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First, there were the white camellias. They appeared in a small pink vase in his alcove, over by the window. He wondered who might have put them there, and then went about his business. The names of ancient magisters simply didn’t reveal themselves to just anyone now, did they?
Then there was the tattered little bouquet of dandelions tied with a string, left on his chair. Dorian tutted, rescuing the poor things and adding them to the vase. An odd arrangement to be sure, but cheery all the same.
White violets appeared next, in a delicate sea glass vase. The flowers were beautiful but the vase was a work of art. Dorian spent quite some time admiring it over the next few weeks, whenever the eye strain got to be a bit too much. It cast a lovely array of blue and green shadows on the walls when the light was just right.
Dorian was delighted with the arrival of the black and dawn lotus. He had been complaining, you see, at the low stocks of these herbs to the Inquisitor. Adaar had told him that he was more than welcome to return to the Fallow Mire for more Dawn Lotus if he so wished. Her boots were still drying out from their last trip three months ago, thank you very much. Also, Sera had threatened to skin her if they went gallivanting off to the Storm Coast one more time, Warden business or not. So Dorian had pouted and went to the quartermaster and now here they were, much faster than anticipated.
Lovely, wasn’t it?
He was reading one day, for pleasure this time, when the runner arrived behind the tulips. Red, yellow, white, and variegated, a splendid array of colour and such a lovely smell. There must have been two dozen, each and every one perfect, and no, the runner did not know who sent them. Dorian had had to send the dwarf to find a vase big enough to hold them. In the end he ended up with a tall clear glass vase, tall enough that the tulips wouldn’t droop, courtesy of Dagna. Everyone in the library stopped by to look at them, and Dorian noted he had more frequent visitors. Even Vivienne admired them when she stopped over for their weekly exchange of books, remarking on their fine quality.
Months later, when the air was chill with winter, the roses arrived. Wintersnow roses were as rare as they were beautiful, their creamy white petals splattered with crimson. There were a dozen, and they came with a note.
They’re pretty. Thought you’d like them.
Dorian smiled. It was long past time he returned the favour.
*** *** ***
“These are for you, the Iron Bull,” Cole said as he dangled a woven basket of purple and lavender aster blossoms, thrusting it forward a little too quickly. The star-like flowers were lush and their perfume rich. “They aren’t from me. I just brought them,” he added quickly.
“Thanks kid. I can guess who they’re from.” Bull knew he was grinning; a big, soppy, stupid, shit-eating grin, but he couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t even want to.
He’d been patient. Through all the steps and missteps of the dance, he’d been patient. This thing just might work itself out after all.
*** *** ***
Springtime in Skyhold. Everyone was a little mad to get out and enjoy the return of the sun’s warmth.
Out in the garden, five of them gathered. Sera had braided chains of forget-me-nots into Blackwall’s beard. The Warden sat patiently as she did so, the two of them bantering back and forth, bawdy and brawly and just glad to be alive. Sera herself wore a crown of buttercups, courtesy of her lover, and somehow still managed to look brazen as brass.
Kamala Adaar, Inquisitor, rogue, and occasional assassin, sat in the dirt of the garden, laughing at Sera and enjoying the elf’s antics. Earlier Sera had tucked a single blossom of Crystal Grace behind Adaar’s left ear, deemed her perfect, and kissed her with enough force to knock them both over onto the ground in a laughing tangle of limbs. They seemed an odd pair to outsiders, a looming Vashoth ‘savage’ and a smarmy little elf ‘bint’, but whatever worked. Who was Bull to say what was odd these days anyway. He cast a brief look over to the gazebo, where Dorian sat.
The Iron Bull sat with his legs spread in front of him, back rested against the stone wall of the garden. Cole, wearing a thick crown of forget-me-nots woven for him by Adaar, had placed a circle of pink cosmos blossoms comfortably on Bull’s head and was now attempting to twine some of the longer stemmed flowers around his horns with a fair amount of success.
Bull contented himself by weaving together a crown of Embrium flowers. The bright flowers would look wonderful as a crown for dark hair.
“Hey, Cole,” Bull glanced over at the gazebo again, where Dorian and Cullen were concentrating on their chess game, “What’s Dorian’s favourite flower?”
“The ones you give him, the Iron Bull,” the spirit-man replied as if the answer should have been obvious.
The Iron Bull hummed a note of approval and smiled.
The two returned their attention to their flowers.