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“They’re gettin’ in’ta the fuckin’ crops again.”
Thom looked up and smiled at the small Dalish elf that had walked into the barn. “Are they, now?” He chuckled.
“Fuckers,” Lavellan muttered, one hand grabbing at his soft, floppy ear. He always tended to pinch himself, worrying the ear between his finger and thumb or pulling at it. It was some sort of nervous tic. With his free hand, he grabbed a few of the loose boards of wood that Thom kept around the barn for various projects. Thom had made sure to keep even more on hand ever since he found out that the Inquisitor was especially fond of crafting. “It’s the fuckin’ rabbits again,” he said, continuing to mutter. “I try an’ do somethin’ good for this stupid place, an’ they swoop in an’ fuck all that up.” He dumped an armful of planks and long dowels on the crafting bench. He looked up at Thom, a determined frown on his freckled, tattooed face. “I’m fixin’ it.”
“I never doubted you could, lad,” Thom chuckled. He leaned his side against the bench to look down at the man. He was tiny, only a few inches above five feet tall, and his body was willowy. “Making traps, are we?”
“First off, Blackwall,” Lavellan said, pointing a tiny finger in Thom’s face. Thom couldn’t help but chuckle. “This is not a we project.”
“Wee as in little, or we as in you’re not helping?” Thom was one of the only people who could get away with teasing the Inquisitor slightly. Over the last few months, he and Lavellan had developed a strange sort of father-son relationship, even if neither of them would say it out loud.
“You’re not helpin’,” Lavellan said, pressing his finger against Thom’s nose. “You, shem, have no trap-making talents.” Thom grinned. That was completely correct. “But- but second off,” Lavellan continued, poking Thom’s nose again. “I’m not makin’ a trap, I’m makin’ a scarecrow.” He pulled his hand back to grab at his ear.
Thom raised his eyebrows a little. “You know how to make scarecrows?” Lavellan gave him a slightly offended look—his flat, elven nose wrinkled, lips moved into a frown, and his big green eyes narrowed. “I didn’t know the Dalish made scarecrows. I was under the impression that scarecrows were a, uh, shemlen thing.” He’d started peppering his speech with little elvhen phrases the longer he spent around Lavellan. And, when he was dragged along on each little outing the Inquisitor wanted to go on, the hours really started to rack up.
Lavellan huffed and turned to focus on his materials, but he kept glancing back at Thom when he spoke. He disliked not looking at people when he was talking with them. “Just ‘cause we’re nomadic don’t mean we don’t have things we’d rather the fuckin’ critters not get at.” He tossed a small bag he’d been carrying onto the crafting bench, and Thom could hear a clattering of metal and rocks. Lavellan opened the flap and pulled a handful of metal gears and, perhaps, runes out, spreading them over the sawdust-covered surface. “Y’know, boxes’a food, herbs, them sorts. Statue’a Fen’Harel can only do so much.”
Thom nodded. “Makes perfect sense to me,” he said, moving back to where he was before Lavellan had stormed into the barn. He was carving a few small toy soldiers for the children in the local camps.
“I call ‘em my aju-amelans,” Lavellan said, sorting his various materials into neat, orderly piles. “Crafted guardians.” He brushed some sawdust aside and started sketching on the surface of the wooden table with a charcoal pencil. At this point, the table was half covered in Lavellan’s sketches. Thom didn’t have the heart to wash them off, even if Lavellan would often come in and huff about having to scrub them off himself when he wanted more space to draw. “Keeper thought they were daft, and my mother thought they were horrifyin’,” he huffed, his small hand moving a mile a minute as the charcoal aju-amelan started taking shape on the bench. “But they worked! Dunno why everythin’ needs to look pretty.”
Thom frowned a little. The more Lavellan talked about the life with the Dalish that he’d been forced to leave behind, the more Thom was glad that he was the Inquisitor. Even if the elf still had a clear fondness for his culture and would never let any non-Dalish breathe a word of disrespect about his people, it was clear he’d never been at home amongst the Dalish. His mother hadn’t seemed to care at all for him, and his Clan seemed to find him… too strange for their tastes. Too obsessive about his work, too anxious, too much. Thom was grateful that he, at least, could maybe help the lad start feeling accepted and cared for by some kind of paternal figure. He chuckled to himself as he thought about how becoming a father figure was probably the last thing he thought would happen when he signed up for the Inquisition. And yet, here he was, with the Inquisitor himself and Sera following him around like two elven ducklings. Two ducklings that most certainly fought and bickered like siblings.
“An’ what are you gigglin’ about, Blackwall?” Lavellan asked, giving Thom a questioning glare.
“Nothing, nothing,” he smiled, waving a hand.
“Tell me.”
Ah, of course. Thom knew better. Lavellan couldn’t stand when things went unsaid. He tended to worry himself into a complete panic every time, fretting over what someone was hiding from him. “Well,” he said, “if it’s worth anything, I think your work has a… sort of… grace to it.” Lavellan tilted his head, staring at Thom and waiting for him to elaborate. “I mean, everything you make is very clearly well thought out,” he smiled. “Very intentional.”
“Ah,” Lavellan said, clearly fighting a nervous, yet happy, smile. “Thank, uh, thank ye.” He kept sketching, finishing up his little schematic. “You, uh, you do a good job, too.”
“Thank you, lad.”
Lavellan shook his head, as if to clear it of the soft sentiments. His bouncy orange and silver-streaked hair seemed to fly every which way. “Now shush. I gotta focus.”
“Of course,” Thom chuckled.
The two worked in silence—aside from the occasional curse from a misplaced part or a nicked finger. At some point, Dorian walked by, bemoaning the fact that his beloved Lavellan was in the barn again and not in the library with him—if only for the fact that the library didn’t leave an alleged odor of horse shit on the Inquisitor’s clothes. Lavellan had accepted a kiss on the cheek before telling the Vint to, affectionately, fuck off and let him work. Thom still wasn’t sure about the necromancer, but he seemed to make Lavellan happy. And, Thom figured, it was good that the man had someone to bring him some comfort aside from Thom himself. He could only imagine how much it would devastate Lavellan if he found out that the man he had grown to care for was nothing more than a murderous liar, that Blackwall was nothing but a carefully constructed fraud—even if the affection that he had for Lavellan was perfectly real. Thom viewed Lavellan as his pseudo-son just as much as Blackwall did. Whether or not Lavellan would think the same was a question he didn’t want to know the answer to.
The hours passed by peacefully. By the end, Thom had managed to construct a dozen little soldiers to be painted tomorrow, and Lavellan had created an impressive beast of a scarecrow. As soon as he finished, Thom set down his tools and listened to him prattle on and on about what he did to make it—as if Thom hadn’t been watching him the entire time—and how it worked. Apparently, the little runes would detect movement around it and send out a small pulse of electric magic that would spin a few metal-tipped wooden gears to make the limbs and head move, frightening the daylights out of any unsuspecting critter that was trying to get at Skyhold’s small supply of fresh fruits and vegetables. And, Thom assumed, any unsuspecting Skyhold resident. He’d pay good money to see some of the more tight-laced members of the Inquisition yelp when a scarecrow waved them good morning. He accompanied Lavellan as he carried it to the small garden he’d insisted on starting, thankful for the small lamps lit around the courtyard. Unlike the Inquisitor, he didn’t have the privilege of elven eyesight. The entire time, the aju-amelan writhed like it was trying to escape Lavellan’s grip. Thom supposed that was proof enough that it was working as intended. The bits of electricity magic made Lavellan’s hair float slightly from the static. It was adorable.
Lavellan planted the aju-amelan in the dirt in the center of the garden. As he stepped away from it, it seemed to wave goodbye, head turning to look at the Inquisitor. The elf beamed with pride, but tried to switch his expression to one of neutral acknowledgement as soon as he saw Thom smiling at him. He hurried out of the garden to where Thom was waiting.
“Nice work, lad,” Thom said, clapping a hand on Lavellan’s thin shoulder.
“Oh, fuck off, I’m goin’a bed,” Lavellan said, trying to wiggle away. It wasn’t so dark out that Thom couldn’t see the happy blush on Lavellan’s cheeks. He managed to get a few feet away before turning back around. “But, uh… thanks, I- I guess.” He grabbed his ear, pinching at the skin and turning it cherry red. “Be back, uh, tomorrow mornin’. Clean up.”
“See you then,” Thom smiled. “Have a good night.”
“You, too.” With that, Lavellan turned on his heel and sped away into the darkness.
Thom gave the retreating figure a small wave and started the slow walk back to the stables.