out of the car. His house was a tiny thing, with a small garden out front. He led Ishalle inside, adjusting the runes to a dim yellow light.

Ishalle burned. He turned Dorian around, walking him against the wall and pinning him there, holding his wrists firm.

“Yes...” Dorian made a soft noise, and hummed with pleasure when Ishalle kissed his mouth and bit his lower lip. “You're more aggressive than I would have guessed.”

The moment broke; Ishalle dropped Dorian's wrists, horrified at himself. “Je suis désolé, em. Excuse me. I-I-I did not mean-”

“Hey, it's okay.” Dorian pulled him closer again. “I liked that.”

“Are you certain? I should have asked first.”

“Quite certain. And I'm certain I'd like to show you my bedroom.” Dorian dove into his neck once more. “If you're so inclined.”

Ishalle let himself be led down the hall, into a small and tidy bedroom. The duvet was a rich chocolate brown, with only a few simple pillows up at the top. Ishalle pushed Dorian back onto the bed and climbed on top of him. The feel of the mage's firm body between his legs was all he'd dreamed about for months, and now he was finally here.

“You mentioned something about shirts.” Ishalle tugged down the suspenders, and started tracing the button line. “Not that this one is hiding much.”

“I could leave it on if you like.”

“I would not like.” Ishalle played with the buttons, undoing each one as slow as he could stand. Deep bronze skin was revealed, a few inches at a time. His chest had a fine coating of black hair, matching the thin path leading from his navel into his trousers. He wanted to lick it. Ishalle pushed the fabric aside, and Dorian assisted him the rest of the way. His nipples were small and tight in the cool air of his bedroom. Ishalle resisted the impulse to suck on one, and contented himself with staring. “You are very nice to look at.”

“I do try.” Dorian, now propped on his elbows, looked up at him, smug. “Now that you have me half naked, what are you going to do?”

Ishalle sat back, still straddling him. “I would like to touch you.”

Dorian took Ishalle's hands in his and put them on his chest. Ishalle's mind went to the condom in his wallet, wondering if perhaps that was a brilliant idea or a foolish one. He trailed his fingers down Dorian's torso, his thoughts in a thousand different places. The pressure to perform was suddenly on his back like a weight.

“Ishalle. Kiss me.” Dorian's hands worked up his back, guiding him down gently. Every touch was light and calm, his lips gentle. “Can I take off your shirt?”

“Yes.” He indulged himself in Dorian's neck, pressing his tongue into his skin. Salt, and the smell of something sweet and warm. Oh, that's what it is. Dragon's blood oil. Rosala used the amber resinous oil in several of her poultices, often with a mix of other plants. On Dorian it was subtle, complementing the natural smell of his body. Strong fingers were at his shirt, slipping the buttons open.

“I have a rather sudden desire to kiss the tips of your ears.” He pushed Ishalle's curls aside and ran a finger up the length, moving around the piercings there.

Ishalle's hands shook. “They are sensitive.”

“Is that a 'no?'”

“You can. Em...be light.”

Dorian sat up, holding Ishalle in place. With soft touches, he pushed Ishalle's shirt off his shoulders and looked over his chest. Ishalle finished tugging the sleeve over his cuff, and met Dorian's eyes.

“Maker's breath, you are fucking gorgeous.” Dorian kept his hands at Ishalle's waist. “Fuck, I want you.” Until this point, Dorian had been all calm, a sense of ease and confidence that Ishalle found very disarming. But once he shed his shirt, Dorian's demeanor changed. He looked at Ishalle without smiling, eyes wide as he took in the sight of him. Ishalle climbed off, and sat on the mattress next to him. “Did I make you uncomfortable?”

“I am wishing to slow down.” Ishalle covered his face with one hand. “I have fear.”

“Of course, of course.” Dorian propped some of his pillows up and guided Ishalle back to them. He laid on his side, watching the mage take off his shoes. Out of habit, Ishalle had stepped out of his at the door. Dorian laid down next to him, and rested his hand on Ishalle's back. “I told you before that I have no desire to pressure you. If you want to stop, we can.”

“My ex used me,” he mumbled, feeling it a poor explanation for his behavior.

“Ah. I'm sorry.” Dorian reached up and took Ishalle's hand. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“He was married. I did not know this thing.” The betrayal still burned. “And I did not question when he would not take my hand, or kiss me in public. He often made the remarks about how he could not be seen with someone like me.” Ishalle closed his eyes, hiding his shame. “He had money. And you... I do not want you to think poorly of me.”

“I see.” Dorian's fingers on his cheek made Ishalle open his eyes. “I would not use you. I am not that kind of man.” Dorian cupped his jaw and kissed him softly. “I am thirty five years old. I have little interest at this point in my life in games. I have no intention of stringing you along. You're an attractive man, by any measure, but I also like you. You're intelligent and charming, and I feel comfortable with you. And as for the money thing, well. I'm fully aware of what artists make.”

“It is not much.”

Dorian fingered the raven pendant. “Let me know what you need.”

Ishalle nodded again, not really sure what to say. “I want a cigarette,” he blurted out.

Dorian chuckled. “Alright. I can show you my favorite part of this house.” Ishalle shrugged his shirt back on, buttoning only a few of the ones in the middle. Dorian pulled on a sweater and led him out to a porch. It was small, but there was a lovely curved high backed bench with a table in front of it. Dorian curled his hand in the air and witchlights floated out of nothing, sticking to the roof of the porch. A small garden was just beyond, hardly visible in the dark of night.

Ishalle offered Dorian one of his cigarettes, and they sat together, listening to the sounds of the city off in the distance. A train rumbled, somewhere in the valley below, its horn an eerie echo off the canyon walls.

“So. You have your nipples pierced.” Dorian gave him a sly smile.

“Oui. I em...I enjoy having them touched.” An understatement.

“I'm looking forward to doing just that.” Dorian put his arm around Ishalle, easy and natural. “Any other piercings?”

“Non. Aside from the ones you can see.”

“The tips of your ears are sensitive?” Dorian touched his lips to the very point of his ear, and Ishalle's chin shot up.

“Ah. Yes. Very.”

“Good to know.” Creators, his voice is going to kill me. Ishalle was reasonably sure his arousal was apparent. Dorian's hand was moving gently along his arm, soft touches.

“I em. I should be clear.” Ishalle took a long drag and let the smoke fill his lungs, letting it out through his nose. “I do want you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“I do not think I can tonight.” He took another pull, his head spinning a little. “I want to take the time with you. I want to go slow.”

Dorian nodded, gazing out into the garden as he smoked. Each drag was savored like wine. “In your own time.”

“Non. Not in my time, but ours. You should be comfortable too, yes? I want to know what you like. I em... I prefer to top.” He let his hand come to rest on Dorian's knee.

“That makes things easy.” Dorian put his cigarette out. “I mostly bottom but I do like switching from time to time. Now, about the rest of the evening. We don't have to do anything you're not ready for, but how would you like to spend the night?”

Ishalle blinked. The thought hadn't occurred to him. “Em...I think I would like that.”

Dorian pulled Ishalle up and off the seat. “Excellent. How would you like to lie in my bed and let me kiss you?”

He laughed, holding Dorian's arms. “I would like that as well.”

The shirts came off again, once they were back in the bedroom. Dorian guided Ishalle back to the bed, lowering him down into the soft duvet. He kissed Ishalle's neck, thumbing his ribs. His mouth found its way to Ishalle's ear, soft lips working up the back. Ishalle felt his moans creeping out of him, pleasure drowning him in its depths.

Dorian started to move down, his lips dragging along his collarbone, touching the hollow of his throat. Usually Ishalle preferred to lead, but he found himself relaxing under Dorian's capable hands and mouth. Down they went, down his sternum, along his ribs. He touched Ishalle's nipple ring, tracing the one on the left with a feather light finger. Almost as if he was afraid of damaging him.

“They are not this delicate.” He wanted Dorian to take it in his mouth and suck, and as if the mage could sense his wishes, he did so. Ishalle nearly snapped his head back, rolling up into the heat of his mouth. Dorian took his encouragement well, holding onto Ishalle's waist with both hands. That tongue worked his nipple, flicking the nub and tugging on the gold hoop. “Oh, shit, Dorian...” His cock was pressing firm against his trousers, begging to be touched.

The mage reached a hand up to stroke Ishalle's face and on an impulse, Ishalle sucked a finger into his mouth. He wrapped his lips around it and bobbed down, dragging his teeth along Dorian's knuckle. The mage moaned at the preview of things to come, humming against Ishalle's skin. He pulled his hand away and leaned back, looking down at Ishalle. “Alright. How far do you want to go tonight?” Ishalle bit his lip in response, not sure what to say or how to quantify it. “Because your mouth is wonderful. And you're so fucking hot. I want you, very badly.”

Ishalle shook in a breath. I could fuck him, I could fuck him tonight, why am I waiting? Lyon's voice echoed in his thoughts. Who would want someone like you? “I don't know?”

“Let me put it a different way.” Dorian kissed him again before leaning into his ear. “Can I make you come?”

“Oh fuck.” Ishalle was aching now. That voice.

“I have very dexterous hands. I want to see you.” Dorian looked down on him with half lidded eyes. “I want to get you off.” His hand was running down his belly, making little circles. Fingers just at his waistband. “May I?”

“Fuck, yes,” he breathed. “Please.”

Dorian's unbuttoned Ishalle's trousers, slowly lowering the zipper. His knuckles brushed against Ishalle's cock, sending a shiver up his sides. “I could use my mouth if you'd like?”

“Hands....hands, please.”

Dorian tugged his pants, hooking his fingers into the elastic of Ishalle's underwear. “Can I take these off?”

“Yes. Em...could you dim the lights?” The witchlights were burning his eyes. Dorian held out a hand and murmured under his breath. The lights flared and lowered, a soft glow that was as warm and comforting as a bath. Ishalle arched his hips and Dorian tugged the pants the rest of the way off, letting his cock bob free.

Fucking Creators, his hands are big. They brushed up his thigh, dipping down onto the soft inner part and pulling up. “Mm. Very nice. Do you want me to use anything?”

“Non, it is not necessary,” he gasped. Dorian's hand wrapped around his cock and started moving, rocking the foreskin around his head. “Ah, slower, please. I like it slow.”

“Slow? Like this?” Dorian eased his grip a bit, simply moving his hand up and down.

“Here.” Ishalle guided Dorian's hand with his own, until the pace was just right. “Mm, yes, move your thumb, just like that. Oh, fuck, that's good.” He drank in the sight of the mage. His mustache wasn't quite so neat anymore, and his hair was mussed. Grey eyes gleamed down on him, watching his every movement. Ishalle looked again at his pecs, at the muscles on his belly, at the sizable bulge in his trousers.

“Feel good?”

“You are joking, yes?” Ishalle hissed. “Yes, I feel good.” He bent his knees, digging his toes into the silky duvet.

“Fucking beautiful...” Dorian took the nipple ring into his mouth again, and Ishalle began to pant. He started pressing his feet hard into the blanket, gasping in lungfuls of air. Dorian tugged just a little at the ring, still working Ishalle's cock, speeding up every so slightly. His fingers slipped up his shaft, settling in firm on the end of his foreskin. He started to use tiny motions, rubbing it back and forth on the sensitive underside of his head, making Ishalle whimper with need.

Dorian moved back up and started kissing Ishalle again, driving his tongue down against his. Ishalle began to shiver beneath him, and the impulse to dig his fingers into something was pressing. The duvet crumpled under his grasp, and he cried out into Dorian's mouth.

“You're so fucking hot. Are you going to come for me?”

“If you keep that up, yes.” Ishalle's spine seemed to have a life of its own and he was holding the blanket for dear life. Dorian sped up, ever so slightly. His thumb made tiny circles under the head of his cock, driving Ishalle close to a frenzy. Moans were echoing in his ears, and it took a moment for him to realize they were his own.

“Fucking sexy. Maker, I could watch you like this for hours.” Dorian slowed, deep grey eyes watching his face. Ishalle felt like he was trapped against a wall in a storm, bracing his back to keep from getting blown away. He couldn't press himself down hard enough, not with Dorian's hand exploring as it was. Deep in his thighs he felt the ache, and he sucked in another breath as if it would anchor him.

“I know you want to come. Let yourself go, let yourself go.” The whispers carried him along, a telltale pressure building in his balls. The mage's hand picked up a steady pace. “Fucking Maker, you look so good here. Can't wait to see you come.” Dorian wrapped his lips around the tip of Ishalle's ear, and then he was lost.

Ishalle liked to watch himself, but this time his eyes squeezed shut against his will and he swore, the release a sweet relief after so much teasing and tension. Three or four hard pulses and he'd made a mess of himself. His throat felt raw and dry, but he couldn't stop gasping. Dorian gave him a self satisfied smile, kissing him a few times as his lips shook. His hand slowed, bringing his foreskin down past his head and then up again, shaking the last few drops loose.

“That was one of the hottest things I've ever seen.”

Ishalle remained on his back, trying to catch his breath. He blinked in the dim light, suddenly self conscious. There he was, naked on Dorian's bed, belly covered in his own come.

“Let me get you cleaned up.”

Ishalle cleared his throat, feeling a little foolish. His limbs were like jelly and he was quite grateful Dorian had suggested spending the night. There was a bathroom connected to his bedroom and Dorian returned, a wet cloth in hand. More kisses distracted him from Dorian's work.

“Do you want to get under the blankets?” Dorian returned from the bathroom, still only in his trousers.

Ishalle could only nod, dazed. “Are you okay? Did we move too fast?”

“Not too fast, non. Just...that was good.”

“Anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

Hold me. “Could I give you the same pleasure?”

“Let's save that for later.” Dorian kissed his cheek. “Come here.” He guided Ishalle under the blankets, pulling them up around him. Dorian took his trousers down, leaving on a snug pair of black boxer briefs and climbed into the bed alongside him. “I like you, quite a lot, you know.”

“I em, I like you as well,” he laughed.

“Good! Do you want to get some sleep?”

“I think so, yes.”

“That's the bathroom there, obviously. If you wake up and you're hungry or thirsty, the kitchen is just down the hall. Take anything you like.” Dorian spooned Ishalle, keeping one hand flat on his belly, murmuring suggestions for breakfast the next morning.

He managed to fall asleep with relative ease.

The nightmare that grabbed him was one of the worst he'd had in years. Blood, and torture, a green light pressing against him, people he loved being torn limb from limb in vivid color and sound. Dorian found him on the back patio, shaking hands lighting a cigarette. He settled in next to Ishalle and rubbed his back, not asking any questions.

“Mages have a permanent connection to the Fade,” he said after a time. His voice was low. “We can never really escape it. It's one of the downsides to being born with this power. Were...either of your parents mages by chance?”

“Oui. Both of them. It is strange that I am not.”

“Mm.” Dorian rested his chin on Ishalle's head. “I've been studying non magical children born of mages. Their minds are more open to the Fade, more than people without magic in their families. Those of us with power are connected, and we dream more vividly. And sometimes, those around us have the misfortune of being affected.”

“I did not know that.” Ishalle enjoyed Dorian's arms around him. “But, em. I have trouble with the nightmares. I should have said something.”

“No. You didn't need to. I do have a mild sleep tonic if you'd like?”

“That might be a good idea.” It was smooth, a bit spicy and slightly sweet. He was able to drift off, and shut his mind to any dreams.

Chapter Text

“Hey guys, I'm Alexa Rialto and I'm here with my cohosts and contestants! You're listening to Top Trivia.”

“I'm Nathaniel.”

“I'm Annalise”

“And I'm Fiona.”

“Okay! It's been a crazy week here at the Top Trivia headquarters. The theme for our show today is [sound of drum roll] Demons!”

[Laughter from around the table]

“Fiona, why don't you start.”

“Great, thanks. So last week we talked a little about possession, but one of the things we missed, which our listeners were of course more than happy to point out, was consensual possession.”

“Right, and we know quite a few mages still practice this, right?”

“Yeah, and it's pretty interesting. We used to think they'd only allow spirits to possess them, but there's a sect out of the Anderfels that subdue and control demons before allowing a possession to take place. It's pretty cool.”

“So how does that work exactly?”

“The mage will head into the Fade, and they'll fight the demon, forcing it to submit. I've heard sometimes they don't actually fight the demon, but instead...well. They uh, they...”

“They have sex with it.”

“Thank you, Nathaniel. Yeah. It's pretty weird. But the demon, once it agrees, will enter the host's body for either a short time or for life.”

“So I think the lesson we can learn from that is to stay as far away from the Anderfels as possible.”

[Some laughter]

“Stop smiling like that.”

Lu had her chin in her hands and was grinning like a fool. “I'm just so happy for you.”

“There is nothing to be this happy for.” Ishalle finished typing his email. “It was one date.”

“Yeah.” She shifted her weight from one hip to the next. “But you like him,” she sang.

“Yes. I like him. Do you not have somewhere to be?”

“Not today!”

Ishalle's phone buzzed and he looked down, flicking the screen to open the message. It was from Moska. He read it twice, all residual happiness fleeing him.

“What is it?”

“Rosala is in the hospital.” He knew he should have pressed the issue of her health sooner. Guilt wracked him, he should have been paying attention, not mooning after some shem.

“Do you need to stay open?”

Ishalle looked outside. Sunny weather. Walking around weather. He should, but... “No. Wait. Let me call Jayne.”

“Okay. Do you want me to come with? I mean, can I?” Lu looked as worried as he felt.

He nodded, waiting for Jayne to pick up. She'd finally given him her number at least. She agreed, and was at the store in less than twenty minutes, crust around her eyes and a large coffee in hand.

“Which hospital?” Lu asked.

“Maferath's Arms, down by the college.” Ishalle texted a cab and gave Jayne a few instructions. The car pulled up, and the doors popped open, a robotic voice cheerfully greeting them from the center console. He plugged his phone into the dash and watched as it registered their destination before pulling away from the curb. He worried the hem of his sweater as the car puttered along, wishing he'd been more aggressive about Rosala's health. He knew she wasn't well, he knew and he'd put off the conversation every time he saw her.

There was a long period of waiting in the lobby. Receptionist orbs bobbed around the ward, scrolling little numbers along, signaling which patients were available to visit. 133 flashed, and danced in front of Lu and Ishalle's faces. They followed the pink orb down the hall and into a small room. Rosala was sitting upright on a bed, scowling. Moska was in the chair next to her, looking over a newspaper. The scene relaxed Ishalle, somewhat. If Rosala was angry that meant she wasn't dying, at least.

“What has happened?” Ishalle tried to control his tone. What he really wanted was to shout, to yell, to curse Moska for not telling him the truth. Dirthamen granted him the wisdom to know that wasn't the right move.

“It's nothing.” Rosala folded her arms.

Lu leaned against the doorway, waiting. She was watching Rosala with a quiet sort of sadness, her lips pursed together in what would have been disapproval if her eyes hadn't been so soft.

Moska stretched and folded the newspaper. “She was having trouble breathing, so I brought her in. Her lungs are weak, but the healers seem to think with regular treatments, she'll be fine.” He pointedly ignored Rosala's scoff.

A dwarf walked in the room, following his large belly. “Alright Mrs Zorić, I've got your discharge paperwork right here.”

“About time,” she snapped.

The nurse chuckled. “Well, we had to run all those fun tests first! We need you to come in next week, for another scan of your lungs. This is your exercise for the meantime. I need you to breathe into this.” He handed her a tube with a long stem curving out from the bottom. There was a little ball in the tube and markings up the side, numbered one through eight. “Breathe in until the ball floats up to the five marker, and then release. Do that ten times, three times a day, alright?”

“I don't need any of this!” She waved her hand at the tube. “Let me just see Healer Athim, he can fix me right up. Better than any of you can,” she spat.

“Just do it, Rosala,” Moska sighed. “I can take you out to the clan tomorrow, but please just do it.” He stood and took the paperwork. “Thank you, nurse...”

“Rogers.” The dwarf smiled, unaffected by Rosala's temper. “We'll see you next week. They can fill in your appointment at the front desk. If you'll just come with me, sir.” He left, followed by Moska.

“I wish you had told me you were not well.” Ishalle took Moska's vacated chair. “I was worried.”

She patted his shoulder. “There's nothing to worry about, Little Bird.”

“You will do the exercises?”

Rosala looked at the tube and frowned. “Oh, I suppose I will. Not that there's much point to this.”

“C'mon, Auntie.” Lu sat on the bed and smiled at her. “I'm sure the healers are just trying to help.”

“Help.” She waved her hand dismissively. “These shems could learn from the Dalish. Instead they spend all their time—”

“Please.” Ishalle stopped her. “Please, Aunt Rosala. The exercises cannot hurt.”

She breathed into the tube. The little ball rose to the third marker, and fluttered for a moment before she exhaled, wheezing. “Ten times, three times a day,” she said, out of breath.

Ishalle closed his eyes. Sylaise, make her well.

The week went by, crawling at a glacial pace. He texted Rosala daily, first requesting, and then demanding updates. He went out to the house on Firesday, and was pleased to see her up, about and doing her exercises as promised. Sona sat outside with him on the front porch, a glass of cherry brandy in her hand.

“She'll be alright. You're stressing yourself out over this.”

Ishalle glared at the ground. “Yes, perhaps. She does seem to be getting better.”

Sona sipped her drink, watching the clouds that traveled across the evening sky. “Yeah, she is. Healer Athim came out a few days ago. He told us the shems did a good job,” she said, her voice full of false cheer.

“Ah, I imagine she was happy to hear this thing,” he said dryly. Rosala had already ranted to him about shem healers twice since he'd arrived at the house. He'd only been there an hour.

“Well, it made the rest of us happy anyway.” Sona stood and stretched her arms above her head. Her shirt rose to show a path of purple stretchmarks running around the bottom of her belly. They gave Ishalle an idea for a painting. Mythal, the mother of all, with a sagging stomach. He made a mental note to sketch it when he got home.

She turned to him. “Do you want to make an offering?”

“Yes.” He rose from the porch and followed her to the backyard. They gathered the flowers together. Crystal grace, yellow roses and three small violets from the bed near the halla pens. He tied them in a bundle with red thread and she dusted off the little stone shrine under the largest cherry tree.

“Remember the words?”

“Yes,” he said, looking at the engraving, weathered with age. “Sylaise, the Keeper of Hearth and Home, the Watcher of Children, the Knight of the Sacred Places.”

She echoed him, bringing out a lighter to burn the flowers.

“Sylaise, watch over Rosala Zorić, see that she heals well, return her strength, ward off Falon'Din.”

Sona repeated the words, and he set the flowers down. It took a minute or two for the flame to catch. The flowers were fresh and slightly damp, but they burned eventually, ashes and soot licking up the stone. She traced the glyph for healing into the soot and they sat together for a moment before heading inside.

Maddy was sitting across from Rosala at the kitchen table, counting her exercises. “Six. That was a good one.”

“Don't mock me.” Rosala smiled when she said it, and Maddy snorted.

“Four more, mom. You can do it.”

“I know I can.” She breathed into the tube again, and the little ball floated up to the six.

Moska called Ishalle into the kitchen, once again enlisting his help to get the dishes out on the table. Lume was at the counter, opening the brandy and telling Dras all about how it was made. The eleven year old was nodding with glazed eyes. Ishalle grabbed the glasses and went out to set the table. All was well. Rosala would heal, he had another date with Dorian the next day, business was good. When he left that night, it was with a sense of peace he hadn't felt in a very long time.

That sense of calm didn't prevent a nightmare from attacking him. He awoke, sweating and shaking. It was the small hours of the morning, and he rose, wanting to be away from the terrible dream. Every time things were going well, he just had to dream about his fucking parents. There was a bottle of grain tea in his fridge and he poured a glass. The couch was somewhat more comfortable than usual and he sipped his tea in silence, trying to center his thoughts.

In the dream, he'd been running. Right now, his legs ached as if he'd actually ran a mile. He didn't want to remember these things anymore. He didn't want to remember his father, his mother, the smell of burning paper, raised voices, slammed doors, sickening silence...

He took a long drink of the tea, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could drown the memories in pale brown liquid. There was a date with Dorian to look forward to; he focused on that, hoping it could ground him. They hadn't made any concrete plans. But he thought about the man, about his strong arms and kind voice. Instead of thinking about Orlais, he forced his thoughts to their first date. The way Dorian had kissed him, the pile of compliments he'd unleashed upon him.

Lu had teased him, but it was true. He really liked Dorian. The whole date had felt so nice. He stopped in the bathroom before returning to bed, focusing hard on his memories of those good things. Dorian's arms around him, the soft noises he made when Ishalle had kissed him. When he dreamed again, it was of snow, tall trees and the silence of peace.

Chapter Text

“We're here today with Lenora Little, also known as Skymatch. Lenora, welcome to the show.”

“Thank you for having me.”

“Your latest performance is based on your upbringing, correct?”

“ Yes. I grew up in Stone Bear Hold, in the Frostback Basin.”

“And you've taken inspiration from that and put it into your album. Let's talk a little about that. What about your home was important to you?”

[Laughter] “What about my home? Everything!”

[Light chuckle] “Yes, of course. You've taken Avvar traditions and incorporated them into your music. Could you tell us a little about that?”

“Sure. So, one of our sacred traditions is communing with the Spirits of the Fade. My teacher was called Creativity. We would work together, late at night, figuring out how to imbue instruments with magic. The two of us had a lovely time together.”

“Now it's part of your culture to banish your teacher when you're done learning, is that correct?”

“Eh, that's not entirely true. And how can anyone say we're truly 'done learning'? It's something we must carry for our entire lives. Some mages banish their teachers, others do not. I chose not to. I carry Creativity with me still.”

“Isn't that cheating?”

“No. I don't see it that way. I was training in the art of music before I met Creativity. They simply assist me in the process of writing music, in the invention of new instruments. We've had many talks about where I end and they begin. There are times when Creativity leaves me, allows me to write on my own, allows me to come up with ideas and see things in my own way. Other times, they are with me, asking questions that help me see things in a new way.”

“Thanks for coming in today. Skymatch has a new album out, called Basin, and you can find it at all major record stores or streaming from all major music apps.”

Satinaday arrived, and Ishalle stood in his shower, water pouring down his body. A second date. He looked for his anxiety and couldn't find it. Scrubbing his skin with the tattered old cloth made him feel fresh and new. Everything felt new. It was the middle of spring, flowers were in bloom, a nest of small birds chirped on the roof. Some of his old feelings tried to break through. He didn't deserve this, the successes of the gallery, a new romance, the love of his family. They were dull as one of Moska's old knives. He rinsed himself and stood under the water, zoning out. A second date. A day of freedom.

It was time to get ready.

A text arrived an hour later; Dorian was out front. He grabbed his sunglasses and wallet, looking for a moment at his toothbrush. Too presumptuous. The plans hadn't even been decided yet. The car was parked in front of the gallery, still running with a soft hum. Dorian patted the bench seat next to him and Ishalle stepped across to curl into his body. The car zipped along the highway, playing a mellow concerto. “What would you say to a stroll?”

“I would say yes.”

Dorian programmed a location into his phone, and the car trilled, accepting the destination. They talked as the car rumbled on, carrying them to a park just outside the city. It was a cactus garden, full of twisted and turning succulents. Some looked like they came from the far reaches of space, others dwarfed the two men, massive thorns curling up the trunks. As they walked, Dorian took Ishalle's hand again. The man was affectionate, bumping Ishalle's arm with his own, pointing at various interesting specimens.

“We have these in Minrathous.” He waved at a low cluster of deep purple aloe. Each spike was rimmed in an unnaturally bright white, each tip ending in a sharp claw. “Never knew what they were called, but they're everywhere up there.”

“Do you miss your home?” Ishalle's oversized sunglasses kept sliding down his face.

“Yes, and no. My countrymen tend to be somewhat obsessed with tradition. And while the political climate is changing, it still leaves much to be desired.”

“At least the slavery is no longer.”

Dorian chuckled. “Much to the disappointment of many. The slave trade was abolished two hundred years ago, but the way some people bang on about it, you'd think it was the downfall of our entire country.” He stopped at a water stand and bought a bottle for each of them. The bright sun was beating down, and no refreshing sea breeze travelled through this park. Dorian wore a brown felted hat with a brim that shaded his face. “My family owned slaves. A long time ago, several hundred years ago, actually. They personally stopped owning slaves, we think sometime in the Dragon Age, before the Great Invasion. Held it up as a tradition after that. 'House Pavus does not own slaves' was a bit of a motto.”

“How are the elves of Tevinter doing?” Ishalle had heard horror stories.

“Poorly. My friend Mae and her compatriots are working with an elven group now to alleviate some of their struggle.”

Ishalle nodded. “In Orlais they treat us as if we are intruding wherever we go. The slums of Val Royeaux are horrible. I hate it there.”

“Your experience must have been awful.”

“I am sure I am supposed to say 'oh it was not all bad' but fuck that. It was. Orlais should burn.” His residual anger surprised himself sometimes.

“What of your parents?”

Ishalle took a long pull off his water bottle, trying to think of how to answer that question. They entered a grove, Antivan Dalish statuary decorating the blessedly cool area. A hart and halla, intertwined. Faceless Mythal, arms wide. Strange trees grew here, tall trunks completely encased in stubby thorns. The branches hung down low, a white cottony fluff falling from them. Fat and colorful birds jumped from branch to branch, bickering with ugly cries.

“You don't have to talk about your parents if you don't want to. Maker knows that's not my favorite topic.” Dorian squeezed his hand.

“It is alright. I do not know how to answer your question, if you would like the whole tale or just the em...short version.”

“Well.” Dorian gave him another soft nudge. “I like getting to know you. If you want to tell me, I would love to listen.”

Ishalle's eyes darted to the No Smoking sign and he let out a small huff. “I will tell you the short version I am thinking. It is too nice of a day to go into that much detail. My parents were religious, em... fanatics. Everything we did was in service to Elgar'nan. Most Dalish believe in our eight Creators, but they were part of a group that only had faith in one. They did not allow me to go to school, instead studying Dalish texts. And we lived in a far away place, em...what's the word?”

“Rural?”

“Oui, that's it. Middle of nowhere. Our house was garbage. And both of them...” Despite his efforts, the memory of his father barged in, drowning out the beautiful scenery. Just like his dream. Screams, shouts, a knife on the kitchen counter, blood running down his hand. Then nothing, darkness as he ran. It was a dull roar in his head, and he found himself leaning on a fence, chugging water.

“Ishalle. Hey, I'm sorry. Are you alright?” Dorian had his hands on his shoulders, trying to catch his eye. “Hey. Look at me, babe, look at me now.”

Ishalle took a long breath and obeyed, looking at Dorian's deep grey eyes. The mage blinked, as slow as a lazy cat, and breathed in long and easy. Ishalle found himself copying Dorian, filling his lungs and letting it out.

“I know a calming spell, if you like?”

“I will be alright, thank you.” His heart was slowing down as he focused on Dorian.

“A bit heavy for a second date, I suppose.” Dorian pressed his lips together. “We probably should have gotten a pizza and watched Maledictus instead.”

“You watch it? I love that show.”

“Maker, me too. Do you know that Vivienne and Bastien once dressed up as Hadiza and Samson? They were having a costume party one year and of course they blew everyone out of the water.”

Ishalle laughed, the memories fading like dust. “I will tell you my whole story some other time, yes?”

“As you like. I'm feeling a bit foolish for having pushed you there.”

“You did not. Shall we keep walking?”

Ishalle was somewhat pleasantly surprised at how good it felt to simply walk with Dorian, holding his hand where everyone could see. The park had quite a lot of people in it, but nobody seemed to spare the two of them a second glance. He did notice that people tended to check Dorian out, when they thought he wasn't looking. The perks of having a hot boyfriend, I guess. Wait...boyfriend? I haven't even fucked him yet.

“Pizza and Maledictus sounds good.” The words tumbled out of Ishalle's mouth, apropos of nothing.

“My place or yours?”

“Yours? Is that alright?”

“Of course.”

Dorian ordered vegetarian pizza and pulled out a bottle of red wine. “I'm going to shower. Make yourself comfortable, okay?”

Ishalle sat stiffly upright on the couch, his hands firm on his knees and took in Dorian's home. The sofa was a bit hard, brown leather in a somewhat modern classic style. His floor was a dark wood chevron parquet, a black wool rug covering some of the pattern. A few interesting artifacts were displayed on shelves- an onyx skull that looked distinctly Tevene, a dwarven statue of a golem. A wide painting was on the wall behind the couch. It had to be Nevarran— a scene of one of the famous crypts, a line of mages walking underneath an arch.

The ceiling was low, and witchlights here and there kept the room dim. Dorian was still in the shower when the pizza arrived and Ishalle was happy to pay the delivery woman, giving her a decent tip. He took the steaming box into the kitchen and snickered at the drawing on the lid. A group of three exaggerated dwarves, all kissing their fingers in front of a giant, sprawling pizza. Over their heads, a nug flew on tiny, poorly rendered wings.

Dorian entered the kitchen, hair still slightly damp and his skin smelling of soap and shaving oil. He was wearing long, soft trousers and a snug black t shirt. At the sight of him, Ishalle bit his lip. “Shit. You look good.”

“Yeah?” Dorian put his hands on Ishalle's waist.

“Mm.” Ishalle tugged him hard against himself. Kissing him was starting to feel natural. He swiped his tongue in Dorian's mouth, tasting mint. “I em...I can wait to eat.”

“Can you now?” Dorian lifted up the hem of Ishalle's shirt, touching his belly. “I see the pizza's already here. You're positively sure you're not hungry?” Fingers just barely brushed against his skin.

“I have hunger. Not for food.” Creators, did I just say that?

Dorian let out that soft laugh, that low rumble in Ishalle's ear that made him sweat. “How about you tell me exactly what you want.”

“I want you. I want to fuck you. I want you so badly.”

It was hot in the kitchen, hotter still with Dorian's shower warmed body pressed against him. The counter was digging into his back, but he wouldn't have changed anything— not the way Dorian ground against him or the heavy breathing against his ear. Dorian let out a growl, and groped Ishalle's ass, squeezing his cheeks with both hands.

“Dorian, please.” Ishalle was swooning. “Can we go to your room?”

“Oh, yes.”

Ishalle led this time, pushing Dorian back down the hall, pulling his shirt off of him as they walked. He yanked Dorian's trousers down when they got into the bedroom, and shoved him back on the bed. “Tell me. Is there anywhere you do not wish for me to touch?”

The mage gave him a dark smile. “Can you be more specific?”

“I want to bite your nipples.”

“You can do that.” Ishalle straddled him and went to work, sucking at Dorian's small, hard nipples. Dorian reached his hands down into Ishalle's trousers, stroking his ass again. Every graze of Ishalle's teeth made the man hiss and buck. His skin was sweet, a slight musk coming from his armpits. Soft wisps of black hair under his arms were a little damp still, the smell of his deodorant strong. Ishalle licked the lines of muscle, tasting the oily deodorant, moving up to his exposed throat. He pushed his tongue hard against the rope of his neck and Dorian growled, “Fuck, I want you.”

“Take off your underwear.” Ishalle's thighs ached at the sound of Dorian's pleas.

The mage took his hands off Ishalle's ass, just long enough to tug the snug boxer briefs down. His cock was... Creators. He was bigger than he was expecting. With a soft hand, Ishalle reached out and stroked up the thick length of him, watching as Dorian sucked in a sharp breath, his lower lip quivering slightly.

“Can I suck your cock?”

“Fucking kidding me? Yes. Maker, yes.”

Ishalle went slow. He licked first, teasing around the edge of his foreskin. He tasted good, a bit of sweat, a bit of soap, a bit of skin. Ishalle wrapped his lips around the head and moved down, taking in a little at a time. Dorian was pleasingly vocal, little noises coming through his breathing. I can't fit him all in my mouth... He used his hand, gently pulling back on his foreskin to expose his thick head. It felt good, Dorian's cock against the roof of his mouth, swirling his tongue against his length. Instead of sucking, he pressed with his lips while he moved down.

“Oh, okay, shit...you're really fucking good at that.” Dorian's chest was moving hard with his breaths. “Slow down, baby. I'm not going— fuck, I'm not going to last long if you keep that up.”

Ishalle could taste the little drops of precome and he wondered about finishing Dorian like this. Hot pulses in his mouth, swallowing it down and kissing him...tempting. Ishalle pulled back and felt his lips curl as he looked on Dorian's body. “You look very good here.”

“You're overdressed.” Dorian tugged at Ishalle's loose shirt. He peeled it over his head, throwing it to one side. Dorian reached for Ishalle's trousers and undid the buttons, still lying down in front of Ishalle's kneeling form.

His mouth was unexpected. He took the length of Ishalle, hollowing his cheeks when he pulled up. One arm wrapped firm around his waist. Ishalle dug his fingers into Dorian's thick hair, trying to enjoy the feel of his wide and wet tongue. He'd dreamed of holding Dorian's head in place and fucking his mouth, but it was too early for that sort of thing. He said he liked it when I was aggressive though... He wasn't ready for this, it was too much, he was too close...

Thoughts started to collapse in his mind, like a bookshelf with no support. What if Dorian asked about his wrist? He hadn't taken the cuff off yet. What if dealing with Ishalle's damaged heart was too much for him? How long would he put up with Lyon's ghost interrupting them? What if this whole thing was a terrible idea, and Dorian was just using him for sex, making him vulnerable again and then leaving him for someone else? What if Dorian didn't want him afterward?

“Have I done something wrong?” Dorian pulled back, Ishalle's cock no longer hard.

“Non. Shit.” He sat down on the bed, head in hands. “I... Maybe it's better if I left.” He moved to pull his trousers back up, but Dorian stopped his hands.

“Ishalle? Talk to me, please.”

He sighed, looking away from Dorian, unsure of where to even begin. “It is nothing you did.”

“Here.” Dorian pulled the sheets down and gestured. Ishalle got in the bed and Dorian climbed in next to him. “Look. It's becoming very clear to me that you've been hurt pretty badly in your past. I wish I could tell you that I will never intentionally hurt you and have you believe me. I want to spend time with you.” He put one arm around Ishalle and kissed his face. “Do you know what you do to me? You make me fantasize about mundane activities, you awful man.”

Ishalle laughed and covered his face. “I hope I make you fantasize about other things too!”

“Of course. Things that aren't dull. I remember looking at you giving your speech at your art unveiling and I thought Maker, he's cute, and I couldn't listen to a word you were saying.”

“It was not a very good speech.”

“I couldn't say! But you,” and he sighed, tipping Ishalle's cheek towards him. “I really like you. I've had a few one night stands in my life. A few flings. But I can honestly say that I've never led anyone on. If I wanted simply to fuck and be done with things, I would tell you.”

“I am sorry to have brought my issues here.”

“Please don't apologize. I'd rather you talk to me than be uncomfortable with what we're doing.” Dorian took his hand, and played with his fingers. “How about this,” he said with a smile. “Let's get dressed, eat that pizza and watch some Maledictus, and see how we feel after?”

“That...yes.”

The pizza was greasy but still pretty damn good. They watched Hadiza battle her cousins and Ishalle found himself caught up in the adventure of the episode. Dorian laid down on the couch, and adjusted Ishalle so he was between his legs, wrapped up with him. It was nice, nicer than he would have expected. The solid mass of Dorian's body was pleasant. Watching Hadiza swing her staff banished many of Ishalle's darker thoughts to the void.

The episode ended, and the powerful tune of the end theme played, names scrolling up the screen. Dorian had been toying with Ishalle's hands throughout the hour, and the tips of his fingers found the strip of bare skin under Ishalle's shirt. Dorian took the point of Ishalle's ear between his lips, flicking it with his tongue. The ache in Ishalle's trousers returned, and he pressed back against him, arching into him.

There were no words for a time. Dorian pulled Ishalle's shirt off, throwing it to one side. His hands ran up the length of his chest. They tugged at the rings there, they wrapped around his ribs, the flat of his palm moved down his belly and dipped below his waistband. Ishalle let himself ride the wave, let Dorian reach down and undo his pants. His hips came to life, thrusting into Dorian's hand. He kicked the trousers off onto the floor. With a soft note, the music ended, the screen going black.

Dorian worked Ishalle's cock, his free hand holding him against his wide chest. He could feel his hard length pressing into his ass. Hips working, grinding into him. Ishalle pressed his feet hard against the armrest, rolling into Dorian's capable hand. On their own volition Ishalle's hands reached up behind him, grasping at hair, at Dorian's neck, at his shoulders. Dorian refused to speed up, keeping his pace slow and steady. The bottle of wine sat unopened on the coffee table, but Ishalle felt slightly drunk anyway under Dorian's spell.

Breath was hot in his ear, lips catching on hoops and studs. Silence was heavy in the room; he could only hear the sounds of the slight crackle of the witchlights overhead mingling with heavy breaths. Dorian sat up abruptly and pulled his own shirt off, turning Ishalle around after throwing it over his shoulder. Ishalle ran his hands along Dorian's arms, ending at his wrists. He held them firm into the cushions, grinding against his trousers. They kissed long and hard, Dorian melting under Ishalle's grasp.

Letting Dorian's wrists go, he started tugging down at the soft pants. Pajamas. Not trousers. He's wearing his pajamas in front of me. Somehow that struck Ishalle as far more intimate than what they'd been doing. Dorian was watching Ishalle like he couldn't get enough of the sight of him. The wave was still dragging Ishalle into shore and he relaxed into it, taking Dorian in his mouth again. This time he went very slow, teasing and light.

With a deep moan, Dorian spread his legs, letting Ishalle touch further back. Ishalle stroked him with a firm hand, teasing down at his asshole, circling the knot with one finger. In the other room, he heard a phone buzzing, vibrating against the wall. He kept up his work, and Dorian appeared to not notice the missed call. The sounds he was making were music to Ishalle's ears, a string of groans and whimpers that encouraged him, very nearly begging him.

“Bedroom.” Dorian grabbed Ishalle's shoulders. “Bedroom. Let's go there.”

“Here is not good?”

“No. Come on.” Dorian wrapped his arms around Ishalle, and pulled him to one side, standing after him. “Now.”

Ishalle walked behind him, admiring the view. Dorian's ass was plump and firm. A slightly lighter shade of bronze than the rest of him. He couldn't resit touching it, running his hand down one of his cheeks. Dorian turned around and backed into the bed, pulling Ishalle down on top of him. Ishalle's mind was going a bit fuzzy, wrapped up as he was in touching Dorian, trying to get his hands on as much of him as he could. He could spare little thought for anything aside from the man's skin under his palms, his legs around his waist.

Dorian whispered his name, and then his favorite word, “Please.”

Ishalle felt that raw surge, the one that clawed deep from his belly, the gnawing hunger. “Say what you need.” He wrapped his hand around the base of Dorian's cock, feeling the coarse black curls there. He'd wanted Dorian, craved him for so long now. He knew by the man's breaking voice, by the hooded eyes, by the shivering beneath his touch that Dorian wanted him, but he needed to hear it. He needed those two words like he needed breath.

“Fuck me.” The words were gasped out.

“Need a condom.”

Dorian jutted his chin to the corner. “My nightstand. Everything's in there.”

Ishalle yanked the drawer out, drawing a clear condom from a wooden box nestled in one corner. A small bottle of lube with the label removed was next to it. Dorian took the rubber from his hand and opened it, holding the tip and unrolling it onto Ishalle, kissing him all the while.

“How would you like me?” Dorian spoke next to his lips, the words rumbling down into Ishalle's chest.

Every single fucking way I can take you. “On your back.” Ishalle spread Dorian's legs and yanked him to the edge of the bed. Dorian took the liberty of rubbing the lube onto Ishalle's cock, encouraging him to move closer.

“Gonna make me beg?”

“I might.” Ishalle felt another rush of heat. This is probably not the time to edge him. “Sometime. Not today.”

He pushed his cock against Dorian's entrance, waiting for the man to relax around him. One hand kept Dorian's cock moving, and Ishalle pushed again, gentle.

And then Dorian laughed, a laugh that dropped into a moan. “You feel so fucking good.”

“Yes? Good.” He pulled back, stopping to squeeze a bit more lube on. “So do you.” In he pushed, until he'd hilted himself within the mage. Closing his eyes for a moment, he sank into the heat of him, hands on his waist. Dorian was licking his lips, rocking along with Ishalle's movements.

This is not a mistake. Ishalle thrust, picking his pace up a bit. This was a good idea. This man is good, he's good, he's so fucking good. Ishalle rocked his hips, watching Dorian writhe under him. He watched as the mage pressed his head back, as he opened his mouth to groan. The gold ring in his nose shone under the soft light, glinting against his black mustache. “Put your hands by your head.”

Dorian obeyed with a speed that suggested he'd been wanting that all along. His hands curled into tight fists, but he did not move his arms.

“Very quick to obey.” Ishalle grasped his cock again, working it in time with his thrusts.

“I might do anything you said, as long as you keep fucking me like this.”

Ishalle kept up the pace, pushing one of Dorian's legs up and pinning it there. When he'd met the man, he was the picture of control, poised and delicate, refined. Sarcastic and sharp, but cultivated. Every last bit of that went out the window. He was moaning, a light shine of sweat on his face. Pleading, rolling his hips up and up.

“Kiss me? Please?”

Ishalle was happy to indulge him, yanking him up to meet his lips. Dorian sucked hungrily at his tongue, the sting of salt and hot red pepper in his mouth. Arms were entangled, and Ishalle dug deep into Dorian's back, leaving what he hoped were some brilliant red scratches. Make him think of me when he takes his shirt off. I should mark him all over. Pretty purple all over his skin. Mark him as mine. Dorian trembled, moaning, holding Ishalle's head in place, and Ishalle picked up the speed of his hand. This one is mine, this man is all mine.

“Babe, oh shit, fuck me, I'm so close...Can't hold back-” The mage shut his eyes, his jaw dropped. Ishalle thrust hard, eyes locked on Dorian, and he groaned; a heavy and loud fuck filled the air. The barest tingle of lightning fizzed from Dorian's hands, tickling his back. His cock twitched under Ishalle's hand. Each pulse shot out a thick rope onto his belly and down his fingers. A smile spread across Ishalle's face as he watched Dorian lose himself in his own pleasure. “Holy shit,” he gasped, his fingers digging into Ishalle's arms. It burned, pleasantly.

“You are good?” Ishalle pulled out of him, watching him shudder deeply. Raising his finger to his mouth, he licked it clean, holding his gaze on Dorian.

“Yeah...yeah, I'm real good.” Dorian opened his eyes, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “Real good. Shit, that's hot. Maker. Been wanting that for a while now.”

“The lightning is normal?”

“Ha. No. Sorry about that. Come here. Your turn.”

Ishalle pulled the condom off, tossing it on the floor. Dorian looked down at him and back up again.

“I want to go down on you.”

“I em...I am particular about that.” He moved to lie on his back. “Not yet, please.”

Dorian laid down next to him and started working him with his right hand, kissing his jaw. “Particular you say?”

“Mm.” Ishalle closed his eyes.

“Care to tell me?” He sucked on Ishalle's earlobe, holding the ring in his teeth.

“Now?”

“Yes, now. Tell me how to suck your cock.”

“Fuck, Dorian.” He wiggled under his hands. “You want that, yes?” He reached to Dorian's stomach and dragged a finger through the shining come streaking his skin, and stuck it in his mouth, tasting him again.

Dorian hummed at the sight. “Very much so.” He flicked his tongue over Ishalle's lips.

“I like standing. So I- ah- fuck, your hand is good.”

Dorian kissed him again. “So you can move your hips.”

“Mmm.” He reached a hand down and pulled on his inner thigh, trying to get the right pressure.

“You want to fuck my mouth.” The hand moved faster, short and quick movements.

“Yes,” he breathed.

“You want to fuck my face, come in my mouth?” Dorian had his lips right next to Ishalle's ear. “Could I fuck you with my hand at the same time?”

“Fuck. Yes.”

Dorian laughed, and he sounded intrigued. “Next time, let's do that.”

“Depends.” Ishalle was breathing hard now. So close. His thighs clenched. He wanted to taste him again but his body was held tight by the sensation of Dorian's palm. “Depends on- depends on some things.”

Dorian's lips traced his. “Like how much I beg? Or how tightly you have me tied up?”

The image drove Ishalle over the edge and he fell into his release, shaking under Dorian's grasp.

“You're kind of kinky, aren't you?” They were in Dorian's shower, heat and steam surrounding them.

“Em...you may say this thing.” Ishalle rinsed the soap off his body and moved closer to Dorian. He looked at Dorian's toenails. They were painted deep purple. “Does it bother you?”

“No. I'm more than familiar. Done?”

“Yes.” Dorian wrapped him in a thin towel and sent him back out to the bedroom. Trying to not overthink, Ishalle dried himself off. He'd finally gotten to fuck Dorian, and it was so good. All those months of wanting, all that pent up desire spent and he felt so good about it. Every time he'd fucked Lyon, he was left with an odd nagging sensation, but this? Everything felt comfortable. Strange.

Dorian emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his hair dry. “So what are you interested in, exactly?” Naked, he climbed in the bed and waggled his fingers towards Ishalle. “Come lay with me and tell me naughty things.”

“You should tell me what you like,” he said, sliding in next to him.

“I will!” Dorian kissed Ishalle's nose. “I like your nose. You have a good nose. Really, just a great nose. And I like your hair.” Dorian kissed his mouth and cheeks before moving on. “Your face in general is good. I like that. And I like your hands, they're nice and strong. I like your chest, you've got a great ass.” He grabbed his butt and squeezed.

“Dorian!” Ishalle laughed, unused to so many compliments at once. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. You want to know what gets me off?”

“I want to know many things.” Ishalle toyed with the sheet, wringing it under his thin fingers. “I want to know what we are doing?” He flicked his eyes up to Dorian's, wondering if he'd ruined the moment with such a heavy question.

“Right now, we're going to bed and doing a very good job of dancing around an actual conversation.” Dorian lowered the lights to a single dim orb. “If you don't want to talk about this now, that's alright.”
Ishalle nodded, resting his head on Dorian's shoulder. Two weeks ago, he hadn't even considered Dorian as attainable. He wasn't ready for the man to openly ask him about his sexual preferences. “Tell me about your tattoo?”

The witchlight dimmed to nothing. “It's ancient Tevene. Less a phrase and more of a spell. Together these shapes and lines would combine as a strengthening spell. A reinforcement of a mage's innate power. We've long figured out better ways of doing that.” Dorian's cadence had smoothed to the gentle pace of a teacher. “Alone, the glyph is meaningless history. Etched into my skin, it's a reminder that my strength needs to come from myself.”

“I am guessing you do not mean strength from muscles.”

“Not quite, no.” Under Ishalle's head, Dorian wiggled down a bit. “Yes, I like to be fit. I'll admit to my own vanity. I'm not completely oblivious. But leaving home wasn't as simple as sneering at my father and walking across the street. I had to still face him, I had to see him constantly, the government tried to intervene. I was sixteen and not capable they said, of making that decision. Often times I wondered if they were right.”

Ishalle listened, still and quiet. He hadn't felt this calm in years. Better than blood lotus, better than...anything, really.

“But at any rate, I fought that case. Alexius encouraged me. He and my father remain friends but they used to have terrible fights on my behalf. Gereon stood by me, advocated for me. I'll never forget that, not as long as I live.”

“Strength to fight for the life you chose.” Ishalle murmured.

“Quite.” Dorian tipped Ishalle's chin up and kissed his bridge piercing. “As for what we're doing, gorgeous? You wanted to know?”

“Yes.” His heart was racing, despite the soft comfort of the room.

“You want to be my boyfriend? Try that for a while? Maybe... see how that goes?”

Boyfriend... Ishalle's thoughts went fuzzy for a moment as he considered the word and everything it would imply. His fingers were entangled in Dorian's soft chest hair and he brushed gentle paths through it. “It is not too fast for you?”

“I have no desire to see other men right now.” Dorian's face grew stern in the pale moonlight. “I won't demand that you don't. But I am honest with you about my intentions.”

“I'll be your boyfriend.”

“'K.” Dorian pulled Ishalle on top of him. “Tired? Or do you want to try for round two? I promise to last a bit longer this time.”

Ishalle giggled. “I could definitely fuck you again.”

Chapter Text

“A major breakthrough came this week out of Dairsmuid. Students at the Dairsmuid College of Science and Technology have analyzed the Mirror of Transformation, discovering exactly how it functions. We go now to Miss Navani Desa, the lead on the project. Miss Desa, what can you tell us about your discovery?”

“In simple terms, we discovered that the theory of time magic surrounding the mirror's function is correct. It's the only non catastrophic use of time magic we've seen. Hundreds of years ago, it was hypothesized that the mirror would erase the memories of those who did not use it. We've found that not only is it true, it actually opens a rift in time, sending the user back to relive their life.”

“Are they aware of this shift?”

“No, that's the reason we think it causes little effect on the user. Because they don't actually know they're going back in time, they can't make any changes to how their lives are lived. It's a very interesting time machine, and now that we know its safe, we can use it more effectively.”

“What are the practical uses of the machine?”

“Many, beyond the cosmetic. We can use it to repair the faces of those disfigured in accidents, we can use it to aid children born with cleft lips, we can use it to repair missing limbs. This is truly a wonderful object and I was pleased to be part of the team to study it.”

“Well, we thank you for your hard work. And I wish you the best in future studies.”

“Thank you.”

Dorian wasn't in the bed when Ishalle woke up. With blurred vision he observed his surroundings. The walls were a soft, pale yellow. The same chevron parquet was in this room, a thin black rug from Rivain on the floor. Dorian's sheets were smooth and slippery, a nice deep shade of red hidden under the brown duvet. His pillows had that new feel to them, and Ishalle's neck ached a little from the unfamiliar cushions.

He rolled over and looked out the window, onto the garden. No grass. Dorian hadn't said if he'd planted the garden himself. There was a slightly wild look to it; airy shrubs and long, willowy plants waved in the air. White stones filled the spaces between plants. Just beyond the tall metal fence was a tree. The thing was massive, long coniferous branches providing shade. It probably gets hot here.

The east hills were generally considered a wealthy area. It had been a noble district long ago, but after the Great Earthquake of 14:62 Diamond, many of the old mansions had slid down the hills, provoking a renovation of the entire district. Now the houses were modern, lots of sharp angles and gardens with metal sculptures. Maryden Halewell was rumored to live up here.

Ishalle stretched, smelling onions cooking. And something buttery? He wasn't sure. Rising from the comfortable bed, he pulled his trousers on, unsure of where his top was. Dorian's t shirt was hanging from the back of a wooden chair so he donned that instead, enjoying the smell of him in the fabric. It wasn't as big on him as he'd expected.

Ishalle felt...good. Really good.

Following his nose, he walked down the hall, into the kitchen. Dorian was at the stove, in the same black clothes he was wearing the night before. Potatoes and onions were piled in a pan, an appealing shade of brown. “Morning, gorgeous.”

Ishalle scoffed. “Gorgeous? I just woke up.”

“Mm hmm. And you're gorgeous. Come here.” Dorian kissed him, reaching into his trousers and giving his ass a squeeze. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Em. However is fine, I am not this picky. Is there coffee?”

“Yeah.” Dorian released him and kissed his forehead. “Coffee's just there. Cream and sugar too, if you want it.”

“I like it black.” He took a seat at Dorian's small dining table and looked out onto the garden. The sizzle of eggs hitting a pan filled the air. He felt like he was in a strange dream. Sitting at Dorian's table. The man cooking for him. His boyfriend. The title was foreign in his head, and he rolled it around, trying to get used to it. It felt right, like a new pair of shoes that fit well. But he'd need to get used to it anyway. “Your house is very nice.”

“I do what I can. My shirt looks good on you. What do you want to do today?”

“I must open the gallery, I suppose.” He sipped the coffee, wondering why he had to go open his shop. I never felt like this with Lyon. “I should be there by noon.”

“Then we have a little time together, I think.” Dorian dished the food onto some plates with an easy confidence. He brought them to the table, and returned with a bottle of hot sauce and a jar of something green. “I can drive you back to your place whenever you want.”

“Thank you.” Ishalle tried the green stuff. It was chilies, and some kind of seedy vegetable. “What is this one?”

“It's Tevene. My mother made it all the time, about the only time she ever deigned to cook. Eggplant and chilies, and there's lime juice in there too. Good, isn't it?”

“Oui.” Everything is good.

The drive back to the gallery was nice, Ishalle leaning into Dorian and letting the car lull him into drowsiness. He opened the shop, reading texts from Case, from Lu, from his aunt. I have a boyfriend, he wanted to tell them. It's too soon. Too much.

I really like him.

Rosala came to his apartment, picking him up to take him to lunch. It was good to see her breathing normally, the tremor in her legs calmed. She talked to him of her grandchildren, catching him up on family news. They went downtown, finding a cheerful cafe that served a variety of Antivan vegetarian dishes. After their food arrived, Rosala took a drink of her iced tea and smiled warmly at him.

“Well. Tell me your news.”

“My news?” He ate a bite of his pasta, trying not to meet her eyes.

She laughed. “I'm an old woman, Ishalle. I know when my nephew is hiding news from me.”

He swallowed and nodded, his heart racing. “Yes. Em...news. I have met someone.”

Rosala grinned, her yellowed teeth showing in her wide smile. “And what did I tell you? Who is the lucky man?”

Ishalle took a breath. Rosala always told him she wanted his happiness, no matter who it was with. Even a shem? “His name is Dorian. He is a professor, em...a doctor of physics.”

“A doctor!” Rosala laughed and finally took a bite of her own food, grilled eggplant in a sauce of tomatoes and fresh herbs. “You found yourself a doctor. Wise. It is rare to see elven professors, but I suppose not so much anymore.” She shook her head.

Time for the other leaf to fall. “He is...he's a shem.”

The smile ran away from Rosala's face. “Was Lyon not example enough for you, Little Bird? One human breaks your heart and you rush straight into the arms of another?”

Ishalle stabbed his fork into the pasta. He'd hoped she wouldn't throw Lyon back at him. Doubt nagged at him. He said nothing, eating without tasting his food. Rosala heaved a long sigh.

“I only want you to be happy. Lyon...I never met him, but you were so dragged down by him. Like a stone around your neck. I would hate to see you fall into the same pattern again. Have I told you the story of Robert?”

Ishalle shook his head. He didn't know if this was a story he wanted to hear.

“Robert and I dated, shortly before I met Moska. He was unkind, but because he did not hit me, I thought I was perhaps being unfair. He was a human, and I thought...” She shook her head again, her silver earrings clattering together. “Robert had no respect for me, or for the Dalish. He called my vallaslin 'ugly face paint,' and would laugh. He did not know what I had endured to earn it.” She paused and ate, narrowing her eyes as she chewed. With every word, he felt his delight with Dorian fading away.

“Dorian is different,” he said, feeling like a child protesting his favorite toy being taken away.

“And how do you know? Where is he from? Antiva?”

“Non. He is of Tevinter.”

“Creators, Ishalle,” she hissed. “Of all the men in Thedas? A Tevinter?” She smacked her fork down on the table. “Those people are cruel. It runs in their blood. They don't know how to understand us. I suppose I should be grateful he isn't Orlesian.”

He didn't have any protests left in him. Instead he busied himself with his plate, no longer hungry but eating anyway.

“Little Bird, look at me.”

He drew his eyes up, wanting to run instead. She was smiling kindly at him, the lines around her eyes crinkling. “You are a man grown, and I will not tell you what to do. I am only asking that you use your head. Think carefully on his motivations. For now, he may be kind, but what is to come? Will he introduce you to his family as an equal? Will he be warm to you where everyone can see? Can he possibly respect our traditions? Will he be proud to be with you? Will he treat time with you as the honor that it is? Think on that.” She patted his hand. “I want you to be treated well. I want you to have someone to look after you in your old age. I want someone who understands you. Can a Tevinter really be that man?”

“This thing is new. I have only just started seeing him.”

“You must answer that question before you continue this.” She set some money on the table, snapping her purse shut with a click. “I love you far too much to see you treated poorly by some shem. Think on what I have told you.”

“I will.”

And so that evening after closing the shop, Ishalle thought. He walked past Somni avenue up to Thorn street, hands in his pockets as if he could find answers there. Rosala's words danced around, taunting him. I thought because he didn't hit me that I was being unfair. Lyon had never hit him, never shouted or raised a fist. But his disregard for Ishalle's emotions was another scar on his psyche. Maybe if I had not demanded so much from him.

It hadn't started bad. Lyon was a bit bratty, but cute. And flexible. He'd brought Lyon to more than one tearful orgasm in their time together. But the first time they went out in public, Ishalle had touched his hand, soft. Lyon shook his head, pulling out of reach. “Bit obnoxious, don't you think? PDA? Not my thing.”

Later, Lyon would distance himself further.

The first time Ishalle took Lyon out with his friends was also the last time. His boyfriend was in a foul mood. He kept his arms folded on the table, ignoring questions and checking his phone every few minutes. Ishalle recommended a drink to him, and Lyon had snapped, saying he knew how to read a menu and didn't need his help.

Lu narrowed her eyes at him, but held her tongue for his sake. A month later, Lu was walking down the street and she ran into the two of them. Acting bored, Lyon asked if they'd met. Ishalle could tell that Lu wanted to slap him for the insult, but she glared instead at Ishalle. The incident caused both Lu and Lyon to be angry with him, until he wanted to scream with the frustration of it all.

Was this what he was in for with Dorian? Running straight into the arms of another shem.

Thorn street turned into Vine street, a narrow lane with more squat brick buildings on either side of him. A group of shrieking children played in front of a stoop, two fat elven women watching them and talking about their work. They greeted him, and he gave a halfhearted wave. The sun was setting behind him and he looked ahead at the university on the hill. Glass windows glowed orange and pink, a deep grey shadow covering the land below. For a moment it looked as if the university was on the prow of a sinking ship.

He toyed with the idea of stopping in to surprise Dorian, but didn't want the humiliation of it ending badly. By the time he reached his apartment, he was sure he'd fucked up altogether by trying something with the man. Another human to insult and belittle him, to make him feel less than.

Their brief relationship nearly came to an end, his phone heavy in his hand as he thought about how to type the message out. Disgusted with himself, he turned it off, throwing it on the couch before working his anger out with colored pencil and paper.

All night he drew, a ship sinking into fiery orange waters.

He awoke to a text from Dorian. It was a picture, a mural someone had painted on a warehouse.

-Saw this and thought of you.

There was a little face next to the text, blowing a tiny kiss. Ishalle stared at it for a while, tracing the screen with his fingertips. It was sweet. He didn't know what to say in return. Thank you seemed cold and impersonal. Thanks for thinking of me? No.

He got out of bed and rummaged through his fridge for something to eat while the coffee brewed, staring at the phone the whole time. He had to say something. Gnawing on a cold and stale croissant, he typed about six different messages, deleting each one before finally getting to the fucking point.

-Do you want to come over today?

He said yes, arranging to be there in a few hours. Ishalle cleaned, obsessively. He owned so few possessions that his apartment was always tidy, bordering on sparse. But there was always some bit of gunge to be scraped off the stove, some bit of scrubbing in the bathroom. The work eased his mind, and he settled into a pleasant dream state, imagining his next painting. Mythal, reclining. Surely he could find a tutorial for painting realistic stretch marks somewhere online. He was still dreaming when he heard the knock on his door.

Dorian kissed him down the hallway. He kissed him until they got to the little shelf at the end.

“Shoes.”

“Right, shoes.” Dorian tugged his boots off, setting them on a little shelf at the end of the hall. “Shoes, then pants, then shirt?”

Ishalle laughed. “Shirt first.”

Dorian's fingers worked the buttons, moving down one at a time, still smiling at Ishalle. “And then what shall I do?”

“Are you asking me to instruct you?” Ishalle leaned against the wall, watching Dorian pull the shirt off his body.

“Perhaps.” Dorian's top landed on the couch with a whisper.

Ishalle wiggled his fingers. “Come here.” Dorian stepped forward. “Listen, if you wish for us to do anything with kink, we must talk about it first.” He stuck his fingers in Dorian's waistband and tugged him. “I am more than interested in doing this with you, but if you wish to submit, we need to talk.”

“We should have that talk. But,” Dorian kissed him again. “But do you remember last time? When you told me how to bring you off with my mouth?”

“Bien sûr," Ishalle murmured. How could he forget?

“Could I try that now?”

Ishalle bit his lip. Best to be honest. “I cannot. Not yet.”

Dorian blinked, frowning. “Can we sit down?”

“This way.” Ishalle opened his bedroom door and led Dorian inside. He'd not spent much money on anything for his apartment, save for the bed. It was king sized, with very soft sheets and blankets. A quilt Rosala had given him was on top. It was one of Ishalle's favorite places in the world. He sat on the foot of the bed and Dorian joined him, sighing.

“I'm starting to see that you have some issues around sex.”

“Not sex.” Ishalle clasped his hands together. “Sex is good. I like sex.”

“So do I.” Dorian rested a hand on his back. “Perhaps you can tell me what makes you comfortable? I want you to feel good with me.”

Ishalle studied his bedroom rug. There was a ball of lint on one end, a bit of blue fluff that hadn't been there before. “I do not like being out of control.”

“Beyond kink, you mean.”

“Yes.” He stared at the fluff, willing it to move. It didn't. “Sex in general.”

“May I ask...what's under the wristband?”

Well, he'd have to show him eventually. Ishalle untied the laces, and peeled the leather back. “A gift from my parents. A little memory of Orlais.”

Dorian pulled Ishalle slightly closer and brought his head down on his shoulder. “I am deeply sorry.”

“I know I am probably not quite what you expected.”

“You're who I want.” Dorian pulled back slightly. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“Oui. Follow me.” Ishalle led Dorian to his kitchen. Compared to Dorian's, Ishalle's kitchen was a bit of a joke. Two cabinets, a stove, a small rune powered dishwasher and a fridge. The counter was taken up by his coffee maker. Ishalle did not cook, and felt no need to start. He offered Dorian a bottle of tea and the two went to the living room. Ishalle propped himself in his window to smoke. It was raining again, Antiva City's finest drizzle.

“What do you need?” Dorian sat on Ishalle's floor, leaning against the couch. Ishalle smoked in silence, trying to think. There were no words that he could find. “Ishalle? I only want to make you feel good. Is there something that your ex did that bothered you?”

“Many things, yes. But, Lyon and I had a very different relationship.” He rolled his shoulders a bit. “He would come here, and most of the time I had him restrained? Em... We both enjoyed...that. I kept him blindfolded when I needed to. Or perhaps tied. But em... It was mostly for him, the spankings and such. I have different needs. I do not think I am making much sense,” he said with a laugh. “Most of my experience comes from going to fetish night and meeting men there. I like the structure.”

“So you're not kind of kinky.” Dorian smiled up at him.

“I have enjoyed what we've been doing so far. Please do not misunderstand me.” He put the cigarette out. “As I said, I do not require it. But if you're interested in such things, I would like to know.”

“I am. It was something I always wanted to try with Ril. He and I never got around to it. We were always too busy with other things.” Dorian rubbed the back of his neck. “Though. That sort of segues into another conversation we need to have. You and I started this thing right in the middle of my vacation. My job takes a lot from me. During the next few weeks, I won't be able to see much of you. I mean...if you wanted to come over, spend the night? But the beginning of the semester is always an absolute nightmare for scheduling.”

Ishalle nodded. “I think spending the nights with you would be nice. We can take this thing step by step, yes?”

“I used to be more involved in the scene, before I met Ril. In Minrathous, when I was in college.” Dorian toyed with the bottle of tea as he talked. “It's been a long time.”

“I have much experience there. I can help you.”

Dorian smiled up at him. “I'm sure you can.”

“Tell me. What interests you? What did you like?” This conversation was much easier for him. Usually these negotiations would take place at the X frames, or after the club had closed for the night. This sort of thing, well. It was rote.

Dorian on the other hand looked mildly nervous. It was a strange look on him, the man who found words so easily, the man who exuded confidence and charm. “I like bondage, but not being hit.”

“Impact play.” Ishalle nodded. “It is something I have done in the past, but I prefer sensations myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“If we are discussing the language of the thing..em. I like to give, but I wish to be in control of what I am giving. Tying you up, giving you pleasure, perhaps some pain. I like to play with sensations, yes? Ice, heat, em... I have a toy. It gives little shocks, it is very pleasant.”

Dorian was nodding along, but he perked up at the last part. “That's good, that's what I like. But I want to do things for you, too.”

“These things all do something for me, it is, em, mutual pleasure. And if we are to do such things, then yes, you would be giving me what I ask of you.” Ishalle put his cigarette out and swung his legs down from the sill. “You must have a safeword.”

“Alright.”

“And I wish for you to pick.” Ishalle stepped down and joined Dorian on the floor. “Something you would not say in a mistake.”

“What about satis? It means 'enough' in Tevene.”

Ishalle nodded. “I can remember this word.”

“Should we start now?”

“You are very eager,” he said with a smile. He stroked Dorian's cheek and kissed him softly. “I think I am not ready.” Despite his fantasies, Ishalle didn't feel quite prepared to begin something so intimate. The dates had been wonderful, and so far, Dorian had proved himself to be generous and kind, but it was too soon for someone he'd met outside the scene.

“I'm not going to pressure you, but what are you worried about?”

Ishalle let out a small laugh. “Worried? Hmm, I would not say that. It is not worry. It is different. Matters of trust and of intimacy. I think you must know me better, more, yes?”

“I've known you for some time. I trust you.”

“That is good. And I am not saying that I do not trust you, but that I must take some time with you before doing this. This is only our third date, yes? I like you, and I wish for more, but I am wanting to wait, please.”

“That's fair.”

“And when we do start, I am not going to bind you completely and take away all your ability for control. We will start slow, nice and slow. Because you might not be truly ready for these things, no matter your past experience.”

“I see. A little like magic.” Dorian turned his hand up and cast a flame, dancing in the palm of his hand. It was red and orange, but looked unlike natural fire. “This is very hard for a beginner. It looks so small, but I have to control my flow of mana very carefully to do this. It won't burn my hand, unless I lose control.” He dismissed the flame and touched Ishalle's hand. “See? My skin isn't hot. Most non mages would think that a child's trick, but children who are unprepared for their power release a jet of flame at first. It takes years to learn how to control it.”

“Yes, exact. I do not wish to burn you.” He held Dorian's hand in his own and toyed with his fingers. “I think soon, yes? But not today.”

“I can wait.” Dorian leaned over and kissed him. “Right now, though? I want to tear your clothes off.”

“No tearing!” Ishalle laughed. “Take them off slow, I do not have this many clothes.”

“Bed?”

“Bed.”

He thought, as they made their way to his room, that Dorian's mouth might have been the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.

Chapter Text

Quarsaada is a remote village in Par Vollen, located high in the mountainous jungles. Only a few hundred people live here, mostly Qunari. Life in the village is quiet and peaceful, and it's here where you can find authentic taalba bean noodles. Taalba beans have been the staple of Par Vollen for centuries. The beans can be cooked as is, and are usually served with a starchy sour jelly poured over the top. But in Quarsaada, the beans are dried and ground into flour.

Jekka Unulk, 74, owns the only restaurant in the village. She makes the noodles by hand, each and every day. First, the beans are roasted, bringing out their vibrant purple hue. They are then cooled, spread out on wide screens to allow the air to circulate. She used to grind the beans by hand, but business has picked up lately. Now she owns a machine. The only other ingredient is water.

After resting in a cold place for twenty four hours, Unulk rolls the dough with a long wooden pin. The dough stretches and stretches, until she can see light through it when she holds it up to the single kitchen window. Expertly, she flips the dough, over and over and cuts the noodles into fine, hair like strands.

Visitors to Quarsaada can get a bowl of these noodles, served with a rustic, stone ground elfroot seed sauce for only a few sovereigns. Adding some pickled fish and a salad will still come in under ten. Unulk has finally taken on an apprentice, so that her tiny restaurant will live far into the future. It's the only place in Par Vollen to get these noodles, made in the old way.

The summer heat enveloped Antiva City like a blanket, wrapping around the buildings and streets. Beating sun bronzed the skin of its residents. Bright sun called out to the flowers, encouraging them to look ever skyward. Warm sun beckoned tourists from all over Thedas. People filled the streets, a throng of feet and hands, of hungry eyes, of mobile phones taking pictures, capturing memories. Qunari from Par Vollen escaped their oppressive swamp and delighted in the cooler winds. Fereldens traveled in groups, covered in bright white sun blocking spells. And families from Rivain visited, buying trinkets and renting out entire restaurants for lavish parties. It was a beautiful time, not just for the city, but for Ishalle.

Embrium Arts and Prints was bursting with customers. No commissions came in, but they managed to sell out of prints more than once, and Jayne's original works started to move a bit faster. Ishalle had brought in a jewelry stand, specifically for Lu's earrings and delicate necklaces. Jayne didn't like the idea. It didn't take long for Ishalle to realize it was actually Lu she didn't care for. The two women couldn't seem to get along, no matter how he tried to facilitate. Jayne declared Lu a snotty bitch and Lu told Ishalle that Jayne was hotheaded and needed taken into hand.

It was true that Jayne's surliness had a negative effect on certain customers. Last week, she'd told a woman that if she didn't like the prices, she could leave, putting Ishalle in the uncomfortable position of giving her a stern warning and a lecture. He'd gone home that night feeling dismayed about his decision to hire her. But, as the weeks wore on he saw her make an effort. She wasn't perfect, but he saw her trying and for that, he granted her leniency. And made sure to have Lu come visit on Jayne's days off.

The summer evenings were warm and long, twilight bathing Dorian's backyard in a deep purple glow. They spent those evenings talking on the back porch, occasionally lighting a fire and almost always drinking wine. Dorian introduced Ishalle to a variety of new and interesting vintages, and Ishalle was happy to indulge. Those evenings were the best part of his summer. Sitting next to Dorian, or laying on the bench with his feet in Dorian's lap was more wonderful than he'd ever thought possible. Some nights they had lively debates, others he'd spend talking about art and his work. Dorian told him of physics, talking at length about the subject he held so dear.

“So you are saying this Veil is a physical object? What does this thing look like?” Though Ishalle had never studied magic, or physics, he never felt stupid asking Dorian questions about it.

“We can't see it.” The warm smile on Dorian's face was a marker Ishalle was beginning to recognize. Dorian's passion showed when he talked and he adored that look. “That's the marvelous thing. For a few hundred years, scientists believed the Veil might not actually exist, because we couldn't see it. It wasn't until the Diamond Age that they discovered it was real. It was theorized of course. We have magnetic images of it now, because it resonates, but we don't know what it actually looks like. Those images just show us an idea, an artist's rendition if you will.”

In the distant sky, grey clouds moved across the moons, puffy transparent things on a journey to some unknown destination. “If the Veil is an object, em, could it be damaged?”

“It can, and it has. Though, it isn't an object, it's a force.” Dorian rubbed Ishalle's bare feet, digging in his thumbs. It was so painful, and so good that Ishalle groaned and closed his eyes. “In the Sun age, when the Chantry split from Fereldan, during that war? That severely damaged the Veil. Of course, Divine Exalted tried to blame mages for weakening it, and then used them as a scapegoat to drum up support for locking up mages. In reality, the Chantry had employed a group of turncoat mages in secret, intending to cause a panic.”

“I think I have read about this thing. What would have happened if the Veil had been...em, torn away?”

“Across the world, you mean? Disaster. Well, we don't exactly know, of course. I've been corresponding with a physicist out of Orzammar for years on that very subject. Dagna theorizes that if the Veil were to come down, the raw energy of the Fade would destroy our world. Interestingly, my own research leads me to believe that while it would not wipe out all life, those who remained would gain access to magic. It's an interesting topic, don't you think?”

“Mmm.” Ishalle sank into his drowsy state, sighing as Dorian rubbed his tender and aching feet. Summer was a blessing, and he intended to enjoy every bit of it. It was good to listen to Dorian talk, his voice carried by the whispers of the summer breeze.

Rosala's house was wide open, allowing wind to clear out stale air and old smells. The kids played in the yard, laughing and throwing tiny rocks at each other, until Dawn got hit on the face and started to scream and cry. Lume rushed over to scoop her up and bring her inside, while Sona reprimanded the kids. Ishalle was by the shed, watching the activity and thinking. He liked his cousins well enough—loved them even. But there was no urge in him to have children of his own. The relief he felt from not being responsible told him enough about any latent desires to parent.

Sona sent the older kids inside and took a seat next to him, huffing with irritation. They talked of inconsequential things. The weather, news, how the shop was going, how the halla were doing. Sona was quaffing wine, full glasses of cheap, sweet plonk that smelled strongly of alcohol. She was starting to reek of the stuff.

“So now that you're dating a Tevinter, you gonna leave the Creators behind? Maybe join the Chantry instead?” Sona smirked at him, and tipped back the last swallow of wine.

Ishalle shook his head, feeling his brow furrow. “What are you speaking of?”

“Well, you know how it is.” He didn't. “Plus it's not like you're all that devout anyway.” She waved her hand at him, as if he were a speck of dust.

“I do not know where these things are coming from. Is it not enough that I burn offerings? I am marked for Dirthamen, I have done these rites. What is your problème?”

“I just think you're not really serious.” Sona had filled her glass while Ishalle talked, and she took a large sip. “You came to us, and you act like you love us but you're still all hung up on Orlais.”

“I am not.”

“You are though.” She waved at his wrist. “Everyone knows what you got under that cuff. And you're still so angry about your parents, you can't even talk about them. What you ought to do is forgive them. That's the only way you're gonna move on.” She made an attempt to poke him in the chest, but he dodged her pointing finger.

Ishalle's head was spinning with Sona's logic. Nothing she was saying made any sense. He wasn't that angry. Was he? And for her to talk about forgiveness! She'd never dealt with the abuses his parents had heaped on him. Rosala had protected her children, shielded them from the worst. He stayed silent; his head was burning with so many thoughts that he could not form a coherent rebuttal.

“Forgiveness. That's the key, you know. You gotta forgive, and then things will be fine for you.”

“Why are you saying such things?”

“Because I see how you get when mom talks about Uncle Elgadir. It's eating you up. And it's keeping you from the Creators. Your need for holding onto this grudge is keeping the Creators from blessing you as they should. If you'd forgive, you wouldn't feel the need to run off to the city, and into the beds of humans. You should be out here with your family, not pretending to be a shem.”

Ishalle stood up. He'd heard enough. The summer evening, the night that had started so well, it had gone sour and tainted like rotten fruit. Maddy gave him a happy grin when he walked inside, and it was difficult to muster any kind of smile in return. Dinner was subdued, at least for him. Sona continued to drink wine, switching to brandy after the meal and passing out on the couch. He saw Rosala narrow her eyes at her younger daughter, but she said nothing.

On the train ride home, he thought about talking to Lu about what Sona had said. But she was staring out the window, lost in thought and he didn't want to break her trance. He studied her face instead. Lu really was one of the prettiest women he'd ever seen. With skin the color of a rainy sky, and pale blue eyes, she looked ethereal. Her broad nose fit her face, perched as it was above her wide mouth. When she laughed, it rounded her cheeks, and crinkled her eyes. But underneath all that beauty was a whirling storm of a temper. Lu and her mother got along decently enough, now that she was out of the house and in a different city, but the two of them had a terrible time of it during Lu's teenage years.

Lu had taken all that anger at her mother and lashed out, fighting in bars, learning how to throw punches and fight dirty. The woman who sat across from him, in a soft floral sundress, could knock out a man twice her size. After she'd moved into the apartment next to Ishalle, she'd signed up for a martial art class, learning the ancient fighting styles of Par Vollen. That seemed to be a good outlet for her, and it had been years since he'd had to pull her from a pub.

He wondered, as he looked at her, if she'd ever forgiven her mother. He knew her mother hadn't believed in privacy, always assuming Lu was up to no good. Lu had told him of her mother going through her things, reading her journals and demanding explanations, demanding that Lu read incriminating things aloud to her. They talked on the phone regularly, that much he knew. But if she'd forgiven her mother, and learned to channel that anger, could he do the same? She turned to him and tipped her head back in a short nod. “What's up?”

He shook his head. Any energy he may have had to discuss it was sapped already. “It is nothing. I am thinking I am very tired.”

“Yeah, me too, buddy. It's been a long week.” She talked softly over the rest of the journey, telling him of troubles at the Design Collective, and difficulties with Thom. She seemed to like the man well enough. At least, enough to put up with his more challenging parts. He tabled his thoughts, deciding to get back to them at some later date. Or perhaps, never at all. Sona was drunk, that's all. Just a drunk woman, rambling and lashing out for whatever reason.

“Dorian, you must hold still.” Ishalle adjusted his sketchpad. They were in his apartment, the windows open, and he could hear the peeps of the adolescent birds on the roof. Dorian shifted again, and tried to regain his original pose.

“Sorry, I didn't think sitting for a portrait would be quite so exhausting.”

“I am nearly finished.”

“Talk to me? Take my mind off my aching neck, will you?”

Ishalle's hand worked over the drawing of its own accord. It was just a portrait of Dorian's face, a simple pencil sketch really. He liked drawing Dorian's jawline the best, the angles of it were just so sharp and clean. “What shall I tell you?”

“Why don't you cook?”

“Because I do not have to.” Ishalle grabbed his soft eraser and began tiny adjustments on the sketch.

“Well, that's not a very satisfying answer.”

“Ask me a satisfying question.”

“Alright. Is there any art you've done that you're embarrassed about?”

Ishalle grinned down at the sketch, and picked the pencil back up. “Bien sûr. You should have seen the foolish things I did when I was at the college. Do you know those em, cartoons from the Anderfels? The ones with the sharp lines and em, what's the word? Things made bigger?”

“Exaggerated?”

“Yes, that.” Ishalle didn't bother trying to pronounce that particular word. “I tried to draw in that style for a few months. It does not suit me, and they were all very terrible. It was most pleasurable to burn them all at June's shrine when I dropped out. I wish I had two copies so I could have burned them twice.”

Dorian chuckled. “It's too bad you got rid of them, I should have liked to have seen those.”

“Non, I would never have showed you.” Despite his embarrassment, Ishalle couldn't stop smiling. “Some things are not for anyone to see. Here, I am finished, I am thinking.” He handed Dorian the sketch.

“You flatter me.” Dorian tipped his head to one side, taking in his own face. “This is very nice. I want to frame this. Rather vain of me, don't you think?”

“You are a vain man!” Ishalle laughed. “But you are also very handsome, so I am thinking this is a fair thing. If I looked like you I would stare at me too.”

Dorian's laughter warmed Ishalle, as surely as the summer sun. And like the flowers outside, he felt drawn in Dorian's direction, filled with a strange kind of nourishment, one he couldn't get enough of. Something tickled in the back of his mind, a fleeting butterfly of a thought, a tease of an idea. He couldn't quite make it out, like seeing a specter out of the corner of his eye. Something was there, something greater than himself.

He hoped he could see it soon.

Chapter Text

“99.9 The KUBE is proud to present: KUBEFest 15:36. This year's headliners include: Ataashi, The Hurlocks, Deathmasque, Darkspawn and more of today's darkest black metal bands. Tenth caller to answer our trivia question correctly will receive two all access tickets to KUBEfest, including VIP backstage passes. We've got six of these amazing packages to give away over the next few days so stay tuned.

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“Stay tuned for the next couple of days, if you didn't win this time, there's still five more chances. You're listening to 99.9 The KUBE.”

Vivienne's Summerday feast was not the lavish affair Ishalle was used to. The wide patio doors were open, and the tables set up outside were filled with pretty little finger foods. Enchanted paper lanterns floated above the table, changing colors from icy blue to pale green. Instead of chairs and waitstaff, people were encouraged to get their own plates and lounge on the stone benches around the perimeter of the porch.

It was on one of these benches when Neria cornered Ishalle, chattering excitedly about something she had to share with him. Nerves hit him again. He knew she was going to bother him about that guest lecture. Creators, what will I even say? What does she want me to talk about? Like a cornered mouse, he glanced around for Dorian, hoping to lock eyes, hoping to send the message: Get me out of here!

Dorian was of course, deep in conversation with Professor Cadash. There would be no distracting him from this vantage.

“Anyway, it's so much money, and really, you should go for it. I've heard the City Council fought very hard against it, but the Ambassador wanted it bad enough, and she convinced them. What do you think?” Neria folded her hands on her lap and blinked her frightening green eyes at him.

“Em...” He hadn't been listening. And now he didn't know how to tell her that.

“Oh, don't be shy. Or falsely modest, or whatever. You need to do this.”

Ishalle looked back at Dorian. Still occupied. Still talking. “I do not understand.”

“Oh!” Neria clapped her hand over her mouth. “Okay, um...I never studied Orlesian. What's the word for grant? Well, I guess if you don't know it, you wouldn't know how to translate it.”

“A grant? There is a grant? For what?” Ishalle waved off the language issue, hoping Neria would drop it.

“For art! You weren't listening to me!” She cackled a little, and clapped her hands twice. “Okay, listen up this time. There's an art grant, it just got approved by the city, and they're going to take applications from local artists for public works. Two million sovereigns, and they're gonna give it all to one applicant. So what that means is that groups can apply, and they'll all get it, or you can just apply by yourself. Stiff competition out there, but you really ought to go for it.”

“They did this thing in Rialto, yes?”

“You got it, yeah. The Rialto thing was a pilot program, and it worked really well there. Here.” She handed him a slip of paper. A website was scrawled on it. “You better look into this right away.”

Two million sovereigns. Two million. Ishalle couldn't even imagine what he'd do with that much money. And all for art! His thoughts spun, and he managed to eke out a quiet thank you to Neria for telling him about it.

“Now, about that guest lecture...”

Inwardly, Ishalle groaned. And listened until she ran out of steam. Dorian rescued him after ten excruciating minutes, bringing him to meet one of the other physics professors. He was safe from Neria, for now.

The next morning, Ishalle texted Case as soon as he opened the shop. It would be good to have a partner for the application. And there was a part of him that really didn't know what he would do with the money. Case was smart, and business savvy. His phone buzzed back.

-Got that show in Cumberland to prepare for, mate. Good luck though!

He'd be on his own then. A quick internet search showed the requirements for applying to the grant. He read over them slowly, trying to make sense of the legal terms. What he found daunted him. A thirty page proposal, with a cover letter. Allocation of resources. Who would own the final works produced, if any. The whole thing was intimidating. He very nearly closed the page, but steeled himself against the impulse.

Josephine Montilyet was the contact person listed at the bottom. He'd heard of her, the Antivan Ambassador. She normally spent her time traveling around Thedas, visiting each embassy for Antivan interests. He wasn't sure what she would have to do with the grant, but she'd be the one to contact, apparently. He resumed tapping his brush against the podium, thinking.

Vivienne.

The email was harder to write than he'd expected, but she agreed to meet with him the following week. Dorian took him out for dinner that night, and Ishalle told him about the grant, unable to contain his excitement at the prospect.

“That's wonderful!” Dorian poured him a glass of wine. “What do you want to do with the money?”

“I do not know if I will get the grant, so I do not know what I should prepare.” Ishalle accepted Dorian's toast. “It feels...em, early to decide such things.”

“You're going to have to, though.” Dorian's face grew serious. “I've written grant proposals before. You need to put yourself into the mindset that not only will you get the grant, but that you already have it. Dazzle them.”

The thought turned Ishalle's stomach. That was a level of confidence he did not yet have. “I have a meeting with Vivienne next week. She knows the ambassador, yes? So I will take from her some ideas.”

“I'll be happy to help you write it, if you'd like.” Their appetizers arrived, a plate of pickles, cheeses, smoked fish and olives. Ishalle ate slow, thinking over Dorian's offer. On the one hand, he could use all the help he could get. On the other hand...

“I am thinking I wish to earn this grant with my own work. Do you understand this thing?”

“Of course.” Dorian nodded. “But my offer still stands. If you change your mind, well, you know you can ask me anything.”

“Thank you.” He caught Dorian's eyes and smiled. “I am thinking I will try to do this on my own.”

“Bit stubborn, aren't you?” His boyfriend winked as he said it.

“I have been called such things.” He took a slice of cheese and a sliver of pickled tomato and ate them together, thinking. “But I must be, yes? Otherwise, I will fail.”

Dorian closed his lips in a tight line, but said nothing.

They awoke the next morning, having slept in until the luxurious hour of nine. Dorian ran his fingers through Ishalle's hair, smiling in the sweet yellow light of morning. “You know, I don't think I know when your birthday is.”

“The sixteenth of Kingsway,” Ishalle said, his voice heavy with sleep.

“That's coming up. Six weeks by my count.”

“Mm.” He yawned. “I will be thirty.” He closed his eyes. The weight of Dorian's blankets was pleasing to him. Heavy, but not too hot.

“That's a landmark! What would you like to do?”

“Oh, I do not celebrate my birthday.”

“What?” Dorian sounded as shocked as if Ishalle had suddenly sprouted wings. “At all?”

“Not really. It has never been a nice time. And it is always this pressure, since I came to the city. 'Oh, we can do whatever you want' people tell me. How should I know? What I usually want is to paint, but people do not like such an answer. So I do not celebrate.”

Dorian wrapped his arms around Ishalle and rolled over, pulling him with him. “How about we start?”

Ishalle shook his head, now on the other side of the bed and Dorian looking down at him, lopsided smile and all. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You do the plans. I do not want to be asked what we are doing or what I would like. It is too much pressure. It makes me hate my birthday.”

“Deal.” Dorian rolled on top of Ishalle, propping himself up with his hands. “You look awfully good with your hair messy.”

Ishalle touched Dorian's arms, gripping his muscles. “And you look good like this.”

“Mm.” Dorian kissed Ishalle, heedless of morning breath. “Think I can go down on you?”

Ishalle looked into his eyes. Dorian hadn't brought it up since the day in his apartment, keeping his word to not pressure him. The question was asked lightly, an inconsequential thing. So far, Dorian had proved himself kind and gentle.

Will he treat time with you as the honor that it is?

He had.

Ishalle blinked slow as he looked at Dorian's face. “I think I am ready for this thing.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes.” Ishalle brought Dorian back down for a kiss. “We have nowhere to be today, yes? Take it slow.”

Dorian kissed his neck and he felt the pressure of his tongue there. “Anything for you.”

The words made his heart race. Anything? His thoughts were cut off when Dorian began kissing down his body. True to his request, Dorian took his time. His collarbones were his first target. Gentle kisses, soft bites. His sternum next, one nipple and then the other. Ishalle closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel his boyfriend worshiping him with tongue and lips.

The area just below his ribs was sensitive and he laughed when Dorian kissed him there. He moaned when Dorian traced around his navel with his tongue, and he hissed when his mouth found his hipbones.

They'd been dating for four months. Everything had been so good since then. His heart fell full to bursting, an ache he couldn't describe. It was as if Dorian had unlocked something in him, emotions he hadn't felt before. The hands around his waist were like a key, opening him further.

And he wasn't scared anymore.

The absence of fear struck him then. There were things he'd been confident about before, but none of them involved matters of love. Is this love? Love struck him as a feeling for other people, not for him. Love was shared meals, comfort, feeling at home with another person. Dorian's hands moved under him, cupping his ass and holding him in place. He felt safe.

He was safe.

Dorian took him in his mouth, one inch at at time. He moved down and back up, flicking his tongue over the head of his cock, before moving back down again. The sensation was almost unbearable. He let loose the moan he'd been holding back, reaching over his head to grab the bars of the headboard. That didn't satisfy his need to touch, and he moved his hands down to Dorian's face, stroking his cheeks that were faintly bristled with stubble.

“Do you need me to stop?” Dorian looked up at him, the question earnest.

“No, no, no,” he babbled. “Don't stop.”

Dorian went back to work, one hand moving up to play with his balls. Thoughts interceded, intruding into Ishalle's mind. Love. He loved Dorian, past time to admit it. But this wasn't the time to say it, not with his cock in his mouth.

Instead, he let loose a stream of praise. “That's right, that's so good, just like that, yes...” He tangled Dorian's hair in his fingers, but did not press him down. Dorian did a good enough job of that on his own. Down, and further down, until he'd engulfed him completely. He pulled up slow and even, moving back down just as slow. It was agonizing, in a delicious way.

“Shit, that's good,” he whispered. They'd had time for Dorian to learn how Ishalle liked to be touched, and he showed him all he'd absorbed. There was suction. Just enough pressure to torment him. Ishalle gasped for breath, clinging tight to Dorian's hair. “Fuck...Look at you. You look so good like this.”

Dorian tugged his balls again. He slipped his hand back, playing with the sensitive skin behind them, pressing just a little against him. Ishalle resisted the urge to buck his hips at that, groaning louder than he had before. This continued, Dorian alternating pressing there, and playing with his balls, back and forth.

“You're so fucking good, Dorian, shit, you're so fucking good.” He bit his lip and arched his back, now unable to restrain his own movements.

Dorian pulled off his cock and looked Ishalle in the eye. “I have a request, if you don't mind.”

“Fuck, don't stop.” Ishalle let out a gasp again; Dorian hadn't stopped moving his hand.

“Say my name when you come for me?” Dorian flicked his tongue over the head of Ishalle's cock. “Please?”

“I can do this.” Ishalle stroked his cheek, breathing hard. “But you must continue, no?”

Dorian resumed his work, moving slightly faster, bringing his other hand to stroke Ishalle's cock at the same time. He pressed hard down at the base, slipping loosely up along with his lips. The sensation was exquisite and he groaned through clenched teeth.

Dorian moaned in return. He was enjoying this, enjoying being hunched over Ishalle, enjoying giving him this gift. Ishalle tipped his head back into the pillows and wrapped a leg around Dorian's back. He reached up to play with his own nipples, groaning when Dorian picked up the speed of his hand and mouth.

“Close...” he said, through gritted teeth. “Fuck, I'm close.”

Dorian did not stop. He slipped his fingers down and pressed firm against Ishalle's perineum, making little circles there. And his mouth sped up.

“Dorian, shit, Dorian, I'm—fuck, please! Please!” Part of him couldn't believe the words coming from his own mouth. Ishalle did not beg, ever. That particular line of wording was reserved for the other party, not for him. But just then he didn't care. Dorian held him on the edge for a moment, before sliding his hand up and swirling his thumb on the underside of his cock.

“Dorian...” The orgasm nearly knocked him out. It was pulled from him, and he tugged Dorian's hair with the same intensity. He could feel Dorian swallowing around him, that slick tongue now soothing his cock with soft licks. All he could see was white, a burst of pure white light behind his eyes. He pet Dorian's hair, murmuring soft noises while he came down.

Dorian, for his part, crawled up Ishalle's body and kissed him deep, touching his face, clutching his waist, stroking his hips.

Ishalle very nearly told him then, but the timing felt wrong somehow. Not after sex, not now. Dorian was riled up, hard cock digging into his hip. Ishalle toyed with him a little, before giving him a small smile. “Let me take care of you, now.”

“Yeah,” Dorian breathed in his ear. “Please.”

And for the first time, Ishalle found himself looking forward to his birthday.

Chapter Text

Welcome to Free Play, the only sports news network that matters. Let's jump right into the news everyone's talking about: The trade of Jean-Michel Agnieu to the Ostwick Cavaliers. Lucas, what do you think? Was this a smart move?

“Well, we've known for a while that Agnieu was looking to move teams. People have been talking about it for ages now, so it was only a matter of time. It's the fact that he went to Ostwick that's surprising.”

“Right, the Cavaliers have had a real bad season, record losses.”

“Exactly. They're a losing team. We've got a clip from his press conference about the trade.”

[Agnieu speaking over the sound of muffled voices] “I've been really proud to play with the Val Royeaux Lions for so many years. I grew a lot with that team, just a bunch of great people. Solid. I look forward to my new opportunity in Ostwick. My thanks go to my manager, and to the Maker. I couldn't have done it without the Maker. Really looking forward to a great season in Ostwick.” [End of clip]

“One player can help a team, for sure, but they've really got a lot of work to do if they expect to go to finals. We're in pre season now, so what we expect to see is a lot of rigorous training from the Cavaliers, and we're hoping that the team follows Agnieu's lead.”

“Maybe his good luck will rub off on the rest of the team. We'll just have to wait and see. Agnieu's agent hasn't made his salary public so we can only guess that the Cavaliers are giving him a very good salary indeed. Now, let's head north to Tevinter. The Magisters are expected to have an excellent season this year...”

That Vivienne had set aside time for a meeting surprised him, somehow. Ishalle walked up the stone steps to the Rialto Wing, looking with pride at the first painting. It was right in the center of the lobby, the first thing people would see when they walked in. And it was his. He drew on that pride for strength and rode the elevator to the top floor. Vivienne's secretary sat at his desk, the great hulking Qunari typing with a speed that astonished Ishalle. The man's watery blue eyes found Ishalle, though he did not stop his work. One horn was missing, the other swooped back over his head like a pennant.

“Meeting with Headmaster De Fer, correct? Ishalle Zorić?” His voice was rough.

Ishalle nodded and the man motioned for him to take a seat. The chair was wood, soft velvet upholstery in a deep red covering the cushions. Ishalle rubbed his fingernails together while he waited. There was no sound in here, aside from the clicking of computer keys.

Vivienne did not give him much time to worry. She called him into her office, and shut the door behind them. Her desk was smooth, polished to a mirrored shine. The second of his paintings hung behind her, taking up the length of the wall. Low bookcases surrounded them, each one topped with interesting artifacts. A cube floating above a sphere, both glowing a pale green. There was a handmade doll, missing an eye and looking about a hundred years old. A massive antique hennin was on display as well. Silver with curling horns. It was intimidating.

He sat at the offered chair. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

“Of course, my dear. I am afraid I can only give you fifteen minutes of my time, so do reach your point quickly.”

He nodded, understanding. “Neria told me that there will be a gift of money for the arts in Antiva City. Em. Two million sovereigns. I would like to know...” He tried to think of a diplomatic way of saying it. “I would like to know how to get this money.” Smooth. He blinked hard with embarrassment.

“I see. Not my area of expertise, but I do have something that can help you. Give me a moment.” She clicked a few buttons with her mouse and some papers printed up under her desk. She handed the stack to him. “This is a petition. You can fill it out and deliver it to the Ambassador's office. She is the one who secured this grant, and the one who will be deciding how it is spent.”

“That is all?” It seemed too easy.

“No, my dear. Of course not.” She gave him an easy smile. “This is simply a petition to meet the Ambassador. Not for a slice of that grant. These things take a great deal of effort. You will need to have a finished proposal, stating exactly what you will do with the money. Every last sovereign must be accounted for. And you should have it ready if Ambassador Montilyet accepts your meeting. Simply writing the grant will not be enough, she must agree to meet you in the first place.”

“I have researched this much, but I do not know where to begin. Would you look over my proposal before I go in?”

“I'm afraid, my dear, that I do not have that kind of time. A proposal of this sort is bound to be very long indeed. I can offer you some help, however. First, you should ask Felix if he'd be willing to examine your work. He can look over your numbers and tell you if they are realistic. Second,” and she turned around, pulling a journal from her desk and making a note. “I can write a letter of recommendation for you.”

“You would do this thing?” Ishalle was floored.

“Yes. I will write it, and put it on good quality letterhead. I will also seal it, so the Ambassador knows it was not tampered with. You should be sure to get a second letter, possibly even a third. I can forward you a list of names, or you could contact someone in your own business.” She clicked around with her mouse, scanning the screen with rapidly moving eyes. “Hmm. You don't have a lot of time, you know. The deadline is four weeks from today. If you are serious about this, as you should be, you will make sure that every contingency is accounted for.”

Ishalle nodded again, his head swimming. “It is a lot of work, but I think I can do this thing.”

“I think you can too. Your hard work speaks for itself, my dear.” She stood and opened the office door. “Be sure you have multiple people look over your draft. I'll send you my letter once it's ready.”

“Merci, Madame De Fer.”

“Das rien,” she said, in an impeccable accent. She ducked her head as he left, shutting the door behind him.

Setting to writing the proposal was far more work than he'd anticipated. In the evenings, he researched how to write one, ticking away at a snail's pace on the page while glancing over guides online. Every guide offered differing advice; many pages suggested things he either already knew or things that didn't apply to an art grant. He kept plugging away at it, and soon his routine of little sleep resumed.

He didn't see much of Dorian. The time away allowed him to think more on his feelings for him. Love was still there, pressed against his teeth, begging to come out, but the timing didn't feel right. When he did get to see Dorian, it was usually for a late dinner, sex, spending the night, rushing out of the house or apartment in the morning. Never time for a serious conversation. And the grant occupied his thoughts, near constantly.

Case couldn't help him, but there was one person he hadn't considered yet: Jayne. After they closed the shop one evening, he spoke with her about it. They ended up talking for nearly two hours.

“Holy shit that's a lot of money,” Jayne said, her eyes opening wide with awe. Or greed.

Ishalle nodded. “Yes, and it could be ours. But Vivienne and Dorian both said we must have a detailed proposal, and for this thing I need to plan.”

“Yeah, like, we gotta know exactly what we'd spend it on, right?” Jayne pulled out the office chair and dropped into it like a sack of bones. “They don't want to give us that money and then have us spend it all on the gallery.”

“Non, I am thinking we should do outside of the gallery.” Ishalle perched on the stool, and pulled out a notepad. “We have a good place here, yes? So I am considering that we should do something for the public.”

“Yeah!” She tapped the podium, and bounced a little in her chair. “Yeah, you know the cops painted over all my other stuff. It would be so cool if they couldn't do that! Think a mural of me taking a shit on a cop car is too much?”

Ishalle laughed, and wrote down some notes. “Murals are good, but perhaps something different than you shitting.”

“Murals." Jayne's voice went low for a moment. "Damn, dude, I didn't think we'd ever get a chance to do this. Where would we paint them? Here in Belltown?”

Ishalle looked over at her. She was gripping her knees, leaning forward. He thought she looked a bit like an owl in that moment. “Belltown... It is a good thought. Perhaps because of the large amount of money, we should extend our work across the city. We will need to budget for em, safety....things." He shook his hand, hoping to conjure the word out of the air. "The em... straps.”

“Scaffolds and shit. Man, it would be fucking great if I didn't have to cling to a damn window while painting for once. How many can we do?”

“I will look into money. We must stay within the budget, but because it is so large, perhaps that will not be such the challenge.”

Jayne leaned back, and started chewing on her nails. They were already raw stumps. “What if we both did three? Also, I can look some of this stuff up if you want.”

“That would help very much.” Ishalle wrote that down. “You have spent a lot of time painting walls? You know what buildings would be good, yes?”

“Want me to look into that too?”

“If you please.” They spent another hour going over ideas, talking about places, logistics, ideas. She was bubbled over with enthusiasm, bouncing as she talked. It was exactly the kind of encouragement he needed. Now he wouldn't be writing this for his future, but for hers as well. A permanent mural or three for Jayne would go a long way towards giving her a name in Antiva City's art scene.

Large scale paintings were some of his favorites. He sketched out rough ideas, knowing Jayne was likely doing the same. The vision for a halla roaming a cityscape was scrapped right away. Too coy, too on the nose. Mythal wrapping her arms around the people of Antiva City? No, too sacrilegious. He wanted the murals to be distinctly Dalish. He wanted people to look at them and see a part of his culture, a window to the traditions and people he loved.

There was that grand painting of the dragon at Vivamus. Dragons. Once, dragons had both awed and terrified the people of Thedas. Some of the old tales talked about Mythal as a dragon, great and powerful. An idea began to percolate. A dragon, wide wings wrapped around...something. The world? He sketched it and crumpled it immediately, throwing it in the trash. A dragon surrounded by flowers. Beautiful flowers, each representing the People. Embrium, aria, elfroot, rosemary, roses. That was one sketch down.

The next two gave him more trouble. This wasn't how he normally worked; sitting down and forcing ideas onto paper wasn't his style. Usually he found inspiration walking around the city, or quick scenes of everyday life. There were already a few murals around the city. Many of them were faded or generally ugly. After several fruitless hours, he decided to wait for inspiration to strike. There was plenty of work to be done in the meantime.

Over the next few days, he figured out plans for the remaining two murals. One for Dirthamen and Falon'Din. A great bear and two ravens in flight, with an owl riding the bear's shoulder. Behind the animals, he sketched out a rough wooded glen, the very same he'd seen the night of his rites. The third would be one for June. There was debate among the various clans of Thedas as to whether June was male or female. Clan Athim, along with a few others, leaned towards June being somewhere in between and so the drawing featured an androgynous elf, bending a tree to their will.

He spent more time than planned on these sketches, letting his imagination distract him, carried away on a current of impossible plans. At the end of the second week, he had workable sketches, and nearly nothing written on the proposal. But he'd done plenty of research, and now he at least knew where to begin. Rubbing his temples, he sat down to type, chewing on his lip as if the pain could transfer the words to the screen.

Letters of recommendation were another difficult part. Vivienne's arrived in a large, stiff envelope, sealed as promised with a security rune. He couldn't ask for one from Dorian; his own boyfriend had commissioned his work, but could hardly count as unbiased. Felix had never commissioned him, and he wasn't in touch with people who had previously bought paintings from him. Neria, however... Nodding to himself, he sent an email to her, asking politely for a letter. He smoked a pack of cigarettes in a day, working on his laptop outside while stress ate at him.

The time went by faster than he would have thought. His proposal was only half done by the end of the third week, and the stress was catching up fast. Deciding quickly, he rolled the dice on having Jayne cover every day in the shop, giving him the daylight hours to work on the grant. If he got the money, the loss of his own income would be worth it.

Jayne had done the legwork of finding buildings and contacting landlords about painting, and brought him their agreements one evening after she closed the shop. Those agreements now sat in a folder, ready to be delivered. Her enthusiasm was infectious. It burned in him as he stayed up late, typing up every last bit of their plans. His petition to meet the Ambassador had been granted. Next Firesday, at ten in the morning. He didn't know if he'd be ready.

He had to be ready.

Chapter Text

“Mmm, that's the smell of morning. [sound of pouring coffee] Coco's Fry Box is now serving breakfast, until noon! Wake up with fresh coffee, from the finest roasted Nevarran beans. Try one of our seven delicious breakfast sandwiches. Rich country ham and cheese, nug sausage and fresh ripe tomatoes, or our new hashbrown sandwich for when you're really hungry. Fresh juices or one of our rich, blueberry Stud Muffins will round out your meal. Come down to Coco's Fry Box: When you're ready to indulge, treat yourself right.”

 

Three days to go. He'd finished the rough draft. Maddy had offered to read it over and look at his numbers, but he couldn't make himself send it over. She'd already done so much to help out with his accounts; the thought of her reading over a thirty page legal document made him feel even more in debt. There was a knock at the door, the mail carrier handed over a stiff envelope, with Neria's return address on the back. He set it down next to his computer, and drank a cup of black coffee in a few hard gulps. The moment he switched his spell checker on, red lines filled the page. Fucking Ferelden.

A second cup of coffee followed the first. He turned his phone off and got to work. All of the numbers were a mess, an utter disaster. I'm going to fail, he thought, sucking down a cigarette. Math had never been his strong suit. Heart racing from the caffeine, he pulled out his spreadsheet and began editing. The sky was bright and beautiful blue when he started, and deep black when he finished.

Glancing up, he saw it was nearly four in the morning. The words blurred together on the page and his head swam. Shit, I was going to eat breakfast. Somehow, he'd forgotten. He reviewed the requirements again. Examples of your completed works. Those would be easy enough. He went downstairs to the shop, opening his printing page and selected a number of paintings that showed his skill. There were Jayne's works to be printed as well, and he did a mock up. Three of each. The computer in the shop needed updating. It crashed twice while he was doing his work, and it was only on the third attempt that he remembered to save.

The sun was coming up. Two days.

The print shop was open early, and he walked down, wanting to get it out of the way. Get it all printed, then I can go to bed. Dizziness struck him while he walked, so he went slow, tracing the buildings with his fingers as he walked. It was going to be another beautiful day. Blue sky, cold wind, red leaves turning to brown, it was so nice...

I love Dorian. I have to tell him. The day he turned in the grant application, then. That would have to be the time. His heart fluttered at the thought. Would Dorian say it back? Odd, that he didn't care. It would be good to tell him regardless. He'd buy a nice bottle of wine for the two of them. That red one from Tevinter Dorian liked so much. Smiling, he kept walking, ignoring his growing headache.

In his fog he walked right past the print shop, doubled back and walked in. They told him it could be ready in a few minutes. Coffee. There was little point in going to bed now that it was daylight. He needed to revise, anyway. A double espresso went down easy while he waited for his prints. When he got back home, he set to work again, checking and double checking his application. More errors. More work.

There were moments when he was typing on his fire escape that he realized he didn't know what he'd just written. He shook his head, yawned, and tried again. There was so much work to do, so much and not enough time. Four weeks to prepare and he'd managed to get right up to the deadline with a sub par proposal. This is not good.

He brewed another pot of coffee and checked his phone.

-I don't know what that means.

Ishalle blinked at the message from Dorian. Somehow, he'd not noticed that he'd texted him earlier.

-What same time you think

Ishalle read the message he'd apparently sent, and giggled. This was silly, he was so tired he hadn't noticed. It took him longer than he would have liked to text back a message explaining it.

-You need to sleep, babe. Rest up. You'll do better work if you nap.

Ishalle nodded, as if Dorian could see him. A nap. Just a quick one. Just after he edited this page. He drank the coffee, burning his tongue. One page turned into two, two into three. The coffee would keep him awake, he could just sleep tonight and then turn in the application in the morning. All he had to do was finish editing the last ten pages. Just a few more hours. They were spent reading each word carefully and then reading the sentences. He highlighted the section to do another spell check, and hit the enter key with his thumb.

The text disappeared, and in his panic, he saved the document. Fuck me... He stared at the now empty pages, a sick feeling rising in his throat. He texted Lu, and she reminded him of the existence of the 'undo' function. Taking a deep breath, he typed the shortcut, getting all his work back. The adrenaline rush made him queasy. Without looking at the bottle, he crunched down a few pills for his headache, and had another cup of coffee.

It was getting dark.

Still need a nap. How long ago had Dorian texted him? He couldn't remember. There on his phone were three messages from him.

-Get some sleep?

-Let me know.

-Hey, worried about you. Text me when you can, k?

Ishalle responded, and went outside to smoke. It was cool out, a nice autumn evening. I have to tell Dorian I love him. Over text was a bad idea, he at least knew that. Finish this, then I can tell him. Three more pages to go. Then he just had to read over the whole thing again. Once he did that, he'd sleep. He barely noticed his phone buzzing on the table. The sky was clear; he could see Kios way up there, spinning in the night sky. Stars don't spin...

Rubbing his eyes, he went back inside and worked through the last three pages. Once those were done, he set to the beginning of the document and read through again. No more spelling errors, at least he had that part down. And the numbers worked this time. All he had to do was print it out, get his cover letter...

Shit. My cover letter. He hadn't even started that. More coffee. I'm not sleeping until this is done. Somehow he knew a light nap would be impossible. Knowing what he had left to do would keep him awake. He'd have to stay up again. That was fine, he'd stayed up for long stretches before. This was nothing new. If you change your mind, you know you can ask me anything. Dorian's words echoed in his head. Dorian offered to help me. He's done these before. Ishalle pictured telling Dorian he'd earned the grant, and the pride he would feel, having done it on his own. It's too late to call him now anyway. He has his own work.

Stumbling, he went into the kitchen, getting the next batch on. He checked his phone. Dead. Forgot to charge it. I can't call Dorian anyway. On the rune it went, soaking up the charge. It glowed blue as the magic flowed into it, like a hamster desperately sucking at a water bottle. That struck him as hilarious, and he laughed as he dumped the last of the coffee grounds into the basket.

Coffee in hand, he started the letter. Three times he blacked out. The third time when he came to, he'd pressed the z key and held it down. That was funny too, and it took him a moment to recover from laughing. His stomach hurt. Finish this letter, then I'll eat. That was all he needed, just a bit of bread or something.

Somehow, he'd managed to knock together a decent letter by the time the sun came up. He saved everything to a rune chip and pocketed it. The meeting with Josephine was at ten in the morning. Four hours from now. All he had to do was print everything and head up to City Hall. Then food, then sleep. The woman at the print shop gave him a funny look when he handed her the chip, but went to print everything anyway. Glancing down, he realized he hadn't changed his clothes in a few days. Should get dressed nice for this meeting. Nice shoes. That's what I need. Shoes.

When he got back to the gallery, his feet were truly dragging. At this point, he was stumbling. For a moment he wondered if he was drunk, but he hadn't had anything other than coffee. Tonight. Going to tell Dorian tonight. His car was out front. Ishalle smiled when he saw it, the black Varghest laying there like a sleeping beast.

“Ishalle!” Dorian was at the top of the stairs, looking down on him with wide eyes. “I've been worried about you— are you alright?”

Ishalle gripped the railing. The first step seemed as if it were the tallest mountain in the Frostbacks. “Alright...” His head spun as he tried to take that first step.

Then there was nothing.

Chapter Text

We still have questions. What granted the ancient elves immortality, and what took it away? The prevailing theory is that the Veil sapped the eternal lives of those ancient elves, but one historian has a different suggestion. Sandra Trevelyan published her much maligned book last year that presented the idea that the elves were never immortal in the first place, that Uthenera was simply an allegory, and that the lifespan was greatly exaggerated. We spoke with physicist Dorian Pavus on the topic, who lambasted the theory, stating that there is physical evidence that the Veil was constructed, rather than a natural phenomenon.

Doctor Pavus and Miss Trevelyan had a public debate over the topic shortly after her book was published. He argued that the resonance of the Veil is wholly unnatural, a magical construct barring the world from the Fade itself. Trevelyan dismissed his evidence, saying that Pavus had been paid off by his university to tell the lie that the Veil is unnatural. She claims that the Veil cannot have been constructed, because it is a force that encapsulates the whole world, and one person could not have done such a feat without an extraordinary source of power. Pavus states that he never claimed it was raised by one person, and that her argument makes no sense when presented with the slanderous declaration that he is paid to state untruths.

The first thing he saw was a house. The house. Dorian was inside, cooking. Ishalle's mother sat at the table, breaking a mask into tiny pieces. Ishalle left, walking into the city. The buildings of Val Royeaux crowded around him, as much as the people. There was something in the distance. Ishalle moved through the crowd, trying to reach the door. The more steps he took, the farther away it seemed. If he just got there by himself, Dorian would be so happy for him, he had to find Dorian, and tell him.

Why was there so much howling?

When he woke up, he was in a chair in an office. There was a needle in his hand, a long clear tube coming from it. He could see Dorian standing in the doorway, his back to him. He felt good, soft and warm and very comfortable. The chair was slightly reclined, and he rested his head. Everything was fuzzy. A sigh of contentment escaped his lips. Why did he feel so good? The chair was great...

“You're awake.” Dorian appeared at his side, lifting the hand that was not occupied with a needle. “How do you feel?”

“Mmm.” Ishalle closed his eyes. “Cette chaise est très confortable,” he sighed.

“Babe, I don't speak Orlesian.”

“Ah.” Ishalle blinked himself awake. “This chair is very nice. I feel good.” He looked out the window to see a bright sunny sky, birds flying past. “Where am I?”

“I had to bring you to the healers. You fainted.” Dorian wasn't smiling.

“Fainted? I was...” he remembered now, walking back from the printers. Oh, his application! “Dorian! I have an appointment at ten! With the ambassador!” He tried to sit up, but his head spun. “I must leave, what time is it?”

Dorian looked away from him, glaring at the floor. “I'm sorry. It's past three in the afternoon. They gave you something to help you sleep, you needed the rest.”

“But my grant...” His thoughts rushed in, breaking any sense of calm. “I must turn in the application! I worked so hard on it.”

Dorian kept his eyes on the floor. “I'm so sorry. You could try emailing her, let her know what happened. But I don't think you should expect a positive response.”

Ishalle's limbs were like lead. “But—”

“I offered to help you with this.” Dorian sat down next to him, his teeth clenched. “Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you tell me you were struggling?”

“You are angry.”

“Of course I am! You scared the shit out of me. You didn't answer your phone last night! When was the last time you ate?”

“I do not remember. Wardensday, I think?”

“Fuck.” Dorian dropped his head in his hands. “You know, I used to think it was cute how you'd stay up late, or skip meals. Not anymore. This is a problem, Ishalle.”

“What problème?”

“You have to take care of yourself,” he said sharply. “You can't just treat your body like trash and expect it to cooperate with you.”

Ishalle glared. “I have skipped many meals in my life. Food was not easy to come by in Val Royeaux. I would often go days without eating much.”

“You're not in Val Royeaux anymore.” Dorian clutched his hands together in front of him. “And it's not that you didn't eat much, it's that you didn't eat. You'll be okay. The healers gave you hydration and I have a care sheet. You're going to feel like shit for a few days though.”

“A care sheet?”

“Yeah. Tells me everything I need to do for you.”

“You will care for me, even though you are angry?” Ishalle looked at his lap.

“Of course I will. But don't ever do this again. I already watched my best friend suffer needlessly because he didn't take care of himself. I won't watch someone else I...care about do the same thing again.” Dorian glanced up at him, and took his hand. “Ishalle. I—”

The nurse walked in the room, calling a cheery greeting. “How are we feeling?”

Ishalle tore his gaze from Dorian. “I am comfortable.”

“Well, that's good! Now that you're awake, I have a few questions for you. When was the last time you slept?” She clicked a pen and posed over her clipboard, waiting for his answer.

Ishalle bit his lip, thinking back. “I...think two days ago? I do not remember.”

Dorian sighed, but stayed quiet otherwise.

“Okay. And we did a scan and saw your stomach was empty. Can I assume you haven't eaten for a few days as well?”

He nodded. Embarrassment flushed his cheeks.

“And you were very dehydrated, that's why we gave you the IV. Did you skip drinking water too?”

“Non, I had coffee when I was thirsty.”

“Ah.” She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. “That explains it. Coffee is no substitute for proper hydration. So, here's your rules for the next few days. No coffee, no caffeine. That includes tea and soda. You'll probably have a pretty bad headache. Make sure you drink plenty of water. And you need to eat, but don't dive into a big meal right away, got that? Eat small meals, make sure they're well balanced. Plain chicken broth is a good start.”

“I do not eat meat.” The last time he'd eaten a bite of meat, he was sick for a few agonizing hours on the toilet.

“That's fine. Just make sure you're not eating anything rich or heavy. Also, we scanned your lungs. I'd suggest laying off the cigarettes completely. If you're interested in quitting, we've got programs here you can take advantage of when you're feeling better. Mr Pavus, you'll be caring for him, right?”

“That's right.”

“Good.” She removed the IV, healing the puncture with a soft green glow from her hand. “Rest, water, food, regular bedtimes, okay? You're free to go.”

The first stop was the grocery store. Dorian knew the state of Ishalle's kitchen, of the cabinet that held packs of instant noodles and a dusty jar of expired jam. It was easier for Ishalle to wait in the car, and he fell asleep stretched on the bench seat. Dorian gently woke him when they got back to his place. Easing the grocery bag over one shoulder, he helped Ishalle out of the car and up the stairs. Lu and a strange man that must have been Thom stood at his front door, waiting.

Ishalle was dizzy and tired and weak, and he couldn't muster much energy to be social or polite to Lu's boyfriend. The man seemed nice enough. Certainly he wasn't as old as Lu had made him out to be. Though there were grey streaks in his black beard and at his temples, accenting sharp widow's peaks. Thom sat on Ishalle's couch, looking as out of place as he must have felt. Dorian and Lu prepared dinner together, talking quietly in the kitchen.

Ishalle was getting more uncomfortable by the minute. All he wanted was sleep. Eyes watering, he sat on the couch, the reality of having lost the grant hitting him hard. After a few stinging blinks, he typed out an email to the ambassador, explaining his situation and requesting another meeting. There. All he could do, he had now done.

Dorian made him a special bowl of soup. Fermented bean paste, wispy shreds of egg and long strips of seaweed floated in the broth. It was delicious, and took him no small sense of self control to not drink it down in two large gulps. Lu and Thom left after dinner, (and after warning him to take care of himself more times than wholly necessary) and Dorian eased Ishalle into bed with a kiss.

“Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up, okay? Get some rest.”

Ishalle closed his eyes when Dorian shut the door. It was an hour of tossing and turning and worrying about the grant before he was able to drift off, a sense of hopelessness as heavy as the quilt on top of him.

It was two in the afternoon the next day when he woke up. Everything felt musty and stale, and his mouth was dry. The shower was running. He blinked slow, trying to remember the past few days. He'd lost the grant. All because he was too stubborn to ask for help when he needed it. Fucking stupid. Millions of sovereigns for art was rare; perhaps a once in a lifetime opportunity pissed away in pots of coffee and cigarettes. He checked his phone, but there was no response from the ambassador.

Dorian walked out of the bathroom, drying his hair. “Hey, you're awake. I just got back from the gym. How do you feel?”

“Sad.” He stretched his legs and his stomach growled. “I feel like a fool.”

“We all make mistakes.” Dorian sat down on the bed and kissed his forehead. “I've got some food. Need help getting dressed?”

“No, I will manage. Thank you.” He grabbed Dorian's hand and held it tight. “Thank you for taking the care for me.”

Dorian kissed his fingers. “Anytime. Though, I would quite rather you didn't get in this situation again.”

“I love you.” The words fell out of his mouth, before he could catch them and put them back. Didn't I plan something special for this? He forced himself to watch Dorian's face. His boyfriend's eyes softened and he breathed out one quiet breath.

“Dammit. I was hoping to say it before you did,” Dorian said. “I love you too. I've been in love with you for a while. I was going to tell you on your birthday.”

“I do not think I could have waited. I was going to tell you this thing yesterday. I had a plan.”

“Yesterday didn't go as planned at all, did it?”

Ishalle shook his head. Though he'd failed, the man in front of him loved him. He said it back. Ishalle couldn't tamp down the smile on his face. It wasn't what he'd planned. There was supposed to wine, perhaps a nice speech. Not dropping it on his lap like a bag of groceries. “I have been thinking this for a long time.”

“Thinking of what? Love?”

“Love, yes. It is odd, that I have not felt it before. But I feel very, em. Comfortable with you? And that when I am with you, that you and I are such a good thing.” Words were coming slow to his tongue. But he felt he had more to say. “It is not just that I like spending time with you. I feel that I can talk to you of things, things that are perhaps silly or not important, and that you care about such things. And I want to hear silly and unimportant things from you too.”

“Maker, I feel the same. I love talking to you.” Dorian looked away from him, like Ishalle was too bright, like he was hurting his eyes. “I'm not good with confessions like this. With Ril....” He let out a long sigh. “I honestly don't know if we loved each other. Perhaps at one point we did. But we grew up in Tevinter, in the circles where those sorts of things were forbidden. Talking about feelings was never something we did much of. But these past few months have been some of the best of my life. This feels different. I feel like I want to keep learning and growing with you. I hope you can give me time to learn how to express my feelings better.”

“I look forward to this thing.”

He stroked Ishalle's cheek and gave him a gentle kiss. “Get dressed. I'll get the food warmed up, okay?”

“Okay.”

It was indeed a few days before Ishalle felt back to normal. Dorian stayed over the whole time, leaving only to go to work. Even then, he got messages reminding him to eat, to drink water (not coffee) and to not overexert himself. They made him feel warm. Loved. It wasn't the worst recovery he'd ever lived through. He promised himself to pay Dorian back in kind.

Lu checked in on him while Dorian was at work. She set up his easel and brought out the paints, and they spent the afternoon together, talking about work, about friends, about nothing at all.

“I told Dorian that I love him.”

“Good.” She bent a piece of metal with her pliers. Earrings, he assumed. “About time. Did he say it back?”

“He did. Do you love Thom?”

She sighed and set the metal down. “No? I don't think I do.” Her mouth twisted into a grimace. “I feel like I could, with time. But for now, no.”

He painted while they talked. Trees. A forest, disappearing into fog. His hopes for his future seemed to be sinking into the same grey mist. “He is treating you well?”

“Yeah. I wouldn't be with him otherwise, believe me.” She picked the pliers back up, but made no further move to use them. “He's a lot of work. His time in the army was hard on him. Did you know he had a boyfriend back then? He was killed in the line of duty. I looked it up later; they weren't even supposed to be facing anyone armed, and then they were ambushed. So Thom has a lot of issues, to say the least. Don't tell him I told you that.”

“That is very sad.” Ishalle felt the sentiment ridiculous, but he didn't know what else to say.

“Yeah. And sometimes he doesn't want to see me, and then he has all this guilt about it. And I have to calm him down afterward. I don't know, I really like him. When things are good, they're good. But when he's feeling bad, there's nothing I can do for him.”

“Perhaps. Hmm.” He stared at the painting for a minute, thinking. “Perhaps you should just let him know you will be there to talk if he needs such a thing?”

“I have. Andraste's ass, I have. Let's eat some lunch.”

He set his brush down in the paint water and stretched. “You have the show next week?”

“Yeah, and I'm not anywhere near ready for it.” Coming from her, that meant she was short about a hundred pieces more than necessary.

“Do not over stress yourself.”

“That's rich.” She pulled a chair out for him. “Sit. I'll get us some food.”

He watched her make them a pair of sandwiches, wincing when she got bread crumbs all over his counter. “Did I tell you that Vivienne asked me my goals some time ago?”

“Yeah, you did. The museum, right?” She set the plate in front of him. “Why do you ask?”

“I am wondering about yours.”

“Oh.” She took a bite of the sandwich, staring out of the window. “Well. Ideally, I'd like to break free from the Design Collective. It's going really well with them, but I'd like to do design on a larger scale, know what I mean? Get my jewelry in movies, television, music videos. That sort of thing. I talked to Vivienne a few weeks ago, asked her if she could introduce me to Maryden.”

“That is a good thing.”

“Yeah. Eat.” She pointed at his untouched sandwich. “Don't make me force you.”

“You could try this thing. It would be funny.” He stuck his tongue out, but picked up the sandwich, taking a small bite. Hunger gnawed at him, but eating fast made him feel ill.

“Anyway, hopefully at her next party, Maryden will be there and I can try to talk with her. We'll see. It'd be nice to get my foot in the door. And you? What are you going to do now that you've lost that grant?”

“You must remind me of this thing.” The ambassador hadn't written back. Yet. He'd nearly forgotten. “I do not know. I must think on this.”

“Don't think too long. Get healthy again, get back up on your feet. Things aren't all bad. You've got connections now, use them, alright?”

He nodded, grateful. “Yes.” On an impulse, he reached out and squeezed her hand. “I do not think I have told you, but I love you very much, Lu.”

The look on her face would have been funny in another situation.“I love you too, buddy. Now eat your fucking sandwich.”

Chapter Text

“Your book on Dalish symbolism is coming out next month. Symbols Among the Dalish is being published through Tethras Books. So I must first offer you my sincere congratulations.”

“Thank you. It was quite an undertaking.”

“I'm certain. I wanted to talk to you a little about plants and the misconceptions about what plants are important to the Dalish.”

“Of course, but I should clarify: Each clan remains different in what they see as important. There are themes, but for the most part, you're not going to find one thing that is valued equally among our people.”

“Why don't we talk about the first misconception. Elfroot is often associated with, well, elves.”

“As it should be! We discovered its healing properties. Many of the modern medicines in Thedas come from elfroot, not to mention its use in cooking.”

“Right, but it's not the most important plant, correct?”

“You absolutely see it grown by many clans who are able, and we still use it. But no, spiritually, it's not. What I found in my studies is that every clan has their own plants and animals that they hold in higher regard. And many plants are used in rituals. So for example, in Orlais, Antiva, the Free Marches and Tevinter, the Clans hold rosemary as one of the most sacred plants. My own Clan Lavellan included. Rosemary is a symbol, more than anything. It's a hardy plant, it can grow anywhere. You see it in snowy mountains and in high deserts. It can live a long time without water, it can withstand heat and cold, it's a remarkable herb. And so we use it as a symbol for many things. In weddings, it shows the strength of love, in gardens it shows that we Dalish, above all, adapt. And that's why it's so important to us.”

“We've been talking with Neria Lavellan. Her book will be available at all major booksellers and online next month. You can order it now, and listeners to our show will receive ten percent off by using the code 'Dalish.' Thanks so much for coming on the show today.”

“My pleasure.”

Josephine wrote him back. Ishalle read the news that the grant had been given to another artist, a human woman who would design three sculptures for the harbor. Though the message was written with kindness and understanding, it didn't make him feel better. Reading it was like a heavy door shutting in his face. That was it. He'd failed. It was harder to tell Jayne the news; she'd done so much more work than he'd expected of her.

“You...you didn't turn it in?” She gaped at him, before her face twisted into something ugly. “You fucked it up!”

“This is unfair.” he snapped. “I tried.”

“You tried? We worked so hard on it and you—you asshole.”

“Jayne.” Ishalle rarely rose his voice, but he didn't take kindly to being called names. “That is not appropriate.”

“Appropriate? You threw all our work away! What the fuck, dude? All that shit I went to go get, all those assholes I had to talk to! I had to be nice to them, I had to kiss all their asses just to get those fucking signatures and—” He opened his mouth to respond, but Jayne started to cry. Big tears rolled down her cheeks and she sat in the desk chair, shoulders slumped. “So... we really can't do any of the murals?”

There were tissues somewhere. He rifled through the drawers on the podium and found a pack, half full. “Do not speak to me like that again.” He shoved the drawer shut and handed her the tissues.

“I just, fuck, I just wanted it so bad. I'm sorry. Please don't fire me.” She blew her nose, loud and ugly.

“I am not going to fire you.” Maybe I should. It was tempting to let her go, but he didn't know where he'd find anyone else as dedicated. He decided to shift subjects, hoping to calm her down. “Perhaps we can still make this art happen?” He handed her a coffee. Six sugars and half cream. She thanked him and took a large gulp.

“Maybe.” She wiped her eyes and stared at the wall behind him. “Thing is, you said yourself, this is a lot of work. I've been selling all my shit here for months now, and that's really cool. But, like, I need to make money for the work that I'm doing, yeah?”

“Quite.” He sipped his own coffee. Muted jazz was on the radio. Jayne hated jazz. He turned it off, hoping she'd calm down. “Think on some ideas. I think we should work together on this.”

“Yeah. I will.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve, leaving a shiny trail on the red fabric. “Hey, um. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I lost my temper. I shouldn't talk to you like that, not after you gave me a chance.”

He cocked his head at her. All this time she'd been working there, she'd been bending over backwards, doing everything he asked and never complaining. She'd even managed to be punctual. He'd never really thought of it as giving her a chance. It was just a job. He was about to speak, but a group of customers walked in just then and he nodded at her instead. Jayne rushed off to the bathroom to wash her face, and Ishalle set to work.

It was eight in the morning, but he lay in bed, fully awake. His stomach was churning with anxiety and sleep abandoned him. Rolling out of bed, he stepped quietly out into the living room, leaving Dorian snoring softly. It was time to tell Rosala about losing the grant. He made coffee, hoping to kill his headache. Texting was easier than calling, so he sent it off quickly. Get the bad news out of the way. His phone rang almost instantly, Rosala's name popping up on the screen.

“Hello,” he said, trying to act nonchalant.

“I'm sorry, Little Bird. I know how much that grant meant to you. Are you doing alright?” She got straight to the point, skipping her usual questions about the shop and the weather.

He decided not to tell her about landing in the healer's office. “I am well. Dorian is here and he is helping me.”

“Dorian,” she hissed into the phone. “You're still insisting on being with the Tevinter, then?”

“He is not 'the Tevinter,' Aunt Rosala, he is my boyfriend. And I love him.” Sooner or later she was going to have to accept that Dorian was part of his life now.

There was a moment of silence on her end. “You...love him?” Rosala's voice was thin through the phone, but he could hear her surprise.

“Yes. Very much. And he loves me.”

“Ishalle. I'm just so worried.”

“Would it help if you met him?” Ishalle had his back turned towards the rest of the apartment, looking out the fogged window onto the grey streets.

There was another pause before Rosala answered. “I suppose it might. Come to dinner then, bring him along. If you say you love him, we will welcome him here. But I am warning you. If I see any sign that he disrespects you, I will not keep my opinions to myself.”

“I understand this thing.”

Rosala told him to come over that night, and of course not to bring anything. In a way he was relieved after ending the call. They could go out there, have things done with. Rosala and Moska would either like Dorian, or they wouldn't. Head throbbing with pain, he took large sips of the coffee, burning his throat and tongue.

“Phone call?”

Ishalle's limbs twitched in surprise. He turned around and saw Dorian, leaning in his bedroom doorway. He wasn't wearing anything. The sight was almost enough to make him forget that he'd been on the phone.

“Yes. Did I wake you?”

“You not being in bed woke me. I was having the most wonderful dream and when I rolled over, you weren't there to share it with me.”

Ishalle giggled. He was doing a lot of that these days, in spite of everything. “You look good.”

“Come here?”

He wrapped his arms around Dorian's waist. “How do you feel about going to my aunt's for dinner?”

“Oh! Meet the family?” Dorian traced his hairline. “You want me to meet your family?” He spoke the words with a sense of wonder.

“Yes.”

“How could I say no? Though, I suppose I could say no, and you'd have to take me to your bed to convince me. I could protest and feign illness, and you could use your manly charms to persuade me. Then I could still say no, and you could tie me down until I said yes.”

“You have the strange way of telling me you will go.”

“Maybe I just want you to fuck me until I'm seeing stars.” Dorian squeezed Ishalle's ass.

“Then get on my bed, and I shall do this thing.” Both hands on his chest and he had Dorian on his back. Mysteriously, his headache had disappeared.

The little car hummed along the highway and Ishalle read his emails, trying to stay awake. Dorian plucked his hand from the seat. “Did I hear you right, this morning?”

“Hmm?”

“When you were on the phone. You told your aunt...You told her you loved me?” Dorian spoke softer than normal, staring at the floor of the car.

“I, em. Yes? It is true.”
His boyfriend grinned. “It's one thing to hear you say it to me. Another to hear you profess it to someone else.”

Ishalle frowned. “I hope I did not give you the embarrassment?”

“No. Opposite.” The car took the exit and rumbled down the pothole laden streets. “You're nervous.”

Ishalle put his phone away. His anxiety had been through the roof for the past hour, but it wasn't anything to do with Dorian. “I have not introduced anyone I was dating to my family before. I would like for this to go well, but I do have the fear.”

Dorian nodded. “My mother knew Ril, but she didn't approve.”

“Would she approve of me?” The car turned down the mile long dirt road that ended at Rosala's house.

“No,” he said sadly as he squeezed his hand. “No, she wouldn't. I'm hoping to spare you that particular experience. If you really wanted me to introduce you, I would, but it won't go well at all.”

Ishalle nodded as the car pulled into the driveway. The engine whispered, shook and shut off. They sat together, side by side, not moving for a moment.

A thump on the window behind him made them both jump. Morga's tiny face was looking in at the both of them, until they made eye contact and the little boy ran away, shrieking with laughter.

“My cousin's son. Morga.” Ishalle gathered his sweater around him and nodded. “Shall we go in?”

“I think so!” Dorian grabbed the bouquet and bottle of wine and helped Ishalle out of the low car. Rosala and Moska stood on the front porch, their expressions unreadable. Rosala wore a long, dark green dress in linen, plain, but it looked nice on her. Moska was in his usual pleated pants and baggy brown shirt combo, sleeves rolled up. They both walked out to meet Dorian, looking at him with a wariness that only the Dalish could muster.

Rosala took a deep breath and looked Dorian in the face. She had to crane her neck up to do it, but she looked proud and strong. “Andaran atish’an, Doctor Pavus.”

Dorian smiled warmly at her and handed her the flowers. Peonies and embrium, with draping amaranth and golden sunflowers. “Ma serannas.” The bottle of wine was passed to Moska, and Dorian nodded a greeting to him as well. “Though, I do prefer to simply be called Dorian.”

“Very well, Dorian. Come into our home. And be welcome.” Moska did not smile, though his expression softened when he looked at the bottle. “Oh, this will be good with dinner.”

Once again, Moska had outdone himself, presenting a vast spread of dishes. Spices and herbs scented the air. There was an array of cheeses, roasted vegetables, leek pie, and a plate of fresh raw oysters from the river. Dorian showed himself well, pouring wine when Moska's glass was empty and complimenting the food. He laughed at the stories Lume told, and joked with the children.

Ishalle had almost forgotten that Dorian was a very charismatic man.

He was shocked when Dorian offered to help clean up, and less surprised when Rosala took charge. She sent Moska and Ishalle out to the back porch, as was their custom. He could see Rosala talking with Dorian as he scrubbed the dishes. The kitchen window illuminated Ishalle but the light did not reach his uncle.

“Well, lad. You seem happy.” Moska's mouth puffed smoke.

“I am, yes.”

“You know, Tevinters aren't exactly known for their kindness to elves. You need to watch yourself, you hear me?”

He nodded. Ishalle felt like a boy of twelve with his uncle's words.

“But that one seems alright. Better than I'd hoped. Not met many Tevinters.” Moska chewed the end of his pipe. Ishalle knew he was searching for the next words he'd say and he remained still. “You say you love him?”

“I do,” he said quietly.

Moska nodded, once. “Well, if he makes you happy and treats you good, then I'm happy for you. He has money?”

“I think he does, yes. He does not seem to struggle.”

“Doesn't hold it over your head now, does he?”

Ishalle shook his head. “Not like Lyon.”

“That man was a right bastard.” Moska lit his pipe again, looking out to the halla pen. Ishalle could hear them nickering softly to each other, quiet murmurs in the dark back field. “You know, you're the closest thing Rosala and me will ever have to a son. I want you to be careful.”

“I am.”

“Want you to know, lad.” Moska took another puff. He turned his face away from Ishalle. “Want you to know Rosala tore herself apart to find you. Elgadir didn't tell us you'd run away. She called that house, trying to find out any information about you and he wouldn't tell her a damn word. So she went to visit.”

Ishalle hadn't heard this part of the story. He lit another cigarette, glancing inside. Dorian and Rosala were still talking, but no longer working. Their faces were hard to read from his vantage point.

“She drove out to that dump Elgadir dared call a house. Nobody was home, but she found out from one of their neighbors that you'd been gone for years. Reported it to the authorities, but they didn't give a shit. Fucking Orlais. I never understood why they insisted on moving there. Took Rosala two years to find you.”

“I am surprised she was able. Val Royeaux is large.”

Moska chuckled. “Persistent one, my wife. Never could take 'no' for an answer.”

“I am lucky.”

Moska made a noncommittal noise. “Lucky. In some ways. I think Rosala wishes she'd taken you away from that house, but maybe she thought you'd be alright there. Sometimes we make decisions that we think are right at the time. It's only hindsight that shows us we were wrong.”

“I do not blame her,” he whispered.

“Eh, lad. Fucking miracle you turned out alright. But, that's enough of that. Is he gonna take you to meet mom and dad?”

“I do not think so. His father is not a nice man.”

Moska laughed a bit. “Not a nice man. Too many fathers are not nice men. I'm glad my girls seem to have found some, but. Ah, well. That one seems alright that you found. You make damn sure he keeps treating you good, okay?”

As they drove back to the city, Dorian kept his arm around Ishalle, toying with his hair while he stared out the window. Ishalle fell asleep, the lull of the car knocking him out like a gas. Dorian took them to his own home, and when Ishalle woke, he was in Dorian's bed, the other man reading a book by witchlight.

“Mm. Sorry to fall asleep.” He pulled his shirt over his head and wiggled out of his trousers.

Dorian kissed his forehead. “Don't worry about it. Long day.”

“What did you and my aunt talk about?”

Dorian closed the book and waved his hand, the witchlight fading as he did. “She just had to give me the 'if you harm a hair on his head' speech. Standard motherly fare.”

“Rosala is not my mother. My mother was horrible.” Ishalle closed his eyes tight, angry that he was thinking of her here. He didn't ever want to think about his mother again, but there she was, looming over him in this quiet place. “Do not compare them. Do not ever compare them.”

“I didn't mean-”

Ishalle thumped out of bed and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Everything hurt, all at once. He sat on the edge of the cold bathtub, pressing his hands hard against his eyes. In his mind, his mother stood over him, rage seeping out of her skin, hitting him like a flame. How could Dorian call Rosala his mother? Not Rosala, not sweet and kind and resilient Rosala. She wasn't his mother, that word stung.

Dorian does not deserve this. Shame flooded his face. I should not have walked away. Lowering his hands, he breathed, in and out, calming his rushing heart. Part of him longed to stay in the bathroom until Dorian came seeking him. Am I a child? Must I be coddled every time something hurts? He washed his face and looked at himself in the mirror. Dirthamen's markings were right there, boldly staring back at him. It was a stark reminder of his vow to seek wisdom. And right now, his behavior was not wise.

Gathering what was left of his wits, he walked back into the bedroom. Dorian was waiting, sitting up in bed, the witchlight back on. The pained look on his face renewed Ishalle's sense of shame. He joined Dorian and clasped his hands. “I am sorry to get angry.”

“I'm sorry I said that. I wasn't thinking about your feelings towards your mother.”

Ishalle shook his head. “It was a kind remark, nothing more. I would have been lucky if Rosala was my mother. It would have been a better life.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Not here. I will tell you sometime, but here is a good place.” Ishalle mentally banished his mother from Dorian's room, kicking her out and locking the door behind her. She was not welcome here. Or in any part of his life.

She would not be forgiven.

Chapter Text

“Antiva Fashion Week is well underway, and this year's showing is nothing short of incredible. The Sen Lerenze show is scheduled for this afternoon. President Anora Mac Tir is expected to attend, along with singer Maryden Halewell, author Missati Valois, and style icon Grunar Verdin. We caught up with Grunar and asked their opinion of the show and what they expect to see. Grunar?”

“Right now, Lerenze's work is some of the most exciting that we've seen. Like me, Lerenze is non binary, and they are designing clothing exclusively for gender nonconforming people. We're seeing a lot of really beautiful pieces from their collection these days.”

“Now, one of the things that draws the eye to Lerenze's work is that they do not rely on traditional cuts.”

“That's right, and something I appreciate. The clothes are neither masculine nor feminine. Lerenze makes all of their clothes to order, tailored to the need of the individual. I think their Qunari heritage lends them an advantage in that regard. There are tailored and smart pants, but also skirts and dresses for those who like to wear them. Personally, I'm awaiting the winter collection, because I think we need more clothing that works in cold weather. Also Lerenze has been working with a team of mages to design coats and jackets that are crisp and clean, but have heat spells woven into the fabric.”

“Those need to be charged by mages, correct?”

“Oh, of course. But it's worth it. And they are donating one coat for every coat sold to homeless folks across Orlais, which will make a big difference.”

“That's great news. And I want to touch on another thing about Lerenze's work. While they do have a couture line, most of their clothing is affordable.”

“I wouldn't say 'affordable,' but certainly within reach. One of those jackets is expected to cost about four hundred sovereigns. With careful savings, the average person could buy one, but it's certainly not an impulse buy. What I do appreciate about Lerenze is that the coat may cost four hundred sovereigns, but I have some of their clothes that has lasted nearly ten years. Not only does it still look good and stylish, they're so well made that I consider it a sound investment.”

The morning of his birthday, Ishalle woke up alone to the sound of construction noise going on down the street. Jackhammers pounded into the pavement, echoing through his cheap windows. And there was an incessant banging in time with the one in his head. Mages were probably moving stones. A text from Dorian was already on his phone, birthday wishes and a series of hearts. He had forgotten today was the day.

Case was meeting him at noon. It was eleven and he rushed to get ready, stopping to eat something first. Dorian had stuck a variety of easy to prepare food in his cupboards and fridge when he wasn't looking. He's right, I do need to take better care. I'm fucking thirty now. I should be able to feed myself. Breakfast was boring, but he ate it anyway.

“So, you never let us celebrate your birthday before, mate.” Case jabbed his arm as they walked to the bus stop.

“It is only because you insist that we should do what I wish, and you do not like my answers.” Their bus arrived, and it was nearly empty. They took seats towards the back.

“Nah, I think it's cause you got this hot new boyfriend.”

“Perhaps. He is hot. Are you jealous?” Ishalle smirked.

“Maybe!” Case laughed a little. “Happy for you, though. It's good to see you without a walking pile of shit.”

“Yes, well, Lyon is in the past.” He waved his hand, dismissing his ex from the conversation. “Dorian wishes for us to go someplace special, but he did not say where, and I need some clothes.” Ishalle eyed Case's shirt. “And you do too, I am thinking.”

They got off the bus downtown, walking the two blocks east to the Design Collective. Lu waved at them, but she was busy with a young woman, so Ishalle returned the wave and looked around the cavernous space. Lu and her friends had done pretty well for themselves with this location. It was huge, taking up half the city block. In the back, shelves of shoes lined the walls. There were sparse racks of handmade clothes dotting the main space. Lu's jewelry stand was in the center of the store, near the cash registers. Her workshop was in the open, allowing people to observe her process. A tall Qunari with a thick build and round belly made his way over to Ishalle, greeting him with a cheery hello.

“Good afternoon, Vaar.” Ishalle had met him a few times. He was very attractive, but woefully straight. Vaar wore a tight brown beard, and kept his horns covered in woven cloth caps. His hair was done in thin braids that hung to the nape of his neck, neat rows that clung to his scalp. With a blush, Ishalle recalled the evening he'd flirted with Vaar until Lu pulled him aside and told him he was wasting his time. “I need some nice clothes for tonight.”

“Gotta spruce up, mate.” Case was eyeing a rack of jewel toned shirts.

“You tell me this thing, but look at you! You have clay on your shirt!”

Case grinned at him. “I got something at home, don't worry about me. I won't let you down in front of your man.”

Vaar shook his head. “C'mon. I'll get you outfitted. My wife says I've got the touch.”

Ishalle left, a hundred and fifty sovereigns lighter, but with new pants, a nice shirt and a pair of shoes he wasn't convinced he needed. He parted ways with Case, with plans to meet later in the evening.

Once home, he puttered around the house. The coffee table was spread with paperwork, crumpled sovereigns, three business cards from artists he had no intention of contacting. He cleared it away. A few pillows from his bed made it onto the floor. He put one of his sturdy dining chairs in front of the coffee table. Warmth from the heat rune made his stark living room cozy and quiet. He laid his tools out, selecting each one with something special in mind. It was his birthday after all.

The first time he'd tied Dorian, he'd kept the ropes loose on his wrists, and teased him. They'd both walked away from the experience looking forward to more. It was hard to find the time. Time to tie him as he wished, time when they weren't overworked or tired. Today would be different, he decided. The second and third times had gone well, but neither one had lasted as long as he would have liked. Ishalle intended to rectify that today. He also intended to bring Dorian to tears. A good hard orgasm would have him weeping and shuddering in the prettiest way. Ishalle smiled to himself. Today was going to be very good, he decided.

He was in the kitchen, arranging grapes and candied nuts on a small plate when he heard his front door click open and shut. Giving Dorian his keys turned out to be far easier than he'd expected. There was no grand ceremony, no heavy confessions. Just the spares, handed over after dinner one night. The keys to Dorian's home were already on Ishalle's ring, hanging by his sweater. Two comforts, next to each other. He heard the telltale rustling of Dorian removing his shoes and coat.

“Happy birthday, babe.” The smell of Dorian's aftershave was as sweet of a greeting as the hug that enveloped him.

“Thank you.” Ishalle kissed him quick before returning to the kitchen.

“Hey, what's all this?” Dorian smiled down at the coffee table and the pillows.

Ishalle carried the tray over and set it next to the small purple wand. “Are you ready for me?”

“Quite. Are we going a little further this time?” Dorian's fingers went to his shirt cuffs, and Ishalle gently moved them away, shaking his head.

“A little further? Hmm. Yes, I am thinking so.” Ishalle pointed at the chair. “Sit.”

Dorian made himself comfortable and brought his hands to his thighs. Leaving him there, Ishalle went back into the kitchen. His frost pitcher was on top of the fridge, slightly dusty from disuse. He washed it well, scrubbing the corners, rinsing it twice. The kettle started to simmer. In the back of his cupboard was some of that tea. A Nevarran artist had given it to him just before he'd met Lyon as thanks for showing his work. He remembered well the strange paintings; cityscapes, smeared and blurred as if viewed through a dirty window. He also remembered the night he had with the artist, a heady blur of teeth and tongue and vying for control.

The water boiled. He took the steaming kettle into the living room, along with the loose tea and the pitcher. Kneeling in front of Dorian, he made the tea, speaking softly of the technique. The red leaves were tight and curled, and fragrant with the smell of smoke, vanilla, and orange peel. When the water hit the strainer, the smell intensified.

“Is that Nevarran Red?” Dorian peered into the pitcher.

“Hush.” Ishalle finished pouring the water and set a timer for two minutes. “We have gone over my rules before, yes? You answer my questions, you call me by my name. You tell me if anything is bad. Anything else?”

“You come first,” Dorian said with a smile.

“Ah, yes.” Ishalle lifted Dorian's hand and rubbed the meat of his palm with his thumbs. “And you say our little word if things get too much. But for today, there is one more rule. You are to be quiet unless I ask you a question. Is this thing agreeable?”

“Yes, Ishalle.” Dorian shifted.

“This tea is Nevarran Red, yes. You know its effects?” He saw Dorian nod out of the corner of his eye. The timer chirped and Ishalle pressed his fingers into the frost rune. Ice immediately grew around the pitcher like lace. He'd set a glass on the tray. One between the two of them would be more than enough. Ishalle stood and cupped Dorian's chin in his hand, tipping his face up. “I am fond of precision. I intend to be very precise with you today.” He ran his thumb across Dorian's lip.

Dorian remained still. Grey eyes looked up at him, blinking softly. He opened his mouth and shut it right away, remembering what Ishalle had told him.

“Good.” He picked up the cuffs and played with the grey leather. “Hands behind your back, please.”

Dorian gave him an odd look, but obeyed. Ishalle buckled the cuffs to his wrists, and clipped them together.

“Is it too tight?” Ishalle gave them a quick tug.

“No, Ishalle. I have a question.”

“You may ask.” He stepped back around to stand in front of Dorian.

“I'm still dressed?”

Ishalle laughed a little. “Yes, I am aware of this thing. Do trust me.” He unbuttoned Dorian's shirt, pushing the deep blue silk off his shoulders. The sleeves bunched up, restraining him further. Ishalle traced a single finger down Dorian's throat, down his sternum, down his stomach. He did it again with his other hand, petting as light as a feather. The touch drew a soft sigh from Dorian's lips. Ishalle kept up the easy motions, soothing Dorian until he closed his eyes, hypnotized. With a quick hand, Ishalle reached up and pinched down hard on one of Dorian's nipples. A sharp yelp broke the air. He did not relent, pressing down hard until he'd counted to twenty in his head. When he released his flesh, Dorian let out a harsh gasp.

Ishalle rewarded him with a kiss. It was no chaste thing. He shoved his tongue in his mouth roughly, and grabbed the back of his head, holding him still. Using both hands, he tugged Dorian's hair, yanked his head back and licked hard up the length of his neck. Dorian's back muscles shook, making his whole body tremble. The low fire that burned in Ishalle's belly roared. The urge to tear the rest of his clothes off and fuck him simmered below the surface of his skin. Ishalle leaned back and controlled his own breathing. Slow. Take this slow. Dorian didn't make it easy for him.

I promised precision. “Is there any pain in your hands?”

“None, I feel good.”

“Now, talking of pains, I have a tool here I wish to use on you. I will not push you. Do not be afraid to tell me you wish to stop, my love.” He stroked his cheek again. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” Dorian swallowed. “I'm ready, Ishalle.”

The purple wand was small and plain. Its marbled wood handle fit well in Ishalle's hand, and the metal tip was cool and dull. He pressed his thumb into the rune at the bottom, until he heard the telltale click. “Dorian.”

“Hmm?”

“Breathe deep for me.” He waited until he saw Dorian's chest rise and fall before tapping the wand once on his ribs. The pop of lightning cracked in the air and Dorian let out a small cry. Ishalle waited a moment and tapped him again. This time he hit up next to his nipple. Dorian's muscles twitched under the touch. It was an enticing sight. Ishalle rubbed his hand over where the wand had hit. Dorian's breathing had sped up a little. He was biting his lip. Likely holding back all the words he wanted to say, silent under Ishalle's command.

Ishalle ran his hand up Dorian's leg, feeling taut muscle under the rich fabric of his trousers. The wand almost sang in his hand as he tapped it on Dorian's chest, on his stomach, near his armpit. Each tap brought out another gasp. A cry in the quiet air. A gentle moan.

“I hope you are not trying to impress me. Do you enjoy this?”

“Yes, Ishalle.” Dorian's voice was strained.

He straddled his lap and worked Dorian's cock over through his trousers. I want you, I want you. Too easy to tip Dorian's head back and kiss him. Too easy to fall into his own pleasure. Too easy to give in. Ishalle took his own calming breath and leaned back. “You want me.” Ishalle reached back and grabbed the wand again.

“Fuck, I want you.”

“I did not ask.” Ishalle tapped Dorian's stomach, reprimanding him. “Do you want to try the tea?”

“Yes, please.”

Ishalle got up and poured the bright red liquid into the glass, stirring in the honey. He took a few sips and felt the embers burn through him. Heat flooded into his groin. His inner thighs longed to feel Dorian between them. Carefully, he brought the glass to Dorian's lips and tipped it back. Just a little bit. The tea was strong, and its strange effects could overwhelm if one wasn't careful. He bit a grape in half and placed the other in Dorian's mouth. They were sweet. Resuming his place on Dorian's lap, he kissed him again, drinking down all the pleasure Dorian had to give.

The tea began to take effect. His cock felt hard, like it might break through his pants. The herbs would sustain him, desensitizing him, prolonging the experience. Despite his cravings, he stepped off of Dorian and unhooked the restraints.

“Kneel.” Though he commanded it, he guided Dorian down to the pillows. His boyfriend tipped his head up and Ishalle ran his hands along the planes of his face. There, the sharp angle of his jaw. And the soft hair above his lip. The ridge on his nose. “You are beautiful. Tell me now, what is it you want most?”

“Oh, fuck, I want you.” Dorian's voice was heavy. “I want to feel you.”

“I know you want me. That is not the answer I am looking for.” Ishalle kept stroking Dorian's lip.

“I want to please you.”

“Ah. Good.” Ishalle unbuttoned his trousers and let his cock free. He stroked it, inches away from Dorian's waiting mouth. “Lick your lips.”

Dorian obeyed, and Ishalle pushed forward. His mouth was eager and hungry, his tongue sweet and hot. Ishalle rocked into him, moving slower than he wanted to. He wanted to let himself go, he wanted to fuck Dorian's mouth hard and fast. Instead, he slowed down. Savoring. Moaning. He knew he'd smell Dorian on him all night. The thought of his boyfriend on his skin made him leak.

He pulled back, holding Dorian's head in place by his thick hair. “You.” Ishalle pulled his head back, squeezing his fingers tight. “My love. You are so fucking good.”

Dorian let out a small whimper. Wanting more, Ishalle helped Dorian to his feet. With a firm yank, he undid his belt, the clip, the zipper. He pulled his trousers down, and guided them off him. Carefully, he pushed Dorian back down onto the pillows. He bent him forward, and moved one of the pillows under his head. His shirt was still bunched around him, restricting his movements. Ishalle left it there. He walked around behind Dorian and ran his fingers down the crack of his ass, alternating occasionally to grip his round cheeks. “Such a perfect ass. Look at you.” Ishalle gave it a quick smack. He didn't let Dorian respond, instead diving down and licking the length of his crevice. The movement earned him deep moans. His tongue found his asshole and he traced the rim. Probing. Short and quick. He spread Dorian's cheeks, giving him greater access. Dorian's groans turned hard and loud. Reaching out blindly, he grabbed the wand again, tapping Dorian's lower back. His asshole clenched around the tip of his tongue. I will have to take advantage of that. Every harsh cry urged him on. He could listen to those noises all day.

Ishalle sat up, resting on his knees. He squeezed a bit of lube onto his finger and entered Dorian, keeping the rest of his fingers on his perineum. “You liked that, yes?”

“Yes, Ishalle,” Dorian whined.

“Touch yourself.” It was with great pleasure that he watched Dorian's hand grab his cock. He kept moving his finger, matching the speed of Dorian's hand. The tight warmth around his finger made his cock ache. He relished the sight of Dorian giving up all control. “Very good, my love.” He tapped his back again. “I love to see you this way. Slow your hand down, now.”

When Dorian's hand movements eased, Ishalle pressed a second finger inside him. He rubbed deep inside, his other hand on the small of his back. He licked his lips. Dorian's back muscles were flexing along with his arm. He held the position for a while, stroking his back and listening to Dorian's soft moaning until he felt in a trance.

Dorian was ready for him. He pulled his fingers out, and flipped him over. Once more, he straddled him and kissed him, long and deep. Ishalle felt nearly intoxicated. His mind was nowhere but in the moment, feeling nothing but heat, skin, muscle, love. He lifted Dorian's leg, positioning himself to enter him. The lube was within easy reach. While he applied it, he looked on Dorian's face. His mouth was open, his eyes shut. “Look at me.”

Dorian's eyes gazed up at him. His tongue flicked over his lips and he let out a soft noise. Ishalle pushed into him, going slow and easy. He kept his hand on Dorian's leg, feeling the bristle of hair on his thigh. The look on Dorian's face just about killed him. Soft, lidded eyes. Nearly black. His cock lay on his belly, almost reaching his navel. Ishalle ran his hand up it, dragging out another shudder.

“Breathe, again.” Ishalle tapped the wand on his ribs when he saw him inhale. Yes. Dorian clenched around him, and yelped. The clench around his cock was almost too strong. Enough. The wand was retired for the day. “You've been wonderful, Dorian. You've been so good for me.” He pet his hair, moving wet strands from his forehead. Dorian whimpered again, and he felt his thigh shake. “You may speak, as you wish. And you may move, as you like.”

“Want...more.” Dorian murmured. “Please.”

“More?” Ishalle began to thrust. “Like this?”

“Fuck, yes, Maker, fuck me.” Dorian's legs wrapped around him tight, dropping Ishalle down across his chest. The angle gave him access to his collarbone, and he bit, hard. He was rewarded with fingers digging into his back. It was like a storm, Dorian holding him close, everything blurring in his vision. Red marks and bruises began to grow across Dorian's shoulder. Like little trails of flowers. Dorian took the command to speak as an opportunity to unleash a stream of curses and moans and pleas for more.

Even the strong tea couldn't hold Ishalle back for long. The pressure and heat built until it was nearly painful; his release hit him with a force that made him collapse on Dorian's chest. His mouth was dry and sore from his shouts, but he couldn't stop moaning. He dug his fingers into his biceps, squeezing until Dorian hissed with pain. Ishalle tried to gather himself, to come back to his body, to the present. “Did I hurt you?”

“In a good way.” Dorian kissed him, laughing. “That was so good.”

“You are not done yet.” Ishalle gasped when he pulled out of Dorian. He was still breathing hard, sweat running down his face. Dorian sat up and pulled him into a deep kiss, fingers grabbing at his back. Ishalle indulged in the taste of his mouth for a moment. “Lie back now.”

Dorian relaxed into the pillows. He was so beautiful, wanting and needing. Ishalle could almost hear his silent begging. His foreskin was stretched tight, showing the slit under his head. Ishalle ran his thumb across it, making tiny circles. Dorian yelped a little, “Too much, too much.” He released him, and pet his chest with both hands. He stroked the hair, flicked his nipples, traced the marks he'd left behind.

“Better?”

“Better, yes.” Dorian looked up at him and bit his lip. “I want something.”

“Ask me.” Ishalle kept his hands moving. Creators, he loved this man.

“Will you choke me?” he asked quickly.

Ishalle held eye contact. “If you are certain you are prepared for this thing, I will do this.”

“Very.”

Ishalle closed Dorian's legs and sat on his thighs, pinning his hips in place with his knees. “You will not be able to speak our word if I do this. Put your hand on my leg.” Once Dorian's hand was rested on his thigh, Ishalle continued. “Tap my leg once if you need me to stop. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly.”

Ishalle placed his hand on Dorian's throat. He wiggled his hips until he could reach comfortably and found his pulse. His other hand went to Dorian's cock. Twisting the foreskin up and over and back down again, he put pressure on the pulse, watching Dorian's face. His eyes snapped shut and his cock practically jumped in his hand. Ishalle waited a few beats and released the pressure. A heavy gasp filled the air. “Good?”

“Yes,” Dorian breathed. “I'm close.”

Ishalle pressed again and moved his hand faster. Dorian's cock was heavy and thick in his hand, hot and sticky with precum. The second release of his throat brought tears. His face was red, blotchy. And his mustache was no longer neat and tidy. His boyfriend was an absolute mess, and Ishalle loved it. He brought his hand down to play with his balls. They were so hard and tight. Creators, he was close. Ishalle pressed on his throat again and stroked his cock, urging him ever forward. He'd made Dorian jerk off for him before, and saw how he moved his palm over the tip when he was ready to come, and so he mimicked that motion. Another release of his throat, another deep breath, another press. And a release.

Dorian bellowed when he came. His belly curled and he shook hard under Ishalle's grip, and still Ishalle moved his hand, squeezing loose every drop of come he had. He kept it up until Dorian began to thrash his arms, tears falling fast. Finally satisfied with his work, he leaned back, taking his hands off his boyfriend. Marked and sweaty, covered in come, panting hard; Ishalle wanted to remember this.

He got up and got a glass of water. Handling him carefully, he coaxed Dorian into sitting and made him drink. With quick fingers, he fed him more grapes. Dorian was speechless, for once. He rested his head on Ishalle's shoulder. Clumsy arms wrapped around his waist. He felt the sprinkle of tears on his chest, and so he pet Dorian's hair, staying quiet.

“I fucking love you,” Dorian mumbled. “Do you know what you do to me?”

Ishalle let out a gentle laugh. “I think so. You did so well, my love.” He eased Dorian back and cleaned his belly with a damp washcloth. All the while Dorian murmured. Tiny declarations of love, little whispers. Ishalle lay next to him, and held him until he fell asleep. While he slept, Ishalle tidied away his tools, putting them back in the chest in his closet. He felt as if he'd completed some great work of art. It was different now, he thought. Sex had always been fun, but this... He glanced over at the naked man asleep on his floor, and his heart swelled. He wanted to wake him, to tell him more, to spill his feelings over, like a babbling child.

He let him sleep.

Night fell and the lights rose to meet the sky. It was a short walk to the place Dorian had picked. Lu and Case were waiting for them at a restaurant Ishalle had never heard of. It was...cheap. And it didn't look like anything special. The walls were a weird swampy shade of green, the décor looked well over thirty years old, and the tables were chipped and scratched. A thin dwarven woman dropped a pile of plastic menus and walked away without a word.

It was some of the best food Ishalle had ever tasted. The stew plonked down in the middle of the table was still boiling rapidly, spraying broth all over the veneered tabletop. In it were root vegetables, carved in oval shapes, all the same color from the rich yellow soup. Balls of dough bounced under Ishalle's spoon. They were chewy and soaked through. A plate of condiments was served alongside the massive pot, torn elfroot, mint, basil, lettuce leaves, a pile of green and spicy sprouts. A jar of toasted seeds and a pot of the hottest mustard Ishalle had ever tried were the only other accompaniments.

After dinner, Dorian took the three of them along to a show. It was traditional Antivan dance, complete with swirling skirts, fire, throaty singing and a spectacular display of magic. He spent the show on a comfortable bench leaning into Dorian. Lu was rapt, whispering to him about the jewelry styles used. Case's interest extended towards the polite, but it didn't bother Ishalle at all. He loved the show, and babbled excitedly about it the whole way home.

Dorian put his hand on Ishalle's knee when they were at home, situated on Ishalle's sofa. “I will admit right now that I had a very hard time finding a present you would enjoy.”

Ishalle blinked. “You did not need to get me any such things. This day has been perfect enough. You think I am difficult to buy for?”

“You're very hard to shop for!” Dorian grinned at him. “I thought about a hundred different things, and none of them suited you. So, I was selfish and I got something for us.” He reached into his bag and pulled out an envelope. “Tickets. And a room.”

“Oh?” Ishalle took the offered envelope and opened it. Inside was a beautiful card, a painting on the front from an artist out of Rivain whose work he loved. Dorian had written him a long note, professing his love for him. He pulled out the plane tickets and his jaw dropped. “You... I... The Frostback Basin? I have wanted to see this place for such a long time, Dorian.”

“I know. I saw all the books on your shelf about it. They have a wonderful resort there, all in the treetops. Are you afraid of heights?”

“Non, I am not.” Ishalle looked over the tickets. One month from now. It couldn't come soon enough. “This is good, this is wonderful. I fear a thank you is not adequate.”

“We'll have fun. There's a few very old Tevinter ruins there for you to paint, and we can visit Stone Bear hold. They have a tour we can take if you'd like, or we can just wander around the park on our own. Anything you want, babe.”

“Thank you, Dorian. This is so much, this is just wonderful.” He knew he was blathering, but the reality of the gift hit him. “This is the best thing I have ever received.”

“We'll make memories, you and I.” Dorian kissed him quick. “Lots of them.”

“Yes, absolute.” Ishalle felt like he could have cried with joy.

It was the best birthday he could have asked for.

Chapter Text

“Perhaps you can shed some light on the Branka team situation.”

“Sure. So it's pretty complicated. For a while, Branka motorcycles used a rune chip system developed by their team of engineers. So, the thing to understand is that these runes control exactly how the motorcycle runs. The driver is responsible for everything else, and the Branka team knows their system very well. They've been using it for years. And last season, Branka sold their chip system to the International Racing Commission. Now all bikes are required to use it.”

“But Branka is known for having the best system, so why is this a problem?”

“Simple. Varghest, Gurn and Sten don't use it. So not only did the Commission order all companies to switch to this system, the riders had to learn it. And now that Branka won the Griffon Cup, there's talk of collusion.”

“Do these allegations have any basis?”

“It's my opinion that it would have been far better for the IRC to develop an independent system, but the arguments against that are fairly compelling. For one, Branka has spent years perfecting their own system, and it's arguably one of the best out there. So why fix what isn't broken? But it has come to light that the chief investor of Branka works for the IRC, so that's where the conflict of interest lies.”

“There's nothing to be done about that now, is there?”

“Now? No. The IRC controls everything. And switching over was a years long process, one they're not likely to go back on. Sigrun Janasdöitter has been Branka's reigning champion for the past four years, so it's not like they can say she had an unfair advantage.”

“Indeed. Well, I wish the other teams the best of luck. They have great riders on those teams, and I expect we'll see some very exciting races in the future.”

The trip came and went faster than Ishalle would have believed. It was wonderful, and nothing like he'd expected. They hiked out to the Tevinter ruins, Ishalle taking rapid sketches. Even though Dorian took plenty of photos, he wanted his own images for later. When the sun was high in the sky, he drew a rough sketch of Dorian, crouched in front of an old statue, camera in hand. He wanted that image for later. Every now and then he'd catch Dorian's eye, and they'd smile at each other.

Aside from the views, the light in the Basin was incredible. A rich yellow gold that made shadows darker, and details on the trees and buildings pop. Filtered through the trees, it spilled down and pooled on the forest floor. The light made Dorian's skin shine. It almost looked like magic, pouring from the sky. Dorian took advantage of it, taking picture after picture. Ishalle dreamed of transferring that glow onto canvas. In his head, he mixed paints, thinking over ideas until Dorian announced he was satisfied with his photos.

There were giant spiders in the Frostbacks, confined to an enclosed sanctuary. Two hundred years ago, they'd nearly gone extinct. Wealthy Orlesians had come to the basin to hunt the spiders. Some ended up as trophies, but the majority ended up as meat. If the spider was cooked improperly, it would poison the diner, causing them a slow and horrific death. The lure of danger was enough to entice bored rich people who had no better way to spend their endless coffers. A clan made up of Dalish and Avvar saved the spiders, entreating the Fereldan government to put an end to the hunts. They were successful, to a point. Ishalle watched the spiders skitter around their sanctuary and wondered why anyone would bother to save them. A splat of green poison hit the glass wall between them. He held Dorian's hand and they both grimaced at the revolting creatures before deciding to spend their time elsewhere.

The next day was spent at the hold, visiting with the Avvar. Ishalle met some artists and ended up making connections with them. Contact details were exchanged, and Ishalle looked forward to displaying their works in his gallery. Dorian found kinship with some of the mages. A lively debate occurred late into the night, lubricated by Avvar strawberry wine. Ishalle was lost for most of it. They returned to the city, refreshed and happy, and Ishalle feeling like he'd won some grand prize.

Jayne did very well on her own while he was away. She'd contacted her artist friends and arranged for a showing, pending on Ishalle's permission. He gave it, gladly. Fall was rapidly descending on the city and he and Jayne took a day off together for the first time. They went to one of the parks and talked over techniques. She demonstrated her paints, showing him all the strange nozzles and tips she used. There was opportunity for both of them, that day. Some of what he'd learned in college had been useful, and he showed her how to blend and mix color. He found himself growing fond of the bitchy elf, glad for her company.

Late autumn brought rain, and it washed away the tourists. They flowed out of the city like so much grime down the drains. Ishalle and Jayne began working together on new ways to maintain business. They held a few shows for one night only, keeping the gallery open until midnight. Taking a cue from Vivienne, he brought in caterers who served wine and cheese. The first two were a rousing success, but the guest artist he'd hosted at the third didn't draw much business. There just wasn't much interest in abstract art in the city.

The Avvar artists made contact and came up north, bringing with them a collection of sculpture and photographs. He intended to take them to the Blue Nug after their showing, but when they got there, the old pub was shuttered with a large 'For Lease' sign on the front. He had no idea where Ghost had gone. She had always been reserved but he thought at the very least she would have said goodbye. There was a 24-hour coffee shop across the street and they went there instead. The artists ordered pastries by the dozen and managed to eat all of them between the two while Ishalle looked on in horror. All in all, it was a good autumn and though the nights grew long and cold, Ishalle was comfortable and warm.

Aside from a few cars rolling slowly down the street, the evening was quiet. And so when a repressed sigh broke the air, Ishalle turned and looked at Dorian. “What is the matter?” He was painting by his window, while Dorian ticked away at his laptop on his couch. At least, he had been typing. Now he was staring hard at the screen, his mouth turned down.

“Nothing, baby. I'm fine.” His voice told the truth. There was a sharp edge to it, a bitterness that wasn't normally present.

“Hmm. I think you should tell me what is troubling you, yes?” Ishalle turned back to the canvas. Sometimes opening up to someone's face was difficult.

Dorian was silent for a moment, and then he released a heavy puff through his nose. “It's... I don't want to bother you with this. I'll be fine in the morning.”

“Ah, and I am sure you will be, but please, Dorian. Trust me?”

“You're right. Very well.” Dorian closed his laptop and leaned back on the couch. “My father emailed me. This is the first I've heard from him in a fucking decade, and there was no mention of that particular fact. He wants me to go to Minrathous for a visit.”

Ishalle stayed quiet, dabbing soft bits of purple paint on the canvas. When it became clear Dorian was waiting for a response, he asked, “Will you?”

“I don't know.” Dragging his hands down his face pulled it into a grotesque mask. “I could. But I'm much happier without him interfering in my life. I like my life. I have you, I have a great job, I like my house, my book is coming along. This just seems...” he trailed off, waving his hand.

“You must do what you wish, non?” Ishalle cleaned his brush. He set it in the groove on the easel and joined Dorian on the couch. “You have no obligation to this man.”

“You're right,” he said for a second time. “I don't think I told you why we don't speak.”

Ishalle made himself comfortable, tucking his legs up to his chest. “The whole tale? Non. If you wish to?”

“Yeah. I need a drink. Or more drink.” There was a bottle of wine on the table, half gone already. Dorian poured his glass nearly full and took a large gulp before continuing. “I was sixteen. And everything had been awful at home, just terrible. I had no intention of coming out to my parents. I would simply live as they wished until I could be free. They found out. Invading my fucking privacy. I was...with someone. And they caught us together. My father told me as long as it was a one time thing, all would be well.”

Ishalle rubbed his fingernails together, but stayed quiet.

“So. We fought. The fighting continued for ages, they wouldn't even let me keep my bedroom door. Then, everything changed. My father started being very kind to me. He'd take me out for pastries, or praise my most mediocre schoolwork, started buying me gifts. I was suspicious to say the least.” He took another long drink of the wine, grimacing. “So I started snooping. The wards on my father's office were easy enough to break without him knowing. I looked on his computer, and saw he'd signed me up for a conversion camp.”

“Pardon, but I do not know this thing?” Ishalle glanced at the wine, but there was no glass for him.

“There's no reason you should. Conversion is outlawed now. You remember my friend Mae? She wrote the bill herself. They round up gay children and send them to a group of blood mages. It was a practice confined to a small part of Tevinter, and I'm incredibly grateful it's banned. Most of the kids who go through it kill themselves afterward. If they even make it through the program. And my father knew this, and still paid for this fucking camp in full. He thought he could magic me away, the bastard.”

Ishalle touched Dorian's knee. He kept his fingertips light. “I am sorry, my love. You did not deserve this thing.”

“It's taken me years to acknowledge that. That he was wrong, not me. I thought I didn't ever want to see him again. And this email, fucking Maker. He hasn't mentioned his wrongs at all.”

“I am sorry,” he said again.

“So am I.” Dorian finished the glass. “I'm should sleep on this. If he considered apologizing, if he really means it... I don't know though.”

“Whichever thing you decide, I will support you.”

“Thanks.” Dorian tugged him into a hug. “I love you. Thank you for listening.”

“I love you too,” he said, muffled into his chest.

After a week of deliberation, Dorian told Ishalle he'd decided to go north. The winter winds were picking up, and so they sat in Dorian's living room. They'd watched a dumb movie, a poorly done comedy about demon possession. It was supposed to be wacky, but the two of them had not cracked so much as a smile during the endless hour and a half. Ishalle was on the edge of drunk. Strong Tevene wine laced his empty glass.

“So, em, you will go.”

“Yeah.” Dorian swirled his glass and spilled some on his shirt. “Shit.”

“Now you will have to take it off, yes?” Ishalle snickered. “It is good for me.”

“Any excuse to see me naked, then?” Dorian went into his room and changed. When he returned, he was wearing his soft black sweater, the expensive one that looked like it was meant to be shabby. “I'll be gone for two weeks. I'm going to use this opportunity to visit my old friends. And I'm not staying with my parents this time.”

“That is wise. I will miss you.”

Dorian rubbed Ishalle's knee. “Yeah. It's gonna feel like a long time. I'll miss being able to see you whenever I want.”

“You are certain this is what you wish?”

Dorian leaned back and gazed at the blank television. “No. But I feel like I should try.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, Ishalle turning to encourage Dorian to rub his shoulders. The man was very good at massage. Dorian's thumbs rubbed deep into his muscles. He felt warmth and realized that Dorian was heating his hands with magic. Magic is good for some things.

If someone had told Ishalle at the beginning of the year that not only would he date a mage, he'd fall in love with one, he'd have laughed at them. His parents had worked hard to instill a fear of magic deep in his bones. Despite Rosala using her gift to heal, he was still not convinced magic was something to be comfortable with. But Dorian helped. He used his magic to teach, and learn. He used it to calm, to relax, to warm his hands, to ease Ishalle's pain. Those gentle hands softened his aches. They guided him down into a state of ease, one he hadn't felt before.

“Ishalle.”

“Hmm?” Between Dorian's strong fingers and the wine, he was falling into a dream state. The lights were low, nearly off. Dorian's legs were holding him securely.

“What... would you think about moving in with me?”

The dream state cut away, moving him sharply into reality. Living together? They spent most of their time together anyway. And he loved Dorian. My apartment. He thought about knowing where everything was, he thought about the joyous solitude of living alone. The peace when he painted by his window. “I... do not think I am ready for this thing, not yet.”

“Alright.” Dorian didn't sound too disappointed. “It is probably a bit soon.”

“I am not telling you no. But I think, I think I need more time in my apartment.” Ishalle moved Dorian's hands so he was holding him against his chest. “Is that fair?”

“More than fair. We'll revisit this another time.”

“Thank you.” It was nice, he thought, as he drifted off, that he could say no. That he could turn down such a large and life changing request, and not kick off a fight. Revisit this another time. There would be a next time. As secure in that knowledge as he was in Dorian's arms, he fell asleep. His last waking thought was the certainty that Dorian wanted to stick around.

Chapter Text

The Raleigh Samson Center for Lyrium Recovery has finally opened in Denerim. Mr Samson himself cut the ribbon on the center, welcoming all patients who wish to break free from their struggle. The center will be the first of its kind. Any person suffering from addiction will be given treatment, regardless of their ability to pay. Addiction centers have existed for years, but this is the first that has no ties to the Chantry, nor will the patients be required to follow the Chantry in order to receive treatment.

Mr Samson stated that all people are affected by lyrium addiction, and that it's important for the doors to be open to loving recovery. In a press release, he lambasted the Chantry's most common techniques, including outdated methods of forcibly removing lyrium from a person's system. The removal model is dangerous and can cause severe damage to the mind, not unlike the cruelty of Tranquility.

He also stated the importance of addicts helping each other, for it is only an addict who can truly know what another is going through. Mr Samson has hired a team of specialists, all who have struggled with addiction in one form or another. The center has plans to expand to other forms of addiction, including alcohol, blood lotus and red dust. For now, they will focus only on lyrium addicted patients.

Mr Samson also spoke out against Orlais, for their recent laws that make possession of lyrium by non mages a felony. This is in addition to their draconian laws against blood lotus, which make carrying more than three grams a felony punishable by fifteen to twenty years in prison. Ferelden has seen much improvement with their decriminalization policies, modeled after the laws in Rivain and the Anderfels. We expect to see other countries follow suit, but it is unlikely that Orlais will change their path any time soon. For now, all are welcome at The Raleigh Samson Center for Lyrium Recovery, even, as Mr Samson put it, Orlesians.

The first three days that Dorian was gone, Ishalle spent with his friends. There were texts, daily. Dorian sent a deluge of pictures. The market, the universities, gardens, cafes. It was a poor substitute for his company. The fourth day, they had set aside time to talk over webcam. The little icon pulsed on his screen and he clicked it excitedly, a bottle of beer in hand. The smile he wore dropped from his face when the screen brightened.

Dorian looked awful. His eyes were bloodshot, there was stubble on his usually clean cheeks, dark bags under his eyes.

“You are not well?” Ishalle sat up straight, immediately concerned.

“That obvious, is it? Yeah, it's been a rough time.” Dorian rubbed his jaw and grimaced. “My mother and my father and I met at a restaurant last night. It didn't go well.”

“Ah, I am sorry.” Ishalle set the beer down. “You fought?”

“In public no less. According to him, I caused him a great disgrace.” Dorian waved his hand, dismissing what he'd just said. “He wanted to apologize, he said. But it wasn't anything like an apology. Do you know, he told me he wanted what was best for me?”

“He does not know what is best.”

“No, you've got that in one.” Dorian closed his eyes and leaned back. “I told him he never wanted what was best for me, but for him. Things went downhill from there.”

Ishalle frowned. He should have been there, he could have provided strength for Dorian, could have held his hand and stood by him during all this mess.

“But, the good news is I don't have to see him ever again.” Dorian laughed, tainted with bitterness. “I got the freedom I wanted.”

“Are you alright?” Ishalle knew it wasn't as simple as that.

“Not really. I drank as soon as I got back to my room. I was up late with a very nice bottle, and then only the plonk was left, so I drank that too.” Dorian rubbed his temples. “Which is, perhaps why I'm not looking my best right now.”

Ishalle wanted to hold Dorian, to stroke his hair and tell him it would be okay. His heart ached for him, alone in a hotel in Minrathous. “I wish I could help.”

“Oh, babe. Believe me, getting to talk to you is helping. Seeing your face...” Dorian looked away from the screen. “Seeing you, it reminds me of what I have to look forward to. Enough about me. Tell me how you are.”

They talked for nearly an hour after that. Ishalle told him about the gallery, about the new artists coming in. He was preparing a big sale next week and was busy with that, and Dorian told him about the things he'd seen since returning to the city. He was planning on seeing his old friends again and he seemed to at least be excited, in his own muted way.

When they disconnected it was with a promise to talk in two days. Ishalle felt better having spoken to him, but still worried for Dorian. Abandoning one's parents wasn't easy, even if they were horrible. For weeks after Ishalle had left home, he'd felt a pull to go back. Maybe things would be better, he'd told himself. Maybe his parents would have changed. But the nightmares kept him in Val Royeaux. Any horrors he experienced on the street were tame compared to what he would live through under his father's thumb. A few missed meals and sleepless nights seemed a fair exchange for freedom.

You just have to forgive them. He picked at the label on the beer bottle, mulling over Sona's drunken ramblings. Dorian clearly hadn't forgiven his father. But he seemed to be doing very well for himself otherwise. The man was driven and focused, carving his life out as surely as any sculptor would. Can I do the same? Am I strong enough? Leaving the bottle of beer on his table, he pulled his shoes on and went for a walk.

The vhenadahl loomed before him, bare branches wet and black under the cover of rain. A group of Singers were near the tree, handing out pamphlets for the Word of The Maker church. He declined one, and stared up into the branches. The Creators were never meant to be found in the branches of the old alienage trees. He did not see them there, nor did he see any sign of the Maker. An urge to burn an offering struck him. Must I forgive, Dirthamen? Must I wipe away the memories? Must I seek the wisdom of letting go?

The branches were silent.

The airport was crowed, overfull. Swarms of people surrounded Ishalle, Qunari with the best views of the arrivals gate. He was practically vibrating with excitement. Just the thought of seeing Dorian again was enough to make his heart leap. He glanced down at the bouquet. Sunflowers. Bright yellow with red centers. He clutched their thick stems, and wondered for a moment if flowers were a silly idea. Dorian likes flowers, stop worrying. Ishalle was towards the front of the crowd. A kind elderly Qunari

woman made room for him, smiling down with wrinkled eyes.

“Waiting for someone special, dear?” She eyed the flowers.

“My boyfriend. Yes.” Sometimes he still couldn't believe his luck.

“Wonderful to see young people in love. My wife's been gone for five years now. Cherish the time you have together, young man.” She drew her eyes up from the flowers and scanned the people coming from the gate. “Ah, there's my daughter. Good luck to you, dear.”

“Thank you.” He meant it.

When he saw Dorian walk through the gate, he abandoned all pretense and ran towards him. Dorian swept him into the air, holding him tight against his body and Ishalle wrapped his legs around his waist before kissing him. Nobody around him mattered in that moment. There were pulses of energy around him, happy reunions left and right. Shouts of joy. Laughter. He absorbed it all.

Dorian grabbed his hand and smiled, a true grin. “Let's get my bag and get out of here. I can't wait to get you home.”

Ishalle nodded and showed him the flowers. “I, em. I got these for you.”

“They're beautiful. Thank you.” Dorian grabbed his bag off the conveyor belt and lead them to the parking lot. The drive back was heady, Ishalle straddling Dorian the whole way home as they kissed the two weeks' absence away.

They arrived at Dorian's house after dark, bitter cold night air grasping their skin while they made their way inside. Dorian was unconcerned with the pile of mail, and he tossed his bag aside before leading Ishalle into his bedroom. There were few words, other than missed you, and their clothes fell away like autumn leaves.

After they'd spent themselves, Ishalle lay still, traveling the lines of Dorian's back with his fingers. Dorian's head rested on his chest and all was quiet. The silence enabled him to hear the shift in Dorian's breathing, the slight sniffle.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

Dorian remained still. There was a long stretch, before he heard the waver in his voice. “I don't feel good about what happened back home.”

“I am thinking this is not, em, unusual.” Ishalle kept his hand moving.

“Ten years of silence. I thought it would be enough. That he would realize he was wrong.” Dorian burrowed his head down, squeezing Ishalle with one arm. “But all I got were more accusations, more lectures. Like I was five years old.”

Ishalle's own childhood had been one extended parade of misery, but he had the feeling that wasn't true for Dorian. “Was it ever good?”

“Yes.” He let the word hang in the air before continuing. “When I was young, he used to take me to all manner of places. We'd go to see the mages spar in the practice auditorium. He had a fondness for motorcycle racing, so we went to watch the Kal-Sharok team. I never cared for it, but he loved it, and we'd talk afterward. He tried his best to instill in me a love of learning, of honing a skill until it was sharp as a blade, of being honest. But it all went out the window when he found out I was gay. And throwing me away...” Dorian rubbed his eye, and pulled Ishalle closer still. “That he would just discard me so easily. And I always thought that one day he'd learn and ask my forgiveness. But after ten years of silence, he's not going to, is he? When I saw him, he acted like it was my fault we hadn't spoken.”

A thousand things to say crossed Ishalle's mind, a mixture of useless platitudes burning in his throat. They melted away when the first tear struck his chest. And so, he held Dorian and listened. His tears were soft and restrained. Ishalle wanted to beg him to stop, if only so he didn't have to see the one he loved in so much pain. He made soothing noises, brushing back his hair until his boyfriend was exhausted. Ishalle tucked the blankets around Dorian and went to the back porch to smoke.

Bundling his coat around his small form, he lit his cigarette and looked out onto the city in the distance. There wasn't much to see. Clouds and rain obscured many of the lights until it was all just a weird orange smear. Inhaling the dry smoke, he thought back to his own childhood. He tried to imagine his father taking him somewhere fun. Or laughing. Or trying to impress on him the morals of a man. Miracle you turned out alright. Moska had been right. There had been no safe place at home, no escape, no listening ear, not after Rosala left.

The days when Rosala had been there were okay, he recalled. In the late summer, hard crimson berries had proliferated on the rocky hills. They were good for their smell and color and little else. Rosala had played with making cosmetics out of them. The two of them would pick the dry fruits under the beating Orlesian sun, and she would make up little stories to tell him. He tried to imagine how Dorian felt. Having that connection, and having it taken away, like a sharp knife severing a limb. Worse that his father was still alive and had rejected him. He pressed the cigarette into the ashtray and went back to bed. Dorian mumbled and rolled over, holding him again.

“I am thinking I am understanding what you have gone through, my love. I wish things had gone different for you. It would have been good if he had said he was wrong.”

“Halward Pavus would say no such thing.” Dorian gave a bitter laugh. “I still wonder sometimes if I had acted differently-”

“Pardon, but how could you have?” Ishalle interjected. “It is him that does not accept you for your being. You have done nothing wrong.”

Dorian tipped his chin up and kissed Ishalle's cheek. “Part of me knows that you're right. The other part of me hates myself for wanting any kind of validation from him. I wish things had been different, but they can't be. No matter how many books I write, no matter how many student's lives I change, no matter how many conferences and talks I give, none of it will change how he feels about me. I wanted to make him proud, as if I could just be so great that he would realize how wrong he was.”

“It is telling, em, that you know he was wrong.”

“You think so?” Dorian shifted and propped his head up on his hand.

Ishalle nodded. “You wish for him to forgive you, to accept you, to be a good father. That is not a foolish thing. I wish my parents had been good as well. There is nothing wrong with that, no?”

“No, I don't think there is.” Dorian laid back down. “I'm so glad I met you.”

Ishalle felt a slow smile creep across his face. “Me too.”

“There is something I want to ask you.” Ishalle sat across from Rosala. She was tying dried roses and oak leaves in a bundle. Green thread held the stems together. A bundle of dried wheat was in front of Ishalle and he wrapped them in the same green thread. Maddy and Sona were in the kitchen pouring wax for the special candles. Moska was already carving the last of eight little statues that would be burned on the night of the feast. Even the kids were put to work, picking detritus out of the straw that would be strewn over the floors.

“You want to invite Dorian.” She set the roses aside and grabbed the next bunch. Decorating for Gozba was a special time for both of them. He'd never celebrated the feast for the gods back in Orlais. Things were different here. His first Gozba had been a revelation. Blessings and food, the kindness of his family and his adoptive clan.

“Yes. And Vivienne.”

Rosala nodded. “Very well. Invite them both. Is Lu coming this year?”

“She would like to, yes.”

“Alright. Along with Clan Athim, three more mouths won't be much extra work.”

Ishalle smiled to himself. He hadn't asked Dorian yet, but hoped he'd be willing to come.

“Thank you.” He finished his bundle and stretched his fingers. Three more to go. “I think it will be nice for him to see it in person.”

“You told me he visited clans before?”

“Yes. Though he said Clan Athim rejected his petition to visit.” That had been an awkward conversation. “It was many years ago.”

“Well, they had the right, you know. I'm still not entirely comfortable letting shems view our rituals.” She took the scissors from him. “But Lu's been before, so I suppose it's not so different. Why do you want this Vivienne to come?”

“She has been very kind to me.” He set the bundle down and searched for his words. “Em. Without her, I do not think I would be in such a good place now. She brought success to my gallery.”

“No, Little Bird,” she said sharply. “You brought your successes.”

“I know what you are saying, but it is not what I mean. Em. She put me in touch with many people, and recommended my work and wrote me that letter. I now have commissions, and I have an employee and it did start with her. But I am not rich. I can only give away so many paintings before they become this burden. I cannot give her nice gifts. So this is the thing I can think of. Invite her to a party of my own, something special to me to share.”

She nodded. “I see. Human, right?”

“Yes. A mage.”

“Well.” Rosala laughed a bit. “She'll be in good company. Clan Athim welcomed three more mages into their ranks last week. Why don't you ever bring that Case with you? He should see this sometime.”

“I would like to do this thing, but Case goes to Denerim every year for Wintersend.”

Moska came into the back door, blowing on his hands. “Gettin' damn cold out there!” He stamped his boots on the mat, before stepping out of them and walking into the house. “How are the offerings coming along?”

Rosala beckoned him over and wrapped her hands around his, drawing up a warming spell. He sighed with relief and kissed her forehead. “You're freezing! We're just about done. Ishalle's bringing some extra people this year. Three more.”

Moska looked over at him. “Dorian and Lu and...?”

“Vivienne.” He met his uncle's eyes.

“Sure. They can help clean up.” Moska took his hands back with a thanks. “Also, if you're inviting more people, I'm gonna need extra help in the kitchen. You can bring Dorian here the night before. I'll need you to do some prep work.”

Inwardly, Ishalle groaned. Working with Moska in the kitchen was a nightmare. The man was a tyrant behind a stove, demanding perfect timing and cutting techniques. But he agreed, steeling himself for the inevitable.

“Gozba? I've only heard of it. What is it exactly?” Dorian was cooking for Ishalle while he sat at the table, watching him with a glass of wine.

“It is a very important holiday. The em, the big one. The most important.” The wine was good. It was deep yellow and tasted like olives. It was from somewhere in the Anderfels. Apparently, they let it age in open casks, giving it an odd funk. He liked the strange taste of it; almost like brine. “Every year, we burn offerings to the gods. In the old days it was harvest offerings. But we buy things now. Rosala doesn't grow wheat, so we must bring that in.” He realized he wasn't doing a very good job of explaining it.

Dorian added a splash of cheap wine to the pan and a cloud of steam hissed upward. “But you burn offerings regularly, right?”

“Yes. There is a feast at this one. And it is to welcome the new year.”

“So it's close to Wintersend.”

“Yes. But not a Chantry holiday. It is ours. We make all the food, and candles are lit for the Creators and then we carry the offerings out. The youngest in the family light the offerings and there is singing. Clan Athim will be coming out too, so there will be many people there. And blessings.” The wine was making his thoughts fuzzy. “Em, every year. Blessings.”

“This sounds like I'll be intruding. Don't get me wrong, I want to go. But will I be welcome?” Dorian scraped the pan, stirring with a flat wooden paddle.

“You will. I asked already. And Lu goes every year. I am also going to ask Vivienne so you may not be the only human there.”

“Well, that's fine. I'm rather used to being an outsider at this point.” He covered the sauce with a lid and turned to the sink to fill a pot with water. “I do love you for asking me.”

Ishalle poured a fourth glass. The wine was really good. “I want you to be a part of it.”

“I'd be happy to go.” Dorian set the pot on the stove. “Thank you.”

“Em, it is not the probléme.” He giggled. “I hope you like nuts.” Moska had bought a forty pound case of walnuts just for the event.

“I should say.” Dorian chortled before breaking into a fit of laughter.

“What is funny?” Ishalle set the glass on the table and glared at him.

“Nuts. You know. It's juvenile, forget it.”

“Oh!” Ishalle slapped his leg. “Nuts! Balls!”

“Yes!” Dorian laughed even harder. “Oh Maker.”

“You are a child.” Ishalle started snickering and found he couldn't stop, not until they were both doubled over, not until the hiss of sauce hitting the stove distracted Dorian from the joke.

“Shit!” Dorian turned the heat down and moved the lid. “It's okay, it's okay. I didn't ruin dinner.”

Ishalle was still giggling when the plates hit the table. “Anyway, I am glad you will come. To Gozba, I mean.”

Dorian reached out and touched Ishalle's cheek. “Me too. Thank you.”

Ishalle's phone buzzed on the table and he tapped the message. It was from Maddy and it lifted his heart further. “Ah, thank the Creators!”

“What is it?” Dorian picked up the bottle and frowned when he saw it was empty. “Did you drink all of this?”

Ishalle blushed. “Perhaps. But em, anyway, Maddy says she got me out of cooking for the feast.”

Dorian rummaged through his cabinet and pulled out another bottle. “You? Cooking? Perish the thought.”

“I am not interested in this cooking.” He held out his empty glass and Dorian poured for him.

“Well, at least the food will be edible.”

Ishalle took a bite of the pasta. “This is good. I should have put you in the kitchen instead of me.”

“Maker, and then I could fuck up the most import meal of the year? That would really endear me to your family.”

Ishalle smiled drunkenly at him. His head and belly were sloshing with the wine and the food was delicious. After dinner, he sat shivering on the back porch, chain smoking and watching the wind batter the trees in the distance. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the season, but he gazed at the stars and thought he could see the shape of a bear, watching over him. Next week, Keeper would judge whether he'd honored Dirthamen. Wisdom and secrets. He stayed like that for some time, head spinning. Over his shoulder, just behind him, Dorian was washing the dishes. He could hear the clink of plates and spoons.

They sounded like home.

Chapter Text

“Today we've got a very special recipe to share with you. These are unique cookies, served at Gozba, a feast for the Dalish Gods held by clans across Antiva. In the studio we have Saren Athim, a cook and baker who lives in Antiva City and owns Saren's Bakery, located at the intersection of Thorn and Vine street.”

“Okay, so lets get right to it. For this recipe, you'll need flour, eggs, sugar, butter, walnuts and a very good quality blackberry jam. Preheat your oven to three hundred and fifty degrees, get a baking pan and let's get to it!”

“So why don't you tell us a little about these cookies. Is there a special meaning behind them?”

“Meaning? No. They taste good and we made them with easy to find ingredients. There's no more meaning to these other than it's a tradition to have them. Many families will make variations on these, but they're not spiritually significant.”

“Alright, so what's the first step?”

“Make sure your butter is soft. You want one cup. Cream it with half a cup of sugar until it's fluffy. Then, go ahead and add one egg yolk. After that, stir in your two and a half cups of flour and a pinch of salt, maybe about half a teaspoon. You'll have a nice stiff dough. Next, we're gonna press it into our pan, until it covers the bottom.”

“Just like this? What size pan is this, anyway?”

“This is a sixteen inch by eleven inch pan, but you can use a twelve by eighteen if you only have that. Okay, that part is done. Go ahead and spread about a cup of that jam over the crust. I've got four egg whites in this mixer here, I'm gonna whip them until they're soft peaks. For listeners at home, what you're looking for is a peak that drips over when you lift it out of the bowl. Add a cup of sugar with the mixer running at low speed. Then turn it up and whip until stiff.”

“We don't want to overwhip them, right?”

“Correct, you have to make sure they don't get chunky. Okay, these look really nice, see how the peak stands upright, and it's nice and shiny? We've got in this other bowl here, three quarters of a cup of ground walnuts. You can see there's still some slightly large pieces in here. They should be ground to about the size of breadcrumbs.”

“Oh, those look so nice.”

“At the shop we use an old fashioned cast iron grinder to get this texture, but you can use a knife or a food processor. You don't want to grind too fine, or else you'll get oil coming out of them and that can make them overly greasy. Now, we want to work fast here. Oven is nice and hot and ready for us. So, quick as you can, fold the ground nuts into the whipped whites. Yeah, just like that, you want to scoop up from the bottom and just fold, nice and smooth. Perfect. Now we'll go ahead and spread that over our jam. I've got some more chopped walnuts here, I'm gonna sprinkle these on top. In the oven, quick as a wink!”

“How long do we let these go for?”

“Just about half an hour, but you know, ovens can be unpredictable. So keep an eye on them. The top should be nice and brown. I have a pan we made earlier, and it's fully cooled, so let's have a taste!”

“Mmm, these are outstanding.”

“So good, you have the buttery shortbread, the tart and sweet jam and that walnut meringue on top for some added crunch. You can serve these with your favorite tea, and they're also great with coffee.”

 

Vivienne, Dorian, Lu and Ishalle all piled into Dorian's car. Lu was wearing a thick coat, and a pink wool scarf sat on her lap. Vivienne was in a fine black dress, her wedding ring a shining beacon in the dark of the car. Dorian dressed well, a full black suit, red tie and a long black wool coat. Ishalle was the only one in traditional clothing, and he felt an outsider among his friends. His white loose shirt was embroidered with leaping red halla to represent the blood shed in the Dalish wars. His trousers were loose as well, black and pleated at the front. Around his waist was a black scarf, long with fringes that reached his knees. There was supposed to be a hat, but he 'forgot' to bring it. The thing was tight and ugly and he hated wearing it. The shoes were the worst part. They were curled up on the toes, a red bead dangling from the tip. The look was generally unflattering.

Despite his stupid shoes, he was looking forward to the event. He talked the whole way out to the house, telling Vivienne and Dorian what to expect. Vivienne had seemed touched that he'd invited her, and accepted with an uncharacteristic show of delight. She asked questions on the way, and he noted that she wasn't just being polite.

“You will not be, em, expected to participate in the rituals. They are holy and not of your Maker.” Ishalle addressed everyone in the car, even though Lu already knew what to expect.

“Will we be allowed to participate if we wish?” Vivienne asked.

“I am thinking you will be, yes. But you are not required, if it gives you the discomfort.”

The house was already crowded when they got there. Clan Athim, over sixty people strong, were in the house, in the backyard, taking coveted chairs when offered. Smoke from the fire in the backyard was rising over the house, mingling with the smell of fresh straw on the porch. Ishalle led his guests inside, greeting his aunt by the table. All the women were dressed in similar clothes. Gold trousers, loose and baggy and tied off at the ankles, and black shirts embroidered with the same leaping halla that danced across his chest. Some of the women had their hair in a tight, coiled knot. Others wore gold headscarves, like Rosala. The eight carved candles were laid out on the table, unlit.

And the spread! There was a massive coil of walnut bread in the middle of the table, bundled in a pretty cloth. Moska had painstakingly removed the shells from eight walnuts, leaving the meat whole and intact. These naked walnuts were laid out in a wide circle on top of the bread, shining with honey. Silver cups decorated with symbols of the creators held koljivo, already blessed by the Keeper. A sprig of rosemary stood in the middle of each one. Moska brought out a massive platter of sarma, each roll of cabbage smooth and glistening with broth. They were stuffed with spiced rice, raisins, dried tomatoes and more walnuts.

“You've outdone yourself, my good man.” Dorian greeted Moska with a firm handshake. “I'm very grateful I've been allowed to come to this.”

“Well.” Moska looked down at the table, satisfied. “I hope you enjoy yourself.”

Rosala had taken Vivienne's arm and was talking her through the dishes on the table. “We don't eat until the candle lighting ceremony.”

“What is that in the cups? I see there's eight of everything.” She swept her hand over at the spread. “I assume the numbers are significant?”

“For the Creators, Madame. This whole feast is in their honor. The cups hold koljivo. We boil wheat berries and walnuts and honey together. It's best in small doses. You can put it with the kajmak if you like, some people find it more palatable that way.” She pointed at the platter holding round scoops of fresh white halla cheese.

The Keeper walked in, wearing his full garb. Black pleated trousers, shoes encased in beads and a thick wool vest completely embroidered with roses, halla and the paw prints of bears. The tails of the vest reached his knees. Dirthamen's vallaslin was on his face, accentuating his long and sharp nose, thick eyebrows and dark circles under his eyes. “We are nearly ready to begin, if you'd like.”

“Keeper Athim, this is Dorian Pavus.” Ishalle grabbed his hand and brought him over. “He is my boyfriend.”

“Good evening, Sir Pavus. I have heard your name before.” The Keeper made no move for a handshake, keeping his hands clasped behind his back.

“I petitioned your clan for a visit some years back, with Neria Lavellan.” Dorian gave him a polite nod. “My petition was rejected.”

The Keeper had no intention of placating Dorian. “I am sure you understand our decision in that regard. We do not take in shems to view our clans like animals in a zoo.”

Ishalle bit his lip, but kept quiet. He had hoped this conversation wouldn't happen.

“I understand completely! I am of Tevinter. I was grateful to the clans that let me visit, but I understood when my requests were denied.”

“And why, might I ask, do you want to see us so badly?” The Keeper now folded his arms over his chest and looked hard at Dorian. “Are we something to observe to you?”

Rosala interjected. “Keeper, perhaps we should get started. I'm sure people are getting hungry.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that people were watching Keeper and Dorian, but Ishalle kept perfectly still, hoping this would end peacefully.

“I would like an answer.”

Dorian rolled his shoulders back. “If you are wondering why I wished to observe, it is because I hardly think this world is worth living in if we don't see all that is offered. I only wanted to learn. I never took it personally when any of my petitions to visit were rejected. In fact, I am eternally grateful I was allowed to attend tonight. Ishalle means a lot to me, and I would walk to the ends of Thedas if he asked me to. He invited me to show me something about himself. And I intend to learn as much as I can about the man I love.”

The Keeper looked at him for a few moments. “Very well. In that case, be welcome.” He walked away before anyone could say anything else.

Vivienne joined them, a glass of plum brandy in her hand. “Dorian, my dear, I don't think I've ever heard you spill your feelings like that before.”

“First time for everything.” He squeezed Ishalle's hand. “What happens now?”

Ishalle turned to Rosala. There would be time to process what Dorian had told Keeper later. “Are we beginning?”

“I should hope so!” She called out to the people crowded in the house, and slow as cold honey, they made their way outside. Rosala chided Ishalle for leaving his hat behind. Thankfully, she didn't have a spare to cram onto his unruly curls.

Dorian pulled Ishalle to one side and leaned in to whisper, “Babe, I didn't get your Keeper's name.”

“It is Keeper.” Ishalle hung back from the crowd. “When someone of the Clan takes a title, they discard their name.”

“How do you keep track for your history books?” Dorian looked confused.

“Ah, their name is returned on their death. Or when the next person, em, ascends to their role.”

Dorian nodded. “Thanks. I didn't want to make an even bigger fool of myself.”

“You are not this fool.” Ishalle kissed his cheek. “Come, we must take our places.”

Clan Athim was famous throughout Antiva for their high concentration of singers. Over half the clan had a decent voice, and Choirmaster Athim arranged them by tone. The elves with the lowest voices stood in a line, and those who could sing in higher pitches gathered in front of them. The bonfire raged, belching smoke and embers into the air. The yard was otherwise dark. Dras, Ashe and Morga carried baskets of plain white candles and they scurried back and forth across the yard, handing them out. One for each person, held in the left hand. Ishalle stood between Rosala and Dorian. To his right, Vivienne stood close to Lu, watching with curiosity in her eyes.

And then Clan Athim began to sing. The baritones started first, a song in ancient elven reverberating across the night sky. As they sang, low and deep, the higher voices joined in, echoing the lines and harmonizing during the chorus. Keeper Athim and his two apprentices split up and walked to the lines of people holding candles. This was the most important part of the night, and Ishalle's heart pounded hard enough that he worried people would hear it over the singers and tell him to keep it down.

The Keeper was making his way down the line of people, stopping in front of each one, speaking for a short time, and lighting their candle with a pinch of his fingers. One by one, little glowing flames lit the scene, winking like stars. He heard the Keeper murmuring to the person next to Dorian and closed his eyes, focusing on the vow he'd tattooed on his face.

“Sir Pavus, do you wish to receive a blessing?”

Ishalle opened his eyes and watched Dorian. He was stern, his mouth drawn in a flat line. “I do.”

“And whose blessing do you wish to be honored by?” The Keeper kept his arms at his sides. His face was inscrutable.

“Falon'Din, if you please,” he said solemnly.

The Keeper tipped his head to one side. “A curious choice. It is not often shems read on Falon'Din. The god of Death and Fortune. What could He give to you that you do not already have?”

Dorian was unfazed. “Fortune is not simply wealth.”

“And a good answer.” The Keeper held out his left hand, three fingers extended to the sky. “May Falon'Din honor you with the wisdom to recognize what you have. May He grant you peace in the night. May he come to you in your time and no sooner. May Falon'Din open your eyes to the riches of life. In this I grant you His wisdom. In this I grant you His peace.” The Keeper pinched the wick and a flame blossomed there.

Dorian had been paying attention. “Ma serranas, Keeper Athim.”

He received a tight nod in return. The Keeper turned his attention to Ishalle. “And you, son of Mythal, son of Elgar'nan, child of Zorić. Have you honored Dirthamen's wisdom in this past year, to the best of your ability?”

Ishalle normally answered in the affirmative, but tonight, he bit his lip. Had he done so? In some ways this year had been good. He'd let go of Lyon, he'd met Dorian, he'd hired Jayne, he'd earned his commissions. But in others... The loss of the grant hit him again. He'd been too stubborn, too proud to ask for help and not only ruined his chances, but Jayne's. It was a heavy loss. He explained all of this to the Keeper, and asked his opinion.

“It would appear to me that you have honored Him. You recognize that you alone made an error, rather than blaming anyone else. You recognize what it cost you and your friend, and you have vowed to not make the same mistake again. Dirthamen demands knowledge and learning, and you know in your heart that it is a lifelong process. You honor Him well, and in His name I grant you His blessing. Carry your lessons throughout this next year, and you will benefit. In His name I grant you the security of learning, and the wisdom to keep your own secrets.”

“Ma serranas, Keeper Athim.” His candle flame grew from blue to orange, and danced in the cool night air. Ishalle felt as if he'd physically handed over a heavy weight.

The singers continued until each candle was lit. Some of them were burning low, but no elf faltered, no one shook their hand or trembled or held fear. There was a moment of silence; thick and heavy and only punctuated by the crackling of the fire and the soft and cold wind. Ishalle knew his cheeks were an embarrassing shade of pink in the chill air. Still, he straightened his shoulders and held out his candle.

Gozba was more than food and family. The Keeper and his apprentices gave out their blessings for each person to carry through the year. Truthfully, he didn't know if Dirthamen paid any attention to him, but the words gave him guidance and a sense of direction that he'd always felt he'd lost by the end of the year. It was a time of renewal, a time to refocus and to listen. The ancient Elven words sung were very difficult for him to understand, but the tune stayed in his ears. There was beauty in the old ways. Thedas may have cars and computers and mobile phones, but there was also magic. There were gods, dragons, old legends and new stories. He held to those things as tightly as his candle.

Moska brought out the carvings at last. Eight carvings, each representing the Creators. Mythal, with sharpened wings. Dirthamen, a bear rendered in loving detail. There was a sleeping halla, an owl ever watchful, a man cradling a child. There was a genderless figure, sculpting a bow. And a hare with long ears. The last was a miniature brazier. All were made from ironbark. Ishalle knew Moska had worked on them for the past two months.

Each carving was held aloft by the eight youngest children, and anointed with rosemary oil by the apprentices before placed in the fire. The candles were burning dangerously low by the time the last figure was placed. He noticed with no small surprise that Vivienne had accepted a blessing. Her skin glowed in the firelight, her bare arms shining with gold. Later he realized she'd cast a heating spell over herself, but in that moment she appeared small and delicate. Like one of Moska's effigies, cast in full and rich detail. He committed the scene to his memory. Perhaps she'd like to see it, painted as he viewed her in that moment.

The meal was of course, fantastic. Rosala had even made his favorite cookies, the only sweet thing he truly loved. Dorian sampled a little bit of everything, and quite a lot of the šljivovica. Lu played with the children, tickling Dawn until she was shrieking and begging for more. And Ishalle sat with Rosala, in a quiet corner, talking while they ate. People mingled everywhere, and for a few precious minutes, they spoke only to each other.

“Do you know, I never liked Gozba as a girl.” Her plate was on her lap. They sat on low squishy cushions, out of most people's line of sight. She took a drink of her wine. Cherry wine, dry and sour and the color of summer.

Ishalle ate another cookie. Shortbread, blackberry jam and sweet meringue with walnuts baked on top. They tasted even better than he remembered. “You do not talk much of being a girl.”

“You don't remember your grandfather, Little Bird. He died when you were a baby. There are no good stories for me to tell you of him. He was a tyrant, a drunk. He hit my mother, and she took out her anger on us. It is unfortunate that your father tried to emulate him to the best of his ability.”

Ishalle swallowed and coughed on the dry cookie. She wordlessly handed him her glass and he took a large swig. Why she had to bring up his parents tonight of all nights was beyond him.

“But, that's all in the past.” She waved her hand out to the house, showing the people gathered, the food shared, the children laughing on Lu's back. “Look at all we have now.”

“I am thinking life is very good.” He finished her glass of wine and refilled it from the bottle at his knee. “Do you think so?”

She smiled at him, proud eyes shining. “Oh yes. And I think things can only get better from here.”

Lu fell over with a terrific thud, and the kids all screamed with laughter. She rose, rubbing her elbow. “I think that's enough of fun climbing on Lu time, don't you?” she said to the children. None of them listened.

Dorian walked up to where Ishalle and Rosala sat, carrying his own plate of cookies. Ishalle nicked one, and then another before Dorian could sit down properly. “I wanted to thank you for welcoming me here, Rosala.”

She handed him an empty glass and poured the last of the cherry wine into it. “You are welcome here, Doctor Pavus. So long as you continue to be kind to my nephew, you will be welcomed in our home.”

“Well, I intend to keep that up for a very long time.”

Rosala looked around the room, her gaze soft. “See that you do, Dorian.”

End of Part Two

Chapter Text

“Today marks a big day for Antiva as a whole. The Tellari Wild Bird Sanctuary has been a point of contention among conservationists and land developers for a long time, but after a lengthy battle in court, the Sanctuary is now safe. Last year, parliament voted to secure the future of TWBS, and with some extra allocation of funding, the park will now be expanded and renamed. Today the TWBS opens officially under its new moniker, The Tellari Wild Animal Preserve. We go live now to Prime Minister Campaña.”

“Antivans! This is a proud day for us all. We stand now on the precipice of change. For too long, animals have been hunted for sport and trophy, for too long have we encroached on their territory and driven them from their natural habitat. Today, we seek to right these wrongs, to make a positive change, to observe our duty to protect the world around us. I urge you all to visit this park, and see nature at its finest. It is with great pleasure that I declare the Tellari Wild Animal Preserve: Open!”

[sound of polite applause and cheers]

“Critics of the sanctuary point out that Prime Minister Campaña opposed the preserve up until it was no longer politically beneficial. The Antivan Land Developers Association contributed greatly to Campaña's campaign fund, though the specific amount was not disclosed. Conservation groups are taking this as a win, however, with some pointing out that his change of heart remains a good thing, no matter what the reasoning may be.”

Boxes filled one corner of Ishalle's apartment. Moving day was finally upon him. Next month it would be five years since he'd been with Dorian. And what a good five years it had been! Dorian had published his first book, or rather his first book that wasn't a text for his class. There had been a tour. Ishalle had met him in various cities, and felt a swell of pride when he saw Dorian speaking to large audiences. The man was a natural. At one event he stood to the side, watching nervous students clutching Dorian's book and stammering out their thanks. Dorian spoke to each one. His charm put them at ease, and by the end of it, he was laughing and joking along with the people that had come to see him talk.

Then there had been the gallery. Business improved, slow to be sure, but the profits were climbing, ever so steadily. After a few conversations and planning with Jayne, he decided to take a page out of Dorian's book and go on a tour of his own. They were set to begin in just a few months. Galleries across Thedas were now expecting the two of them. He wondered about what he'd see, who he would meet, how the traveling would change him.

Rising from the last box, he dusted off his jeans. All that was left to do was wait for the movers. His couch had gone to Jayne, but he was taking his precious bed. The conversation about moving in together had been held three times in the last five years. The first time, Ishalle had turned Dorian down. The second time they had both been very drunk, and Ishalle was too embarrassed to bring it up later in case Dorian hadn't meant it. But a few months ago they'd been lounging on his floor, having eaten too much and Ishalle asked Dorian if he thought they were ready for such a big step.

He'd said he'd been ready for years.

Dorian put his house on the market the next week. It was a strange time for them both; Dorian loved his house more than he'd admitted to Ishalle, and perhaps to himself. It was purchased quickly, by a woman who talked excitedly of ripping out the back garden. Dorian handed over the keys with a strange look. They'd talked about it later, and to Ishalle's surprise, his boyfriend had wept a little.

But they promised to build a new life in a new home, and their new home was very promising indeed. It had two bedrooms, a small office space for Dorian's work, and a garage that Ishalle was going to convert to a studio. It was in Belltown— just down the street— and even had a patchy, overgrown backyard they could change together.

Ishalle had tried to talk Jayne into renting his apartment in his stead. He liked the idea of her living right upstairs, but she didn't want to do it.

“My mom needs me at home. I can't just leave her there, alone.” Jayne was sweeping the front while she talked. It was sunny out, but the gallery had been slow. Tourists weren't expected until next month. “And I don't mind taking care of her. She needs someone to help and shit and that's what I'm gonna do.”

“It is good of you. I do not blame you. I simply thought it might be easier.” He wrote out her paycheck and she stuffed it in her pocket. “But I must ask, what future do you wish?”

“Huh?” She glanced hopefully at the front door, seeing some people walk by. They didn't stop in. “What do you mean?”

“What do you wish to do with the rest of your life?”

“I dunno.” Jayne resumed sweeping, but the floor was already clean. “I like where I'm at now. I like working here. I like making stuff. Haven't thought about anything else.”

She was lying to him. Jayne normally avoided his eyes, but he saw how they flicked back and forth, how she held the broom like it owed her money. “Are you certain?”

“Well, like, what could I do? Open my own gallery? I don't wanna compete with you. And I like... I mean, I like...um...” She put the broom away and shut the supply cabinet. “I dunno man.”

He didn't press the issue, but an idea had taken root. Turning to his computer, he opened the schedule and filed his soft little idea away for a later date.

That had been last month, and the idea still hounded him. He vowed to himself to write it all down, to think over things carefully. The movers arrived, two elven women in light clothing. One of them was shorter than him, and very fat. Her skin was pale and her hair a bright pink. She grinned a lot and cracked jokes. The taller one was all firm muscle and had her hair buzzed down to a brown fuzz. They were both, of course, mages and they had his apartment cleared in under half an hour.

He stood in the empty room, looking at the window where he'd spent countless hours smoking and thinking. At the fire escape where he'd drink coffee. At the living room where he'd wiled away the time painting. At the kitchen where Dorian had taught him a few basic recipes. Lu walked in, and gazed around as well. Her hand landed on his shoulder.

“I can't stand that you're leaving.”

Ishalle put his arm around her waist. “I will only be three blocks from here, Lu.”

“But it's gonna be different now.” She sniffled and he glanced up and saw she was crying.

“Oh, please, do not cry!” He folded his sleeve over his palm and dabbed at her tears. “I will still be nearby!”

She responded by hugging him tight, sniffling into his shoulder. “I know. But things are changing and I'm scared.”

He hugged her back. They stood together in the empty room where they had shared so many memories, late nights, laughter and tears. Lu's fingers dug into his shoulder, as if she could will the change away with a few sharp squeezes. The shorter mover came in and announced they were ready to head over to the new house, before turning and leaving.

“Walk over there with me,” he said to Lu, taking her hand. She nodded and they went down the hall. Ishalle closed the door for the last time, turning the key. Lily would change the lock later, for whoever moved in.

If he was honest with himself, leaving the apartment was very difficult indeed. He'd created so many good memories there. How could he shut the door and walk away, just like that? But his new home waited for him, and he looked forward to building up a new life with the man he loved. As they walked down the street, he focused on waking up with Dorian by his side every morning.

Dorian had been in the new house for a few weeks. He'd had it painted, both inside and out. Ishalle picked most of the colors. The outside was white with deep blue trim, and a blue front door. The living room was a lovely rich yellow, much like Dorian's old living room. They'd both chosen the same color for the bedroom, an inviting sky blue. And Dorian had already gotten to work on the backyard, placing the bench in front of a low fire pit.

Ishalle's boxes hardly added to the collection of things in the house. He hung his plants and paintings, unpacked and shelved his books. Dorian had left space for him on the many bookshelves he'd bought. There was exactly one box for the kitchen. His precious coffee maker and the slakto spoons. The crock went into the fridge and he had Lu do the ritual, welcoming her to the new house. She laughed when he handed her a clean spoon, and it was good to see her no longer crying.

Case came by, bringing a new pot for him. It was one of the prettiest ones he'd seen come out of Case's studio. White, with a crackle glaze. It had a single red dot on the front, and was curved like the clay was dancing. He hugged his friend, pleased with the gift. The four of them stayed up late, sharing wine and jokes. It was as good of a housewarming that he'd ever known.

Felix came by the next day, bearing a basket of food and wine. Vivienne, Bastien, Neria and Jayne arrived soon after, and a second impromptu party was had. Ishalle was worn out by the third day, and spent it on the couch, napping and reading. The summer heat had already begun, so Dorian installed the frost runes along the ceiling that would keep the house cool. They had a quiet dinner, and it took Ishalle some time to realize that it was their bedroom he would be retiring to, instead of his.

The New Normal began. Ishalle walked to the gallery in the mornings, glancing up at his old apartment once or twice to try to see who was in there. They'd extended their hours, and Jayne now worked five days a week. Some time ago, they'd done a bit of remodeling, and now they regularly showcased sculptures alongside the paintings. There was a bigger selection of prints, and on Jayne's suggestion, he'd started doing limited runs of more popular pieces.

When the tour began, so did a whirlwind of packing and flights, airports, passports, standing in lines. Jayne was a surprisingly good sport. The show in Denerim was an utter failure, but Case had come along and he took the two of them on a tour of his home city. The Angosts insisted on hosting a huge dinner, and he saw a different elven society than he was used to. There were no shrines in the house, no offerings given. There was an abundance of home cooked food, most of which contained some form of meat. He filled up on cheese and fruit and salads, and tried to make a good impression on his friend's kind parents.

Cumberland was different. Jayne's work sold out, and Ishalle sold all but one of the original paintings he'd brought. They were too busy to see much of the city. But Ishalle made time to pick up a gift for Dorian. A book on the Mortalitasi, with beautifully engraved plates illustrating the various techniques for working with the dead. Jayne bought a silky wool shawl for her mother, to keep her warm on the chilly Antivan nights. They congratulated each other and flew back to Antiva confident in their successes.

They managed a show in far off Hossberg. The gallery there was enormous, a cavernous space with room for at least fifty artists to showcase at one time. Ander people were a strange group. They were loud, they stood too close to him when they talked, their accents were thick and chunky. And they liked to negotiate. Haggling had never been his strong suit. Dorian informed him over text that he needed to price his work outrageously high and work his way down. The technique seemed to work well enough. Jayne's paintings didn't fare so well in the strange city, but it didn't seem to bother her much.

An invitation from a Val Royeaux gallery landed in his email one day, and he deliberated for days about whether or not to go. Dorian offered to go with him, and so the three of them travelled to Ishalle's old city. In the end, it was a lousy trip. Switching back to Orlesian was the only benefit. Jayne didn't sell a single painting, and Ishalle only sold a few. The city left him in a depressive funk that stayed with him several weeks after his return. Painting felt pointless. The homelessness was so rampant in Val Royeaux that something as frivolous as art made him ache.

But the tours of the various cities were giving him something he hadn't had before: An actual reputation. By winter, Embrium Art and Prints was something of a destination. The city even listed the gallery on the official Antiva City Tourism website as a must-see. The year ended with Gozba, with Ishalle returning to their home feeling proud and strong and excited for his future.

Chapter Text

“Chasind scientists have made a huge discovery in the last year, and have released their findings to the public. A cache, now colloquially called the 'Chasind Archive' was discovered, and the most important documents that could be recovered were translated. These documents deal exclusively with the Fifth Blight, which means we now know for certain the identity of the elusive Grey Warden. Today on the line, I have Sonyaka Solokovik, head archivist at the Dosov University. Doctor Solokovik, welcome. Could you tell us about the discovery of the archive?”

“Thank you. First of all, the discovery was actually made by a small mage farm out in the Kocari Wilds. We had reason to believe that this is where the Fifth Blight began, and now those suspicions are confirmed. The mages were digging, and they discovered a massive network of tunnels. Many of the documents were not properly protected. We have a few fragments, but we did find a cache of perfectly preserved books that made it through the Great Invasion.”

“Was the cache made on purpose?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it was. There was a book, very poorly preserved, but we learned from it that Chasind Shamans built the cache as soon as they learned of the Invasion. They didn't have time to protect everything, and that's why we have so many crumbled and useless texts. But there were six books, all detailing the Fifth Blight, and exactly what happened during those years. And we also have the name and origin of the Grey Warden. Her name was Cara Brosca, and she was a casteless dwarf out of Orzammar.”

“Does she have any descendants?”

“If she does, there's no way we can find out. The Brosca name is so common throughout dwarven families that there are literally hundreds of thousands. And the Casteless were not logged by the Shaperate, and so we can't find them.”

“The findings are set to be published, correct?”

“Yes. The translations took some time, but Dosov University will be publishing them next year. All will be able to read the original accounts.”

Six o'clock.

Ishalle's eyes danced over to the clock on the mantle. Six oh one.

Dorian would be home any minute. Six oh two.

The keys would hit the dish, the sound of Dorian taking off his shoes would rustle through the hall. Six oh three.

He'd been pacing for twenty minutes, rubbing his fingernails together. Six oh four.

Tonight, his life would change. Five minutes after. For better or for worse, things were going to be different, starting tonight.

Six oh six, and he heard the rune click.

“I'm home, babe,” Dorian called down the hallway. Act natural. He heard the thump of footsteps into the living room. Dorian pressed a bouquet into Ishalle's hands and kissed him.

“Oh, these are lovely.” He smelled the damp roses, and admired the deep red petals striped with white. “Thank you. Em, what are these for?”

“I felt like being romantic.” Dorian winked at him before taking his place on the couch and opening his computer.

Ishalle went into their bedroom, still rubbing his fingernails and opened his sock drawer. Six years had gone by so fast. It seemed like just yesterday Dorian was flirting with him at the harbor. He pulled the little box out of the drawer and attempted to calm his pounding heart. Was he really ready for this?

Several months ago, he'd gone to Moska for advice. They'd sat out in his workshop, talking for a long time. His uncle had told him what he already knew, that he needed to do what he felt was right.

Then he'd helped him make the rings. Carving wood wasn't Ishalle's strong suit. But he was determined. His first attempt was a failure, and he brought the broken wood to Moska, frustrated. Moska patiently showed him again and he went back home, working every night in his studio. Dorian never went in there while Ishalle was working, so he was free to carve, to curse, to polish and sand without fear of interruption. Moska did the finishing touches on the rings and gave them to him last weekend. It had been a secret project between the two of them. Not even Rosala knew what he was planning.

Now, as Ishalle held the tiny box in his hands, he wasn't sure. Six years seemed a long time. They'd been living together for a year and a half now, and Ishalle felt truly at home. But this...this was a big step. Dorian was waiting for him in the living room; probably wondering why Ishalle had been acting so strange. Ishalle closed his eyes and silently entreated Dirthamen to grant him strength. The bouquet he'd prepared while Dorian was at work. Rosemary, and pretty aria.

Dorian sat on the couch, his computer still on his lap. The sound of the keyboard was especially loud to Ishalle's ears just then. He put the box in his pocket and sat down next to Dorian, clutching the small bouquet. It looked pathetic compared to the roses. The aria had already started to wilt. Please don't be a bad omen. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

“You okay, babe?” Dorian closed his computer and put it on the table.

“What is it you say, never better?” Ishalle tried to smile but his stomach was aching with nerves.

“You'll forgive me if I don't believe you.” Dorian crooked up one side of his mouth. “You can talk to me about anything, you know.”

Ishalle took a long and slow breath. “I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.” Dorian took his phone out of his pocket and turned it off, setting it next to his laptop.

“What future do you see for you and I?” Despite his attempts to calm himself, he started rubbing his fingernails together. It comforted him, a little. As did the smell of the rosemary on his lap.

“If you're asking about the state of our relationship, I think it's going rather well, don't you? I love you. I love living with you. I love when you go out of town and I miss you so much, and then you come back and everything is right again. I love our mornings together, I love falling asleep next to you. I'm still completely mad about you and I don't see that changing anytime soon.” Dorian smirked at him. “Now that you've dragged that particular confession out of me?”

No turning back now. Ishalle reached out and took Dorian's hand. He'd heard that human tradition was to get down on one knee, but that didn't feel right to him. “In such a case, then, I was wondering if you would like to, ah.” He let out a small cough. “I was wondering if you would...wish to get married?”

Dorian squeezed his hand tight. Pain shot through his fingers. “Are you serious?” His tone had dropped down low and he looked into Ishalle's eyes. “Are you proposing?”

“I am.” Ishalle pulled the box out of his pocket. “And I want to know if you would like this thing.”

“Yes.” Dorian yanked Ishalle forward and kissed him hard. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Oh, good.” Ishalle laughed a little and wiped his eyes. “Good.”

“What, may I ask, does that mean to you?”

Ishalle smiled at the floor. “Everything.”

Dorian shook his head, but he chuckled all the same. “I meant marriage in general.”

“Oh,” he said. “Em. It is such a nice thing to live with you, but I am thinking it means to me that we commit our lives, to each other. I trust you, I feel like you are my home. And if you were my husband, that would mean...” He took a long breath, searching his heart. “It would mean that we grow very old and fat together and I wish for nothing more.”

Dorian wrapped his arms around him and pulled him tight against his chest. “Oh, babe. Maker, we'll have to start planning a wedding, I suppose.”

“Another conversation, and I am thinking this one will be long.”

“Time for that later. We've got reservations at Vivamus in an hour and then I want you to take me in our room and show me what this all means.” Dorian kissed the top of his head. “Plus, I'm starving. Let me see what's in that box.”

Ishalle laughed, and leaned back. “I never opened it. Here, please.”

Dorian lifted the lid and let out a soft sigh. “Ishalle, these are beautiful.” The wood was polished to a dark shine. Ironbark was one of the strongest woods in the world, and Moska had sealed it with a glossy lacquer made from the same tree. Sculpture had never been Ishalle's strong suit, but he'd worked at it, studying ancient Tevene glyphs and combining them with some equally ancient Elven. In Tevene, 'home' and 'heart' were engraved, surrounding the Elven glyphs for 'love' and 'trust.' Moska had taken it upon himself to inlay lazurite into the carvings, and they glinted in the light. Dorian picked up the larger one and slipped it onto his finger. It fit. “Do we wear these now, or after the wedding?” He held his hand up to the light, admiring it.

“Em, I am thinking it is best to wear them after, or to switch hands. I am not this picky.”

Dorian was still looking at the ring. “I don't want to take this off.”

“Keep it on, then.” Ishalle touched the box, but made no move to take it from Dorian's other hand. “For me, I would like to wait.”

“Of course.” He glanced down at Ishalle. “Let's get ready. I don't want to be late. They're saving our table for us.”

“Take this.” Ishalle shoved the bouquet at him. “It is important that you accept this thing.”

Dorian held the rosemary to his nose and inhaled. “I accept this thing.”

Ishalle, in turn, accepted Dorian's gentle mockery.

The staff at Vivamus outdid themselves. Dorian and Ishalle went there regularly over the years, and several of the long term servers knew them by name. Their table was intimate, set under the great stylized dragon on the wall. Dorian told their waiter they'd just gotten engaged, and the happy news was rewarded with a very fine bottle of wine on the house. Dinner passed as if in a dream.

Ishalle mulled over what had just happened. His proposal had been accepted. Now he'd set forth a chain of events, ones he hadn't really investigated in depth. There would be a wedding, of course. And he didn't know if any of Dorian's family would attend. Then there was his family. While they'd accepted Dorian as part of Ishalle's life, he worried they wouldn't accept actual marriage so easily. Rosala had seemed so disappointed when she found out Dorian was a shem.

On the other hand, she'd made no mention to him of being worried for his future. Dorian was always welcomed into the house, and had attended all family events for the past six years. Perhaps he was overthinking things, again. Taking a bite of his food, he brought up his thoughts to Dorian, hoping for some clarity.

“Well, let me answer that with another question. What are your family's marriage traditions?” Dorian's risotto was half gone already.

“Em...” Ishalle thought about Maddy. That had hardly been a traditional wedding. But there were certain things he knew they must do. “We must go to Aunt Rosala, first. And then you must ask permission to join our family. Keeper Athim will decide if you will be accepted into the clan.”

Dorian pursed his lips. “I have no problem partaking of your rituals, I hope you know that. But if he doesn't allow me in, what then?”

Ishalle shrugged. “It only means that you will not be permitted to see the clan on your own, or buried in our cemetery, and I do not even know if you wish this thing. They cannot stop us from marrying.”

Dorian traced the rim of his wine glass. “I hadn't thought about that part of it. The death part, I mean. If we get married, we're going to have to talk about that.”

“I do not want to right now.” Ishalle thought about Dorian passing away and nearly choked up.

“But it's such a cheery conversation to have! No matter, we can discuss that later, if you'd like. Would you still want to get married if your clan turns me away?”

“Bien sûr.”

“So what's our first step?”

Ishalle reminded him. “We discuss it with Rosala and Moska. You, em, you must make an offering to them. A wreath. They will tell us what must be done next. What do you wish to do about your family? And your needs? You are of Tevinter, is there something you want?”

“To be quite honest, if you and I could simply say some vows, I would consider us married. I never really thought I would get married, I never planned anything. And while I consider myself Andrastian, I don't have any ties to the Chantry, Imperial or otherwise. I would be perfectly happy following your family's rituals instead.”

“You have never thought of marriage?” Ishalle felt panic rise in his throat.

Dorian paused, chewing. “I suppose I have, but it always seemed like an abstract thing. People get married, of course. And I have seen my share of happy marriages, but I also saw a great deal of unhappy ones. I fear those stuck in my mind.” He filled Ishalle's glass. “Getting married to you though, that's a whole other thing. I think we work incredibly well as a couple. And I don't see any of the horrible things I saw with my parents in our relationship.”

Panic sank back down, letting Ishalle out of its grip. “That is good to hear.”

The rest of the meal was excellent, as always. On the way home, Ishalle thumbed the ring on Dorian's finger, dreaming of the reality that would soon be his. The word husband danced in front of him, the long road of his life stretched out with a companion to walk it with him. That was worth any hardship, he decided.

Chapter Text

“Orlais? Sure, if you want to be pedestrian. There's nothing culturally relevant about Orlais anymore. They're stuck in the past, they're married to the Chantry and nothing will change that. You call Orlais the center of culture? You're wrong.”

“Okay, but you're overlooking the excellent schools and the prestigious art institutes and the cuisine which has influenced generations of cooks across Thedas. Fashion, music, novels, movies, all the best are Orlesian.”

“Since when? Listen, I live in Rialto and we're one of the bigger cities in Antiva. Do you know how many Orlesian restaurants are in Rialto? Two. That's your 'influence' right there. Orlais is riding on their name and little else. Par Vollen, Antiva, Rivain, Nevarra, all of those countries are spreading their culture across Thedas and people love it. I walk down the street and I see Nevarran street performers. I read Rivaini authors. I eat food from Par Vollen cooks. I hear music from Antivan musicians. These are the people to watch. Name one modern Orlesian designer. Name one modern Orlesian chef. Name one Orlesian who hasn't ridden on the name of their house to become famous.”

“Noisette de Calice, the author?”

“Andraste, De Calice is a hack. And everyone knows that. She thinks that by throwing in old fashioned words and relying on her doctorate, she can be the next Great Orlesian Author, but she's managed to publish one overwrought book that didn't even stand the test of time. Do you know how many copies of Spirit of the Kitchen have ended up in secondhand shops? They won't even buy them anymore. Orlais is a backwater. If that's the best name you can think of, that only proves my point.”

Rosala and Moska hadn't visited the new house yet. Their business had picked up in the last year, and life had taken over. Ishalle figured it was as good of a time as any for them to finally see his home. He helped Dorian prepare a nice lunch, focusing more on the cleaning and arranging of the table, rather than any amount of cooking. They laid out wine, some nice cheese from Lothering, little round fruits imported from Par Vollen. Rosala and Moska arrived right on time.

His uncle was carrying a large box. In it was a shrine, eight symbols carved into the stone. Rosala had cast a spell on it, allowing him to carry it as if it weighed nothing. The four of them found a place for the shrine under the largest tree in the yard. A private place where he could make proper offerings. He thanked the two of them for the gift, hugging them each in turn. They performed the Slatko ritual, and Rosala took a seat at the table.

Glancing over, he furrowed his brow. Rosala was breathing harder than she should be. His concerns were met with a wave of her hand. “I'm still visiting the damn healers. There's a little weakness there, but nothing they can't fix. Don't worry.”

He poured her a glass of wine, trying to keep a relaxed face. Dorian served the food and they had a nice, if slightly awkward meal. They would discuss the engagement at the end. Moska had already noticed the ring on Dorian's hand, but had kept quiet about it. The fact that he knew his uncle knew what was coming didn't make the conversation any less worrisome.

Finally, with the table empty and the four of them sitting with more wine, Ishalle cleared his throat. “Dorian and I have something we wish to discuss with you.”

Rosala leaned back and folded her hands across her belly. She stayed silent, but raised an eyebrow in Dorian's direction. Moska smiled into his lap. It had shocked Ishalle some years ago when he learned his uncle was a secret romantic. The tears at Maddy's rather brief wedding proved his uncle had a soft heart hidden away. Laughing, he'd promised not to tell anyone, lest he ruin the man's reputation.

Dorian nodded at Ishalle, and stood. In the kitchen was the box he'd prepared. He brought it to Rosala and set it in front of her on the table. She lifted the lid and looked inside. Ishalle couldn't take his eyes off his aunt. Her face was inscrutable. Dorian had woven the rosemary and aria bouquet into a wreath—under Ishalle's guidance—and left it in the sun to dry. His aunt examined it and placed it carefully back in the box. Everyone in the room knew exactly what the wreath meant, but Dorian still had to speak.

“With this offering, I am asking if you will accept me into your family as Ishalle's husband.” Dorian clasped his hands behind his back, standing up straight.

Moska grinned.

Rosala stood, mimicking Dorian. “Do you promise to look after my nephew, for the remainder of his days? Do you promise to stand by him should he fall ill? Do you promise to love him for as long as you live? Do you vow to honor his traditions?” Her voice was like steel. She made no move once she'd finished speaking.

“All of these things and more, I promise and vow.”

Moska winked at Ishalle. But this was Rosala's provenance. She stared hard at Dorian and for a few moments, silence sat on the room, watching over them like Lu's cursed cat.

“Your offer is accepted.” Rosala sat again, and waved Dorian into his own chair. He thanked her before taking it.

“Now we can toast!” Moska refilled everyone's glass, still grinning. “The best part! Welcome to our family, Dorian.” He raised his glass first. Four chiming clinks and the tension eased.

Rosala patted Ishalle's hand. “I'm happy for both of you. Dorian, I will assume Ishalle has told you that you must approach Clan Athim and ask for the Keeper's blessing?”

Dorian swallowed his wine and nodded. “He has. I do worry that he'll say no. He hasn't exactly held back his opinion of me.”

Moska dismissed his concerns. “I'll tell you right now, lad. The fact that the Keeper gives you a blessing every Gozba speaks volumes. He doesn't normally offer that to shems. And marriages between Dalish and outsiders is more common than spoken of. There's a clan that's rather famous down in Fereldan that's half Qunari at this point. I went there when I was in the army. I'll tell you, those folks know how to party!” Moska began to tell his favorite stories about that visit, stories Ishalle had heard a thousand times and more.

Ishalle allowed himself to relax his shoulders. He was already feeling better about everything. That Rosala had accepted the offering meant more to him that he'd realized it would. Dorian brought out a cherry cobbler, made with the sour fruit from Rosala's backyard. It was good enough that even Ishalle had a large portion. They talked about when exactly Dorian should visit the clan and what he should bring. And then Moska brought up the eight offerings. Ishalle would need to make offerings at each of the shrines in order to proceed with the wedding. It would bless their future, and bring them luck and fortune. At least, that was the idea. Ishalle looked forward to it, and grew excited about the prospect.

And most of all, he looked forward to saying my husband.

Lu and Case met him at the Red Skull Diner the next night. The place was quiet; the diner was really known for their large breakfasts and never ending pots of coffee. Ishalle ordered fries, and Lu got herself two pieces of chocolate cream pie. Case got a burger, and procured a flask of Denerim whiskey to pour into his milkshake. They talked about television, about the collective, about Case's upcoming showings in Rialto. Ishalle held back his news, waiting for a lull in the conversation.

Finally, they'd finished eating and he could wait no longer. He blurted out the news about his engagement and Case clapped his hands enthusiastically. Lu reached across the table and slugged him in the arm.

“You bastard, you've been sitting on that all night!” She laughed, loud enough so the single other party in the restaurant turned to give them a dirty look.

Ishalle rubbed his arm. “Yes. But I asked him to marry me and he said yes, and so we will be doing this thing soon.”

“Aw, mate, that's great news.” Case rubbed his back and grinned. “Congratulations, really!”

“Do you have rings?” Lu looked at him eagerly.

“Ah, yes, I made them myself. Em, my uncle helped.”

Lu swiped her finger through the crumbs on her plate and stuck it in her mouth. “So you told the family already? What did Rosala say?”

Ishalle beamed. “She accepted Dorian's offering and we will go to Clan Athim next week for the next step.”

“So when's the wedding? Can we come?” Case stirred his milkshake. It was mostly melted, with a brown stripe of whiskey at the bottom of the glass.

“I was hoping that the two of you could participate?” Ishalle folded his hands in front of him on the table. The waitress came by and whisked the empty plates away, dropping the bill after checking they didn't need anything else. Lu and Case bickered briefly over who would pay.

“Participate how?” Lu asked. “Case, give me that check.”

“Em, we must have witnesses, and then there is of course, the ceremony. I would like it if you would both be there.”

“I got this one. Really.” Case put Lu's card back in her hand. “Yeah, mate, I'd love to. This is so great, I'm really happy for you.”

Lu grumbled and took her money back. “I want to make something special for your wedding. Let's talk about that soon, okay?”

He squeezed her hand. “I would like that.”

The two of them insisted on taking Ishalle out for drinks, and they ended up at Dracolisk, staying until the bouncer shoved them out of the bar. Ishalle was well and truly drunk by the time he stumbled into bed. His head spun while he lay there, next to Dorian's snoring body. I'm getting married. Oddly, his thoughts traveled back to Lyon. He remembered Lu asking if he wanted to marry that guy, and encouraging him to end it with the shithead.

Back then, he didn't know if marriage was truly for him. What had changed? He rolled on his side and threw his arm clumsily around Dorian's waist. This man. Over the past six years, he'd felt like he had a safe place to lay his head. When they were apart, he missed him. Dorian's successes had given him a surge of pride. All the traveling Ishalle had done for his work made him miss Dorian, and showed him how much the man was involved in his life. There were mundane days, but even then, especially then, things felt right.

He buried his face in Dorian's neck. The alcohol was sweating out of his own body, but he could smell Dorian through it. Marriage meant being tied down to this one person, but he felt good about that. Monogamy suited him. Even if they didn't get married, Ishalle couldn't imagine being with anyone else. He couldn't imagine the safety, the long conversations, the laughing over ridiculous inside jokes, not with anyone other than Dorian. Sleep began to overcome him, and his last waking thoughts were of Hadiza, absolutely convinced that Samson was the man she wanted to marry.

It was good to have that conviction for himself. At last.

Chapter Text

“So just how deep does this scandal go?”

“That's the problem, Nigel, we just don't really know. We've been doing a lot of investigations and it could go all the way to the top. The Commission has disavowed all knowledge of Healing Fraud, but my question is, if that's true, why was this allowed to go on for so long? We have to look at the numbers. Players are allowed two healing sessions per game. That's for their own safety. Too many players were ignoring the limitations on their own bodies and pressing themselves too far. The idea is that they can get healed for minor injuries, and continue to play. But they only get two now. And last year, when it was discovered that Michel De Hanan was hiding mages in the sidelines, that's when the scandal broke.”

“How many other players were doing this?”

“We don't know. It was absolutely more than just De Hanan, we know that now. Teams from Orlais, Ferelden and Starkhaven were all caught sneaking mages into the arenas. Healers aren't invisible. And despite daytime games and bright stadium lights, we could see the players 'catching their breath' on the sidelines after injuries that should have knocked them out.”

“What's going to happen now?”

“Aside from all players who were participating in this losing their contracts, it looks like the Commission will be reorganizing to make sure nothing like this happens again. It's my opinion that they can't prevent players from cheating, but they can take more stringent measures to ensure that not everyone is involved. De Hanan was a promising player, and he's managed to ruin his entire career through this. But I do worry that while he takes the fall, the Commissioners won't.”

Jayne arrived in the morning with two coffees, backing into the door. She started talking before Ishalle could even greet her. “I got a new artist I think we should showcase. Found this motherfucker last week, painting in my old territory. He's good, does some crazy shit with spray paint. Can I bring him in?”

Ishalle accepted his coffee with a nod. “Yes, of course.”

“Just like that, huh? You don't want to see pictures?” She pulled her phone out and started tapping away.

“I trust your judgment,” he said, waving off her concern. “Schedule him. We have the next six months booked, as you know, but if he has the interest at that time, we can show his work.”

“Cool. Thanks.” Jayne gave him an odd look. “You've been doing that a lot lately.”

“Hmm?” He looked over the emails.

“Letting me do stuff.”

Ishalle shrugged. “You have worked here for some time, yes? I am thinking that you should make some of these large decisions.”

For the first time in a few months, Ishalle really looked at Jayne. She was walking around the gallery, taking inventory, doing her job with a confidence she didn't have before. Jayne belonged there. He thought about mentioning his idea to her, but his phone buzzed loudly against the desk, startling him. It was Lily. Confused, he answered the phone. Lily never called him. Had he forgotten the rent? No, he'd dropped off the check two days ago. She told him to come by her office, as soon as he had time. Since it was just across the street, he grabbed his sweater and told Jayne he'd be back soon. She acknowledged him with a quick tilt of her head.

Lily's 'office' was just her living room. There was a wide desk against the wall, and the place was cluttered with all sorts of mismatched furniture. Once her dogs were done barking at him and sequestered in a back bedroom, she waved him to the sofa. He moved the pile of pillows and blankets to one side and sat, for the first time since he'd signed his lease.

“I'm starting the process of selling all my properties.” She sat in a well worn rocking chair, but didn't move. “I've already sold two.”

Ishalle sighed. This had to come eventually, he knew. Lily was getting on in years. Her grey hair was pulled up in a tight bun, and the lines on her eyes were deeper than they had been when he'd first signed his lease. “This means you will sell the gallery as well.”

“That's why you're here.” She patted her lap and a fat old cat jumped up into it before settling down. She stroked the ugly thing, still looking at Ishalle. “I'm gonna put that up for sale last. You and that girl don't ask for much from me so it's the least of my worries. I'm retiring. And I'm gonna move out to the country, get a house out there. Away from all this shit. I'm too old to live in this city, it's for young people these days. Just last week I caught someone pissing on my wall. I've had enough of this place.”

There was a clock with a large brass pendulum ticking away in the corner, aggravating his nerves. Doing his best to ignore it, he asked her how long they had.

Lily absentmindedly rubbed the cat's ears. “I'll put it up in about a year.”

Ishalle frowned. “A year is a long time. You are telling me now?” That didn't make any sense to him. Lily had been a very good landlord over the years, but she rarely had much to say when he dropped off his rent or called her for repairs.

“Look, kid, I'll get straight to the point here. I've watched your business grow. You and that Lu were both fantastic renters. Well, Lu still is, but anyway. New tenet's alright too, I guess. Kind of a weirdo, but he's quiet. You guys kept your places clean, I never had to call the cops on you, I barely had to change anything when you moved out. That gallery is doing great. Before you moved in there, it was a gift shop. That lasted six months, before them it was a poster and record store. Caught them dealing drugs and it cost me a pretty penny to get that place cleaned. Before them, Andraste, I can't even remember who was there.” Lily reached to her side table and pulled up a notepad, flipping the pages over until she found whatever it was she was looking for. “Ah, that's right. Before the druggies it was a junk shop. I'm getting off track.”

Ishalle had to agree. Straight to the point indeed. He didn't know what she was getting at. The window on his left faced the gallery, but he couldn't see through Lily's drawn heavy drapes. They were supposed to be busy today. He wondered about Jayne, alone in the shop with so many customers expected.

“Anyway, I want to give you a chance to buy the building before someone else does.”

Ishalle opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again. He'd never even considered it. Owning the entire building? Owning the gallery outright? “I do not think I could afford such a thing.”

“You could if you plan it right. I had it appraised recently. With the location, the apartments and the shop, it's worth about five hundred thousand. I don't know what sorts of savings you have, but if you wanted to buy it, I'd let it go for about four. Only to you, though. Think about it, this is a big decision. It's why I'm telling you now. You've got plenty of time to think about it, save some cash, whatever. Like I said, I'm not gonna put it up for a year or so, and if that changes, I'll let you know.”

“Why do you wish that I should buy this thing?”

“Like I said already, you've been an excellent tenant. Plus I like your gallery. I want to see it stick around. If I sell it, the new owners will definitely raise your rent and you'd have to move.”

Ishalle stared at the clutter on her coffee table. Books, crumpled tissues, a bag of chips, an important looking envelope with coffee rings all over it. “I must discuss this with my boyfriend, and get back to you.”

“Sure. Out of curiosity, what does he got to do with it?” The cat leaped off her lap with a noisy thud and wandered out of the room on stiff legs. He watched it disappear around a corner and then heard the disgusting noise of sand being scraped in a box. Ignoring the sound of piss hitting plastic, he turned back to Lily.

“We will be getting married soon.”

“Oh, congrats. Well, let me know what you decide and when. I'll let you get back to the shop.”

Thanking her, he left, now with more on his mind than he knew what to do with.

The truth was, Ishalle didn't know what to do. If he couldn't come up with the money, he'd be looking at moving the gallery. The rent was reasonable, but he wasn't at a point where he could afford a much of an increase. And it wasn't just his future; Jayne was a part of it now. Things hadn't exactly been stagnant over the years, but there were an awful lot of changes happening all at once. A wedding to plan, his gallery's future to consider.

He talked to Jayne about it. When he told her Lily was planning to sell the building, her face fell.

“She wishes that I should buy it,” he said, hoping to console her.

Jayne frowned. “Can you afford that?”

“I do not know.” Customers interrupted them for the rest of the day, putting the conversation on hold. He watched Jayne from the corner of his eye. Without the gallery, where would she be? He told himself she would be fine. Some other gallery owner would have swept up her work. Someone else would have hired her. Perhaps she would have been better off without him, free to paint murals across the city without his failure holding her back. She caught his eye and gave him a little smile. It was time to be realistic. What would Jayne do if he failed at this, just like he failed at the grant? This time, I cannot fail.

The tornado of thoughts swirled around in his head, even as he locked up the shop that evening and walked home. Dorian was going to be in classes until well after ten, so he ordered delivery for them and sat at the table, his laptop open. Figuring he ought to consider all angles, he looked at new gallery spaces.

The problem was his space was perfect. It was large without feeling empty, the rent was affordable, the location was great. Other places were too big, too expensive, too small, far too much money, Creators. Lily really was giving him a good deal. He had about two thousand sovereigns in his savings, a pathetic sneeze of a down payment. He thumbed through bank loans. The cost of buying the entire building would only be worth it if he could put down twenty percent of the loan at once. But the prospect of moving...

He sent a text to Maddy, asking her advice. She didn't respond. Glancing at the time, he saw it was nearly eleven. Dorian was good with money, he'd ask him once he got home. A yawn splint his face and made his jaw pop. If I can stay awake until then. A text let him know Dorian was finally on his way, so he put the food in the oven to reheat. There were too many variables. He rubbed his fingernails together, standing alone in the silent kitchen, waiting for Dorian to return.

Jayne wouldn't be able to contribute to buying the shop. He knew that right away. His idea from so long ago popped back into his head, of transferring ownership of the gallery to her. If he could do that, Jayne would then be paying him rent. That alone would make it worth it. It was a big step, and one he wasn't sure either of them were prepared for. In his fantasy, he would step away from the gallery, working full time on paintings, improving his art, getting into that museum of his dreams.

Dorian entered with a long, drawn out sigh. He kissed Ishalle quickly and thanked him for the food. Right away, he launched into a screed about his student, a man from the Anderfels called Tracy who was giving him no end of trouble. Apparently he couldn't see past his own ideas about the Fade and argued his wrongheaded hypotheses at a pace that gave Dorian a screaming headache. Ishalle sat and listened, offering sympathetic noises. The conversation about the gallery could wait a few days, he decided. Ishalle went to bed before Dorian, and was awake long after his boyfriend laid down beside him and fell asleep.

Chapter Text

“The Seers of Rivain have banded together in the largest conference in the country's history. Chantry officials out of Orlais decried the conference, as expected. Their recommendations for an army to oversee the meeting were met with scorn from Rivaini officials. On the docket is the future of the school of Rivaini Seer magic, and how it can help meet the country's growing needs. Invited to the show is Madame Vivienne De Fer, Dean of the Antiva Royal State University. We spoke with her before she departed. What can you tell us about your upcoming visit?”

“I am excited to go again, of course. The school of Seers had a hand in helping me design my own curriculum. Grand Seer Odet and I worked together for a time, and she taught me a great deal.”

“You don't practice Seeing magic, is that correct?”

“I do not, no. I respect the field, but it is one that must be handled with the utmost caution. Communicating within the Fade is difficult enough, and once you add in the threat of demons and possession, you have quite an arduous task. I chose to focus my studies elsewhere.”

“Do you think the magic is worth it? If it's so dangerous?”

[Laughter] “My dear, all magic is dangerous. All magic has risks attached. Every school, from healing to entropy, to creation. Each come with their own unique set of risks. And those risks must be weighed against the benefits. But I do trust the School of Seers. They are a group of intelligent women who know well what they deal with, and they have never had trouble within the country.”

“There are only fragments remaining, but the Circle at Dairsmuid was annulled once.”

“Yes, a foul deed carried out by a foreign power. It is a stain on our history. I have a great deal of respect for the Chantry, but they never should have involved themselves. We don't know why they decided to put the mages to the sword, but in my studies of annulments, they were a barbaric and cruel practice. Magic is dangerous, of course. But far more so are fanatics.”

When their day off finally arrived, Ishalle took Dorian to lunch and told him everything, including his idea for Jayne to take over the gallery. It wasn't presumptuous; Dorian had mentioned offhand before that he made enough money for the two of them to be comfortable without Ishalle contributing.

“The problem is I would need eighty thousand sovereigns. If I put down this much money, it would be worth it. But if I do not buy the gallery, we will most likely need to move, and I do not know if I could afford that either. And if it was only me, I might close it permanent, but I must think about Jayne. She told me that I gave her a chance. And I do not know what she would do without the gallery.” Perhaps he was giving his role in her life too much credit, but Jayne was still a difficult person. The years hadn't quite sanded away her sharp edges, and more than once, she'd put off potential buyers. But he'd never seen someone so passionate about her art, someone with the drive to improve, to do better, to make.

“Hmm. Eighty thousand is a lot, but it's doable.” Dorian tapped his foot against the hard floor. “How long do you have?”

“Lily said one year. I must be very aggressive with selling my work, and saving. I did some calculations last night, but I want to run them by Maddy first. I may have made some errors. I am wishing to do this thing, I think. But we must also plan for our wedding, and to be honest, I have stress.”

“That's fair. Would you like me to talk to Felix too?”

Part of him wanted to say no, but he remembered what happened the last time he turned down an offer of help. He'd never forgiven himself for making Jayne cry. “I think so. Please.”

“Of course.” Dorian took his hand. “I think you should do it. It makes sense and it will put you on the road to freedom. The gallery is already a success, so you're guaranteed to make your money back. Do you trust that Jayne will run it well on her own?”

A hard question. Ishalle wondered if he was fooling himself. Jayne worked hard. Tirelessly, even. She was always staying late, doing extra work on her days off, always had an eye out for other artists. Just last week she'd organized his schedule, streamlining the whole thing in a way he hadn't thought about before. “She is the same age that I was when I opened the gallery. And I did that on my own for some time, though it was not always easy. I think I trust her, yes.”

“You've done well with her. I think she'll be capable. And I'll help you however I can. I don't have eighty thousand sovereigns to give you, but if I did, I would in a heartbeat. I'll contribute, too. I've got about ten grand, it's yours if you want it.”

“You would just give me ten thousand sovereigns?” Ishalle widened his eyes. “So easily?”

“We're getting married, babe. I'm fine with it. We're doing well for money. The house is paid for, our bills are decent. It's fine.”

Ishalle closed his mouth. It had been hanging open, he realized. “Th-thank you.” It was all he could think to say.

They drove out to the desert the next weekend. It was dry but cold winds were blowing unimpeded across the sand dunes. Little bushes grew sideways from being battered in the wind over the years. Clan Athim was set up near a small oasis. They had cloth strung between haggard old trees for a windbreak, and six massive aravels were stationed near the deep pond. Rosala was supposed to go with them, but she'd come down with a cold and opted to stay behind. So it was that Dorian and Ishalle traveled alone. They were expected.

Keeper arose from his seat by the windbreak. His two apprentices were behind him, hands folded in front of their thick, embroidered robes. All three of them wore their hair long, but Keeper had his in a single braid that reached his waist. The apprentices wore theirs in coiled headdresses wrapped with dry vines. Together they formed an intimidating line.

Ishalle took Dorian's hand and led the way. Dorian held a bag with several pounds of fruit flown in from Par Vollen. The day before, Ishalle had told Dorian that Keeper had a fondness for fruits from the north. Pineapples, bags of longans and mangosteens would make for an excellent gift. Dorian and Ishalle knelt together in front of the three and Ishalle greeted them in quiet Elven.

Keeper bade them rise, and brought them to the shelter of his aravel. It was spacious in there, lit with candles in pretty glass lanterns. Wreaths of woven branches decorated the walls. Ishalle took the low pouf to the side, and Dorian joined him on another. The apprentices busied themselves in a quiet corner of the aravel.

“Tell me what brings you to us today.” Keeper poured them tea, a bitter brew made from wild roots. Ishalle accepted his in his left hand with thanks.

Dorian looked over at him for guidance and Ishalle nodded, giving him an encouraging smile.

“Keeper Athim, we have come today because Ishalle and I wish to be married.”

“I see.” Keeper's face was a mask of stone. “And thus, you will wish to ally with our clan. This is not a request we normally grant to shems, let alone shems of Tevinter.”

“I understand.”

Keeper examined Dorian for a few silent moments. The air in here was heavy with the smell of wax. The sounds of clinking glasses and the poff poff poff of a mortar and pestle were muted in the apprentices' corner. Ishalle held his breath, watching the two men in front of him. He kept his hands on his knees, and tried to ignore his anxious cigarette cravings.

“Well. What can you offer us?”

Dorian looked over at Ishalle again, and then back at Keeper. “To be honest, I'm not quite sure. Your clan is well equipped. You have mages and the means to teach them. Your rites and traditions are secure in their age. I would put the question back to you. What do you desire? What can I bring to you, to ensure my goodwill?”

A smile crawled across Keeper's face. “We do well for ourselves out here, as you can see. Our herds are healthy, we do not want for game or food, or basic necessities. However, I do have a request. You are a professor of physics, correct?”

“To be more precise, the physics of the Fade. Yes.” Dorian brightened up.

“Well. In that case, I have just the thing. I have a young mage here, bright and intelligent. She wishes to move to the city and study at your university. I know full well that you cannot pull strings and get her in automatically, I would not ask that of anyone. If she is to reach her full potential, it must be on her own merit. However, she lacks the basic physics education that she needs to pass any entrance exams. If you could set aside some time to tutor her personally, I would consider that a good deed done, and welcome you.”

Dorian looked taken aback. Ishalle knew what was going through his mind. His lessons and his book kept him very busy, where would he find the time? But, after a moment, Dorian nodded. “That not only seems fair, that sounds very exciting indeed. Will she be coming to the city, or would I need to come out here?”

Keeper waved his hand, taking a sip of his tea. “She already has her apartment secured. We've been setting aside a fund for her to move for a few years now. You'll have a very intelligent student on your hands, it is our fault that she cannot reach their requirements on her own.”

“Very well.” Dorian and Keeper made the arrangements, but Ishalle stopped listening. Keeper had accepted Dorian, just like that. He sent a text to Rosala, telling her the news. They stayed in the aravel for lunch, and then the two of them thanked the clan before heading back into the city.

“Well, I suppose it's time we start planning the wedding.” They were in the arts district; Ishalle wanted to scope out a rival gallery that had been doing very well lately. Dorian had his arm draped across his shoulders, the other hand holding a steaming cup of coffee.

Ishalle looked in the windows of the shops as they walked by them. An Andrastian shop selling books and incense. A boutique with tacky clothing. A hole in the wall crammed with crates of fruit. Ishalle thought about Dorian's statement. “To be honest, I have a strange idea that my family will do most of the planning for us. Whether or not we wish such a thing.”

“Hmm.” Dorian stopped walking and pointed at a small shop selling stationary. “I wanna go in here, k?”

Ishalle followed him in the shop and Dorian started picking out cards to send to his friends. “I'm not entirely sure how I feel about that,” he said, flipping through a stand.

Ishalle browsed with him, though he had no interest in buying anything. “What is important to you that we include?”

“Well, I'd like to write our own vows. I've only been to one Dalish wedding and that was in Nevarra. I don't know what your family's marriage traditions are, but I think it would mean a lot to me if we could say what we feel, not something scripted for us.”

“We can do both. That is what Maddy did when she married Paytro.” He told Dorian about the wedding as he paid, and they went back onto the street. “What are the cards for?”

“Engagement announcements, of course! I want to tell my friends back in Minrathous about the wedding. I'd like to invite them, too.”

“Em, what of your mother?” Ishalle was nervous about the question. Dorian hadn't spoken to, or of, his father since returning from Minrathous all those years ago. But he knew that Dorian still talked with his mother, albeit rarely.

“I'll invite her, but she wouldn't dare come.”

They talked for a time, discussing vows, traditions, and the like. Dorian wanted to keep things relatively simple, Ishalle wanted to make sure his family would be satisfied. He was reasonably sure they could make it happen.

“When should we do this thing?” Setting a date was one thing they hadn't discussed at all. Rosala was already asking. So was Lu, for that matter.

“What about six months from now? That should give us time to prepare everything.” Dorian tossed his cup in a trash can. “And that will give us time to take days off from planning.”

“Yes, I think that is good.” Six months, then. Excitement coursed through his veins. He'd been nervous when he proposed, but all of that was gone. He was ready to be married.

Chapter Text

“The National Coalition of Antivan Dance is presenting their yearly exhibition at the Harbor Arena. This year, they've welcomed the Kal Sharok Dancers to the show. Dwarven traditional dance has seen a resurgence of interest over the past decade. Brenn Rolgoft, of Kal Sharok was instrumental in bringing the dance back from near extinction. Brenn, your work has been lauded across Thedas for its authenticity-”

“I'm going to stop you right there. Can you define 'authentic' for me? Because I have been hearing this for years, and I don't think people are using this correctly. What does it mean to be performing dance 'authentically?' I dance, and our dances are traditional, yes, insofar as the research I've found. But Kal Sharoki Shapers weren't dance scholars. They didn't know how to describe every movement, every subtle twist of the head, or the meaning behind a flick of the wrist. The clearest records we have are three hundred years old. And how many thousands of years have there been dwarves? So how far back can you go? Is the only 'authentic' Dwarven dance those that were done for thousands of years? Things have been passed down, but styles change. The only way I would use that word is to say that I put my whole self on the stage. When I am up there, I am having a conversation with my audience. It's a call and response, I move, they react. I give them Kal Sharoki history, I give them my movement, I give them my soul, and in return, they give me energy, they give me satisfaction.”

“I...see.”

Six months turned out to be a lot less time than he'd thought. There wasn't all that much to plan; Ishalle's family had indeed insisted on doing a lot of the work. But there were clothes to be fitted, food to be prepared, (Moska had made it clear from the start that he was doing the cooking) and invitations to send. Ishalle decided to invite Jayne and close the gallery for the day. Lu was bringing Thom, Case was bringing his new girlfriend. Vivienne, Bastien, Neria, Gereon, Felix and his wife were all coming as well. Not to mention a number of Dorian's friends from Minrathous. And the entirety of Clan Athim. All in all, it was going to be a much larger wedding than he'd imagined.

Dorian's friends came in, and the week before the wedding was spent entertaining, one party after another. A whirlwind of people he'd never met blew through their doors, taking them out, buying them drinks and gifts, celebrating the two of them. Ishalle had to take time off from painting. And from planning the gallery purchase. It was good to celebrate. It was good to see so many smiling faces toasting them. It would be even better when things settled down, and the house was finally empty for more than a day.

It wasn't just Dorian's friends who wanted to celebrate. Lu whisked Ishalle off one night for drinks with just her and Case, and they went from bar to bar, Lu making sure Ishalle's glass was never empty. Dorian laughed at him when he came stumbling into their house at three in the morning, well and thoroughly drunk, babbling in Orlesian. He gave Ishalle a hangover potion and sent him straight to bed.

The day before the wedding, they packed and headed out to Rosala's. It was easier to spend the night there, than to worry about getting there on time the next day. And Ishalle had his own important task. The guest room had already been set up for the two of them. Ishalle went out to the garden, to see Rosala clipping back some of the overgrown plants.

She smiled at him, her eyes wet. “Are you all ready, Little Bird?”

“I am thinking so.” He gave her a hug. “And you?”

“Oh, well, there's nothing much for me to be ready for. My dress is ironed, and I suppose that's all I need.” She took a very deep breath and let it out. There was an odd rattle in her throat, and she coughed until it cleared.

“Are you alright?” He wouldn't forget how he'd ignored her health in the past.

“I'm fine,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Healer Athim has been out and he looked me over. Just remnants of a cold.”

“Are you certain?”

She gave him a stern look. “You worry too much. I'm an old woman, but I can take care of myself.”

“I just—”

“Please. Ishalle. Look at me.” She gripped both his hands and her strength surprised him. “You fuss and worry yourself and it makes me feel old. I'm not going to die anytime soon, alright?”

“I apologize.” He bowed his head, feeling shame warm his cheeks.

“Now. Help me clean up these hedges. We've got a lot of people coming out here tomorrow. And you need to prepare for tonight. Maddy cleaned all the shrines for you.”

Ishalle would be staying up very late. The prayers would probably take until at least two or three in the morning to complete. Dorian had offered to stay up with him, but this challenge was for him alone. He picked up a pair of clippers and set to the nearest bush. Dorian had his own list of tasks. He knew Moska was probably now ordering him around in the kitchen, barking out commands and correcting his knife work. He smiled as he clipped back the messy hedges.

“I'm going to go take a little nap. Just throw this stuff around back of the shed, alright?” Rosala looked tired; he was sure she'd been up since early in the morning. Getting back to work, he decided to do his best to not worry, like she'd asked.

It wasn't easy.

Night fell, and with it came a solemn family dinner. Moska had prepared a light and simple meal. All his best work would be displayed tomorrow. There were a few short toasts, but Ishalle only had water in his glass. Prayers required a clear head. Dras was now on a mix of šljivovica and sparkling water, half and half. He seemed to be getting used to it. Either that or he actively liked it. He was seventeen now, and had all the hotheaded opinions of a teenage boy. Next year, he'd earn his vallaslin. And then Rosala would mark him, as she'd marked Ishalle. He swirled the water in his glass, watching his young cousin, wondering how the ritual would affect him.

The plates were cleared, and Ishalle was sent outside. He tapped his pocket, looking for his cigarettes. They're inside. Right, I'm not allowed to smoke. The impulse made his palms itch. The sooner he started, the sooner he could have a cigarette. And sleep. And then tomorrow, marriage. Picking up his satchel, he stepped out into the yard.

Ghilan'nain was first. Ishalle got on his knees in front of the shrine and tried to empty his thoughts. He'd never felt much for the Mother of Halla. Though he'd taken the name friend of the halla, he generally found animals distasteful. But those ideas wouldn't do while at her shrine. So he sat, thinking of the Creator, waiting for his mind to stop racing. There were no tonics, or visions. Instead, he was alone with his imagination. Ghilan'nain was the only creator he'd never painted, aside from Elgar'nan. He should rectify that; perhaps She could walk alongside a halla, in a wooded glen. Maybe She could wear armor, glittering and green... I'm wasting time. He closed his eyes and prayed.

“Ghilan'nain, grant me the strength of the halla. Grant to me a happy life with the man I love. Bestow upon me your blessing, that we may know peace and kindness throughout the years. Bless me with loyalty. That I may put myself first, and my husband second. That I may attend to his needs, and he to mine, as you attend to your flock.” He recited the words, having spent the last six months memorizing the prayers in his spare time.

Flicking his lighter, he lit the offering. Dried aria roots and cherry stones. The flame grabbed the roots in its teeth, and flared a strange bright blue before smoldering down to ash. He was required to sit through until the fire died. One down, seven to go. It was going to be a very long night.

Elgar'nan he saved for last, approaching the shrine like it might bite him if he moved too fast. He hadn't prayed to the All Father since leaving his childhood home. Rosala hadn't ever mentioned it. But in truth, it wasn't Elgar'nan that hurt him, but his parents. And they were no longer part of his life. Guilt stayed with him as he knelt on the hard stone. Perhaps if he'd had more faith in the Father's hand, he wouldn't have had such a difficult early life.

Something didn't feel right.

I must bare myself. The thought rushed in. Once it entered his mind, he couldn't shake it loose. It was cold out, the moons now high in the sky, nestled among the stars. He peeled his shirt off and tossed it on his bag. The laces on his cuff were soft with age, and he undid them with a practiced tug. There was the scar, rough and jagged across the top of his wrist. All Father, forgive me for my neglect. He knew he had to pray, but the words wouldn't come into his head, leaving him empty. Staying still, he closed his eyes and tried to envision Elgar'nan.

Memories struck him instead. His mother standing behind him, holding him by his shoulders like he'd float away if she didn't press down hard enough. She'd lectured him for a long time, the same words over and over, rearranged in different ways. “Elgar'nan demands purity of the mind, and soul. You are unclean, and you must beg Him for forgiveness. You are filthy, and you must obey His orders.”

You must beg him for forgiveness. Why? Did they beg for such things after what they did to me? Ishalle read the glyphs on the stone. Ancient Elven was difficult for him to read. But the inscription was clear enough to make out the words. All Father, bring life into the world with the Mother. All Father guide the sun. All Father welcome us home. All Father give passion and forgiveness.

He traced the words, mouthing them. There was nothing there about purity. He'd known for years that his parents' ideas had to be wrong, but they'd driven him from the All Father's side just the same. There was that line about forgiveness. He read it again, as if seeing it for the first time. You need to forgive, and then things will be good for you. Sona's words echoed in his head. Things are good for me. Dorian didn't forgive. Is this what the All Father asks of me? That I should forgive those who hurt me? Fathers and mothers are supposed to love their children. Tears prickled in his eyes.

If they'd had their way, he'd have his face covered in Elgar'nan's vallaslin, just like Rosala's father had forced her to take it. Rosala seemed like she would have preferred Sylaise, but he'd never asked her. The rite was tainted for her, which led him to believe that she'd taken up the tattooing art as a way to recover. It had seemed to help; Rosala was devout and proud to worship.

He was stalling.

Taking a breath, he placed his hands on the stone. The scar was irritated by the cold. He could see it, raised against his flesh. The knife...I cannot forgive this. Please, You can't ask this of me. The wind brushed his cheeks and he began to shake, not with the cold.

“All Father, bless me,” he began, his voice riddled with a tremor. “Bless my marriage that I should know how to be a good husband. Bless my soul that I seek peace. Bless my heart that I shall know the love of a man for all my life. Bless- Bless my...” Tears stained the stone beneath him and he choked. He couldn't remember the rest of the prayer, and so he spoke whatever came to mind. “Bless me though I have failed you. Bless my dreams so they do not torment me this longer.” He sobbed, and tried to dig his fingers into the cold stone. Coughing and choking didn't help him draw out the last few words. Everything was pulled from his soul. The black bile of his past, exorcised in the dark. “Bless me with your forgiveness, allow me to not forgive wrongs done to me by those who were meant to love. Do not make me forgive them.” He didn't wipe away his tears. “Please.”

The last of his offerings was in the satchel he'd brought out for this purpose. More roots and leaves. But he changed his mind. In the bag was a notebook and a cheap pencil. He sketched, letting his hands guide him. The bare rocky hills, a house that could be mistaken for a shack, the low and ugly scrub growing around a barren yard. The house where he was born. Where he'd lived for fifteen years. All of these appeared on the paper. A rough sketch only, but he could see the place in his mind's eye, just as clear as a photograph. A horror crouched in the field.

The paper caught fire easily. He held it down until the last minute, taking his hand away when he felt the heat of flame. It burned to ash, leaving Ishalle alone in the dark of night. Glancing down, he saw the cuff, stained and wrinkled from the years he'd worn it. Leather didn't burn. And he wasn't sure he could take the stink and frustration of trying. Instead, he dug a hole with his hands, pawing at the dirt like an animal. He dug until his fingers hit cold and wet clay, and placed the cuff in the hole, covering it.

He was chilled and slightly damp and smeared in dirt. But he rose, feeling cleaner than he had in decades. The traditional offering was still in the satchel. He hoped Elgar'nan would understand why he'd burned something different. Please accept it.

A hot shower warmed him, and he slipped into bed at nearly four in the morning. Only fitting that I should be poorly rested on the day of my wedding. Dorian was more or less asleep, but he mumbled a soft goodnight when he felt Ishalle pull the covers over the two of them.

And Ishalle dreamed.

There was the great beast, one he'd seen chasing him down before in endless nightmares. This time he wasn't afraid. He walked up to the thing, curious. The beast had long fur, thick legs and fire in its eyes. Those eerie green eyes met Ishalle's, and they stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. He heard noises, none of them made any sense. Voices. The clack of stone on stone. A deep rumble in the distance. But they did not draw his attention from the great animal. Benevolence was in its eyes, a warm feeling flowing out of them and into Ishalle's soul.

I will not forgive them.

You do not have to, son of the world.

Forgive me.

I grant you nothing. You are whole.

He was shaken awake, the chime of Dorian's alarm rousing him. Dorian put his hand on Ishalle's cheek and blinked away the vestiges of sleep. “Wake up, babe. It's our wedding day.”

Chapter Text

“The name Dana Tabris has been on everyone's lips this year. Dana's movie A Light Eternal made waves two years ago, sweeping nine major awards. In it, two elderly women find each other in the twilight years, and it was lauded for its honest portrayal of love found late in life. Dana's new movie, Bringer of Dust will be released on the first of Justinian across Thedas. Dana, why don't you tell us a little about the new film?”

“Hey, glad to be on the show. So Bringer of Dust is a movie I wanted to make for a long time, and I'm really excited for people to finally see it. I've been working on the script with a partner for the past decade, and once A Light Eternal became a success, the studio was willing to take the leap.”

“This movie also features a lesbian couple, Thea and Joanne.”

“Yes, and they're an established couple. I wanted to tell the story of the middle years, of what it's like to be married, to have life wrapping around you, to have things thrown at you that you don't expect and how partners deal with those situations.”

“Joanne is a trans woman, as well, and this is stated pretty early on in the film. Why did you decide to explicitly mention this?”

“Because it's very important that trans lesbians see themselves in media. I could have said in an interview that she was trans, but what good does that do anyone? It was important to me that people identify with my characters for who they are. Joanne was inspired by my best friend who is a trans lesbian and who was talking to me about the dearth of films about people like her. And I wanted to make a movie that showed the beauty of these relationships. Joanne is treasured by Thea, she is loved and cared for, and that was especially important to me. My friend is also the one who wrote Joanne's side of the story, so it feels quite authentic. Her tale is projected onto the big screen. In a way, this is a very personal film, for the both of us.”

“I recently watched the review copy, and I must say, the movie is beautifully done. I would call it a masterpiece.”

“Thank you, and I know Reena will be pleased to hear you say that as well. Her screenwriting is incredible. Already she's been offered more work, and it's so good to see her succeed. I know she has many more stories to tell and I look forward to seeing them brought to life.”

Ishalle climbed out of bed and dressed in his usual jeans and soft t shirt combo. He instinctively looked for the cuff before remembering he'd buried it. It was not a mistake. Dorian had gone straight to shower, so he sought out his aunt. The house was calm; it was still quite early and most people were in bed. Rosala was sitting on the back porch, a cup of tea in her hands. He stood before her and offered his naked wrist.

“Will you remove it?”

She blinked at him, and took a sharp breath. “Follow me.”

They walked out to Elgar'nan's shrine, still covered in soot from the night before. They stood at the stone, looking down at it together. The morning grass was covered in dew and a slight chill raised bumps along Ishalle's arms.

She took his wrist and traced the scar with her cold fingertips. “Have you forgiven your father?”

Ishalle glanced at the lump of dirt next to the shrine. There was part of the leather cord sticking out of it. It appeared he hadn't done a very thorough job of burying the cuff. He drew his eyes back to his aunt, and his attention to her question. “Have you?”

“You chose your vallaslin well, Little Bird.” She stared at the shrine before gazing off into the distance. “Would that I could have done the same. Bring me the aria gel, the lyrium potion and some of that elfroot oil.”

He returned, with the bottles in hand. In his absence she'd set up two chairs next to the shrine. A pink sweater kept her warm in the chill morning air. She pushed up her sleeves and waved at Ishalle to sit.

“I did not learn of Elgar'nan's true nature, not at home. Not until I left my father's house the first time.” She uncorked the aria gel and spread a layer over Ishalle's scar. It was cool and tingled a little. She kept her eyes on the scar as she sipped the lyrium. It made her skin glow a gentle blue for just a moment before absorbing into her mana pool. “I went out to a small Orlesian clan and trained under their Keeper for two years. I learned the art of vallaslin from her. My first rite was done for a young woman who wanted Elgar'nan's markings. I told the Keeper I didn't think I could do it, not after what happened to me. My choice was taken from me, Little Bird.” Green light flowed from her fingertips and over the scar, illuminating the gel. The old pain returned and made Ishalle gasp. “It won't hurt for long,” she said.

True to her words, it faded. The scar began to seep into Ishalle's skin, slow as melting butter on a hot day. “Who would you have chosen?”

“Ghilan'nain. I've always felt closest to Her. But, that isn't the point of what I'm telling you. Their Keeper told me that vallaslin given by choice is to be respected. She told me about Elgar'nan then. The All Father, who loves His children. I did not want to believe her.”

“Did you do the rites?” Ishalle listened intently. She rarely spoke of such things.

“I did. I did a good job, too,” she said with a gentle smile. “But it was decades before I was able to truly make peace with the All Father. Some say that Elgar'nan is vengeance, personified. That we must take back by violence what is owed. Clan Athim believes differently, but I will not deny I dreamed of vengeance for years.” Recollection was written on her face. “Once, I dreamed of attacking Elgadir. I very nearly did, my own brother! I don't condemn those who seek that sort of retribution. In the end, I was too scared. His magic was always more violent than mine.”

Her magic was weaving its way through his skin. He tried to not look. “I dreamed of fighting back. I could not force myself to do this thing.”

“A child should never have to make that decision. When I was searching for answers, I read some of our old texts. The Dalish do not speak of forgiveness. You understand why, I am sure. We do not forgive the shemlen for what they did to our people. And that feeling is long, and runs in our blood. But it did occur to me, in my studies, that we are not required to forgive those who oppressed us. And my father and brother oppressed me. And so no, I have not forgiven them, nor will I ever. But I have made peace with my past. There's a difference, do you see it?”

The scar was tiny now, and she sucked in a breath while the magic continued its work. “I am thinking it is difficult, this thing.” Ishalle hadn't had any coffee yet, and his thoughts were moving slow and clumsy. “But I do understand. My past is done with. So I must move forward. But that does not mean I must forget.”

“Correct.” She pulled her hand away and took a tissue from her pocket. The gel came away easily. His wrist was healed, only a fading red stripe remained as evidence anything had been there at all. “It's your wedding day, Little Bird. I want you to know, I'm so proud of you.” She wiped a layer of elfroot oil on the new skin. It felt slightly sticky.

Ishalle took both her hands. “Is it alright if I am proud of you as well?”

“I should think so!” she laughed.

He helped her stand and wrapped his arms around her. She hugged him back for a while, and he whispered “Thank you.”

“Go get ready.” She clasped his shoulders. “And I think I need to get ready too!” They walked back to the house, Ishalle feeling like a calf in spring, shaking legs and all.

Lu had wanted to do something special for Ishalle and together, they'd worked out a plan. She never learned sewing or clothing design, but she had her connections and worked with a friend to put together Ishalle's outfit for his wedding. He needed to stick with tradition, but they updated the unflattering clothing into something that suited his smaller form better. The shirt was white, embroidered with rosemary sprigs across the shoulders in gold and green thread. Lu had made him a set of cufflinks in viridium. The trousers were black, and thankfully, flat front. A silk green sash wrapped around his waist, tied and hung down his left side. Rosala wove a crown of rosemary for him, and pinned it to his curls. Moska had polished his shoes the day before, using his old military skills to bring them to a hard and black shine.

Dorian already dressed well, and Ishalle was looking forward to seeing what he'd chosen for this day. He walked out of their guest room, and Ishalle took him in. It wasn't just a suit. The jacket was slim, with thin lapels and a stiff, high collar. A peacock crossed his back, picked out in shimmering gold thread. His shirt was a deep emerald green, made of raw silk. The trousers were the same deep black as the jacket. He'd capped off the shirt with a small black bow tie. And he smelled wonderful. Ishalle wrapped his arms around him and kissed him while they stood in the hallway.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured.

Dorian stood back and admired him. “Maker, so do you. Are you ready?”

Ishalle nodded.

Dorian glanced down and grabbed Ishalle's hand, pushing his sleeve up a little. “Your cuff- your scar?”

He nodded again. “I had Rosala remove it. She has offered for years. I decided I must need to do it.”

Dorian put his hand on Ishalle's cheek and stared at him for a moment. “Are you alright?”

“Very alright.” He turned to the sound of Rosala calling him; Hearthwatcher had arrived. “It is time.”

“Long past, in the days of Arlathan, we did not die. We stood tall and proud, for all eternity, watching time flow beneath our feet.” Hearthwatcher called out her tale, her arms spread wide to the audience. Dorian and Ishalle were at her feet, kneeling on a deep green cloth. Damp from the grass below was soaking into Ishalle's knees. He kept his head bowed and tried not to shift.

“And so with the fall of Arlathan, came our own mortality. We live short lives, shemlen in our own right. We are born, we grow, we learn, and we die. This is our guarantee. Death comes to us all, and with it, the peace of the Creators.” She paused, allowing her words to reach all ears. “With the joining of two lives, we must speak of the parting of death. Our quick lives are precious. And when we choose to marry, we are giving lives to each other. We tell another, 'I will bind my life to yours, and we shall share it until death.' This is the most valuable gift we have. Our lives, led together.”

She placed her hands on Ishalle's shoulder. “Rise, Child of Elgar'nan, Son of Mythal, Child of Zorić, Cousin to Clan Athim.”

Ishalle's knees hurt. He'd spent the last day kneeling more than he ever had. He rose, wincing as they popped and crackled. Hearthwatcher looked him in the eyes. “Ishalle Zorić, have you agreed to this union of your own free will?”

“I have.” He tried to speak up, but was sure only Dorian and Hearthwatcher could hear him. He was keenly aware of all the eyes on his back.

“Though you join this man in marriage, do you vow to keep your life your own?”

“This I vow.”

Hearthwatcher turned to Dorian. “Son of Tevinter, rise.”

Dorian stood and flicked his eyes over to Ishalle. He saw the faintest quirk of a smile before it disappeared.

“Dorian Pavus, have you agreed to this union of your own free will?”

“I have.” Dorian's voice was clear in the pleasantly warm air.

“Though you join this man in marriage, do you vow to keep your life your own?”

“This I vow.”

Hearthwatcher took one step back from them. “Lu Zaarif, please rise and join us.”

Ishalle waited, holding as still as he could. Lu walked up, standing at Dorian's side. She looked lovely in her soft purple dress, golden tassels hanging from her horns. Her face was the picture of serenity.

“Felix Alexius, please rise and join us.” The man appeared on Ishalle's right.

Hearthwatcher then called Rosala and Gereon Alexius to come up as well. Ishalle had met Gereon a few years ago and found the grouch charming in his own razor sharp way.

“Rosala Zorić, do you give your support to this marriage?”

“I give it freely.” Rosala sucked in a sharp breath. “And I am proud.”

Hearthwatcher smiled at her. The mention of pride wasn't in the script. “Gereon Alexius, do you give your support to this marriage?”

“Yes,” he said, his mouth flat. Hearthwatcher waited for him, and there was a moment of silence in the air. Gereon looked back at her, waiting as well, before remembering his line. “I give it freely.”

“It is given.” Hearthwatcher turned her attention on Lu and Felix. “As lifelong friends of these two men, you have been chosen to receive the honor of witnessing this union. You will have tasks of your own from now on. You will agree to support your dear friends, you will agree to listen, to offer your loyalty to them and to aid them through difficult times. A marriage is not just two people vowing to spend their lives together. It is a union of many lives, of families, of people who share love whether romantic or platonic. Your duty as friends is to love, to aid, to provide necessary criticism and to be a gentle listening ear. And so on this day, I ask that you bear witness to this rite, and vow to honor the sanctity thereof. Do you agree?”

Felix and Lu spoke simultaneously. “We agree freely.”

Thus ended the parts that had been rehearsed. Many Athim weddings were complete at this point. Ishalle's heart rate sped up as he anticipated the next step. This was it. He was getting married.

“Please state your vows.”

Dorian went first. He turned to Ishalle and clasped both of his hands. His throat bobbed with a swallow and he heard Rosala suck in another breath. “Ishalle. To say that I love you is not enough. You are the man I want to wake up to, you are the man I want to come home to. Whatever life brings, I want to share it with you, good and bad. Wherever our road takes us, I want our home to be waiting at the end of it. I look forward to a long life at your side. Today, I vow to spend the rest of my life with you. Today, I vow to honor you and your traditions, to allow you to be the best you can be, to make you happy with everything in my power. Today I vow that I shall never stop loving you.”

Ishalle's eyes grew wet while Dorian spoke. He squeezed his hands tightly, and blinked hard. The words. “Dorian.” He'd written his vows weeks ago, and recited them to himself, memorizing until he had it perfect. He inhaled deeply and began. “Through whatever hardships should come, I will stay by your side. I will be there when the night grows long and dark. I will support your needs and your career. I vow,” and tears began to fall in earnest. Just as the night before, his voice took on an unwanted tremor. “I vow on this day to be the man you see in me. I vow to lend you my strength, and to bring you joy.” He had to sniff. Dorian's eyes started to leak tears of their own, and it was becoming difficult to stand and speak, but he soldiered on. “Today, we belong to ourselves and each other. I trust you to support me, in the ways that I support you. I trust you to be faithful and kind as you have always been. And I vow to you my heart, may our love never grow cold.” Strength and clarity returned with the last of his words.

Hearthwatcher beckoned to Case, sitting in the front row. Tugging on his shirt, he stepped forward and handed her the rings. “You have made your vows. May the Creators bless your lives together. Please exchange your rings.”

Dorian slipped the ring on Ishalle's finger. He wasn't used to wearing rings, but the wood was warm and solid against his flesh. It felt...right. The lazurite was shining under the sun. He took Dorian's ring and pushed it on his finger; he'd taken it off the night before. There was already a tan line from wearing it. They gripped each other's trembling hands.

“Clan Athim! Visitors! Zorić family! I present to you, Dorian Pavus and Ishalle Zorić! They are now married, let the sky hear your joy!”

Dorian grabbed Ishalle's face and kissed him, and his ears rang with singing shouts, the clear voices of Clan Athim mixing with the yells and whoops of the other guests. When they pulled back, Ishalle's eyes were finally dry.

“May I have your attention!” Hearthwatcher's voice boomed across the yard. “The couple is going to take a walk. Please feel free to mingle before the celebrations begin.” She turned to the two of them. “I offer you my sincere congratulations, friends. Dorian, Keeper wishes to speak with you before you join the festivities. Other than that, you're free to go, take some time together. Think well on what you have just accomplished.” With that, she turned and walked away.

Hand in hand, they strolled down the dusty road leading to Rosala's house. They were both quiet, keeping a leisurely pace. Ishalle looked at the bright blue sky, at the tiny rolling hills that stretched into the sand of the Antivan desert. Embrium flowers danced in the breeze, red stamens catching the light. Dorian's hand was warm. And Ishalle's heart felt at peace.

“Feel good?” Dorian nudged his arm.

“Yes. And you? Was the ceremony what you were wishing?” Ishalle stopped to pick a flower and he tucked it into Dorian's shirt pocket.

“I wouldn't change a thing.” He turned towards Ishalle. “You made me weep, you bastard.”

Ishalle giggled. “I could say the same such thing to you, yes?” He stood on his toes and kissed Dorian briefly. “Moska will be happy, he likes weddings.”

“That old man? A romantic? Perish the thought.”

Ishalle laughed, and was still laughing when they returned to the house to commence celebrations. Clan Athim had brought instruments. Drums, round bellied guitars, bells and tambourines. They played, loud and raucous, lively and cheerful singing accompanying the music. And Ishalle danced. He danced with Dorian, with Lu, with Case, with Maddy, and finally during a slower song, he danced with Rosala.

“I'm proud of you, Little Bird.” She smiled up at him as they circled the yard, at her gentle pace. “Today, you made a good choice.”

“You surprise me,” he said, keeping his arm firm around her shoulders.

“Oh, I might be old but I can still change my mind. You have someone to look after you, and I think caring for him will be good for your soul.”

“As Moska cares for you?”

“We watch each other. As it should be. Your fool uncle, I love him dearly, but he stays out too long in that shed working. One of these days he's going to freeze to death.”

Ishalle had watched Moska and Rosala dance earlier. The love shared between them was long, the love of many years lived together. It was different than the other happy couples he'd seen. Perhaps it was to do with their ages. Vivienne and Bastien obviously had love for each other, but it sometimes still seemed fresh and new. Paytro was still smitten and nervous around Maddy. And Lume and Sona seemed more like business partners than a married couple. As they moved across the yard, Ishalle decided that the different types of love didn't matter. They were all good, just as wonderful and warm as the union he now shared with Dorian. My husband. He grinned then, until his face was sore.

“Some advice for you, Little Bird. Since that's my job.” Rosala took a deep breath. “You want to keep your marriage good and long and happy. I have had a wonderful marriage with Moska, a truly lovely and blessed life. But the first few years were very hard. Not because of our marriage, but the strain my parents placed on us. We lived with them, at first, you remember those days.”

Ishalle nodded, and leaned in to hear her over the music.

“What kept us together was the knowledge that we were there for each other. It was tough at times. But we knew we loved each other, and we knew things would eventually get better. When the hard times happen, you need to keep your faith.” She inhaled sharply again. “Keep your faith, not just in the Creators, but in your husband. And most of all, in yourself. You've shown me you can put in the hard work in making your life good. Put that work into your marriage and as long as it's returned in kind, you'll be a happy man.”

“Thank you.” Ishalle committed her words to memory.

“Now, I'm tired and want to sit down. Bring me some of that cherry brandy, would you?”

He led her to where Moska was waiting and pulled out a chair for her. While he fetched the brandy, he mulled over Rosala's advice. Difficult times. Hold to your faith. When he saw Dorian across the yard, his heart lifted. He couldn't imagine anything life would throw at them that their marriage couldn't take. The witchlights floating in the air illuminated everyone, but his eyes were only on his new husband. He looked forward to their long life together.

No matter what was to come.

Chapter Text

“Today we're pleased to be talking with Krem Aclassi of Seheron. Krem has been working with transgender youth in Tevinter for the last decade, and it's estimated that his work has saved the lives of hundreds of children who would otherwise be cast from their homes. Krem, welcome to the show. Can you tell us a little about the cultural climate of Tevinter for gender non conforming people?”

“Oh, I can tell you a lot. But I'll start with the good news. Over the past ten years, I've seen a huge drop in transphobia. That's not to say it's gone forever, but it's getting a lot better. I've worked with Maevaris Tilani to help draft laws that protect trans people, and I've been working directly with kids. I help people from all over Tevinter, and some who come from the Anderfels.”

“What is it about those places that breeds such contempt for trans people?”

“It's the result of a country obsessed with their own traditions. It seems backwards now, but Maker, the wealthy of Tevinter are convinced that they need to return to the 'good old days,' whenever those are supposed to be. But I am pleased that the attitudes are changing.”

“As a trans man, what sort of unique challenges do you face?”

“Challenges? They're all over the place. People who think I should visit mages to make my body conform to their standard. People who don't respect me for who I am. People are quick to make assumptions.”

“I've heard wonderful things about Par Vollen in regards to trans health.”

“Yes, and most of them are accurate, though not all. I've studied the old Qun and they had an interesting way of looking at gender. If your role in the Qun was masculine, you were a man, if your role was feminine, you were a woman. Which isn't the best for everyone. Some men are feminine. Some women are masculine. The problem was the Qun was assigning roles, not allowing people to live their lives as they were. So I was pleasantly surprised that Par Vollen adopted protection for trans people in a way that allowed them to be free and equal.”

“What's your favorite success story?”

“I have so many. I couldn't pick just one. The absolute best is when I see people leave the center feeling like themselves for the first time in their lives. They have support from us, they have resources for everything they could need, and they know we have their back. I'll keep fighting for them, every single one, until the day I die, or when I don't have to anymore. Which is the better scenario.” [laughs]

 

Dorian and Ishalle arrived at their home, smoke in their clothes, stinking of brandy and sweat. They'd danced until the guests started to depart. There had been endless pictures, and the send off took far longer than Ishalle would have liked. It seemed that every member of the Clan wanted to offer their congratulations, and talk with them before allowing them the luxury of leaving. Feeling like his feet were made of lead, he followed Dorian into their room. He let out a whoop when Dorian spun around and picked him up, pressing him against the wall. Dorian kissed him, sloppy and deep. It was so nice, so sweet that he wrapped his legs around his waist and held onto his shoulders.

“Husband,” Dorian said, grinning at him drunkenly.

“Yes...” Ishalle kissed him again. They kissed like that until Dorian lowered Ishalle to his feet.

“You're not heavy, but I'm drunk.”

“Drunk.” Ishalle stumbled. “Me too. Drunk. I am not capable of anything tonight.”

Dorian took his hand and brought them both to the bed, flopping onto it with all the grace of a cat falling out of a garbage can. “We'll have to consummate this marriage in the morning,” he slurred. “Consummate. Funny word, consummate. It means fucking. Fancy word for fucking.”

Ishalle undressed himself, and then went to work on Dorian's shirt. His husband was already falling asleep. “Undressed. Get undressed.”

They fumbled with the covers, and Ishalle dropped into sleep almost immediately. So much for a wedding night. He wouldn't have changed a thing about the day. Satisfaction was in his bones.

Ishalle woke up later than he'd intended. Dorian was still asleep, his hair an absolute mess. Ishalle ran his fingers through it, but Dorian did not respond. His own mouth tasted foul. He slipped into the bathroom, and stood in the shower like a lump. As he scrubbed his body, he thought about the day before. A whirlwind. But he was married now, Dorian was his husband. Finally. A strange feeling overcame him. He'd gotten married, he'd done his rites, he'd had Rosala remove his scar. It was all so much; shouldn't he feel more? Different? Changed somehow? The ring shone under the water, reminding him of the commitment he'd made.

Perhaps I will feel a change later.

Dorian was awake when he got out of the shower, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Ishalle smirked at him. “You look cute.”

“Maker, I feel like I crawled out of a dumpster.” Dorian gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and rushed into the bathroom. It wasn't long before he heard the shower run.

Ishalle wasn't ready to start his day. He laid down on the bed, playing with his phone. Dorian had already changed their status to 'married' on Parchmnt. Ishalle shared the status. It was the only post he'd made in the past year. He snorted at the emptiness of the page. Bored with the app, he switched over to the pictures folder. Murals, some inspiration, a few poorly taken pictures of trees, Dorian with his shirt off, Lu holding her cat in the air with her tongue out, Dorian's cock with his hand wrapped around it....

Ishalle stopped on that picture. It was sent months ago, when Dorian was traveling up to Minrathous to give a lecture at the university there. In the background was the hotel bed, and blurred out on the nightstand he could make out a bottle of lube. Dorian's hand was holding his shaft firm. The swollen head was glistening in the light. He could almost taste it. The photo had been one of many exchanged that night. Ishalle ran his hand across the front of his jeans. Already hard. He suddenly wanted Dorian's fucking shower to hurry up already. It had been a while for the two of them.

Dorian came out of the bathroom. He was wearing his snug black underwear and a sly smile. “Am I still cute, now that I've cleaned up?”

Ishalle sat up, and moved to the end of the bed. “Come here.”

“But you're all the way over there.” Dorian turned around, and ran his hands down his own ass, squeezing and stroking. He jiggled his cheeks, and lowered the waistband a fraction of an inch. Not enough.

“Come here, I said.” Ishalle wanted that underwear on the floor. Dorian backed up, and lowered his ass down, just hovering over Ishalle's lap. He moved his hips, brushing fabric against fabric, teasing Ishalle's stiff cock. Ishalle ran his hands up Dorian's stomach, and gave his nipples a light pinch, then a tug. “Sit.”

Dorian didn't obey. Instead he circled his ass, just out of reach of Ishalle. It was almost painful how much he wanted him. Ishalle gripped a handful of Dorian's hair and yanked his head back. Dorian arched his spine and gave Ishalle access to his neck. He bit. He tugged at his earlobe with his teeth. His other hand dug into Dorian's chest and raked down. Ishalle felt like he was going to explode. He couldn't remember if he'd ever wanted him this much before. While they hadn't been abstinent before the wedding, stress and work had put a small dent in their sex life. Ishalle was more than ready; his fucking balls ached. He wanted to fuck Dorian just like this, wanted to watch his cock sliding in and out of him.

Dorian was still teasing him. His thighs were shaking from holding himself up. Ishalle thrust up, to little avail. Get these fucking pants off me. “I'm going to fuck you,” he said, and dragged his fingernails up the inside of Dorian's leg.

“Oh, is that what you want?” Dorian was trying to hide his breathing. “I couldn't tell.”

“You are a brat when you want me.” Ishalle stroked Dorian over his briefs. His hard length straining against the fabric made him sweat. “Behave.”

“And when have I ever behaved?” But Dorian was now rubbing his ass over Ishalle's lap, still making a pitiful attempt to control his heavy breath.

“You will behave.” Ishalle stroked him harder. He found the loose skin through the briefs, and rubbed it over the head of Dorian's cock. “Because I know you want to come in my mouth.”

Dorian was losing control. He could feel the wet drops coming through his underwear. Ishalle reached over the waistband, sticking a finger down and tracing the precum.

“Look at me, Dorian.”

He turned his head and watched Ishalle stick his finger in his own mouth. He sucked it, bobbing down and cleaning the slick off. Ishalle held eye contact. “You want it.”

“Fucking please.”

Ishalle pushed Dorian into standing, and slapped his ass. It bounced. He grabbed the underwear and tugged it down, impatient. With little preamble, he spread Dorian's cheeks and licked the length of his crevice. Dorian bent forward, giving him more room to work. Ishalle circled Dorian's asshole with his tongue, before switching to long, flat licks. There were no more attempts from Dorian to hide his pleasure. His legs shook, and his moans matched the movements of Ishalle's tongue. Ishalle traced a finger around the entrance, and teased him until Dorian stumbled.

Ishalle leaned back. “Get the lube. Now.”

Dorian wobbled over to the nightstand, and Ishalle yanked his clothes off. He resumed his place at the end of the bed by the time Dorian returned. He stroked Ishalle. The lube was warm already, and his hand felt so good. Ishalle almost didn't tell him to stop. But he knew what he wanted, and it wasn't a hand job.

“Sit on my cock, Dorian.” Dorian turned around and lowered himself at the command. Ishalle used his fingers to spread him a little, working around the rim until Dorian started to pant. He moved down, teasing Ishalle's cock again, until Ishalle grabbed his hips firmly. He let his cock do the stretching. Dorian moved slow, and Ishalle let him go at his own pace, until he'd taken him completely. A low moan escaped Ishalle's throat. In response, Dorian made little circles with his hips, and started rocking.

Ishalle indulged himself in Dorian's chest. He pulled and twisted his nipples, ran his hand down his fuzzy stomach, and back up again. Dorian's back muscles were flexing and relaxing with his movements. Ishalle took in the sight. Glory. He rubbed up those muscles and groaned. More.

With the flat of his hand he gave Dorian's ass another smack. “Fuck yourself on me,” he snarled. “Ride me. Fucking ride me, Dorian.”

Dorian started bouncing his ass, desperately crying out. Ishalle watched himself, he watched his cock as it was exposed, and then hidden within Dorian. He let out a loud growl, and smacked Dorian's ass again. The pressure was building fast. He wanted to wait, he wanted this to last, he wanted to keep fucking Dorian for hours. But it was too good. It was too much for him to hold back, and all too soon he grabbed Dorian's hips and pulled him flush as he filled him. Ishalle sank his teeth into Dorian's back, snarling against his skin. He held him hard, until the pulses subsided. Dorian was still moaning with every twitch of Ishalle's cock.

He wasn't sated.

“On the bed. Hands and knees,” he gasped. While he gave the instruction, he also shoved Dorian back, handling him roughly. His husband responded with a groan.

“Ishalle, fucking please, let me come.”

He could have grabbed Dorian's cock, he could have given him his release. Instead, he pressed his mouth against Dorian's ass, licking and sucking. It was far from the first time he'd done this, but this time felt different. He felt more hungry, more eager for Dorian's body than he had before. Perhaps this was the change he'd been wondering about earlier.

Or maybe he was just really horny.

He grabbed Dorian's ass with both hands, holding him in place. The taste of his own come mixed with the lube. Salt and sweat. Ishalle wanted to fuck him again, wanted to get on his knees and fuck him hard, claim him over and over. His cock was still soft. But he kept licking, until Dorian was muffling loud moans into the pillows, pushing back against his mouth. Begging, so sweetly.

With one smooth motion, he flipped Dorian over and dove down onto his cock. Dorian let out a long whimper. Ishalle flicked his eyes up, to see Dorian covering his face with both hands.

“No Dorian,” he said, jerking his cock. “Look at me. Watch me.” Dorian propped his head up with an extra pillow and tangled his fingers in Ishalle's hair. He went back to work, keeping his eyes on his face. Though he arched his back and curled his toes, Dorian kept his eyes open. A wicked idea to edge him popped into Ishalle's head, but his husband was too far gone. His come hit the back of his throat, and Ishalle swallowed it down to the sound of Dorian's cries.

A quick stop in the bathroom to rinse his mouth and wash his face, and he was back in bed, his arms wrapped tight around Dorian's waist. Time slowed to a crawl as they lay together, their breaths easing into near silence. Though they'd just finished, Ishalle still wanted him. Almost like they'd not fucked at all. He kept his hands on Dorian, petting the hair on his stomach, tracing circles around his ribs.

“I love you...” Dorian whispered. “Fuck, I love you.”

“It was good, no?” Ishalle stroked Dorian's hair back. “I could fuck you again.”

“I don't think I can take it right now,” Dorian laughed. “Fuck, I'm getting old.”

“Not old.” Ishalle climbed on top of him. “Not yet.”

Dorian kissed him. It was a good kiss, a hungry kiss. Their tongues rolled against each other, their lips pressed together. Dorian reached down and started kneading Ishalle's ass with rough hands.

“You are sure you cannot take more?” Ishalle leaned down and flicked his tongue over Dorian's nipple. They were always so sensitive after he came. Dorian hissed out a breath.

“I might be convinced otherwise.” Dorian's finger started stroking around Ishalle's asshole, tracing slow circles. “Especially if you let me fuck you.”

Ishalle could feel Dorian's cock on his thigh. It wasn't stiff. Yet. He rocked back into Dorian's hand, letting his finger push inside him a little. Ishalle dug his hands into Dorian's pecs and let out a small moan. “You think I should let you, yes?”

“Did you have other plans?” Dorian started sliding the tip of his finger in and out of Ishalle's ass. “Maybe you wanted to go for a walk? Watch some birds?”

“Shit.” Ishalle pressed his forehead into Dorian's shoulder. It felt so good. The teasing around his rim, the gentle touch within him. Dorian was big, but he'd taken it before. He sucked hard on Dorian's collarbone, until a bright red splotch appeared. His finger was dry. “Lube.”

“Is that a 'yes'?” Dorian traced the finger up his crevice. “You'll let me?”

“Let you?” Ishalle bit down on Dorian's chest. He caught some hair in his teeth and pulled up on it a little, drawing out a hard breath from Dorian. “You behaved well for me. I think you deserve this.”

Dorian squeezed his ass cheeks again. “Wanna be on top?”

“You are not ready for me.” Ishalle reached down and stroked Dorian's cock, feeling softness there. “What shall I do, hmm?”

“Sit on my face.” Dorian kissed him quick, flicking his tongue over Ishalle's lips.

Ishalle turned himself around, and let Dorian get to work. Dorian licked him hard, wet and long. Ishalle kept his body upright, his knees propping him up. The warmth of Dorian's tongue was exactly what he wanted. And it did the trick, making him stiff again. He reached down and stroked his cock with one hand, and pulled on his nipple ring with the other. All his thoughts left his head. There was nothing but the firm strokes of Dorian's tongue, the twist of his own hand. He closed his eyes, rocking his hips against Dorian's mouth. When he opened them, he saw Dorian's hard cock staring up at him, bobbing in the air.

Ishalle flicked the lube open and started rubbing it on Dorian. He used both hands, twisting them at the tip, in that way that drove Dorian crazy. The moans against his ass vibrated through his body. Ishalle felt drunk with lust, his head spinning as he stroked Dorian's cock. He dropped down and took Dorian's balls into his mouth, rolling his tongue around the silky skin. And Dorian pushed him to one side.

“Come here, I want you,” Dorian breathed.

Ishalle straddled him again. “Now you're ready, yes?”

“Please.” Dorian looked into his eyes, soft and needy. “Shit, you look so good.”

“Touch me.”

Dorian reached for Ishalle's nipples, flicking the rings. He tugged on them a little, drawing out another hard groan from Ishalle. He dropped his head down again, unable to keep himself upright. With one hand, he positioned Dorian's cock against his asshole and started to lower his hips. It took him no small amount of time to take him entirely. But soon, his cheeks were flush with Dorian's hips.

His hands found Dorian's throat and wrapped around it. He rode Dorian as slow as he could stand, occasionally placing pressure on his neck. Each time he let Dorian breathe, his husband gasped in air, moaning loud.

He started moving faster. The stroking against his prostate was incredible. He moved harshly, feeling the pleasure burning a path to his skin. And Dorian locked his eyes with Ishalle's.

“You are mine.” Ishalle gasped out the words, deepening his voice involuntarily. “You are all mine, Dorian.”

“I am all yours.” Dorian grabbed Ishalle's ass and started moving his hips a bit harder. “And you're all mine.”

“Fuck me.” Ishalle threw his head back. Dorian grabbed his ass and held him still, thrusting up into him. He thought of a thousand things to say, but his mouth wouldn't work. There was nothing but wordless cries and the slap of skin. He grit his teeth, and his legs began to shake. Every stroke of Dorian's cock brought a shiver of pleasure through him, every move of Dorian's hands brought him into his body. There was so much feeling, so much pressure, so much skin, so much...

Ishalle's cock started to leak, and then, with little warning, he came. He wasn't even touching himself, but come started pouring out of him, pooling onto Dorian's belly. Ishalle's noises were foreign to his own ears, strange shaking moans. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding perfectly still, until the waves left him breathless and ragged.

Quickly, he pulled off of Dorian, and fell to one side, still trembling.

“Babe, you okay?” Dorian was still breathing hard, but he rolled over, heedless of the mess on his stomach. He stroked Ishalle's face, and thumbed his cheek. “Come on now, talk to me.”

“I am...” Ishalle panted, “I am okay.” His arms were still shaking. “That... was not expected.”

“Was it good?” Dorian asked.

“Bien sûr.” Ishalle opened his eyes and looked into Dorian's. “So good. Just, em, very powerful?”

Dorian kissed him again. His kisses were soft and sweet, before turning hungry. Ishalle reached down to Dorian's cock, only to find he'd gone soft.

“Sorry, babe. I think I only had one in me.” Dorian stroked back Ishalle's hair. “But it was a good one.”

Ishalle giggled and laid down, his head pillowed on Dorian's chest. “Love you.”

They lay together for a time. Ishalle felt like his arms would never work properly again. Everything felt soft, including his thoughts. There were lazy touches between the two of them, and it didn't take long for Ishalle to doze off. He woke with a jump when Dorian started talking.

“If that's what married sex is like, I should have married you ages ago.”

Ishalle laughed into the pillow. “You are saying it was not this good before?”

“It's always been good, babe.” Dorian kissed his forehead. “But you'll forgive me if I tell you that was extraordinary.”

“I can forgive this thing.” Ishalle snuggled up against Dorian and held him there. “Especially if you make me come like that again.”

“Topping is fun.” Dorian held Ishalle's hand, twining his fingers with his. “But I like everything we do.”

“Is there anything we have not done that you wish to?” He didn't think there was. Dorian had been nothing but honest about their sex life. But they hadn't brought it up in a while. He kept still, listening to Dorian's softly beating heart. His chest was warm and solid under his ear.

Dorian didn't answer right away. He kept playing with Ishalle's hair, running his hand up the back of his ear, touching his cheek. “Do you remember Bastien's birthday last year?”

Ishalle did. He turned red as he recalled the memory, of the two of them sneaking under the patio. Dorian had sucked Ishalle's cock right there, while Ishalle bit down on his fist to keep quiet. They'd returned to the party, clearly rumpled and Lu had laughed at him all during dinner. He prayed that nobody else noticed his disheveled state, and chalked it up to his 'artistic' manner of dress. “Em, yes.”

“That was hot, but it's too risky. I get caught giving a blow job at my boss's party, and I'm in a lot of trouble. What I'd like is for you to tease me. Keep me wanting you, so when we get home...”

“I can bend you over the couch, like you like so much?” Ishalle laughed a little. “I can do this, but you should be prepared.”

“Oh yes,” Dorian sighed, contended. “Anything for you.”

Ishalle dozed off again, a hundred different ways to tease Dorian occupying his thoughts.

Chapter Text

“Good evening Antiva City. It's a rainy night out there, and the winds are picking up. Let's get straight to the callers. Hello, you're on the air.”

“Hi Doctor Acevado, My name is Christa and I'm calling about my girlfriend.”

“Okay, Christa, go ahead.”

“It's just weird. She stopped picking up after herself. She never did that before. And then two weeks ago she lost her job, but she hasn't been looking for a new one. Instead she stays home all day in her pajamas and I asked her to take the trash out yesterday and when I came home she hadn't, and I'm so tired from my job and I don't know how to make her start keeping things clean again.”

“Okay, let's back up. You said she didn't used to be this way?”

“No. I mean, she was when I met her, but then like, every time I went to her place it was clean. And she's always kept up with it. We've lived together for two years now, and I love her, but I can't keep picking up after her.”

“Did this start suddenly?”

“Um, no? I don't think so. No, about six months ago, things started to go downhill, but I didn't want to nag.”

“It sounds to me like your girlfriend might be depressed.”

“I don't know what she has to be sad about.”

“Well, Christa, depression is an illness, and it has to be treated as such. Sudden behavior changes like this can be indicative of a greater issue. Why don't you suggest that she call a healer, and see about getting some treatment? And for now, the best thing you can do is be supportive. Remind her that you love her, remind her you care about her. That's what she needs.”

“Okay. I'll talk to her about it.”

“Good. And I wish you both the best of luck. Take care, and thank you for calling. Hello, you're on the air.”

Ishalle had thought that after the wedding, things would slow down a bit. They planned a big vacation for after he bought the gallery, if he could even afford the down payment. Instead, time seemed to speed up, completely out of his control. He was about halfway to his goal, and if he stayed on track, he'd have the money by the time the deadline rolled around. Dorian contributed monthly to the fund, and Ishalle was very aggressive about hosting special sales and bringing in more affordable merchandise. His plan was working, but it was still a challenge.

It was Jayne who suggested a fundraiser. “Use the internet and shit. What you can do is set up like, a crowdfund, you know? Set it up and offer rewards to people who pay certain amounts of money.” She waved her fork around as they talked. Ishalle poked at his salad. Limp lettuce and a single slice of cucumber. The Red Skull was very limited in its vegetarian fare.

He hemmed and hawed over the idea. “It seems like a good thing? But it seems selfish, no? Do people want to contribute to such a thing? It is not a dire situation.”

Jayne shrugged. “You told me a long time ago that I need to, like, be confident that my art will sell. And it has. I mean, some of those shows we did, people were super into it. I didn't think that would happen, like, ever.” She cut another piece of her chicken and chewed it while she talked. Ishalle avoided looking at her face. His stomach still turned at the wet smack of her lips. “Anyway, what I mean is you gotta just like, pretend that people will be jumping all over themselves to pay. I mean, I think. I don't know much about this shit.”

“It would seem to me that you do.” Ishalle took a small bite of the salad. Overdressed, too. “Perhaps we should do this thing. What sort of em, rewards are you thinking?”

“That's your job. I don't know what people would want.” She took a long drink of her soda and let out a wet belch. “I mean, you could say, ten sovereigns gets you a postcard, I don't know, maybe sign it or something. And then like thirty sovereigns is a print, probably also signed.”

“For any big contributions, a commission, perhaps?” Ishalle was liking this idea the more he thought about it.

“Yeah, but like, make 'em pay a fuckload for that. Otherwise you're getting screwed. Time is valuable right? That's what you told me.” She looked at him with wide eyes. “Like you taught me all this stuff. You should do it.”

“You are right. Will you help?” Ishalle didn't know if he could manage a fundraiser on his own.

“Sure, I mean, I don't know what the fuck I can do, but like, I'll try.”

He nodded and left a twenty on the table. They parted ways and he walked home, thinking over all he had to do. It all came down to money. A fundraiser seemed like a good idea; even if they failed, they'd have some extra cash. Traveling to other countries for shows worked too, but there were costs to make up. But in other countries, he charged more to cover the overhead. Maybe he should raise his prices again. A text buzzed in his pocket and he glanced it over, still deep in thought.

~Mom went to the healers today. They're gonna keep her in the hospital for a few days. It's nothing major, don't worry. Just thought you'd want to pop over there tomorrow.

Maddy had a habit of downplaying things. He read over the message, nearly walking into a tree. He replied, thanking her, and kicked a pebble for a block or two. Rosala in the hospital again. She'd been acting more tired lately, but then again, she was seventy years old. Old people got tired, that's what they did.

The florist was open, so he stopped in and picked up a bouquet of the fancy daisies she liked so much. He had them wrap it in pretty paper, and brought it home. Dorian was already there, and he filled him in on the news about Rosala.

“I'm sure she'll be alright.” Dorian squeezed his hand when he said it. “Gereon went in last year, remember? They've got good people at Maferath's Arms. That's where Felix had his transplant done.”

Ishalle fussed with the flowers in the vase, not really knowing why he was doing it. “She told me not to worry so much for her, but I am. Worried.”

“I know, babe.” Dorian hugged him. “Want me to go with you tomorrow?”

“You would? Yes. That would be nice.” Ishalle smiled up at Dorian, relieved. Someone to share his burden. It felt good.

Rosala was asleep when he walked into the hospital room. There were already bouquets on the small shelf provided, so he laid his across her lap and sat in the leather lounger. Dorian went to get them some coffee, and Ishalle spent his time rubbing his fingernails together. He had plenty of good things to tell Rosala, when she woke up. Which she did, blinking and confused.

“Moska?” she whispered.

“I am here.” Ishalle went to her side and took her hand.

“Oh, Little Bird! You're here.” She looked around the room, taking things in. “Where's your husband?”

“He is getting us some bad coffee. What has happened?” He kept his voice calm, remembering how she'd spoken to him before the wedding.

“It's nothing to worry about. I ran out of breath. The healers are doing some more of their damn tests. Moska wanted me monitored so that's why I'm in here.”

“Healer Athim could not help?” He knew it must have been bad if she'd agreed to come.

“He doesn't have the time right now. He's needed at the Clan. There's three expectant mothers about to drop. I can't wait to see the new babies.” She cracked a small smile.

“Oh.” She looked small in the hospital bed, small and fragile. He didn't like it. For a moment, he felt like he couldn't breathe either.

She patted his hand. “I'll be fine. They're going to run their little tests and tell me what to do next.”

He nodded, unconvinced. It hit him then. Rosala was getting old. Well and truly old. He didn't like where his thoughts were going, so he started talking to her about everything he could think of. Jayne's idea, some of the wedding gifts they had received. Dorian came back with two cups of horrific coffee. Almost instantly, he lightened the mood; stories of his students always made Rosala laugh. By the time they left, she was sitting up, chuckling and smiling. Ishalle breathed a sigh, gripping Dorian's hand tighter than usual. He tried to tell himself it would all be well.

Dracolisk was usually loud, a sea of bodies waving under the beat of music. Lu and Ishalle walked in to find the bar mostly empty, the music kept to a low hum. It was the middle of the week. The normal crowd would show up later. They got a pitcher of beer, and took a small table in a sticky corner. Lu poured while Ishalle caught her up on Rosala's health.

“Well, I hope this is just like the last time, where she just has to do some exercises.” She patted his hand. “How did she look?”

“Tired,” he said, blowing cigarette smoke up into the air. “I do not wish to fuss.”

“Let me know if I can help. Maker, I love that woman.” She tapped his pack and he nodded.

“It has been too long since we caught up, I am thinking.” Ishalle lit the cigarette for her. “How are you?”

“Oh, I'm fine.” She shrugged.

He peered at her eyes. They were slightly puffy, but she'd put on concealer to hide it. “No, you are not.”

Lu glared at him. “Fine. Andraste, you know me too damn well. It's just Thom. We had another big stupid fight.”

This wasn't the first time. Ishalle recalled last year when Lu had sat on the back porch, crying on his shoulder. For all the years that had gone by, Ishalle still didn't really know Thom all that well. He knew the man he was funny, liked dirty jokes, beer, and working on his house. Lu talked about him often, usually good things. Their late night conversations, how he treated her like a princess. “What did he do to you?”

“He didn't do anything. He wants me to move in with him, but I don't. I like my place, and I don't want to live with his roommate. She's a fucking pig.”

Ishalle had met Sera a few times. She was loud, brash, and laughed like a machine gun. She was also an excellent artist. More than once he'd tried talking her into a showing but she brushed it off every time, calling him daft. “She does not seem so bad.”

“Don't get me wrong, she's fine to hang out with,” she said, blowing smoke as she talked. “But I don't want to live with her. She's so sloppy, and she has all this stuff. It's everywhere in that house. And her and Thom are close, he's not gonna kick her out, and I would never ask him to. But that house is his, you know? His mom left it to him, and I'm not going ask him to sell it.”

Ishalle traced his glass. “This seems reasonable?”

“I thought so.” Lu shrugged. “I mean, I told him all of that and he took it personally, like I was trashing Sera somehow, and then things kind of went to shit from there. I don't know what to do.”

He was reminded of conversations from years ago. “Perhaps you must end it?” he asked, throwing her own advice back at her.

“I thought about it. But I don't know, I mean, I love him. I really do. He's so great when things are good, he's funny, he's got a great laugh, he always listens to me. He's even fucking supportive. When I got that big contract he celebrated with me, said he was proud of me.” She stopped moving her fingers and looked hard at him. “You think I'm being silly?”

“Not silly, non. You cannot be, over such matters. Not truly. So what future is it you are wanting? Do you want to get married to him?”

“Andraste, I have no idea. How did you decide you wanted to marry Dorian?”

Ishalle smiled at the memory. “It felt like the right thing to do. I thought on it for some time. My worry was that he would say no, but even if he did and wished to stay together, I would have. I was, em, certain about our future.”

“See, that's what I'm missing. If Thom asked me to marry him and I said no, it would be the end of our relationship. And I'm not sure I'm ready to end it, or get married. I know I told you once that if you're not sure about someone you should break up with them, but it's really hard to take your own advice, you know?”

Ishalle nodded. “Do not be so hard on yourself. If you enjoy his company, perhaps stay? If not, you will know when the time is correct for ending this thing.”

“Yeah.” She fell silent and looked across the room. A group of people entered and lined up at the bar, hairy dwarves in leather harnesses, chubby elves with body paint, one or two humans dressed in latex. The night was beginning. “Oh, Sera wants Jayne's number by the way.”

“For what reason? She should contact me if she wants to show her work.” The gallery wasn't Jayne's yet.

“Please,” she snorted. “She's not interested in that. She wants to go out with Jayne. Asked me if I'd get her number.”

“Oh.” Ishalle frowned. “I am afraid I cannot do that. Jayne does not date.”

“What, at all?” She refilled her glass, tipping her head to one side.

“Non. She and I spoke of this. She does not feel attraction.”

“Okay, cool. No date for Sera, then. Thom can't blame me for that, at least.” She put the cigarette out. “So, tell me. You've been married for a month now, how is it?”

Ishalle glanced down at his ring, realizing with a start that it felt like it belonged there. “It is good, more than good. I think I made the right choice.”

Lu gave him a smile, with sadness in her eyes. “I think you did too. Hope I have your conviction someday.”

The music grew louder, and more people came into the bar. Ishalle watched the people dancing while nursing his beer. There were two men at the edge of the crowd, dwarven men grinding against each other, doing more kissing than dancing. He felt like a voyeur but couldn't take his eyes off them. Both were cute. They grabbed at each other's clothes, beards clashing together. Envy dug its claws into his skin. Ishalle didn't want either man. He wanted his damn husband.

He wanted Dorian to be there, to be pressed up against him, to kiss him on the floor under the flashing lights and music. Dorian had opted to stay in tonight, telling Ishalle he should catch up with his friend. Lu was now on the floor, dancing by herself. Her arms waved in the air, her feet hit the floor with heavy stomps to the beat of the music. He drew his eyes back to where the dwarves were, but they were gone already. Other couples made him feel a pulse of jealousy. His pants suddenly became very uncomfortable.

The feeling grew, until he said goodnight to Lu and walked home. Dorian was still awake, reading on the sofa until Ishalle climbed on top of his lap. The book fell to the floor. They touched each other, grasping hands reaching for buckles, for buttons, pushing clothes aside. Skin to skin, kissing deeply. Ishalle shoved Dorian into the cushions and pressed his body against his.

“Hi. Have fun tonight?” Dorian asked between kisses.

“Mm.” Ishalle ground into him. “Want you.”

Dorian looked into Ishalle's eyes. There was love there, pouring out of them like tears. He was stroking his cock, staring up at him, his lip between his teeth. Ishalle mimicked him. They worked themselves over, and soon the air filled with moans. Ishalle took Dorian's balls in his hand, cupping and tugging until Dorian was arching his back up into him.

“Keep doing that,” he hissed. “Fuck, please don't stop.”

Ishalle kept it up, watching his husband writhing on the couch. His hand was right up at the tip, moving his foreskin quickly over the head of his cock.

“Don't stop, babe,” he whined. “Oh, shit, don't stop.”

Ishalle had no intention of stopping, not now, not with Dorian moaning as loud as he was. “I won't stop, Dorian, keep going. That's right.” He propped himself up on one arm. “You look so fucking good here. Come for me, let me see you come.”

Dorian was turning red, the veins on his neck were popping out. Ishalle slipped two fingers back behind his balls and pressed. When the ropes of come hit his chest, it was with a long growl that made Ishalle's heart surge. He pushed Dorian's legs down and straddled him. Still breathless, Dorian started working Ishalle's cock, going slower than he'd stroked himself.

“You're fucking beautiful, babe.” Dorian lovingly moved his hand, and reached the other around to squeeze Ishalle's ass. “I was thinking about you tonight.”

“What about,” he gasped.

“Strangely, this is exactly what I was thinking about.” His hand went to Ishalle's ear and started rubbing the tip. The sensation sent tingles down his spine, until he was groaning through his teeth. “You, just like this.”

“Just..like this?” He could barely speak. Dorian's hand was moving just a bit too slow, and it held him right at the edge.

“Mm hmm. Just like this.” Dorian moved his hand down to the small of Ishalle's back and pressed firm against him. His other hand slowed further. “I still love watching you.”

“Let me fuck you.”

“Not tonight, babe.” Dorian smirked up at him. “I'm not really ready for that. Plus, I want to see you come like this.”

“Fuck, Dorian, move faster.” Ishalle bit out the words. His balls were aching, his knees were getting grouchy with his weight on them. “Make me come.”

Dorian didn't speed up. Ishalle thrust into his hand, but it didn't get him anywhere. Instead, all he got was a low chuckle and a shit eating grin from his husband. “Maker, you want it.”

“Don't fucking tease me.” Truthfully, he was enjoying it. There was a plateau he was racing along, just waiting for the edge of the cliff to appear. But the running was pleasant. “Make me come.” He thrust again, and finally, Dorian sped up his hand.

“How could I tease you?” He was still grinning. The hand on his back moved down to his ass again, tracing the crack, moving just along it.

The cliff was in sight, and Ishalle flung himself off.

He dug his fingers down into Dorian's chest, spilling over onto him. All the muscles in his arms were shaking but he didn't let himself drop down. Instead, he opened his eyes and looked at Dorian's torso, covered in a mix of their come. He ran his tongue along it, occasionally stopping to slide a finger through and stick it in Dorian's mouth for him to suck. He licked him languidly, until his chest was clean. Ishalle allowed himself finally collapse, giving his tired arms a break.

The bed welcomed their worn out bodies. Ishalle looked over at Dorian, curled on his side. His eyes were closed, but he spoke anyway. “What got you all riled up tonight? See someone cute at the club?”

“Mm, maybe. But I saw many people dancing together, and em, I wanted you to be there. Sometimes I enjoy spending my time by myself, but there are times I wish you were with me.”

“Day off tomorrow, right?” Dorian's voice was getting more and more quiet.

Ishalle rolled away from him and scooted closer. “Yes.”

“Take a day away from your planning, okay? Let's go somewhere fun.” Dorian's arm snaked around him.

I can't afford to skip a day. Ishalle closed his eyes. He couldn't bring himself to say it out loud. It would be good to take a day from not thinking about the gallery. A day from not worrying about money, about Jayne, about Rosala. A day to be unburdened. He wondered if there would ever be a time when his shop wouldn't be in his thoughts. If his plan was a success, that day could be soon. But the future was so uncertain. “A day off. That is a good idea.”

“Love you,” Dorian mumbled. His breathing evened out. Ishalle drifted off beside him, wondering if he'd ever truly get a break.

Chapter Text

“The school of death magic is still important in Nevarra, despite the bad reputation it has. What can you tell us about the Mortalitasi?”

“It's not that it has a bad reputation, it's that people misunderstand it. It's a sacred duty to care for the dead, it's not a perverse thing. Though it is natural that people should feel a revulsion to it. Death is frightening for all, but it's also the only guarantee in life. We would be better off as a society if we accepted that.”

“I think part of the fear comes from the fact that people don't really know what the Mortalitasi do.”

“Absolutely. They think we play with corpses. Obviously that's not true. Nevarra holds our school in the highest regard. Our necropolis network is massive. People of Nevarra can visit their ancestors, from thousands of years back. There is a quiet reverence in the tombs. When we lead families in, we take them to their loved ones, and they are able to leave offerings, talk to them. Young people can see how their ancestors resembled them. It's an important and necessary field.”

“Now, some of the Mortalitasi have been working with anthropologists.”

“Yes, another important aspect of our work. We can learn so much about how people used to live. But it's all done respectfully. We contact families if they still exist to gain permission before allowing any study. And the bodies are not disturbed in any way. The students observe styles of dress, hair, makeup, all of the things that surround the body. That is why Nevarra has the most extensive and detailed history in the world. We know what we used to be, and how we got to where we are today, which is more than most countries can say.”

“Several necropolises were destroyed in the Great Invasion, correct? How did you go about recovering that history?”

“We pieced together whatever remained. And we repaired what we could. It was a big loss, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. But after the Invasion, our archivists teamed up with others in Thedas to preserve texts that were deemed important. Several hundred Mortalitasi used their skills to learn new ways of preservation, so this doesn't ever happen again. But yes, much was lost. Still, we remain. As we always will.”

Ishalle and Jayne began setting up the fundraising site. Coming up with the rewards was the hard part. Taking his uncle's advice from years ago, he set the tiers high, hoping it would incite people to donate. Jayne suggested limiting all the slots, giving people something rare and unique. She did the calculations herself, adding up what they would need to cover the costs of prints and commissions. Between helping customers and their usual duties, it took them three days to get the site ready to go live. His nerves got the better of him and he told her to click 'publish,' making it seem like a reward, rather than something he needed her to do.

Maddy took the responsibility of calling Ishalle with updates on Rosala's health. She had a degenerative lung disease. A diagnoses after all this time. Maddy gave him hope; apparently it was easy to live with provided she saw a healer once a week. Ishalle talked to Rosala for a short time, but she was tired from her treatments and wished him well before hanging up to take a nap. Afterward he sat still on the sofa. Dorian did his best to comfort Ishalle, telling him all he knew about Felix's health and how well he'd responded to regular appointments. It helped. Somewhat.

The fundraiser ran for six short weeks. Jayne's idea was a moderate success. They didn't reach their goal, but managed to get halfway there. It was a nice cushion. Four or five more successful shows and they'd be there, the gallery would be his. Ishalle hugged Jayne tightly, telling her how grateful he was she'd come up with the idea. Jayne pushed him away, but she also laughed. It was a nice sound.

Their biggest donor had been anonymous. He wondered who had so easily sent him ten thousand sovereigns, and rejected the offer for a large custom painting in return. For a moment, he thought perhaps it was Vivienne, but her name appeared in the two thousand sovereign column. She would get two medium paintings; one from Ishalle and one from Jayne. Vivienne had included a note for them to paint whatever they thought she'd like. He decided to get to work on the portrait idea he'd had all those years ago.

Every week, he called Rosala. Ishalle worried over her, but tried to not let it show in his voice. Dorian and Ishalle went to dinner at the house more often than before, and while Rosala seemed tired, she wasn't winded. The treatments appeared to be working. His own family had donated a modest sum to the fund, and he thanked them all profusely, feeling a burden on the people who loved him. But Maddy waved it off, telling him it would be worth it if he got to keep his business.

The next week they had a show in Rivain. Lu and Case went with Jayne and Ishalle up to Dairsmuid, bringing with them a crate full of paintings, ceramics, and jewelry. The city was like nothing he'd ever seen. There were so many flowers! Every house, every business, every apartment with a balcony had a garden, spilling over the walls. Trees lined the streets, stretching massive fan shaped leaves into the sky. It was hot, far hotter than any desert he'd been in. The gallery hosting them was run by a human man, short and very sweet. His name was Bajo, and he was as kind of a host as Ishalle could have asked for. He kept his hair in long locks, twisted together in smooth and shining vines. His skin was a deep umber, golden undertones gleaming in the Rivaini sun.

They went out for food, drinking hot tea on a patio covered in more flowers. Lemon trees in pots surrounded them. Bajo didn't seem to care much for Case, but absolutely delighted in Jayne's work. The next day, before the sale, she showed him how she painted, and he taught her a few new techniques she hadn't considered before. Ishalle watched the two of them learn from each other and felt a small sense of pride. Jayne had been surly, rude, snappish and skittish when he first met her. Now she was smiling and laughing, taking lessons where she could get them.

The show was a great success. Case and Lu both sold their entire stock. Ishalle talked Bajo into coming down to Antiva for a show of his own. And Jayne stood at his side, listening with intent and reverently handling the business cards she received. On the flight back, they were tired and weary. But Jayne was excited, talking almost nonstop about ideas she had for bringing in artists from all over Thedas. She wanted to explore Tevinter next, and asked Ishalle if they could consider it.

“Of course,” he said. He pulled out his planner and made a note to discuss it with Dorian. “Where in Tevinter do you wish to see?”

“I think we need to hit Minrathous first. That's where all the rich ones live. And I've been looking into it, Qarinus has a good scene, but I guess the real place to check out is Seheron.” She glanced at him and averted her eyes. “I mean, I hope it's okay I looked into all this shit first. Like, before talking to you about it.”

Ishalle leaned back in his seat. The flight was descending into the Antiva City International Airport. “I trust you. You should talk to me of other ideas. I am thinking you have brought us much good luck, yes?”

“I don't know,” she mumbled. “I mean, we can't do it without you.”

“Shh.” Ishalle waved his hand at her. “Many of the best ideas in the past six years have come from you. Have some confidence in yourself.”

“I guess.” She looked out the window, wincing when the plane touched the tarmac. Silence dropped over her. She stayed quiet in the cab, and muttered a goodbye when they dropped her off at her mother's apartment.

“So, what's the deal there?” Lu watched Jayne head up the stairs. “Feels sort of like you're mentoring her for something.”

“I suppose I am.” Ishalle kept his idea to himself. So far, only Dorian knew what he was planning. It didn't seem right to mention it to anyone else.

Case let out a loud yawn. “I've mentored employees before. It's a good idea, mate. Gives you more leverage when they move on.”

“Do you think she wishes to move on?” Ishalle hadn't thought about that option.

Case shrugged. “Hard to say with her. She's not the easiest to talk to, you know.”

“All I can say is that it's a good thing you're running that gallery and not her.” Lu was playing a game on her phone and staring at it while she talked. “That girl is gonna need a lot of help before she's ready to move anywhere.”

“What? I do not think this thing is true.” Ishalle was surprised by Lu's words. Jayne had shown him nothing but the drive to work hard and to better herself.

“Yeah? You should have seen her at last month's showing. That one you let her run on her own? I stopped in and she straight up snapped at a client.”

Ishalle glared. He hadn't heard about this. “What happened?”

“This guy was asking her about the prices and trying to haggle. She told him everything was fixed, he got pissed off, she snapped at him and he told her he was going to write the owner. Also, I'm pretty sure she's up to something. Every time I go to restock my case, she looks like a kid getting caught stealing cookies. She's always on that fucking phone.”

Ishalle glanced out of the window. They were at Case's street. His friend tapped the rune when he got out, nodding at both of them. “See you guys later. I wouldn't worry too much about Jayne, mate. She's fine. It was just one mistake, yeah?” He shut the door and walked into his building.

Ishalle checked his email, but there was nothing from a client, angry or otherwise. He didn't think Lu would lie to him. But he wondered about what she'd seen. Doubt nagged at him. Was Jayne ready for this? Maybe he'd blinded himself with his own dreams of painting full time. Then again, Lu had made her opinion of Jayne perfectly clear. His goodbye was somewhat muted, and he stayed deep in his thoughts for the rest of the night.

At least the portrait of Vivienne would look good. That much he promised himself.

Chapter Text

“And so you must leave me/ to walk this world alone/ it's time to tear myself away/ and I return to my empty home/ it's cold inside without you/ when winter grows long/ I will miss you”

“That was Sam Da'ralen, with 'If You Must.' We have Sam here in the studio, and you can send your questions in through our Parchmnt page. Sam, why don't you start by telling us a little about the new album? What inspired it?”

“Last year I lost my father to cancer. I wanted to pay tribute to him. He was the greatest man I ever knew and I wanted to make sure people got to experience my love and admiration through music.”

“We have a question from Maria in Rialto. She asks, 'what advice do you have for people who are grieving who do not have musical talent?'”

“Oh, well, I don't think talent is a part of it. We all deal with things in our own way. I think the best advice I have is to not let other people tell you when you should, uh, get over it? Or how long you should grieve. It's a lifelong process, in some cases.”

“Vita from Solas asks 'what do you do when you're feeling uninspired?'”

“I get writer's block a lot. Don't force it. I learned that the hard way. If you try to force creativity, it's not gonna work for you. You have to take your inspiration when you can find it. And if that's a few weeks, that's okay. If it's a few years, move on to something else. I have a musician friend who hasn't produced anything in ten years, but she has been working on other projects. Sometimes the music doesn't come, and you just have to wait for it to find you.”

Satinaday arrived, a day off from the gallery, but not the rest of his work. So much to do still. Ishalle peeled himself out of bed, reluctant to leave the covers but anxious to get started. Leaving Dorian to sleep, he went into their office. It was supposed to be Dorian's office, but it was only a few weeks before Ishalle had set himself up in there too. While the laptop booted up, he made coffee, his thoughts a jumbled mess.

The spreadsheet was still open from last night. He stared at it, taking slow sips. It all came back to money. If he could sell enough work. If business continued to pick up. If people came to the special showings. Looking at the numbers didn't give him any kind of prediction. It was all dependent on outside forces. Only three months to go, if Lily kept her promise. Dorian walked into the office, rubbing his eyes.

“You got a phone call, babe. Is there more coffee?” He handed Ishalle his phone.

Ishalle nodded and looked at Moska's number on the screen. “In the kitchen.” He dialed back and listened to the ringing.

“Ishalle. I need you to come to the house today.” Moska's voice sounded thick.

“Is something the matter?”

“Just. Get out here. Soon as you can.” Moska disconnected without another word. Ishalle was still staring at the black screen when Dorian walked into the room.

“Everything alright?”

Ishalle looked up at him. “Uncle Moska asked me to come over. He did not sound good, Dorian.”

Dorian plucked the coffee from his hand. “Ah, well, you best get dressed. I'll get these into mugs and we'll head out.”

“You will go with me?” Ishalle hadn't moved.

“Did you need to ask? Go on now.”

The drive was slow going. Ishalle kept shifting in his seat, staring out the window at the farmland, wringing his sweater, until Dorian put his fingertips to his forehead. He saw a blue light glowing, and then felt a soft sense of calm wash over him.

“Thank you.”

“I was afraid you were going to wear a hole in that seat.” Dorian eased him into lying down, his head on his lap. “You're worried.”

It was hard to feel worried, but he knew it was there. “Something is wrong.”

Dorian stroked back Ishalle's curls, until he drifted off into a light sleep, only faintly aware of the movement of the car.

They arrived an hour later, and Sona met them on the porch. She waved Dorian inside, but stopped Ishalle. She looked awful. The natural dark circles under her eyes were puffed and bruised. She stank of bad coffee, alcohol, and body odor. “Ishalle. It's mom. She's sick.”

“What?” Dorian's spell was wearing off. His heart began to flutter. Like a little bird...

Sona waved him to the bench on the front porch. “The healers can't seem to fix her lungs. They repair them, and then...” His cousin stared off into the distance for a moment. “They repair them, but it doesn't last. Her disease is catching up to her.”

“She needs a better healer, then.” Ishalle didn't know much of healing magic. “This is 15:41, it is not this Cruel Age anymore. We need to bring in a better healer.”

Sona nodded. “Yeah. I told dad to call in Healer Athim. He'll be here tomorrow.”

Maddy walked out to join them, her clothes rumpled. “He'll actually be here this afternoon. Dad just got off the phone with him, and told him it's urgent.”

Sona didn't smile. Instead, she bobbed her head a little and went inside. Maddy took her place on the bench, clasping her hands tight in front of her.

“You should know...” She closed her eyes. “You should know that this might not work.”

At her words, Ishalle started rubbing his fingernails together. “But it might?”

“Ishalle. It's...” Maddy opened her eyes, but didn't look at him. “She's inside. Go see her. She's in her room.”

In all his dreams of being chased, his legs moved slow no matter how much fear pounded through his veins. It was like that now, one slow step after another, the hallway stretching out before him. The last door on the left called to him, but he feared what he might find inside. He turned into Rosala's room, expecting to see her sitting up and smiling at him.

She was asleep. And not in her bed. Where the grand and solid four poster had once stood, now a single hospital bed was in its place. It was angled up. A flat disk with a glowing green rune sat on her chest, tubes running from it into her nose. Her skin looked thin and dull, her hands were curled into claws on the ugly hospital blankets.

He went to the tall chest in the corner of their room and found one of her homemade quilts. Silently, he removed the thin honeycomb blanket and replaced it with one she'd made with her own hands. He lifted those hands over the cloth. They were so cold, and they felt frail. Her breathing was labored, and her voice rumbled with every exhale.

Someone had put a stool next to the bed, and he sat down on it. As if picking up a fine piece of jewelry, he lifted her hand. He ran his fingers along the back, tracing the veins there. Suddenly he was five years old again, at the kitchen table.

Sitting on her lap, pressing on the vein, she laughed.

He looked up at her face. Even her vallaslin looked dull. Rosala's eyes opened, just barely.

“Ah. How are you?” she whispered.

“I am fine,” he said. It felt stupid. “Healer Athim is coming today.”

“Good.” Her voice cracked on the short word. “Water.”

He looked at the little table next to the bed. There was a cup with water on it, and a sponge on a stick sitting in it, like a bizarre straw. Rosala put the sponge in her mouth, running along her cheeks and teeth, still breathing in that awful way.

He took the cup from her and set it down.

She found me on the street. He could feel her shaking him awake, her tears against his cheek when she hugged him in her strong arms.

Ishalle didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to mix potions, couldn't cast spells. My husband can. Rosala's eyes closed again and soon she fell back into sleep, the rune pulsing gently on her chest. He sought out Dorian, finding him in the backyard talking to Dras. His cousin nodded at Ishalle, and headed inside.

“She is very sick.” He took Dorian's hand. “They are bringing in Healer Athim.”

Dorian nodded. He was leaning against the halla pen and didn't notice one of the does nibbling at his jacket hem. “Dras told me. I hope Healer can help.”

Ishalle met Dorian's eyes. “Can you?”

The look on Dorian's face broke his heart. His eyes went soft and he pressed his lips into a grimace. “I wish I could. I really do. I never learned any healing magic. It's not something I can just call up on the fly.”

“You are a doctor,” he said, trying to tamp down the desperation he felt.

“A doctor! You got yourself a doctor!”

“Baby, I'm sorry. I'm not that kind of doctor. If I knew how, I'd be in there right now, I promise you that.” He put his hand on Ishalle's shoulder. “I would do anything in my power. But you have to understand me. If I tried to do it, I could kill her, or worse. I just don't know anything about healing magic.”

Ishalle nodded and pressed his forehead into Dorian's chest. “I do not know what I can do.”

“Comfort your uncle.” Dorian rested his chin on Ishalle's head. “Go see what chores need done. I'll help out any way I can. If we work, it will help. Alright?”

“Little bird, you need to eat. You can't work all day and ignore your food. Come inside, eat.”

Ishalle cleaned the kitchen. He fed the halla. Threw scraps to the chickens. Watered the trees and garden. Maddy was on the phone the whole time, calling the hospital, calling supply companies. Sona was making lists, driving out to the stores an hour away. Everyone seemed to have a task, and nobody spoke more than necessary.

And then there was Moska. Ishalle couldn't look at him without feeling a pang of fear. His stoic uncle was sitting in the living room, gripping his hands together and staring at the floor. He'd never seen Moska this way. Even Dorian's wit failed to distract him, and eventually he gave up and headed into the kitchen.

When Healer Athim arrived, Ishalle let out a sigh of relief that deflated him into the couch. Moska showed the healer to the bedroom and left him to his work. The family found themselves congregated in the living room, a thick and heavy silence punctured by the ticking of the mantle clock. Nobody looked at each other.

Dorian brought food to the table, nothing special. He'd employed the kids, directing them and distracting them. He even conjured a few small laughs from Ashe and Dawn. Ishalle managed to eat three bites before giving up and heading to the back porch to smoke. Sona joined him, pulling out a box of cheap cigarettes of her own.

“I did not know you smoked,” he said, mostly to fill the awkward silence.

“I don't. Not really, anyway.” She tried to light a paper match and it bent in her hand. Ishalle leaned over, flicking his lighter. She coughed a little on the first puff. “Quite a day we're having.”

Ishalle watched her smoke. Her eyes were red. She'd probably been up drinking the night before. Not for the first time, he wondered how much they had been keeping from him about Rosala's health. The minutes stretched by, long and grossly silent. “How... how long has she been so bad?” Part of him didn't want to know.

“I don't know,” she breathed. “Could be years, really. She's good at hiding illness. Like a fucking halla. Thinks she's gonna seem weak or something if she tells us anything. What do you care?”

“She is important to me,” he said slowly, peering at her. Does she think I don't care?

“Important, huh? So important that you ran off to the city with her cash.” Sona seemed like a bottle of fizzing wine, bubbling over with pressure. “You get to go away from all of this. You didn't have to watch her fall down, or struggle to breathe, you didn't have to see any of it. All you did was stay out in the city, in your fucking apartment, doing whatever you wanted.”

“How dare you?” Ishalle wanted to stand and leave, run into the house, but his anger had rooted him to the chair, unable to move.

“Oh please. You act like she's some kind of substitute mother for you, but you're never here when things get hard. You only come out when you can get something out of it. You act like you wish she was your mother, but she's my actual mom. You can't possibly know what this feels like, you can't even begin to understand. You don't even care about your mother.” She puffed out a cloud of smoke. “You're lucky you don't care.”

“Sona, stop this.” He smashed his cigarette into the ashtray. “She is your mother, but she is my aunt. None of what you say is true. I love her, and I would have helped if any of you had fucking told me she needed it.”

“Yeah, well, we shouldn't have had to tell you,” she spat. “If you cared you would have been here.”

“Stop. This.” Ishalle didn't have any tears to give, but his voice shook. “I do not want this stupid contest about who is in more of the pain.” Rosala would not want us fighting right now.

Sona fell silent, taking short, sucking drags. Lume walked outside, clapping his wife on the shoulder. “Come inside. Both of you.”

They met in the living room, Moska still in his favorite chair. He looked dead eyed at the wall. Healer Athim walked in and nodded at Moska. “A word in private, lethallin.”

Moska didn't look at him. “Whatever you're gonna tell me, tell all of us.”

“Very well.” Healer settled in on an ottoman. “I am afraid I have no good news for you. I cannot repair her lungs. The tissue is too damaged, and she is too weak. Any restoration magic I can cast will take too much of her own strength to work. Ir abelas, my friends. There is nothing I can do.”

The words were a thick buzz in Ishalle's head. They didn't make any sense to him, how could she be too weak to heal? How could this be happening so fast?

“How long?” Maddy was the only one looking at the healer.

“At most, a few days. It grieves me to tell you this. I've done everything I can to make her more comfortable.”

Moska stood and helped Healer to his feet. He kissed the man on the forehead and both cheeks, his hands shaking. “Ma serranas, lethallin.”

“She was—“

“Stop. Just— save it for later, alright?” Moska slumped down the hall and into the bedroom where Rosala lay sleeping. They heard the door click shut and then an awful silence descended on the house.

“Dawn, Morga, go outside and play,” Sona said in a shrill voice. The two children rose, obedient and walked out to the backyard.

“Healer, thank you for coming.” Maddy nodded at him.

“I will show myself out. Please, keep me informed.” He ducked his head at the family and left.

“Can we stay here tonight?” Ishalle asked the room, unsure of who was in charge now.

“Yeah, of course.” Maddy stood. “Come on, help me get the guest room ready.”

They made the bed, carefully spreading another of Rosala's quilts on top. Maddy talked for a while, going on about when she'd made the quilt and how she'd worked on all of the crafts for the house. Her voice was light, as if she was talking about the weather, or someone else's history. Ishalle didn't know what to do. He ended up following her around the house like a puppy until she gave him some more jobs.

Dorian made them all dinner, a cold pasta dish with none of his usual flair. The meal was subdued, everyone eating and making stilted, polite conversation. He saw how Sona covertly wiped tears from her face. Moska did not join them. Sona got into the brandy, until Lume took away the bottle and sent her to bed. He took care of the children himself, enlisting Dras to help.

After dinner Ishalle went back to Rosala's side. Moska met him at the door. “Lad, if you have anything to say to her, you better say it now.” And with those horrible words, he shut the door, leaving Ishalle to stand and listen to the clicking coming from Rosala's throat.

The stool was uncomfortable, but he sat on it, holding her hand and watching her struggle to breathe. Dorian joined him for a brief moment, but he found little solace with his husband at his back. Instead, he waited, trying to find the words Moska told him to say.

Thank you for rescuing me.

It didn't seem right. If he spoke the words, if he said everything he meant, if he poured out his love, then it was true. She was going to die. But if he didn't say anything...

You mean so much to me.

He could almost feel the presence of Falon'Din. The Escort. His hand outstretched. Rosala only had to take it and then she would go.

I love you.

If he said the words out loud, then what? She was asleep, she couldn't hear him. But maybe she could, maybe she would understand. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, drawing out sparks of white and blue behind them with the pressure. If he spoke, she would know she was dying. And she'd promised him she wouldn't go. She'd said so, just two months ago.

I don't know if I'll be alright without you.

He didn't understand how to go on, knowing she wasn't there. There were wild fantasies then, of the immortality of the ancient elves. They'd lived forever, masters of magic and life, of the soil and the sky. Why couldn't he live in ancient Elvhenan, where death was avoidable? Why did he have to live now, where there was pain and disease, and the short road of life?

Please don't leave me.

Words abandoned him. He clutched her hand in silence, trying to will her to be better. Maybe if he prayed to the Creators, they could save her. And so he bowed his head and he begged Them. Silently, he entreated all of Them to come down, to rescue her, to give her the gift of immortality denied to so many of the People. Dorian came into the room, and saw him with his head down on the bed, mistaking him for being asleep. He guided Ishalle into standing.

“Come to bed, babe. Come on.” Ishalle allowed himself to be guided into the guest room, and into the sheets. He did not dream.

The next morning, when he woke up, he knew. It was still dark outside, but he could hear footsteps up and down the hallway, and hushed voices. Someone said they should contact Clan Athim, and he knew.

“It looks good, Little Bird.” They walked into the front of the empty shop, the one where he invested all her money and his hopes. His paintings hung on the walls, a stack of prints by the register. “I'm so proud of you. Look at all you've done!” She turned in a circle, taking it all in. “Be proud of how far you've come! Falon'Din will bless this place, Ishalle. You'll do so well here.”

Her body was still, the humming breaths no longer coming from her mouth. Her face was twisted into a frown, and she looked so small. Ishalle took her hand again, stroking the veins on the back that no longer ran with blood. He was still there when Clan Athim arrived, and he stayed as two of the younger members transferred her to a stretcher to take away.

And he was still there later, when Dorian found him, sitting alone by the empty bed.

Chapter Text

“When we look at Miss Readorin's work, we see an emptiness. Her sculptures invite the eye to see into nothingness, the representation of the Void. Strange, moving shapes, empty space where there should be something. Her work is at once visceral and frightening. Rather than sculpting what is, she makes what should not be. It's an exhibition worth seeing, if only to examine what is left of us, when all hope and dreams have died.”

“Yes, and what I enjoy about her work is that invitation. The conversation that is had between the viewer and the art. The sculptures ask us to look into ourselves, to fill the blank spaces with our thoughts and imagination. The Antiva Museum of Contemporary Art is pleased to bring her work to the city, and it will be here for the space of one year. We expect the exhibition will be one of the most popular we have ever hosted. Miss Readorin is one of the premier sculptors in Thedas, and we're lucky to be able to show her work to the public, whereas it was only previously available at private showings.”

“A Return to the Void will open next week. For tickets, show times and directions, head to the AMCA website.”

Ishalle stayed at the house for the next three days, walking in a dull haze. He didn't speak to anyone. It seemed after Rosala died, she'd taken his voice along with her. Dorian stayed for one day, but returned to the city to arrange for some time off from work. For a few hours, Ishalle didn't even notice he was gone. Moska sat on the back porch for most of the time, smoking his pipe and staring at the butterflies that danced between waving plants. The days were so beautiful, crystal blue sky, puffy white clouds, birds chirping in the air.

Ishalle wanted nothing.

Maddy took over the household. She assigned everyone chores and tasks, and began the grim job of calling Rosala's friends, the healers, her clients. Ishalle sat at the table next to her for an hour, listening as she called number after number, explaining that her mother had passed, there would be a funeral, yes, they could come if they wished. Her face was pale by the end of it, and solid, strong Maddy hung up the phone at last and cried.

That gave Ishalle something to do; getting water and tissues was an immediate task. He put his arm around her shoulder and listened to her weep. But still, he could not think of anything to say. It's not going to be okay. That singular thought kept slamming into his chest, demanding he acknowledge it. Dorian had left him the bottle of sleeping tonic and he drank some every night, earlier and earlier in the evenings. It knocked him out, giving him too many hours of dreamless slumber.

There was sadness in Maddy's grief, but Sona was a raging sea of anger. He woke one morning to hear the sound of dishes breaking in the kitchen, and a rough scream that made him pull his pillow over his head as if he could hide from the fury. Dawn started to cry in the hallway and he heard Lume call out to the children. There was the thump of a car door, and tires grinding on gravel. Later, he found Sona sweeping up the mess, her face red and blotchy.

“May I help?” he asked, voice cracking from disuse.

“I don't know.” She tipped the dustpan into a paper bag and peeled off her work gloves. “There's something you can do.” She led him outside, through the trees, back towards Falon'Din's shrine. “Clean this up. We'll need it tomorrow.”

He nodded, and got to work.

From his perch of silence, Ishalle watched his family grieve. There was a hollowness to his thoughts that he hadn't experienced before, it was almost like standing in an empty well, staring at the grey sky above and wondering if he'd ever climb out. Or if he even wanted to. It wasn't even that food didn't taste good— it didn't taste like anything at all. Water was just water, sleeping tonic was just another routine. Maddy had to remind him to shower, and he grew mildly embarrassed at his lack of engagement with the family. But it wasn't enough to spur him to try. His uncle seemed affected in much the same way; quiet, uncaring, going through the motions. When Dorian returned, it was to a silent house with dead faces.

The funeral was lengthy. Hearthwatcher followed Rosala's wishes to the letter, allowing all who wanted to speak of her. People he didn't know talked about help she'd offered them, or funny stories, or little sweet anecdotes. Ishalle's voice abandoned him again. Lu was there, weeping softly while people spoke. Dorian stayed by his side, holding his hand tight, a pillar against the coming storm. They lowered the casket into the sunken tomb, and Ishalle joined his family to help place the heavy stone cover. A bouquet of aria, embrium and rosemary was placed on top, before Hearthwatcher lit it on fire to reach the creators.

The stone itself was beautiful. A halla, raised high on the arms of Mythal was etched into the top. At her feet, a bear cub slept. There was script under the art but he couldn't bring himself to read it. Ishalle laid a hand on the stone. It was cold, and for a second he worried that she wouldn't be warm enough.

He stayed at the house for one more night. It seemed less like home and more like a strange hotel. Dorian seemed to want to wait for Ishalle to say something, but he couldn't make any words form. They lay in bed that night, Ishalle leaning against him while Dorian read papers from his students. There was a sensation in his stomach, a block of wood that would not budge. As he fell asleep, he remembered he hadn't texted Jayne to let her know. He mumbled fitfully, until Dorian cast his calming spell again.

The next day, they arrived back in the city, back into their little house. Ishalle turned his phone back on, sent the series of texts he'd forgotten about and laid down on the bed, unsure of what to do next. Dorian joined him, and asked what he planned.

“I do not know.” He stared at the ceiling. “I suppose I must take a little time away from the gallery, yes?”

“It would be best, I think.” Dorian laced his fingers through Ishalle's. “You need to grieve, love.”

“I do not know how.”

Dorian rolled onto his side. “I've often found that family can be somewhat stifling. You seem...different when you're around them.”

“Yes.” Ishalle closed his eyes. “I think they are grieving more than me. She was their mother and wife.”

“That doesn't have anything to do with it. You're allowed to feel what you feel.”

“It is selfish of me.”

“No, baby. It isn't.” Dorian rolled Ishalle on his side and wrapped his body around him. “You should grieve how you see fit. You're safe here. You can let it out.”

“I do not know how.” It was all he could say.

“For now, get some sleep. I'll wake you in a bit, alright?”

Ishalle nodded. They'd been up since dawn, and sleep took him quickly into its depths.

When Dorian woke him, it was one in the afternoon. He brought Ishalle some soup, and talked with him of mundane things. His head was pounding, and he drank down the broth without tasting it. Dorian brought him out into the garden and they laid out on the lounge on the back patio.

“How do you feel?”

“I don't know,” he whispered.

“Lu called,” Dorian said lightly. “She wants to come by later. I told her I'd let her know.”

“Thank you.” At the mention of her name, he was hit with a memory. Lu, lifting Rosala from the ground and kissing her forehead. “I don't need help just to stand!”

When Ishalle was six years old, he'd seen a car accident. It was the only one he'd seen in his life, and he remembered that terrible day well. A truck, an old and outdated model without self driving protection had crashed into seven cars on the highway. He and his mother had been walking home from the store, and he watched as the driver, who had fallen asleep at the wheel, lost control of the heavy truck. It jackknifed, skidding down the road, an unstoppable force.

He felt that slam of terror now, a heavy weight in his chest that exploded into tears. It wasn't one or two tears, or the sickly drunken sobbing he'd done when he found out about Lyon. It was far worse, a thunderstorm in his head that demanded to be let out. The sounds he was making were foreign to him, and part of him was scared at the strength of emotion he was feeling. Dorian wrapped his arms tight around his shoulders, rocking him.

He cried, ugly, heavy sobs. He could not stop thinking about Rosala's body, about the cold weight of the tomb, about any of it. All he could do was wail into his husband's arms, choking and gagging on his tears and snot. The numbness washed away, replaced with blinding pain, and the clear realization that he was never going to see her again. Dorian scooped him off the bench and brought him inside, taking him to the bed and holding him close.

And still, he cried.

Eventually, Dorian brought him tissues, a damp cloth and water, helping him clean the mess he'd made of his own face. The grief exhausted him like nothing else had.

“Try to sleep a little, love.”

Ishalle stripped, climbed into the bed and waited for his body to follow suit. He lay there for hours, soft tears soaking the pillow before Dorian brought him the tonic, allowing him to sink into dreamless nothing.

It was all he could do.

Chapter Text

“My problem is that Thedosians are too obsessed with the past, when we should be looking forward. We have the opportunity to create a bold and bright future, and how can we do that when so much money is going into historical research, restoration projects, excavations?”

“I think you're vastly overestimating how much money goes into those fields. We spend far more on health care research, defense, and technology than all the historical research schools combined together. And I think you're wrong about history as well. The only way to prevent accidents is to study how they happen, the only way to see what went wrong is to learn from mistakes. It's history that taught us better ways to govern, better ways to care for people.”

“That's well and good, but how much more could we possibly learn from dusty old fragments?”

“Plenty! Languages have evolved and changed over the millennia, and we have so much that we haven't even begun to interpret. Look at the dwarves. They have so much to learn, still! Every year, they discover new places down in the Deep Roads, and those places show them more about themselves. Isn't it worth looking back, to discover more about our future?”

Every day Ishalle rose with Dorian, made coffee for the two of them, gathered their breakfasts, ate and sent him off to work. He found some of his old blood lotus and spent the next three days working through his stash. Smoking on the back porch, he'd lay in the hammock for hours, staring at the wavers of heat in the sky. At night, he'd drink the tonic, knocking himself out before Dorian got home. The haze was too tempting for him. He didn't have to feel anything with the lotus. He didn't have to think about Rosala, or the gallery, or his friends. None of it mattered. All he had to do was lay in the breeze and stare at the sky.

On the fourth day, Dorian was off work. He pulled Ishalle in the living room and sat him down on the couch, bringing him a cup of tea.

“Alright, I'm not going to tell you how to grieve. That's not my place.” Dorian sat across from him, his own cup of tea steaming in his hands. “I will say this, though. Spending your days high as a kite and then drugging yourself to sleep isn't helping anything. That tonic is for occasional use.”

“I must sleep.” Ishalle didn't look at Dorian.

“Yes, and you must eat, and go outside, and shower and learn how to deal with this pain. Maker knows I like a drink now and then, probably a bit too much, actually. But you can't do this. This isn't good for you, and I won't watch my husband descend quietly.”

“What I can do?” Ishalle felt tears rolling down his cheeks and he did not wipe them away. “I do not know how to go forward from this. She was there and now she is not there and I do not understand how this thing happened. And I do not-” his own sob cut him off.

“Oh, Ishalle.” Dorian set his tea down and plucked the mug from Ishalle's hands. This joined his mug on the table. “Come here, babe. Come here.” He pulled Ishalle into his arms and stroked his hair back. “I'm so very sorry this happened. I'm so sorry. But I love you, and we need to figure this out.”

“Figure what out? She is dead!” Ishalle began to cry in earnest, fucking Creators he was sick of crying. “There is this nothing to figure out! She left me! She is gone! Why did Falon'Din take her from me?” He babbled some more, and still Dorian held him. He wept until there was no energy for anything else.

Dorian brought him food and drink, and put some mindless television on for him. And then he brought him a phone number.

“What is this?” He looked at the scrap of paper but didn't take it.

“That's a grief counselor. You should give her a call, make an appointment. If you want, I'll call for you, but I need you to try this, alright?” Dorian's soft eyes hurt him. But he agreed.

While a good idea in theory, Ishalle found his counseling sessions didn't give him much comfort. But he returned to work, after two weeks away, and began to try to live his life again. Jayne offered help in her own stilted way. She'd been busy; he didn't realize she'd kept the shop open every day since he'd been gone. He told her to take the day off, but she refused.

“You look like shit.”

He glared at her. “This is how you speak to me?”

“Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that.” She folded her arms in front of her, but didn't back down. “What I mean is you don't really look ready to be here alone. So I'll stay. It's fine.”

“Your mother-”

“She's fine. I asked Spider to look after her and since he needs a studio right now, it works. He paints there, helps her out when she needs it. Don't worry about that shit, I got it covered.”

Ishalle let her stay.

A month had gone by before he remembered he was trying to save money to buy the gallery. With no enthusiasm, he opened up his bank account and looked over his numbers. That month off of working towards it had really put him behind. He stared at the numbers, but his brain wouldn't work. Dorian had forbade him from using the sleeping tonic. As it turned out, the sweet potion was addicting, and he was having endless troubles getting any rest at all. The fury of working towards, and ultimately losing the grant taunted him.

He would have to ask for help.

But he didn't have the energy. Perhaps trying to buy the gallery wasn't such a good idea after all. He walked into his counseling appointment, despite wanting to stay on his couch with a blanket over his head for the rest of his days. The session was very nearly unproductive.

“Ishalle, I'm getting the idea that you're not gaining much from these appointments.” Miss Lucero tapped her notebook in that infuriating way, and Ishalle kept staring at the wall. There was a digital clock in the corner and it let out a soft chirp, filling the silence in the room.

“What can I do?” he said. He didn't actually want to give up. Dorian would be disappointed in him.

“I think what you need is spiritual counseling.” She picked up a tablet and starting poking at it, looking for something. “I have a list of Dalish specialists you can call, some of them are right here in this office.”

He sat with his hands clasped, wanting nothing more than to run out of the room. “We are allied with Clan Athim. They have people...”

“That might be a good idea. Your clan is going to be more familiar with what you need. If you want these numbers I can send them to you. But perhaps you should pay them a visit first. Seek out someone knowledgeable in your traditions. That will probably be more effective than anything I can offer.” She stood and opened her door, waving him out. “Please let me know what you decide, either way. Take care.”

Dorian loaned him the car for the day and Ishalle went out to the desert, seeking the oasis. Hearthwatcher waited for him, her dress scraping the sand when she walked out to greet him. With some sense of shame he realized he didn't bring an offering. She didn't seem to notice. They walked together to her aravel, taking respite from the oppressive heat.

“I am lost.” It wasn't much of an introduction to his troubles but he didn't know where else to begin. Hearthwatcher poured him a glass of cool tea and took a seat across from him on the floor.

“I can see that. Rosala was an extraordinary woman, Ishalle. It is not unusual that you should feel as though you lack guidance without her light.” She folded her hands across her wide stomach. It made her look wise, and Ishalle supposed she was. The Hearthwatcher was required to study for years before taking the title, and he knew she'd worked at it since her teens. She was old now; her face was like a plowed field where wisdom had flourished. “You have not had an easy life. You came to us late, and I could see the pain in your eyes. I know not what happened to you as a youth, but you carry your past in your hands for all to see. It's time to set that burden aside.”

“I was thinking that I had done this thing.” He threw his hands in the air. “Elgar'nan has allowed me to not forgive.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “He appeared to you? I am glad to hear it. That is only your first step. Your past is behind you now. It is time you move forward.”

“This is where I am lost. I do not know how to walk this such path.” Ishalle tried a small sip of the tea. It was spicy, oddly so.

“You must look to the Creators, in that case. They will guide you, as They have guided our people. Come, it's time you visit the shrine.” Hearthwatcher stood and walked out of the aravel with no ceremony. He followed her down the steps and they plodded through the sand, past the oasis, past the cool waters and tall trees surrounding the pond. There was a massive dune arched up behind it, and they stopped at the foot. Heat beat down on his head and he didn't think he had the energy to force his legs up the soft sand.

He didn't need to worry. Hearthwatcher clapped her hands and spread them wide. Sand began to roll, clumping up and compressing into stone. The stone snapped together like magnets, forming an arch that led into the shrine, encased within the dune. A long breath of cool air rushed out to meet them and to Ishalle, it felt like an embrace. While they walked into the tunnel, torches lit along the walls, showing the way. Down they went, down into the deep underground. Stone lined the path, and he could hear water, running from some distant place.

A mosaic greeted them at the bottom of the tunnel, the aspect of Sylaise picked out in colorful tiles. Hearthwatcher herself had cared for the ancient piece, touching up paint and keeping it clean and vibrant. Sylaise held her arms in the air, fire dancing in her hands. Hearthwatcher raised her own hands and cast two small balls of flame. They touched the tiles and the whole mosaic shone a blinding white before splitting down the middle into two great doors. Inside was the inner sanctum, the holiest place in all of Antiva.

He had never been down here before, even when he did his vallaslin rites. It was reserved for guests of the Hearthwatcher, people like him seeking their way. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the room in front of him was a strange sight indeed. A fountain of the clearest water he'd ever seen was in the middle, a simple thing made of stone. One single small geyser in the middle poured water down into the basin below. There were sconces along the walls, eight of them with a mosaic of each Creator above it. These were lit with witchlight, all in bright yellow. Behind the fountain was a statue of Sylaise, mimicking the mosaic that led into this place.

Hearthwatcher took Ishalle to the statue and they two of them knelt onto the stone. It had to be painful for her, but she showed nothing but calm on her face. Ishalle tried to do the same.

“Falon'Din has taken Rosala by the hand and led her to the realm of the Creators. She has joined their sides, in peace. Her spirit has returned to whence it came. This is not a comfort, my child. It is merely fact. Facts have little comfort when we are grieving.” Hearthwatcher took Ishalle's hands in her own and he felt warmth coming from them. “Falon'Din has not come for you. That is what you must bear in mind as you walk your road. He will come for you in your own time, but that time is not now. For now, Elgar'nan and Mythal have granted you life and They wish for you to live it. Dirthamen has granted you wisdom. Ghilan'nain gave you loyalty. June blesses your hands for you to create beautiful works. Andruil has given you the drive to hunt for your successes. And Sylaise, she has given you the peace of home. Tell me, what does Falon'Din have to offer you?”

“Death.” He looked up at the stone face of Sylaise. It was abstract, sharp cheeks, a sharp nose, sharp lips and eyes. She did not look as if she was the face of home.

“Yes, and that gift is not given to you. Not yet.”

“You are thinking that death is a gift.” He didn't want to debate theology with the Hearthwatcher but her words were difficult to hear.

“It can be.” She released his hands. “There is something you must consider about Rosala and her death, and this will not be easy for me to say, nor for you to hear. You need to understand that her disease caused her pain, to the point when the release of death was a gift. She could not breathe, not just in the last few days of her life, but for many, many months before that. I heard her at your wedding, gasping for air. I don't think that even she knew she was doing it. You do not have to be grateful, thankful, or glad that she died. No Creator is ever going to ask that of you. And I will not, either. But you must recognize that she is no longer suffering. And that she would have expectations of you, and that if you wish to honor her life, you must fulfill those expectations. Do you understand, child?”

“If I am to move forward, I must do it for her?”

“For her, if you like.” She said it kindly. “But really, for you. You must do it for you, first. That is what she would expect of you. That you live your life well. And that your motivation is for yourself. Do you know why we write the value of keeping your life your own in our wedding vows?”

“Because life is a gift, yes?” He wondered what that had to do with it.

Hearthwatcher nodded. “A gift, given so that we may live it. Our paths take us forward, whether or not we wish to go. Leaving the past behind is not a simple task, but you cannot live your life always looking back at what might catch up to you. Your life is all you have. And now, you must decide what to do with it.”

Ishalle stood. His knees were screaming in pain from the stone, and he wobbled a little. Hearthwatcher raised herself up with no visible trouble and guided him to the fountain.

“Drink one cup.” She dipped a ceramic mug without a handle into the water and handed it to him.

It was the oddest water he'd ever had. He'd never thought of water as having a flavor, but this tasted like nothing, just a sensation of wetness in his mouth that was somewhat unpleasant. At the look on his face, the Hearthwatcher gave a slight chuckle.

“It is the purest water in existence. Take strength from it.”

“I have many things to think about, Hearthwatcher. Thank you for talking with me.” He set the cup down on the rim of the fountain and watched the clear water flow. Like his emotions over the past month, the water contained nothing at all, and was as flavorless and dull as he felt.

“Sylaise watch over you.”

Fully intending to go home, he got back in the car and pulled out his phone to select his address. He glanced out the window and saw the gates of the cemetery, flanked by massive harts. His feet carried him there. Rosala was on the left side, her tomb bright compared to all the weathered stone around it. Nobody was in the quiet place. He stood in front of her grave, reading her name, the years she lived, the short and simple summary of her life. An entire life, laid out in brief sentences and dates. It seemed cruel.

A shimmer to his right drew his eye. There stood a young boy, glowing a bright, fiery orange. His face aged before his eyes, and the boy became a man, and then an old man, and then slipped away into nothing. Ishalle jumped back and tripped over a root, falling down onto the foot of Rosala's grave.

The thing appeared again, this time as a cat. It shifted and changed into a halla, and then a little girl and then into small dragon, and then into a tree. Wide eyed and more than a little frightened, he clutched at the stone, wondering if this was some aspect of Falon'Din come to take him away.

“Ah. Ahem. I think I am to tell you that you should not be scared of me. Yes. Do not be afraid?” The tree spoke, and shifted again, now a great slavering varghest.

“If you wish that I should not be scared, that is not helping.” His heart was banging against his chest and he worried for a second that he might piss himself.

The varghest shimmered and shifted back into a little boy. A little... Qunari boy? Tiny stubs of horns were poking out of his forehead and then, yes, there were the ears. Pointed, but not long. “I am Change.”

A spirit. “I do not understand.” Ishalle hugged his knees to his chest. He'd never seen a spirit before, and so far he wasn't particularly enjoying the experience.

“Change. I am called Change. I am a spirit. Um. The spirit of change,” it mumbled. “Hence the name. You're changing and so I'm here to investigate.”

“Investigate.” Ishalle narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Hmm. Um. You change. And so I need to be here. To...help?” The thing seemed as confused as he felt. It wasn't wearing any clothes, but it also didn't seem entirely clear on how bodies worked. The arms were stiff and immobile, the chest and belly wiggling unnaturally. “You need help. To change!”

Despite the heat, Ishalle shivered. “What do you want from me?”

“Want? Change. I am Change. But let me think. Wanting. You want to change, which is how I am here. I came through, to see. And to help.”

A bird landed nearby, a little sparrow that picked at some patch of dirt that must have had some tasty morsel in it. Ishalle looked at the bird, at the...

Little Bird.

He shook his head. I am seeing things where there are not.

“No! You see it now! You were Drynne. Then Little Bird. And also Babe. And Ishalle. That's who you are. You moved through all these things and became other things! You changed.”

The shivering wouldn't stop. And Change, it changed again. This time it shifted into a woman, round faced and quite fat. The hair was wrong, it grew straight down into its shoulders and did not move in the breeze. “I have changed, and that is what you wish?” He was still confused.

Change let out a shriek, and Ishalle scrambled back in fear. Maybe he could run for it, make it to the gates and into the car, drive far and fast. Get home. Be safe.

“I do not wish. I am here because you are changing.” It shifted but this time it only transformed its skin, giving itself a long dress. “You are changing. You are shedding your skin, closing a book, turning a corner, whatever stupid metaphor you foolish creatures need. That is what is happening. Life is change, that much I can see about your strange existence. We watch all of you from the place you call The Fade, we can see what happens. And sometimes we have to step through, to guide the way.”

“I know this thing, about life. That it changes. You tell me life changes as if it is some great and smart thing, but I know that it does.”

“It is not life that is changing but you. Someone died. That is a big change, and it is changing your structure, all your parts. So now you need to work out how those parts fit. Hmm. Like this hair. It doesn't work for me, so I have to change it.” Change shifted and slid and slipped around, seemingly scrolling through an endless variety of forms until it settled on a chair, with three legs. “You move forward in the wrong state and you will break. So shift. Change.”

Ishalle decided that spirits were very annoying. “I cannot change my shape.”

“No, that must be very difficult for you,” it said with something resembling pity. “But you can change your mind. Hmm. Change your mind. No, not quite change your mind. Change your thinking. That is what you must do.”

“It is not so simple.” Why was he still here, arguing with this thing? He'd have to consult Dorian on this later.

“Change is not simple. Look at me, do I look simple to you?”

“You are a chair.”

“Now I'm an egg.” It popped into a large, round egg and the sight made Ishalle choke out a laugh. Guilt immediately slapped his face; how dare he laugh while sitting beside Rosala's grave? “Do not frown. Or frown if you want to, I don't really care. But you change your thinking, and then you will find your way. Change your mind about yourself and the rest will follow.”

And with that, the egg disappeared. A thick silence followed, and Ishalle realized he was alone. At least, in the graveyard. He turned to Rosala's stone and put his palm on it. “I hope you will still be proud for me. I hope I can make you proud.” The little sparrow took off in a tiny fury, heading off to some unknown place. He took it as a sign and walked to the car, heading back to the city, to his life, and to his home.

Chapter Text

“It is madness. Four pride demons, roaming the streets, slaughtering indiscriminately. When will Val Royeaux come to its senses? When will they start taking precautions against this sort of thing? Demons have been stopped in every city, every town, every miserable little village throughout Thedas, except in Orlais! When are they going to do something about this?”

“I actually don't disagree with you. We have methods to prevent this sort of thing. We do, and Orlais refuses to accept any of them, because they still follow the Chantry doctrine of refusing to allow mages to work freely. It's despicable. We even reached out to Divine Constant and her only answer was that the Maker's hand is in all things. It's time Orlais reform, and catch up with the rest of Thedas.”

“Last year, there was simply a rumor that demons had been summoned in Ferelden and they sent out the Veil Inspection Team to investigate. And just on a rumor! They didn't find evidence of a tear, but if they had, countless lives would have been saved. So far the death toll from demon attacks in Orlais during the last century is in the hundreds, whereas in all other countries combined it's sixteen. And two of those were from rogue mages who were killed by their own summonings.”

“I wonder if its likely that Ferelden will step in?”

“Could be. I have my doubts. The relations between Ferelden and Orlais have always been on rocky ground. And Orlais is unwilling to compromise with Ferelden under any circumstances. If change is to come to Orlais, it will have to happen from within. The general attitude from the rest of the continent is one of disgust. I personally hope to see some major shifts in attitude in the country over the next few years. Something has to give. And I hope no more innocent lives are lost.”

 

Another month fell away, and Ishalle did not feel a sense of change. Shifting, perhaps, but he still carried numbness with him, wearing it like his sweater. But he kept walking. He went to work, he tried to paint at least a little every day, he kissed his husband, and ate his dinner. Some days he managed to laugh, other days nothing could convince him to smile. Not even Dorian's wit and charm, which he deployed sparingly. The idea that Dorian was adjusting his personality to suit Ishalle's needs nearly threw him into a state of despair, and so, he tried to feel again.

It wasn't for his own sake, but for Dorian's, and he decided that would have to be good enough for the time being. They managed, and by the end of the month, Ishalle was starting to sense normalcy creeping up on him. He knew it wasn't the same for Moska. His poor uncle. Maddy called him one night and confided in him, telling Ishalle how Moska didn't even seem to enjoy cooking anymore. She encouraged Ishalle to come out to the house more often, and so he made regular visits.

Each visit ended the same. Moska and Ishalle, smoking on the back porch, saying very little to each other. Rosala's absence left a rift between them, but he was determined to close it, no matter how long it took. Moska would go to bed before Ishalle left, mumbling and shuffling as if in a daze. His heart ached for his uncle. He persevered. For Rosala.

One night he found Dras, sitting out by the chicken coop, breaking twigs into tiny pieces with careful precision.

“Perhaps I can join you?” Ishalle looked down at his cousin, the one who he'd known since he was born. The quiet snapping of twigs was his only response. He sat anyway, and decided to break a few himself. They made a pile of twigs together, stacking it into a neat tower. For a time, the only sound was the muttering of grumpy hens beyond the thin wooden wall.

“I wanted Grandma to do my vallaslin.” Dras finally spoke, and his voice was tiny. Strange coming from the brash and opinionated teenager. “She did yours, right?”

“Oui. When you were a baby.” Ishalle matched his tone. “I remember it very well.”

Dras threw his twig aside. “Can you tell me about it?”

The question threw him for a loop. Though he'd known Dras for his whole life, he didn't really consider them close. They only ever talked when he was at the house, and usually with other people present. But he was sure Dras had asked the question for a reason, so he told the story, starting with running away from home. When he was done, he looked over at the boy to see him glaring hard at the ground, hugging his arms to his stomach. “I am very sorry that you will not experience this thing. I had hoped it for you.”

“Yeah.” Dras didn't look at him, but when Ishalle stood, he rose too and cleared his throat. “Um... Can I ask you something else?”

Ishalle nodded, curious.

“Could you....um...” Dras turned away from Ishalle, but didn't move to walk. “Will you paint her? For us?”

Shame hit him. He'd never even considered it. How could he have missed that? “I am thinking I would like to do this thing. But, I am also thinking you should help me.”

“I can't paint.”

“Perhaps not, but you and I should work together. I will let you think on this.”

“If I can't help, will you do it anyway?” Dras still had his back to him.

“Absolutely. I promise.”

Dras turned around and stalked towards Ishalle with purpose. His cousin was shaping up to be the tallest in the family, already with six inches on Ishalle's height. Dras threw his arms around Ishalle and hugged him tight, then shoved him aside and walked up to the house, leaving Ishalle bewildered and strangely warm.

On his next day off, he was at home, waiting for the laundry and washing dishes when a knock on the front door echoed through the house. He opened it to find Sona standing there, her hands shoved in her pockets. Removing his dish gloves, he waved her inside. He couldn't have been more surprised if the Divine herself was standing on his porch. He led her to the living room. Sona's eyes darted around the house, taking everything in.

The sofa accepted her. “Nice house,” she said, and fell silent.

Ishalle sat across from her and crossed his legs. “What do you want?” His cousin had never come to visit; he wasn't sure if she'd even spent any time in the city. She'd never even seen the gallery.

“Got anything to drink?” A question with a question then.

He brought her a bottle of tea and resumed his position.

“I was thinking something stronger, but this is fine.” She didn't open the bottle. Instead, she turned it over and over in her hands, avoiding looking at him.

“It is a bit early to start drinking, yes?” His question was met with silence. “Sona.”

“I wanted to... Look. I said some things. When mom died. And before.” The tea spun faster in her hands, bubbles forming around the surface. “I don't think I was being fair.”

Ishalle cocked his head. “You are speaking of the things you said to me. About my faith? And the family?”

“It's not your faith.” She still didn't look at him. “It's not any of that. I guess.”

You are changing. Perhaps Sona was too. Perhaps this was part of his path. He waited for her to speak. After a few uncomfortable moments, she did.

“You know, I actually like the city. It's pretty here. I like the buildings, I like the people. I even like that tree. I always wanted to come here, but it's scary, you know? How could I be Dalish if I lived in the city? What connection could I possibly have to the family? If I lived here, how could I be in touch with the Creators?

“And I wondered. How you could just do those things. You moved here like it was the easiest thing in the world, and you succeeded. That surprised me. That you could come here and just... live. And when you came to visit, you always seemed so sad, so angry. So I thought that the city was making you sick. If it was the city, then everything would have been for nothing. And I didn't want the money that mom gave you to go to waste.”

“I paid her back.” Ishalle didn't plan to interrupt but he wanted to make the point. “I gave her every last sovereign back.”

“I know.” She finally opened the tea and took a small sip. “If you could be successful here, why couldn't I? That was a question I couldn't answer. So...” she trailed off.

Ishalle looked at her, studied her face. Dark circles under the eyes, thick eyebrows with white hairs flecking them. Her nose wasn't as sharp as his. It rounded at the end, matching her soft cheeks. She had lines around her eyes, and a few forming around her mouth. Across from him sat a woman who was unhappy with her life, and he didn't know what to say or how to fix it. Or if he should even try.

“Anyway.” She capped the tea and set it on the table. “I'm visiting Healer Athim later this week. I'm gonna try to work some of this stuff out. But I wanted to say that I don't feel good about the things I said to you. I shouldn't have accused you of abandoning us, or your faith. You're a good man, Ishalle. And I don't want you to think I don't respect what you've done.”

The need to call Rosala and tell her what Sona had just said struck him like a whip. She can't answer her phone. He closed his eyes, but a few tears sneaked out onto his face. He tried to breathe again, tried to stop the flow, but the grief was still there. There was a sound of shifting and he felt a pair of arms wrap around him. He hugged his cousin back, and the two of them shared tears.

“I want to talk to her,” he choked out.

“Me too.” Sona leaned back and blew her nose in a kerchief. “Me too. I miss her so much.”

“You have to help Uncle Moska.” Ishalle stepped across the room and wiped his face. “I worry for him. He does not seem to be well.”

Sona shook her head. “He isn't. You don't stay married for over fifty years and then snap out of your grief when your wife dies.”

Ishalle made a helpless gesture. “I know this thing. But I worry that he will give up.”

“It's likely.” Sona took his chair. “If you want to help, keep showing up. Keep talking to him. Maybe the two of you can make something together. That might get him moving again.”

Ishalle thought about the request Dras made of him. The painting of Rosala would need a frame, after all. He changed the subject, and Sona bit. They talked of her kids, of Lume. He asked about Maddy, and they shared a few stories of everyday life. The conversation didn't so much flow as halt along. Sona and Ishalle hadn't really ever gotten to know each other, despite the long years between them.

Later that afternoon, they went for a walk. He showed her the yard, then they made their way to the gallery. Jayne seemed surprised to see him, a guilty look on her face. She had a large wall of plywood in front of her and was putting the finishing touches on a painting. Sona seemed fascinated by the work, examining it closely. There was a horse's head, done in sweeping green strokes. The face of a woman in profile was behind it, and birds surrounded them. The colors were bright and beautiful. Ishalle beamed at Jayne, proud of her hard work. He complimented the painting and Jayne shrugged it off.

Ishalle and Sona left the gallery and kept walking. Things were stiff between the two of them, but he appreciated her effort. The last stop was the vhenadahl. Sona looked up into the great branches and sighed, a smile creeping up on her. They stayed until the sun began to set, and when she got into her car, they hugged one more time. Ishalle wasn't entirely certain they'd ever be friends. Too many things had been said, things he couldn't forget. While she was clearly trying to make amends, her words still stung. But, it was time to move forward. For all of them. He watched her drive away, and stood on the porch, alone once more.

Chapter Text

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A bare embrium stalk waved in the wind outside. It was covered in dew, much like the rest of the world outside the gallery. Ishalle watched it, trying to take in the scene. Capture it while it lasted. There was no way he could come up with the money by Firesday. He didn't want to tell Jayne. They'd spent the last year working themselves ragged. At least this way, she could move on. Perhaps she'd hate him for the rest of his life, but at least she'd stand a chance without being burdened by the gallery.

Jayne stomped into the shop, bundled in a hoodie with a wool coat over it. She thrust a coffee at Ishalle, and then dropped a canvas bag on his desk in front of him. He mumbled out a thanks and stared at his bank account. They were just under eight grand short of the final goal, and Lily had contacted him to tell him she was getting ready to sell the building. Maybe she could give them another month, maybe if he asked her nicely... They were so damn close.

“Stupid. Open the bag.” Jayne snapped him out of it. She clicked her fingers and pointed. The bag had been awfully loud when it landed. He opened it and slapped it back shut, as if a venomous snake was staring at him from within.

“Where did you- How?” Disbelieving, he opened it again. Bundles of bills, hundred sovereign bills, crisp and new. “What did you do?” he whispered and looked up at her. She wore her usual glare.

“Don't look at me like that. I didn't rob a bank. Sold all my fuckin' paintings. That's what I did. There's thirteen grand in there. I counted. Twice.”

Ishalle could only stare, his mouth hanging open like a turtle. “You...sold all your art? And you saved the money? For this?”

“Yeah, for fuckin' this. I don't want this gallery going anywhere, man. I told you, I don't know what I'd do without this place. So since you talked to me about buying it, I've been selling all my shit on the side, and online, and I did that thing you told me to do, I jacked up all my prices and like, people paid for it. So, there. There it is. Can you buy the building now?”

Jayne gave her monologue like she was making excuses, like she hoped Ishalle wouldn't be mad at her. He stood, still not believing this was really happening and stepped forward.

“Don't hug me, dude. I'll cry.”

“I will not hug you. But I wish to. I cannot believe you did this thing. You saved us.”

“Yeah. Well. Look, there's something I wanna say and you need to sit down and shut up for a second, alright?” She started pacing and Ishalle took his seat, and his coffee. “So, look. I was not doing well when you hired me. Like I've had about twenty jobs. That kind of not doing well. But nobody ever gave me a chance, it was always like they were just waiting for me to fuck up and then they'd like, watch me and shit, and I would fuck up and then I'd get fired. Like, I've been here for seven years. Seven fucking years, I've never had a job that long! And my mom, she tries, but like, she's sick all the time and I try to help her, and we fight a lot. And I just never felt like,” Jayne stopped pacing and turned on her heel, facing Ishalle in his seat. “Fuck.”

For his part, he stayed perfectly silent and still. Sometimes Jayne was like a brooding dragon, hissing over her clutch, and so he remained quiet, hoping his demeanor would coax out her words.

“I never felt like I was worth it. But you gave me a chance. And you keep giving me chances and like, you keep doing this shit. You believe in me. And I'm not gonna let you fail at getting that money for this place. This gallery is the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I'll be fucked if I let it get away.”

If he was unsure about Jayne before, every last shred of uncertainty floated away with her speech. He blinked a few times, trying to gather his bearings. He'd been expecting a muffin. And then maybe a talk with her about what they were going to do if they didn't get the money in time. Not to have the problem solved, not all at once. “Jayne. Thank you.”

“Yeah, sure.” She shrugged. “So what happens now?”

Ishalle realized he didn't actually know. He called Lily, and told her he could now put the down payment on the gallery and she arranged a meeting for the next week. Waiting made him feel slightly sick. He pictured the bank burning down and taking the hard earned money with it. Neither Jayne nor Ishalle slept well that week. They went through the motions at the shop, business as usual, but it was difficult for him to not imagine all the ways this decision could go wrong.

The meeting itself was uneventful, especially for a meeting that was literally changing his life. With an endless whisk of signatures, he didn't just own the business, he owned the whole building. Now repairs and maintenance were his responsibility, now vetting renters upstairs and getting rent money from Lu was his job. Dorian had several congratulations for the both of them, (and a special private one for Ishalle later) and even Jayne's mother came down in her wheelchair to see what all the fuss was about.

A party seemed the natural thing to do. Ishalle's family came out from the countryside, Vivienne and Lu and all their friends showed up as well. It was like a strange dream, all the congratulations and joy and toasts, muted through the grey shades of grief. He shed a few tears after everyone had left, but they didn't take over his body. Pencil and paper helped. Long after Dorian had gone to bed, Ishalle drew. He sketched faces. Vivienne. Neria. Lu. Dras. He sketched Dorian, and gave him a book and a glass of wine and a contented look. He drew Jayne, three times. In one, she was laughing. And then he sketched Rosala and Moska, smiling at each other. The sky was light by the time he went to bed, but after so long, his heart did not weigh him down. That night he dreamed of a garden.

“I am not sure what to do now, Dorian.” The sun was setting, and they lay in the hammock together, watching the butterflies.

“Hmm? I was thinking we lay here for a while, then roll off to bed.” Dorian's eyes were closed.

Ishalle rocked the hammock with his toes. He was tired. The celebrations of purchasing the gallery took nearly a week to do properly, and he looked forward to relaxation. “I was thinking more about Jayne. Do you think she is ready for this?”

“It doesn't matter what I think, babe. But, I do have something useful to tell you, don't you worry about that.” He pressed a finger to Ishalle's chest. “One of the parts of my job is helping students figure out when they're ready to defend their thesis. And that can take a terribly long time. And while I say that I help them, really what I'm doing is helping them figure it out for themselves. You've been doing that with Jayne. I've watched you guide her. All you need to do is ask her if she thinks she's ready.”

“It does not matter what I think, is what you are saying.”

“Well, that's a bit harsh, but essentially, yes. Jayne is your student. Now you need to decide if you're ready to let her spread her wings.”

Ishalle watched a shining blue butterfly land on an embrium stalk. The plant swayed in the breeze, its tight bud leaking sweet nectar. Rosala had given him the means to grow, just like her plants. She'd nurtured and cared, and instructed and cajoled. And Ishalle...

He had grown.

Like the plant he named his gallery for, he'd bent and swayed under stress, keeping himself closed up tight until the timing was just so. And then he bloomed, he'd given something to Jayne. He'd poured himself into his art, into Jayne's career, into his relationship, but he didn't feel empty. Instead, he felt filled with purpose and drive. He felt ready to move forward, to walk down the long and dusty road, Dorian at his side, leaving a trail of blossoms in his wake.

End of Part Three

Chapter Text

Epilogue

 

“Well, listeners, this is it. Tonight marks our final broadcast here at Bread & Salt. We want to extend a special thanks to everyone who joined our show over the years. And a special thanks to those who made it all possible, including you, our listeners. Without your constant feedback, recipe suggestions, letters and phone calls and emails, your activity on our Parchmnt page, this show would not have lasted twenty years, as it did. Rosa?”

“Oh, this is a sad day, but all good things must come to an end. And while we're on the subject of thanks, I want to reach out to some of our listeners who offered us their undying support. Ariel Roxanne Teknon, from Starkhaven, who managed to give us feedback on every single episode. I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Teknon last year, and I want to extend my sincere congratulations on her book deal. Kimani J Trevelyan was another listener who really bolstered our projects. She would regularly send in photos of recipes she'd made, and offer us excellent feedback. And last of all, Finleigh Blackwall, who called in often, and offered up many excellent recipes and recommendations, all of which are listed on our website.”

“Yes, absolutely. I also want to thank author Missati Valois for her work in sponsoring the program over the years. Her voice brought many new ears to our show, and without her, we would not have been able to shape the program into what it became. Wren Giovanni is also owed our thanks for helping us work this into a better program, right from the start. And last, a very important thanks to our executive producer, Natalia Pierce. Without her constant oversight, and enthusiasm, we would never have gotten this far. Thank you to all of you, from all over Thedas.”

“This is Rosa de Salas.”

“And I'm Lucien Mac. And you've been listening to Bread & Salt. Take care, and remember: it's not the quality of the food but of the companionship that matters most.”

 

The sun's rays bathed the graveyard in their gentle light. Ishalle stood next to Dorian, hand in hand as they laid the flowers down on first Rosala, and then Moska's stones. Moska had joined his wife nearly five years after she'd been carried away by Falon'Din. Ishalle lowered his head, saying silent prayers. It was Rosala and Moska's wedding anniversary, and he felt a low ache that this was their only celebration. It wasn't fair, he thought, that two people in love should ever be parted so. He held Dorian's hand a little tighter.

Ten years had gone by since Rosala passed away. A whole decade, gone in a flash. The gallery was flourishing under Jayne's capable hands. He visited last week, met her newest student, and beamed as he looked around the walls. They held so much art now. Antiva City was becoming known for its growing art scene, and that people were now moving to the city to share their own works. It hadn't started with Ishalle, but he'd helped coax it along.

And Jayne had become a teacher. She was now teaching two classes a week at the Antiva College of Art, trying to stem the tide of bad lessons and worse professors. Some of her students ended up working part time at the gallery. Others opened places of their own, and Ishalle watched the scene grow, art passing along through many hands and eyes. Some mornings as he walked down the street, people would stop to talk with him, people he didn't know, but who knew him. It was a strange sensation. His name was not household, but he was recognized.

Dorian straightened Ishalle's collar. “As gorgeous as you were when we first met.”

“Stop this thing,” Ishalle teased. “You flirt.”

“How can I resist?” Dorian kissed him, twice for luck. “Ready?”

“I am thinking so, yes. Perhaps. Maybe not.” His legs felt weak.

“You can do this, babe.” Dorian took his arm and led him out of the house. The porch needed a coat of paint. He made a mental note to look into that after the opening.

The opening.

This was a big night, one of the biggest of his life. He lamented that his aunt and uncle wouldn't be able to attend, but the rest of his family would be there to support him. Dras, taking a much needed break from his job with the engineering firm. Morga and Dawn, who had taken over the family business. And Ashe, who had dropped out of college and was seeking a new path. He looked forward to seeing them all. Lu would be meeting them there. Some days he worried for his friend, and her soft heart. But she would persevere. She'd never done anything but.

It was a warm night, a wonderful night. Lu stayed in his thoughts as they walked downtown. She'd done so well over the past decade. Vivienne's parties had indeed connected her to the right people. Her jewelry was now considered couture, especially up in Par Vollen. Maryden had turned down Lu's request to get some pieces in one of her music videos, but was now on one of Lu's waiting lists. “The long one,” she'd told Ishalle, laughing.

He wasn't surprised when she'd finally broken up with Thom after seven years together. He was surprised that they remained friends, and rather good ones at that. Lu was seeing a woman these days, a soft bellied Qunari from Lothering. Her name was Marla, and Ishalle found her charming and sweet. A gentle complement to Lu's sometimes sharp and vivid nature. They'd spent many pleasant evenings at Marla's tiny farm, watching the chickens scratch and the goats eating back the ever growing blackberry vines.

Case would be there tonight as well. He'd moved last year, down to Rialto. His gallery stayed open downtown, and he opened a second in Antiva's second largest city. It was doing well, or at least fair. Ishalle hadn't yet met Case's new baby, another Angost to add to Thedas's sizable collection. The adoption papers had come through last year, and Case had called him, crying with joy. He'd given up on finding a partner, and taken the steps to becoming the father he always wanted to be.

Dorian stopped Ishalle at a stand selling iced mint tea and bought them both a cup. “Tea, for luck.”

“This is a Tevinter custom? One of your many secret rituals, yes?”

“Oh yes, but after you drink the tea, you have to sacrifice a lamb for its blood. And cackle.”

“I do not want to ruin this nice shirt.”

They laughed together, and kept walking. The museum had a small crowd gathered already, maybe about thirty people. Vivienne's height made her easy to find and they hugged each other warmly while Bastien and Dorian greeted each other and chatted about the weather. Neria arrived, draped in jewel toned shawls and carrying a bottle of cheap sparkling wine.

“You do know, my dear, that this event is catered?”

Neria tucked the bottle in some unseen pocket or bag. “You can never be too careful.”

“I'm sure.” Vivienne pointed to the side doors. “You had better head in, Ishalle. The curator is looking for you.”

Ishalle took Dorian's hand and they walked in, his heart dancing around and making his head ache. The back room had even more strange people milling about, and he scanned the room for Lu, but she wasn't there yet. Late again. The Antiva Museum of Contemporary Art wasn't the biggest art museum in the city, but it was one of the more prestigious ones.

He saw the curator, finally. She clicked over in sharp heels, clutching her clipboard. “You're here.”

“Yes?” The way she pointed out his presence seemed accusatory.

“Good.” She scrutinized his clothes. Her beard was long, oiled and curled into soft and lovely ringlets. She wore her hair in an equally curly bob that bounced on her shoulders when she walked. Her nose was large and round, her eyes dark brown. Her golden brown skin was smooth as silk, though he knew she was somewhere in her forties. She was one of the most formidable women in the art world; a snap of her fingers and works were hers. Under her gaze, Ishalle felt like a sticky child holding aloft a collage of pasta and glitter. “This is how it's going to go. Lights on, introductions, speech by me, speech by Vivienne, and then one from you, you'll talk about the piece, we unveil it, mingle, mingle, drink, go home. Security will have everyone out of here by two in the morning.”

Ishalle nodded. It seemed best that he not speak right now.

“That's it, any questions you can ask my assistant. Congratulations on being accepted into the permanent collection.” She clicked away, barking out an order to a man leaning against the wall. Ishalle saw the man shake himself upright and follow her, struggling to keep up.

“Be proud, babe.” Dorian turned Ishalle towards him. “You've earned this.”

“I have, haven't I?” He smiled up at Dorian, with a sense of wonder.

“With your own hands.”

The speeches were, blessedly, short. Ishalle had still not gotten used to public speaking. Noticing the shifting of feet and the gentle coughs, he opted to keep his words down to a few important thanks, and a brief explanation of his work. Jayne was in the front row, standing between Lu and Dorian. He saw Vivienne smiling at him from the side. And there was Case, a drooling baby girl strapped to his chest.

He turned to the curtain and pulled the rope.

There was a soft collective gasp from the audience, and it was as great of a reward as the wall the art hung on. Moska's ironwood frame gleamed under the bright lights. His uncle left the wood in its natural shape. Knots and little stumps of branches pointed up on the bottom of the frame, drawing the eye to the work.

It was Rosala. The massive painting had taken him two full years to complete. In the background, Clan Athim sat around a fire. He'd painted the singers, some holding instruments. Hearthwatcher, Keeper and Healer all stood in the group, their arms raised to the sky. Rosala was in the foreground, her face illuminated by the fire on the left side. And Dras sat before her, accepting his vallaslin, the ink that marked him for Andruil. Rosala's eyes were his favorite part. In them, he painted light, he painted the love for her family. He painted the love for their culture in every aspect of the work. Rosala's hands held needle and cloth, and he'd given Dras a serene expression.

His younger cousin had been thrilled with the idea. He'd waited until the work was done before heading into the desert and taking his rites. Later, he'd told Ishalle that he really felt like his grandmother was there, watching over him and keeping him safe and calm. That had been eight years ago.

The next few years were spent networking, doing all manner of boring and tedious meetings, but he'd gotten in. Maybe it wasn't the Grand National Gallery. But it was still an achievement to be proud of. He knew as he mingled with the visitors that Rosala would surely be proud of him, standing today in this esteemed place. And he hoped that somewhere, she was giggling and blushing at the thought of being a subject in a work of art.

The walk home was muted. Ishalle felt like he was floating outside of himself, watching as he strolled hand in hand with his husband. Dorian had grown out his hair; long and flowing black locks draped over his shoulders. There were appealing streaks of white up at his temples, and little white flecks in his short, neat beard. Ishalle loved that beard. He loved stroking it, he loved watching Dorian trim it in the mornings, he loved the way it felt against his skin when they kissed.

They arrived at their front door, and Ishalle took in the sight of their home. Flowers waved in the breeze, their buds closed for the night. Dorian pressed his fingers into the rune and the door opened with a soft click, and closed behind them.

“How do you feel?” Dorian asked as he took his shoes off.

“So very strange, my love. I have em, achieved my goal. Now what is it I should do?”

“It's been that kind of year, hasn't it?” Dorian hung his jacket and waved for Ishalle to follow. He sat on the foot of the bed, undoing all his buttons and clasps. “I got my second book published, and that speaking tour, you got into the museum. We've done great things. And you want to know what's next? I think we continue to do these great things. There's always more to strive for, you and I.”

Ishalle stopped Dorian's working hands and held them tight, standing between his legs. “Yes. More to do, of course. More on this long life that we have together.” He tipped Dorian's chin up and kissed him, indulging in his soft lips. “More, always. And I am thinking as long as we keep loving each other, this road will be very nice, yes?”

“As long as I live.” Dorian's face was solemn, but his eyes were soft. Little crow's feet were growing in the corners. Ishalle stroked his cheek, and met his gaze.

“I will never stop loving you, Dorian Pavus.”

“I should hope not!” Dorian tugged him back and they flopped over together.

“I am serious,” Ishalle laughed. “I feel as if you remain at my side, we can do anything we wish.”

“I agree.” Dorian kissed him back, and stroked up the back of his head. “Anything.”