genessia | There is literally no song that fits this theme okay

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There is literally no song that fits this theme okay

Who; Dorian Pavus and Alleyana Lavellan
What; Just home things
Where; Casa Inquisition a.k.a. Skyhold II
When; May 22nd? Afternoon? Sure...
Warnings; Possible (read probable) discussions of abuse, injury, and maybe other things. I'll update if I need to.

Troubling as it was, knowing what was transpiring if not exactly when, having a bit of time away from work to enjoy their new estate was nice. He'd taken the previous day to stock their wine cellar (or at least a random room on the basement he's now dubbed their wine cellar) and he's now reclining in a very comfortable recliner in the main room on the main floor, enjoying the natural light from the large front windows, sipping a bold yet gentle red from somewhere called "Italy", and reading a bit of classic literature from the same world. Thus far, "Great Expectations" was proving a great disappointment, but he was going to let the book run it's course and see where it left him. Maybe the importance of the holidays played a larger role than he was prepared for.

Ah, well. It was a refreshing perspective, at least. Thedas wasn't known for it's first person narrative. Maybe he'd pass the idea long to Varric, if he remembered anything from this place.

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He unfastened the gauntlet and slid the heavy bit of armor loose. Maker, how did she fight wearing these things? He'd never get through a proper flourish with them. It? Yes, it.

He fixed her with an admonishing expression, with just the hint of mischief glittering in his eyes.

"I most certainly am not, and you willl treat this as the honor and privilege it clearly is."

To be fair, it had been 'them', before. All through the Inquisition, all through... well, everything Dorian remembered before this world. The time gap between their recollections wasn't very wide, but it was just enough to include losing a limb.

Alley helped shake her hand free of the armored gauntlet, dragonhide sleeve and the ever-present soft leather glove beneath the articulated plates of dragonbone.

A noncommittal grunt was all his playful comment got out of her; she hadn't asked for help with any of it.

She walked over to one of the armchairs that had come with the room before twisting the Inquistion-emblazoned clasps to either side of her breastplate, releasing the very heavy, very pointy slab of metal to fall onto the seat. No second hand to catch it with, after all. She made do.

At least they seemed to be on the same page that she was going to take a bloody shower with her hair down, if it was going to get re-braided. It was easier to braid tightly while wet, anyway.

He realized as he watched her he'd never actually watched a warrior disrobe before. Maker, he thought his battle gear had too many layers. Bull didn't count, as he had a moral and practical opposition to shirts (not that Dorian took issue with that, at least silently), and he really had no interest in watching Blackwall undress.

He moved behind her to unfasten the leather thong holding her hair at bay and looked appreciatively the waves as he made quick work of loosening them. "Really, we've all seen and done worse with one another than the simple helping with armor..." he trailed off as his eyes wandered to her side, her good side, or what he'd always assumed was her good side, and the damaged mess that apparently served as her right hand, but he quickly shook away the look of shock, at least he hoped so, and continued, "...yes, the simple helping with armor and a bit of hair."

He shouldn't say anything, should he? He realized, looking back, she'd never been without a glove, even about Skyhold, even when relaxing, even...but why had she hidden it? It looked painful, it was true, but...oh, to hell with it. "Alleyana...what happened?"

About half of that hair was a dark, steel grey that mixed in seamlessly with the original dark brown. And the more of it was unbraided, the more apparent it would be that there was a lot of it. It was very compacted, very contained, when braided up against her head in that usual bun of hers.

Loose, it may very well reach her knees if the huge spiked slab of a shield wasn't in the way.

Alleyana eyed Dorian sidelong, gloved hand unconsciously moving to be a little harder to look at. Easy enough, really, she just worked on un-cinching the leather from around the base of the bar of her left arm, then started unscrewing it from the bone.

The shape of that hand... it wasn't right, even through the leather. The plates of her armor over that usually hid that little fact, but the soft leather was there to protect even more than it was there to conceal. The shape wasn't right.

"What happened?" she repeated, raising a scar-crossed brow.

Yes, working around that shield needed stop, and he moved his hands from her hair to the edges of the great thing, mindful of the spikes, and lifted...or he tried to. He cleared his throat, attention constantly drawn between the shield and her hand, or apparently what was left of it.

"Er, yes. I've been awfully curious for some time now, but I-" he grunted with the effort of lifting that shield. "Would you mind stopping for a moment and helping me with this thing? Honestly, how is this of any use to you? How do you lift it?"

That earned a sharp snort of amusement, and Alleyana tossed the bar onto the chair too before reaching back with that misshapen hand to grab the top edge of the shield in that practiced way of hers, and lift.

Like it was nothing.

It slid free of the bracket on the back of her armor that it hooked into, just like it always did. Just like the start of every fight, though now the handles inside the shield had been removed in favor of two thick bolts, spaced the same as the holes in the bar that stood in for her left forearm. Two huge wingnuts sat at the ends of the bolts, ready to be popped free and then put back on and cinched down once it was on the bar.

A little more prep time to get going for a fight, but the end result was the same.

Alleyana just set the shield down to rest against the side of the chair, lyrium glow pulsing faintly in the design in its center.

"You'll have to be more specific."

Not about the shield, obviously.

Nonplussed by her display of strength, nonetheless, he watched the display. They all certainly had their strengths, didn't they? No, Alleyana, he's never going to try to move that shield again, anymore than he'd ever try to lift Bull's warhammer.

"You aren't going to make this simple, are you?" He was quiet for a moment, looking thoughtful. "...but I've always wondered. Your...scars and your, well, your voice...what happened?"

"Ah."

That's all he got, for a while, while Alleyana went back to managing the outer layers of her armor. The knot of her sash was next; the leather and maile coat was trapped by it. So, she picked at the huge knot while she considered what to say.

"A lot of things, over a long period of time." Alley was no spring chicken, if all the grey in her hair wasn't an indicator. Elven as she was, there were no wrinkles on that scarred face yet, but she was up there in the now-mortal lifespan of her people.

"Been fighting since I was a kid." Lots of time to accumulate lots of scarring. And nose-breaks. "As for the voice, I inhaled hot ash."

That couldn't be all of it.

But none of it was a lie, either.

"Ah." He doesn't say anything for a moment, clearing his throat self-consciously, which was a strange sound, even to his own ears. "Hot ash, yes."

"I'll...leave you to your modesty, then. Give a shout when you're ready for me again, yes?"

He may have been more accustomed to a life of privilege, but he'd spent more than two years on his own now. He could give a hand and not whine about it, and this was the best apology for his obvious transgression he could offer. Still...he had one more question before he left her to her bath.

"Though...since I've already made a terrible mess of a perfectly fine friendship...how long? Has your...have you been limited in the function of your hands?"

"You haven't made a mess of anything," Alleyana stated with a roll of her eyes. Sash freed, she draped it over the back of the chair and then shrugged out of her armored coat.

And seemed to shrink to half her size in the process, down to her boots and the famous (yet, rarely-seen) 'Skyhold pajamas'. And that glove, of course.

"I... have to think about that for a moment," she answered, lest Dorian's nerves get the better of him while she tried to calculate how long ago--

She'd still had her brother, had been trying to do things better so that he wouldn't lose her like she'd lost...

"About thirty years. Thirty one. Thirty two... thirty three. Around there."

She'd been around twenty. Nineteen? Eighteen?

Fifty one years old now, it was hard to remember what it'd been like to have fully-functional hands.

He nodded, waiting through her calculations, though he was beginning to believe he'd overstepped his bounds again before she responded.

Thirty-three years...why, she'd been restricted as long as he'd been alive. That was...awful.

"I...see." He had more questions, of course, but they could wait. "I'll...I've kept you from your bath long enough. Enjoy it. I'll return shortly."

And, with that, he left her to her bathing and he'd wait until she called on him for the rest.

Alley went about her business.

When the Inquisitor emerged from the bathroom attached to her room it was in a cloud of steam. She was dressed down, of course, not willing to struggle back into her usual gear with her hair down and in the way and with her skin damp. No, instead she was in a blue tanktop with the words 'shit happens' on it and a pair of bright red cotton pajama pants.

Her hair was still down, of course, with a towel draped over her shoulders and down her back attempting to keep the long mass of brown and grey from soaking her anew from behind. It was a lot longer than it looked like it ought to be when it was all braided and bound up, and having it down softened some of the hardness of her appearance, even soaked as it was.

The stump of her left arm was exposed, the skin around the socket for the bar was gnarled and scarred, with traces of those scars going up and over her elbow and bicep like lightning bolts captured in flesh.

And that hand, somehow, remained covered. Now sporting a fuzzy, soft, cheap and stretchy glove she'd gotten somewhere for absurdly cheap. Something that could be pulled on with her teeth despite the damp skin, and something with a texture that didn't drive her too crazy...

Okay, it itched and was uncomfortable as hell but, like hell could she pull the soft leather back on before her skin was truly dry. Especially with only her teeth to work on it.

She opened the door to her room and peered out, wondering if Dorian was lurking on the upper floor or not.

After leaving her room, Dorian wandered off across their landing, leaning against the banister overlooking the floor below, but his gaze wasn't focused on the great hall beneath him, but rather over the time he'd spent in the ecclectic company of the Inquisition. The years he'd spent fighting at the side of this woman he realized he knew so little about.

Because he'd never stopped to ask. He'd been so wrapped up in vanquishing the Venetori, in stopping Corypheus from destroying the world, and in Tevinter's name no less, in his...petty little complaints, and...this. She'd never complained, not once.

He looked over when the door to her room opened and forced a tentative smile.

"Ready for your stylist, my dear?"

Alleyana had often felt rather the opposite about it all; she knew so many of her inner circle's secrets, their stories and quirks, even their deepest fears thanks to that one trip into the Fade when she'd instinctively ripped open a rift near the Nightmare to save the group and herself from a deadly fall.

She'd always been a private person, for a lot of reasons. The Inquisitor had bonded with Cole quickly in part because the spirit didn't need her to say much of anything, even with how 'bright' the Anchor made her; how hard to read. Solas, she'd told a lot of things to, but they had been... involved.

Very... involved.

Most of the group hadn't been very interested in much, and she was fine with that. A question here and there from Cassandra; once or twice from Josephine. Nothing huge. Josie had learned a little more out of necessity when it had come time for the newly-appointed Inquisitor to start signing official paperwork and she'd had to reveal that she couldn't actually hold a quill...

Varric had touched on it, once, remarking it was hard to remember she was a person, sometimes, and not just 'the Herald of Andraste'. Scout Harding had remarked on how little anyone knew, too.

That was just how it had worked. Authority created distance, at least in one direction.

None of that was on her mind right now, though. Slightly groggy from the hot water, she squinted over at Dorian and grunted an affirmative before ducking back into her room.

He inclined his head, following her back to her room with his usual easy grace, the darkness of his thought basically gone from his expression by the time he'd pulled the door shut behind him. Habit, really. They were, after all, the only ones around here.

He moved to the aforementioned chair, and reached to move her discarded breastplate so she could have a seat.

"I trust you enjoyed your shower. I know I-" okay, so the breastplate isn't nearly as light as it looks...not that it looks light at all. He grunts with the effort of moving it from the seat and clears his throat, trying to play off setting it very near at hand as purposeful rather than necessary. "Now, if you'd have a seat, my dear, we can get started."

Alleyana eyed Dorian sidelong as he moved the breastplate with obvious... ease. The only sign of her amusement was the little micro-expression, mostly around those dark eyes of hers.

Nope, she said not a word and just sat down, instead.

Sorry Dorian.

(Look, she can't hurl fireballs; it's a trade-off, really.)

He narrows his eyes at her, catching that look as he moves to stand behind her. "Not a word from you, unless it's something pleasant like, 'you're so kind to offer, Dorian'. Do you hear me?"

He looks around her room for a brush, a comb, or something, and frowns after a moment. "And where is your brush?"

Alleyana rolls her eyes, but at least it's good-natured. "In that drawer," she points to a random bit of furniture. "Not like I use one much."

Ever. She'd probably bought it with the idea of having to tackle this herself, somehow. Chop it off and brush out what remained, perhaps.

Edited 2017-05-28 10:57 (UTC)

With an objective in mind, Dorian retrieves her brush from the drawer in question, moving to stand behind her chair and beginning to work the tangles from her newly washed hair. He takes a breath, thinking about the project in his private study, safely away from a potentially collapsing sub-archway and trying to word a question.

"Alleyana," he began, deciding eventually to just wing it, "what would you do if you were given back the functionality of your hands, or at the very least, were given a second again?"

It's a better topic than his weakness, at least.

Alley can't help the reflexive glance down at her scarred-up stump.

It hasn't quite become the new normal, yet, but thanks to her previous time on Genessia she's had months longer of living with it than she would otherwise. Or living with its lack, rather.

Even a mangled, twitchy wreck of a hand being slowly pulled apart by the Anchor had been better than... nothing, if also considerably more painful. (Phantom limb pain couldn't quite match what the Anchor had been like, in the end.)

"What do you mean, what would I do?"

"Precisely what I asked." He smiled gently, though her back was to him and she couldn't very well see it that way. "Aside from braiding your own hair, what is it you would do? What do you enjoy doing, even? Maker, I've never even asked, have I?" What a sorry excuse for a friend he could be at times. Selfish.

"So we're talking... fully-functional? I wasn't able to braid my own hair before the Anchor ate that one, either."

So, that was a thing.

"I did... clay work, before. Little figurines and such." Tableware and the like too, of course, but that had been more on the practical side of things, not the hobby side of it.

He stopped momentarily in his work, expression softening. "You were a sculptor." He was again overcome with a curiosity. What happened to her hands? Why had someone seen fit to do such a thing? But he wouldn't pry. He respected her reluctance to share. It was, after all, most likely painful to recount.

"What if I told you I may be able to return some semblance of that life to you?" His tone was alien to Dorian: pensive. He returned to his work while he awaited her response.

Having had the talk about prosthetics with a lot of people... and not had anything come of it, Alleyana was quiet for a moment. Because with Dorian, something would come of it.

And something compatible with the eventual return to Thedas, undoubtedly.

"I would wonder what you've been secreting away at odd hours."

With a chuckle, much more confident than previously, he finished pinning her braid and moved from behind the chair to stand before her, crossing his arms and raising his chin slightly with a smile.

"Something I can no longer progress without your aid, I fear."

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DO YOU EVEN LIFT, DORIAN

NO AND I DON'T EVEN CARE

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