Prompt: Abelas having to deal with the cold at Skyhold after centuries of living in the semi-tropical Temple of Mythal and Lavellan helping him in some way (down comforters? hot cocoa?)
Tunics.
Light leathers, single-layer overshirts, and basic uniforms – that was what everyone in Skyhold walked around in, exposing themselves to the mountain air. Abelas typically left his armor on its stand in his room, and it wouldn't have granted him much warmth, but at least it had gloves and would have allowed him a bit of protection.
He frowned a bit as he descended the stairs into the courtyard, the walls providing some relief from the winds. The sun was weaker here, however, and he found himself unconsciously avoiding the shadows. It wasn't cold, necessarily – the fortress' magics saw to that – but still a good deal cooler than the humid southern wilds in which he had spent his servitude.
The Qunari didn't even wear a shirt. The thought was mind-boggling.
"Abelas!"
He turned at the sound of his name, adjusting his posture as the Inquisitor crossed the grassy yard. She too was without cloak or gloves, though he had since learned that her clan frequented the cooler, more temperate forests of the Free Marches.
"Dagna was asking after you," she informed him, stretching with a smile. "She said she wants to take a look at your armor, if you don't mind - something technical that she simplified as 'shiny, then glowy, then bam!'"
He acknowledged her with a nod, familiar with the dwarf's particular brand of curiosity. "I will see to it this afternoon."
"Ma serannas. She'll be thrilled."
A passing breeze ducked under his hood and brushed cool against the shorn areas of his scalp, and despite steeling himself against it, he shivered lightly.
Eve stepped closer, ducking her head a bit to better assess him. "Abelas," she asked, "are you cold?"
Before he could answer, her hands were pressed to his cheeks, insistently checking his temperature. He made no protest; as much as he hated to admit it, the borrowed warmth was appreciated. As was the skinship, he mused as her eyes traveled his face. She communicated much with her touch, her hands – and his experimental attempts to respond in kind had been well-received.
"I will soon adjust," he reassured her, though her expression remained unconvinced.
"You should have said something earlier," she scolded, and he waited patiently as she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. After a moment, she turned, indicating he should follow.
"I have just the thing, this way."
He did so, ascending the stone steps into the keep proper. As the main doors closed behind them, the heat of the massive hearth greeted him, and he could feel his stiff muscles relax at the much-needed change. They crossed the main hall, and though he was enjoying the fire, a cold knot formed in his chest as Eve's hand reached for the door to her chambers.
How, exactly, did she intend on keeping him warm?
His pulse quickened as they traveled the stairs, thumb running back and forth across his fingertips. He wouldn't deny that the thought had occurred to him, though never as anything more than an idle thought, and never by design. Her touch was a means of expression, not promise nor intent – and yet the more honest parts of him woke at every brush of her skin.
She tugged a shallow trunk out from beneath her bed, kneeling to unhook the latches and searching among the folded cloth for something.
"I know I have it in here," she swore. "I haven't – ah!" Triumphantly, she stood and shook out a silvery gray cloak. "Here, let me."
Abelas leaned slightly to accommodate as the Inquisitor draped the garment around his shoulders. An ornately carved toggle held it shut at the collar, and slits on either side allowed for the use of his arms. It fell to just above his knees, and the difference in warmth was immediate.
"Dalish wool," Eve said proudly as he admired the craftsmanship. "Half the weight, twice the insulation. It's not warm enough for places like Emprise du Lion, and I haven't needed it here for a long time."
There was no seaming, he noted as he took a closer look. "The method is impeccable," he observed, earning a warm smile from Eve, who clasped her hands behind her back.
"My cousin is one of our best craftsmen," she said. "He gave it to me as I left for the conclave." Her smile shifted, losing its brightness and taking on a wistful cast. "I think he might have known that I wasn't coming back."
Abelas hesitated. The significance of the cloak was clear, as was her attachment to it. "It is a memento of your people," he began, reaching for the clasp. "I cannot– "
She interrupted him with a hand over his. "No," she insisted. "I want you to use it. And when you've gotten used to this place, then give it back and we can put it away."
He stilled, studying the earnest expression on her face.
"As you have done before."
"Yes," she said. "As I have done before."
The cloak had served more than one purpose, it seemed, and had been integral to her acclimation to her new life. She was offering it to him, hoping it would do the same – and he did not miss the meaning behind the gesture.
He lowered his hand, and hers came with it.
"Ma serannas," he replied, feeling the gentle squeeze of her fingers around his.
