Chapter Text
He really was fetching.
From the sultry curl of moustache gracing full lips to the way the mid afternoon sun would play through the sable locks curled just across his brow. And the spill of those same golden rays down one side of his sculpted face? Highlighting in such rich detail that his skin practically glowed bronze? Perhaps it would not have been so unbelievably unfair if that were the end of it. But no, there was always more. There was the languid way he rested in his worn wingback chair, ankles crossed out in front of him, his masculine jaw resting on agile fingers with some dust ridden tome in his lap. He even made the simple act of working the kinks from his neck appear refined and elegant. A human, from Tevinter no less, really had no business being so damn attractive.
But that was Dorian in a nutshell wasn’t it? Defying every expectation pinned to him with effortless grace and mocking eyes. A mage so unlike any other that Lavellan was tempted to coin a wholly new word just so people would never confuse the two. For Dorian was flare and fire in equal measure. To see him in a fight was to know the beauty of flame in more forms then the inquisitor could even name. Dorian knew it of course, every spell was a show whether it was lighting a candle with a snap of fingers or torching a hurlock at fifty paces. The man exuded charm like most people breathed and his laugh was like velvet on the spine.
But the most surprising thing Cey had come to learn about the inquisition’s oh so lovely altus was that he was an excellent listener and a caring soul beneath that wit and smirk. Not that Cey had spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about the sweet curve of Dorian’s lips or anything…
The elf himself, was lounging on the three inch wide railing that overlooked the entirety of the tower. It was the perfect spot really, sitting to the side meant that were Dorian to look up, Cey could feign interest in the birds nearest him or in Solas’ paintings. Or if he was feeling particularly motivated, Cey could even chat with Leliana… given that this level was all hers anyway.
“You could go speak with him.”
Little over a month since the fall of Haven and Leliana had already stuffed the place with cages, perches and birds to go with them. And that wasn’t counting the scouts that were constantly running up and down the narrow stairwell. Cey wondered if Leliana had that as part of her recruitment regime, all applicants must be able to jog up and down stairs with the utmost efficiency. Still, it was a prime location for her, suited almost suspiciously to her needs. From here the inquisition’s spymaster could hear all and see all in a manner of speaking, and it was she who now addressed him from behind her surprisingly empty desk.
“I will, in a bit.” He shifted slightly to the right, until the post he leaned against was no longer pressing directly on his spine. Haven had done a real number on his back and it made his old favored slouch not nearly as comfortable now. Yet, with one foot on the rail itself and the other serving as balance, this was about his favorite seat in Skyhold. Mostly because if people thought he was speaking with the Nightingale they tended to leave him alone. Well, as alone as one can be with a dozen cawing ravens hanging feet from you. “Besides I did actually come up here to speak with you, not just to oogle.”
Though it was difficult, Cey did finally pry his attention away from watching the book-absorbed altus enough to regard her fully. Leliana on the other hand continued to read the report she’d been handed just as Cey had first taken a seat on her rail. It was part of why he’d indulged himself his rubbernecking, turning a polite wish to not interrupt her into an advantage.
“You should have said so then. I’m not so busy that we can’t speak.” She cast the page down with a heavy sigh, leaning back in her chair with a weariness that ran right down to the bone. Not that she’d say it of course. Oh no, Leliana played everything close to the vest to the point where most of it was probably under the vest… maybe under her ribs too. But that didn’t mean she had no sense of humor, or that she didn’t enjoy teasing in her own way. As her eyelids closed for a moment and her head tilted to rest against the back of her chair the ghost of a smile tugged the sides of her mouth. “Besides, you should learn to carry a conversation with someone while watching another. It could be of great use to you.”
“You’ll have to teach me that one. You know, sometime inbetween saving the empress and tracking down the grey wardens.” Cey let his weight tip to his right and gravity to pull him from the railing into a fluid stroll. Practice had perfected that little move and one of these days he was going to try it out on an audience. A very specific one. But not right now, now he had an ex bard to look after. One that he owed a great deal to. “If we both give up trivial things like eating and sleeping I’m sure we’ll have the time.”
“Hopefully before we set foot in Halamshiral,” she chided with a cluck of her tongue and twist of her accent. “Give such long looks in those halls and all of Thedas will know who our Inquisitor pines for. Very dangerous knowledge in the right hands.” Her left eye opened just enough so that Cey could feel the sharpness of the look.
“First, I do not pine, I was admiring. Pining implies intent and intimacy. Things I should get to enjoy before I’m accused of them.” Cey’s mock indignance tasted almost real and earned him a ‘hmph’ from Leliana. “And second, I just don’t see a point in trying to hide anything from you. Too time consuming.” He let a shrug roll through his shoulders as he took a seat on a clear corner of her desk and folded one knee over the other. “Everyone else though? Not even a challenge, except for maybe Bull. But he watches Dorian just as much as I do so maybe he’ll be too distracted to notice?”
Leliana just slowly shook her head and let her arms rest across her lap. They wouldn’t discuss the dark circles both of them wore just beneath the eyes. Nor would the subject of Redcliffe or Haven be brought up beyond status reports and a planned memorial. Words would after all, do no good for either subject so what was the use of asking now?
Cey had once… on the second night after they’d arrived in Skyhold. He’d climbed all those stairs with honeyed wine (though he couldn’t remember why he’d thought to bring it) and found Cullen and Leliana exchanging barbed words. He’d asked then, a hand on her shoulder, words meant to soothe her misplaced guilt. And it had seemed enough, she’d let him take the list of those they’d lost. His argument that he should be the one to write those letters, had met with no resistance. But as he’d noted time and again, the Nightingale played everything close to the vest.
“Good, glad we agree. Now, scout Charter said you had word on my clan?”
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Midnight battlements and no rest for the weary. Cey stared down into the dizzying depths of the valley below Skyhold and noticed none of it. Too up in his own thoughts to concern himself with frozen slopes and shadowed lake no matter how picturesque they might appear in pools of clear starlight.
No, his mind was in his pocket, folded between the creases of a letter. The same place it had been since Leliana had passed him said letter and he had read said letter, running the maze of Keeper Istimaethoriel’s deft penmanship and the meaning therein. That had been hours ago, and he’d somehow made it down from the rookery, through the main hall, up onto the ramparts and all the way to the top of an empty tower without a single person interrupting him. Cey would have been amazed were he in any state of mind to notice it.
His fingers were numb against the rough stone, too long in the gelid air, not enough layers between his skin and the night’s chill. He hadn’t even grabbed his coat and as his stomach was quick to remind, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast either. Too busy chewing on a single line “The raiders are well armed and heavily armored, and they come in numbers our hunters cannot match.”
He folded his arms, worried his lower lip and unfolded them again, rapping his knuckles against the stone until they threatened to bleed. And when that brought no more answers than the last time he’d done it, he paced. Ten strides left, ten strides right. Careless fingers running through his mane of mist-gray hair, eyes fixed forward and seeing only the weather beaten stone he tread on.
“Now there’s the look of a man who could use a drink.”