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Lavellan didn’t realize how common a phrase it is among humans, “swallow your pride”. She’s heard it before, of course. Her clan trades with human settlements not infrequently, so she has a better understanding of all their saying than many Dalish would, she suspects. Still, it seems like now that she’s become aware of it, everyone is saying it.
Just because they say it, though, doesn’t mean it has to mean more than- well, than it means. No one needs to know what she keeps thinking. Absolutely no one.
If only every other person in Skyhold with some rudimentary knowledge of Elven would just get the message.
It starts with a trip to the garden to harvest herbs, which she usually does to relax, thank you, and Mother Giselle needing to mind her own business and keep her thoughts about providence to herself.
“The people need hope, Your Worship,” Mother Giselle preaches. As she does. All the time.
“The people have hope,” Lavellan says, pulling a little too hard on the prophet’s laurel, the damn plant mocking her. “They have purpose, too. And direction even! The people, in fact, seem to be doing pretty well despite everything these days. The Inquisition is doing that. What the people don’t need anymore is me being lauded as a prophet for a religion I do not follow, thank the Creators.”
“Surely some time in the chantry is harmless. You spend so much time sequestered with your… mage friend. If you could consider swallowing your pride-” The irony is that Lavellan’s pretty sure she’s talking about Dorian. Still, there’s a snort from behind them, loud enough to draw the attention of half the garden, and they both turn to find Loranil, of all people, covering his mouth in a sort of embarrassed horror, though his shoulders still shake.
“Something funny, lethallin?” Lavellan asks flatly. There is not, of course. There is nothing funny at all, and Loranil is a good kid who would never dare presume to say there is. He leaves before he can start laughing again, and Lavellan decides to do the same, because now she can’t unhear it.
The second time, she’s talking to Josephine, who wants her to “exercise some discretion.”
“Of course we all support your relationship,” she says. “You deserve all the happiness you can find, Inquisitor. For the sake of diplomacy, unfortunately, we must sometimes swallow our pride-”
“Just not in public,” Leliana injects out of nowhere with that annoying amused lilt she gets sometimes. Josephine looks confused. Lavellan walks out. How does Leliana even- she doesn’t want to know.
The third time she sees it coming. Or she should have, rather. She could have predicted it from the moment she sat down for drinks with the Chargers for the very first time. And still, it’s her own damn fault.
Later, she won’t even remember what she was talking about- some stupid stunt with her clanmates, she thinks- only that she was very drunk and very animated and she made a terrible, terrible mistake.
“So what did you do?” someone asks, probably.
And of course, “Well, I wasn’t going to back down from that, so I swallowed my pride and-” snicker “just-” snicker “jumpedrightin. Damnit Dalish!” By the end, the snickers have grown into nearly hysterical laughter. Dalish is in tears. “Get out of my tavern. You’re not welcome here.”
Predictably, Dalish does not leave. She does rein herself in, though, only to ask “But has your Pride recovered?” and fall into another fit.
“Fuck you. Fuck you and the Bull you rode in on.”
“I don’t think your Pride would take that well.”
She at least has the decency to wait until Lavellan has fled before letting anyone else in on the joke.
After that, it’s like all bets are off.
“Is he very proud, would you say?” Dorian asks.
“You know, Boss, they say humility’s a virtue. You ever need tips on swallowing your pride, I can help,” Bull offers.
“Hey Quizzy, Elven Glory’s got that stick up his bum again. Maybe he needs his pride swallowed more often, yeah?” There’s some consolation in the face Sera then pulls as the mental image apparently hits her.
“What is the elven word for glory?” Varric asks one day.
“Hanin… why?”
“Looking for a name for my new character. Here, read this.”
She takes the paper, gets as far as “admired his glory,” and promptly tosses it into the fire.
Of course, none of this is said around Solas himself until the night Varric finally convinces him to join them for Wicked Grace. The comments start subtle enough that they don’t seem to arouse any suspicion in Solas. By the time Cullen’s lost his shirt, though, Solas has developed something of a cough and Lavellan is plotting murder.
It comes down to a vaguely promising hand and a standoff with Josephine.
“Come, Inquisitor,” she has the gall and intoxication to taunt. “Don’t you think perhaps it’s time to swallow your pride and admit defeat?”
Solas clears his throat again (and apparently someone’s let Cullen in on the joke, because he does, too) and Lavellan decides enough is enough. Throwing back the rest of her drink, she stands abruptly and tosses her cards on the table.
“Yes, actually. I think it is.” And then she grabs Solas’s hand and pulls him out the tavern after her, head held high.
She has her pride, after all.