The WIPs Post
A bit of the “Gal is a lyrium-addicted mercenary companion” AU.
“How old were you?” Yvaine asks. She pulls a little flame from the fire and toys with it, turning it slowly into ice. Her fingers are unharmed, of course; it’s an old trick. “Twelve,” is Gal’s quiet reply.
With a small, surprised laugh, she says, “Me too.” And then she extinguishes the flame with a thought, leans her head back, and says, “When was the last time you read a really good, bad novel? Like… oh, I don’t know, a Tethras.” She half-smiles at that, almost glad Varric isn’t around to boast.
“I - don’t - “ There’s a pause, and then Gal clears his throat, pinkness starting to crawl up his neck. “Couple of weeks ago. I don’t usually read the…” He trails off, and falls silent.
“I was just thinking that you couldn’t get them for love nor money in the Circle. They used to be subtle about it, but they’d try to control what we read. I always thought they must do the same for the templars.”
A moment passes, and then Gal nods. “And there were… rations.” He swallows, and sighs, “Fuck, never thought I’d be jealous of Circle sponge pudding.”
“Not unless we’d done something special.”
Her eyebrows raise. “For us, that would be an exceptional barrier. What was it for you, shieldwork?”
“Footwork. Or… not protesting to taking the dose.”
She falls silent. “When did you last see your family?” she asks, eventually.
“I…” He clears his throat. “I was twelve,” he says, again.
Yvaine says, at length, “They must be wonderful people.”
He snorts, staring into the fire. Yvaine shifts, and then her hand wraps slowly around his. Squeezes, slightly.
When she lets go, she says, “Maker, you’re freezing.”
“Lyrium,” he says, quietly. He looks down at her hands, and then pauses. “Your hands are like my mother’s.” He tilts his head. “Shape of the fingers.”
She sighs. “I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment.” Now it’s her turn to look at him consideringly. “You smile like one of ours. The rare times you can muster one.”
It’s the dimples. Dorian finally placed it perhaps two days after they’d started travelling. But he stays silent, and stays where he is. This… isn’t for him. And until it’s over, there’s no easy way to get back to his tent without revealing his accidentally-strategic position near the shrubbery.
She says, too casually, “Usually, it’s around Dorian.”
Dorian pauses, and looks carefully at the trees, trying not to read anything into that.
Gal’s silent. Waiting to see if the question’s a concealed blade.
“Don’t worry, he has that effect on everyone. He’d probably say something about raising one’s spirits, in both senses.”
Yvaine says, “I’m getting you some proper gloves, when we get to a merchant.”
“I – Yvaine. Thank you. But I’ll find my own supplie - “
“Let me do this, please.” Her voice is frighteningly serious. “Consider it part of your expenses. I need you not to be distracted by freezing your toes off when you’re trying to fight for me. And here, give me your hands.”
There’s a pause, and then slowly, silently, seeming bemused, Gal does. Yes, she’s good at getting you to go along with the most harebrained -
A whisper of magic, and Dorian feels the Veil stretch and change. Something warm and honey-ish is in the air, briefly, and then it’s gone. He shakes his head, tries not to be amused that even Yvaine’s magic feels obnoxiously friendly.
“Warming spells are faster than balms,” she says, quietly. “That’ll give you half an hour.”
“Thank you,” Gal says, softly, “Lady Tre - “
“Stop that, or I’ll get you a scarf too.”
