Little But Not Less | ✓

Small Enough to Miss

Gael wrapped the linen cloth tightly around his face, the dusty winds coating his throat. Gael was not particularly fond of the arid environment of the Western Approach, missing the soft grass and cool springs of his childhood. Now, in the sandy wasteland, Gael and his companions were lying in wait behind pillars of sandstone for the Abyssal High Dragon to descend. 

Gael's eyes scanned the flat desert before him; Iron Bull squatted impatiently behind a mount of stone, picking between his teeth with the sharpened tip of his greataxe, and Cassandra was carefully perched on top of a pillar to scan the horizons for the dragon. Gael sighed as he spotted Dorian on the opposite side of the clearing, popping dried fruits into his mouth as he leaned on his staff. The man was, somehow, immaculately clad despite the disgustingly dusty environment that smothered them. His silken robes slipped over the rippling muscle that clung to his bones, tan flesh barely even scorched as he slowly wiped his syrupy fingers on a cloth, tucking it into a hidden pocket in his robe once he was done. His hair, usually slicked back, wasn't as carefully styled today. He had learnt his lesson from the day before when his dark locks turned bright yellow as the dust clung to the gelled tresses impudently.

Gael, on the other hand, looked like a tiny grump drowning in linen fabric, only his speckled green eyes and a sliver of his high nose bridge visible between the sheets of fabric. Gael's rapidly growing hair spilled out from the gap where his hood met his shoulders, the silken plait swaying against his chest. Gael's fair skin had always been sensitive to the sun, his paleness choosing to burn rather than tan when bathed in sunlight. In a bid to prevent himself from becoming a ripe tomato, Gael sacrificed fashion for practicality, though he turned bright red anyway when Dorian made a pointed remark about how his clothes seemed to swallow him whole - not that it was hard to do with his height, apparently. 

Gael's eyes were torn from Dorian's statuesque form when Bull let out a low whistle that was quickly followed by the loud, rhythmic beating of wings in the air. Gael narrowed his eyes as he saw the hulking form of the Abyssal High Dragon descend from the clouds, a spiral of sand and dust wafting around its heavy legs as they embedded themselves into the ground. Its thick tail flapped as it let out a lazy roar, its muscles rippling as it seemed to stretch and bake itself in the sun.

"Well, I guess this dragon doesn't burn," Gael thought bitterly to himself, pulling down the fabric in front of his face so his companions could read his chapped lips as he waved his hand discreetly in the air. His companions nodded their heads, each of their faces showing different emotions. Iron Bull's lips were pulled upwards wildly, his eyes glimmering with excitement for the fight that was so close he could taste it on his tongue. Cassandra's face was steely, her brow furrowed as she flexed her fingers that wrapped themselves comfortably around the hilt of her sword. Dorian, on the other hand, was staring back at the Inquisitor with a mixture of annoyance at the dragon for interrupting his brief snack break, but also with a hint of concern. 

Gael had noticed Dorian giving him that look whenever they encountered a difficult foe. Gael hadn't taken heed of it at first, not until Varric had pointed it out to him on one of their earlier expeditions. Gael had simply laughed and brushed it off, though Varric's words had affected him more than he cared to admit. He found himself bristling whenever he felt Dorian's heated grey eyes on him, his dark brow always creased in concern when Gael prepared to throw himself into a fight. 

The looks began recently, likely after Gael came back covered in wounds and blood - most of it not his, of course - after leaving Dorian behind on a particular trip where he needed more brute strength rather than gracefully placed spells. The adventure hadn't gone quite to plan, Gael's slender body taking a crippling blow from a giant, leaving him incapacitated for days as the camp healers frantically tried to pull him back from the brink. It had been when he returned to Skyhold and greeted by a throng of worried Inquisition soldiers, who had been waiting with their hands clasps to their chests and prayers on their lips for their saviour's safe return after hearing of his terrible injuries. One of those faces had been Dorian's, and for some reason, his face was the only one Gael could remember.