~A Memory: Sneaky bugger~
"It's a damn shame," the Qunari said. "He was a good guy." Shaking his head, he took a swig of whatever was in his canteen. He'd offered some to Dorian, but for once, the prospect of alcohol held no appeal. He was depressed enough as it was.
"Don't write him off yet," Varric said, his craggy features sketched in firelight. "I've seen heroes pull through all kinds of shit."
Dorian huddled deeper into the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, but it did nothing to banish the chill. Absently, he watched the snowflakes land on his lap, only to wither in the heat of the campfire like so many peasants roasted by an archdemon. However heroic the elf might have been, there was no way he could have survived. "Perhaps if we'd stayed with him. We could have—"
"If we'd stayed with him," the Qunari said, "we'd be dead too."
He was right, of course. But that didn't make Dorian feel any better.
"I don't know shite about heroes," Sera put in, "but I do know a sneaky bugger when I see one. If anybody could've wriggled his way out of there, it's the Herald. Maybe there was a trapdoor somewhere, or a cave or something… You never know, right?"
You do, actually. Dorian kept that to himself. If they wanted to cling to hope, that was their business. "I wonder what the Inquisition will do now," he said with a sigh. "I don't suppose…" He trailed off, frowning. Was that a shout? Rising, he peered through the stinging veil of snow. A commotion was building on the far side of the clearing, rolling through camp like a wave.
"The Herald!"
"Did you hear?"
"Andraste be praised."
"What do you mean, survived?"
Iron Bull was on his feet now too. "You've gotta be shitting me!"
Dorian stepped out of the glow of the fire, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, and sure enough, there he was, slumped between Cassandra and Cullen. Ashen, barely conscious, but very much alive. "I don't believe it," he murmured.
"What did I tell you?" Varric grinned. "Never write off a hero. Or a sneaky bugger."
"It seems our Herald has more miracles in store." Solas stepped into the firelight from wherever he'd been lurking, eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he watched the cluster of people gathering around Lavellan's sagging form.
They carried him to the healing tent, setting him on the ground as gingerly as if he were a sleeping child. "Perhaps I ought to help them," Dorian said, half to himself.
The apostate gave him a wry look. "I was not aware you were skilled in healing magic, Dorian."
"My healing skills are about as well-honed as your people skills, Solas, but we must make do with what we have."
Dorian cast his blanket aside and headed over, but he could see straightaway that his meagre talents were not required. Half the camp was gathered around the Herald already, including Mother Giselle and the other healers. The Chantry sisters were praying, the villagers were weeping, and the Inquisition's leaders were conferring in hushed whispers. All in all, it was quite a ruckus.
And then, through it all, blue-green eyes met Dorian's. "Hi," the elf said weakly.
Dorian smiled. "Why, hello."
"Please, my friends." Mother Giselle's shooing motion took in everyone, but her eyes were very pointedly on Dorian. "Give the Herald space."
Ordinarily, Dorian made it a policy to avoid doing as he was told, but on this occasion, he was prepared to make an exception. He started to turn away, but the elf said, "Dorian."
He turned back, trying very hard not to look pleased. "Herald."
"Are you all right? Is everyone…" He made a feeble attempt to prop himself on his elbows.
"Hush. Everyone is just fine, thanks to you." Well, not everyone, obviously, but this was not the time to go into details.
The elf nodded and sank back down onto the blankets.
Mother Giselle had apparently decided he could stay, because she carried on with her business, crushing some herbs with a mortar and pestle. Dorian edged a little closer. "Are you comfortable?" he asked. "Is there anything I can get you?"
The elf didn't respond. He burrowed deeper into his blankets, teeth chattering.
"Some tea, at least," Dorian growled to no one in particular. "The poor man's lips are blue."
"The kettle's just heating up," someone said.
"Oh for pity's sake!" Dorian made an irritable gesture at the kettle, and it glowed a brief, angry orange before erupting in a shrill whistle. "A hundred mages within a fifty foot radius, but by all means, let's do it the old-fashioned way." Still grumbling, he poured the tea himself, kneeling over the elf and helping him to sit.
"Thank you." The Herald curled both hands around the cup, and without so much as blowing on it, started gulping the hot liquid down.
Dorian's glance skimmed over the elf's fine features, pale and drawn but still beautiful in the firelight. He'd faced down a darkspawn magister, an archdemon, and an avalanche, but somehow, there wasn't a scratch on him. "I'll say this for you, Lavellan, you know how to make an entrance."
"So I'm told." He'd drained the cup already, and his eyelids were starting to droop.
"I'll let you get some rest." Dorian started to rise from his crouch.
The elf reached out and brushed his hand. It was a fleeting touch, over in a heartbeat, but it was enough to set butterflies loose in Dorian's stomach. "I'm glad you're all right," he whispered, fading back into his blankets.
"And I'm rather pleased to see you, Herald," Dorian murmured. A little too pleased, if he was being honest.
Apparently, he wasn't the only one who thought so. When he turned around, he found Mother Giselle's dark eyes on him. "Thank you for your assistance, young man," she said coolly. "We will take good care of him."
"See that you do." With convincing indifference, he added, "He still has a world to save, after all."
Those butterflies were still fluttering in Dorian's stomach as he crossed the camp, and when he started to reach for the blanket he'd discarded, he realized he didn't need it anymore. He was quite warm, from the inside out.
Out of the hundreds of people surrounding him, it was Dorian the elf had called to his side. Dorian's hand he had reached for. His touch still lingered, a pleasant tingle on the back of Dorian's fingers. He had no doubt he'd be replaying that moment in his mind over and over in the coming days and nights. Especially the nights.
You didn't have to be clever to know what that meant.
"Blast it all, Pavus," Dorian growled as he headed back to his tent. He'd had his pocket picked after all.
Sneaky bugger.
