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Who| Dorian and Maxwell
What| Dorian is a touch Upset
Where| Just outside the DA Cast's Camp
When| After this
Warnings/Notes|
Dorian was, to put it mildly, upset.
Not the kind of upset that he could exactly put a finger on - not the kind that had a clear, rational, basis. But the kind of upset that twisted his insides into knots and made him want to retch, violently, or throw something at a wall, or cry with angry, wracking sobs. It was utterly ridiculous, of course. He had absolutely no reason to feel this way - should be elated, as Cullen so obviously was.
At the very least, he should be relieved.
But instead, it was just a depth of grief that he hadn't even realised he'd somehow been managing to avoid. Repress, elegantly and with poise, and ignore utterly the feeling that he had somehow lost everything, all over again. He found a large rock to perch on, just at the edge of the river, looking out at the smoke on the horizon. He had, ostensibly, gone for water, or whatever other pathetic excuse had managed to leave his mouth in time, but in reality he was just sitting there, trying to decide when that cavernous gulf between him and home had opened so deeply and so painfully after he had thought it closed.
After he'd forced it closed.
But then, he never had been all that good at running away, after all.
What| Dorian is a touch Upset
Where| Just outside the DA Cast's Camp
When| After this
Warnings/Notes|
Dorian was, to put it mildly, upset.
Not the kind of upset that he could exactly put a finger on - not the kind that had a clear, rational, basis. But the kind of upset that twisted his insides into knots and made him want to retch, violently, or throw something at a wall, or cry with angry, wracking sobs. It was utterly ridiculous, of course. He had absolutely no reason to feel this way - should be elated, as Cullen so obviously was.
At the very least, he should be relieved.
But instead, it was just a depth of grief that he hadn't even realised he'd somehow been managing to avoid. Repress, elegantly and with poise, and ignore utterly the feeling that he had somehow lost everything, all over again. He found a large rock to perch on, just at the edge of the river, looking out at the smoke on the horizon. He had, ostensibly, gone for water, or whatever other pathetic excuse had managed to leave his mouth in time, but in reality he was just sitting there, trying to decide when that cavernous gulf between him and home had opened so deeply and so painfully after he had thought it closed.
After he'd forced it closed.
But then, he never had been all that good at running away, after all.
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"I won't give them the satisfaction of my feelings on the subject," He finally said, his voice too tight, his throat threatening to close in on his words. He was just that fucking obvious, wasn't he?
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He could have said anything really - my what an excellent throw, two skips - and Maxwell would have known. Simply from the silence.
Simply in the way his face tightened and twisted, anger to fight tears.
He wanted to apologize. Wanted to take it back. Wanted to pretend he hadn't heard it.
He'd guessed there was something, would have had to have been blind and deaf not too, but he hadn't known... Or perhaps he simply hadn't wanted to. And they'd known that as well.
Had known this, here, would happen.
His eyes closed, Adam's apple lurching hard in his throat as he struggled to swallow the knot that had suddenly formed there.
"I'll give them credit," he murmured finally, knowing he had to say something. Anything. "I wouldn't have thought there were any new forms of cruelty left to discover."
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"Don't tempt them," he said tightly, "I don't need to see how far that particular strain of imagination goes."
Had he been able to see outside himself, in that moment, perhaps he would have noticed Maxwell's discomfort, but he was so deep into his own self-pity that there was nothing outside it.
"I'd rather they went back to blowing us up, if it is all the same to them."
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And it wasn't worth it. Whatever small comfort in sharing, in not being alone....
No, he wouldn't do it. Couldn't do it.
"It's still early." He tried to force his voice to steady, his lungs to work as they were meant. "Still plenty of time yet for that."
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And here he was, completely unable to think about anything other than things he'd already lost.
Things he simply couldn't let himself hope for, or it would break him. He needed a distraction, and badly, but there wasn't anything to hand. Wasn't anything to stop the torrent of grief and shame and self-pity and longing and mourning.
"Yes," He agreed eventually. "All the time in the world. Though I find it somewhat harder to be terrified of imminent death, now."
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He couldn't even manage his own.
Dorian's confession, like the arrival of Adella, shouldn't have changed anything-- but somehow, it did. The ground wrenching again beneath his boots; his ribs so tight against his heart, it was a struggle just to breathe.
"Still..." He winced, head jerking to one side as he tried to shake it off, tried to bury down deep again. Cover it, like the healing wound cut in his shoulder. "Please try to avoid it... It would be - difficult to explain. Cassandra would likely take it as all the evidence she needed to prove my demonhood."
A joke, the least like which he had ever uttered. More desperation than humor.
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When he did, there was little of the rage and grief evident on his face.
Tevinter had its masks as thoroughly as Orlais did, after all.
"I'll be fine, Maxwell," He told him. "I am sorry for my behaviour, but I need a little time before I'm quite fit to go back and apologize."
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The step back felt less like a retreat for Dorian's sake, than an escape for his own.