Little But Not Less | ✓

The Other - Part III

Another

Gael waited outside the glistening white walls of the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux, green eyes squinting under the harsh glare of the sun blinking off the stone. Hood pulled over his delicate features and pointed ears, Gael blended into the crowd of Andraste's devout, kicking a stone up and down with the toe of his boot like a hacky sack. As waited for Cassandra to finish offering her prayers to the Maker, Gael kept sighing and glancing at the doors, no sign of the Seeker's shortly cropped hair appearing from behind them.

Gael was not Andrastian, though he did not denounce those of the faith, despite there being those that did that very thing to him. Cassandra had clasped him on the shoulder gratefully when he mentioned that they should stop by Val Royeaux on their way back from an expedition, saying that it had been a while since Cassandra had been back there. In times so wrought with peril, Gael did not discriminate with faith and hope, for there was a drought in both. From faith came hope, and from hope came strength. Against a force such as Corypheus, strength was the beating heart that held them together. Even Dorian, who was never overly religious, had wanted to take a tour of the Cathedral in all its grandeur, though its size was, in Dorian's words, 'about the size of my great grand-aunt's lavatory.' Cassandra had kicked the soft back of his knees, sending him kneeling in a prayer position on the ground.

But now, standing in the blistering sun for almost an hour straight, Gael was beginning to regret his selflessness. He had already walked a round of the city's main courtyard, popping in and out of the colourful shops that lined its borders to pass the time. Varric, who had accompanied them, had no interest in praying in the Cathedral and instead wandered around the shops, his interest finally piqued in a parchment and quill shop. Gael had left him there and continued to wander the shops alone, buying a few tonic recipes from an alchemist and some rare herbs. After getting pounded by eager shopkeepers and even more eager conmen, Gael had sighed in defeat and bought an overpriced sweet drink from a vendor and tiredly sipped it as he waited. 

When Gael had watched Dorian step through the Cathedral doors, cutting the image of a regal statue that was carved to be admired from afar, Gael's heart only dropped and shattered at his feet. Gael found himself staring at Dorian's back often, drilling into the slops of his back muscles and the fine lining of dark hair at his neck. He found that the man was always walking away from him, and in his mind he would chant at him to turn around. To notice him. To hold him.

But Gael knew that he was not the person at the end of Dorian's gaze. No, not someone like him, but someone like Alaric.

Drink now thoroughly depleted and its sticky residue making his lips tacky and smelling of rich berries, Gael decided to wander around for a while longer. As he made his way towards the main market, he was stopped by a large, warm hand tugging on his shoulder. The familiar smell of mountains and streams wafted into his nose, and Gael immediately turned his head, a tight smile on his lips.

"Finished talking to your Maker, Dorian?" Gael asked, his voice steady with forced calm. 

"Oh, yes, quite done," Dorian said, grinning with a flash of his white teeth, though the motion did not reach his eyes. "Conversation was, as aways, quite tedious, since He doesn't talk a lot himself. Oh, saw some lovely portraits of past False Divines. So much grey, so many wrinkles." Dorian scrunched up his nose, and Gael couldn't help but snort at his comments. 

"Don't let Cassandra catch you saying that," Gael warned, nudging Dorian's side with his elbow.

"You won't tell her, will you? It is our little secret?" Dorian said, voice light and airy, with a little edge. Gael's heart fluttered, his head cocking to the side.

"Mm. Our secret." With Gael's reply, Dorian's stiff smile softened, and he clapped Gael's back solidly. Gael gulped when Dorian's fingers brushed the small of his back, his taps a little lower than normal. However, his hands were soon gone, and Gael was left wondering if he was a little too wary of Dorian's touch. It was simply the touch of a friend, at least, on Dorian's side. The two had been locked in some sort of strange stalemate in recent days; they talked and bantered, and read tomes together and shared meals, but the air between them was so stiff and dense someone could cut it with a blade.