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You first see him in the Chantry, led there by Felix.
Your eyes lock with the Elven man when he bursts in, before his break away to the rift behind you. At first, you stupidly think this can't be him, even as he disappears behind a cloud of smoke, reemerges with his blades sheathed in a demons back.
But when he seals the rift as naturally as he breathes, this can't be him quickly turns into ah, here he is.
He’s your saving grace. Your Herald.
-
There’s no one I’d rather be stuck in time with, future or present, he tells you, a small smile ghosting over his lips. You smile back. Yes, you will definitely be staying in the South. Just for awhile.
(Later, awhile becomes hard to stick to.)
-
He comes by often. Just to- to talk. He asks you about your home country, asks you about yourself, your family.
He’s an elf, and not even a mage, but he doesn’t care one bit about you being a mage from dreaded Tevinter. He doesn’t look at you like you’re the back end of a Nug. He doesn’t judge as harshly as others, doesn’t make assumptions. He just listens, and talks, and smiles. It’s… refreshing.
(You like that he’s not afraid to challenge, to push, though. You like that he makes you reconsider your stance on slaves and elves. You like quite a lot about him.)
-
The people’s Herald is dead, an act of selfless sacrifice. Without him, they find their way forward, slowly, with heavy hearts and bitten bodies, through the mountains.
You think of him, and your heart twists with an odd ache you cannot understand. You think of him, and wonder why he was so damn selfless. You think of him, and you wish he was here to crack a joke, to lighten the mood. Not a moment goes by, in that bitter tundra, that you don’t think of him.
(He shows up, half dead and frozen to the bone, with his marked hand a bright lantern in the air, a beacon of hope for the forlorn Inquisition. You want to punch him, just a bit, but decide against it. Instead, you give him your blanket and murmur welcome back.)
-
At first, you flirt in careful, calculated conversations, keep him on his toes, keep it safe. But before you know it, you’re getting reckless, getting your heart tangled. I could watch you run around Skyhold all day. With each visit, more and more of your heart is displayed on your sleeve, but you can’t seem to stop. He responds in kind; You’re rather strapping, yourself, and it eases the nervousness inside you. You hope he is as jumbled as you are, hope his heart is as bare as yours. You hope for a lot of things.
(You’ll notice, in time, that his heart has always been on his sleeve, laid bare just for you.)
-
The letter is by no means naughty, but it does succeed in turning your stomach in knots, in causing the anger to rise up in your throat. I know my son, possibly the most deceitful sentence your father has ever written. But- you want to go. You have to go, and Lavellan encourages you, in all his willful ignorance (you can’t blame the poor man, though; his family, his clan, was close knit and loving. You know he wants the same for you, but you know that can never be).
Nevertheless, you go, and the carefully placed mask falls down the moment you meet your fathers eyes. Air is suddenly hard to come by and you feel like a little boy again.
So you spit hateful words, dripping with spite to make him hurt as much as he made you hurt. And he responds just as you expect, just as he always has; disappointed sighs, hushed murmurs and slow shakes of the head.
Lavellan practically pleads, You went through all this trouble to get him here, talk to him, but only succeeds in fanning the flames licking at your insides. Your father, ever the man to hush the unwanted, tries to silence you as you ground out, I prefer the company of men. My father disapproves.
You’re ready to give up, to leave, to never return to these circular arguments, to the recurring heartbreak.
You’re ready to leave, but your father says, Once I had a son who trusted me. A trust I betrayed, and you can’t seem to move.
You’re ready to leave, but you look at Lavellan, his half smile and happy eyes, and realize you can’t.
(In Skyhold, you’ll kiss Lavellan, slow and soft and filled with meaning, and he will kiss back.)
-
You don’t know how he found out about your birthright. You don’t know how he got it, or when, or why.
You do know that you’re angry. You’re letting out biting words before you can stop yourself, before he can defend himself. You watch the confusion dance across his face as he says, I didn't do this so you’d be indebted to me, I did this for you, and annoyance, hot and shameful, slaps through you.
Because you know he did this for you, you know he did this out of… affection. You know, and that's why you can't accept the gift. You can’t be the evil Tevinter mage using the Inquisitor that everyone expects you are. You simply can’t. But-
But that is exactly why you must accept it. Because it’s a token of affection. Because it is your birthright, not that blighted merchant’s. Because it’s a gift, and you’re being a brilliant ass.
So you kiss him, in the hopes that you can properly convey your thanks with just lips instead of words.
-
Something more primal, you had said, a line rehearsed a thousand times, scared to mess this, whatever it is, up. Scared to scare him off. To your surprise, he responds with searing kisses, hot touches. To your surprise, he pulls you into him, wrapping you in his arms and pulls you to his bed.
You press him into the mattress, kiss a line down his dark belly as he chants your name, a mantra of breathless cries, and ignore the sharp feeling in your chest. You ignore the impending doom of this ending after a quick tumble. You Ignore the worry that this will end just like all the others; in a botched relationship, in heartache.
(To your surprise, he doesn't end it there. So Let’s be foolish. You pretend your heart doesn't swell at his words.)
-
You thought he was dead, at Adamant. You watched as he wrenched open a rift, watched as you fell into the Fade, but then- nothing.
He wasn't there, and you were alone, and he was dead.
I don't know if I can forgive you for that. You mean the words you say, because the panic that ripped through your body when you didn't see him next to you feels beyond restitution. You look at his sad puppy eyes, though, and know you rigid words are less strict than they seem.
(You ask him if he’s alright, and watch as his meticulously constructed foundation crumbles, watch as he crumbles. You learn that the Inquisitor is not as strong as he looks, not a fearless as he looks. You learn that the Nightmare got to him more than you thought. You learn that he is afraid- near constantly, of near everything. Most of all, you learn he is just as afraid of losing you as you are of him.)
-
The day is saved, the traitor defeated. You sway across the Winter Palace balcony with him in your arms and his beaming smile lights up your whole world, brighter than any Fade rift could.
-
He likes when you hold him, so you do. Often. You encapsulate him, wrap him up and press gentle kisses to his lips, his eyelids, his cheeks. You hold him for hours on end, just to see him smile. Its disgustingly sweet, completely ridiculous, but it makes him happy. Makes you happy.
“I'm glad you came here,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours, “I was worried you’d never leave those Tevinter books I got for you alone.”
“My apologies, Amatus.” You give him a gentle squeeze, “I've simply been ecstatic to read real Tevinter literature here South. Shall I continue to smother you in kisses, in return?”
He laughs, an airy thing, barely audible, and nods. He stares into your eyes, lips twisting into a dopey grin as he whispers, sounding mystified, "You really are far too good for me.”
You know that's not true, but you don't say anything. Instead, you kiss that lingering laughter off his lips and hope that one day you believe in yourself as much as he believes in you.
Until then, you’ll believe in him. Your saving grace. Your Herald.
Your Amatus.