Chapter Text
Dorian POV
Tevinter. Oh, how long he had wanted to come back. How much he had missed it, the smells, the weather, the culture that he used to think normal only to see how different it was in the South…and now he was finally there, after what had seemed like an eternity, maybe more!
…Except, not really. It hadn’t felt like much time had passed after all. At first he was homesick, it’s true. He had dreaded every day he spent in the cold climates of the South, each place seemingly colder than the next. But then, something changed. He met someone that made the wait to go back a lot more bearable. And suddenly, when it was time for him to finally make his way back home, a part of him was surprised to hope that he could stay for a little while longer.
Technically, nothing was stopping him from staying either. He was a free man, in every sense of the word, and could do as he chose. But he had made a promise to himself. He had promised to himself that he’d go back and try to change things. After he had seen all those new history-altering information in the Temple of Mythal, after all the accomplishments his- the inquisitor had done with an ease that would leave the best of strategists in awe…he had to try and do the same. His pride wouldn’t let him abandon his quest. In a relatively short amount of time, the inquisitor had ended a rebellion, a civil war, oh, and yes, stopped the end of the world. In comparison, what Dorian wanted to do shouldn’t be that difficult at all.
It hadn’t been easy, leaving. He had made friends, met people that he’d miss interacting with…and he’d met his Amatus. The fact alone that he’d call him ‘Amatus’ casually in his head without flinching was proof enough of his importance. Leaving him was the hardest part of all. It was embarrassing how often he had lied in his arms back then and thought that redeeming his homeland didn’t HAVE to be his task alone. It was as if a demon’s call was beckoning him to sit back, let others do all the work, and allow himself to get lost in the pleasure of just staying by his lover’s side for just a little while longer. But, like any good mage, he knew to resist temptation. No matter how great. No matter how many times his brain came up with the most convincing arguments as to why there wasn’t any harm with staying. But in the end, he did leave. His pride had won. Another demon all on its own.
And now, it had been five years. Five years back in Tevinter. Five years away from his Amatus. Five years without the Trevelyan’s jokes, his smiles, his touch…Five years of his inquisitor sending him letters and he…never replying back.
Of course, it wasn’t as simple as that. It’s not as if Dorian casually threw aside Harold’s letters and dismissed replying to his correspondence. No, of course not. But Dorian knew something Harold did not. He knew that as soon as he’d put the quill down and start replying to him, his resolve would break down. He’d want to come back. He’d take the first ship out of Tevinter, and run back to his waiting Amatus’ arms. Not doing that by just reading his lover’s letters was hard enough. So, he simply didn’t write him back. Even when the letters kept coming. Even when the letters came more sparingly. And even when they stopped entirely, around four years later. Even though part of him was hurting and missing him terribly, and even dared to be angry when the letters stopped. But was he angry at Harold, or at himself? He knew he had invited this turn of events. He was the one not writing after all. But now that he hadn’t had even one letter from him in so long…he was going insane.
The fact that his trip back home seemed to have been pointless made their separation all the more painful. Because, unfortunately, the Tevinter folk were still as stuck up as he remembered them. He had arrived with such high hopes, so many expectations, and yet no matter how loudly he argued, how much he tried to apply pressure in the right places, any progress he’d make would get overshadowed with the opinions of the many. The ones that were still set on believing the wrong and convenient things. Even though he had found supporters and people that listened, their influence and help could only get him so far. It was simply not working out. And that was killing him. He had wanted to make a difference, just like the Inquisition had. He wanted to be the voice of change, ANY change. He had wanted all this hurt he had put himself through to have meant something.
And of course Harold had originally offered his help; of the entire inquisition, and his personal one. He had been almost too understanding of what Dorian had to do. And of course, Dorian had refused, because he was set on succeeding on his own. But after years of failure after failure, of tiny steps of progress being stomped by giant steps that took him right back to where he started, he cursed the day he refused the inquisition’s help. He cursed the day that he had told Harold that he shouldn’t come with him. Oh, how much he missed that man. He would have charmed the entire magisterium in a week, tops.
Right now, he was just tired. Now that the letters had stopped coming, he was alone. No matter how much he drank, how many insignificant one night stands he’d take to his bed, it changed nothing. He had failed, and he was more of a fool for it. He had left the most important man of his life, the only one that had ever cared for him, and for what?
“Kaffas,” he grunted to himself, slamming a book shut and pouring himself some more of his favorite brandy in his mug. Trust him to get lost into thoughts of self-pity while he was supposed to be researching ancient Tevinter slave laws. And that was just some light reading to take a break from the heavy stuff. He sighed and rubbed between his eyebrows. He looked around the dusty room he was in that served as his library and study. There were hundreds of books stacked on top of each other, and dozens of others open to specific pages that he had instructed his servants not to touch under any circumstances. There were years of research and papers with hastily written findings and thoughts on how he could convince others. But under the dim light of his table lamp, and under the influence of his mood and alcohol, right now they just looked…sad. He drank some more of his brandy and stood up.
How long had it been without Harold sending word? Five months? Six? He walked out of the study, and went to his bedroom next door. A much cleaner and neatly tied room, since the servants had no instructions on keeping it alone and untouched, unlike his study. He walked up to a drawer next to his bed and opened it, mug still in his free hand. He knew that he shouldn’t do this. It was only going to make him ache more. But he was already thinking about him anyway. Might as well go all the way.
He took out a thick stack of letters, neatly tied up with a string. Each was opened and closed multiple times, yet cared for as to not fade the words on the papers. He walked back to his study, his feet dragging along until he sat back down on his favorite chair that he had brought back from Skyhold. He cleared his throat, as if about to do a speech, and pulled out the top most letter from the pile. The last one Harold had ever sent. He knew that one well. He bit his lip and opened it. Might as well start with the hardest one since he was feeling self-destructive today anyway. He started reading.
Dear Dorian,
I apologize for my previous letter, though it’s been almost a year now since I sent it. I had had a couple of drinks at the tavern with the guys and wrote to you without thinking. By the time I realized what I had written the messenger had already left. Pay my words no mind.
I’ve decided that this will be my last letter to you. It’s time, and I’m sure you have better things to do.
I hope you are doing well. I hope you got what you came for. I hope you are happy.
I’m going to
Goodbye,
Harold Trevelyan.
Each time he read the letter, Dorian had wanted to tear it up and throw it away in the trash. His hands were almost shaking as he recalled how he felt when he first read the letter. It hurt him to see how much Harold’s stance had changed. Even though it was a small letter, he could see it. Harold had finally given up on him. To say that this wasn’t how the first letters were written would be an understatement. The first letters Dorian had received from Harold were filled with passion, hope of a reunion sometime soon, and fresh hurt at their separation that mirrored his own. But Dorian had invited that last letter by never responding to him and by forcing himself to stay strong for his work. He regretted it terribly.
He traced over the crossed out line on the letter. ‘I’m going to’. Going to what? He had pondered that many times. But there was no use in wondering now, was there?
He took another large gulp of his brandy and refilled the mug. He took a deep breath and looked at the rest of the pile of letters before deciding on doing some more reading. Now this was going to hurt even more.
He put the last letter aside carefully before he picked the previous one out of the string and opened it. This was the letter Harold had claimed to have written while drunk. But Dorian knew that that letter held far more truth than most of the others. He started reading again.
Dorian,
It’s been a while again. How are you doing? I’m just
The rest of the letter seemed to have a much sloppier penmanship, as if the first couple of sentences were written at a completely different point in time.
I don’t understand, Dorian. I don’t get it. I thought I did but now I’m just wondering. Why haven’t you replied to any of my letters? You know how much I miss you. I don’t understand. Was it always just me? I wish you’d just reply to me just once to let me know if you’re even still alive. Are you laughing right now? I know, it’s stupid. I’m pining like a stupid wife waiting for her husband to come back from the war. It’s been so long. I’m so angry with you. If you were here right now I don’t know what I’d do. I wish you’d reply to me just once and just tell me I’m a moron to allow me to let you go.
Should I have tried harder to stop you from leaving, is that what I should have gotten out of this? I know you used to love me. Sometimes I wonder if I just imagined all that. Did you use blood magic on me? At least then it’d make more sense why you’re not replying to me.
Just tell me you don’t care.
I don’t care if I sound pathetic. I don’t care if you’re reading this aloud in the nearest tavern right now while having a bunch of laughs. I’ve always been sincere in my feelings for you. You always knew what I felt. You had told me you’d come back but, I guess you were lying, weren’t you? You were just saying what I wanted to hear, or wanted to make the goodbye easier. It’s not easy for me now. Part of me is still waiting and it’s making me sick. I hate you for that. I don’t care if that makes me childish. But I hate knowing that I’m here, still missing you while you’re probably out there struggling to remember the name of that inquisitor you used to fuck. I guess I should have figured it out from the beginning. Good for you then. Broke the mighty inquisitor’s heart and lived to tell the tale.
Hope this Tevinter business was fucking worth it you stupid ass.
Maker help me, I still love you. Please come back.
Harold.
Dorian sniffled a bit once he finished re-reading the letter that was sent over three years after he had left. Harold was always an…intense drunk. All that smooth composure he’d have, all that charming noble appearance was reduced to this rambling letter after who knows how many drinks. He didn’t know if the Iron Bull was still a part of the inquisition, but it was very likely that he had a hand in getting Harold this drunk.
But Dorian knew that those words were true. He could see how much Harold was hurting. And he hated himself for it. Because of his selfishness he was doing more harm to Harold than good. He could have written him a short letter to tell him it was over at any time so Harold could have moved on. He could have even made one of the servants write it to make it even easier. But he didn’t, did he? Because he was selfish, and part of him didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want it to be over either.
And then almost a year later, Harold’s final letter came, and the decision was out of Dorian’s hands. And Dorian was the fool all along.
Dorian looked over the letter, reading certain lines over and over again.
‘I still love you’.
’Please come back’.
‘How much I miss you’.
When that letter first came, he had been shamelessly crying in his study while drinking for what seemed like hours. Even after more than three years away from each other, he still loved his Amatus greatly. But back then, it felt like more work needed to be done. He thought he still had a chance, and had ideas as to what he should do next for Tevinter. But now, there wasn’t even that anymore. Now there was nothing holding him here.
As he finished the bottle of brandy, he wondered to himself if he could actually go back. He placed the mug down on his desk with more force that was needed, and pulled out the very first letter Harold had sent. Sent almost five years ago now, and read more times than Dorian could count.
Dear Dorian,
I haven’t sent a letter to Tevinter before, so I don’t know when this will reach you, but I hope it doesn’t take too long. Have you settled in already? I hope your chair arrived safely, or I’m guessing some sailors got an earful from you. Please be gentle on them.
Things have been hectic here. Josephine seems to want to drown me in diplomacy talks with other noble houses, and Leliana wants to assassinate everything as per usual. Shit, she is probably reading this. My sincerest apologies, Leliana, please don’t assassinate me too. Cullen is doing good as well. Our forces are looking stronger than ever.
You’d think closing the breach would allow me a break now, but now that everyone is not busy fighting demons they’re busy thinking of themselves. I wish you were here to see the Orlesian nobles that have gathered in Skyhold to meet me. I know you love to criticize them almost as much as Varric.
But let me guess, you’ve already settled everything back home and are ready to come back. Or maybe they asked you to become the next Black Divine? Are Divines supposed to be celibate? Please refuse the offer if so.
I apologize, but it’s been over a week since you’ve been gone and I’m feeling the effects. I miss waking up next to you. I miss kissing you. I miss touching you. I miss…let’s just say we have a lot of catching up to do when you come back. That, I promise.
I’m writing this in-between meetings so I better keep this short. I expect a full report on how coming back to Tevinter has been, and what you’re wearing. The offer for me to drop everything and come see for myself still stands. I’m sure the inquisition can survive a few weeks without me.
Your Amatus,
Harold Trevelyan.
Dorian swallowed, reading over the passionate words. He wanted that Harold back, now more than ever. Now that he had faced defeat, all he wanted was to crawl back to his Amatus and hear him laugh again. Touch him again. Oh, how much he missed his handsome face.
Could he go back? Should he? Why not? What was stopping him? He stood up in a rush of adrenaline, letter still in hand. He was actually seriously considering it now. He could go back. Back to Harold. Back to his inquisitor. Maybe he could actually make a difference with the inquisition’s help now that he had gone back to his senses and could accept their help.
Regardless, it was far too late into the night to make any decisions, not to mention any decision he’d make now would be influenced by the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed. So he decided to go sleep it off and see how he felt in the morning.
When he woke up the next morning with a hangover, yet with just as much need to leave as before, he made plans to set off immediately. In a couple of days he was ready to go, and after sending a quick missive to Skyhold, he got on the next ship back. The servants that helped him get ready were as much confused as he was excited. This would be either the best, or worst rush decision of his life.
I’m coming back.