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Laughter reverberated off the walls in the Herald’s Rest. Soldiers drowned their sorrows at the bottom of bottles, and their ashen faces gave way to rosy cheeks and bright smiles. While they hadn’t attended, the entire Inquisition celebrated the Inquisitor’s success at the Winter Palace. Empress Celene remained on the throne, and now they had the Orlesian army to help defend the world against Corypheus. The Inner Circle had returned three days ago, and Maryden had already composed Empress of Fire. Her voice lifted above the constant chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the crackling fire to serenade the patrons up to the second floor.
Tucked into the corner of the second story, further secluded by a stack of crates and barrels, sat the Inquisitor himself. After borrowing a few of those lush, round pillows from Sera’s room, he had made a nest for himself where he coached Cole to play cards with him. Sera overheard them, and although she complained about playing games with the ‘weirdo-with-a-big-hat,’ she had already amassed a pile of candies, salted nuts, and even an ' I-own-you' for one prank.
She grinned from ear to ear. Her freckled cheeks flushed with excitement as she snatched another mint from Cole’s pile to add to her winnings. Lavellan didn’t have the heart to tell her that he was letting her win at the Dalish game, one he had not only taught them the rules of an hour before, but had played consistently for the past thirty-five years. It was rewarding enough that she and Cole were taking up the same space and sharing in the same joy. Baby steps. He thought. Even small triumphs are victories worth celebrating.
Lavellan shuffled through his cards for the next round. He schooled his expression into disinterest when his amber eyes flitted over the winning hand in his deck. He left the combination be, picking out a lower hand to place face down on the plaid-weave blanket beneath him. Cole did the same; he had only won a single round. Lavellan couldn’t tell if he was struggling with the rules or also losing for bonding’s sake.
Sera’s brown eyes flickered between them before she put down her cards. They turned them over at the same time, only for her to give a screech of victory that had the patrons at the nearby tables lifting their heads in confusion. “That’s another win for me. Pay up.”
“I only have one,” Cole said. He dropped the pitiful mint into Sera’s waiting palm.
Lavellan offered her two wrapped butterscotches before he clambered to his feet. His knees protested with an audible pop. “Oh, even your pillows can’t save me.”
“It ain’t the pillows’ fault that you’re old.”
“I’m not old,” Lavellan said, too quickly. “I’d say it has something to do with my being flung around like a nug in a wolf’s jaw since joining the Inquisition.”
“If that’s what helps you sleep at night, oldie.”
That’s definitely not what helps me sleep at night. He thought, but refrained from saying so. His mind drifted to warm palms kneading his aching limbs and soft lips paying extra attention to fresh bruises.
“You help him, too,” Cole said.
Lavellan smiled to himself as he stepped over the pillows and their pile of cards.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Sera’s head popped over a barrel to watch him descend the stairs.
“You’ve taken Cole for everything he has! I need to replenish his riches if you want to keep robbing us blind.” He might even sneak out for some fresh air, say he had to take a piss, and give the two of them time to bond without adult supervision. He hoped it wouldn’t result in having to pry another arrow from the leather patching of Cole’s hat.
Lavellan entered the first floor and took in the cacophony. Bull and his Chargers played darts in his designated corner. Several empty mugs and bottles littered the floor around them. Krem got a bullseye and then glanced over his shoulder, as if hoping that a certain bard might have noticed. Harding sat at a table by the front door. Her curly red hair fell around her shoulders in waves as she bested another scout in an arm wrestle. Charter had taken a table by the fire. It was rare for her to make appearances in the tavern, but she had started her own card game with some of Cullen’s soldiers. By the look of the heavy coin purse hanging from her knife belt, she was having a lucky night.
And so was he, as when he turned to the bar, he saw familiar robes complete with their Creator-foresaken buckles. Lavellan eased into place at Dorian’s side, his hand instinctively coming to rest against the small of his back. “Might I be of service?” He asked when he noticed the mage glaring daggers at Cabot.
The dwarf shrugged as he dried a glass with a towel. “I was just telling the Magister here that we don’t have a supplier for his fancy Northerner wine. He didn’t like my answer.”
“I don’t understand how Josephine can ensure we’re supplied with the likes of Dragon Piss and not something for a more refined palette.” Dorian crossed his arms. “What’s behind that door? You must have something good, otherwise the Orlesians would leave here running in terror.”
Cabot arched his brow before he took his glass to a barrel behind the counter, pressed the tap, and filled it to the top with a golden liquid that frothed with bubbles. He placed it on the bartop in front of Dorian. The smell was strong enough to make Lavellan crinkle his nose. “Take it or leave it,” Cabot said.
Dorian scowled as he brought the glass to his nose. “What is it?”
“Does it matter? It’ll get you drunk.”
He scrounged a few coins from his pocket and slammed them on the counter. Cabot swept them into a container without missing a beat, tucking them away among his other tips. Dorian turned to Lavellan. “Surely, if you can keep your… medicinals stocked, you can convince them to get a few bottles of Rowan’s Rose? I’d even settle for some of that West Hill Brandy we tried in Redcliffe.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Lavellan offered. “You came off a little…”
“Mean-spirited?”
“Grumpy.”
“Yes, well.” Dorian waved his glass in the air. Miraculously, the liquid within sloshed against the rim but didn’t fall to coat his fingers. “I’ve turned the Inquisition’s personal library ass-end out searching for information on Corypheus. Where did he come from? Which family did he belong to? Even his name would be something.”
Lavellan placed a hand on Dorian’s bicep. “Take a breath, Vehnan. You’re not a stranger to grueling research and dead ends. You’ll find it. I know you will. Speak with my advisors, tell them I want this to be a priority. You have trusted contacts in the Magisterium; why not reach out to them? So we don’t have the right books in Skyhold, that doesn’t mean they’re not out there.”
The tension ebbed from Dorian’s shoulders. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Amatus. Here I am complaining about books when you’ve just unraveled an Orlesian Coup d’état. How’re you feeling? Is that leg still bothering you? Blasted Chevaliers will just run right through you…”
“I’m alright.” Lavellan consoled. “Tired, but that’s nothing new. I’m finishing up something with Cole and Sera just now, but when I’m finished, I’ll come fetch you.”
“Cole and Sera?”
“Yes. Depending on how it goes, I might need a drink myself.”
“Well, I’ll be happy to share.” Dorian brought the glass to his lips. He didn’t sputter, but made a bitter expression as the drink went down. “Maker, that’s strong.”
“May I?” Dorian offered him the glass without a second thought. Yet Lavellan shot a look around the tavern. With how the tables were arranged, the only ones who might see him were Maryden, Cabot, or The Iron Bull if he peered between the slots in the stairs. Knowing him, he definitely was. Lavellan stepped forward, quick and easy, for a kiss.
Dorian’s surprise lasted for a second before his brain caught up. He leaned in, kissed back, and let his tongue devilishly sweep over the elf’s bottom lip. For that taste he had so politely asked for. Then he pulled away, part of him worried that the wrong person might see, and dub him the devil that seduced Andraste’s chosen. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d dealt with such allegations. “Cheeky.” He huffed.
“Thirsty.” Lavellan corrected, with a particular light in his eye that always made Dorian’s heart jump into his throat. “You’ll be in my quarters later?”
“If the Inquisitor demands my presence, then there I shall be. It’s been too long since I’ve worshiped at his feet.”
“And I’m the cheeky one?”
“Yes. But I can’t let you one-up me.” Dorian took another drink as if that might explain the warmth spreading up his neck to the tips of his ears.
“Uh-huh. I’ll be up soon.”
“Good luck with your little scheme.” Dorian risked brushing a strand of Lavellan’s hair behind his ear before sauntering off. The sway of his hips and cant of his head as he took another drink, showing off his Adam's apple in the orange firelight, might’ve been done for show. Or maybe he just looked that damn good doing the most mundane things, Lavellan couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
With Dorian gone, he turned back to the bar, just to find Cabot waiting with a wooden bowl full of candies, berries, and nuts. “You know, these are supposed to help the drunks keep from tossing one on my floor.”
“They also make great bribes.” Lavellan took the bowl between both hands. “Do we really not have any of that fancy wine? The… Rose or something similar?”
Cabot grunted. “We’ve got Orlesian wine. People from up North prefer things with a bit more kick. Folks in Tevinter will drink things that border on poison for the fun of it. Lady Josephine and our requisition officers don’t see a reason in bringing in drinks that’ll land more soldiers in the infirmary than necessary. We need our people to be able to walk off their hangovers in the morning.”
Lavellan raised a brow. “When I drank Dragon Piss, I don’t remember going back to my room or what I did before getting there.”
“Well, with a name like that, what did you expect? Those bottles were a special request from The Iron Bull. I’m pretty sure it was your Spymaster who brought them in. I wouldn’t be surprised if she just wanted to see you wasted. Who knows what secrets you might’ve let slip?”
Lavellan cringed just thinking about it. “Well, thanks anyway, Cabot.”
“Anytime.”
—
The next day, the respite from winning at the Winter Palace ended. A scout roused the Inquisitor early, summoning him from his bed before the sun breached the mountaintops. He prowled through the silent halls of Skyhold, only passing the occasional guard as he approached the War Room. His advisors beat him there. Josephine braided her hair while reading letters. Cullen sipped from a wooden coffee mug. The dark circles under his eyes told of the withdrawal-induced nightmares he endured the night before. Lavellan wondered if spirits might try to entice a templar, desperate for a taste of Lyrium.
“So,” he said by way of greeting. “Did I share any secrets while drinking with Bull?”
Leliana smiled. The curve of her lips was as sharp as a dagger. “Nothing that we’ll use against you, Lavellan.”
“We wouldn’t want to risk the scandal,” Josephine agreed.
Cullen groaned. “It’s too early. Can’t you give the man a straight answer so we can move on with the day?”
“Someone’s grumpy.” Leliana crooned.
“The man hasn’t finished his coffee yet.” Lavellan leaned against the war table. With his hands braced against the map of Thedas, he looked over the markers that represented troop movement and enemy factions. He pushed a raven marker toward Emprise Du Lion. “Best to let him wake up before we start teasing.”
“If we must.” She sighed, as if it were the hardest thing in the world. “Why did you ask? Don’t tell me you’re worried about your public image now.”
“I’m a Dalish leading an Andrastian military organization, my image is the last thing I’m worried about…” Lavellan’s voice trailed off as he read a report. “We drank a lot at the Winter Palace. We have the same selection here at Skyhold, but not anything that appeals to residents from outside Fereldan and Orlais. I realize it may be more expensive to import goods from further away, but it could help boost morale.”
“Uh huh.” Josephine’s brown eyes locked on the elf. He tried very hard not to squirm as she read him like an open book. “And what types of goods did you have in mind?”
“I’m not sure.” Lavellan looked up. His complexion darkened as his gaze flickered between the three humans. “We had luxury items among the Dalish, but they were handmade from natural ingredients. I didn’t know anything about other types of drinks until I settled in Haven.”
“Ahhh.” She reached for a blank piece of parchment and an inkwell. “Leave it to us, Inquisitor.”
—
A week passed. Lavellan disappeared entirely, replaced by the Inquisitor. There were meetings with Orlesian dignitaries, public judgements, meetings with his Inner Circle to plan their next move, preparing for their upcoming expedition to Crestwood, and literal mountains of paperwork.
Late into the evening, he dipped his quill into the inkwell until his candles burned down to the wick. He blinked to adjust to the growing dark, but a headache had already formed behind his eyes, so he flared the anchor to give himself more light.
Dorian looked over from his place in the four-poster bed. His hair disheveled and his robes abandoned for a soft pair of cotton trousers, he had tucked beneath the blanket hours ago. The only thing that kept him awake at such an hour was a riveting story, with a fair bit of scandal, and a surprising amount of sex. He had admitted, when Lavellan retired to his quarters earlier that evening, that he should have given Swords and Shields a chance sooner.
“I hate it when you do that,” Dorian said.
“Do what?”
“Use the anchor for mundane tasks. It makes your arm hurt, and your eyes…”
Lavellan regarded his partner. As he gazed across the room, his eyes reflected the light from the anchor, making him look more like an animal than a man. He made a show of tilting his ears back, as if he were a frightened beast. “Need I remind you that my impeccable hearing and vision have saved our lives countless times? You find them attractive, then.”
“I find them attractive all the time. It’s just frightening to be distracted by a story, forget where I am, and then look up to find shining eyes boring into me.”
“Admiring you, usually.”
Dorian returned to his book with a long, suffering sigh, which translated to: Your boundless affection makes my heart grow three sizes, and I can’t respond without making a fool of myself.
Lavellan smiled and turned back to his work. His smile fell when a knock sounded at his door seconds later. At that hour, he expected an emergency or a soldier causing a scene at the tavern. He took the stairs to the ground floor two at a time. He prepared for trouble when he opened the door, so he was surprised when Cabot stared up at him with two bottles of wine in hand.
“Hey, boss.” He said. “A crate of these came in with today’s shipment. I stocked most of ‘em at the Herald’s Rest, but Lady Nightengale was passing through and said I should bring some to you.” He tried, and failed, to suppress his smile. “I’m guess’n you’ve got a guest upstairs?”
“Between you and me, Cabot, he’s a permanent resident.” Lavellan took the bottles. “Thank you.”
“Sure thing. Hope those are up to his standards.”
By the time Lavellan rounded the top of the stairs, Dorian had already put his book aside and brought wine glasses to the bedside table. He raised a brow at the bottles in Lavellan’s hands. “Do you often gossip about me to Skyhold’s rabble?”
“Only about how brilliant you are.” Lavellan perched himself on the bedside. He passed Dorian the bottles of Rowan’s Rose and Sun Blonde Vint.
Dorian gaped in disbelief. “You didn’t need to go out of your way…”
“I wanted to. You’ve been working so hard lately, you deserve something nice at the end of a long day.”
Dorian lit up. His smile reached his eyes, and with each bottle still in hand, he threw his arms around Lavellan’s shoulders to pull him into a passionate kiss. “I already have you, but these bottles will do nicely. Amatus, it’s time to educate you on good drinks and the fun that comes after.”