Inktober Day #3

She doesn’t smile enough, the Herald. Now that he knows she’s got a smile, it is tragic how seldom she lets one escape from her.

Seems like such a waste. She is always so serious, with her so called Council suspicious and trusting and desperate in turn, making her smooth their feathers.

As if she didn’t have enough to do.

As if he didn’t have enough to do, trying to figure out the hole in the sky. Shouldn’t have to worry about feathers.

Figurative or literal; those long dark black ones occasionally left behind by the Spymistress’ messengers make his nose itch.

The Herald seems to like the creatures. 

Dorian resists the urge to shudder.

Maybe she is part bird herself? He’s vaguely surprised the dwarf hasn’t run away with that comparison before now, considering his tendency towards ridiculous nicknames. It seems quite clear a comparison to Dorian. There is something about the way she can stare, such focus in bright steady eyes, a tendency to perch and watch… some sort of kestrel, perhaps, hovering and waiting to see what the rest of them will do, before she risks her own final, deadly dive.

She’s quieter than the Nightingale’s winged compatriots, at least. No squawking. Or if she does squawk, she keeps it very much to herself. Sometimes her eyes narrow when she’s watching her advisors squabble though, and he thinks she wants to peck.

But she never does.

She still doesn’t smile either.

He should do something about that.

He wonders if there’s anywhere in this Maker-forsaken wasteland of snow and rock to find a decent bottle of wine.

Or wait, no, he has a much better idea.

It will require getting up early, though.

Maybe it would be easier just to stay up until the time is right?

Much better plan, he does have that crate of books the Chancellor oh-so-reluctantly surrendered from the basement to go through.

He grins, and goes in search of a bottle of wine as well. Couldn’t hurt, if he manages to find one. Somehow. Help keep him warm while he’s reading.

He almost forgets, almost loses track of time, caught between the pages of a terrible translation that nonetheless has more references to the text of Awiergius’ original work than he’s seen in years…

But then he realizes the light has changed, a grey tinge sneaking around the edges of his vision that isn’t a wash of exhaustion but rather that dim reflection on snow and clouds before the sun has quite risen.

It’s time.

She opens her door quickly enough after he knocks, tugging on the hem of her jacket, so quickly it’s apparent she was already dressed before he arrived. Her head tilts, sharp and wary, kestrel indeed, I was right, “Dorian?”

“Do you have many northern admirers likely to brave the cold and invite you to breakfast?”

“I suppose not.” She blinks, a lift of eyebrows that is clearly amused, but not quite the smile he seeks. “I did not think you were familiar with the idea of mornings?”

“Only when it’s really very late rather than early, my dear.”

She coughs, and there, the barest twitch of her mouth. Good. He offers her the widest deepest bow he can manage without letting the wind sneak up his sleeves, and grins as he stands tall to see a silent laugh caught in her eyes.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I?” He turns, gestures with his arm to have her step out and walk beside him. “Or is it just that anything seems ridiculous when there’s no sunlight yet to warm a fellow?”

“You may have a point.” Her face is still at ease, her eyes  bright, not still and cool as they become once the rest of Haven is staring at her. “But you can’t let a lack of sunlight stop you entirely.”

“I could!” He lets his voice rise, resists the urge to place his hand on his heart and stagger. “Imagine it, a vacation in a nice warm arm-chair doing absolutely nothing until the weather stops being so dramatic”

“But you won’t.”

He shrugs. Of course he won’t, but very few people have ever bothered to notice that. Most of whom are worse than dead, now. Except her. “Maybe tomorrow.”

She shakes her head, her steps steadily crunching through the crust the snow reforms each night. It’s comfortable, the silence she can draw around herself, implacable yet soft.

Right as she’s about to step up towards the tavern, he waves her sideways, and her eyebrows lift as she follows around the corner and up behind the ovens, to a tiny table with two stools pushed against the brick chimney.

Her head tilts at the sight, a shift of her hair keeping the right side of her head shadowed, as always. She always keeps him on her left side. Keeps everyone except Solas on her left side; he wonders if anyone else has noticed. “A winter picnic?”

“I’ll keep it brief, I promise.” He shudders at the very thought of lingering, delighted by the huff of air that escapes her, not particularly close to a snort of laughter but clearly related nonetheless. “This way.”

He tilts his head, though he knows his gesture is nothing like as compelling as her own, and slips inside. They stop, and he watches as her eyes close, and she breathes, just breathes, and there at last her shoulders ease and her mouth curves, and she smiles at yeast and heat and the beginnings of bread.

Such a simple joy.

It is nice in here. Not quite as good a smell as cracking open a new crate of books, but he’ll accept that maybe not everyone would agree with his priorities. He waves, and the baker he’d talked to the day before smiles, and slides a small basket his way, the contents already wrapped and covered in a faded checked cloth.

He waits until she opens her eyes, then slips them both back outside to perch and eat their hot rolls and lean against warm bricks and complain some more about the cold.

All right, he’s the only one complaining about the cold, but her eyes are bright as he does, and her smile doesn’t ever completely go away.

oh look, I did get it onto AO3