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Alone on the battlements, the young and newly reinstated Lady Trevelyan was ripping her hair from the braided bun at the back of her head. She’d had a hell of a day, condemning a man to Tranquility rather than the death he’d wished for his actions at Adamant. Hot, angry tears course down her cheeks.
She had done something she never wished to be done again in that moment. Tranquility was worse than death, a severing of self. He would be a shell from this moment onward. And she had condemned him to such a fate. No one deserved it, not even a Venatori, yet, in her rage over the fear being spread, the panic, the pain, Elle lashed out the harshest way she could.
Her hair falls in waves around her, the plait having been done while her hair was still wet, making straight locks into ones that kinked in measured intervals. The stark white length of her hair – a color not due to her age but a by product of her magical manifestation, brushes against her waist. This was her vanity, the one vanity that she embraced. The outlandish color, the length she almost obsessively tended too when she had the time.
Now it is her shield as she internally railed against her own choices and the road she was taking.
Unbeknownst to her, the Commander was walking the battlements. He did it almost everyday now, staving off the lesser pains of his Lyrium withdrawal. It helped, the movement, the sting of cold air on his face.
He is rounding the corner from the garden when he sees her, hears a choked angry sound leave her lips. For a moment he is tempted to go to the young woman’s aid, ask her what had her upset, when he notices what her fingers are doing. She has such small hands, yet her fingers are long, that of a painter or pianist, pads callused from the way she whirled her staff to cast her fire magic. He watches as the bun is ruthlessly pulled apart and the braid extends toward the ground, ending just before the small of her back, the swell of -. Sweet Andraste, what was he doing?
Spying? On the Inquisitor of all people? His head shakes, a gloved hand running over his forehead. He should turn around and leave her in peace. Leave her to her thoughts and privacy.
But, her fingers are working again, pulling at the leather thong that held her braid, driving her fingers into the rope of her hair and shaking it lose from the knots. It is, breath taking once the thick braid is undone. It almost shines in the light, hanging around the mage like a cloak, hiding her from view.
He’s never seen anything so beautiful. She’s like a moonbeam.