The pleasure of being able to say "the hell with it"
The dragon's carcass was an impressive sight where it lay in the swamp, if only a shadow of the magnificent creature she had been in life. Her scales still gleamed, brilliant with color where they were not splashed with gore and scorched with fire, and though the body was empty, it had not yet sunk into the shapeless mass that it would eventually become.
The rest of the party seemed content enough—nay, rather, jubilant—slapping each other on the back and talking over particularly memorable portions of the grueling fight. They had moved away from the corpse, whether because of the stench of blood, or because of some disquiet regarding the dragon's demise, Solas did not know.
The Inquisitor, however, had not joined the others. She remained, looking at what was left of the dragon, with a frown on her face, no less. She was not merely squinting into the sun, Solas was certain of that; the angle was all wrong, for she was looking at the shadow cast by the dragon's bulk.
"You don't seem pleased by your victory," he observed.
She started at his quiet approach, but only a little. "It... seems a waste," she said.
"Oh?" Solas said. "Strange thoughts, for the victorious warrior."
His words came out more harshly than he had intended. Her eyes cut toward him, slightly narrowed. He kept his expression tranquil, as if that might draw the sting from his tone.
"It wasn't like the dragon in the Hinterlands. That one attacked us," she said. "And there, it posed a danger to the refugees, and all the other people nearby, including the people of Redcliffe. That was hazard enough that killing it seemed like a necessity, a service. This was..." Her voice faded away as her eyes drifted back to the fallen dragon.
Solas took a step nearer as she pondered, curious about her thinking. She had cleaned her weapons, and washed, but there was still a streak of dried dragon's blood on the sleeve of her leathers. Most saw dragons only as legends, or as beasts fit merely for killing. What did the Inquisitor, this Dalish daughter of his own fallen people, see?
"No one lives here," she said finally. "We have seen no ordinary folk here, except for Keeper Hawen's clan, and they are camped far to the south and east. The rest are all Orlesian soldiers in those damned forts, and those so-called Freemen—" She stopped herself as her voice gained venom, her teeth pressing into her lower lip. "The farmers are long fled," she said after a moment. "And this place... Inquisition soldiers had to dig through the passage to reach these lands. Any others here were lawless men fleeing from justice. This dragon was doing no harm to common folk." Her voice grew softer. "But we sought its dwelling place anyway."
She stayed silent for a short time. Solas held his peace, curious what she would say next. The others' voices had faded away in the distance, leaving behind just the twittering of birds and the croaking of frogs. "I regretted it," she said at last, "when I saw the dragon stumbling. When I saw how its legs gave out under our blows. But it was maddened, then, furious, and I was not sure we could withdraw safely, so I did not order it. But it was ill done. My clan hunts— hunted," she corrected herself, with only the slightest catch in her voice. "It was necessary, for our survival. But we took care not to hunt more than we needed. Even wolves we killed only of necessity, when they harried our halla. Should we treat dragons any worse?"
She was not looking at him, so Solas allowed himself the faintest of smiles.
"Besides," she said, lifting her face toward the sky. "It was beautiful. When it soared through the sky—" Her voice wavered, and she stopped herself again. "And I allowed that beauty to be destroyed, and for what? We can use the scales and hide, I suppose, but even so, it seems a poor trade for making the world less beautiful."
Solas' breath caught. He stared at her for a long moment, at her graceful profile, the way the slanting sunlight glinted in the whorls of her intricately braided golden hair. She, too, was magnificent, and he wondered if she realized it, if she understood how truly astounding she was. He had to distract himself, yet again, so when he found his voice, he said, "Some would say the glory of dragon-slaying was enough."
"I would never have expected you to be among them," she said, turning her gaze toward him.
He was caught, under those bright and discerning eyes. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that they were the color of the sky as a storm is lifting.
If even he was gone to poetry at the sight of her— he was not merely falling, but utterly lost, ensnared in feelings both ancient and mortal—
Her eyes glimmered, too, and there were tear tracks at the corners, crossing the branching lines of the brands that arched across her cheeks. He could no longer loathe the sight of them; on her, they fit, on this woman, who wept for the creature she had slain, who carried her burdens with such grace.
"No," he said. "I am not." He could not stop himself, then. Only her own word or gesture would have stopped him from reaching out to her, from wiping away the tear from her cheek, letting his thumb rest where the ink curved along her skin.
#
Branwen did not start, but her eyes widened, and she had to take a breath at the warmth of his touch on her face. Solas could be so unreadable at times, but it was impossible to mistake his expression now: the tender regard in his eyes, the slight smile curving his lips. It made her heart quicken, and she said, "Some would also say it was only a bit of sentiment, a foolish whim of mine, to mourn a dragon."
"Never," he said. "You are a treasure."
His hand slid along her cheek, and she tilted her face, letting them draw together until his mouth closed over hers. She let the kiss linger, warm and inviting, curling her fingers into the collar of his coat, and waited; but when the kiss ended, his hand still lingered on the back of her neck, and she still felt his breath on her face.
She opened her eyes, and he had made no move away. Still he regarded her with that warmth that made her hungry for more, and abruptly she was tired of it. Tired of the waiting, of wondering what he was thinking, of the slow dance between them. He had a perfect right to keep to himself, if he liked, but it appeared that wasn't quite what he wanted, and yet... "You're not going," she said, meaning this time. "Are you?"
His eyebrows twitched. She took a certain satisfaction from the look of surprise that crossed his face. "Ma vhenan?"
"I'm sorry," she said, letting go of his clothing, letting her hands fall. "It's only, I don't know what you want."
He closed his eyes and sighed. His hands dropped, too, and part of her regretted that she had said anything, that she had not simply relished the moment of closeness, but she stood her ground and waited.
When he opened her eyes, she read such a deep sorrow in his gaze that it cut through her, but he did not speak.
This time, however, she was the one to turn and walk away.
In the next days, Branwen had ample time to churn her reactions over in her mind. It was several days' ride back to Skyhold, after all. Throughout the journey, Solas was scrupulously polite, and yet distant. It was not an obvious distance, Branwen thought. He was as always graceful, and smooth, and seldom forthcoming. She was not sure that anyone else even noticed, but to her a palpable barrier had come between them, less visible than a magical one, but no less powerful.
It was undoubtedly a barrier she had made, this time, and she worried at it the whole way home: when she lay in her bedroll, waiting to drift away to sleep, and as she watched the ravaged plains around them turn into forest and mountain. Solas had been with her since the beginning of this journey, had brought sense to the chaos around her, had been comrade and ally and confidant, had held her while she mourned her clan; had shown her the Fade as she had never seen it before, and kindled in her something that she had thought she might never have.
When the mountain path rose into the clear air, as they rode at last through Skyhold's great stone gateway, she had made up her mind. One attempt to set things right, and then—
She sought Solas out after dinner—there had been a spread of hearty food awaiting their return before the baggage had even been put away. Solas, as usual, had slipped away quietly before most of the traveling party had finished eating, but she found him where she expected: leaning over the desk in the rotunda, sketching out plans for the mural. She lingered for only a moment before she said, "I should apologize, about the other evening."
"No," he said. "You have done nothing wrong. It is I who should apologize." He straightened and turned to face her, arms easy at his sides, calm and placid. "I realize I do not explain myself well."
"What do you want, Solas?" Branwen asked, stepping forward, watching closely, and there: a crack in his facade, a brief flash of—was it regret? She wanted that, whatever it was: anything but that expression that was smooth like a polished river stone. That was what she had seen the whole trip back home, and she wanted—
She wanted what he had shown her before: the flashes of surprise and sorrow, even the occasional anger; the questions about herself and her clan, the comfort, the surprising wit, the rare smiles.
He shook his head, eyes closing. "If it were as simple as wanting—" he began.
"It is," she said, urgently. "Sometimes. Can't it be?"
When Solas opened his eyes again, they were dark and intent. "At times, perhaps. But there are considerations."
"The world could end," Branwen said. "Corypheus wants to destroy us all. Either of us might die tomorrow. I know there are no certainties—" and she dared say it "—ma vhenan, but I still want whatever you can give."
He shook his head again, slowly, and her heart would have failed her but for the smile slowly spreading over his lips. "You are a wonder indeed."
She took a step toward him, her hands outspread, and his reached to meet hers, and then their lips met.
Their kisses before had been ardent, but this was like being struck by lightning. Their tongues brushed; he pulled her hard against him, hands moving over her back and her hips; her hands tangled in the soft rough cloth of his tunic while his kisses trailed fire down her neck. "Upstairs?" she suggested, heart pounding, still fearing that he would release her and step away.
But no, she felt his lips curve against her throat, and he murmured assent.
He had visited her in her quarters before, but never like this, skin on skin, nothing between them while he touched her face and her breasts and her thighs as if every part of her was a treasure, while soft murmurs turned to more desperate cries.
And afterward, when Branwen, sleepy and satisfied, reached out and said, "Stay the night?" Solas nodded and allowed himself to be drawn down into the linens.
It was enough, she decided, and that night she did not dream.