Gwenaëlle exhales. In his hand, hers flexes— fingers pulling in toward her palm, then still, relax, her thumb curving over his knuckle. It is not the conversation she imagined having today,
she had, maybe, entertained the idea she wouldn't have to be this detailed. That if she were well, only, it would never have to come up again unless he got really interested in her poetry and then the distance and framing of art would do what it's always done, allow her to art direct her own bruising. Hold it out for a more dispassionate examination. Nothing about this moment is dispassionate—
“I sort of ran through a lot of people in Orlais when I was...younger, before Skyhold,” she says. “I was discreet. It was— I had a lot of freedoms that my lord would have curtailed if he knew what I was doing with them. To myself. And Guilfoyle could have put a stop to some of it if he'd spoken up, I know he knew more, I don't...know what he thought, I've never asked. Anyway, it wasn't his job.”
(Not his job does not seem to mean much to this man, who is officially retired.)
She is, she knows, prevaricating. Talking around the thing. Dissembling, like if she leads him to another tangent she won't have to say these things,
“I couldn't ask someone to sit next to me,” she says, finally. “I couldn't say, I wish you would hold me. And I wanted to be— I don't know, held. Important. I wanted to prove someone would reach for me and if they were reaching for my throat then fine. You know, I can make people angry. I would make them jealous, or... you know, if someone's jealous, then you matter, right. And if you don't matter, then at least you can be valuable in some way, or. Useful. And I am beautiful and I fuck like a desire demon so while I had limited options,” speaking faster, like she can rush through it, past it, “for being useful, I did a really— I just wanted to be reached for. And what happened next didn't matter. And I don't blame anyone.”
no subject
she had, maybe, entertained the idea she wouldn't have to be this detailed. That if she were well, only, it would never have to come up again unless he got really interested in her poetry and then the distance and framing of art would do what it's always done, allow her to art direct her own bruising. Hold it out for a more dispassionate examination. Nothing about this moment is dispassionate—
“I sort of ran through a lot of people in Orlais when I was...younger, before Skyhold,” she says. “I was discreet. It was— I had a lot of freedoms that my lord would have curtailed if he knew what I was doing with them. To myself. And Guilfoyle could have put a stop to some of it if he'd spoken up, I know he knew more, I don't...know what he thought, I've never asked. Anyway, it wasn't his job.”
(Not his job does not seem to mean much to this man, who is officially retired.)
She is, she knows, prevaricating. Talking around the thing. Dissembling, like if she leads him to another tangent she won't have to say these things,
“I couldn't ask someone to sit next to me,” she says, finally. “I couldn't say, I wish you would hold me. And I wanted to be— I don't know, held. Important. I wanted to prove someone would reach for me and if they were reaching for my throat then fine. You know, I can make people angry. I would make them jealous, or... you know, if someone's jealous, then you matter, right. And if you don't matter, then at least you can be valuable in some way, or. Useful. And I am beautiful and I fuck like a desire demon so while I had limited options,” speaking faster, like she can rush through it, past it, “for being useful, I did a really— I just wanted to be reached for. And what happened next didn't matter. And I don't blame anyone.”