It had been a long time since Ysmere had stood out on his balcony, naked, and alone with the cold wind off the glaciers. He smiled at the memory. He could almost feel the hot sweat of lust prickling his skin as the frigid breeze caressed his heated body. The heat of Dorian’s hands sliding down his body when his lover joined him out in the cold night, as he wrapped himself around him and then wrapped them both in a heavy quilt from the bed. The tickle of Dorian’s moustache on his slender shoulder as he licked the sweat from his pale skin.
It’s freezing out here! Come inside, amatus. He had laughed when Dorian had tried to drag him, bodily, back into the warmth of the hearth.
He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath as a weight settled in his chest. Dashing the tears from his bright eyes with his remaining hand when he felt a sting that was more than just the icy wind.
It wasn’t just Dorian’s permanent departure from southern Thedas that had him feeling an emotional wreck; a full month of listening to the leaders of Southern Thedas either shout him down, condemn him as ‘the biggest threat to Ferelden since the Fifth Blight’, or kindly offer to leash both him and the Inquisition to the service of Orlais.
A leash he was certain would all too soon become a noose around his neck.
All that on top of an invasion by the Qun, or at least, as evidence he found at the Darvaarad, an invasion staged by one rogue Viddasala and her cadre. Though he wasn’t sure how much he trusted that “evidence”. It seemed a great deal to him as if the leaders of the Qun had written those letters to cover their own asses...
All the while the Anchor was killing him. The pain had been slowly growing in intensity since he’d first acquired the mark. Closing rifts had always felt as if the bones were being torn from his body, but it had only ever been for a moment and the residue had been bearable. He hadn’t expected his condition to deteriorate so suddenly after being exposed to old Elvhen magic in pursuit of the Viddasala.
He was resigned to his fate, very nearly since the moment he’d awoken in the Chantry dungeon in Haven. He’d known the Anchor would be the death of him, just as he’d known that Dorian would break his heart the moment he clapped eyes on the man.
Twice bitten, and I’d happily do it all over again. He thought ruefully.
He hadn’t known, however, just how vehemently opposed to allowing the magic to take it’s natural course all of his advisers, companions and even many of the people outside of the inner circle would be. All of them. Even those he had thought only barely tolerated him.
And so, they removed the mark in the only way they could think of; amputation. Fine, he’d figured, I’m largely ambidextrous anyway, I’ll adapt.
However, he had not figured on how much it would throw him off balance. That tiny shift to the right of his centre threw him off kilter entirely. It made him feel lumpen and clumsy, or perhaps that was a side effect of the most delightful pain killers that the surgeon in Orlais had provided him with.
Either way, he had never felt so useless.
Nor had he ever felt so much at loose ends. It was the last night he would spend at Skyhold. With the Inquisition disbanded, all but the most senior members of the Inquisition had left the keep, the rest scattered to the winds, and everyone seemed to have a plan. Even Sera had some inkling as to what she wanted to do.
Ysmere, though... He honestly hadn’t expected to outlive the Inquisition. He almost hadn’t, having collapsed after the final battle with Corypheus and very nearly drowning in his own blood on Skyhold’s front step.
The stone still held the stain...
Skyhold had been the only place he had ever called “home” that didn’t possess wheels, sails and a team of eager halla in the traces. It had become his sanctuary in sickness, health, injury and recovery, even in his deepest grief. It had been where he had fallen in love.
The Inquisition’s people, too, had become his people. He knew most, if not all, of the people who frequented the keep by name, and those he didn’t know by name, he knew their faces, would never forget their faces.
Where would he go? Where could he go? Anywhere, he supposed. With his clan gone, he had no ties. He could follow Dorian to Tevinter, though he had begged, pleaded, then outright forbidden him to follow. The newly minted Magister’s unwillingness to hear him out, or even entertain the thought of Ysmere going with him had hurt in more ways than he could rightly express.
There was Kirkwall. The Compte-ship that Varric had given him, and the estate that apparently went with it. He couldn’t imagine living in Kirkwall. Anywhere in Kirkwall, much less Hightown.
He could still recall his last foray into that city, the sneers and racial slurs that had been hurled at him, though he had had real and legitimate business being there. Selling the intricately woven silk scarves that his eldest cousin made. Someone had made a complaint to the guards and they had confiscated the scarves as stolen property and hauled him bodily to the city limits. Leaving him with nothing to bring back to the clan but cracked ribs and a bloodied nose. Earning him a ringing series of slaps about the ears from his Mother and a hard, disappointed stare from his cousin.
He sighed and stared out into the cold night. A stiff breeze came up and he could feel goosebumps spread quickly up his arms. He lifted his left hand as the wind blew his hair in his face. His breath came out in a puff of steam as he sighed again and dropped his head, pushing his hair back with his right hand. The movement felt awkward, strangely uncoordinated.
He turned as he heard the shuffle of feet in the room behind him.
“Serrah, I’ve come to change your bandages, and I’ve got your pain medicine and a sleeping draught to take when you’re ready.” The woman seemed unfazed by Ysmere’s nudity as he walked toward her, though he snatched a robe from his bed and covered himself for the sake of modesty none the less.
“Thank you, Karli.” He said simply as he sat down and allowed her to tend to him.
“Ah! You’re cold as ice! What were you doing out there? Trying to catch your death?”
