@canticled : ‘ you owe no one your forgiveness ’ ( livia trying to be ... cordial after the dickwad meeting ) —— LOVELACE. ( accepting )
How dire must the situation be to demand some form of sympathy from Livia of house Herathinos, the person who hates him most in all of Thedas ( though seraphus abrexis certainly gives her a run for her money / and what a bitter thought that is, indeed ) and has planned at least a hundred different deaths for him by her own hand? Quite so, he thinks, distant and far too close at once. Dire may not begin to properly describe it, in truth, if it calls for such words from her / almost devoid of the standard venomous scorn with which she regards him with !! It feels bizarre and entirely misplaced, something that should have never come to pass after all. He presumed that the sky would split open once more before she spoke to him in such a manner, and had been confident in that presumption, and yet.
The village of Redcliffe is behind them, small in the distance as they have set up camp in the hills where he had been hiding, furtively, before joining the ranks of the Inquisition. It is behind them yet not far enough, not nearly so, will it ever be? His skin is too tight and the world at once too sharp and blurred about the edges / he feels misshapen, unsettled in his skin, dips his hands into the small body of water that they have set up near though they are bloodless and clean. The water is cool to the touch and he allows it to gather in his palms, watching the clarity, dampening his hands before reaching up and running his fingers through his hair : going wet—dark and slicking back, smooth.
Her words ——— don’t help. Dorian doesn’t think any words can help, least of all coming from Livia ( though that isn’t to diminish the attempt, which at its core shocks him and he acknowledges the oddity of it, just another reason for him to feel misplaced in his own body ) but they are words and they come from a place of ( ... ) not caring, he may enjoy riling her up but he would never presume that she CARES ABOUT HIM, the world will literally end before that happens, but concern, perhaps. But he appreciates them, the way that they’re so surprising that it shoves his father’s words out of his mind, for now.
we are too alike, my son, shut up shut up shut up, what is it that you said again, father? we are both too full of pride.
you owe no one your forgiveness. oh? oh?
He stares at the twin moons, not quite full, as they begin to rise in the sky / doesn’t wipe away water dragging along his jaw / thinks of the bite of salt in the air and the too tight restraint on his throat. Breathing is easy enough, breathing in time with the flow of the small stream nearby easy enough. Dorian faces the world with a sensation of dullness that will turn to pain soon enough, he knows. Part of him is still reeling from the sight of his father, alone, never mind their conversation.
❝ You’re quite right, Livia, ❞ he says at last, tone lacking in bravado. He’s tired. Exhausted. Worn. Weary, running away from the place that he had once called home in the dead of night, heart fit to bursting in his chest, bile gathering in his esophagus. This is a place for truths, he thinks, this is a place for admissions that can be given over to the water, carried to its depths, salt coating his tongue.
❝ I don’t think I can ever forgive him, ❞ he tells her as much because she prompted it from him / though he knows Livia doesn’t care to know and will discard the information as trivial besides, but : IT FEELS BRACING TO SAY ALOUD. Bracing / and terrifying. He shakes water from his hands, places them, damp, on his knees where he kneels on a flat rock, watching as the stars begin to make their presence known, tucked among the darkening sky. ❝ That’s part of the problem. ❞
Dorian doesn’t know if she understands. Presumes that she hates her own father, given what little he knows / in such a manner and passion that he could never embody. No, no : he loves his father, still. Loves his mother, too. Love turned a weight turned a weapon turned a collar around his throat ——— loves them as a dutiful son is meant to, though he has failed in his duties and YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE and, et cetera.
His ribs rattle / lungs shudder. He pushes himself to standing in one fluid motion, bones creaking and threatening to crumble at the motion, heaving himself upwards and to his full height. Dorian looks at Livia, a wan smile playing at the corner of his mouth, heart not fully in it, but shades away from his standard brand of inappropriate amusement. ❝ Did you know my father was being considered for the next Archon? ❞ It’s a rhetorical question ——— all Altus knew that Halward Pavus had gotten impressively close.
❝ Thank the Maker he’s not, ❞ it’s petty to say, thoroughly juvenile, but he would never deny the vicious joy he feels, saying as much. Just another part of his father’s life he thoroughly ruined. But he looks at her almost warmly, a quiet thanks that she, likely, won’t be receptive to.
