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It was an awful, terrible, no good thing. There was no other way to describe it. Dorian’s head felt like a wineskin filled up with too much liquor. His chest hurt like someone had set a weight on it, he could hardly breathe without hearing a dreadful rasp, and every time someone spoke above a whisper he thought his head was going to pop.
“It’s just a cold,” the infirmary nurse had told him. Dorian figured her for a quack. This was not just any cold. This was misery incarnate and nothing could make him feel better.
Almost nothing.
Mahanon had a way about him that made Dorian feel joyful. Even in this disgusting, snotty, state, Dorian began to feel ever so slightly better when the Inquisitor entered his room. The elf had simply come in and kissed his temple and sat down by his bed without a word. Dorian stayed curled up under a pile of blankets and Mahanon just sat there. It was ever so slightly romantic that the elf would simply come in and offer the peaceful comfort of his presence. It was blissful, beautiful silence.
That was until the elf let out a loud, ugly snore and Dorian was forced to realize that Mahanon had come in here and fallen asleep out of boredom.
“Naturally,” Dorian coughed.
That woke him. “What?” Mahanon jumped up as if his name had been called.
“If you’re bored then perhaps you should find something else to do and leave me in peace,” He tried to clear his throat. Dorian hated the sound of his gravely, sick voice. It was nothing like his usual, mellifluous tone. In fact it sounded a lot like he had gargled nails and whiskey the night before; rather, his whole body felt like he had done just that—and hit himself in the head a few times too.
“I figured you would have wanted me here.” Mahanon sat back down and crossed his legs.
“Well of course I do,” Dorian felt a cough coming on again. He fought it off and continued. “But I’d like your company, not your snoring.” He finally let the coughing fit take him. And when he was finished he asked; “Do you think that Mark of yours could cure illnesses? You are Andraste’s Herald; perhaps she gave you healing powers as well?”
Mahanon shrugged and placed his left palm over Dorian’s face. “Feel any better?” he asked after a moment.
“Alas, no.”
The elf shrugged again and removed his hand. “You want something to eat? Soup? Some tea?”
Dorian felt a small smile come to his face. He’d planned to spend the whole day reading a book, but his head hurt too much for him to concentrate on the words. “How about you read to me?”
This was met with silence. Mahanon didn’t have the patients required to sit and read for hours on end. Dorian expected him to ask if he wanted soup again, but instead the elf got up and picked a book off the shelf. “This one alright?”
“Y—yes,” Dorian nodded, surprised. He didn’t know what the book was; he was just merely astounded by the kindness. He felt his heart swell up in his chest and for a moment his cold was forgotten. Mahanon was—out of all the things he was—the most compassionate man Dorian had ever known. For the billionth time since he’d met the elf, he began to dwell on what stroke of fortune, what divine being, or twist of fate had brought them together.
He wasn’t listening to a word Mahanon was reading. He just enjoyed watching his lips move, the way his eyes glided over the words, the gentle way his fingers took the paper and turned the page over. It was mesmerizingly simple and beautiful and wondrous all at the same time.
Dorian wasn’t sure how much time had passed. It was getting hard to stay awake, especially with the soft drone of Mahanon’s voice. He was too tired and sick to fight it, so he let Mahanon’s gentle murmur lead him to the Fade.
He woke hours later feeling only a little better. It was dark, but he could still make out Mahanon’s shape in the chair across from his bed. The book had fallen from his grasp and landed page down on the floor. He was snoring. Dorian found he didn’t mind it so much as long as it was Mahanon’s snoring.