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Dorian tries fruitlessly to shift his weight, pinned down to his favorite plush chair in the library nook. The Inquisitor sitting on the young Vint's lap, head upon his lover's chest and breathing slowly. This, unsurprisingly made many people stop and stare at the two grown men, much to Dorian's displeasure. He didn't need this. A few young apostates stopped, whispering quietly till the Atlus's smoky glare forced them to move on. A sick churning crept into Dorian's gut; the rumors this would cause, he didn't even want to think about it. He wondered, do all elves show their affection so...openly? No, this is surely just how Skoll operates.
“Relax...” Skoll's highly pitched and calm voice floated into the younger man's ears, causing him to huff sharply.
“And how am I do to do that Amatus? With such a fine display for anyone to just waltz up and stare!”
“Tisk-tisk, such a tone of voice. Ma Vhenan, you enjoy this.”
“Yes...I do rather enjoy you on top of me-” Dorian hushed his voice, “But not where there are a hundred onlookers ready to gawk at us.”
Skoll's breath hitches as a shiver shakes him. The elf takes a deep breath, taking in his lover's sent before sliding off him gently. He stood before Dorian with a stone hard face and sad eyes that danced like waves on the Waking Sea.
“Ir abelas, Ma Vhenan...”
“It's not your fault.” Dorian's belly rolled as he sat up. That's not the Skoll he wanted to see, this melancholy broke something inside him. This was all he could say in return.
“Mmm, No. I know what I've done.” The Inquisitor hung his head a bit while keeping his voice low, “I pushed too far and too fast. I want to change this about you. This isn't Tevinter, you needn't-”. The elf's voice wilted as he looked up at Dorian, stoned faced and eyes like while hot flames.
“You wish to change me too?” The mage spat.
“That was not what I meant to say, I do not speak to change you at all!”, Skoll shook his head, raising his hands and looking a good deal distressed. “All I want is to console you, I want my touch to mean more than the bottom of a bottle...” The elf's voice remained hushed, Dorian was speechless. That was not at all what he had expected. Such kindness and sincerity, Andraste must really hate him for literally dropping such a sweet man into his lap.
“You remind me of them, the way you talk sometimes, It scares me.”
“I-of who?” Dorian crooked, afraid of the answer it would bring. He steeled himself for the elf's reply, fingers linked and resting in his lap. Skoll watches them shake slightly as his lover swallowed. He was still to young for such a truth, but it need to be said to get the young mage's mind tinkering with new ideas.
“How many of the slaves have you really spoken with?”
The question took Dorian aback for a moment, “I-none. Not much more than giving orders. You, Solas, Sera, you're the first elves I've really-”
“-NO.” Skoll snapped loudly enough for Solas to surely hear, “WE are free elves, NOT slaves”.
Dorian felt his chest tighten. He'd seen this side of his lover before, but it had never been aimed at him so directly. Even in the beginning, when they first met and Skoll wasn't keen on having a Tevinter mage hanging around, even then the elf did not raise his voice. It was several heart beats of quiet before Skoll spoke again, quietly, yet the intensity still flared in his tone.
“They speak as you do. Not in such a learned manner, mind you...” He looks away. “They mold their slaves like they mold their children. An ugly cycle that never ends...I've always found it odd, you know?”
Skoll's comment hung in the air like an off sent, Dorian sat back in his chair; he let his body fall back limp, his lover's words hitting him fully. Is it true, he wondered.
“Do you know how Bronze Statues are made, Ma Vhenan?” The bitterness had left his voice, replaced by curiosity. The Vint hadn't expected this turn, but was too stunned to fight it.
“Craftsmen pore liquid bronze into a mold-” And there it was, the truth he'd always known but never though about in so many words. Skoll looked into his lovers eyes, lips pressed tightly together in a frown.
“Old masters set the standard and the younger sculptors copy them, hoping to obtain a perfection that was never such to begin with.” His voice raised in volume, just enough so the elf below them could hear and possibly learn a lesson of his own. “They make it in clay, soft, they make it just how they want it. Then plaster is made around it. When that's dried, the mold is cut in two, the clay removed and the plaster mold is put back together to be used till it breaks. The Bronze is poured in. All the good casts are sold away and all the ones with slight “mistakes” are rejected..., melted down and made into good casts.”
“I'm a sodding bronze idol!”