The Inquisitor's bedroom floor is a kaleidoscope of arcane texts and quills, old armor claimed in the aftermath of battle, and the odd pile of reagents that had managed to make their way up here instead of to Morris or the underforge.
Few people see the Inquisitor like this, sprawled out in the midst of the spoils of war. Even if they did, they would not consider much of it treasure. The armor, perhaps, and the ore and rare plants. They have a common worth, a weight in gold and trade. The books, however, the knowledge would go undervalued by most, but not by her.
Solas enjoys watching her read, the way she holds her face inches from the book- she requires the proximity even with the thick dwarven spectacles she wears for fine text. Her elbows are dug into the carpet on either side of the tome, her hands clasped behind her neck. Sunbeams colored by a dozen shades of stained glass spill ever longer pools of light over woman and mess, but she remains transfixed.
He does, as well.
After a time, dusk falls and he rises from where he has been sitting at her desk. His movements are silent, but she senses them nonetheless. She is expected at dinner soon, and he would feel responsible if she were late.
"The afternoon got away from me," she looks at him, eyes turned huge by two glass lenses- like an owl, as Cole has cheerfully pointed out. She blinks and then removes them, her cheeks turning pink behind a fall of dark hair. "Thank you, Solas, for being so mindful."
He smiles.
"It is no bother, Inquisitor," he steps over a tidy stack of blank runes so he can help her to her feet, holding her hand for three heartbeats longer than she needs him. "You dedicate so much time to the pursuits of others, it is only fair that you be able to lose yourself in a few of your own."
This earns him a radiant grin, the charming lines that frame her mouth deepening for a moment before she speaks again, her tone ebullient but the syllables bearing the weight of several hours' worth of misguided practice:
"Emma banal'an isala durgen."
Solas cannot keep his eyes from widening.
"Excuse me?" He casts a subtle glance around the room to see if Sera is tucked away in some corner- this her idea of a joke.
Trevelyan is embarrassed, almost painfully so.
"I'm sorry! It was clumsy, I know. None of the texts can agree on pronunciation, and you know how a single two letter word can mean about five things, it's incredibly frustrating" she toys with the spectacles, which are in sudden need of her undivided attention. "It's just…nobody here knows the language, and you say so many nice things to me…I wanted to learn."
He modulates his expression, touched by the intent, if not the application of knowledge.
After all, she couldn't have possibly meant to tell him that her mouth was a cunt in need of a good, hard fucking.
Solas had long admired the strength and determination of warriors- the way their bodies could withstand so much more than their less trained brethren. Many discounted the skill required, claiming that anyone could wrap themselves in verdium or dragon hide and become all but invincible. He knew, first hand, that it required a remarkable amount of dedication and personal initiative, never mind the willingness to be the person who would wade into combat unafraid, leaving themselves open to the most brutal attacks mete out on the battlefield.
He admires warriors, but he does not envy them. Trevelyan, for all her strength and skill, often won skirmishes by the narrowest of margin, requiring that she take a few moments to inventory her various aches, pains, and whatever damage might have befallen her armor.
Most days, she manages well enough on her own, and prefers to do so. Today, she remains on her back well after her companions are ready to move on. Solas happily volunteers to assist, kneeling beside her to move her into an upright position. He can see blood trickling from above her hairline, a crimson line that follows the angles of her brown and cheekbones and spills unceremoniously onto her silverite breastplate.
He takes a few minutes to study the wound, his fingers gentle as he assesses the hard lump formed from a blow that somehow breached her helmet. It is clearly quite painful, but she endures his ministrations as well as she endures so many other things in her life.
"I believe you will survive," he softens it with a smile and hands her a damp cloth. Just as she takes it, he expends a small amount of magic to freeze it. "This should help with the swelling, and some of the pain." His voice lowers just enough that she leans in to better hear him. "I can offer a more thorough examination once we have made camp, if you so wish."
Trevelyan swipes her bloodied cheek with one gauntlet, and the look of gratitude she gives him quickens his pulse.
"Ma serannas, Solas," her pronunciation is flawless- she has clearly listened closely to his own speech patterns. "Your attention is most appreciated- ar alas, ma tel'alas.
"Do not think it for one moment, Inquisitor," he responds, keeping a steady hand on her shoulder even once she is standing. Truly, too. He knows what she thought she was saying this time- she feels unworthy of his company. That her choice of words would be more likely overheard at the end of a long and wine-soaked night of debauchery, and lead to the kind of sex more closely associated with wildly rutting animals, did not lessen the thoughtful sentiment.
Solas rarely allowed himself the pleasure of inebriation, as it tended to make him more receptive to certain avenues of suggestion than he would otherwise choose to be. He did, however, very much enjoy the occasional indulgence, when he knew the spirits would he of a predictably high quality and the company less inclined to take advantage of that which he wished to keep close, and more inclined to to be handsy while dancing on a balcony.
He cannot fault the Inquisitor her tipsiness after all she has accomplished at the Winter Palace this evening. His own state of mind is more surprising- he had accurately predicted the alcohol would be excellent, but he had underestimated its potency. It was a rare mistake, but one he feels might turn out for the pleasurable.
As company, Trevelyan is certainly that. She somehow manages to be striking even in military formalwear, and her cheeks and eyes are both bright from victory and wine. When Solas turns her in time with the muffled sounds of the orchestra, she tilts her head back and laughs. It is a rare sound that he has grown quite fond of, although at times it settles bittersweet at the back of his throat.
Tonight, he is in this moment alone, entirely captured by the brilliance of her smile and the way her hand has snuck well below his waist.
He returns to favor, dropping his lead entirely to ensnare her with both hands. Her backside is firm but with just enough give to make squeezing it a delight. From the way her eyes widen, she is surprised but not displeased. If anything, it makes her bolder. He feels her hips press harder against his own, and he pins them there, pushing his chin forward as well.
His lips catch hers in mid smile, and he rides a crest of genuine happiness through the long kiss that follows- his hands moving upward to hold her face, cheeks hot against his palms, and his tongue slipping past lips and teeth to tease her own. This is not their first kiss- they have stolen a few moments in the Fade and on dark nights camped under the infinite skies of the Western Approach- but it carries with it a burden of lust only hinted at in previous assignations.
It is a burden they cannot deny: when it ends, she is the picture of breathless and sober concern.
"Is this what you want?" She exhales. "You know how much I hate the thought tha-"
Solas catches her.
"You shouldn't," his tone leaves no room for argument. "You have surprised me, yes, but you have also earned my trust." His hand slid from her cheek to her chest. "A'vhenan dar ma'inan."
It takes a moment to translate, but her expression grows soft when she does.
"You see my heart."
He's impressed by her, as he always is. "More and more every day."
She runs one finger lightly along his scalp, her hand stopping to cup the back of his head.
"Ma banal'an him sulahn'nehn," she is heartbreakingly earnest, each word chosen from a place of such sincerity that Solas' chest grows tight. "Ame isala na sulahn'nehn, Solas."
Only her unlikely protest could prevent him from kissing her again, and their passion is this time unfettered by concern. Still, he remains mindful of their limits- she has many responsibilities, and despite what she may have said, he knows that she would rather not fight this war while pregnant, and certainly not with literally all the children he could produce in his lifetime.
A few weeks later, Solas finds himself in her quarters once more. She has done some cleaning, but a few large tomes remain spread across the floor, where she seems to prefer to read them. The one that has her enraptured this evening is massive- its pages formed from thick vellum and elaborately painted with simplistic figures in elaborate configurations.
"I have seen those images before," he does not elaborate. Settling onto the floor beside her, he studies the nearest page.
"Emma ir nuvenin, then ma viran," she reads the inscription. "I have need, awaken this pathway…my pathway." Trevelyan indicates two figures that seem to be heading down a narrow path together, one after the other. "I need you to clear a path?" She looks at him, confusion furrowing her brow.
Very carefully, Solas takes the book and turns it so the image is sideways. The figures are now on top of one another, both facing upwards.
"Whoever made this reproduction failed to mind the original orientation of the artwork," it is frustrating to see his people's culture so misrepresented, but he keeps his voice level. "These are illustrations from an ancient monoscript dedicated to the art of love-making."
Trevelyan stiffens beside him.
He continues. "Emma ir nuvenin, then ma viran…you were close on the literal translation, but this requires a more euphemistic interpretation."
"Meaning?" The word comes out slow and heavy with dread.
"To begin, I have need would convey…intense desire for another person," Solas hovers his finger over where the pathway clips into the uppermost figure's backside. "And my pathway would be, well, dependent upon ones anatomy and preferences for sexual reception of a phallus. In this case, the author is clearly indicating a…rear entry."
The admission renders Trevelyan temporarily non-verbal, her lips moving but no sounds coming out, until she collapses back onto the floor, her face covered by both hands.
"Oh, fuck me," she moans, her self-loathing palpable. Her stocking feet twist against one another and if she were a mage, Solas has no doubts that she would be trying to self-immolate.
"I know that wasn't meant for me in particular," Solas coughs softly. "It is nice, however, to hear you say it in the common tongue for once."
If the first was a sudden pain, this is an apoplexy. "Nooooo," her arms flop out to her sides, and without the obstruction Solas can see her face is a spectacular shade of pink. "Have I been? All this time?"
Solas hesitates, then nods. She rolls onto her side, away from him, knees pulling up closer to her chest.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice is muffled by the carpet.
Mindful of the books around them, Solas inches over then stretches out beside her, catching her hip to roll her over onto her back and pressed against him.
"I appreciated the gesture," he touches her cheek, which still burns from embarrassment. "It has…it has been a long time since I knew anyone who…," he pauses, uncertain how much he might give away in his need for her to understand. "I was touched by your efforts…few would ever bother."
She remains silent, her eyes on his face. Moving slowly, he runs his hand down her cheek, to her neck, and then along the curve of her breast.
"It's still mortifying," she finally murmurs, her teeth pressing against her lower lip after she does so. Then, "I think I just realized why you almost choked the other afternoon."
Solas trails his hand to her stomach, pushing the hem of her tunic up so he can rest his palm against the newly bared skin just above the rise of her breeches.
"If you could, refresh my memory," he knows very well what she said to him, but he could stand hearing it again.
She smirks, then obliges, ensconcing the words with all the carnal innuendo they deserve and whispering them intimate soft into his waiting ear.
"Ma nuvenin," he responds, his fingers gliding downward to better comply with her very informed and extremely specific command.