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“What's wrong, love?” Dorian’s voice broke the silence that had hung around Keidar, the elf not having realised he’d been approached until the mage had called to him, plopping himself down beside the golden blonde on the side walls of skyhold battlements.
He’d been sitting there for an hour — maybe two or three — eyes outcast to the snowy horizon of their mountainous home. The sun hung low in the sky, far away from where Keidar had last remembered, its dying light brushing the sky in colours of purples, reds and pinks. Even in summer, the snowcaps remained unmoved by the growing heat and Keidar could barely feel the stinging ice that still lingered in the air from when they’d entered Skyhold at the peak of winter.
“I — Dorian!” He managed, his face flushing from more than just the soft nip in the air. Keidar brought a hand up to cover his mouth, desperate to mask up his embarrassment creeping across his cheeks. Dorian noticed — of course he did, the bastard — his eyebrow arched at him with a little smirk dancing along his lips. ‘Move past it, don’t acknowledge it.’ Keidar coughed into his hand, darting his eyes away from the other man, knowing he’d have his way — if those beautiful pools of mahogany had any say in the matter — and he wasn’t quite ready to have that conversation. “It’s nothing, just some silly musings, is all.” The hitch in his voice betrayed him.
“I doubt that, aurea puer, you never seem to have small worries," the Tevinter mage huffed out, eyebrows furrowing as his eyes narrowed at the Inquisitor. Keidar would have rolled his own eyes in retaliation had it not been for the crossed arms or the rubbing of boots against his calf. Oh.
Keidar and Dorian hadn’t been doing their little dance for long; in fact, the elf believed the man was only teasing him to try and have a little fun around the fortress — what with his constant flirting with any that would entertain the idea. He had that impression, until he’d learned one very crucial detail that changed every action, every twitch and flourished bouquet of words.
Touch.
Dorian never, ever touched anyone. He would serenade them with poetic songs, thoughtful gifts and ogling stares — but touching someone was when Dorian was being genuine. Even the lightest of fingers breezing across faces meant he was opening up. It was his tell, his silent question, that not everyone would realise was being posed.
“I know.” His reply was soft, eyes flicking down to find something to study, to try and distract his mind from having to spill his secrets.
“So what troubles the great Herald of Andraste? Political strife, magical shenanigans? Boy problems?” The last one was said with a small waggle in the eyebrows, Dorian’s striking smile growing ever stronger as Keidar finally rolled his eyes. Though he did appreciate the attempt to soften the blow Keidar was about to strike at the atmosphere.
“I wish,” He joked, unable to wear an equally cheeky grin. “No, we haven’t heard from clan Lavellan since the soldiers were deployed to protect Wycome.”
The silence returned, biting and snapping at the space between the pair, Keidar dragging down the mood faster than a halla would dart at the sound of danger. But he wanted Dorian to know, he wanted to let the doors of his castle fall down, even if just an inch.
“I’m sure they’ll be fine, Cullen is the finest general you could ask for!” Dorian assured, nudging Keidar with his shoulder. The usually bare appendage felt soft against him, the skin clearly pampered and well cared for. Very much unlike Keidar, who had callouses everywhere; His hands, feet, elbows. He’d never complain though — it marked him as an experienced hunter who’d worked for every ounce of skill he possessed.
“I’m sure Cullen will do all he can, and I have no doubt in his capabilities,” He stopped, his words catching and mind racing. Originally, he’d been out here to clear his head, forget the worries that plagued his every waking moment since the letter came in speaking of the Lavellan’s problems and in turn Vellavoren’s peril.
“That’s not the issue, is it though?” As perceptive as ever, or perhaps the mage could simply read him like a book; he wasn’t sure what would’ve been more infuriating. Keidar let out a sigh, his nerves fraying and his frame trying to curl in on itself.
“No, it’s not what’s got me worried.” He whispered, the bile slurring in his throat, the pit of his stomach bubbling with a churning dread that gripped hard. He had so many worries, from the brewing political strife that stirred within every inch of both Fereldan and Orlais, the strange Grey Warden sightings he’d begun hearing about in the wastelands of the Western Approach and even the sudden increase in dragon sightings. Above all though, his clan and their uncertain future haunted his nightmares. “My clan-”
“Lavellan?”
“No, well yes, but.” he paused, the feeling of an ungloved hand placing itself on his bare shoulder causing his breath to hitch, the skin delicate as it rested on the dip between his neck and shoulder muscle. Dorian’s face was as soft as his skin, eyebrows downturned and frown curving deep into his brow. The Tevinter mage always had this sharp look about him; whether in danger or relaxing in a bar, he had this distinct glint in his eye — but here it was gone, replaced by a soft glow that lit up the irises, a distinct amber ring circling around his pupil. He was beautiful.
“You don’t have to explain, Keidar.” His name, something so rarely said these days. Herald of Andraste, messere, Andraste’s chosen, all titles and none his actual name. It was strange, hearing it so fondly.
“No, it’s alright. Better to share my woes than bottle them up,” He replied, his own hand coming up to gently pat the back of the other’s. “Clan Lavellan isn’t my birth clan. I was born into another, one that mostly stayed in the very Frostback mountains Skyhold looks out over,” Dorian sat quietly, gaze intense and focused directly on Keidar. His hand never moved, simply squeezed tighter as he continued with his venting. “Clan Vellavoren was where both my mother and father resided, until he was murdered. We joined clan Lavellan because there were no other mages to lead — none that were old enough, anyway.”
“You worry that could happen again with this new home,” Dorian implored softly, his thumb idly rubbing circles into his shoulder. Keidar did not reply verbally, only nodding his head in confirmation that Dorian’s guess was correct. He may not have liked the merging of their clans, nor how his mother did so without consulting a single member of Vellavoren, but they’d just been given some stability in over a year, they couldn’t have it ripped away once again.
“They don’t deserve more heartbreak so soon. I want, no, need this operation to be successful. For the sake of my family.” Dorian’s hand grew a little tighter, not enough to hurt, but enough he could feel the increased pressure, fingers digging slightly into the muscle. Right now though, he didn’t want to talk about that. Rubbing a rogue tear from his eye, Keidar ran a hand over his face, letting it settle at the collar of his shirt, hooking onto the cotton fabric as he looked to Dorian with a boyish smile playing at his lips. “Would you, perhaps, want to hear about them? My family?”
A smile stretched across his face, the simmering of curiosity gracing his face.
“I’d love to.”