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“You know, Varric. I’m convinced that you made up half of what you wrote in Tales of the Champion.”
“Me? Fabricate stories? I’m hurt, Sparkler.”
“Oh, please. Like Fenris would actually be involved with Hawke. She’s a mage. If the way you portray him is true, he hates mages. He’d more likely rip her heart out. Quite literally.”
“You should have seen them. The faces that they made at each other could make you gag they were so sickeningly sweet.”
“If it’s true, then good for them. They seemed like a good match,” Blackwall muttered from across the campfire as he cleaned his sword. When camping, it had become a nightly ritual to sit around the campfire for an hour or so after dinner, chatting idly while preparing weapons for the fights that were sure to come the next day. What was new, though, was that Kaaras had actually started to join in on the ritual, where before he would have silently cleaned his gear, restocked potions and checked to make sure that all the scouts had enough supplies, he now joined in with lounging by the fire, occasionally adding to the conversation. This time, though he was staying quiet, and while Dorian could tell that he was listening intently, he wasn’t adding to the conversation at all.
“No. I can’t imagine,” Dorian shook his head before turning to the Inquisitor. “What do you think? You’ve read it, haven’t you?”
“I haven’t had the chance,” he replied shifting uncomfortably.
“Well, that may be for the best, after all. Some of his books are simply terrible. Would probably ruin the Inquisition’s image if you were caught reading them.”
“Says the guy who asked me for a copy of Swords and Shields.”
“Now, I only asked so that I could try to understand the drivel that Cassandra was going on about, and I only made it through a single chapter before I could feel myself getting dumber. But perhaps that’s the most intellectual activity Southerners can handle,” Dorian goaded, and Blackwall rolled his eyes before sheathing his sword, waving a hand to bid Kaaras goodnight before heading into a tent, leaving Varric and Dorian to their banter.
“You are such an elitist,” Varric groaned.
“Yes. I left my homeland, I didn’t up and turn peasant.”
“Well Your Majesty will be cramming into a tent with our Lord Herald tonight,” Varric replied before standing and heading into the same tent as Blackwall. Dorian just rolled his eyes before turning his sights on the Inquisitor again. Dorian had been in a foul mood ever since he was knocked out by an Arcane Horror earlier that day, and was itching for a good fight to settle his wounded pride.
“Did the Valo-Kas deem books to take up to much room that was better suited to weapons? How could you not have read the Tales of the Champion?”
“No, plenty of them would read. Kaariss even writes poems. They’re terrible, though,” Kaaras replied, cringing inwardly at the last poem he heard the other Qunari recite.
“Oh? So do you simply dislike reading then? Prefer them as kindling for your pyromancy?”
“No, I—” Kaaras cut himself off, shifting uncomfortably again as he looked around and glanced towards the tent that Varric and Blackwall occupied, and Dorian was suddenly worried that he’d accidentally brought up something that he shouldn’t have. Kaaras dropped his voice to a low whisper as he continued, “I was young when I came into my magic, seven or eight. And you know how saarebas are kept, right?”
“Oh,” Dorian breathed, cringing internally. Of course, a man with his eyes sewn shut wouldn’t be doing much reading.
“So by the time I could see again, it had been so long since I’d even seen letters that I pretty much had to relearn everything, and even then, I only knew how to read Qunlat before, so Common is… Well, I’m just relieved every time Josephine or Cullen read reports aloud in the war room so that everyone can hear.”
“I… Kaffas,” Dorian muttered. It was quite a feat to leave him at a loss of words, but the image of Kaaras of all people bound and leashed with his endlessly deep, dark eyes sewn shut was just too difficult to swallow. He felt like apologizing, partially for placing the man in an awkward situation and partially for what had been done to him. Sure, Dorian hadn’t been the one to do it, but the man deserved an apology from someone. The Maker, most likely.
Kaaras just gave a little nod and shifted somewhat awkwardly on the log where he sat, unsure of what else to say as he felt more vulnerable than he had in a long time. Shokrakar already knew that he couldn’t read very well, but that wasn’t uncommon among Tal-Vashoth mercenaries and she never knew the true reason why. Leliana knew as well, that was her job, after all, but this was the first time Kaaras had actually told someone, and while it hadn’t been too much of a hindrance to him yet, he somehow felt lesser for it at that moment, explaining it to one of the most academically gifted men he’d ever encountered. He looked around the camp for a few uncomfortable moments before glancing back at Dorian and cringing at the mage’s pained expression. He opened his mouth to apologize and brush it off somehow, but Dorian beat him to it.
“I could help, if you like,” he said, turning to look up at Kaaras cautiously. “With reading reports or learning to read or writing replies or… whatever you need.”
“You wouldn’t mind?” Kaaras asked once he recovered from his surprise, feeling a familiar heat burn its way across the back of his neck.
“Well, I’d say that I taught you how to play Wicked Grace well enough since you actually won a few hands against Varric last week, so I’m sure we could manage this as well. Although I’m afraid this will involve less coin and more clothing,” he replied with a small smirk that turned into a full smile when Kaaras laughed.
“You’re magnificent,” Kaaras grinned.
“I know, but it always bears mentioning again,” he smirked, and Kaaras huffed another laugh.
“Can I kiss you?” Kaaras asked, feeling the burn at the back of his neck spread up to his ears, but he didn’t mind.
“And here I’d started to wonder if you’d been satisfied with just the one.”
“No! It’s just generally… there’s not a lot of time to talk about that sort of thing when we’re running around, dealing with undead corpses and demons and bandits and wyverns all day.”
“Well, I suppose you’re just going to have to make up for it now, won’t you?” Dorian replied as he moved closer, and Kaaras, having actually remembered that he had hands this time, reached out and pulled Dorian closer by the hip.
“I can certainly try,” he mumbled before leaning down to capture the man’s lips with his own, enjoying more than he could say the juxtaposition of Dorian’s rough mustache and impossibly soft lips. He shivered at the feeling of cold fingertips against his neck, and smiled into the kiss for a moment before breaking away with a small laugh, wrapping his own hand around Dorian’s smaller one and pulling it away from his neck.
“Your hands are freezing.”
“I’ll have you know that being cold in this ridiculous southern weather is normal, despite what the rest of you seem to think,” Dorian replied with a heatless glare.
“Or you could dress properly for the weather.”
“And deprive the world of seeing this incredible physique? I dare not. There would be riots,” Dorian scoffed, waiving his free hand in the air as if to banish the thought, and Kaaras rolled his eyes but smiled.
“We all thank you for your sacrifice, then.”
“As well you should. So if I’m to suffer in this ridiculous cold in order to prevent the world from falling into even more chaos, then you can deal with having cold hands on your neck when you kiss me. Which should happen far more often, just so you’re aware,” he replied, trying to look stern, but failing rather miserably when Kaaras gave a slightly embarrassed laugh which was impossibly adorable for coming from such a large and otherwise intimidating man.
“Good to know,” Kaaras said before dipping his head down to kiss Dorian again, not complaining at all when he felt cold hands wrap around his neck again.