Part Twenty-Eight: Savages

The companions are greeted at the gates of Skyhold by the usual mob. Or rather, the Inquisitor is; the rest of them might as well be invisible. The faithful cluster around him, offering to help with all sorts of things he really doesn't need help with. Getting down from his horse. Unstrapping the daggers from his back. Cleaning his boots. Dorian is fairly certain they'd hold his dick while he took a piss if he let them. And then there are the messengers, practically shoving each other out of the way in their haste to be the first to deliver their missives, all of which are Extremely Urgent.

In moments like these, Dorian misses Tevinter. Back home, he'd be received in a civilized fashion. Offered a warm cloth soaked in lemon water, followed by a splash of sherry. His traveling cloak would be whisked from his shoulders, and his luggage would magically relocate itself to his room, where a hot bath scented with lavender would be drawn and ready. Certainly, he wouldn't be expected to lead his own horse to the stables, or indeed to go anywhere near them at all. He supposes he ought to be grateful Dennet doesn't make him brush the animal down and scrape the shit from its hooves while he's at it.

"What a circus," Blackwall mutters as he loosens the cinch around his horse's middle. "I don't envy the Inquisitor having to deal with that every time he rides through the gates."

"Nor I," says Dorian. "Though it would be nice, from time to time, to think someone noticed or cared that the rest of us returned safely."

Blackwall snorts. "Get used to it, princess. Nobody gives a dog's arse about the grunts."

"Apparently," Dorian mutters, glancing back at the Inquisitor.

The elf is handling it all with his usual grace. "Please tell the commander I'll come to him shortly, just as soon as I've seen to Leliana."

"But, Your Worship, the lady ambassador—"

"And the quartermaster—"

"As soon as I can," the elf says with a sigh, reaching for the pack strapped to his horse. "Could someone kindly…"

"I'll take it up," Dorian offers.

The elf gives him a quizzical look. After all, he has people for that sort of thing. Then understanding dawns in his eyes, and he suppresses a smile. "Thank you, Dorian, that's very generous of you." Handing the pack over, he adds in an undertone, "And please feel free to have the servants draw you… I mean me… a bath."

"I have no idea what you're referring to, Inquisitor, but if you hurry, perhaps you might join me."

"In the bath?" The elf cocks his head.

"What, have you never…?"

"Never wha— Oh." He considers that. "Does a river count?"

"No, my adorable little savage, it most certainly does not. Tend to your business quickly and I'll show you why."

The elf sighs again, his glance falling ruefully to the stack of messages in his hand. "I wouldn't count on that. Just save some wine for me, will you?"

"I wouldn't count on that."

Dorian shoulders the Inquisitor's pack along with his own and heads to the main keep. He's exhausted and filthy and already uncorking a bottle of wine in his head, so when he reaches the top of the stairs and finds a dark beast hurtling toward him at alarming speed, it startles him enough to call a flicker of flames to his fingertips.

Maggie skids to a halt, toenails scraping noisily across the stone floor, yellow eyes fixed on the flaming fingers.

"Sorry." Dorian dismisses the spell with a flick of his wrist. "Forgot about you."

As soon as the fire vanishes, Maggie rushes him again, tail wagging so exuberantly that it drags her arse along with it. She gets up on hind legs – Dorian yelps and jumps back – and then does a little pirouette, whining. And in case this wasn't enough to convey her excitement, she proceeds to pee on the rug.

Dorian swears under his breath, but he can't help laughing. "You ridiculous creature. If you're this worked up already, how are you going to react when your master gets home?"

As if in answer, Maggie snuffles noisily at the elf's pack, perhaps wondering if he's stashed in there somewhere.

"You'll have to wait awhile, I'm afraid. And so will I, thanks to you. There'll be no bathing until this mess is cleaned up."

Maggie does not seem bothered by this. She's too busy licking Dorian's fingers. And since he's planning to bathe anyway… He crouches down and pats her awkwardly, and she seems to have no objection so long as she can continue licking his hand and smearing her wet nose up and down his forearm. It's all rather disgusting, and also delightful.

"At least someone's glad to see me," Dorian murmurs, patting her with a little more assurance. "As welcoming committees go, you're somewhat lacking in refinement, but your enthusiasm is undeniable."

He calls for the servants, doing his best to keep Maggie out of the way while they clean up after her and draw a bath "for the Inquisitor." He's just managed to herd her out onto the balcony when Cullen arrives, prompting a renewed series of pirouettes and excited whines from the pup.

"And here I thought I was special," Dorian says.

Cullen laughs. "She knows who's been feeding her. Isn't that right, Maggie?"

Another pirouette. Quite the dancer, this one.

"I didn't realize you were up here," Cullen says. "She's due for her supper, and I thought it might be a while before the Inquisitor managed to get here. But if you don't need me…" He turns to go.

"By all means, Commander. If feeding her means touching raw goat, that's not a project I feel equipped to take on."

Cullen laughs again and opens the cool box where Maggie's dinner is stored. "You're a bit delicate, aren't you, Dorian? How are you going to manage having a wolf?"

"I don't have a wolf. The Inquisitor does. I'm not a parent in this relationship. More like the drunken uncle, I should think."

"If you say so." Cullen drops the meat in a hideous little pile at the far end of the balcony, and Maggie tucks in excitedly. "I see she's peed on the rug."

"Twice now. Once more, and I think we'll have it."

Cullen gives him a bemused look. "You want her to pee on the rug?"

"It's a long story."

The commander folds his arms, looking Maggie over with a serious expression. "I did my best to get her to go outside, but she wasn't always that cooperative. I'm afraid I don't have much experience with dogs. To say nothing of wolves, of course."

"That makes two of us." Dorian sighs. "Maggie, Maggie. What are we going to do with you. Surely someone in this fortress knows about dogs?"

"You might try Dennet, although…" Cullen glances away awkwardly. "I'd keep her away from the stables. I took her down there the other day and it… did not go well."

"In any case, I doubt Dennet has a soft spot for wolves after what happened on his lands. But thank you for the suggestion, and for looking after her. I know the Inquisitor appreciated it."

Cullen takes his leave, followed shortly by the servants, and at last Dorian is able to sink into the beautiful copper bathtub he convinced his lover to purchase in Val Royeaux. He takes his time soaking, sipping his wine and doing his best to embrace the fiction that he's staked out a tiny corner of civilization.

He doesn't hear the sound of footsteps, but Maggie does, and she scrambles across the room just as the Inquisitor appears at the top of the stairs. The pup goes positively berserk, racing around him in circles and jumping up, and before Dorian can object, the elf has knelt down and is letting the pup lick his face. Dorian snorts into his wine. "That is appalling. I hope you don't intend to try kissing me after that."

The elf ignores him, grinning and ruffling Maggie's fur and murmuring sweet nothings in elven.

"A boy and his dog," Dorian says with a smirk. "Word of advice, amatus, best keep this sort of display to your quarters. If anyone sees you like this, they'll never take the Inquisition seriously again."

"Look at you, Maggie. You're a mess. Dorian hates it when you're a mess. We'd better do something about that." The elf glances over at Dorian, and there's a wicked glint in his eye.

"Don't you dare," Dorian hisses.

The elf picks up the wolf cub.

"I'll freeze you both where you stand," Dorian says, coiling against the edge of the tub and clutching his wine protectively.

"You said I should join you. We're both very dirty, aren't we, Maggie?"

Dorian continues hurling threats and curses, but the elf is undeterred, strolling up to the tub with his wolf cub and his pirate smile and that wicked gleam in his eye that has Dorian confusingly aroused and horrified all at once. He's about to leap out of the tub when the elf laughs and puts Maggie down.

He pauses just long enough for Dorian to let out a sigh of relief. Then the bloody bastard flops into the tub himself, boots and all, sending water sloshing over the sides and into Dorian's wine. A cloud of mud blooms in what's left of the water, and Maggie starts lapping at the puddle on the floor.

"You're right," the elf says as the water slows its rocking. "This is nice. I've really been missing out."

Dorian sighs. "This is because I called you a savage, isn't it?"

"Not at all." Pausing, he adds, "But this is." And he whistles for Maggie.