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“Here, lad, let me get that.”
Dorian rolled his eyes. There was only one person in the Inquisition with that backwater accent, and only one person he called lad. That hairy lummox, that Warden thug, had attached himself to the Inquisitor, and the poor Inquisitor had somehow been fooled into thinking that was a good thing. He seemed to ache for the Warden’s approval, for his attention, for some strange, paternal validation despite being more than happy to flap his hands and shove the Warden away whenever he tried to actually help Lavellan with anything. Dorian lingered by the barn door. He was not ashamed to admit that he was eavesdropping.
“I’m fine, Blackwall,” the Inquisitor said, clearly straining under some weight.
Blackwall chuckled. “You’re gonna drop it.”
“Just- just ‘cause I’m an elf don’t mean I-” He let out some elven curse under his breath. There was a loud thunk of something heavy and likely made of leather hitting a table. “There!”
“I’m impressed,” Blackwall responded. “Good work, lad.” Blackwall’s boots thumped along the wooden floor, and he grunted like some sort of beast of burden as he lifted something. “Why don’t you work on getting those gates all fixed up?”
“What do they need done?” Dorian could hear Lavellan’s feet pitter-pattering along the floor excitedly. After a moment, there was the faint sound of a hinge squeaking.
“Dunno. Figured you would,” Blackwall chuckled. “And, for the record, I was more concerned with a rogue lifting a saddle than an elf. I’ve known plenty of more than capable elven stable hands in my time.”
Lavellan huffed and clearly flopped down onto the hay-covered floor. “Dunno why they’re so fuckin’ heavy.”
Dorian creeped closer, trying to get a look at what the Inquisitor was doing. He couldn’t help it. The man was adorable, and the last few weeks of could-be flirting had only made Dorian all the more curious.
Am I speaking too quickly for you? They’d hardly been a few days past their first meeting when Dorian had started eagerly talking about their ordeal in the alternate future and the new potential knowledge of the Darkspawn’s true origin.
I was… distracted, is all. Lavellan’s face had puffed up, slightly, his flat elven nose wrinkling a little and his floppy ears twitching. He’d reached up to pull at it. Dorian had picked up, almost as soon as he met the man, that the motion was some sort of nervous tic.
Distracted? By my wit and charm? I have plenty of both.
No, by your clothes. Why’ve you got one shoulder bare? It don’t make any sense.
He’d been intending to talk to the Inquisitor about the Venatori and Corypheus, but he’d allowed the man to side-track him with talks of fashion and practicality. Lavellan’s small, quick, freckled hands had roamed over his clothes, studying the leather and the buckles and the asymmetry with both fascination and distaste. They’d eventually picked up on their original conversation the next day. For the past few weeks, he’d been steadily spending more and more time with the man. While Lavellan wasn’t exactly well-versed in magical theory, and he avoided textbooks and tomes like the Blight, he was an incredibly smart man. Dorian respected it.
He looked at the Inquisitor as he was in the moment, lying on the floor of a barn. He was on his side, with his pert little backside, hugged by tight trousers, easily viewable from where Dorian was standing. He had straw in his fluffy orange and silver hair. Dorian let out a small sigh under his breath. That Warden was a terrible influence.
Lavellan’s ears perked up, and Dorian mentally cursed his elven hearing. Of course he heard that. He rolled onto his other side and looked at Dorian with his owlish green eyes. “Oi. C’mere,” he said, gesturing for Dorian to walk over to him before turning back to focus on some squeaky hinge or another.
Blackwall and Dorian met eyes. Blackwall narrowed his eyes at him, and Dorian did the same right back. That Warden was the cause of many a wrinkle in his brow and in his plans to seduce the Inquisitor with stimulating, intelligent conversation and subtle flirtation. He hadn’t signed up with the Inquisition to be hounded by some Grey Warden pretending to be an ursidae sow protecting her fluffy little cub. And yet, here he was.
“Have you not people to do such trivial things for you?” Dorian asked.
“They wouldn’t do it right,” Lavellan muttered. “There’s a bag on the workbench,” he said, waving a hand in some vague direction behind Dorian. “I need it.”
Dorian’s eyebrows raised. To have an elf order him around to fetch things… It was odd, to say the least. “The workbench?”
“You know what a workbench is, right, Dorian?” Blackwall chuckled. “Big, sturdy thing, good for working on.” He looked over at Dorian, a large leather saddle in his hands. He was sweating. The entire place stank, and there weren’t even any horses in the stable yet. Dorian fought the urge to gag. “Need another hint?”
“I know what a workbench is perfectly well, thank you,” he huffed, walking over to the bench where a small satchel had been placed. “I am a Tevinter scholar, not some ignorant simpleton.”
“Right. A Tevinter scholar.”
Lavellan waved his hand impatiently. “Dorian, tools.”
Dorian went over and handed the elf his tools. Lavellan rolled onto his stomach and started pulling them out, sweeping away hay with his hands in order to lay the tools out visibly and neatly. “Being a scholar of magic in Tevinter is more than just reading ancient tomes,” Dorian said. “Although I did do my fair share of reading. I would give you some recommendations, but I doubt you’d be able to make it past the first page.” He gave Blackwall a smug smile and leaned against the low wooden wall. “Lots of big words such as in, the, and beginning.”
Blackwall set the saddle down on a rack. “There’s more to life than reading some stuffy old books,” he said, glaring. “And there’s more to a man’s intelligence than how many big words he can read.”
“Yes,” the Inquisitor piped up. Dorian looked down and found the elf glaring at him. “Thank you, Blackwall.”
Oh, Dorian thought, unable to hide the small cringe that worked its way onto his face. Lavellan looked away, refocusing on taking out the rusty screws that were holding the hinges on the doors in place. Now, the tattoos on his face were hidden from view. He’s Dalish. He’s probably illiterate. He’d heard rumors that the Dalish were no more well-read than most slaves, although he couldn’t fathom why. For a culture so obsessed with rediscovering and reinventing their past, they seemed allergic to the concept of a history book. Lavellan’s annoyance with Dorian’s citations and excited sharing of texts he’d read made perfect sense, now. Good going, Pavus! His mind scolded his tongue with a chipper, sarcastic tone. Now he thinks the Vint is a bigot! Next thing you know, he’ll be asking all about your affinity for blood magic!
Dorian looked down at the Inquisitor before swallowing some of his pride and squatting down next to him on the dirty floor of the barn. “What is it you’re doing?” He asked, hoping to gain back some of the Inquisitor’s likely lost approval by showing an interest in his work. It looked menial and horribly dirty and dull.
“The hinges have been gettin’ stuck,” Lavellan said, turning to look at Dorian as he spoke before looking back at the metal. “Y’know, not openin’ smoothly, or gettin’ stuck halfway.” He seemed to have a dislike for not looking at people when he spoke to them. “An’ they make this awful fuckin’ noise every time you try an’ open ‘em. I’m sure your shemlen ears’re fine, but mine’re startin’a really fuckin’ ache.” He had the most intriguing accent. He spoke in a strange, lilting tone, vowels stretched like they’d been on the rack.
“Fascinating,” Dorian said, watching as Lavellan kept working. “I suppose a high, rusty pitch would be quite a pain to someone with a more advanced sense of hearing.”
“Speakin’ like you don’t got any elves in Tevinter that would’a told ya so,” Lavellan said back. “Though, that subject probably doesn’t come up often, does it?” Lavellan gave him a soft, I dare you smile. He knew full well what the subject of conversations between magisters and elves were like. Less so, tell me how it feels to see so well in the dark and more fetch the laundry before the blood sacrifice, rattus. Not exactly things that left Dorian the most well-prepared to engage in intellectual conversation with a Dalish man.
“It is true that I have not been a part of those conversations, if they did, indeed, occur,” Dorian said, nodding.
Lavellan huffed out a small laugh. “Alright, Dorian, you know how to unscrew something?”
Dorian took the small metal tool when Lavellan handed it to him. “I think you’ll find me to be a quick learner, Inquisitor.”
“That’s noble-talk for no,” Blackwall chuckled.
Dorian stuck up his nose indignantly. “Why don’t you go back to polishing your pommel?”
“Why don’t you go back to learning?” Blackwall chuckled, continuing to wipe down the leather with an oiled cloth.
Dorian did his best to ignore the man and focus on Lavellan. He let the elf chirp at him, directing him on which way to hold the little tool, telling him which direction would tighten or loosen the screw. Dorian knew a good deal of what Lavellan was saying already, and much of it was intuitive, but he allowed the Inquisitor to believe that he was doing a good deal of teaching. He did adore how the elf’s freckled face would scrunch up as he redirected Dorian this way or that, and then lighten up in a satisfied little smile when Dorian got it right.
“You’re taking to life in Skyhold quite well,” Dorian remarked as he and Lavellan moved onto removing cobwebs and sweeping floors. All of the metal parts had been collected and sorted into various bags based on their function and level of rust. Dorian was now condemned to a broom, as Lavellan and Blackwall had both been firm about there being no magical cheating in their precious arts and crafts barn.
“It’s a nice place,” Lavellan said. He took a drink of water, wiping at his face with his free hand. “Bit large, but I suppose it needs to be, what with all the people livin’ here.”
“I assume it’s quite an adjustment for one of the Dalish.”
Lavellan’s brows furrowed and he cocked his head a little. The hand not holding a glass flew up to his ear, and he started rubbing the skin between his forefinger and his thumb. “Is it?”
“From what I know of your people,” Dorian said, really hoping he hadn’t managed to offend the Inquisitor twice in one day, “you live a nomadic lifestyle. A place made out of stone must be quite foreign.”
“I mean, it’s not like we do it for fun,” Lavellan huffed, setting his glass down and grabbing a rag. He started to go over the various beams and railings at Lavellan-level, clearing away the dust. “Can only stay in one place so long.”
Dorian thought back on what he knew of the Dalish. It was shockingly little. “Is it a part of your religion?” He asked, continuing to sweep at the old hay. Apparently, it had to be discarded to make way for a fresh supply. Dorian hoped its expulsion would take some of the lingering scent of mildew and horse urine with it.
“It’s a part of the shemlen’s religion,” Lavellan said, still pulling on his ear. “Sure, we’re lookin’ for old artifacts from our history, but I’m sure the Keeper would be happy diggin’ around in one spot for decades. It’s when the shems start pokin’ at us that we gotta pack up an’ high-tail it.”
“Ah.”
“Found this perfect spot a few years back,” Lavellan said. Dorian watched as his brow furrowed, warping his tattoos and freckles as his face moved. “Nice glen, good huntin’ an’ fishin’, perfect old growth. There was some sort’a ruin by it, too, that a few of our mages really liked.” His ear was red from where he was grabbing at it. The other one flicked a little before flattening somewhat to the side of his head. It reminded Dorian of a spooked horse. “Lasted for a few months, but a chevalier ran across us an’, well…” He let out an angry huff. “Either pack up or stay there right permanently.”
Dorian saw, out of the corner of his eye, Blackwall tense up and shiver. No doubt the Warden was horrified at the implications that the elf’s entire Clan would have been slaughtered if they didn’t abandon their home.
“Chevalier?” Dorian asked, trying to move the subject away somewhat from the idea of dead elven men, women, and children. “Are you from Orlais, then, Lavellan? I never would have guessed.” He smiled at the man. “You certainly don’t sound Orlesian.”
“Physically, I suppose,” Lavellan shrugged. “Born north’a Halamshiral. Clan Lavellan spent most’a its time in the mountains.”
“If nothing else, it must have been beautiful,” Blackwall said. “I’ve… recruited some folks from around there before. Stunning views, especially in the winter.”
“Maybe,” Lavellan huffed, a small smile on his face. “Dunno. Spent most’a my time lyin’ under an aravel.” At Dorian and Blackwall’s confused looks, Lavellan huffed out a small sigh. “Dunno what a fuckin’ aravel is?” He wrinkled his brow and set down his rag, neatly folded, on the workbench. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a charcoal pencil. Within a few moments, he started to sketch out what looked like an architectural diagram for a sailboat with wheels, complete with two bound deer with backwards-spiraling sets of horns. As he sketched, he started to launch into a lengthy explanation of what an aravel was and how they were used and repaired. Blackwall and Dorian stood over him, watching and listening, fascinated.
And there’s more to a man’s intelligence than how many big words he can read.
Dorian hated that the hairy lummox on the other side of Lavellan had been perfectly correct. Of course, he was now quite set on teaching the man to read, intrigued by the thought of what Lavellan would be capable of if he had access to all manner of research and knowledge. It may take some convincing, he figured, but the elf clearly ached for approval and the chance to show off what he knew. If he could get Lavellan a journal, Dorian was sure that his own magical knowledge combined with Lavellan’s affinity for physical design would be a marvel for the ages. His eyes flickered from Lavellan’s rapidly moving lips to Blackwall’s face, and saw the man squinting at him, clearly trying to read whatever evil magister thoughts were going through Dorian’s brain. In a slightly undignified move, Dorian smiled and stuck his tongue out at the Warden before turning to Lavellan and sweetly asking a clarifying question on how he carved certain replacement parts out of a special type of tree. As Blackwall glowered at him, Dorian was content to accept that he would simply have to muscle his way into the elf’s heart. He was determined to get there, no matter how many Tainted mother bears he had to shove aside first.