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[Some part of him had been longing for a touch like that, something so familiar, but it's entirely alien to him. No one touched him out of anything but meaningless passion- it's simply the way things were.

Dorian had been aching for that, for some sort of closeness that wasn't entirely confined to the dark, to closed doors and never spoken of. But now he was faced with it, in whatever sense this elf was, it was strange, alien to him.

He let out a breath, stepping back and folding his arms across his chest.]

Jove Lavellan, of course. A member of your clan.

[And that explains it.

At first, Arhen's expression doesn't change; after a moment he reaches up to cover his face with one hand, shoulders slumped, then shaking. He can't keep it stifled for long before he breaks into laughter, though-- not honest, amused laughter, but the kind that comes when there's just no other way to let something out. It all makes sense, and Creators, he's sure he really does look mad now, but he can't stop.

Dorian doesn't know him because he doesn't exist, and yet here they both are. It'll be a few more moments before he can speak.]

You do know me, you just don't- know me.

[No, that doesn't sound any better.]

There was no Jove in my clan, Dorian.

[Dorian leaves him be, and when Arhen laughs, he pauses, watching him. That wasn't the reaction he expected, not in the least, and when he finally speaks, he's taken aback.

His own words echo in his mind, ones he said to Jove. In another life, perhaps... and he finds himself shocked to near silence.

In another life, another world. Another timeline. Of course, it all made sense.

He felt a stab of something- envy, perhaps, or longing. This man he had never known, but had known him...]

So then, I see...I take it you are the Inquisitor, in your timeline?

[There are a thousand questions he could ask, but they all die on his lips. None of them mean as much as the question he wants to ask, but can't bring himself to.

He needs to know, but at the same time, he's terrified of knowing the truth. Of knowing if, in some other world, he wasn't alone.]

Inquisitor Lavellan, at your service.

[He keeps a straight face through it, but immediately wrinkles his nose. No, that title doesn't sit so well even outside Thedas.

...but if the others are from different times, like Dorian-- the metaphorical lightbulb going off is almost visible as realization hits.]

Creators, don't tell the others, this might be the only time in my life that anyone from Thedas won't be bringing all their problems to me. Tell me they knew this other Inquisitor, too.

...no.

[His words are heavy on his tongue, and he swears, he looks up at the sky and he swears in Tevene, for a few good moments, cursing everything that he could think of.

And when he's done, he shakes his head, and it's his turn to laugh. He sighs, shaking his head.]

Venhedis. Of course, how fickle fate is. No, they don't know her. It would appear I am the only one from our time. I've not breathed a word of the whole...Herald of Andraste business. Varric would rather not have the story spoiled for him, you see.

[He laughs, but it's a bitter scoff.]

Varric doesn't know-?

[He blinks, confused, before he realizes.]

...different timelines and times, then? He hadn't even heard? This is- it's going to be difficult to keep track of, isn't it. I think I already have a headache.

[And with the way Dorian had taken his answer, he can't help but think that asking no more questions might be the best way to proceed. He's hardly inclined to keep pushing the subject after that.]

But I've been keeping you, haven't I.

I...should probably go.

[He doesn't want to. He wants to know more, needs to know more, but for the moment, he can't even bring himself to ask. It seems terrible, this choking hope that in some world, he had someone by his side, that he wasn't alone.

He can't bring himself to ask, but the desperate thought catches in his mind, repeating itself like a prayer.

Did you love me?

He can't bring himself to ask it, and instead he reaches out, closing the distance between them, and hesitates. He wants to touch him, to know that he is real, that there is someone who can care for him. He wants to hold his jaw, see if the delicate lines of his face are as soft as they look.

He rests a hand on his shoulder.]

We will speak again soon. ...do let me know, should you need anything.

[He doesn't want to be a stranger to him, but he barely knows a thing about him. Certainly, he knows he is the Inquisitor, in his world, but he knew nothing else of value.

Arhen was a mystery to him.]

Edited 2015-02-08 06:05 (UTC)

[He reaches up to cover the hand on his shoulder with his own, just briefly, before he lets go. He has no idea what, exactly, is going through Dorian's mind, but as much as he'd like to encourage him to stay and talk... too much at once won't do either of them any good.]

Take care of yourself, won't you? Not that I expect any less. You'll look just as good next time, I'm sure.

[That feels more like normal, and it brings a fond smile to his face, one that's tinged with a hint of sadness. Dorian hardly seems different; it's strange to think that this isn't his Dorian at all.

Arhen steps back, about to turn to leave, but it's too difficult to go without saying something else. Dorian never mentioned that he understood what Arhen called him, at first, and so he has yet to realize that his words will actually be understood.]

Ma serannas, ma vhenan.

['Thank you, my heart.' For the explanation, for his time. For being able to see him here, even if he's not the same one. Only then does he turn away and slip off.]

[Dorian watches him slip away, the elf quickly disappearing from view, as if vanishing. That was how they were, ephemeral, almost like spirits, the Dalish.

He wonders, perhaps, if this will be the only time he sees him. Ma vhenan, it resonates through him, and he can still feel him on his fingertips. Arhen.

He can't tell if he thinks his name, or if he whispers it, a name that somehow he knows he will not forget. And those words, ma vhenan, they weigh on him like an anchor on his heart.

Arhen cares for him, at least. Dorian dares not hope for love, that is too much to ask of anyone. But he can hope that maybe there is something there. That perhaps, in some world, he isn't alone.

It's terrible, knowing that somewhere, he might be happy.]

Amatus.

[He almost hisses it, the word coming to his lips and then leaving him, going into the chilly night air.

He stands there, feeling too numb for any other reaction, and he finally turns, pulling out his communicator.]

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