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Like most nights, Inquisitor Lavellan could not sleep.
Inquisitor.
He still struggled with that title. All he did was spy on the Conclave, and here he was now: in the middle of nowhere, in a tent, next to some people he would have never met if not for the Inquisition.
He never wanted this; he never wanted any of this.
Could he have said no? When Cassandra and Leliana chose him to be the leader of their religious organization, it had never felt like a choice. He was not even human–and he despised the Chantry.
But what was done was done; there was no use thinking about it. Lavellan shifted, trying another position. In vain. There was no point in staying any longer. He was not about to fall asleep.
Quietly, Lavellan grabbed his bow and some arrows as he stepped outside his tent. His companions were all in their tents while some members of the Inquisition were watching over them.
“I'm going for a walk,” the Inquisitor warned them. “I won't go far.”
His soldiers nodded silently and watched him leave. There was something unsettlingly satisfying in being in charge. No one denied him anything. Many would lose their minds over such power and freedom. But his aunt raised him to be moderate. Lavellan was conscious of his power and feared it as much as he enjoyed it.
As he walked away from camp, Lavellan felt like he was being followed. He could not tell if he was being paranoid or not. Lavellan decided to ignore this feeling, staying wary nonetheless.
He brushed some bushes with one hand as he walked in the wild. At least he was in a forest. He breathed in deeply, eyes closed, losing himself in the familiar scent. If he was back with his clan, what would he be doing?
He remembered waking his lover up for some secret night out—to walk hand in hand by a river or to lie against a tree, to kiss in the dirt, and to return to their clan, giggling.
Thinking about those fond memories, a smile appeared on Lavellan's face, but he immediately dropped it. These days were long gone. It had been years since the man he once called his married a woman from another clan.
“So much for us,” Lavellan mumbled as he grabbed a flower.
He played with it with his fingers, thinking about the man who broke his heart. Lavellan sighed as he tossed the flower away. He never liked him that much anyway.
Practice. That was what the nights of insomnia had become.
Lavellan looked around for a good spot. He tried to gather pine cones along the way. After a good ten minutes, he found a fallen tree.
“That will do it,” he mumbled as he positioned his targets.
Looking up, he wondered if he should put some in the trees as well. Or maybe he should shoot from there. He could not figure out what he needed to practice the most. Then, it struck him: he was no longer a hunter waiting for prey in the shadows. He was now fighting in the front line.
Effortlessly, Lavellan pulled himself up the trees with his grappling hook and placed his last pine cones between branches. Once he had climbed down, he put himself at a reasonable distance. It was so dark he could barely see a thing. That was perfect.
He took down his targets one by one, not missing a single time. It was almost too easy; his father taught him well. Aiming for the last pine cone, a crunch of wood caught his attention.
In a blink, Lavellan turned and shot an arrow right where he felt the presence. A spark of magic deflected it.
“Is that how you treat your allies, Inquisitor?” A voice raised in the dark.
Lavellan sighed. He knew that damn voice. Hands on his hips, he watched the man draw closer.
“Following a hunter at night, another good idea of yours, Lord Pavus,” he mumbled.
“I was merely watching your back as you wander in the dark, your highness,” he replied with his usual teasing tone.
“Sure, you did,” Lavellan spat as he turned to quickly shoot the last pine cone.
Dorian lit up a magic flame in his hand to see him better. Lavellan instantly hit him to extinguish it.
“Do you want to attract all the predators and demons out there?” Lavellan scolded him. “What do you want anyway?”
“I could not sleep either,” the mage confessed.
And there started the complaints about sleeping in the dirt–the cold, the wild. It was to be expected and Lavellan rolled his eyes more than once. He tried not to hate him too much about it. Being this far from home was hard and yet, he left to help them against the Venatori. Lavellan should be grateful, yet he only felt bitterness.
He was from Tevinter. His family owned slaves, elven ones potentially. No matter how hard he tried not to, all Lavellan could think about when looking at Dorian was his mother.
It was unfair. It was not Dorian's fault. He did not ask to be born in Minrathous. He was born and raised in this system. Give him some time, he told himself.
“What is it? Does my charm trouble you this much?” Dorian teased him.
Lavellan realized he stopped listening long ago.
“More likely your home country,” Lavellan mumbled.
Dorian sighed outrageously. “We talked about it. I thought we agreed—”
“Yes! Yes! You're here to help,” Lavellan cut him abruptly. “Pardon me if I have a hard time dealing with your family being slavers.”
“They are no slavers. They—”
“What difference does it make?” Lavellan shouted at him. “They own slaves. And I do not care that they treat them well!”
Dorian certainly had something witty up his sleeve to say back but figured arguing was not a wise decision.
“As I already told you, being in the South is making me… I'm thinking a lot,” Dorian tried to ease the situation.
“As if your little thinking is doing any good to them,” Lavellan mumbled as he turned away.
He knew it was not Dorian's fault, but it did not stop him. Dorian did not enslave anyone, and Dorian was not responsible for his mother's situation. But Dorian was here, and blaming him was so much easier. Dorian was here, and his mother was not.
Before he could even realize it, Lavellan felt tears falling on his cheeks. Too much was going on. Too much.
His mother. Alive. Enslaved.
The Conclave. The Mark. The Breach.
The Inquisition. The Inquisitor.
One thing after another, leaving no room to breathe.
Was it sorrow or anxiety making him cry? Lavellan could not even say. All that mattered was that he was in tears in front of an ally with whom he held such a grudge.
In shame, Lavellan crouched, holding his head with both hands. How could all of this happen? Why was all of this happening?
Dorian did not seem to know how to react. What was anyone supposed to do, witnessing their boss crying like a child in front of them? Eventually, Dorian kneeled behind him, his hesitant hands on his shoulders, whispering that this would stay between them. Lavellan thanked him with a nod, unable to speak a word.
“I thought my mother died when I was a baby,” Lavellan confessed with difficulty. “But then I learned that she had been a slave of the Empire all along.”
“I, I didn't, I couldn't know that,” Dorian muttered, visibly shaken by the news. “I am sorry, I understand how—”
“Then I was sent out of my clan to spy on the Conclave,” Lavellan bitterly chuckled. “It was just a way for them to get rid of me.”
Dorian listened with concern as it all spilled out.
“I used to be no one, nothing,” Lavellan sighed. “And now, everybody relies on me and believes I'm a savior sent by their god!” Lavellan aggressively mumbled.
“Creators,” he swore, wiping his sore eyes. “I just want to go home and I don't even have one.”
Lavellan hid his face in his hands. He had never been this surrounded—by companions, allies, soldiers, and believers—yet he had never felt this lonely. Dorian's hand softly left his shoulder to rest on his thigh. Lavellan shivered at the touch. Gentle, compassionate even.
“I can't say I fully understand what you are going through, Inq— Lavellan,” Dorian carefully said. “But I'm here.”
Lavellan raised his head and looked at his face. He seemed… genuine. Their relationship started badly. They were not friends and barely tolerated each other. Yet, Dorian's good intentions toward the Inquisition and him were undeniable.
“I should banish you to make sure this doesn't end up sung by bards in Orlais.”
“You'd miss this pretty face way too much,” Dorian softly chuckled.
Lavellan looked up to his eyes. A little sting hurt his heart as he felt his cheeks burning. He could not tell if Dorian was just flirty by nature or if he was hitting on him. It could be both, honestly.
“Yeah, maybe,” Lavellan mumbled, staring away.
Lavellan pinched his lips together, thinking he needed to give him a chance. At least as an ally, if nothing more. Dorian was a fantastic mage with a handful of skills. Against Corypheus and the Venatori, he was going to be most helpful, undoubtedly.
“I'm sorry, Dorian,” Lavellan eventually said. “That was unfair of me. You did nothing but help us. I should try not to forget that,” he mumbled as he got up. “Let's get back to camp before they fear something kidnapped their saint herald.”
“Right. I was getting really annoyed by all this dirt on my robe,” Dorian complained, cleaning his clothes by wiping them with his hand.
“Don't,” Lavellan gave him a deadly glare as he fought back a smirk.
Dorian laughed, passing a hand through his hair. “Lead the way, my dear, if you will.”