#elidoo

Luther made a funny face, not really agreeing with the last statement, but he could understand Dorian’s reasoning. The Dalish clan he had grew up with had told him terrible stories about darkspawn and the ill fate that had hit one of the Fereldan clans in the south during the Fifth Blight. They had been stories to teach and educate the children, but they had also caused him to have nightmares for a few days.

“We should head inside.” he finally said, nodding at their tent. Cassandra and Varric were already in theirs, probably already asleep after that long and tiresome day, and he needed to lie down badly as well.

Once inside, he removed the outer layers of his armour to better rest down. He tried not to glance at Dorian to avoid embarrassing him, but the Tevinter came close to him instead and welcoming warmth enveloped Luther like a woolly embrace.

For a second, he thought that was what it was: a hug, tight and tender, and his cheeks got red as a wide grin split his face in two. But then he remembered that Dorian was as wet as him and that he couldn’t possibly be that warm yet; also, he couldn’t feel any arms around his waist, just that wonderful warm sensation.

He quickly turned and disappointment and surprise replaced the hope and dirty thoughts in his mind: Dorian was holding a magic flame in the palm of his hand. It wasn’t much large, but it danced merrily, sending harmless sparks fly all around and fill the cosy tent with that warmth that had so confused Luther.

“I have made one for Cassandra and Varric, too.” the mage explained, placing the cheerful fire between their cots. “It should warm us pretty well during the night.”

“Thank you. That’s a great help.”

Trying to forget about the ocean roaring just a few meters away, Luther successfully removed his wet, creaking outer layers and fell heavily on his bedroll. The flame next to it warmed his skin and hair and he already started to feel drier than before, while a pleasant drowsiness slowly invaded his limbs and head. He was more tired than he had thought.

“Long day.” he complained with a sigh as he adjusted himself on the thick bedroll. His arms ached after swinging his broad sword for the whole humid, wet day. “I can’t wait to find the last Rifts seen in this area and leave for Skyhold.”

“I’ve got the impression you aren’t a big fan of the Storm Coast, Inquisitor.” Dorian lay down on his own cot, his wet robe draped over a rock just a few inches away from the flame. “It is only an impression, however! I could be entirely wrong.”

“You aren’t.” Luther snorted with amusement, entwining his calloused, cut fingers on his chest, staring at the wet roof of the tent, listening to the endless rain, ignoring the merciless sea and its call. “Too much water for my tastes.”

“Ah. You don’t like it?” A pause, then a sniffle and Dorian grumbled: “That would explain the smell.”

“Hey!”

They both laughed, then a thoughtful, somewhat distant expression appeared on Luther’s face. His lips twitched and he cleared his throat, his dark brown eyes still looking at the tent, but not really seeing it.

“I know things are different in Tevinter, but in the South some people, especially nobles, don’t appreciate their children having magic talent.” His gaze hardened for a second, then he relaxed, exhaling slowly, quietly. “Sometimes, when they are still young, some… methods are used to try to free them from magic. Ruthless methods that never work.”

Dorian was silent, still as a stone, but Luther knew he was listening intently, so he continued: “They tried water with me. It wasn’t a fun experience, so I guess the trauma never really went away.” He chuckled mirthlessly, scratching the stubble on his chin. “I’m mostly over it, now, though.”

“Forgive me, Inquisitor.” Dorian’s voice was low, almost melancholic, like he had never heard it before. “I shouldn’t have joked about it.”

“No, it’s fine! Jokes like that are good. They remind me to keep my chin up and don’t let it ruin my life. It took me a while to understand it, but the Dalish I lived with helped me, too.”

“I knew you Southerners disliked magic to maddening excesses, but these are barbarian ways.” The Tevinter scoffed and Luther turned to him, grinning when he saw him glare at the tent, his moustache all dried and ruffled. “And here I thought the Free Marches were moderately better than Ferelden and Orlais!”

“Nah. We’re a bunch of stubborn asses, all of us.” They laughed again and the mood in the tent suddenly got better. They were mostly dried, thanks to the flame still dancing happily between their cots, and Luther felt the strong urge to grab Dorian’s hand, lying just a few inches away.

He gathered his courage, also helped by the mirth still lingering in the small space they were sharing, and did it: Dorian jumped, but didn’t move his hand away. Luther’s grip was strong, but not overly so, and the mage could free himself whenever he wanted. But he didn’t; he slowly relaxed, without uttering a word, and Luther smiled, a new kind of warmth spreading in his chest.

“Thank you, Dorian.” he said. The Tevinter didn’t reply, but he carefully moved his wrist so that he could hold Luther’s hand in return. It was a gentle, chaste, shy touch, but their fingers were almost entwined and their palms were touching. Dorian’s skin was rough in some parts, not the delicate, smooth palm Luther was expecting from a nobleman from Tevinter. But again, he had travelled and fought much even before entering the Inquisition, so he had no reason to be surprised.