#early romance

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

[mldrgrl]

The Wonder of You

by: mldrgrl Rating: PG-13 Summary: She never stays the night and he wonders why, but he won’t ask.

She never stays the night and he wonders why, but he won’t ask.  He doesn’t think anything is wrong.  Certainly, she comes to him freely, of her own volition, showing up night after night in casual sweaters and a six-pack of beer, or Chinese, or a pizza.  They watch movies pressed up against each other like an inch of space is too much.  Her hand might find its way up his shirt or unbuckling his belt just as easily as his fingers weave through her hair or his mouth meets the swell of her breast.  They’ve made use of almost every available space he can lay her down on; the couch (naturally), his bed (obviously), the floor (too hard on the knees), the table by the door (a personal favorite), and his desk (a little too precarious).  He knows she has a good time, or several, but she always vanishes before the sun comes up and he wakes with a smile on face that fades as soon as he rolls into the cold side of the bed.

By day, it’s like nothing has changed.  She still argues with him, still calls him crazy when he rambles too long about his latest case theory, and she’s still as skeptical as ever, not that he expects or wants anything different.  By night though, by night she’s something else.  She laughs easily, she’s more playful than he could’ve imagined, and she’s less skeptical of his theories (Think that table will hold, Scully?  Only one way to find out.)  It’s all so perfect, if not for the disappearing act.

She knocks on his door precisely at seven.  This time, she has beer and microwave popcorn - buttered, for once.  He takes the bottles from her and cradles the case one-handed as he helps her shrug off her jacket.  She kisses the corner of his mouth, one hand on his cheek, and breathes deep.

“You smell good,” she says.

“Showered earlier,” he answers.  “You don’t have to bring anything, you know.  You’re enough.”

“I know.”

Her index finger twists into the belt loop at his hip as she follows him to the kitchen.  He went shopping after work and he’s sure to show off his fully stocked fridge as he places the beer inside.  She raises her eyebrow, impressed.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.  “I can cook.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, but you’re thinking it.”

“When have you ever cooked?”

“I’ve had to fend for myself since I was 12.”

She presses her back to the closed refrigerator and tugs him closer by both belt loops so that he’s leaning over her with his hand draped across the top of the freezer.  His forehead rests against the top of her head and this time he breathes deep.

“You smell good too,” he says.

She doesn’t answer, but traces his mouth with both thumbs.  He doesn’t care if the world falls apart around them right now, he likes this little bubble of intimacy they create sometimes, when it’s the two of them and they’re pressed close and her breath is on his face and her cheek feels so soft under his palm.

“Can I make you dinner?” he asks.

“Right now?”

“Any time.”

“Sure.”

He can’t bring himself to ask if he can make her breakfast, but he hopes she saw the bottle of orange juice, the carton of eggs, the slab of bacon so strategically placed front and center of his stockpile of groceries.  He hopes she’s spotted her brand of coffee on the counter and the sleeve of bagels on the cutting board.  She’s an investigator for chrissake, and he’s being very obvious.

“But, right now is good too, if you’re hungry,” he says.  “I can whip something up.”

“Mm.”  She nuzzles his jaw with her nose.  She’s not hungry.  If she were, she would’ve brought more than the beer.

He rolls and dips his head to give her easier access to his mouth.  She brushes her mouth against his almost in passing.  He parts his lips for her, but pulls back just a fraction of an inch.  “Don’t you want to watch the movie, Scully?” he whispers.

“What movie?”

He chuckles and brings both hands to her face to hold her still so he can kiss her properly.

Late in the night, as they’re twisted together under sweat-damp sheets, he tries and fails several times to ask her to stay.  He stays awake long enough to feel her disentangle herself from him and turn onto her side, her back to him.  Under a sated stupor of exhaustion, he turns with her and presses a few sloppy kisses onto her shoulder.  She sighs and he sighs as well.  He puts his arm over her and curls into a question mark behind her.

The faint blare of a car alarm wakes him in the morning.  The room is still grey, but it could be early or it could be late.  It’s raining out, wind lightly rattling the windows.  He’s on his back, head tipped towards the outside of the bed with his chin resting on his shoulder.  He blinks his eyes open and yawns.

Beside him, Scully stirs quietly and he freezes as she rolls over and blindly reaches for him.  He brings his arm up and she snuggles into his side, still asleep as far as he knows, and rests her head on his chest.  She’s got one arm slung heavily across his waist and one leg draped over his thigh.  He breathes as softly and quietly as possible, but his heart is racing.

In the few minutes before she stirs again and stretches against him, a million thoughts run through his brain.  He wonders if she’ll wake and feel like she’s made a mistake.  He wonders if the awkwardness they’ve been so blissfully avoiding will rear its ugly head.  He wonders if she’ll run out on him or if she’ll at least let him make her coffee.  Mostly, though, he just keeps telling himself that she’s here and strokes her arm as though he can’t quite believe she’s real.

“Is that rain?” she murmurs.  Her voice is so sleepy and slurry.  It makes him smile.  

“Yeah,” he answers.  In contrast, he sounds gravelly and deep.

Her toes flex against his shin and she slides her hand up his chest.  She traces lazy loops over his heart with her index finger until he reaches up and covers her hand with his own.  She lifts and curls her fingers until they’re clutched together with his and he brings her arm up to kiss the inside of her palm and wrist.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Good morning.”

“How’d you sleep?”

“Good.  You?”

“Never better.”

Thirty heartbeats later, he counts, she slips her hand free and pushes against his chest so she can rise up, propped on her elbow.  She shakes her sleep-mussed hair back from her face and gives him a soft smile.

“You know how to scramble an egg?” she asks.

“I know how to scramble lots of them.”

“I think two will be enough.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They stare at each other with shy, half-smiles.  She looks away first and he sits up and presses his face into her neck.  She tips her head against his and runs a hand over his face.  He’s longing to ask her why now, what’s changed, but he doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.  It’s enough that she’s here and it’s Saturday.  They have nowhere to be, that he knows of, and don’t need to rush.  But, he promised her breakfast and so he does need to get to the kitchen.

He heaves himself up and searches the floor for a pair of boxer shorts he knows were thrown off the foot of the bed last night.  He finds them, slips them on, and stretches his back as he heads to the bathroom.  When he comes out, Scully’s no longer in bed, but he finds her in the kitchen, wearing his wrinkled t-shirt that was also discarded rather hastily the night before.  She’s fiddling with his temperamental coffeemaker.

“It’s a little temperamental,” he says, moving to flip the switch on the side and to jiggle the filter, but she puts her hand on his.

“Show me,” she says.  “For next time.”

His knees almost buckle and his stomach flips.  He bites the inside of his cheek to hide his grin and shows her how to tame the quirky machine.  

The End

[aswithasunbeam]

Two pages from Hamilton’s first letter to Peggy, where he confessed his growing attachment to Eliza and requested help in winning her over, written from Morristown, NJ in February 1780.

“In obedience to Miss Schuylers2 commands I do myself the pleasure to inclose you a letter, which she has been so obliging as to commit to my care, and I beg your permission to assure you that many motives conspire to render this commission peculiarly agreeable. Besides the general one of being in the service of the ladies which alone would be sufficient, even to a man of less zeal than myself, I have others of a more particular nature. I venture to tell you in confidence, that by some odd contrivance or other, your sister has found out the secret of interesting me in every thing that concerns her; and though I have not the happiness of a personal acquaintance with you, I have had the good fortune to see several very pretty pictures of your person and mind which have inspired me with a more than common partiality for both. Among others your sister carries a beautiful copy constantly about her elegantly drawn by herself, of which she has two or three times favoured me with a sight. You will no doubt admit it as a full proof of my frankness and good opinion of you, that I with so little ceremony introduce myself to your acquaintance and at the first step make you my confident. But I hope I run no risk of its being thought an impeachment of my discretion. Phlegmatists may say I take too great a license at first setting out, and witlings may sneer and wonder how a man the least acquainted with the world should show so great facility in his confidences—to a lady. But the idea I have formed of your character places it in my estimation above the insipid maxims of the former or the ill-natured jibes of the latter.

I have already confessed the influence your sister has gained over me; yet notwithstanding this, I have some things of a very serious and heinous nature to lay to her charge. She is most unmercifully handsome and so perverse that she has none of those pretty affectations which are the prerogatives of beauty. Her good sense is destitute of that happy mixture of vanity and ostentation which would make it conspicuous to the whole tribe of fools and foplings as well as to men of understanding so that as the matter now stands it is ⟨very⟩ little known beyond the circle of these. She has good nature affability and vivacity unembellished with that charming frivolousiness which is justly deemed one of the principal accomplishments of a belle. In short she is so strange a creature that she possesses all the beauties virtues and graces of her sex without any of those amiable defects, which from their general prevalence are esteemed by connoisseurs necessary shades in the character of a fine woman. The most determined adversaries of Hymen can find in her no pretext for their hostility, and there are several of my friends, philosophers who railed at love as a weakness, men of the world who laughed at it as a phantasie, whom she has presumptuously and daringly compelled to acknowlege its power and surrender at discretion. I can the better assert the truth of this, as I am myself of the number. She has had the address to overset all the wise resolutions I had been framing for more than four years past, and from a rational sort of being and a professed contemner of Cupid has in a trice metamorphosed me into the veriest inamorato you perhaps ever saw.

These are a few specimens of the mischiefs, and enormities she has committed the little time she has made her appearance among us. I should never have done, were I to attempt to give you a catalogue of the whole, of all the hearts she has vanquished, of all the heads she has turned, of all the philosophers she has unmade, or of all the inconstants she has fixed to the great prejudice of the general service of the female world. It is essential to the safety of the state and to the tranquillity of the army that one of two things take place; either that she be immediately removed from our neighbourhood, or that some other nymph qualified to maintain an equal sway come into it. By dividing her empire it will be weakened and she will be much less dangerous when she has a rival equal in charms to dispute the prize with her. I solicit your aid to3″

Image Source: Sotheby’s Catalogue

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

Luke + Lorelai + Jess + Rory + Early Romance

[songlations]

"Ojos Marrones" (Brown Eyes) by Lasso, English translation

“Brown Eyes” LyricsAlbum: Eva, 2023About: Pop song about a new relationship that seems perfect, but the singer can’t commit because he is not over his ex.Country: VenezuelaListen: YouTube Lyrics Translation: Es la primera vezQue invito a alguien desde que te fuisteY estoy bien. It’s the first timeThat I ask someone out since you leftAnd I’m fine. Continue reading “Ojos Marrones” (Brown Eyes)…

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[sirladyscripts]

Solavellan Dragon Age Inquisition Fanfic

After the Inquisitor and her companions complete Keeper Hawen’s final request, he invites them to join the clan for the night. Solas gets moody, thinking about the way things were for his people and how they are now. Remli tries to allay some of those worries by painting a different light on the Dalish lifestyle. Post Fade-kiss, pre-balcony Solavellan romance.

Also, no, this is not an April Fools joke. I LIVE!

When the Inquisitor and her party arrived with the last of the pelts for the clan, the sky was already fading to a purple blush with a sprinkling of stars. The clouds burned across the horizon in rich reds and yellows, and the ruined markers along the road stood as tall black shadows against the fading daylight. To the west, the clan’s fires were burning high and the smell of roasting meats wafted through the air, and to the Inquisition troop, weary from a day of hunting the Venatori and the undead, it made the march back to their base camp tents seem all the longer. Remli paused at the edge of the Dalish setting, remembering other clan gatherings around other campfires in what seemed a completely different lifetime ago.

Keeper Hawen found her watching the halla bedding down in the protective cave, her mind miles away. He touched her arm with a small smile that deepened as she blinked away old memories.

“You and your people are welcome to join us for the evening, Da’len,” he said, inviting her towards the fire with the sweep of his hand. “No daughter of the Dalish should spend the night in a shem tent where there are family aravels nearby.”

She looked around the clearing to see where the others of her party were waiting, standing apart from the small band of elves—not in a fearful or disdainful way, it was more a separation of polite respect, a separation of cultures. Of course, Varric seemed most interested in what was going on, scratching his chin and making thoughtful noises under his breath. Cole was… well, she didn’t see him, but she also didn’t hear any angry noises around the camp, so he was probably alright. And Solas… well, Solas was watching her.

When he caught her eye, he gave her a slight smile and nod. Apparently he’d heard Hawen’s offer, and she took the gesture to indicate that he would not be adverse to spending an evening among her people. Whatever previous slights the Dalish had shouldered on him, he seemed willing enough to bear their company tonight, and Varric would go along with it. Maybe he felt that the nearby ruins would provide ample intrigues in the Fade. Maybe he thought her homesick, and believed she would benefit from some time amongst her people once again. Maybe he was hungry—the smell of the spitted meat did smell rather good. And it was a long walk up the river back to the Inquisition camp….

She opened her mouth to thank Hawen for the invitation when her stomach growled, apparently overcome by the scent of cooked venison.  She flushed, sheepish, although Hawen only laughed.

“Dinner, Da’len, and then we shall speak, and you can tell me more of how a child of the Dales comes to lead a pack of humans and.. city elves,” he said, giving Solas a curious glance, but then turning back to guide her towards the fire. As they walked, he motioned to the others of the group to follow suit.

 It was… odd, to say the least. On the one hand, everything felt familiar—over dinner, the laughing and talking of a clan after a busy day, after the meal, the short bursts of song and tales of travels. Sharing news of mutual friends, lauding a youth with freshly inked vallaslin, commiserating on poor traveling conditions. Murmuring prayers for those who had not made the journey, and wondering at the fate of clans and friends lost in the forests, unseen for years.

Of course, it was different, too. The sights and smells that would have once been welcome reminders of home now seemed strange, unfamiliar things in light of her new rituals and habits with the Inquisition. She was looking forward to sleeping under the stars, but a part of her missed the soft blankets and bedroll that awaited her back with the Inquisition supplies. She’d gotten used to the quiet whickerings of their mounts—now, the bleat of a halla gave her pause. It was a normal Dalish sound, part of a normal Dalish camp, but it had become unfamiliar. It made her stop, think, remember. Had she really forgotten the familiar sounds of her people so quickly, to replace them so easily with the sounds of human habitations?

She lifted her gaze from the fire, and caught sight of Solas at the edge of camp. He was alone once again, sitting half in shadow under the trunk of the tree sheltering the aravel. He watched the clan go about the business of settling down before sleep, but his lips were tight, his eyes partially closed. He fiddled with the traces tied to his staff, worrying over some thought that niggled at him.

Something weighed heavily on his mind, so much that he did not realize she approached until she’d touched his arm. He started and his eyes met hers, then some of the tension left his face. She smiled, keeping her touch light.

“Everything alright? You seem...” She floundered at that, trying to decide the best way to describe the slightly sour, thin lipped expression that had settled on Solas’ face. Dorian would have suggested ‘constipated’, and Varric, had he been paying attention, would mention something lewd and potentially rude to the clan. Cole, bless him… well, it was fortunate Cole was with Emalien, they were still working on teaching the boy tact. Remli tsked, then decided to finish the thought with neutrality. “You seem unquiet.”

He sighed and shook his head, turning his attention back towards the heart of the group where bedrolls were being laid out by the fire.  

“I am contemplating the remnants of the People. Are all clans so diminished? Nothing more than a handful of people, scraping out a life from the paltry earth?” he said asked, frowning at the group surrounding the fire. His voice seemed hollow, expression tight, as though the fate of the scattered clans was his burden to bear, and he staggered under the weight.

She wanted nothing more than to embrace him, to help dispel his gloom and draw him closer, into the clan’s warmth. Still, she hesitated—it had been weeks, and there had been moments where he’d seemed like he wanted to say something more, but they had not spoken further of what happened in the Fade, and she was loathe to press him with too much unsolicited physical contact when he wavered on uncertainty. She would not push the matter, not when all signs began to indicate that his interest was not as keen as her own. And he was a private man—unsolicited touch might seem too forward and bold, and unwanted signs of affection might frighten him back behind that cool mask she’d worked so long and hard to draw away.

There was also the clan to consider—their numbers were small, it was true, but their eyes were sharp, and their hunters skirting the camp, keeping watch. And while she didn’t particularly care about scandal or her reputation among the Dalish clans, she knew Solas valued his pride and privacy. She would not cause him any duress with a lingering touch that would become gossip halfway across the Dales by morning.

All in all, she settled for a friendly pat on the shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, then sat down beside him. Bold, perhaps, but she was the Inquisitor, damn it. She could take some social liberties, especially when she was so intimately familiar with Dalish customs (and when one could feasibly smudge the line of propriety). And Solas had never shied away from her when she sat next to him. Besides, it would be easier to talk, side by side.

She ignored Hawen’s interested glance, and focused instead on pointing out key areas around the campsite.

“Each clan is different in size and build, but I can tell you without hesitation that we’re not seeing this group in its entirety,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile. “Once a clan finds an area to camp for any length of time, everyone sort of wanders off to complete their jobs. Hunters go off to restock the meat stores and keep an eye out for things of interest, while crafters may go out foraging for supplies or things to trade. Firsts and Seconds may go off to perform rituals at local shrines, which can leave them away from the camp for hours or even several days. It’s not uncommon for a clan to scatter while they’re camped—especially after spending extended periods of time in the aravels. I used to sleep in trees, just for the air.”

She pointed to the clan’s aravel, still undergoing repairs. “It may not look like much, but you can fit a fair number of people in one of those, plus supplies. And most of my clan preferred riding or walking along our fleet, so we only had three or four at a time, depending on the time of year and how many supplies we needed to carry with us. But we had 30 to 40 people at any given time, usually.” She gestured out into the woods, shrugging her shoulder.

“And most clans have caches of supplies so they don’t have to carry everything along with them. Warded, of course, and hidden, but there in cases of emergency. I cannot speak for this clan, but Lavellans have multiple areas of rest and restocking all over the Free Marches.”

She laughed, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “And, of course, there are other times that clan members desire privacy—even in times of war, sometimes it’s worth the risk of bedding down away from the rest of your clan, who are more or less your immediate and extended family, and as such feel entitled to knowing each and every intimate detail of your life.”

This brought a small smile, although the tension did not completely fade from his face. He studied the clan members around the fire, then looked beyond the stream to the war-torn fields in the distance.

“Still, it seems such a tentative existence, being at the mercy of the wilds and weather,” he said. “To live such a life, and yet flourish, it is no wonder the Dalish are considered fierce in their clashes with humans.”

“We’re hardly Avvar barbarians, Solas,” she laughed. “We don’t actively stand in thunderstorms, challenging the gods to strike us with inspiration. And we’re not city elves, bending and scraping to every human we meet, trying not to get kicked or killed. We live in the woods, the plains, the hills, the valleys, but that hardly makes us uncivilized.”

She paused, thinking of a mountain of pillows and furs waiting for her back home. “I will concede a point to the humans where beds are concerned, however. It beats sleeping on rocks.”

They fell into silence once again, each lost in their own thoughts. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine they were back in the Free Marches, resting after a long day of hunting in the hills. The smells were familiar, the sound low and welcoming. Hawen even reminded her of her father—a bit, anyway—and his clan had always travelled farther South and West than the Lavellans. It wasn’t surprising that the keepers knew each other—of course they would, given that they would meet at the Arlathvhen, and no doubt kept in correspondence in the years between.

Still, as she sat there and listened to Varric’s attempts at wheedling more information out of the Keeper, it struck her how odd it was to go to the broken Dales, the place of her people, and feel… Pride? Sorrow? Bittersweet nostalgia? That was how she figured she was supposed to feel, anyway, but she also looked forward to camping in the woods with her companions. Human, dwarf, elf, Qunari—their little band had fast become home over the last few months, her own ragtag clan of misfits trying to save the world in their own unique ways—she had to wonder, when had they become more than allies in the war?

“Do you miss it?” Solas asked, interrupting her thoughts. When she turned to him, he gestured to the camp. “Traveling from place to place, visiting familiar sites, hunting in the trees?”

“It’s not like I’m housebound,” she laughed. “Harding seems to report in with new things that need my personal attention on an almost daily basis. And camping in Inquisition tents is not so different than sleeping by the aravels.”

“But clans are families, are they not? Do you not miss your parents, your siblings, your cousins, your friends?” he pressed, although she was uncertain as to why it mattered so much.

She frowned, staring out into the firelight. “Yes and no,” she admitted. “My mother died when I was young, and I had a falling out with my father years ago. I haven’t seen my brother in a long time, and the schism caused… issues… in my position. My last close ties to the clan were to Deshanna, so it was a bit of a relief when she asked me to go to the Conclave.”

She shrugged, toeing the ground with her boot. “To be honest, wandering around with everyone over the last few months has felt like a moving about in a proper clan, so… I suppose I miss Deshanna, and the anonymity and freedom that comes with being an insignificant part of the clan.”

She shifted, looking over the camp, biting her lip in thought. “I once told Cassandra that home was where I was, but I think it’s more accurate to say it’s where I am, alongside the people I’m with. I enjoy the Inquisition’s camping trips, and the company we keep.”

She gave his hand a small squeeze, smiling. “One day I’ll return, I’m sure, but it might not be forever—if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the world is full of amazing places to visit and explore. But I’m not particularly inclined on going anywhere else anytime soon.”

“Cassandra would probably have something to say about it if you did,” he replied lightly, a slight smile on his face. She laughed.

“I don’t think she’d outright yell at me,” Remli conceded, “but I would certainly not hear the end of her exasperated sighs as she chased me around the Dales.” They both laughed at that, picturing Cassandra running about, yelling about the Maker and Andraste having some higher purpose for everything, then making disgusted noises if anything particularly heathenistic occurred. Remli paused, then, a thought coming to her.

“I will return to my clan one day,” she said, tilting her head. “After everything is sorted out and Cassandra is adequately distracted elsewhere, of course. I’d like to see Deshanna again, to let her know I’m alright and to tell her about some of the things we’ve seen in our travels. You’re welcome to come with me if you’d like. I could show you that we really aren’t as ‘diminished’ as you think.”

He lowered his head. “It was unkind of me to speak in such a way,” he said, not meeting her eye. “My apologies, I spoke out of turn.”

“It was not unkind, it was uninformed,” she said, trying to soften her words with a smile. She dipped her head to catch his eye. “Come with me,” she repeated, squeezing his hand once again. “It’s really not such a terrible fate as you seem to think. I think you would like Deshanna, and I know our First would love talking to you about your experiences in the Fade. And it wouldn’t be terribly long—I don’t think the Inquisition forces could do without us for more than a few weeks, and I don’t think I could take many of Deshanna’s lectures about being a proper Da’len.”

She laughed, although Solas shook his head. “I am not sure that would be… ,” he stopped, seeing her expression falter. “Perhaps,” he finished with a small smile.

“The keeper’s face darkens at the words, anger and betrayal, hand raised, a flash of light, a ward to hold off the night—‘I will hear no more of your lies.’ The man is gone but He remains in dreaming, dealing, done. Sometimes it is best not to say anything when you know the truth will hurt,” said Cole, appearing between them. He turned his face to look at Remli, and his wide-brimmed hat effectively hit Solas in the face, separating them. “It’s better to remain silent than to tell a lie. But he doesn’t want to lie, not to you, so he says what he wants, not what he knows.”

“You know, most men just settle for asking their object of affection questions about themselves, saying what they think the lady wants to hear,” Varric interrupted, calling over his book as he scratched notes into his journal. “It might work out better for you in the long run if you try that tactic, Chuckles, instead of asking why the Dalish are so diminished. A little flattery might improve your chances.”

Beside Varric, Hawen gazed at Solas and the Inquisitor with an indulgent smile, looking for all the world like a proud father seeing his child well-matched. Solas shifted away from the Inquisitor and Cole ever so slightly, straightening his back.

“Am I not permitted curiosity in learning more of the Dalish customs, Child of Stone? It seems you have taken an interest in the clan culture as well,” Solas replied, voice cool. He sounded completely unfazed, although Remli could see the tips of his ears were blushed pink.

Varric wasn’t put off, either. “Yes, but my questions have to do with coming up with names for characters and descriptions of how things work around camp. Things Daisy never really wanted to tell me about, and things that Longshot says are boring. But your questions sound suspiciously like you’re trying to learn what to expect when you go home to meet her parents. Interested in becoming clan Lavellan’s mage in reserve?”

Remli laughed, taking pity on Solas and pulling Cole up with her as she got to her feet. “There’s no shame in wanting to learn more about another people’s culture, Varric,” she chided him, although she softened her words with a smile. “Didn’t you have to learn odd human customs when you first started travelling with Cassandra?”

“I’m a surface dwarf, which means we more or less live like humans. But Cassandra’s customs more or less involved grumbling about ingrates and walking at a very fast pace,” Varric replied, closing his book of notes. “And asking a lot of questions about things that really had nothing to do with what she claimed she was investigating at the time.”

“Oh? And just how close were you to the Champion?” Remli asked, grinning as Varric flinched.

“Fine, fine, I retract my questions. I’m sure Solas asks out of curiosity after waking up from all of his adventures in the Fade to find the real world not quite as brilliant as they are in his dreams.”

“Things aren’t brilliant in the Fade, but they do glow,” supplied Cole, picking up a bedroll and flapping it out as if to fluff it. “Brilliant means that something is too bright to look at, but most things in the Fade are soft. Except for the Inquisitor. She burns a radiant fire in the Fade. She is brilliant.”

“That’s… helpful Kid, thanks,” Varric replied. “I honestly don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that, but I guess I can work it into the book somehow.”

“Or you could not write a book about it,” said Remli, flushing. “I don’t know how comfortable I am with the thought of you describing me glowing like a torch. You’d have a far more realistic book if you talked about that time we were up to our asses in bog muck than waxing poetic about visions in the Fade.”

“Some of us were up to our chins in that muck, thank you,” lamented Varric. “I still worry about finding crap in my chest hair. Besides, people don’t want realism, they want escapist literature so they can forget about the state of the world for a while.”

“So you’re telling me that describing how the Champion’s consort punched his fist through a man’s heart makes the real world a little more bearable?” she asked.

“Ok, see, that’s the problem with you people. You get up to such weird shit that the things you do seem impossible. Yes,” he staved off Cole’s pending interruption. “Fenris really did pull out someone’s heart with his fist. Just like you really did walk out of the Fade, and you really did pull a mountain down on top of your head and survive, and you really do go riding around Thedas on an undead horse.”

“Fluffy has nothing to do with this!” she protested.

“Point is,” Varric continued as though she hadn’t interrupted, “You’ve gotta level out the weird realism with normal realism, or people won’t take you seriously. Hence my questions about living in the clan. See? A legitimate reason for inquiry, no hidden agenda at all.” He gave Solas another meaningful look, although the mage refused to take the bait. “I want to know the way things are.”

“Well, the invitation is an open one,” she said, trying to steer the conversation back towards their travels. “If any of you have an interest in joining me when I return to my clan, you are welcome to come. See for yourself, the life of a Dalish clan is not so wild or exciting as you might think. We don’t dance naked in the moonlight unless the wine is particularly strong and we are extremely young and foolish. We eat, we sleep, we go about our daily lives without much variation. If everyone comes it might be prudent of me to send prior warning, but…” she laughed. “Deshanna always did say I was full of surprises.”

A quiet cough drew her attention back into camp, where Hawen walked towards their little group. “Sylvirem’lin,” he said, pretending as though the whole clan had not heard them bickering. “I apologize for the intrusion, but we’re going to let the fires burn down for the night. We’ve prepared pallets for you and your companions if you’re ready to retire.”

She smiled, ducking her head in thanks and deference to the man who was putting them up—and putting up with them—for the night.

“Ma serannas, Hahren,” she said, flushing a bit in embarrassment. “We appreciate your hospitality, and thank you for your kindness. I apologize for our noise—a terrible habit I’ve picked up from the humans during my stay.”

He smiled at that, gesturing towards the clearing where the other bedrolls lay. “It is good to hear you so at ease among such an… odd company,” he hedged, although there was humor in his voice. “And it is good to see that you are well looked after.” There was a very deliberate look in Solas’ direction, but Remli tactfully sidestepped the implied question.

“I have been very fortunate in my recent adventures, both in companionship and in our challenges,” she agreed, not daring to look at her friends. “And while it is not an easy path by any means, I am grateful for the ways things are.”  

[sirladyscripts]

A visiting Orlesian noblewoman takes potshots about the Inquisitor being Dalish. Remli fires back, and Vivienne has some suggestions. Early romance Solavellan; mostly just an excuse for me to flesh out a flyting match between Remli and a noble. Set before "In Pursuit of Knowledge."

“I was under the impression that the Dalish did not follow the ablutionary habits of the city,” says the visiting marchioness, voice light and smile sharp.

The Inquisitor pauses, hearing the implied rabbit, or, more likely, knife ear at the end of the sentence. The rudeness of the Orlesian nobles never fails to amaze her, and how many of them expect to see her dressed in animal skins and war paints.   Remli has already forgotten the woman’s name, but it doesn’t matter. Josie will be politely arranging their departure in the morning.

“We do not,” agrees the Inquisitor, not missing a beat. “We prefer to wash away the dust of the day with water, rather than smother the smells with perfumes.”

“That is not why we wear them!” the woman shrieks, and even through the thick makeup Remli can see the flush of anger, the pursing of lips. Really, what’s the point of wearing a mask if you’re still so easy to read?

“My apologies. It’s just that one cannot help but wonder why you feel you must wear so much,” Remli replies. She shifts her focus beyond the sputtering woman and catches the eye of a more friendly opponent. “Ah, Vivienne. I apologize for keeping you waiting. Marchioness,” she says as way of goodbye, then turns to fall in step with the enchantress.

Vivienne’s smile is formal and polite, but her eyes crease in humor.

“Well played, my dear,” the enchanter murmurs, winding their way through the assembled guests who linger in the hall. Remli allows herself a quiet laugh.

“I could hardly tell her that bathing helps mask your scent, and that we’d rub leaves and flowers over our bodies to melt into the forest smells,” Remli replies, snagging a glass from one of the passing servants. She takes a sip and pauses, considering the idea. “Is that why you wear them? So that people know who you are and how much money you have at a passing whiff?”

Vivienne laughs, grabbing a drink from a passing servant and bringing the glass to her lips. “I’ll show you one day, shall I?” she asks. “A trip to Val Royeaux’s finest parfumiers, and you can see for yourself what the reaction will be.”

“A kind offer,” Remli replies, wondering how she can get out of it.

“No kindness about it, my dear,” smiles Vivienne, patting her shoulder. The woman knows her well enough to sense her disinterest, but still she presses her suit. “As Inquisitor, you’ll only have more frequent interactions with such people. You will be hunting on a different field in the future, allow me to arm you with the appropriate weapons of the court.”

Remli hardly relishes the thought of spending an entire trip shopping for such things, but they might be able to stop at more interesting places along the way. And it’s true, Vivienne has been very helpful in dealing with these people. It’s a wonder to watch the mage work her sharp wit and biting tongue, like a verbal dagger slipping between the ribs and striking at home. If Vivienne believes that wearing scent when dealing with these beasts will help, Remli will… well, at least consider the suggestion. She does not see the appeal of such strong and lingering odors when you can smell of the wind and trees instead.

Vivienne’s attention is drawn to something over Remli’s shoulder, and a knowing smile crosses her lips. She murmurs in the Inquisitor’s ear as she slips away, “Think on it, my dear. You may other uses for such things as well.”

The Inquisitor can sense him behind her, and feels a flush rise to her cheeks, even as she turns to greet him. It is possible Solas did not hear what was said, given the low din of the room, but if he did, he is too much a gentleman to speak of it. Instead, he speaks of familiar things, keeping her company until Varric accuses them of collusion and keeping secrets.

The night ends with a round of Wicked Grace in the back kitchen with some of the Chargers, guests all but forgotten, ale passing freely with no worry of hangovers in the morning—she will not be saying goodbye to the smelly shem woman. But as she bids them goodnight and steals a goodnight kiss from Solas before heading to her room, she cannot help but wonder if Vivienne might be on to something.

[rashavan06]

The mystical beauty of the unknown

The mystical beauty of the unknown

Obscure and mystique always fascinate us. Here is something that happened to me that has a sheen of mystique.

This happened to me during my late teens. I was on a train journey after visiting my sister, and more importantly my cuddly nephew, who were at that time staying in Trichur. The train that I took was the one that was enroute to New Delhi and the coach I sat was quiet empty, bar a few…

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