The words come before her eyes open; her face tilted up to where his fingertips had rested against her cheekbones, sat back on her heels before him, her hair spilled loose down her back and the small points of her ears emerging from between tendrils of curl. Her awareness blurs at the edges, discarding details that she doesn't need, gently reinforcing things that might not make enough sense if she examined them too closely—how did she come to be so far into the past, from Orlais? Through a rift? Is that what rifts do? Sure. Sure, who knows where rifts might lead?
(Into the fade—shhh, shh. What might someone find in the fade? Who can say when one might emerge?)
She came here. From Halamshiral, where she had never been anything except Gwenaëlle Vauquelin, and she had never met anyone like Solas, and never stretched her wings quite the way she's allowed to here. Never experienced anything that might allow her to meet this new experience with anything but curiosity and gratitude and the giddiness of proximity to power; the intoxicating effect of his full attention focused upon her. She can stretch her hands so far, now, that she cannot feel the chains.
When she does open her eyes, for just a moment she frowns.
Something about him doesn't look right. It was fine, before. It's fine. She can't put her finger on it; she dismisses it.
“It doesn't matter,” she says, meaning pain or the way her head tilts like she's trying to figure him out, allowing her smile to warm again, raising her hands to his. “Nothing worth having doesn't have a cost.”
And if there's another reason she might not mind the pain, it isn't one for an audience.
no subject
The words come before her eyes open; her face tilted up to where his fingertips had rested against her cheekbones, sat back on her heels before him, her hair spilled loose down her back and the small points of her ears emerging from between tendrils of curl. Her awareness blurs at the edges, discarding details that she doesn't need, gently reinforcing things that might not make enough sense if she examined them too closely—how did she come to be so far into the past, from Orlais? Through a rift? Is that what rifts do? Sure. Sure, who knows where rifts might lead?
(Into the fade—shhh, shh. What might someone find in the fade? Who can say when one might emerge?)
She came here. From Halamshiral, where she had never been anything except Gwenaëlle Vauquelin, and she had never met anyone like Solas, and never stretched her wings quite the way she's allowed to here. Never experienced anything that might allow her to meet this new experience with anything but curiosity and gratitude and the giddiness of proximity to power; the intoxicating effect of his full attention focused upon her. She can stretch her hands so far, now, that she cannot feel the chains.
When she does open her eyes, for just a moment she frowns.
Something about him doesn't look right. It was fine, before. It's fine. She can't put her finger on it; she dismisses it.
“It doesn't matter,” she says, meaning pain or the way her head tilts like she's trying to figure him out, allowing her smile to warm again, raising her hands to his. “Nothing worth having doesn't have a cost.”
And if there's another reason she might not mind the pain, it isn't one for an audience.