dorian pavus (redimere) wrote in wtnvgame, @ 2022-04-21 11:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | !action/thread/log, -player: ashe, -player: emma, dragon age: anders, dragon age: dorian pavus, final fantasy: urianger augurelt |
Dorian had been working more with Anders of late - ever since he'd involved the mage and his spirit in his efforts to combat Thancred's difficult situation - and had found that he didn't entirely disdain his company. He had kept his distance to some degree in the early days because his feelings with regard to Tevinter were complicated at best and Anders seemed to have a rather optimistic view of his homeland. Still, he was clever enough for a southerner and had insights into spirits and healing magics that were quite useful. While Dorian's first choice in academic discussion - and indeed in most things - would be Urianger, the elezen had yet to stop by this day and so he was more than content to engage with Anders.
Of course, conversation had turned to Tevinter, which was always unfortunate.
"I can appreciate," he said, pouring himself a rather full glass of wine because he could already tell that it would be needed, "that my homeland served as a comfort to you in your struggles and suffering, but you must understand that the fairytale of Tevinter is vastly different than the reality. Even for mages, Tevinter is not a paradise."
Anders sighed, pinching his brow; he was tempted to reach for a glass of his own, though he knew full well there was no point, Justice's aversion to anything that might render their shared vessel beyond control stubbornly persisting. Was the comment unnecessarily harsh? Probably. But so was waking him at three in the morning (not that Justice was especially fond of sleep either, but that was not the point) to discuss the complex metaphysics of the Fade so, you know, call it even, or something.
"Look. We get it. No society built by mortals can ever actually be perfect. I'm just saying Thedas could stand learn a few things. "
He knew it wasn't really Anders's fault. Spirits tended to think in black and white and that could limit their view. Still, that did not mean he would allow it to pass without commentary.
"Pray enlighten me which aspect of my homeland, which you clearly know better than me," the words came out harsher, perhaps, than he had intended, "do you feel Thedas should emulate? The slavery? The rampant poverty used to control those who aren't slaves? The blood magic that pervades every aspect of society? The tranquility used not as a tool of religious fanaticism but as a precision weapon against political dissidents? Which of these would make Thedas so much better?"
... and this was why he should know better than to talk politics (though of course, he - or rather they - could never really resist Talking Politics). He crossed his arms, leaning back against the nearest bookcase, fighting the urge to square up physically as well as verbally and doing his best to keep his tone level (despite both that aforementioned urge and the no-less-insistent childish desperation that the fairytale actually be true given how he and his fellow students had clung to it), the faint shimmer of gold and teal lines about his forearms the only indication Justice was starting to metaphorically pace the boundaries of his cage.
"The day your magic manifested, then. I assume there was some sort of celebration? That you were actively looking forward to the moment it did and not praying you would be spared such a terrible fate? I'd wager someone you knew before that was a mage - several someones, probably - because they were permitted to be parents and siblings and colleagues and not locked away Maker-alone-knows-where simply for existing... should I go on?"
"I imagine my father was thrilled that he had chosen good stock," he said, tone cool and composed. "That he would not have to cast me out of House Pavus or have me discreetly killed for the sake of his reputation. After all, the entire point of an heir is to best serve the needs of the family - the neds to the Imperium. To rise to appropriate status and do what is expected and never step out of line. To never exist for yourself. To never want anything but what is expected of you. In that respect, I assure you, I was a grave disappointment. Couldn't quite master the part where you shove every part of yourself deep down and keep the screaming on the inside."
His laugh was soft and edged in bitterness. "But perhaps I'm not giving my father enough credit," he said. "After all, he was kind to his slaves. He never bled them. In fact, he insisted that blood magic was the last resort of a weak mind. And he was better than that. Better than the rest of them. So he only turned to it when I defied him one time too many. When he decided that coercion and threats were not enough to keep me in line. That he would have to alter me on a fundamental level to have the son he wanted. The son who served his purposes and his legacy."
He took a long sip of wine. "I was lucky, of course," he said. "I managed to escape before he could actually complete the ritual. Not before he had me dragged out of bed by guards and locked up for months in hopes of weakening my will for his purposes. I suppose I was also lucky that he decided on such a circumspect plan and not killing me or having me made tranquil for disappointing him as so many do. And, I can at least say that of everything that Tevinter and my own father disdained, magic did not make the list. It was simply every other part of me."
"Tevinter is my home and I love it," he said, tone gentling. "Or rather I love what I believe it could be. It is also a flawed and corrupt place built on the backs of the people it oppresses. You would not last there because you are a good man. There are no good magisters. There are corrupt ones and there are dead ones. I hold no illusions of that. I am all too aware that I will die before I see my dreams for Tevinter realized, just as I am sure that you were prepared to die for your own cause. I believe that you want only the best for the people you wish to help but Tevinter, such that it is, is nothing to aspire to."
"So everything the Templars told us was true, then. Or enough of it at least." He let out a long sigh. "Saying I'm s-"
From the doorway came the sound of a throat being cleared, and Anders glanced over, grateful for the interruption. This, then, must the Tall Elf Hawke had mentioned, the one Dorian thought it worth losing sleep over trying to help.
Urianger (for it was indeed he) inclined his head respectfully towards the stranger before turning his attention to Dorian. "Thou art occupied; shouldst I return anon?"
He would have said all of that, would have explained his position better, but the clearing of a throat and Urianger's voice ringing out through the room caused him to freeze. The mask of composure slipped for just a moment and he was glad that the elezen was behind him so that he couldn't see the emotions that played across his face. Anders could, but he oddly trusted him with this.
How much had Urianger heard? How much had he inferred from the careful way he had talked around his father's reasons? How much did he now know? He needed to speak to him and make sure this slip had not ruined whatever existed between them.
"Fasta vass," he swore under his breath, before putting the mask back in place and turning to face Urianger. "Avanna, amicus," he greeted him. "Don't be ridiculous. We were just finishing our conversation." Looking to Anders, he sighed. "We'll speak more about it later."
Anders left, briefly clapping Dorian on the shoulder as he passed, and Urianger approached, casting the departing figure a brief glance as their paths crossed.
"Mistress Hawke's ill-fated partner, I assume?" he began, conversationally enough, though more than a little guilt crept in as he continued, stopping just short of where Dorian stood. " 'twas not mine intent to pry, drom kenn."
The laugh that escaped him at Anders's pronouncement was mildly embarrassing, but freeing in a way. He let him go on his way before turning his attention to Urianger. That was a new word. He wracked his brain for a moment, for his studies on the fae languages Urianger had been teaching him and tried not to think overly long about what that word choice could mean.
"That is Anders, yes," he said, "and Justice, though he was not involved in our conversation, as it were." He crossed over to the fireplace staring down at the flames and taking a sip of wine before speaking.
"You did nothing wrong," he assured Urianger. "I suppose I should ask how much you heard. There are likely things I need to clarify."
He hovered - there really was no other word for it - wanting to move to Dorian's side, to rest a hand upon his shoulder, perhaps, but aware the moment was yet too fragile to sustain such additional weight, and instead crossing his arms and averting his gaze.
"Thy father didst think to have thee changed, though to what end I know not, and for that purpose wert thou imprisoned." A simple enough pronouncement, perhaps, though there was a crispness to Urianger's tone usually reserved for the likes of the Telophoroi.
Dorian almost wished that Urianger had focused on his foolish hopes for Tevinter and his acceptance of dying for that cause. That would have been easier. Urianger likely would have understood that, and it didn't touch on this delicate thing between them. Still, now that it was out in the open, he ought to speak plainly.
Setting aside his wine, he turned to face Urianger. It seemed only right to look him in the eye for this.
"What you have to understand," he said, "is that in Tevinter, everything is in pursuit of perfection. Marriages are carefully arranged to pass along the most favorable traits. Anything unfavorable is cast out. Aberrations from what is expected…are not tolerated. Weaknesses of intellect or power or appearance or character. Anything that deviates from what they want you to be."
This had been easier with Atisha. There hadn't been the added struggle of his foolish feelings. "You need to be powerful enough and clever enough to serve the needs of your family. You need to have charm and sense to navigate the sociopolitical games. And you need to be willing to marry an equally appropriate woman and carry on the family legacy."
He hesitated. "It was that last bit that was the problem."
Urianger stepped closer, went to place a hand on Dorian's arm (a gesture that had passed between them many times, but which felt far more significant in the moment), the movement slow and deliberate enough any objection could be lodged and noted before it landed.
"Were thy father here, I shouldst have choice words for him."
He leaned into the touch ever so slightly, taking comfort in the contact and settling his hand over Urianger's as though to prolong the closeness.
"My father is dead," he said, "a victim of his own ambition. There is no need to trouble yourself about him."
He took a deep breath to steady himself. As much as he often talked around things, candor was important in this moment.
"I enjoy the company of men," he said. Of one man in particular. "That was what Tevinter and my father found so distasteful in me. Maybe if I'd been willing to live a lie. Marry some poor girl and…" He couldn't quite finish the sentence so he just moved on. "But I couldn't. I couldn't accept anything less than…something real. Something I could never have there."
Venhedis…honesty was difficult.
As silence descended again, and lingered long enough to be his cue to speak, he cleared his throat, his tone wry and sarcastic - "Truly, a sin without equal." - and then, a beat later, only sincere. "Forgive the jest, drom kenn, 'twas in poor taste. Thou wilt be shocked to learn I hath not Thancred's wit, nor Moenbryda's certainty, in such things, only... "
It was his turn, then, to pause, take a deep breath, eyes closed, exhaling slowly as if he were about to enact some grand lithomantic feat, not engaged in hushed conversation. He and Impulsivity were not total strangers, after all, but he usually stood on surer footing than this. It was not impossible - in fact, it was highly probable - he had completely misread the situation, and so he must pick his words carefully, least they tear down this fragile, precious thing that had formed between them since his arrival.
Opening his eyes, Urianger met Dorian's gaze levelly, only the slightest of vocal tremors, and a tiny flexing of the fingers of his free hand, betraying the effort behind the words. "Only I shouldst think whichever man thou didst deign to grant thy company fortunate indeed to possess it."
He laughed softly, the sound less forced than if anyone else had made the joke. "In the eyes of Tevinter, it was," he acknowledged. For a land that others saw as decadent and hedonistic, it was rather uncompromising when it came to such things. Looking up at Urianger, he squeezed his hand gently, just once. "There is nothing to forgive. You need not envy anyone else's qualities. I value the ones you yourself possess."
It was all too obvious that Urianger was talking around things, hesitant to cross a perceived boundary - one Dorian was realizing more and more did not exist. So it was to him to be the brave one, in spite of the small, terrified part of him that dreaded opening himself up to others.
There was a word they had, he could see now, skirted around. Half-spoken and stopped more than once. Dorian steeled himself, looking up at Urianger with an expression that was half reassurance and half challenge. Right then. Boldness it was.
"Do you consider yourself fortunate then, amatus?"
A hoarse "Thou dost not mean...?" was, to his shame, all he could muster, torn between wanting desperately to believe and being unable to break the habit of looking for the other shoe about to drop. Dorian did not seem the sort to make such statements in jest, nor to use such a term casually, and yet.
Hope that was faltering in the face of Urianger's confusion. Perhaps this had been a mistake. Perhaps he never should have let himself hope. And yet, he couldn't find it in himself to regret his feelings. This delicate thing between him and Urianger was beautiful and wonderful and good and even if it fell apart now, it was still something he was glad to have felt.
"Is it so surprising," he asked, "that I should hold you in the highest of esteem? That I should care for you deeply? That you occupy my waking hours and are ever present in my thoughts? Truly, who else could it be?"
Twelve. First awkward silence, and now babbling. What a fool the others would take him for, if they could see him now. Another sharp intake of breath, another long exhale, steeling himself for what he would say next; releasing his grip on Dorian's arm, and instead seeking to take the man's hands in his own, finding those elegant digits easier to look upon than Dorian's face, he spoke.
"Bold hast thou been, and therefore shalt I strive t'wards boldness also; if thou wouldst, as thou sayest, favour me with thine company, foolish fumbling creature that I am, I shouldst, I think, pass my days near rapturously."
Something so simple as Urianger's hands in his own should not have thrilled him so completely, but those small points of contact both grounded and overwhelmed him. Dorian found that the usual things he wanted from a romantic partner were, while not entirely absent, less urgent here. He had always thrown himself into the physical aspects to avoid craving the emotional ones that he simply could not afford to want. But this was different. Urianger was different. And he would be perfectly content with just this and nothing more.
"I must admit," Dorian said, "I have little idea of how to proceed. This is...rather foreign to me, if I am being entirely honest. In Tevinter...you learn not to hope for...anything real or meaningful. However...we are, the both of us, clever men. And I am certain that together we might figure it out."
Instead, he laughed. "Tis true, amatus." - yes, he could get used to saying that, the cadence pleasing enough to bolster his courage still further, one hand rising to carefully brush a rogue strand of hair back behind Dorian's ear - "I doubt there lieth aught in this world that betwixt us we couldst not puzzle out, given time. Though..." - and here that courage faltered slightly, his smile wavering - "I fear must beg thy patience; such sport as others may delight in dost ne'er... hath not... " Pause. Think thy words through before speaking. Try again, gently squeezing the hand yet held in thine own - "I pray thou shalt not find my pace vexing in its langour."
"Urianger," he said, squeezing his hand, "I have never been a patient man in regards to much of anything, but with you I see no reason to rush." He sighed. "This is already, in many ways, more than I have ever allowed myself to have. I have had a number of physical relationships, devoid of any emotional connection and I…you mean far more to me than that. Let me speak plainly, for I fear I am making no sense." He held up their joined hands, lacing his fingers with Urianger's. "If there is never anything more than this, I would still be perfectly content to share my days with you. Whatever pace you wish to set, I will follow it."
"Then I thank Nymeia that Fate hath delivered me unto this curious world, that holdeth such wonders as thee upon it."
"How curious," he said, "that it should take being brought to another world to find someone who completes me so entirely." He brought Urianger's hand up, pressing his lips fleetingly to the back of it. "But I am entirely grateful it has come to pass."
"Thou art incorrigable." he grinned, though the obvious delight in his tone gentled the censure more than a little, as did the obvious hypocrisy. "Now, tis past time thou didst conspire to slaughter my beleagured king once more, it is it not? Unless it rather pleaseth thee to sit, and talk; thou hast given much of thyself, 'tis meet I shouldst return the favour, if there is aught thou wouldst know of me."
"The two are not mutually exclusive," he said. "I would hear anything you wish to share of yourself, while we once more engage in battle. Perhaps you will even defeat me this time."
Because he has never been enough as he was. People had always wanted him to be someone else or something else - more or less or better or different. Nobody had ever seen him as he was and thought it was enough.
"That is a relief, dimidium," he said focusing on the chess pieces to calm the rapid beating of his heart, "for truly I would do a poor job of being anything else."