burning like a bridge for your body

“How do I…?”

“How do you look?”

Aithlin’s brows flattened, but the warmth in Dorian’s eyes coaxed a smile out of him. “You shouldn’t interrupt me, but… yes, how do I look?”

“Like the most beautiful creature in Thedas.”

“’Aside from myself, of course’.”

Dorian laughed, low and sweet, and shook his head, forefinger tucked up beneath the curve of Aithlin’s chin. “There you go, putting words in my mouth again, when I’d much rather you find another way to engage it. A kiss, maybe, if you’re feeling adventurous?”

I was so so amped to get a chance to commission @oatson, and let me tell you, I wasn’t disappointed with the experience! Not by a long shot. Please, if you have a chance, go commission her. She’s such a sweetheart and (obviously) so talented! I mean, look at Aithlin’s arms.

“You’re encased in a disastrous matrix of fear and loathing. You’re just a function. You’re just a function of the universe. You think you’re free. You have no more freedom than a cell on your body. The universe isn’t a democracy. It’s a monarchy. You’re just a function. The closest you can get to freedom is anonymity. Fame is the worst prison of them all. Because then people have ideas about you and ideas about your life. And if you’re not what they expect then they will fuck you up. Kanye West is the biggest prisoner on this planet. Your only chance at freedom is to stay on the fringes like me. Burn all your bridges. Who cares? You’re all lying to each other. You all hate each other more than you love each other.“

love is like this:

watching him die –
kill himself –
because he believes that
it’s the best option,
the only real option.
and maybe it is.
maybe saving the world
is more important
than the way
you feel your heart drop in your chest.
saving billions of innocents
is more important
than saving your
guilty conscience –
(for a short moment
you wanted him to stay with you
in a burning world
if it meant just a few more
in his presence.)
he would hate you for that
so you just beg him to take you
with him
long after his body scatters
into stars.

love is like this:

you are hanging off a bridge
suspended on wires
and across you is the world.
across you
is every stare from every mother,
every helpless child,
and you are a good man,
so you are afraid
because you love
an atlas.
one man is not
worth the weight
of the world.
you know this is how
your story ends.

love is like this:

not the absence of him,
but the lack of presence:
the way you turn to an empty room,
a laugh dying on your mouth,
and then dying altogether.
the empty bed
you shared for such
a short time
and somehow still
smells like him.
you should be hailed as heroes
but the gold
melts in your hands
scalds your skin
runs down your arms
to every place he kissed you.
a thousand medals
are not as heavy
as his corpse.

love is like this:

one man can weigh more than a galaxy.
for every word that praises you
you can only feel the
oppressive lack of pride.
they sing for you,
every planet on every star,
but it just sounds like
you screaming his name.
for every memorial
there is a matching one in your chest;
a drumline beat out by heartbeats,
your ribcage a group of pallbearers,
for every word he might’ve said.

love is like this:

in his situation you might’ve let the world die.
maybe that makes you
a bad man.
maybe you loved him more.
maybe that’s terrible.
“don’t leave me behind,”
but he does,
and you have to be okay with that.
“next time, wake me,”
and he does,
shrieking into consciousness
with nightmares that carry his shadow.

you put his name
on the wall
and now you stay behind with him
long after he burns out
and leaves.

– loving you is being chained to a supernova,

when fidelity takes you away

Dorian began leaving long before he left.

There were letters, of course- long letters spirited over long miles by Leliana’s ravens. But they were letters he couldn’t respond to, letters read by Josephine as Aithlin sat in her office with his chin to his knees and his down-turned ears nearly resting on his shoulders. How would you like to respond? she asked, time and again.

And he responded every time with the same words, guilt-ridden and lonely down to his bones: I don’t want to.

There was a conflict inside of him. Differing thoughts waged war, and each side was desperate to win his heart. There was pride in Dorian for traveling back into the heart of his homeland to plant the seed of rebellion. There was concern for the same reason. There was anger, too.

At night, anger was the strongest.

Curled up in his bed, a solitary shape in a sea of blankets with room enough for three or four, Aithlin’s thoughts of Dorian turned sour. There was no instant regret. There was no rush of shame. He laid there before sleep, and he tongued the words Dorian wrote to him against the roof of his mouth.

They were sweet, placating words, though they lost their meaning when dictated on a tuneful Antivan accent.


Don’t… read that word.

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