I'm wondering why he had to lead me to a dark, quiet, secluded area when he removes his shirt and I back up a few steps.
This goes way beyond flirting.
But he seems oblivious to my distress. Facing the wall, he spreads his feet and points them forward. Then he raises his hands to his chest, curling them into fists.
I realize it's a combat stance.
His eyes find mine and he gives a nod of his head. “Practice with me.”
I walk toward him slowly, uncertain. “You’re a mage, and you fight?”
“It is called Dar'him.” He explains. “The movements compose a dance to improve one's reflexes and focus. Anyone may benefit from such a practice. And wielding a staff requires a certain finesse, does it not?”
He has a point.
I remove my jacket and the belt around my waist, not wanting to be weighed down by the pouches attached to it. Then I stand across from Solas and spread my feet and point my toes to mimic his stance.
I raise my hands to my chest and curl them into fists. “I feels... unnatural.”
Solas spreads out his fingers, then slowly curls them again. “Grasp your staff.” Then he rotates his upper body, his right shoulder moving behind his left.
I imagine a staff in my hands and the stance begins to feel more innate. I rotate my shoulders to mirror his.
Solas swings his arms, pulling back his left while bringing his right forward. It looks like a punch, but it's a perfect movement for swinging a staff.
Solas slides a foot back, going into the next movement, and I follow. The two of us become locked in some strange dance as I struggle to match his fluidity.
I watch his body as he moves – I have to if I'm going to get the steps and swings right. But I'm not sure doing so is helping my focus. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'm very not focused.
When traveling in the Hinterlands, the wolves were acting strange, so we investigated. At the wolves' lair, we found a demon and destroyed it. But we also took out most of the pack with it.
Solas had stood in the middle of the lair as still as a statue, his head bowed in reverence. I couldn't take my eyes off him. He looked like he belonged there in the shimmering light. A sculptor could have captured his image at that exact moment and left the artwork behind and I wouldn't have questioned its being there.
He was beautiful then.
Now, as his movements become faster and I struggle to keep up, I can't help but note his grace. His hands and feet move as though they've performed this dance a thousand times – and they probably have.
He’s beautiful now.
He could put a ballroom of Orleasian nobles to shame.
I wonder how often we'll have a chance to practice together.
--- (different chapter, different scene) ---
We're in a dark room. Underground by the chill of it. The only light comes from two torches in opposite corners of the room. There's a staircase behind me that leads up.
Solas takes off his shirt – a movement that I'm used to by now – and takes the first stance of the Dar'him.
I'm tired, and I'd rather not practice today. But my feet move to stand across from his and my arms rise to my chest.
I follow Solas' movements without even trying. I might not care to participate, but my body knows the steps and performs them without my input.
I take a moment to wonder at this – at how much I had struggled when we'd first begun. Now my movements are almost as fluid as his.
I swing my arms and slide my feet, mirroring Solas beat for beat. Our gazes lock but my concentration doesn't break.
We move faster and faster.
I forget everything but the steps and the swing of my arms.
I am not my problems.
I am not my sorrows.
I am not my name.
I am focused.
Ir melava him. I am transformed.
At the end of the dance, Solas and I drop our hands. We've both worked up a sweat. My shirt is sticking to me and I can see the moisture glistening on his skin in the torchlight. We're both breathing hard as though we've been running.
The air feels suddenly hot and heavy. I worry I might be blushing and I want to leave, but his gaze is piercing and I can't move.
I watch as his chest rises and falls with each breath.
I try not to think of how the beads of sweat roll off his skin.
I try not to think of how much my hands yearn to touch the muscles teasing from underneath.
“There's one more thing,” he says at last.
“What?” I ask, breathless. If he tells me to kiss him, I'm not sure I can abstain.
He raises his hands and curls them into fists once again.
“I want you to hit me as hard as you can.”
Retour en haut
I'm just... gonna live with the consequences of whatever actions I took with my playthrough... It's gonna hurt bad, I know it...
This didn't seem likely to turn into a long-distance relationship.
