"I didn’t then, but I believe that now," Lavellan said, and this was the tone of the Inquisitor. Sharper, more focused. It was a voice that came almost on reflex, the quality that shifted into place as easily as he nocked an arrow. While he hadn’t come to the Inquisition willingly, he’d believed in their cause, and knew there was still work to be done even after Corypheus’ defeat. Lavellan was prepared to face the future. He didn’t like it, could barely stomach knowing who would rise in place of the last threat, but he knew he’d give everything when the time came.
The elf was tempted—sorely, terribly tempted—to draw into himself, then. It was all too easy to hide away when he felt deeply upset. He’d stolen moments in Skyhold’s stables when talks at the War Table had set his teeth on edge. Blackwall had never said anything, nor had Master Dennet. How strange it must have been to see the Inquisitor sit on the fence, patiently feeding a large red hart, quiet and alone.
But Dorian was here now, bright and attentive, and Lavellan was finding it so hard to continue fighting this. Just once, he didn’t want to fight to keep a distance. So he relaxed, finally, easing himself against the mage’s side with a sigh that sounded almost pained it was so relieved. "You have so much faith in me, vhenan." He rested his hand on Dorian’s leg, comforted by the closeness. "I will try. But I don’t know if a god will listen."