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The guest chalets outside of the grounds of the Winter Palace -- nestled in the further depths of Halamshiral but still close enough to the palace to be of ease to the nobility -- hold as much comfort and elegance as one might expect, Lavellan finds. That is to say: they are as if petite versions of the palace, all pretty in pearls and gold and filigree, but all the same -- wrong. To her it is a stark, uncomfortable contrast, such things paired with the earth and trees surrounding them. Like jewels covering flowers below; like burls, cut and polished into something beautiful, and shiny, and dead.
Harsh, maybe; she’ll admit such thoughts to be biased. But one can only be called knife ear and rabbit by Orlesian tongues for so long, while standing on ground stolen from her people, before one feels a bit like they are the joke, rather than in on it.
...Or maybe it's something else altogether giving her such a sour, sad face.
“It was not noticed by the majority of the court,” Josephine had quietly reassured in the coach on the way back to the Inquisition’s lodging. And although her tone had been even, subdued, and even sympathetic, it was not without a hint of disappointment -- the way one might be if their cake does not come out quite as good as they imagined. It isn’t the cake’s fault, of course, but after you have sent the cake on dancing lessons and etiquette lessons, have coached the cake on the Game, have dressed the cake in the finest clothing befitting of her station (even if the cake had insisted otherwise), well…
When Lavellan came back from her thoughts, she had been met with Josephine’s practiced smile, and a pat on her knee. “We won’t tell anyone.”
Lavellan had snorted; as if that meant anything. Varric had been in full view of the whole spectacle! The entire Inquisition would know by morning.
A perfect end to such an evening.
The moment the coach had stopped she had fled from it, as if under seige. Which, if she were to be (dramatically) honest, she’d felt as if she was -- the dress she wore, while both beautiful and somewhat culturally sensitive (Josephine had, by request, carefully negotiated with the finest dress makers in Val Royeux to include a number of subtly elven characteristics to the gown, while still keeping with the current fashions), coupled with Court itself, was more physically taxing to bear than battle. At least in battle she was in control; calm, self-assured and confident. In battle she could flee, she could breathe -- in this she could do neither.
All of which had been exceedingly evident, earlier.
She had sped her steps as her cheeks flushed red once more.
But now, thank the Creators, she finds herself at her quarters; to her delight they are tucked back and down a different hall than that of the rest of her companions’, and are, blissfully, private. Though the latter point seems to be in question once she actually opens the door -- the room is dark, yes, but not entirely so. No, in the corner upon a desk is lit a small oil lamp casting ruddy, dark light across the walls. Next to it, reflecting sharply even in the dull light, is the metal of a mask, and -- just noticed -- a formal jacket, hung on the back of the chair.
A sigh precedes what seems like an announcement to no one. “You left me.”
From the other side of the room a chuckle emerges and, soon after -- a form, lithe and elven and now comfortably back in more familiar dress. “I did not,” Solas counters, matter-of-fact. He walks towards her though does not yet touch her, not yet. Gives her space, keeping a polite distance as he studies her (tired, suffocated, now... brightening?) expression. “I was relieved.”
She is listening, even as she pulls and tugs and manages to, inelegantly, shed the outer layers of her dress like the peelings of an orange. “Relieved?”
“Relieved,” he repeats, with a smirk, and then quickly offers to explain before her gaze turns even more harsh. “From my duties, as it were; the Court felt the evening no longer required the presence of the majority of the staff, a group of which, as you know, I found myself considered a part. One can't imagine why," he muses wryly. She frowns; he continues. "Regardless, it seems the Inquisition did not wish to arouse suspicion by insisting I was anything otherwise.”
Lavellan looks a mix of confused, hurt, and impatient. Mostly impatient. “Okay,” she answers, taking in a deep breath. It doesn’t work. “It’s okay.” A pause; her gaze falls as if to think, before it snaps back up, expression pleading. She picks at the lacing of her corset, now exposed. “Can you help me?”
“Of course,” he answers, and without missing a beat he moves closer, placing his hands upon her tightly bound waist. “Turn around.”
It’s a request that she does without question, although he also guides her, and she places one hand against a wall to steady herself as Solas begins to unlace her. Deftly. Quite deftly, she thinks, and glances over her shoulder in an attempt to watch. “Have you done this before?” she asks, disbelief in her voice. Apologetically, she amends, “Just doesn’t seem like an... apostate kind of skill.”
He chuckles, and continues his work. “And what makes you think I have not gone under disguise as a manservant before?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Have you?”
Another chuckle. Another evasion. “If you are asking whether or not I have undone a corset for a woman before,” he begins, and no, that isn’t what she was asking, but that’s the answer she’s getting, she guesses, “then the answer is yes. As for the circumstance, I am certain you can infer that on your own.”
Can she? She isn’t sure. But she forgets her original question when he gives a solid yank and releases her ribcage just enough for her to get a deeper breath, and it would have been divine if not for the protest her body gives, aching and sore. Payback, she thinks, for what she has done to it.
Lavellan is quiet for a moment, thinking, before she says quietly, “...Sorry about that.”
He stills for only a breath, before resuming. “For what?”
“For you having to be a manservant whenever we are in Orlais,” she hisses, the offending word more spat than said. She understands why they think it, logically, but emotionally it still grates at her. Not just because of who he is to her, but for who he is as a whole. He is not only a set of pointy ears; none of them are, despite what Orlais may think. “It’s insulting. To you. To all of us.”
One hand stops its work, and touches her arm gently. “I assure you, I have suffered no egregious insult,” he reassures, hand dropping to resume. Another tug, another relieved sigh from her. “You were at the Conclave as a spy; surely you can see the value in being almost invisible in a place such as the Winter Palace.”
She grunts, a conceding sound; she still doesn’t like it, but can see his point. “I suppose.”
“You suppose,” he echoes quietly, a smile in his voice, and pulls the final laces loose; the corset cracks off of her like an eggshell into his hands, leaving her to stand with only a gauzy chemise upon her frame. Her sigh of relief is audible, but he does not allow her enough time to say anything. Drops the corset on the floor to pair with the rest of her dress and spins her back to face him, studying her expression. Asks a question he already knows the answer to. “Is that all that troubles you?”
“No,” she answers on instinct, because she is usually of a mind that skirting around problems is pointless. But all the same, this time she feels her blush creep, and reconsiders that stance when the problem is so...embarrassing. She attempts evasion as well, though she is clearly less practiced in the art than he. “Yes. I-- I only wish you had been there, is all.”
He narrows his eyes. He doesn’t believe her. “Did something happen?”
“No,” she answers again, too quickly. Relents. “Maybe.”
A heavy pause hangs between them, and his eyebrows raise expectantly. “Are you going to tell me then, vhenan, or do you wish me to guess?” he asks, and although his tone is light, it is not without concern stitched into it. She appreciates it, however unneeded. Also appreciates when he adds, “Or if you do not wish to discuss it--”
“No, I…” she cuts him off, chewing on her lip and trying to think of the least embarrassing way to retell the tale; maybe she should get Varric. “...fainted?”
Concern is momentarily replaced by subtle amusement. “It sounds as if you are asking me for confirmation. Are you unsure?”
She makes an ugly sound, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “No. It's -- yes. I fainted, okay? Because of that...” her voice turns seething, and her gaze falls to the corset cast aside on the floor. She scratches like a petulant cat at where it once wrapped around her. “…blighted thing. And everything. And that.”
It’s not the whole story, no -- the whole story involves Josie sneaking up to her, tut tutting about how her corset was far too loose for someone who she assured was in no danger of physical battle, tightening it as if she had a grudge against Lavellan; involves far too many glasses of wine to make things bearable, and a particularly insistent noble with a mask like a hawk; involves him cornering her off when her companions were engrossed in their own quiet conversations, insisting they speak and speak and speak; involves this man towering over her, leaning over her, asking how it felt to be a rabbit in such a high position; asking if, before she came to this lofty position, she had ever been in lower ones, tone suggesting everything she knew it would (shem men are all the same); involves her politely bottling her rage and excusing herself to find air; involves her unable to find said air before the events of the night -- the weariness and suffocating pressure of it -- wrapped around her and sent black spots into her vision and why can’t she breathe why did Josie do this to her and then-- nothing at all.
Except then, suddenly, not nothing. Everything. Involves her waking in a fright, unsure of her surroundings, lashing out and nearly slicing her fingernails across Cullen’s face. Realization. Cheeks blushing. Varric slapping her on the back and saying Shit, and I thought this night was gonna be boring.
That about covers it, she guesses.
...Only, she doesn’t realize she’s rambled the majority of that out loud (far too many glasses of wine) until Solas tips her chin with his finger and brings her gaze to meet his, and she feels her jaw ache from overuse.
Too much talking, she thinks. This whole night.
“Vhenan,” he answers, searching her expression. Working her out like a puzzle, as if trying to figure out what she wants to hear. She’s never certain whether she appreciates or is insulted by that. Why can’t he just say what he feels? There's no one else here. “I...am sorry, then. That I was not there.”
She shakes her head, the movement a dismissal of his touch. He drops his hand, and her eyes follow it as it falls. Her hand, too; she reaches out, and lets her fingers ghost against his before grabbing hold. Shrugs. “It’s probably better that you weren’t.”
Her eyes go up to meet his, and he nods in understanding. Because love is sweet but love is weakness, she tells herself. Has always been told. Told him, late one night while they laid with limbs tangled, slick with sweat, the very same weakness falling from her lips over and over and over. And people will always play it against you, whenever they can.
And where worse to have such a thing played against her, than within those gilded palace walls?
(Not this. Let them call her knife ear, call her rabbit; let them look at her like meat to be served and force her to parrot kind words. They can have that, but Creators, let her have this for herself.)
Still, in the end she knows it is -- always is, whether at court or simply shying away from his touch when they are in view at Skyhold -- cowardly. Mutters lamely, as some form of appeasement, “It isn’t…it's not because I—“
“I know,” he answers before she has time to finish, and she is pleased that he does. Has never been all that great with words anyway. Not about this.
With a sigh she relaxes, rolling her shoulders and stretching. She feels as if she’s compressed, bent all the wrong ways, and she moves herself to realign. Solas watches her with amusement — or interest, or both, perhaps — stepping back to give her room to do as she likes. And she does, not paying him mind as her eyes slide shut, but when they reopen to notice his gaze she smirks, giving him a once over right back.
She then grunts as she looks down at herself. “I have to get out of this,” she declares, and makes it so; kicks off her shoes and pushes the shoulders of her chemise down until her arms are freed and it pools at the top of her bodice (why does this need to be tied as well, she can’t help but think). Without a word Solas moves once more behind her, to loosen the ties so as to allow this final piece to spill down to the floor, leaving her in nothing but her smallclothes (and even they are fancy; picked by Josephine, very very Orlesian).
She likes being like this -- thinks nothing of it. When with her clan, there was little privacy, given the nature of their home; and so, they hardly had reason to think being in ones smallclothes — or even nude — was more than what it was: natural, and the way it sometimes had to be. So when her dress falls and she is left in her skivvies, she has no reason to shy. Thinks it silly (and perhaps, secretly, a bit darling) that so many shem women think their bodies something so personal, so pure; something to be withheld, even from a lover. Besides, even moving past carnal desires, the overall mindset boggles her because, well, she has never really belonged to only herself. All she has ever had has been open to be given -- not always in this specific manner, of course -- and she has always been happy to do so. Has always wanted to make those she loved happy, despite all things. And, so, she has so far been happy to extend this philosophy towards the Inquisition, to this new clan, this new cause -- except now she finds it a mindset that, lately, is less appreciated, and more simply taken advantage of.
Culture shock, she supposes. Or maybe it's always been this way, and just seems clearer, now.
Still, there is reason for him to think this — her, scant, on display — is more than it is, now, is there not? Precedent for it, after all, and she can feel his eyes linger because of it. Feels the warmth of him as he moves to press his chest against her back, soft fabric against bare skin, his hands on her shoulders. Not taken advantage of, for this first time tonight. Appeciated.
She sighs and turns to face him, studying. Tilts her head and smiles. “Did the dress look nice on me, at least?” she asks, tone low but playful. Perhaps his answer would make some of this nightmare of a night worthwhile.
It does. “You looked like a shemlen woman,” he prefaces, and maybe to anyone else it would seem strange, insulting even, but she knows why he says it, and appreciates it, “but yes.”
“Josephine will be delighted hear.”
“Though I prefer you out of it,” he continues almost without pause, voice calm and neutral as if talking about the weather, but the urgency of it, the quickness of his addendum, is telling. As are his hands, sat lazily upon the curve of her waist, thumbs brushing against the soft skin he finds there. There is hunger in the way he looks upon her, and for the first time this evening? She is looking forward to being devoured.
In response, then, she cuts off any more he may have to say with a press of her lips against his, gentle. Gooseflesh ripples under his touch, and it is weakness — sweet, honeyed weakness, instead of Orlesian dress — that now leaves her without breath.
Preferable, that.
She separates just enough to chuckle, throaty and low, and backs her way slowly towards the bed, gaze beckoning. “As do I.”