Thank you for the prompt - some long-overdue Pavellan it is! In which Varlen’s insecurity spikes when he realises there are a lot of differences between his knowledge and Dorian’s... (approx 1500 words) <3
Prompt from THIS LIST.
“Am I not enough for you?”
Dorian started, the words arriving like a slap to the face. His hands, which were already gripping the edges of the tome he was studying, tensed almost painfully, his knuckles bleeding to white as Varlen’s words – his sudden accusation – sunk in.
“You know, part of me doesn’t even want to dignify that with a response.” Turning, Dorian fixed Varlen with a sharp look. “Varlen. Amatus. If you cannot tell by now how deeply I care for you, then I’m not sure there is anything I can say to convince you otherwise.” He sighed tightly, reaching up to rub his eyes. When was the last time he had slept? “May I ask what in the Maker’s name brought this on?”
“Well, what am I supposed to think?” Varlen was standing at the far side of the room. Their argument, because apparently they were arguing, passed back and forth through the empty air between them. “You spend so much time in here, with your books and your scrolls and your tomes. It feels like it’s all you do now! And I can’t even understand half of them, and then the other half are all to do with magic, which again, I don’t understand. Even when I try, I feel like I’m just in the way or slowing you down, a-and… and at some point…” He broke off, his once-sharp gaze sliding away, the anger melting into something impotent and uncertain. Distressed. “Just… answer the question, Dorian.” He swallowed tightly. “Please.”
For a handful of moments after Varlen’s outburst, all Dorian could do was stare at his amatus, dumbfounded and at a loss for how to reply. “Varlen, the research I am doing here is to aid the Inquisition. To help your sister. It is important.”
“I know.” Varlen’s voice was rough. Hoarse. His gaze remained fixed on the side wall, head turned away. “I know it is. I just…” He pulled in a shaky breath. “How can you stand it? Being with someone like me when you’re so…”
Genuinely not sure where Varlen was going with the thought, Dorian cocked his head. “So…?”
“Smart.”
The way Varlen admitted it… it was almost heartbreaking. No, there was no almost about it. He’d practically spoken the word to the floor, as though just saying it aloud confirmed something he had been trying to ignore; trying to hide.
Oh, that simply would not do.
Dorian closed his book with a soft thud, the pages so stiff they creaked like old wood underfoot. “Varlen…” He rose from his chair, bones protesting, muscles aching as he stood. He ignored it. “Amatus, look at me.”
Even Varlen’s body language, his arms wrapped around himself, screamed uncertainty. Discomfort. Shame. But at Dorian’s instruction, he did as asked, those pale blue eyes rising until they made connection across the empty space. Holding his gaze, Dorian began walking towards him, his approach slow and careful. As he moved, he began to speak, his words forming just as slowly and carefully as his steps.
“You know, I have met a lot of people who call themselves smart. Scholars. Politicians. Intellectuals, if you like. There are many such people, in places like Minrathous, who believe that the measure of a person’s worth lies in the depth of their lexicon. The breadth of their understanding of an absurdly narrow field. Their willingness to…” Dorian ground his teeth for a moment, but pressed on, the distance between himself and Varlen closing. “Their willingness to push the boundaries and discover the unknown at the expense of the moral. At the expense of themselves, and everyone around them.”
Varlen was shaking slightly. Dorian could see it now, as he came within a few feet of the elven man. It was something he should have – would have – noticed before, had his vision not been so closely aligned to the proximity of pages.
“I don’t understand,” Varlen said softly. Even that small confession seemed to further ingrain his belief that he, for some unfathomable reason, was not enough.
But Maker, that was so far from the truth.
Reaching out, Dorian slid a hand past Varlen’s cheek, barely brushing his skin. His fingers nestled softly in his hair, caressing him, curling gently around the back of his neck as Varlen hung his head, seeming for all the world like a man about to break. And for what?
“Varlen… promise me you will never bow your head because of people like that.”
Confusion seemed to replace shame for a moment, and Varlen stiffened beneath Dorian’s touch. “What?”
“Promise me,” Dorian continued firmly, stepping in until they were so close he could feel the warmth of Varlen’s breath mingling with his. “That you will never think yourself inferior to people just because they know more words, or have read more books, or can recite dead languages to a room full of people just like them in everything save name.” He breathed out, tipping his head forward, gently touching Varlen’s forehead with his own. “I certainly don’t, amatus. Not for a single moment.”
There was something in Dorian’s voice; a plea mixed with a promise of his own. A rawness that might be because he was just too tired to cloak his words in bravado, or simply because he needed Varlen to believe what he said was true. And it was true. Every word of it.
Slowly, Varlen’s hand rose to wrap around Dorian’s arm, tentatively pulling him closer as though afraid the move would be met with rejection. It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I just… I know we’re so different. I keep thinking that… that it would be so much better for you, if you had someone who could actually help you.”
“You do help me.”
“How?”
Dorian’s free hand found Varlen’s; threaded their fingers together. “You keep me sane. Keep me grounded. You show me what it means to be open to people. To ideas. To change.” He gave a soft, endlessly fond laugh. “You show me which plants will leave my stomach in knots for days, and which will cure a headache. You show me every single day that there is more to this life than what I can learn on the pages of a book.” He smiled gently. “And might I say, no scholar, politician, or intellectual has ever been able to show me that.”
Varlen snorted, a faint smile curling his lips, a sheepishness to the expression that sent Dorian’s heart to its knees. “Even sleep-deprived and stir-crazy, you somehow manage to be disgustingly charming.” Dorian chuckled at that, and Varlen released a slow breath, some of the tension in his shoulders flooding out with it. “It’s just hard, to feel like you can’t be something. It’s like to be smart, you have to fit certain criteria. You have to be worldly and knowledgeable and wise and you need to have learned from the right books and listened to the right people speak and… a lot of other things I’ve never done.”
Dorian just shook his head, his hand tightening slightly around Varlen’s. “You know, I have it on remarkably good authority that very few smart people fit that criteria either. But that is beside the point.” He leaned back slightly to look Varlen in the eyes. To really look, and see the man who had won his heart with a smile moments after they met, and kept winning it over and over again every day since. He did it with who he was. With what he did, and continues to do. With the way he treats others and the way he faces the world time and time again, no matter what it throws at him. “So, if you want my opinion, no. You’re not smart, Varlen...” Dorian leaned in and kissed him, their lips lingering even as he felt Varlen’s brow crease in brief confusion at the mixed message. “You’re brilliant. Charming. Bright and with endless wit.”
Varlen’s hands shifted to wrap around Dorian, pulling him closer as he let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, like you’re one to talk. I think I got a lot of it from you, you know.”
But Dorian just shook his head, caressing Varlen’s face with his hand. “No. You are you, Varlen. And with every dusty tome in this god-awful place as my witness, there is no one else I have ever learned more from.” He smiled, then kissed him again. Varlen made a quiet sound - something like a sigh - his hands loose and relaxed on Dorian’s back as they held each other, awash with the warmth and relief of being in one another’s embrace.
In the end, it didn’t need to be said, but Dorian said it anyway. He said it because it was the truth. He said it because his heart demanded him to.
He said it for all the times in Varlen’s life when he hadn’t heard it.
@kurosmind and sweet nonny, helping solve my blog’s lack of Pavellan content lol. Prompt from THIS LIST.
Dorian Pavus x Varlen Lavellan. Approx 1300 words, most under the cut <3
“I won’t leave you alone.” Varlen’s voice was soft yet insistent, reminiscent of a man ready to stand his ground before harsh reprimand. “Not after that. Creators, Dorian… why didn’t you say something?”
Dorian, whose demand for solitude had clearly fallen on deaf ears, leaned heavily on the windowsill of his quarters, palms pressed to the dusty shelf. “Oh, of course. Was I to just drop it casually into conversation, then? Hello, yes, my name is Dorian Pavus. My own father attempted to ‘cure’ me with a blood magic ritual so I would be willing to continue the family legacy. Pleased to meet you.”
“That’s not what I meant.” There was hesitation in Varlen’s voice. In most situations, Dorian would want nothing more than to alleviate that kind of uncertainty, particularly where Varlen was concerned. But not this time. “I just meant it was important, considering we were going to meet him,” Varlen continued, then shook his head, the guilt he carried unmistakable. “Dorian… I was so insistent. I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
Sorry. A rather funny thing to hear from Varlen, given what he had just done for him. No, the encounter had not gone off without a hitch, but at the same time, it had gone far better than Dorian had anticipated. They had spoken at least, he and his father. Their relationship would never truly heal, and certainly not in the matter of a single conversation. Halward had done far too much damage for anything like that. But to know there was something there. Something other than blind hatred or disdain…
Well, it was something. Dorian was not quite sure exactly what yet.
“Please… say something.” Varlen’s voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. “I can go. If that’s what you really want.” It seemed the elven man had reconsidered his previous assertion. Perhaps it was Dorian’s silence that had worn him down. Funny, how silence often worked far more effectively than harsh words. Dorian was used to pushing people away; forcing them from his life. But this time...
“No. That’s not what I want, Varlen.” Dorian turned, now, to face the elf hovering by his closed door. “You’re right. Perhaps I should have told you, if only so you knew to expect treachery. For that, I apologise. Truly. I never meant to place you in harm’s way.”
Varlen’s expression immediately shifted from guilty to appalled. “What? Dorian, that’s not what I meant! It wasn’t about me, it was about you.” He stepped forward, closing some of the distance between them, but halted a few feet short. A cautious approach. “I wanted to know in case I pushed you into something you weren’t ready for, and if I did, I'm so sorry. I care about you, Dorian. Please believe that.”
Finally, Dorian glanced up to regard Varlen’s face; to read the sincerity written across it as clearly as his pale vallaslin. “I do.” The words surprised Dorian as much as Varlen, the elf’s brows rising ever so slightly at the confession. Just as the moment threatened to become too sappy, Dorian quickly attempted to recover. “I mean, rather hard to think otherwise, wouldn’t you agree? What with your sneaking about, passing letters like one of the Nightingale’s agents, attempting to restore a wayward son to his lost family. It must have been quite the effort. One you did not have to make.”
To Dorian’s surprise – and dismay – Varlen stiffened at his awkward half-compliment. “I didn’t sneak about. Mother Giselle wanted me to lie to you and trick you into going.” His expression darkened as he spoke the Chantry mother’s name, although the revelation hardly surprised Dorian, given he and Giselle’s strained relationship. “You know what? I told her to go find someone else to manipulate, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to let her do it to you. So accuse me of plenty of things. Being too stubborn. Being blind. Being stupid. Fine. But I never lied to you and I never will.”
“Varlen.” Dorian reached out quickly, taking Varlen’s hands in his. “That... is not what I meant. I apologise. But let me make one thing perfectly clear as I do: you may be stubborn, but you are neither blind nor stupid. I would never think that of you, and don’t ever think that of yourself. You are better than that.”
Maker’s breath, you are one of the best people I know.
It took Varlen a moment to restore his composure and lift his chin, meeting Dorian’s eye. They searched each other for a moment, as though they could see far more than simple flecks of blue and grey. As though they could read each other’s very thoughts if they only took the time to try. But they couldn’t, of course, and eventually Varlen swallowed and mustered a wan smile. “Thank you. I’ll… keep that in mind. But this is meant to be me comforting you, you know.” Gently, Varlen drew Dorian’s hands closer to his chest, his dark brow knitting in concern. “So… are you alright? And don’t lie to me. I want you to tell me the truth, no matter what.”
Dorian huffed softly, glancing away. “Even if you don’t want to hear it?”
Varlen’s grip tightened as he stepped in closer. Insistent. “Especially if I don’t want to hear it.”
It was strange, how those simple words from Varlen seemed utterly incontestable. In that moment, Dorian was certain that, yes, he could tell Varlen anything. He could tell him anything, and he would listen. Believe. Care. That knowledge alone left Dorian’s throat tight and uncomfortable, so he did the only thing he could think of to keep himself going. Lowering his gaze, Dorian pressed Varlen’s knuckles softly to his lips, then released his hands and turned away.
“Dorian…” There was an unspoken plea in the saying of his name, drifting on something akin to sadness. Failure. But all of it was entirely unnecessary.
“Some wine, I think. If we are to do this.” Rather than flee, Dorian moved towards the cabinet at the back of the room, its glass doors displaying a number of his favourite vintages; bottles he had saved for important occasions. Reaching in to retrieve one of his most prized, Dorian was plagued by not even an inkling of doubt: the conversation about to take place certainly qualified. Glancing over his shoulder as he retrieved a pair of glasses, Dorian caught Varlen’s confused stare and mustered a soft half-smile. “You might want to get comfortable. There is… much to discuss.”
The relief that radiated from Varlen in that moment was almost palpable. The elven man nodded and hurried about, moving a pair of chairs together, so close that their knees would likely touch when they sat. Dorian did not mind in the least. “I do hope you are ready for this,” Dorian continued lightly, his tone an attempt to mask the seriousness of the statement. “I come with a remarkable amount of baggage.”
To his relief, Varlen laughed at that, clearly taking it for a joke. A good sign, perhaps. Or perhaps not, depending on how this conversation went. “I’m ready,” he insisted, favouring Dorian with a warm smile as he accepted a glass of wine. “And there’s no amount of baggage you could come with that could convince me otherwise.”
Dorian arched a brow as he settled into his chair. “Oh? I might surprise you, Varlen.”
A grin, bright and genuine, spread across Varlen’s face. “You always surprise me. But you won’t scare me off, so stop trying.” He raised his glass, gaze softening, losing some of its playfulness, replacing it with encouragement. “So let’s talk.”
Despite how nervous he was, Dorian found himself catching a piece of Varlen’s smile and shining it back at him. “Very well. If you insist.” He reached up and gently tapped his glass against Varlen’s, surprised to find his heart somehow lighter for it. “Now, where to begin…”
