Chapter Text
Dorian worked at a small bookshop owned by his old mentor and friend, Alexius. It was a nice enough job and the company was delightful. Felix often hung out between the dusty isles of the books and he was always nice to be around. Alexius never nagged him to focus when he was taking to his son and even when when he wasn't, the work wasn't hard.
Dorian had to open, dust, work as a cashier, help collectors find what sort of old book they wanted to buy, and close. He really had to do everything, since Alexius often traveled to chase phantom cures and treatments for Felix's incurable illness. It was a nasty thing, caught when Dark spawn surfaced (a rare event nowadays, since the surface tunnels have been mostly sealed) and attacked people, Felix and his mom being some of many. Felix was one of the lucky ones, he may have only a while to live, but at least he still lived, unlike his mother. Felix had accepted his oncoming death, but Alexius wouldn't.
Dorian was sure the man would do anything at this point, but there was unfortunately nothing to do. Dorian hoped his mentor wouldn't do anything extreme.
They were gone again this week, but a certain collector was supposed to come in this morning. They expressed interest in an creaky old biased book from Orlais that (rudely) described the other countries and the people in the time of the book.
Dorian liked his job. It was nice to be actually pulling his weight in the world, to be actually earning his money rather than living by his lineage and wealth.
The little bell at the door tinged alerting Dorian of a customer. (Or a robber trying to add to their old book collection or just a stupid one, since there wasn't much else of value (and the books were always a hard sell) and the cash resister barely held any money.)
The resister wasn't near the door so Dorian couldn't see; it was bad layout design on Alexius's part, but Dorian liked it this way; it gave him a bit of time to strike a pose before the customer came into sight. The Tevinter man put his coffee down and sat up straight in his chair. (Red Antivan leather, a present from Alexis, as a Tevinter man himself, he understood the necessity of luxuries)
The person who came in's footsteps were too soft to hear as if they were wearing slippers. Finally he saw the customer, Blond hair, yellow eyes, tattooed face and pointed ears. It was the Dalish elf from the coffee shop. The elf's brow furrowed at seeing Dorian, it seems that the impression the elf had of him from the coffee shop wasn't good, but he didn't let any malice into his tone.
"Do you have any books on Ancient elves?" He wouldn't have pegged the Dalish as a reader.
"Depends on what you want; we have historical renditions and some old speculative books. I don't think we have anything elf written." The elf looked like he expected that answer by the resigned sigh that slipped his lips.
"Anything pre-Tevinter invasion?" The elf's eyes were directly on Dorian; it was hard to maintain eye contact with the concentrated intensity in them.
"Not that I know of; most of the books from that time are in museums." The elf's eyes were a wolflike gold with orange rimming the iris, they were striking and inhumanly exquisite.
The elf said something under his breath in elvish; Dorian assumed a curse word. The Tevinter knew of the struggle the Dalish had with museums since it was often on the news; they liked reporting on protests and painting them in a violent light. The museums kept what remained of their culture in sterile glass boxes for the public to gawk at. Dorian wouldn't know what that felt like, but he imagine it didn't feel good. "We may have some reprints, but I'm not sure, I'll probably have to go through the back room."
"I would appreciate if you could make the effort. Also, do you have any Elvish linguistic books?"
"We do have a few of those; they are probably in a dark corner buried by a mountain of dust." Most of the linguistic books were like that; Dorian tended not to read from that section since they were duller than the aged herbalist literature on the properties of elfroot.
"Are they not popular?"
"Not many people care for horribly old language books that smell like death," that wasn't the fairest point since most of these books each had their own unique odour. For example the elfroot book smelt of fragrant plants and dust, though Dorian could have went without the crushed plant bits that tended to get everywhere every time the book was opened. "By looking at the bloodstains on the pages it is quite possible that someone had died on them."
"My kind of books," The elf had a sense of humour! Was that a tiny smile? Was the grumpy Dalish warming up to him or was it a trick of the store's shitty lighting?
"Mine too, nothing says great reading like a large crusty bloodstain blotting out the ink!"
There was a moment's pause; the elf seemed to be waiting for Dorian to guide him; he seemed to be the type to not waste words. Or maybe he was just one that didn't care to make conversation with a absolute stranger. Or acquaintance; yeah they had to be that by now. "Ok, the section is over here. I'll show you." Dorian guided the elf to the abandoned dusty corner.
"If you would, please wear these gloves and be very careful while looking at the books." Dorian took out a pair of gloves from his pocket, they were simple plastic ones, and passed them to the elf. "It's policy, I can't let the books get even more ruined than they are." Dorian then heard the jingle of the door, that was probably the customer that called since two walk-ins in a few minutes was unheard of in this shop. As much as the elf interested him he had a job to do "They are on this shelf, I need to deal with the other customer now, so if you need something else call, or do a little dance or something."
"Ma seran- thank you." Now that was definitely a smile. A very small one, but it still counted and made Dorian's heart flutter like a pining adolescent.
The elf took no time in slipping on the gloves and reaching for a book. He no longer paid attention to Dorian in favour of reading. A man after my own heart, Dorian thought as he went to peddle a book.