Part Twenty-Five: Guardian
Dorian stands at the bottom of the stairs to the Inquisitor's quarters, drawing a deep breath to steady himself. He hasn't felt this nervous about heading up those steps since that memorable afternoon when he first propositioned his lover.
So… It's all very nice, this flirting business. I am, however, not a nice man.
He'd been battling the impulse for weeks, but when the moment finally came, he was overcome with doubts. What if the elf said no? What if he said yes, and then he didn't want Dorian after? Perhaps most frightening of all, what if he did want Dorian, at least for a little while, but ended up breaking his heart?
The jury was very much still out on that last one.
"Now you're just stalling," he murmurs to himself. Shifting the bundle in his arms, Dorian heads up the stairs.
The elf is out on the balcony, despite the chill in the air. After all these months, he still finds the walls of Skyhold oppressive, especially when he's just back from the field. Still wild, Dorian thinks, recalling the elf's words from a few days ago. Deep down, he always will be.
Depositing his bundle at the top of the stairs, he grabs a blanket, wraps it around his shoulders, and heads outside. "Avoiding your paperwork, I see."
The Inquisitor scowls out at the mountains. "I swear it's breeding on my desk. How does it pile up like that in a week?"
Dorian folds himself against his lover's back and gathers him under the blanket. "Just imagine what it would look like if Josephine wasn't handling most of it. Was that a menu I saw on your desk?"
"For the reception with the Nevarran ambassador. Josephine says it's a delicate matter. Something about cheese?"
"Ah," Dorian says knowingly. "The political implications of cheese must not be overlooked, Inquisitor. It's a matter of national pride. Serve a ripe Fereldan blue to an Orlesian, and you've got a war on your hands."
The elf cocks his head. "What was that?"
"What?"
"It sounded like a whimper."
"That was me. It's freezing out here."
The elf throws a doubtful look over his shoulder but lets it go. "It seems to me that the whole problem could be avoided if we just didn't serve cheese."
"What?" Dorian affects a tone of high scandal. "No cheese? No, no, Inquisitor, that simply won't do. The very fact you would suggest it leads me to wonder if we have any future together."
"Cheese is revolting."
"Sweet Maker, never let an Orlesian hear you say that. They'll toss us out of the country."
The elf turns around abruptly. "There it is again. A whimpering sound, and it's not coming from you."
Dorian sighs. No point in putting it off any further. "Very well, you've found me out. Come inside, I've something to show you."
His stomach is full of butterflies, and not the good kind. There's every possibility – indeed probability – that he's miscalculated here, and this is going to go very badly indeed. But he's come too far to back out now, so he unwraps his bundle, extracts the writhing creature inside, and places it on the Antivan rug.
The Inquisitor stares at it in stunned silence. His glance flicks briefly to Dorian before settling back on the little black wolf cub at his feet.
Dorian waits for the pup to do its thing. To snuffle curiously at the elf's boots, or chew on his buckles. Go on, little magpie. This is your chance. But the pup just crouches on the carpet, tail tucked and trembling, looking even more pathetic than it had in the cage.
"Dorian…" The reluctant tone in the elf's voice is not at all promising.
"Just give it a moment. It'll come around."
A pool of wet spreads under the cub's arse.
Fasta vass.
"This is not what we discussed," Dorian informs the pup tartly. "Be adorable, I said. Charm him, I said. This is not at all charming. In fact, I distinctly recall instructing you to avoid relieving yourself on the floor. Though at least you had the taste to do it on this ghastly Antivan rug. There's hope for you yet."
The elf is laughing, at least, however reluctantly. "Dorian, why is there a wolf cub peeing on my carpet?"
"It's broken, obviously. It was working fine earlier. I've no idea what happened." He waves irritably at the traitorous little creature. "I am not a dog person."
"You don't say." The elf lowers himself to his haunches with a sigh. "The poor thing is terrified." Gently, he collects the pup, murmuring to it consolingly as he carries it over to the closet. He deposits the animal inside, leaving the door open a crack. Then he fetches a bottle of wine and two glasses and arranges himself on the sofa. "Now then, do you want to tell me what all this is about?"
Dorian sighs and takes the glass of wine he's offered. "Perhaps it was a foolish idea. But when I saw you with them, these forest creatures in a cage, I couldn't help thinking..." He trails off. This sounded a lot better in his head.
"They reminded you of me," the elf says quietly.
"Yes."
"Skyhold isn't a cage."
Isn't it? Dorian keeps that to himself. "That was only part of it, in any case. Being in the Emerald Graves, listening to you speak to them in elven… It reminded me of something I'd read in one of Genitivi's books, about the Knights' Guardians. I thought, if the Emerald Knights had wolves at their sides, why shouldn't you? How fitting would it be if the Inquisitor, a Dalish elf, were to revive that tradition? That pup"—he tilts his head in the direction of the closet—"seemed like the perfect match. It's a brave little thing." Sourly, he adds, "So I thought, at any rate, though the carpet-pissing incident has somewhat dented my confidence."
"I imagine she found all this"—the elf swirls a finger to indicate his quarters—"a little overwhelming. I know I did."
"She?"
The elf smirks. "You didn't bother to check?"
"Did I root around its hindquarters looking for furry genitalia?" Dorian snorts into his wine. "Is that why you put her in the closet? Because she was overwhelmed?"
"I thought it might feel a little more like a den."
"Clever. You have good instincts for this." When the elf gives him a wry look, he adds, "I'm not trying to persuade you of anything, truly. If you don't want her, I'm sure we can find a good home for her. I just thought perhaps…"
"You thought perhaps I needed cheering up." He looks away as he says it, that dull expression settling over his features once more. It's his default expression these days, ever since that business with Ameridan.
"I did think that, yes," Dorian says softly. "And we both know I'm not wrong. She's already made you laugh once. It's been ages since I heard you laugh, amatus."
There's a long stretch of silence. The elf sips his wine with a faraway look. "The Knights' Guardians," he murmurs. "I'd forgotten all about them."
"It's a grand image, isn't it? The brave elven warrior with his loyal wolf at his side?"
"It might be considered inflammatory."
"What?"
"The symbolism. The Emerald Knights defended the Dales from humans. They warred with the Orlesians. If the Inquisitor were to associate himself too closely with that imagery…"
The thought hadn't even occurred to Dorian, but he's not wrong. There is a risk there. "My dear Inquisitor, when did you become so politically astute?"
"I told you." The elf sighs. "The longer I wear the costume, the more I become it."
"All the more reason, perhaps, for you revive an ancient elven tradition."
The elf starts to reply, but then he looks down and says, "Hello."
The cub has emerged from her den while they were talking, and is now poking about the room with an inquisitive nose.
"Just needed a moment, did you?" the Inquisitor says. "I know how that feels."
She snuffles around the foot of the sofa before rediscovering the wet spot on the Antivan rug, which interests her greatly.
"Yes, that was you," Dorian informs her. "Most unladylike. Although if you do it again, perhaps we can convince him to get rid of that monstrosity once and for all."
"It was a gift," the elf says for the hundredth time.
"Just because it was given to you doesn't mean you have to keep it. I had a lover give me the most comprehensive rash once, but I didn't treasure it always."
The elf scrunches his eyes closed. "Thank you for that."
The cub, meanwhile, continues her exploring. She's taken an interest in the elf's boots, sniffing at the soft leather in a way that signals a clear intent to chew. Then she spots the buckles at the elf's shins, running her nose over them excitedly.
"That's more like it," Dorian says. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd mistaken you, little magpie."
Gingerly, the elf reaches down and holds his fingers out to her, and she sniffs at them.
"You don't have to decide straightaway," Dorian tells him.
"Yes, I do. It wouldn't be fair to her to dither over it. She's a pack animal. She needs to bond, or she won't feel safe."
"All right, then. Just do me one favour: Decide for yourself and no one else. Not me, not her, and certainly not the sodding politics."
"It's all right. I've already decided. She can stay." He smiles, and it's the warmest smile Dorian has seen from him in what seems like forever.
So much so, in fact, that Dorian wants to gloat. He's exceedingly pleased by this outcome, even if it does mean he has to share his lover with a carpet-pissing furball. It will be an adjustment for all concerned – but then, that was the point. "What will you call her?" he asks. "I've made a list of known names of Knights' Guardians. Or perhaps you could name her after one of the knights themselves."
The Inquisitor shakes his head. "Too political. Besides, you've already named her."
"I have?"
"Of course." The elf reaches down again, and the pup licks his fingers. "Maggie."
"Maggie? That's… not bad, actually."
The elf meets his eye. "Thank you, vhenan. It's a beautiful gesture. I love you."
He leans in for a kiss – chaste, at first, but it starts getting interesting, and the elf raises a hand to cup Dorian's jaw. "I don't think so," Dorian says, grabbing his wrist and steering the hand away. "Not until you've washed."
