The elf watched as Dorian disarmed, quiet and contemplative. His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest, and his stomach was in knots. This would be harder than he’d anticipated. But he had to do this—he owed Dorian that much. There was too much of an imbalance between them now, too much left unspoken and misunderstood. He’d reach for the mage, later, when he wasn’t quite so tense. When telling this story didn’t feel like yanking an arrow from his skin.
Lavellan had never been a storyteller, but sitting like this, huddled in blankets and close to a burning fire, it felt more like being with his clan again. That thought gave him at least a little courage. He inhaled sharply, like preparing to draw a bow. "When I woke up after what happened at the Conclave, I was in chains. They thought I killed everyone." He kept his voice even, calm. Not everyone knew how the Inquisition had started—really started, that is. It wasn’t as glamorous as some stories told.
"No one asked for my name. I was ‘Prisoner’ for a while, then ‘Herald.’ I thought if I closed the Breach, they would kill me after. And if I didn’t close it, they’d kill my clan." He was quiet for a tense moment or two after that, forcing himself to breathe slowly. It helped. "So I gave my clan’s name. I thought it might protect them, but it … was really just to protect me." Lavellan dragged the blanket off, partially, so that he could rub the back of his neck. "It’s Mahanon. That’s—for you to use. I don’t want to tell anyone else yet." He didn’t think he’d ever be ready to share that part of himself, but it was something to share with at least one person now. It was one of the few things he could really call his own.
He forced himself to glance at Dorian, afraid, despite everything, of what he might read on the mage’s face. What he must think of Lavellan’s deception.