I know. [ Soft, without fight in it. Selfish as Dorian wishes to be in this moment, he understands. Even if this place were idyllic, without horrors, even if it offered him the chance to stay with these new loves forever-- Dorian has an apocalypse to help avert, back home. He doesn't know how the Inquisition fares without him, and he feels helpless in that.
Dorian tips his cheek into Aemond's warm hand and holds his wrist, pressing a kiss to the center of his palm, his lashes wet. ]
Forgive me the foolish, impossible fantasy that neither of us has a war to go home to. I'd rather not march to my death when I return, but it's possible I will.
[ He mirrors Aemond, lifting a hand to his cheek, thumb tracing the edge of his eyepatch, pressing lightly into the scar tissue below it. ]
I won't mourn you before you're gone. You're here, now. Real as anything.
Only my mother has ever cried for me. [ how poignant it is, isn't it, that someone should mourn him in their little ways. tears unshed, clinging to dorian's lashes. the very last of propriety, or pride, or some other emotion left unnamed in aemond's vocabulary. ] Save your tears. I am not dying yet.
[ soon. by daemon's hand, by daemon's steel, by caraxes's fire — does it matter how, if the the man who takes him is the same? the histories tell of it. the histories remember for him, for them, their glory ever intertwined in the watery grave that awaits. there is little room left for anything else, but aemond will prise apart the iron that binds them, so that dorian might find warm in the spaces between. ]
Perhaps you'll remember for the both of us, when we return. And you'll survive, and live for years to come, and I will be alone the dragon you think of fondly in your sleep.
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Dorian tips his cheek into Aemond's warm hand and holds his wrist, pressing a kiss to the center of his palm, his lashes wet. ]
Forgive me the foolish, impossible fantasy that neither of us has a war to go home to. I'd rather not march to my death when I return, but it's possible I will.
[ He mirrors Aemond, lifting a hand to his cheek, thumb tracing the edge of his eyepatch, pressing lightly into the scar tissue below it. ]
I won't mourn you before you're gone. You're here, now. Real as anything.
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[ soon. by daemon's hand, by daemon's steel, by caraxes's fire — does it matter how, if the the man who takes him is the same? the histories tell of it. the histories remember for him, for them, their glory ever intertwined in the watery grave that awaits. there is little room left for anything else, but aemond will prise apart the iron that binds them, so that dorian might find warm in the spaces between. ]
Perhaps you'll remember for the both of us, when we return. And you'll survive, and live for years to come, and I will be alone the dragon you think of fondly in your sleep.
My handsome, clever man.