Work Text:
You awaken to the soft sound of the wind chimes you'd hung outside on your balcony, the shining sun making your eyelashes flutter. Bleary eyed, you blink into the world around you, trying to focus beyond the dazzling light– the soft twinkling notes of the chimes helping relax you through it, reminding you of home. The forest, rousing you gently with leaves and rain pattering, the smell of a fire burnt down to ash, clinging to your clothes and hair, the crunch of leaves and snow beneath your feet.
But there was no smell of earth and pine here, only stone and paper and slight hints of perfume. The warmth of another at your side, your fingertips twitching where they rest atop Solas' hand between your two bodies. Otherwise, the two of you were separate, curled on your sides facing each other atop the bed covers.
You take a deep breath, and you can almost smell home on him. Just the briefest notes, underneath the smell of his paints and the almost burning, singed smell of magic lingering beneath the skin. You can see the way his eyes move and twitch beneath thin eyelids.
You smile softly to yourself as you try to pull yourself away as gently as possible, not wanting to wake him from his dreams. The warmth of the bed is not hard to leave, the sun warming your room significantly even in the early morning. Your feet gently meet the stone floors, and you recoil slightly at the chill. Perhaps the warmth doesn't touch everything in your room.
But you try again and manage to steady yourself with as little rustling as possible, tiptoeing with honed grace towards your desk. You'd managed to salvage a pretty mirror, gilded with copper vines and leaves along the edges. It brings you small comfort, something so small but lavish. A lovely indulgence, not something you'd partake in often. But when you'd seen it, tarnished and caked with mud, forgotten from an overturned cart on your way from Val Royeaux, you knew you had to bring it back to life. It only took you a few days of scrubbing and polishing before you were placing it, proud as it glistened back at you onto your desk.
You gingerly pick up your comb and begin to bring it through your hair, your strokes slow, starting at the ends and working your way upwards, being careful of knots that looked like curls and trying not to tug too hard. You continue, slowly but surely through each tress, until all of it is silky smooth and wavy beneath your touch, laying gracefully along the curve of your neck and around behind your shoulders. Then you slowly begin to section pieces off for braiding, taking each with care to plait evenly, your fingertips moving with practiced ease through the motions. You hardly even have to look while you work, often gazing out the large windows instead to watch the rising sun play off the clouds.
Soon enough, you've braided all the necessary sections, now working on wrapping and twirling them to sit close to your head, tucked out of the way, but still allowing yourself some decorative liberties in how you arrange the braids. Taking a piece of old faded ribbon, still showing in soft gold despite its age (to hide better amongst your hair), you carefully take it in your mouth as you set about carefully pinning each piece, and finally wrapping the ribbon around the excess at the top, before that is tucked away as well.
You glance at your mirror once again now, checking that everything laid perfectly, fingertips hovering to tuck any stray hairs away when needed, or adjusting pins to be more comfortable. Satisfied with your work once again, you smile at your reflection in the mirror, before turning it slightly to look at the bed behind you through the glass. You startle slightly when you see soft grey eyes looking back at you, peeking from over his forearm where he rests against the pillows, watching you. He laughs when he realizes you've noticed he's awake, and you turn in your chair to face him as heat rises in your cheeks.
"And just how long have you been watching?" you ask, feigning incredulous offence, though you know he sees right through it. You can't help it; You're flustered over the fact that someone has seen something so intimate, even if it was otherwise mundane.
He just smiles back at you, now resting his cheek in his palm, almost lounging at this point in languid morning hours. "I think the word I would use is 'admiring', but regardless, since about the moment you touched your comb."
You reach to rub at your cheek with one hand, hardly needing a mirror to tell you that your flush has darkened, hoping the motion will mask it somewhat. You almost regret putting all your hair up– it was often far better cover.
"I've always wondered how you did it," he speaks again after you remained bashfully silent, and when you peek at him once again from behind the tips of your fingers, he's looking at you with nothing short of adoration. "It was beautiful to watch. You practically plait poetry into your hair."
"It's simple work," you retort, unsure of how to accept praise for something so mundane, so ritualistic for you now. "I'd offer to show you if you had anything other than your eyebrows to speak of." This quip comes with a playful grin, turning to fully straddle your desk chair, crossing your arms over the back to rest your chin on.
He laughs again, the sound mingling perfectly with the continued chiming from your windows. "Don't be so modest. I could watch you do that for a millennia. Even if I could never pick up the practice for myself."
You huff, your face still warm, tilting your head against your arm as you regard him.
"I'd gladly keep your company."