#woke: leliana IS the li. she dances with the inquisitor and she's happy

[mortt-artsy]

May I have this dance?

[talesfromthefade]

For DWC: OH! ❤ “That’s not mistletoe, it’s holly.” May I request Pavellan?! (I'm super excited about this prompt, like an idiot, because mistaking holly for mistletoe is like my biggest seasonal pet peeve...) ❤

Thank you so much for the request! ^_^ That’s definitely a pet peeve of mine too, and I always love to write about my baby June.

June Lavellan x Dorian Pavus, for @dadrunkwriting

“It’s the Vallaslin, isn’t it,” June sighs shaking his head, collapsing into the chair across the table from the dwarf just inside the great hall.

“Something troubling you, Stag,” Varric asks, carefully setting down his pen and shifting his papers out of the way to turn his attention to the elf. June smiles slightly at the nickname and shakes his head again. It really isn’t a big deal, he supposes. Ordinarily, he’d just ignore it, brush it off as yet another one of those times where the nuances of social interactions are escaping him, or he’s being too sensitive about the whole thing, except…

“If they’re going to go around calling me ‘the Herald of Andraste,’ doesn’t it follow that I would celebrate, or at least be aware of Chantry-based holidays,” June gripes. “Why does everyone seem to think they need to educate me,” the elf asks as the dwarf chuckles shaking his head. “I didn’t find the Dalish until I was nearly 18. The feast and gifts in the Alienage weren’t quite as opulent as the rest of the city, but I know what Satinalia is. I’ve missed it, actually,” June admits reflectively. “The clan didn’t really celebrate it. I haven’t since…” Since his mother had died, June thinks, though he doesn’t seem to need to finish the thought for the dwarf to fill in the blanks. Varric nods, reaching cautiously across the table to place briefly place a hand on his arm with a sympathetic half-smile.

“How did you celebrate it?”

“The same as most people, I suppose,” June shrugs, feeling a bit sheepish complaining. It isn’t as though there aren’t plenty of other more pressing concerns. Truth be told, he's not really expected it to affect him so, except, of course, it was easy to forget and not to miss the holiday, and he and his mother’s silly traditions with the Dalish for whom Satinalia was simply another day, a Shem holiday. “My mother tried to teach me how to bake and cook for it for a few years, but I’m afraid I never showed much aptitude for it. I lacked the dedication to apply myself, I suppose,” he admits with a slight frown. A part of him wishes now that he’d tried harder, if only so that he might have had one more thing of his mother’s to keep with him.

“What was your favorite dish,” Varric prompts, deftly steering the conversation around the potential emotional caltrops. He’s always admired that. The way the dwarf manages to make conversation with him seem easy, pleasurable. Nothing like the confusing and exhausting chore it is with so many others. Varric can always be counted upon to speak his mind or hold his tongue. He doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean. And if he lies, well it’s generally just exaggeration, for the best effect of a story. June, a lover and collector of stories himself, can appreciate and respect that.

“She used to make these cookies with pumpkin,” June recalls with a smile, almost smelling them as the memory comes flooding back to him. “Little pieces of chocolate sprinkled in too, when we could find and afford it. I always ate too many of them, but they were delicious.”

“Sounds like it,” Varric nods with a smile.

“The Vhenadahl used to sprout some Mistletoe every year,” he recalls with a slight chuckle. “It might have choked the tree eventually if left unchecked, but you’d never have guessed it. Some of them gave that silly weed more reverence than the tree of the people. They’d climb as high as they could, or dared to pick some and hang it in all the doors. The kissing plant.”

Varric shakes his head, laughing. “Kirkwallers were crazy for the stuff too. Daisy and a couple of the other elves from the Alienage started selling it. Earn a little extra coin for them.”

“Wish we’d thought of that,” June smiles, shaking his head, completely missing Dorian who had been making his way into the hall behind him and suddenly paused to listen in, before quickly turning and heading back the way he came. A kissing plant? They had such a thing here in the South? Scout Harding, she would have to know more about it, wouldn’t she? Maybe have some? Or that new requisition officer? Maker, what was his name again?

…

June frowns slightly, following after Josephine, only vaguely registering her words about a prisoner who is awaiting his judgment. He supposes it was foolish to hope that he might have even a small reprieve from the duties of being the Inquisitor for the holiday. Equally disappointing, he’s not seen Dorian all day. The Altus had still been there beside him when he woke that morning but departed shortly after the elf woke with an all-too-fleeting kiss and muttered excuses and apologies. The mage has responsibilities, he knows. Tasks that he has appointed himself, or is uniquely qualified for, efforts to impress upon the rest of the Inquisition and Thedas at large that not all Tevinters are terrible or moments away from summoning demons or stealing souls with blood magic. Still… he’s missed him, traveling the last week without his company and usual witty commentary, retiring to a tent that’s suddenly entirely too big, hadn’t been the same. Varric joins them at the large wooden doors, which the elf registers for the first time are closed.

Shouts and cheers echo throughout the hall as the doors swing open to reveal a long table laden with food and drink, and surrounded by his advisors and companions who raise their glasses in his direction, beckoning him to join them. The usual Inquisition heraldry has been temporarily replaced with drapes of red, green, silver and gold velvets from Ferelden, and glittering glass floating baubles from Orlais. A tiny wisp of light whose magical signature he recognizes dances just above his head, more of them floating about the room’s high ceilings, no doubt the source of Cullen’s slight discomfort as Leliana laughs pouring him another drink. He’s never seen anything like it, and yet… there’s just enough of everything he remembers and once loved for it to feel… comforting, familiar.

And at the center of it all, perched on the throne with shining eyes and a grin, is Dorian. Confident none of his companions will begrudge him visiting with each of them later, he crosses the room to his lover in a few long strides.

“Happy Satinalia, Amatus,” Dorian smiles warmly.

“Vhenan,” June whispers. “Did you do this?”

“I may have recruited some help,” the mage admits, uncharacteristically modest. “Unless of course, you really like it, in which case, absolutely. All me,” Dorian teases. Ah, that’s more like it, the elf thinks with a soft chuckle and a shake of his head.

“And the reason you’re over here, rather than over there with everyone else?”

“Strategy,” Dorian replies, eyes twinkling. “I’ve hidden the best wine back here,” he gestures behind the throne with a smirk. “And I was waiting for you. Look up.”

June does, examining the throne, which upon closer inspection has been draped over with some ribbons and greenery. Based on the Antivan woman’s smile when the surprise was revealed, June is relatively certain that the prisoner awaiting judgment was simply a ruse, but it would be… interesting to have the mighty Inquisitor judge someone in such a seat. That, however, doesn’t really explain why Dorian seems so excited about it, turning his attention back to the mage with a confused expression. Dorian’s smile falters slightly, suddenly recalculating his course of action.

“The kissing plant,” Dorian offers looking up and gesturing to the greenery that lines the seat, no longer quite so confident as he had been a few moments before, and June laughs in dawning comprehension, shaking his head.

“Uh, no. Not quite,” he replies with a smile at Dorian. “They don’t have Mistletoe in Tevinter, do they?”

“No,” Dorian frowns, looking frustrated. “So, what is this then?”

“Holly,” June smiles softly, plucking a small sprig and bringing it down to twirl admiringly between his fingers. “Pretty. It is often used to decorate for Satinalia,” he adds sympathetically. One couldn’t really be picky about which plants and blooms they used. Whatever was able to survive and thrive the cold of Winter had to do. “Dorian,” the elf continues, drawing the other’s gaze back up to him. “Thank you,” he nods. “This is… it’s wonderful,” he assures him, tucking the sprig of Holly thoughtfully behind one ear with a small smile. “But, you know, if it’s a kiss you wanted, all you had to do was ask,” June offers, smiling wider still as he leans over, tugging Dorian up to his feet to pull him into a kiss. “Happy Satinalia, Dorian.”