Author's Note: This is a post-Solavellan angst piece I posted to Ao3 in October 2015, and apparently failed to crosspost here. (Oops.) This features my warrior Inquisitor Daleka Lavellan (check out my tumblr for more info (and art!) of Daleka), and takes place in the same universe as my fics "Head Over Feet," "Erosion," and "Truth is so Unkind" though it's not necessary for you to read those before reading this one. Chronologically, this takes place after Truth and Post-Trespasser, and deals with the emotional aftermath of the Inquisitor losing their arm.
Hope you enjoy!
Lavellan growls in frustration, tearing at the fabric that confines her torso. Her heart pounds and her teeth dig into her lower lip until it bleeds, frustration overwhelming her at her inability to remove the tunic on her own. The truncated limb where a forearm and hand should be mocking her with its failure to grasp, to pull, to work the way it's meant to, the way it's supposed to.
She swallows back a string of curses, pausing to haul a lung-expanding breath into her chest, and moves to tuck the edge of her top around the stump of her arm, shortening the length of cloth enough to give her leverage. Satisfied that it's as wrapped as she is going to get it, she grabs the dangling right side with her remaining hand, and yanks northward, pressing her left arm towards the air at the same time.
It's a clumsy effort, but she manages to lift the shirt enough that she can duck her head through the neck hole, and wiggle her way out of the cloth. Free at last, she hurls the offending article across the room, uncaring how close it lands to the hearth.
When she is done there is sweat on her brow, and moisture stings her eyes. She slumps against the wall, embracing the scratch and scrape of the stone against her back as she slides to the ground. The messy remains of her braid tangle in the crevices on the way down, pulling at her scalp. A particularly sharp tug announces that a chunk of her hair has parted ways from her head for good.
A warm wetness curves its way down her shoulder to follow the slope of her spine. It's no more that a gentle dribble compared to all the wounds she's sustained over the years, so she sees no point in tending to it. Instead she watches as the flames in the hearth jump and spark; reaching out their long fingers to stroke the fabric at their edge with affection.
She lifts her left arm out before her, sprawling out the phantom memory of fingers between her and the hearth. She imagines the crackling green from her palm-that-was flickering to life, illuminating the space around her more completely than even the growing fire. The colors rolling and clashing, until it is all fade green as far as the eye can see. She clenches her non-existent hand into a fist, letting the green blink out in favor of orange and red, a vibrant reminder of her reality. With a stuttering breath she lets what remains of her arm drop to her side.
While she was lost in her haze of history, across the way the fire has claimed half the shirt for its own, the prize offering it a shortened passage towards the leg of her cluttered desk; documents and maps and books of varying import scattered over its surface a veritable feast for the insatiable flames. With a heavy sigh, she curls the fingers of her right hand into a fist, and presses against the stone floor, pulling her legs back and placing her feet flat to allow her to push her body upright. The jawbone dangling from leather about her neck shifts forward and thuds back against her breastbone with her movement; but she pays its familiar weight no mind.
She snags a pitcher of water from an end table as she crosses the distance to the flame-engulfed tunic and upends the liquid contents onto the cloth, snuffing out the fire before it can reach the desk.
She stares at the remains of the shirt, finding it difficult to resolve the blackened mess at her feet with the well-worn article of clothing it was mere minutes before. She wonders at how fast a thing can change. How with so little effort, and so little time, it can turn from something warm and protective and useful, to little more than fuel.
A laugh, brittle and frail, works its way up her throat, dying a heartbeat later on a choked back sob that she stifles by shoving her fist to her mouth and biting down on her knuckles.
With a snarl, she kicks at the shirt - over and over again - digging her toes beneath the sodden, burnt fabric until she lifts it fully into the hearth. The fire within sputters at the intrusion, struggling for air around the fabric it once sought to devour.
The air in her chest tightens at the turn of events; the fire licking at the still dry edges of the cloth in a desperate plea for survival, the cloth fighting back with the weight of water meeting the flames in the middle.
In the end, the fire does not die, but is banked low; the cloth a ruin upon it, neither kindling nor smothering.
Lavellan turns from the cooling hearth, some nebulous thing living between resignation and hope whispering promises of revelations to her as she slips a dressing gown over her chilled frame. She leaves the tie at the waist unknotted and trailing as she makes her way to her bed, too exhausted to try for anything more.
Whatever lesson there is to learn here can wait for the morning; after a long - and if any luck remains with her, dreamless - sleep.
~End