Tapster's Tavern - For all your dwarven needs !

Title: this flesh is made of words
Summary: He didn't want to talk about books. Talking about books meant acknowledging he didn't know shit about books.

This flesh is made of words:
Light me and I will burn
like a brave, banned book
- Kaimana Wolff

They'd been in Denerim, stocking up on supplies for the long trek to Redcliffe when he saw it.

Almost missed it, too, but gold embossed lettering on the cover caught the sunlight streaming in through the high windows of The Wonders of Thedas, drawing Yuri's eye from the endless rows of dusty books and magical baubles to a forgotten shelf in the back of the shop. The dwarf frowned, reaching for the little book half-hidden amid a myriad other objects alien to him.

It was smaller than his palm, bound in... suede, it looked like, with a single red ribbon for a placeholder. Calloused thumbs traced the title, unsure of its significance, unable to decipher it. Just knew that it looked fancy and expensive. Given that it was in this particular shop, it was probably meant to summon hordes of angry tezpadam or something equally heinous. He very nearly put it back - he couldn't read, had no use for books (unless they were as thick as that tome he'd lugged out of Kinloch Hold for Morrigan. That he could brain somebody with). But as he went to put it back, his thumb grazed a small design almost hidden on the spine. He squinted, trying to make it out.

"Ah! Rose Publications. Positively infamous in Orlais, or so I hear." That was Zevran, sidling up next to him with all the grace of a slinky housecat, and all the wicked manner besides. Yuri nearly jumped out of his skin; the book flew from his hands and he fumbled for it, cursing himself for his carelessness, for the fact that he'd let an assassin get the jump on him. Surface life's making you rusty, duster. (And if his inner voice sounded suspiciously like Leske, well... all the more reason to ignore it).

The elf was grinning at him, eyeing the book with renewed interest. "Of course - and you'll forgive my saying so - you do not strike me as a great fan of literature, my friend. Are you shopping for another, perhaps? A lucky amante you have not yet told us about? Details, Grey Warden!"

Everyone knew that bush was dead. It was grey and twisted and gnarled - the ugliest thing you ever saw, but there it was - a single, beautiful rose.

He thought about roses. Thought about... people who liked roses. The dwarf sighed, turning the book over in his hands. "It's not- I just thought it was... nice. Pretty. I like... pretty things," he finished lamely, shoving the book in his back pocket. He'd pay for it later.

Zevran's voice - a laughing "of course you do, hermano" - followed him as he beat a hasty exit out the door.

*

He gave the pilfered book to Leliana.

He hadn't actually meant to steal it, but he'd been so flustered at having been caught with it in the first place that he'd high-tailed it out the door without a second thought. By the time he remembered he even had it, they were well on their way to Lake Calenhad and it seemed like a waste of time and energy to slug all the way back to Denerim for a goddamn flimsy book.

It's not like he'd never had sticky fingers before - kids didn't eat in Dust Town if they kept their hands out of other people's pockets - but things were... different... now. Duncan had made him a Grey Warden, and he wanted to justify the man's faith in him, even if it meant going against every instinct in his body to go back to the scene of a crime and 'fess up. He got twitchy just thinking about it.

Anyway.

The book was Orlesian and pretty and reminded him of her. She liked stories and was good to him and he told her as much, and he must've been babbling for a while because eventually she raised one delicate finger to his lips, bringing Yuri's thoughts to a screeching halt with nothing but a gesture. His words died in his throat.

"Do you know what this is?" she asked, a small half-smile playing at her lips. She had very nice lips.

"It's a book," he answered, intelligently.

"Very observant. What sort of book?"

"An Orlesian book," he amended, remembering Zevran's words and trying very hard to sound like he knew what he was talking about.

Leliana was tracing the embossed letters on the front. "The title is Tevene. It is not strange that you do not know, being from Orzammar. Fortunately, I am versed in many languages..."

He didn't know Tevene from a lead pipe - probably knew lead pipes better, given his background - but he wasn't about to tell her that. The dwarf was about to find a convenient excuse to be anywhere else when she leaned over and pecked him on the cheek.

"Thank you. No one has ever given me anything like this before."

He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

*

Later, as he and Sten were busy making dinner, he noticed her thumbing through it.

He tried not to stare - it was rude, and he didn't want to be a creeper besides - but she did look... awfully pretty, lounging there in the firelight outside her tent. Leliana's blue eyes were alight with interest as she scanned the tiny book. (The tiny Tevinter book, his mind supplied. He resisted the urge to throw a potato at Zevran's head, but only just. It wasn't the elf's fault Yuri didn't know anything about anything).

Yuri peeled potatoes and tried to focus on making dinner, on how many darkspawn they were going to kill tomorrow, on whether or not that smell wafting through camp was coming from Alistair or the dog. But it was hard to focus when he could hear Leliana sighing dreamily to herself, could practically see her slender fingers tracing sentences as she read them... he scowled at his own hands, knuckles gnarled from busting too many heads, and did his best to think about other things, like... dinner. Everybody has a niche. Best stick to peeling potatoes, Brosca.

"Is it good?" he found himself asking her instead, cursing himself and all his Ancestors for his big damn mouth. He didn't want to talk about books. Talking about books meant acknowledging he didn't know shit about books.

"Mmmm," Leliana murmured, nodding her assent. Her eyes met his across the fire and his breath caught in his throat. "But you should see for yourself. Why don't you come over here and read it to me?"

Amazing, he thought distantly, how a man's blood could run hot and cold at the same time. He wanted- oh, he wanted - and yet... accepting her invitation meant admitting that he couldn't read, didn't know if he could learn. Didn't know if she'd want him if he couldn't. And maybe he was interpreting things all wrong - maybe it was normal on the surface for cultured women to make eyes at scruffy Carta boys across camp, or maybe she wasn't making eyes at all. Maybe he was delusional. Mosswine that Mam was so bad on went to his head as a babe... maybe Leliana was being friendly, as generous with her affection as she was with most everything else. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

His thoughts were cut short when the knife he'd been using to peel potatoes slipped from his sweaty palm, slicing his thumb. He swore and shoved the digit in his mouth, partly to staunch the bleeding, partly so he wouldn't have to answer her question.

And then Leliana was rising from her pallet to fuss over his injury, and nobody was asking him to read anything, and everything was okay for now.

*

"I'm beginning to think you don't like me," Leliana said, conversationally. She sidled up next to him as their group took a winding trail through some Stone-forsaken forest filled with werewolves and darkspawn and blighted bears. He gaped at her, feeling about as dumb as a nug and half as cute.

"You give a girl flowers, poetry, pretty shoes... then refuse to spend time with her in a non-darkspawn killing capacity," she stopped, looked him dead in the eye. "You're going to give me a complex."

He floundered for a bit, though he had it on good authority (see: Zevran) that his confused face was manly and intimidating. Not that he wanted to intimidate her. Shit. This was difficult.

Flowers, sure. He'd gotten some that she said reminded her of her Mam, and wasn't that the least he could do since she at least had one worth remembering? And shoes, yeah, he'd... seen some froofy looking blue things, all covered in ribbons and lace and they'd reminded him of Rica in a way that made him want to set them on fucking fire until he remembered that Leliana liked shoes... and maybe, he thought, if she had them, she'd be happy, and then he could have some good memories of shoes to replace the bad ones and he'd be happy, too.

He shook his head. That wasn't helping.

"I'm sorry, I don't... I mean, you're great," he said, and he meant it. "But I'm just not sure--"

Leliana's face fell, and no, no that was not how this was supposed to go. "It's... better this way, I suppose. Thank you for being honest with me. I shall try not to let my feelings interfere with our goal, and I... sincerely hope that we can remain friends."

"It's not like that," he said, swallowing the panic that threatened to rise up at the sight of her wobbly smile. "I'm not- that's not what I meant at all. I just don't remember that. The poetry thing."

It was her turn to look at him in confusion. "How could you not remember the book? It was the very first gift you gave me."

The book. Of course.

Now or never, big guy.

"I didn't know what was in it. It was pretty. Had a flower on it. You like stories, and books usually have stories in them, and I figured that one must have a story in it because it didn't explode when I dropped it--"

"You didn't read through it, first?"

"It's- I mean, you said it yourself. I can't read that Tevinter crap."

"The title is in Tevene."

"Exactly."

"The rest of the book is not, however."

In the silence that followed, Yuri thought too much about truth and consequences, and Leliana thought about foolish boys with thick skulls. But her smile was fond when she reached for him, carding her hand through his hair. "Can you not read at all, then?"

He shook his head no, not trusting himself to speak, feeling a little bit like he'd missed something.

And she whispered softly in his ear, We will have to do something about that, won't we?

*

The next night, she called him to her tent. She placed the book in his hands, wrapping her hands around his larger ones. "This book is the Carmenum Di Amatus. The Garden of Love. It has been translated to Common from Tevene," she explained, settling down next to him. He tried not to feel claustrophobic in her tent - he was pretty sure his hovel in Dust Town hadn't been much bigger - but there was so little room and she kept leaning into him in a way that left his neck feeling hot.

"Oh," he said, as eloquent as ever.

She nodded as if he'd said something profound. "Yes. It's banned in five countries, you know. Not Orlais. I am... intimately familiar with it," and the way she stressed it had him second guessing her motives for dragging him in here.

But for all that it was stifling, her tent was also warm and comfortable and full of her, and that made it alright. He leaned back, surprised when she leaned into him, tucking her head under his chin as she got cozy. It felt... good. Leliana's voice a sweet murmur, her body flush against his, her long legs beside his own seeming to stretch on forever.

"His lips on mine speak words not voiced... a prayer, which travels down my spine like flames that shatter night..." And when she leant up to press her soft lips against his, he was only a little surprised.

*

He wrote every day. Wasn't very good at it, but he made an effort.

i m not good very riting i. dont no why you teech teach me this things i. am not worht

And she would correct him, first his letters and grammar and then his facts, kissing away his doubt, telling him without words that he was wanted, worthy. And when Marjolaine lay dead at her feet, he returned the favor: "Evil doesn't worry about not being good," he'd said, and he had taken her face in his hands and kissed her with every ounce of feeling she'd ever poured into him, fear and acceptance and willfulness and most of all, unconditional love.

He hoped it was enough.

At night she read, voice whisper-soft in the stillness of her - their - tent, and sometimes he would join her. Most nights, he practiced his letters. Practiced, and listened.

my Name is yuryyuriy. My name is yuri Broska.

Endless itinerations of the same simple phrase. He crossed them out, one by one. Wrote L-E-L-I-A-N-A instead.

"His eyes reflect the heaven's stars, the Maker's light..."

*

Ten years and hundreds of thousands of miles later, Yuri was reading and writing in three different languages. Mostly reports. Research. Poems were scarce these days, but it didn't matter because at the end of the day, no matter who his letters were addressed to, he was still writing to her, about her. For her.

Your Worship,

I was not there for the death of Divine Justinia, but I know it will have hurt her terribly. While her wits and her skill are amazing, Leliana's greatest strength lies in her faith, and to have Justinia die strikes at her very core.

I beg you, if she is faltering, help her find her way back to the light...

fin.

source: here’s my lot: i think orzammar dwarves should wear sunglasses to shield their mole eyes from the abrasive sun

source: borea aeducan, expert witch romancer