That most blessed of moments between sleep and waking fogged his thoughts with the muffled sounds of the city outside the window and the encompassing softness of the featherbed beneath him. It was a welcomed change to the troubled, fractured sleep he mustered on the trip north or the restless tossing and turning he grew accustomed to in Kirkwall. He rolled onto his back and stretched his legs out towards the end of the bed, delighting in the fact that they were nowhere near it. The blankets pooled around his hips, the morning air already warm enough for it not to matter. He flung his arm out, intent on pulling Dorian towards him. His forehead creased into a frown as he met with an empty side of the bed.
He sat up with a start as a loud, metal clang rang throughout the room. Sleep blurred eyes landing on the slight form of Iora, glowering at him from beside the grand window. He hurried to cover himself, suddenly very aware of his state of undress. A blush burned to life across his skin at the rough scoff sounding from her throat. She motioned with a stiff arm towards the tray atop the small table beside the window.
"Breakfast," she said with an unmistakable curl of her lip.
"Oh, right…thank you," Rawley said, his voice still rough with sleep.
She gave a curt nod and glided across the room on feet that were a bit too quiet for his comfort. He cleared his throat before she reached the door.
"Umm, where is Dorian?" he asked, the question lingered on the air as she took her time answering.
"Lord Pavus was called away to the Imperium," she replied, not bothering to face him as she spoke. "He'll be gone for some time. Do not break anything in his absence."
Rawley cringed as she slammed the door in her leave. The bed chamber seemed cavernous and alien now that he was alone. The bed that was such a welcomed change now felt too soft and ludicrously big without a companion to help fill it. He swung his feet to the floor and curled his toes against the finely woven carpet beneath them. Everything looked gaudy and glaring in the harsh light of day; all flash and sparkle with nothing of substance to hold on to. A slight ache settled in his chest at the harsh realization that Dorian left without saying goodbye.
He stood, stretching up towards the ceiling before shrugging into the silk dressing gown hanging beside the bed. The fabric was cool to the touch, like water over stone and blue, the shade eerily reminiscent of the robes he wore so often during his missions with the Inquisition. Traipsing through the Western approach or scouting the endless hills of the Hinterlands seemed a lifetime ago. He often found himself wondering if any of those adventures had happened at all. If maybe this was all some cruel illusion created by one of his more determined tormentors at the Circle and soon he would wake up to their taunts and laughter at his expense.
"Don't be ridiculous," he murmured the words aloud to r convince him of their truth.
Breakfast helped, as it usually did. Cut oats with a sweet red fruit he had never before tasted, a plate of eggs as fluffy as air, and a decadent pastry saddled with a small note in a flowery hand instructing him to eat the real food first. The note somehow found its way beneath the tray and the pastry met its end first. Rawley closed his eyes and savored every bite, the sweet, flaky confection almost sinfully good when paired with the spicy tea steaming in the delicate cup beside the plate. He ate the rest of his breakfast on the balcony, staring out over the city.
The city far more impressive from this vantage point than the previous morning spent wandering the twisting, crowded streets. The shouts of vendors and the echoing clang of Chantry bells rang out across the dry air. It wasn't a sound he expected to hear this far north, but it was a welcomed familiarity. The city reminded him more than a little of Dorian; flashes of brilliance and finery to hide something deeper and more real beneath. The ancient streets and shimmers of brilliance both begged to be explored.
Even in his absence Rawley could still hear Dorian's voice, clipped and guarded telling him what a terrible idea such an exploration would be. He smiled and shook his head, searching the room for his clothes; so hastily removed the night before. He wasn't entirely surprised to find his clothes missing. After the litany of complaints Dorian launched towards them he half expected to find them smoldering in a pile at the center of the room. His prosthetic lay carefully at the foot of the bed along with a neatly folded pile of clothing, and another note in Dorian's hand.
Amatus, I was regretfully called away this morning. A magister's work is never done. I shall return as soon as I am able. I have taken the liberty of leaving you something new to wear as your traveling cloak looked as though a druffalo trampled it into a mud puddle. Do try and relax while I am gone. You may need your strength for this evening. Dorian.
He ran his thumb over the signature and blushed scarlet at the insinuation of the last line. The majority of the fabric was of the same shade of blue as the silk robe, with enough silver bits and buckles to make him question exactly the best way to put it on. The trousers were easy enough to maneuver, but even while wearing his prosthetic he was left standing shirtless, turning over the frustrating garment over in search of an arm hole.
"Is…wait…where is the bottom?" he grumbled, considering just draping it over his shoulders and calling it a day.
"The straps go on the right side."
The quiet voice made him jump and clutch the garment to his chest. An elf, taller and younger than Iora, stood inside the threshold watching him in quiet amusement. She walked across the room and took the shirt from his hand. She turned it over and gave a slight bow of her head indicating for him to lean forward.
"Right, of course, thank you," he replied with a sheepish smile, ducking down far enough for her to place the shirt over his head. "Why do they even make shirts this complicated?" he asked around a nervous chuckle.
"I believe Lord Pavus says looking good isn't meant to be easy," she replied, guiding his prosthetic through the folds and ornate buckles. "Otherwise everyone would do it."
Her warm smile began to put him at ease and he offered one in return. "That does sound like him," he said, adding with a slight bow. "I'm so sorry, where are my manners, I'm Rawley."
A quiet laugh tumbled over her lips, it was warm and welcoming like her smile and it made him like her instantly. "I know," she said, patting the top of his hand. "Lord Pavus speaks of you constantly."
"He does?" Rawley asked.
The words became embarrassingly hoarse and he cleared his throat in a failed attempt to hide the sudden emotion.
"Of course," she said, linking her arm with his. "Only good things, I assure you."
She steered him across the room, her grip surprisingly strong for one so slight in appearance. Her heeled shoes clicked on the marble floor and she pushed open the chamber room door.
"I am Shala," she said by way of an introduction.
"You work for Dorian?" he asked.
"I was his father's official translator and personal secretary," she said. "When he passed away my services were transferred to the new Lord Pavus."
Rawley frowned at the connotations of such an arrangement, but kept his opinions to himself. Shala continued on, seemingly undeterred from her task.
"Lord Pavus asked that I keep you company while he is away at the Imperium. He seemed to think you might…get up to trouble if left to your own devices."
The warm, knowing smile fluttered across her pale face once more. She took a sharp turn down the next hallway with quick, precise steps. The home seemed to stretch on forever, one elaborately decorated hallway after another. Shala stopped in front of a set of golden doors that soared up towards the ceiling and leaned against them with considerable effort, swatting away his attempt to help. The doors gave up the fight, lurching in to allow them entrance.
"I'm sure I have no idea what he might be insinuating," he replied, his ears turning pink at the guilt over only moments before having considered going outside to explore.
"No, of course not," she said, hurrying about the library to open the curtains and let in the morning light.
The room smelled of dust and paper, with the faint hint of leather bindings. It reminded him of Dorian's favorite corner at Skyhold. The sharp memory of watching him reach for the highest shelf, silhouetted by the dying light of day assaulted his thoughts. He could see every detail of that moment. The way he stood up on his toes for just that extra bit of needed height. How the soft light of dusk made his hair seem even darker and the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth when he finally reached his prize. It was in that moment, that instance of calm and a simple task that he knew; he knew he loved him.
"The collection is quite extensive. Much of it is in Tevene although there is a sizable selection of works in the trade tongue. Mostly on magical theory I'm afraid…" Shala stopped her explanation. "Are you all right?"
"Hmm? Yes, fine," he replied with a smile that rang false. "You said you were a translator?"
She looked taken aback at the sudden interest and answered with a weary tilt of her head. "I did."
He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, finding the floor increasingly interesting. "Well, you see I have been trying to learn some Tevene," he said, moving his hand far too much as he spoke. "And it isn't exactly easy going and I thought perhaps, I mean, you don't have to, I'm sure you're very busy and I can just stay in here and read quietly if you have real work to do and…"
"You would like me to teach you Tevene," she said, stopping him before his rambling could pick up any more steam.
He swallowed and nodded, certain that his ears were now beat red. She smiled and took hold of his arm once more.
"I would be delighted to teach you," she said, lifting her chin and setting her mouth in a firm line. "But I must warn you. I am a stern teacher."
He laughed and bit his bottom lip to hide a cheeky smile. "Well, that's good because I am not a very good student."
