A/N: The Inquisitor is the one from my My Love series (who I came to really like and wanted to explore) but you don't need to have read that series for this to make any sense. It's just a few moments during the Inquisition story line between the two of them.
If it weren't for the damp, the muck, the insects buzzing through his ear, the voracious ones chewing apart his shins, and the smell of death wafting off the still creek he could almost consider this outside living passable. This was assuming a sword was held to this throat, he was out of mana, and found himself drunk enough to be easily persuaded to assail the outdoors in the first place. Maker, the things he'd put up with for a pretty face.
"You've been hunched over that dirt for the past hour," Dorian complained before slapping at some insignificant yellow and red terror flitting to chew apart his exposed shoulder.
The Inquisitor didn't rise off his well toned haunches. While Dorian was grateful to watch the man's muscles prodding up through his leathers he'd have preferred to do it indoors, and without trousers getting in the way. Gaerwn didn't respond as he continued to run a finger over the same dirt patch he'd been stirring for what felt the entire afternoon. It was growing so lugubrious and dull, Dorian even spent a few minutes speaking with the soldiers in charge of hoisting up the camp. Their life's greatest endeavor seemed to amount to beans and the preferred burning state there in, IE not too charred as to be blackened but far enough along one achieved a caramelizing flavor. The fact he now not only knew that but had birthed his own opinion was going to cost the Inquisitor dearly later.
"Blackwall," Gaerwn called to the walking mat of bear fur who'd been trailing the woods with him for what felt like the past lifetime and on to the next. "What do you make of this?"
The partial Grey Warden and full time ambulating beard grumbled, causing the lice's home to wobble as he spoke, "Not certain. Tracks, but never seen the like before."
Finally, Gaerwn staggered to his legs, not even bothering to knock off the mud across the fancy leathers. "My thoughts as well. One set seems to head off towards the north, but the other..." His words trailed away, those hauntingly pale blue eyes shifting through the forest. Dorian rarely bothered memorizing a man's eye color unless he feared he'd need to be reciting it to a guardsman later, but Gaerwn's were recognizable from across a battlefield. With the natural elven width giving an even greater depth to the icy sheen, they were the eyes a man could drown in without regrets, assuming he had half a mind to.
Blackwall grumbled again, having no doubt used up the few words he knew, before nodding his head, "I'll check north."
A whisper of a smile lifted up the Inquisitor's lips and he patted Blackwall's arm once. "Thank you."
For a moment the man-bear's eyes shifted over to Dorian who had his arms crossed in a pout, before Blackwall shook his head and slipped into the woods. Dorian was fairly certain that the biggest reason Blackwall was at such ease in the woods was because he was suckled by wolves as a babe until being kicked out of the pack for being such a bore. While Dorian watched him stumble through the trees, Gaerwn returned to the dirt.
"By the void, what do you find so interesting mashed up in that pile of twigs and leaves?"
"I could explain it," the Inquisitor said patiently, before he glanced up at Dorian and a smile broke through his armor, "but I rather doubt you'd care, or listen."
"You have me, I'm afraid," Dorian admitted. He'd had a witty comeback, but it fell apart from that so rarely glimpsed beacon of light glinting off his Amatus' teeth.
Gaerwn ran a finger over the twigs, sifting one up, but over his shoulder he whispered, "I certainly hope so."
Oh, now that was cruel. Slowly, Dorian ran a finger across the back of the man's neck. A sliver of his bronzed skin prodded between the gaps of his armor's neck and that untamed, chestnut hair. Gaerwn was clearly trying to focus, but at the contact of skin on skin, his lips parted and a sigh rustled the dead air of the forest. Encouraged, Dorian's fingers climbed up through the lush hair.
"This is important," Gaerwn whispered, even as his eyes slipped shut.
Bending downward, Dorian whispered in his ear, "So's this." Not his best, but Gaerwn turned, giving him the perfect opportunity to strike. Cupping that never whiskery cheek, Dorian guided him to a kiss he'd been aching for since they first set camp. Answering in kind, Gaerwn ignored his patch of dirt and dug his fingers into Dorian's arm, that taciturn tongue of his matching in step with Dorian's witty one. Maker, even coated in the depths of nature's slime, the man tasted like an intoxicating ardor - the kind that could drive Dorian mad at night, and the last he ever expected to find wrapped inside that remote, Dalish shell. His knee sunk to the ground, Dorian risking mud and muck for the man, while the Inquisitor ran those cautiously thin fingers down Dorian's buckles across his chest.
"I lost the tracks up the cliff's edge, and...ah, Buggers."
Dorian sprang away from the Inquisitor, tumbling back on his ass. Aware of Blackwall's eyes hunting across him, he scooted even further apart, the book on his back gouging troughs through the forest floor. For his part, Gaerwn smiled softly to himself before turning to face the Grey Warden. From stumbling into something so disquieting, a hint of a blush floated up between the skin parts that weren't hair on Blackwall.
"That's a shame," the Inquisitor said.
"I'll talk to the lookout. See what she saw," Blackwall grumbled, happy to be walking away from the awkward situation.
"An excellent idea," Gaerwn crowed. While Dorian felt panic clawing through his gut, and Blackwall looked about to melt into a pile of hairy goo, only the quiet, Dalish Inquisitor was unmoved. He returned to the tracks, not about to give up on whatever he'd been working on. "I shall return to camp soon if I cannot find anything."
"Okay, good," Blackwall turned fully around and marched towards the soldiers, his arms slapping against downed branches as he barreled through the woods. It was probably Dorian's imagination, but he swore he heard laughter echoing through the trees like a lion roaring before the kill.
A silence returned to the disturbed forest, but now the once verdant refuge felt despoiled and unclean. Sitting in his gut roared a both familiar and foreign sense of regret. He knew better than to attempt to satiate his refined attentions upon the man, not here without walls or doors. No, Skyhold was the only safe bet, and even then...
Unable to shake the doom clinging to his brain, Dorian glanced over at his partner in crime to find him fine. Even, he dare think it, happy. While marching through towns or cities, Gaerwn wore an eternal frown - slight enough to not seem an attack but its mere presence set people on edge. As if it were cast by an important man who appeared to never be impressed. But here, with the woods and birds and other foul creatures, an uptick of his lips hinted at a deep solace washing clean his soul. Dorian started at the realization that the last time he saw that smile was when they shared a bed.
Sensing the eyes on him, Gaerwn shifted from his find to look over, "Is something wrong?"
"Aside from the entire camp about to be chattering like brainless song birds about their mighty Inquisitor dusting a filthy Tevinter's mustache, no. Nothing at all."
Gaerwn shrugged before returning to his sticks. He ran a finger along his chin, gently following the delectable dent in it, before pointing down the slope. "Perhaps I've been looking at it wrong," he mused to himself. Without bothering to look over at Dorian, the fearsome Dalish hunter rose to steady feet and stepped down the path.
Dorian staggered to follow, aware of the sucking sounds his backend made as it left the ground. Maker, it was going to take him ages to scrub all the mud off. He could return to camp, try and shrug away the grins hidden behind hands and manufacture a few new bon mots to shove Blackwall back in his cage, but his heart wasn't in it. Flippancy was his second language, applicable in nearly all matters save this. Forgoing the status of his clothing and the idea he'd ever be clean again, Dorian trudged after Gaerwn. They followed a mountain river that had once raged through the rocky forest floor before drying to a trickle. Darkness skirted the tree tops, their branches forming a ceiling against the sun. Despite the fear of falling, Gaerwn moved as sure footed as a ram. Dorian would often wince in sympathy whenever the Inquisitor's bare foot met with a rock, but the Dalish man seemed immune to any such pains.
"They're going to talk," Dorian called out through the woods. Gaerwn paused in his search through some imaginary signs on the ground. He stood upon an outcropping of rock leaning over towards a rocky plunge with a single hand wrapped around a branch to keep him tethered from the fall. When those endless eyes fell on Dorian he felt as if he'd been socked in the stomach; the breeze ruffling Gaerwn's hair as he posed like a rakish rogue stepping clean out of every one of Dorian's dreams.
Shrugging, the Inquisitor leapt off the rock and landed beside Dorian. "Perhaps," he said in his cryptic way. He stood close enough that visions of grabbing onto that wiry body and tugging him tight flitted through Dorian's mind but he didn't act on them. Maker only knew who else was walking through the woods at the moment.
"Why doesn't this bother you?" Dorian struggled to break through that icy exterior. He knew it wasn't permeant, having melted it more than a few times, but sometimes the man's impermeable mindset infuriated him.
"Why does it you?" Gaerwn stopped searching through the ground and a hand gripped onto Dorian's, the fingers threading around his while the ice steel eyes tried to dig into him.
Dorian watched their conjoined hands, his curled around Gaerwn's, another man's who seemed to care not a whit about the implications. It was madness. "Because talk is dangerous. I'd have thought one of your many spies would have drilled that fact into your head by now."
He anticipated a growl, but Gaerwn turned a sharp eye upon him, "I don't see how it's dangerous. This isn't about the Inquisition."
"Of course it is. You're the Inquisitor, ergo, you're the Inquisition and people will love to titter behind their masks about who...dances into the Herald of Andraste's life."
Gaerwn took the news with another half hearted shrug. The man was exasperating in every sense of the word. He would spend hours sitting at his desk weighing the fall of a sparrow in the field before coming to a decision, but when it came to this, all he could manage was a gentle fall of his shoulders. Either he was ignorant of the world having been raised in the savage southern forests with the rest of the elves, or he found some delightful torture in not caring who cared about him.
That thought caused Dorian to rear back and shake his head. No, that wasn't right. It didn't matter to him if the Inquisitor cared or didn't care about those that bore importance to the Inquisition itself, or people there of, and... Maker, he wished he thought to refill his flask before leaving the last signs of civilization a week ago. The only way to silence that chattering part of his heart was with whiskey; the cheaper the better.
Gaerwn watched him for a moment, his fingers reaching over to curl up around Dorian's waist. He should stop him, he was bloody trying to, but the damn Inquisitor wouldn't listen, and deep in his gut Dorian ached to wrap around that lithe, elven body. As if reading his mind, Gaerwn skirted a finger across Dorian's mustache, the elf endlessly fascinated with it. He spoke no words as he curled the end up and rose up on his shoeless toes to reach. His lips rested a breath away, about to seal the deal, when branches cracked through the underbrush.
"Not again!" Dorian cried, expecting Blackwall to stumble by with a hand over his eyes telling them dinner was ready. But Gaerwn spun around, his caressing hands reaching for the daggers on his back. A flash of white broke through the forest, hooves pounding down the bracken as it beat feet towards them. Gaerwn threw himself ahead of Dorian, the daggers at the ready, but he needn't bother. The winds shifted, pulling the musky scent of human and elf further into the forest. It must have reached the beast trampling for them as it skidded on its feet and spun about, white legs flailing like lightning as it turned back to its hideout.
Standing stock still, Gaerwn waited until the beast's trampling died down before he sheathed his dagger. Even then, he remained standing between Dorian and the creature. While he rarely went after the wiry types, he found it rather enticing how quick the man was to leap into danger to protect anyone around him. It was probably why all those fabled princesses kept locking themselves up in dragon towers.
"What was that?" Dorian asked. It happened so quickly, he barely had time to puncture the veil.
He expected the Inquisitor to turn away or give another of his gentle shrugs, but a joy burned in those haunting eyes. Grabbing onto Dorian's hand, the man grinned, "What I'm chasing. Come along!" Without any easy recourse, Dorian trailed after him. It was easy to follow the creature's path of broken branches as it punctured its own panicking trail through the forest.
At one point in their chase Gaerwn stopped up, his eyes turning away from where the beast ran. Even Dorian could see the obvious trail leading further to the south, but his Amatus gestured to the east. Releasing his hold on Dorian, Gaerwn pawed his shoeless foot through the ground and dropped to his hands and knees.
"What are you doing? I thought we were pursuing red templars," Dorian complained even as he followed suit. It wasn't as if he had any other recourse, having at best a vague idea in what direction the campsite was and not wanting to be eaten alive by either insect nor bear. Southern bears in particular seemed to be great fans of sweet, tevinter meat.
"We were, I'm not," Gaerwn didn't explain. Crawling along the underbrush all Dorian could get a picture of was that tight ass he suffered so much for. The man was lucky it was so well sculpted, with the perfect set of dimples in the back, that it was worth it...barely. Reaching the end of whatever he was looking for, Gaerwn staggered up to a knee. He turned back and offered a hand to Dorian, who at this stage was regretting ever leaving Tevinter. When he jammed his palm onto a pinecone he regretted his father being born.
Trying to not sneer, Dorian took Gaerwn's hand and deposited the pinecone into it. The elf stared at the addition curiously, but didn't ask about it. He tossed it to the side and returned his hand, something obviously beyond the ferns that he felt Dorian simply had to see. Slithering through the brush the elf made easier work of, the human's wider ass struggled to rise to a knee. "What is so...?" Dorian began when Gaerwn cupped a hand over his mouth. Glaring over it, Dorian stopped talking and he slowly followed the man's point.
Below them rested a glistening pool. Fed by a stream dribbling through the rocks of the cliffs, ferns concealed the ground, wafting with the breeze. But that wasn't what drew the Inquisitor's attention. Clustered around the pool with their heads stuck into the cool water, stamped four or five halla. By the dark forest light, their coats glowed an even more illuminating white than anything they'd seen on the Exalted Plains.
"It's halla. We've seen them before," Dorian mouthed at Gaerwn.
He sighed and whispered back, "Look closer."
Scrunching nearer to the edge even while Gaerwn clung to his arm as if he feared Dorian would fall, he peered down at the underbrush. A light whinnying broke above the gentle stream's gurgle and a small creature that was all legs teetered out below a larger halla. There were no horns yet, save a set of stubs upon the head, and its nose and ears looked far too large for its body.
Gaerwn smiled wide as it stuck its face into the stream and seemed to be blowing bubbles instead of drinking. "A foal. The halla protect them from outsiders until they're much older. It's rare for anyone not of the people to get a glance." The awe in his voice drew Dorian's attention away from the baby halla to the Inquisitor. He was smiling, not just smiling, the man who wore a cloak of aloof duty even while playing a game of cards looked about to break into peals of laughter.
"I haven't seen a foal since..." Gaerwn's head hung down and he licked his lips. The mask slipped on instantly, cutting off the burst of emotion. Dorian reached over and picked up his hand, curling it tight in his grip. He didn't get what was so special about the white deer, but he could tell in an instant what they meant to Gaerwn. Steel blue eyes slipped over to the side canvasing Dorian's body before landing upon their hands locked tight together.
"I don't worry about the gossip because I don't regret who I am."
"Oh?" Dorian was thrown off. He'd expected a long Dalish history of the halla, perhaps with charts and names of long dead gods.
"In the clan, everyone knew everyone's business. When you grow up with only thirty seven other people that's the way of life. Gossip was talk and not something feared. Secrets were impossible," Gaerwn explained. His fingers flipped over Dorian's hand and he began to trace something along the palm. The gentle caress fired up nerves all across his body, almost lulling Dorian's brain into a warm catatonic state.
"No one caused me to question it, to fear it. That was what I grew up with, knowing who I am, who I...prefer, with the same certainty as I do my name." He stopped his stroking and those striking eyes honed in on Dorian. "I am sorry that you were not afforded the same luxury."
A laugh echoed in Dorian's throat at the ridiculous idea that the filthy, wandering Dalish lapped up in some luxury unavailable to the son of a Tevinter Magister. "Do not be...that's absurd, I..."
"Dorian," he inched closer, the callus along his palm skirting in a hypnotizing way across Dorian's cheek, "you don't have to win every argument."
"Of course I do," Dorian laughed, trying to shatter the heavy air. "I'm of house Pavus, we always..."
Gaerwn's pale eyes slipped closed and he cut off Dorian's response with a kiss as soft as the mountain spring and pure as the halla's pristine hair. He'd tried to stop what this was, assuming he worked out his curiosity about the Inquisitor and could easily walk away from their physical encounter satiated. But that man, that deluded, delicious man refused to let him go. Every time Dorian pushed him or mocked around a serious turn - and Maker did he take them often - he anticipated Gaerwn to step back, assess that his time was better spent without an evil Tevinter mage crowding out his bed. If anything, the harder Dorian tried to shove him away, the sweeter Gaerwn held him. He convinced himself it was just about the sex because the alternative was a terrifying and exhilarating fear he may never climb out of.
Breaking off from Dorian's hungry lips, Gaerwn's tender fingers trailed down his stomach and he sighed, "I am glad you are here."
"Well," Dorian coughed from a rare bouquet of emotion brimming in those crisp eyes, "it's not every day one gets to see a little white deer drinking."
Gaerwn grinned, his gaunt cheeks blooming into joy, "Yes, that as well."
Struggling down the implications of his words, Dorian tried to revive his flippancy but somehow it lay torn in shreds at his feet. He felt naked by his lover's careful words, which seemed a waste being physically fully clothed and without anyone else to overhear them. Gaerwn stared down at the halla still unaware of the men watching them. The baby scampered between its small herd, getting a feel for those wobbly legs.
Wrapping his arms around Gaerwn's stomach, Dorian slowly tugged the elf down until they both sat upon the grassy ground. That thick tuffet of hair Dorian adored stroking landed against his chest and those icy eyes rolled shut. He sat upon a rocky precipice clinging tight to another man resting in his lap while thedas continued on without cracking in half and sinking into the ocean. It seemed to be a miracle in and of itself.
"Ma vhenan," Gaerwn mumbled, that delectable scar on his lip turned up to match his smile. Was this peace? Dorian knew that when they returned to the camp it was back to occasional glances over the campfire and sleeping in separate tents. Back to keeping each other at an arm's length unless secured behind locked doors because he feared what consequences would land not upon his head but what they'd do to the man he...cared for. Yet here, with only the whispers of the trees and the nonchalant eyes of halla caring not a whit about the lives of two men, he felt calmer than he could remember in an age.
"Maker help me," Dorian mumbled, "but I find myself rather enjoying this nature life."
Gaerwn, the introspective, lissome man who became the only hope of thedas, the first man to ever grab Dorian's hand and refuse to let go, laughed softly under his breath.