The first time Josephine ever saw the Inquisitor baring any amount of skin, had been after Haven. That frozen night in the Frostbacks, after Osira's miraculous return from the dead and the dwarven woman was set upon by Solas, Mother Giselle, and what few healers they had after the Commander returned carrying her in his arms. They had ripped hurriedly through her leathers in order to get at her wounds, and all Josephine could truly recall from that moment was how her throat tightened from her brief glimpse at the damage.
The flush practically non-existent in Osira's cheeks, the breath nearly snatched from her lungs. There was so much bruising and gashes adorning her far-too pale skin, it was a miracle the woman still lived. She had noticed the tattoos, of course she had, they was impossible not to notice, but at the time they didn't register.
It was until later. Until Skyhold and months and months of gentle words and thoughtful gifts and whispers of love had finally been exchanged, that the ambassador was awarded another look.
The two women had eased into their physical relationship slowly. Josephine wasn't ignorant by any means, but she was fairly innocent, or at least inexperienced in such matters, and Osira was more familiar with the concept of pleasure rather than love. What they had was special and it was not something either of them wanted to ruin by going too quickly. However, when the two lovers decided to consummate their relationship, it went a bit differently then expected.
Josephine was seated on the bed, her own garments shyly discarded, as she waited for the other woman to join her. Osira hesitated before removing her clothes, though her own nervousness seemed to be another sort than the ambassador's. After she was finally naked, Josephine couldn't help but stare. From her neckline to her feet, the dwarf was covered in intricate tattoos. Lines of red and swirls of black twisted and cascaded along her curves. They were numerous, but beautiful. Having the Inquisitor marked so extensively would raise several questions of course, but the tattoos were works of art, as was the rest of the woman and Josephine couldn't for the life of her see why they were always hidden away under her clothing.
Until she came close enough to touch.
Osira took the hand Josephine had already unconsciously extended and pressed their joined palms against her hips and stomach. There Josephine felt the slightly risen skin hidden under the ink. Upon further gentle inspection, she discovered that the marks also covered the length of her body. Unlike the tattoos, the marks were jagged and had been carved into the skin, rather than painted into.
Rough, twisted scarring that had never completely healed and left the skin a canvas to be painted over and forgotten.
No. Never forgotten.
But, perhaps at least put out of mind.
Josephine looked up into her beloved's face and was met with a set of desperate eyes. Osira's face was carefully blank, her hand steady, but her eyes were wild.
Do not pity me, they seemed to beg.
Do not judge me.
She had known, of course, that Osira had been a member of the Carta. She had know that her lover had been in some truly dangerous situations. The Inquisitor rarely spoke of her life before the Inquisition and when she did, it was only to offer up information that might be useful to their cause or to make an offhand remark that if one did not know the woman, one may overlook the significance of its admittance.
What Josephine did know, is that Osira had hated that life. Hated how her plans of negotiation and profit increase were ignored in favored of brute strength and cruel dishonesty. Hated how her father treated her as though she were an ornament to be seen and never heard. Hated the lack of any lasting, loyal friendships, hated the constant desperation that would drive someone to commit the most heinous crimes, hated what another's mistakes cost her in the long run.
Josephine felt tears begin to fill her eyes as her hands ran up Osira's thighs, where the scaring was the heaviest and the ink was the most extensive.
"How old were you?" she asked.
"Old enough," Osira answered.
Her eyes were dry and her hand over Josephine's was warm, but her next words cracked, as the fear finally started to leak through.
"If…" she started, looking truly afraid for the first time in all the time Josephine had known her. "If this is too much, if you can't… If you don't want me to be here, I can-"
She didn't get to finish.
Josephine rose onto her knees from where she had been seated on the bed and kissed her beloved into silence. When she pulled away, Osira was staring at her as though she were gazing at the sun.
"Your words leave my heart filled and my soul sore."
She pressed her lips against her love's palm, their hands still entwined.
"Your courage gives me strength and my work purpose."
The scars along the Inquisitor's torso received the same treatment; gently brushed over with soft fingertips and then kissed with the same level of devotion.
"Your love makes me whole and gives every sunset its colors."
The walls were crumbling now and Josephine caught the spilling tears with her mouth, as they spilled down Osira's cheeks.
"And your presence is one I would never be bereft of."
With those words, Inquisitor finally collapsed into her beloved's waiting arms as the two lowered themselves to the soft sheets below. They lay there, bare and together, for the rest of the night. They never separated, but did little more then hold each other in a long embrace.
No, their first night together did not go as planned. However, neither one of them could ever find it in themselves to regret it.