A/N: This one's dedicated to Sillylilbit with much affection, for her ongoing support and encouragement. A bard you requested, m'dear, and a bard you shall have... As always, Dragon Age and its universe and characters belong to Bioware, I'm just having fun playing with the toys.
Some Enchanted Evening
The delicate opening bars of a minuet floated across the opulent splendour of the grand ballroom of the Winter Palace. The familiar refrain prompted a veritable bustle amid the towering marble columns as the nobility of the court thronged the dancefloor, eager to return to some semblance of normality in the wake of the extraordinary unmasking of the Grand Duchess Florianne.
Leliana leaned on the balustrade surrounding the dancefloor, turning her crystal champagne flute idly as she watched the ebb and flow of the dancers, still on the alert for trouble. That the duchess had been the primary assassin was not in doubt, but the Inquisition's spymaster took nothing for granted.
She smiled as she spotted Josephine Montilyet amid the gently spiralling dancers, her smile broadening as she saw her friend's dance partner was none other than Samara Trevelyan.
A brief memory of dancing with her bold warden across this very same floor drifted through her consciousness, and the pang of longing that flowered in her chest was sharp enough to make her gasp. Watching Trevelyan and Josephine abruptly became difficult as her vision blurred with tears, and she hastily looked down at the surface of the balustrade to cover her slip.
By the time she'd composed herself enough to look up, the dance was winding to its conclusion. The Inquisitor held Josephine close for a moment as the music died away, whispering something in her ear, then disengaged with a courtly bow, pressing a chaste kiss to Josie's knuckles.
Josephine made her way from the floor, nodding to Leliana as she spotted her, then hurried up the steps to her side, still blushing from whatever Trevelyan had whispered in her ear.
"Having fun?" Leliana enquired.
"Maker, I…" Josephine's blush spread, "I should not have agreed, I know this. It was… inappropriate, but this place, the moment… it felt like..." Josephine trails off, her gaze tracking magnetically back to Trevelyan.
"It felt like?" Leliana prompted, stifling her amusement.
Josephine turned back to her, and the delicate blush became an inferno of embarrassment. "Like magic," she replied reluctantly, sotto voce.
"Like magic, indeed," Leliana agreed, pitying her friend enough to flash a reassuring smile. "This evening's proceedings have certainly had a fairy-tale quality to them. The bold hero foiling the evil usurpers, the splendour of a royal ball, and even…" Leliana flicked a glance at where Morrigan was lurking near Celene, a grin threatening to break out as she imagined her former travelling companion's reaction to such a portrayal, "A fairy godmother to provide the crucial twist to the plot."
Josephine chuckled. "And derring-do aplenty in the thrilling climax of the tale, yes. But still, I should not have indulged."
"But you know that every fairy tale must end with true love's kiss, Josie!" Leliana objected impishly. At Josephine's mortified glare, she huffed a sigh. "Fine, have it your way, but as it happens, I disagree with your assessment of the propriety of your actions. It's hardly inappropriate to accept the invitation of a social superior to dance, and now the entire court knows that you enjoy a great deal of influence with the Inquisitor. I should say that, if anything, you've enhanced your standing tenfold in one elegant minuet." She raised her delicate Nevarran champagne flute in a little salute. "Well played, my Lady Ambassador."
Josephine regarded her with narrowed eyes, then nodded thoughtfully. "True. I had not considered that. I admit, I was not thinking of political strategy when Sam… Ser Trevelyan asked."
"Oh, my. So formal with your lover's address, Ambassador," Leliana teased. "Does she insist upon such etiquette in the bedchamber, I wonder?"
Josephine's blush darkened several shades as she cast her gaze about to see if anyone had overheard. "Leliana, please," she pleaded plaintively, and Leliana laughed, truly amused by her friend's adorably awkward embarrassment. It was clear that Josephine was falling in love with Sam Trevelyan, and falling quickly.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Josie," she apologized when she'd caught her breath. "I'm glad you've found someone special. I shouldn't spoil the moment for you."
Josephine drew closer, flashed a forgiving smile. "No need to apologize. It's nice to see you smile. You've been more yourself this evening than I've seen in a long time." She reached up to pluck at the bard's trademark braid. "The change of demeanour suits you."
Leliana shrugged. "It's invigorating to be back in the centre of things. Palace intrigue was always a passion of mine," she admitted.
"I know that very well," Josephine chuckled.
"Of course you do. And while I understand my position necessitates my presence in Skyhold, I do find that I miss being at court."
"Why's that?" Trevelyan asked as she joined them. Leliana considered a flippant response, but there was more to be gained from cementing the lessons the Inquisitor had learned this evening. She had acquitted herself well, but there was still room for improvement. The spymaster gestured at the expanse of the ballroom with her drink. "I can achieve more here, Inquisitor – I have already achieved more – in one night than most of my agents do in a month. Here at court, the game is distilled, concentrated to its very essence. This is the board on which the grand masters play, for the highest stakes. As you've seen from this evening's entertainments." She cocked her head thoughtfully. "You have to applaud Gaspard for his strategy, really. Had we been delayed upon the road by but an hour, the coup would have proceeded without a hitch. Half the court would not have noticed; a further quarter would have found themselves very suddenly disadvantaged."
"And the final quarter?" Trevelyan asked, her dark eyes sweeping slowly across the room, her warrior's watchfulness at odds with her relaxed stance. Leliana nodded to herself in approval; Sam was a quick study.
"Already knew what was coming," Josephine supplied, "as they were Gaspard's allies. I trust it has not escaped your notice how many of them have already taken their leave?"
The Inquisitor nodded. "I'm sure the Empress has also noticed."
"Most likely, but even if she hasn't, Briala certainly will have," Leliana agreed.
"Old habits die hard, eh, Spymaster?" Sam asked cheerily.
"Indeed." Leliana turned to regard their leader expectantly. "You should make use of your victory while it is still fresh, Inquisitor. Circulate. Mingle. Bask in the flowery and fulsome praise of the cream of Orlais, and skim off whatever promises of aid and support you can." She flicked a glance over at the corner where Cassandra was skulking, scowling mightily at anyone not of the Inquisition who dared to even look at her. "I estimate we have no more than an hour before Cassandra's fraying temper provokes some drunken dandy into a duel."
"Have I mentioned recently that you're a slavedriver, Leliana?" Sam groaned with a plaintive glance at Josephine. The diplomat simply flashed an unsympathetic grin at her suitor.
"Flattery will not avail you, your Worship," Leliana smirked. "Go. If Cassandra skewers the wrong pampered popinjay in a fit of pique, everything we've achieved tonight will be for naught." The Inquisitor rolled her eyes heavenward, but obeyed the suggestion, moving off to insinuate herself into the circle of nobles surrounding the epitome of social grace that was First Enchanter Vivienne.
"Cassandra does seem to be getting rather itchy," Josephine mused. "Maybe we should ask Cullen to chaperone her?"
"I think not." Leliana gestured delicately to where the Inquisition's Commander had been penned in by quite the crowd of would-be paramours. "We should let his admirers pursue him a while longer. I have three agents in that scrimmage, and they are gathering an unprecedented amount of blackmail material. It must be something to do with all those devastating curls."
Josephine giggled. "You truly are ruthless, aren't you?"
"I do my best," Leliana chuckled, sipping her champagne as she accepted the compliment. "The first time I brought Aryn to court, a similar thing happened. I ended up having to swoon into her arms to open up an escape route when my jealousy finally got the better of me. Cullen's not quite as pretty, but he's having the same sort of effect."
"I saw you watching when Sam and I were dancing," Josie said softly, laying her hand over Leliana's where it rested on the balustrade. The warmth was surprising; Leliana couldn't recall the last time she'd touched someone without the protection of her gloves. "You were lost in memory, and when you returned to the moment, Maker, my dear friend, you looked so sad. I thought my heart would break just from looking at you." Josie squeezed her fingers delicately. "Still no word, I take it?"
"No." Leliana shook her head curtly, trying to contain the sudden upwelling of her grief. "And seeing Morrigan again, well…"
"It makes the pain sharper." Josephine nodded sagely. "You need not pretend for me, Leliana. I can see how much her absence troubles you every day, in a dozen small ways." The Inquisition's ambassador leaned closer. "I can only imagine how difficult Adamant must have been for you."
"I don't want to talk about that, Josie," Leliana cut her off. "Certainly not here." She didn't want to be reminded of the hours she'd spent, searching corpse after corpse, dreading the moment when she'd catch a glimpse of golden hair stirring softly in the breeze, see a pale, still body riven through by steel or scorched with flame and frost, surrounded by the score of Inquisition soldiers it would have taken to cut her down. Of the caustic mixture of relief and rage that had scorched the inside of her chest upon discovering that not only was Aryn not among the dead, she hadn't been anywhere near Adamant Fortress, or any other Orlesian outpost, for years. Of the deep, gut-wrenching sobs that had convulsed her, secreted away deep in the dungeons of the benighted fortress, as the pain she fought so hard to keep from the others had broken through her defences. Of the aching pity in Cassandra's knowing gaze when the Seeker had eventually found Leliana in her hiding place; the Right Hand had simply closed the door, standing guard in compassionate silence and granting her the moment of protected solitude she'd needed.
The Ferelden order had gone silent for their own reasons, one of the survivors had told her afterward, his tone bitter with perceived betrayal. Clarel had written to Warden Lieutenant Howe, in lieu of his missing commander, beseeching him to join them, demanding aid to track down Stroud when the renegade had fled to Ferelden. Nathaniel had flatly refused, saying only that he had been commanded to stand a watch at Vigil's Keep and that until Aryn Cousland relieved him, his watch was not done. It had taken all of Leliana's self-control not to break down again upon hearing those words, grateful beyond measure for Nathaniel's stalwart belief that Aryn was alive. She has to be. She can't be dead, not after everything we survived in the Blight. The Maker wouldn't permit it.
Just like he wouldn't let Justinia die? His Divine?
Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I failed her.
"Leliana?" Josephine's gentle lilt drew her back to the present. "Are you all right?"
"Yes… yes, I'm fine, Josie," Leliana assured her friend, shaking herself. "As you said, there's magic in this place. I'm sure Solas would tell us in excruciating detail were he here about how Halamshiral's past renders the Veil thin, makes the palace susceptible to the power of the Fade, of dreams and memory."
"I didn't take you for a student of the arcane, Leli." It was Josephine's turn to tease. "You sound just like a mage."
Leliana smiled easily. "Spend enough time around mages and you pick up a few things. Wynne and I," another pang of latent grief stabbed at her equilibrium, "we used to have such wonderful talks, and even Morrigan was a source of much learning when she could be persuaded to converse. But the magic I know best is a different school, the magic of songs and tales. There are so many stories that begin and end here, myths and legends that stretch back through the ages."
Josephine took her arm, hugged her gently. "Then tell me a story of Halamshiral, Lady Nightingale, I pray you."
Leliana smiled wryly. Her appetite for story and song had waned of late, but for Josie, on this special night, she would make the effort. "Bien sur. What kind of story would you like, cherie?"
"A tale of love and romance. With a happy ending, if it please you. And a bold champion and a beautiful lady, and true love's kiss."
"Hmm." Leliana cast a glance over the ballroom once more, and beckoned Cassandra as the warrior caught her eye. Josephine hadn't been wrong in her judgement; it would be safer for everyone if Cassandra was not left alone with her mounting frustrations. "I think I know just the one. Once upon a time, there was a young girl of Orlais who grew up to be a bard. She loved unwisely, giving her heart to a beautiful but cruel mistress, and suffered appallingly for her foolishness. She was shown mercy by the hand of the Maker, and escaped her tormentors to live in peace for a short while, but soon she found herself in the midst of a terrible war against an ancient darkness. Yet amid that time of desperate suffering and pain, she was destined to fall in love once more, with a champion so mighty that even an Archdemon could not stand before her. And once the war was won, the bard and the champion pledged their undying love, and sought to build a new life with one another. And for a time, they were together and their happiness was beyond measure. But nothing is meant to last forever, and in time, the bard was called to fulfil a promise and a duty that took her from her champion's side."
"Oh, Leliana," Josephine whispered, stricken, "please, don't torture yourself. I didn't mean…"
"It's all right, Josephine," Cassandra said softly as she arrived at Leliana's side. "Those we love can still be with us in the memories we share, even when they are far away."
Leliana tipped her sister-in-arms a grateful wink; better even than Josie, Cassandra understood her. Years of working together, fighting together, rescuing each other, and patching each other up had simply erased any ability to hide things from one another. Leliana was an open book to Cassandra, and vice versa. Two sides of the same coin, Justinia had dubbed them once in a moment of supreme exasperation when they'd united in disagreement with one of her more elaborate plots.
The warrior took her elbow and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Continue with your story…"
The Winter Palace shone like a diamond against the velvet-dark sky, a beacon of festivity lighting up the night as the coach carrying Leliana swung in through the gates. Wintersend's traditional celebrations were in full swing, and the court had embraced the approaching festivities with its customary outrageous excess. Rumour had swirled around Val Royeaux for weeks, taking on every flight of fancy, every imagined embellishment, every outlandish ornament, until the weight of expectation was such that even the Empress could not be expected to rise to meet it. It was to be a ball. No, a masquerade. No, it was to be an entirely new kind of party. A thousand musicians had been hired from all across Thedas. Rivaini fire-eaters would perform for her Majesty's pleasure.
If Leliana had received a gold piece for every fanciful rumour passed on by her network as verified, stone-cold fact, she would, she reckoned, be counted among the richest citizens in all Orlais. Weeding the nonsense out of her reports had taken hours of every day for the last two weeks, and the Left Hand of the Divine (for once in absolute agreement with the Right Hand on the subject of a party) was relieved that the Maker-forsaken celebration was this evening and that tomorrow, they could all be permitted to get on with their lives.
In truth, though she wouldn't admit it to anyone, she was riled by more than the endless tide of feverish speculation that had driven Cassandra to waspish distemper. Wintersend had always been her favourite holiday as a child, coinciding as it did with her name-day. The extra special celebrations, which Lady Cecilie had always pretended were for her, had thrilled her. During her years with Marjolaine, her private reason for celebration had been subsumed beneath the mask of more public festivities, set aside in the name of getting her job done, and, as she'd learned to closely guard details of her true self, in the name of self-defence. Forget about it, Marjolaine had instructed sternly. It has no bearing on who you are. It is a dangerous indulgence. In the cloister, she'd thought to rekindle it, but as time passed, in spite of the friendliness of Lothering's residents and the warm, close nature of the festival celebrations, she hadn't felt it was right to bother anyone with her personal whims. Regretfully, she'd resigned herself to the practice of simply thinking of it as Wintersend once more.
When it had come up in conversation with Alistair and Aryn, a few days before the Wintersend during the Blight, Aryn had seemingly paid it no mind, murmuring some vague platitude as she kept watch over the road ahead of them, but she had surprised Leliana on the day as they settled down to take the first watch for the night.
"What's this?" Leliana asked as the taciturn young woman handed over a small, square package wrapped in vellum and tied with a broken bootlace.
"I didn't think it was right to let the day pass without marking the occasion, but I wasn't sure if you wanted there to be a fuss, so… Happy name-day, Leliana," the warden replied, her shy half-smile not quite hiding her blush. "I hope you like it."
"Oh, how dear of you!" Leliana exclaimed, overcome with gratitude as she accepted the little packet. Bounding forward, she caught the tall girl in an awkward hug. Startled, Aryn shifted her weight backwards and overbalanced, dragging the surprised bard along with her. The warden wrapped Leliana up in a firm embrace to cushion the fall as they went down, and the bard suddenly found herself lying sprawled atop her comrade and noticing all sorts of interesting and inappropriate things. How strong the arms holding her safe were, how warm the warden's body, how very soft and smooth her skin. How beautiful the young warrior actually was when she forgot to scowl at everything and everyone.
Flushed with sudden desire as the closest contact she'd enjoyed with anyone in more than two years set her heart thumping and blood racing to parts of her body that had been sorely neglected, the bard rested her head on the warden's chest. She was gratified to hear that Aryn's heart was beating just as fast as her own. Just for a moment, it was nice to imagine being held because she was wanted, and she lingered as long as she dared. "I'm sorry," she offered eventually, though she wasn't really. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," the warden replied, her voice a little hoarse. "Just a little winded."
Leliana moved immediately, her contrition becoming sincere as she slid off the other woman and rolled to her knees. "Oh, Warden, I am sorry, really. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You didn't, not really. My own stupid fault for being clumsy." Aryn sat up with and took a deep breath, a slight smile tugging at her lips. "I'll live."
"Oh, good," Leliana giggled. "I would hate for my enthusiasm for receiving presents to have doomed the world."
Aryn's expression froze, as though she wasn't sure whether to laugh or scowl, and the nascent smile guttered and died. Leliana reached up and tweaked her chin gently, risking a little teasing.
"Laugh, if you found it funny, cherie. You don't have to be such a little storm cloud all the time."
Aryn looked away, bit her lip, and Leliana cursed inwardly at her misstep. Whatever it was that made the warden so stern, it was clearly a deeper malady than simple concern about the Blight. "I'm sorry, Warden," she apologised again. "If I've given offence, it was not my intent."
Aryn looked back quickly, shook her head slightly. "It's all right, Leliana, really. You haven't given offence. I'm just… I haven't felt ready to talk about things, to anyone." She met Leliana's gaze with a surprisingly vulnerable, pleading look; stripped of her emotional guard, Aryn Cousland suddenly looked her age. "Can you understand that?"
Impulsively, Leliana took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I can understand very well. Some things have a time in which to be spoken of. When you are ready to give them voice, and a name, I will be ready to listen. I will always be ready to listen, if you have need."
Aryn's gaze brightened with gratitude. "Thank you, Leliana." She chewed at her lip for a moment, her expression becoming pensive. "Have I really been that bad?"
"No," Leliana assured her. "No, not really. You can be terribly stern, and terribly fierce, Warden, and those are good traits in a warrior, but sometimes, when I see you sitting apart from the group, thinking… Maker, you look so terribly sad. And then I see you playing with your mabari, and you smile so radiantly, and I think that, in normal times, you would be someone who loves to laugh, no?" Sweet Andraste, when did I start babbling like a fool?
"I used to be," the warrior agreed, oblivious to Leliana's thoughts. "I'd like to be again, one day. And please, Leliana… call me Aryn, not Warden, if you would. Sometimes I feel like I'm losing myself behind that title, and I'd like to be just Aryn to someone."
Leliana smiled, pleased by the request. Something about this young woman spoke to her heart. She didn't quite know what it meant, yet, but she would take any opportunity to get closer, figure the puzzle out. "Of course, Aryn." She gave the warden's fingers one last squeeze, then leaned over to retrieve the now-crumpled package from the grass. "Let's try again, yes? What's this?"
It had been a necklace, a bronze chantry sunburst medallion threaded onto a strong leather cord. The chain it hung on these days was finer, but Leliana wore it still; her hand drifted unconsciously up to her neck to reaffirm its presence as she thought about it. Since that day, Aryn had made it a point to ensure that, no matter what event they were required to attend, there was some time set aside to enjoy a personal moment. Even though duty had enforced their separation, they had managed to work out a way to meet every year – usually Leliana made her way to Amaranthine – and Leliana had once more come to look forward to Wintersend for more than the festival.
This year, however, would be different. In spite of their best efforts, it would be the first time that she had been parted from Aryn for the holiday since they had met. Alistair was visiting Nevarra, and had pulled rank on his reluctant Seneschal, requiring her to accompany him. Leliana had tried not to let it bother her, but it had been nearly three months since she'd seen Aryn as it was, and she missed her beloved warden dearly.
Also preying on her equilibrium was the knowledge that they hadn't parted on the best of terms; Aryn had been unhappy at one of Leliana's trips to the Vigil being cut short once more, muttering imprecations about Justinia trying to keep them apart. Leliana didn't want to believe that, and had rebuked her lover rather harshly, but Aryn had been adamant that she was right, and no amount of arguing would budge her from her opinion. Piqued that the Warden couldn't see the importance of the task that called her away, their last day together had been strained, as it had never been before, and Leliana had cried most of the way into Amaranthine.
The errand Justinia had asked of her should only have taken a few weeks, a quick trip to Kirkwall to investigate some rumours, but the job had snowballed, then a new problem had cropped up, and Leliana's planned return to the Vigil went begging week upon week until eventually she'd had to give up on the idea and return to Val Royeaux. She'd implored Aryn to visit for Wintersend, and the reply had come almost immediately that yes, of course she would be there, only to be followed less than a week later by news of the royal visit to Nevarra. That second letter had seethed with fury between the politely phrased, neatly scripted lines. The bard had little doubt that Alistair would be on the receiving end of quite a few pummellings in sparring sessions on the road to Nevarra and back.
Sighing pensively, Leliana adjusted the strap holding her mask one final time, adopted a genial smile, and stepped from the coach, handed down expertly by the footman who awaited her pleasure. "Good evening, my Lady Nightingale," the servant intoned as he bowed. "May I escort you up the stairs?"
"That's not necessary, thank you," Leliana declined; while her shoes were certainly fashionable, they were not so outrageously impractical that she could not walk, dance, or even run in them. It had taken her three happy hours to find precisely the right pair in the Summer Bazaar; the Antivan Ambassador had accompanied her, and they'd been delighted to discover a mutual appreciation of kitten heels. It was too bad Josephine had had to remain in Val Royeaux; it would have been nice to have truly friendly company. Cassandra had scowled fiercely enough to cow even Justinia's iron will at the suggestion that she go, and as the Divine herself was not attending, Leliana had been dispatched as the Sunburst Throne's sole representative. "Make them nervous, my dear," Justinia had bidden her. "Celene is getting complacent, and she needs to remain on her guard."
Making her way up the wide marble staircase to the gardens that surrounded Halamshiral's grand entrance hall, Leliana took note of several guarded looks and not a few hostile ones being thrown in her direction. Her position as Left Hand was in no way a secret and it tended to provoke the full range of reactions among the nobility, from arrogant disdain through to simpering sycophancy. Regardless of the flavour of the reaction put on for show, however, Leliana could easily see the underlying disquiet common to almost all of them. Few players of the game was so certain of themselves in the privacy of their soul that the sight of the Divine's spymaster did not provoke a degree of nerves – after all, if the Maker were real, then shouldn't Leliana have some unfair advantage, some secret knowledge drawn from His omniscience? It was a belief she worked hard to take advantage of; the more her information seemed Maker-sent, the easier it became to extract confessions and admissions. Sometimes, she heard Marjolaine lecture from the depths of her memory, appearing to know a thing is more important than knowing the thing itself.
She took a quick tour around the gardens, noting some conspicuous absences; in general, guests were announced into the ball according to rank, so those taking their ease outside, the lingering winter chill warded off by ermines and velvets, roaring braziers, and strong spiced wine, were those Leliana would need to speak to the most over the course of the evening. In the main they were Celene's current favourites and most loyal lapdogs, but judging from the covey of influential personages flocking around Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, his Grace was building something of a new following.
A flash of silver in the darkness caught Leliana's eye, and she glanced around in time to see a woman in a dark dress disappearing into the archway beneath the main staircase. The woman turned for a moment, and her eyes met the Left Hand's. She dipped a slight nod of professional courtesy, then vanished into the shadows. Leliana grinned internally; whatever Gaspard was up to, Ambassador Briala was paying close attention.
So Celene was watching her heroic cousin. Interesting. Always the most prominent of the Empress's relatives, the Grand Duke was a respected general and a man adored by his troops and the common people as the living embodiment of chivalry. That public guise was a mask as elaborate as any Leliana would see worn this evening; from the way his enemies tended to end up either exiled in disgrace or shamed into suicide, there was all too clearly a shrewd player of the game lurking beneath that ornate chevalier's armour. Gaspard had always enjoyed a cult of personality, hero-worshippers drawn to a man who supposedly embodied the flower of Orlesian chivalry, but some of the masked faces at his side now were political allies of Celene's, and by far the most interesting addition to Leliana's discerning eye was Duke Remache de Lydes. She restricted herself to a deep, formal curtsey as she passed by; considerably outranked in social standing, it was not her place to initiate a conversation. Neither man deigned to acknowledge her.
As she reached the entry hall, a footman assisted her with her heavy wool and velvet cloak, and she tugged the bodice of her sky-blue gown straight before proceeding to the main doors. The major domo bowed floridly, indicated that she should step through, and his voice boomed behind her as she made her entrance to the ballroom. "Sister Leliana, Left Hand of the Divine, Hero of the Fifth Blight, and Nightingale of the Imperial Court!"
The Grand Ballroom was ablaze with light and colour, a breathtaking scene no matter how many times one saw it. From the massive crystal chandeliers to the polished marble inlay of the floor, from the acres of gold leaf to the tiniest intricate embroidery detail in the curtains, it was a timeless image of the pinnacle of noble society. Simply standing on the threshold was an adrenaline high that was hard to master. It would be so easy to succumb, to lose your senses to the delights the court offered. Handsome lords, exquisite ladies, the soaring, complex harmonies of the contrapuntal dance melodies. The finest wines to quench one's thirst, the most sumptuous amuse-bouche from every corner of Thedas to sate one's hunger. To the uninitiated, to the unwary, to the young and romantic of heart, it would seem a fairy tale, yet it was, like everything in the Masked Empire, nothing more than an elaborate illusion. A pretty, fanciful, spun-sugar fairy tale… but the entire intricate confection was laced with poison and whispers, lust and jealousy, politics and ambition, with every move and countermove executed in steps as ornate as the latest court dances.
"My Lady Nightingale, bonsoir." A dashingly handsome blonde chevalier shook Leliana from her introspection, bowing elegantly as he lifted her hand to bestow a chivalrous kiss.
"Ser Michel de Chevin," Leliana greeted him with a warm smile as she curtseyed. "You honour me."
"The honour is mine, fair Lady," Celene's Champion countered with courtly gallantry. "You are as radiant as the sun."
Leliana smiled. "You are kind to say so, Ser. Are you enjoying the festivities so far?"
"I must admit, it has been something of a dull affair so far – the fire eaters were disappointing, to say the least – but now that you are here…" Michel smiled charmingly as he cast a theatrical glance around, "I imagine it will not be long before some gallant fool or other tries their luck with the most beautiful woman at court."
"You flatter me, Ser Michel."
"I am but a man of honour, bound to speak the truth." His light tone did little to diminish that truth; his flattery was sincere. He knew of her relationship with Aryn, and was too much a gentleman to press a claim, but in another time, another world… And, Leliana reflected, in that other world, she could do much worse for a suitor than this brave, kind, devastatingly handsome young man.
"And pray tell, Ser Chevalier," she responded in a teasing tone, "are you immune to my charms? Or perhaps you are the first gallant fool of the evening?"
Michel laughed. "My dear Lady, I regret that I am neither. Were I here upon my own affairs, you may rest assured I would be as foolishly gallant as the Lady's whim dictated. However, I must confess, I am engaged upon a mission on behalf of another who is even more smitten than I." He offered his arm. "I bring you a humble petition, Lady Nightingale. Will you meet with my poor, bedazzled, besotted friend? I am quite sure that one kind word from you will be enough to make them faint dead away, and trouble you no further this night."
Leliana narrowed her eyes in consideration. "Were I to grant this request, Ser Michel, and make this friend of yours swoon in delight, what would be the benefit to you, I wonder?"
"I would receive the joy of having helped a friend in need, as Andraste teaches. A good deed is its own reward, non?" He placed her hand upon his forearm, met her gaze with an exaggeratedly hangdog expression. "And were they to faint, well, someone would have to step into the breach and entertain you. A win-win situation for me. But please, Lady. You would not have me break my given word, would you? I swore to my friend I would bring you."
Leliana affected a sigh, but secretly, she was intrigued. She liked to think she knew Michel, but she couldn't quite fathom what he was up to. The whole conversation reeked of a set-up. Normally, she would be suspicious, but Michel de Chevin was a true chevalier, a man who would rather die than be dishonourable. Deciding that work could wait a few minutes longer, she elected to indulge her curiosity. Most likely the Empress simply wished to pass on a discreet message for Justinia. "Very well, Ser. I could not bear to have your reputation besmirched on my account. Lead on."
"My Lady is the soul of compassion." The chevalier smiled as he escorted her down the length of the ballroom to one of the tall doors leading to the private balconies that overlooked the gardens. Opening the door, he held it for her with a florid bow. "My friend awaits without, and I consider my duty discharged. Enjoy your evening, Lady Leliana."
Perplexed, Leliana eyed the door warily, but realizing she would get nothing more from the knight, she stepped confidently through the door. Whoever this was would quickly learn that she was unavailable for dalliances, no matter how smitten they might be. Or, alternatively, if this was a trap, just how many daggers a determined woman could hide in a courtly gown.
There was a figure, a female form, standing at the edge of the balcony, looking out over the garden. As Leliana's heels struck the solid marble flagstones, the woman turned, and the light spilling out through the half-open door threw her into sharp relief.
Leliana gasped in astonished delight.
Tall and graceful, wearing a blue and silver tunic with a griffon pauldron on one shoulder, grey breeches, and long black boots, Aryn Cousland was walking toward her, a radiant smile gracing her lips. "Surprise," she offered whimsically as she took Leliana's hand and drew it to her lips. "Happy Wintersend, my Lady Nightingale."
Leliana dipped into a curtsey, lost for words, and suppressed a shiver as her warden's lips ghosted over her knuckles. Aryn drew her back up with effortless strength then bent slightly to whisper in her ear.
"Happy name-day, mon coeur."
"Andraste's grace, I can't believe you're here," Leliana whispered back, stunned. "I'm dreaming, aren't I?"
"If you are, it's the best kind of dream," Aryn grinned. She looked Leliana up and down with absolute admiration. "Maker, you're exquisite in that dress."
"And you look rather dashing in that uniform, my love. I thought you were going to Nevarra?"
"So did I." Aryn had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "When I found out… let's just say I wasn't exactly tactful in my objection to Alistair's pulling rank."
"I can imagine," Leliana grinned.
"But after I'd calmed down I decided I had to make the best of it. I was even beginning to look forward to it. After all, Cassandra's always so dismissive of the place, I wanted to see for myself what it was really like. Then, when we got to Highever, Alistair told me he'd booked passage to Halamshiral for me. Apparently the queen had heard us fighting, and once she'd got the reason out of him she gave him another earful." Aryn chuckled wryly. "So Cauthrien gets to go with him instead."
"I'm sure the King's Champion will enjoy the opportunity to see more of Thedas," Leliana smiled.
"I'm not. Maker, I've never seen anyone who gets more seasick." Aryn sighed. "I want to feel guilty for shirking, but I'm afraid I just don't have it in me." She lifted Leliana's hand, pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "I missed you, Leliana."
"I missed you too, dear heart," Leliana murmured back. "Maker, I missed you so very much."
"I'm so sorry," Aryn whispered. "I should never have…"
Leliana placed three fingers against the warden's lips. "Don't spoil the moment," she begged. "Come, my love, let's enjoy the evening. You haven't lived till you've seen Wintersend at Halamshiral."
Aryn inclined her head, donned the mask of burnished silver patterned in the shape of a griffon with raised wings she carried in her left hand, and offered Leliana her arm, escorting her back into the ballroom to a spot where they could watch the ballroom floor below. "How did you manage to secure an invitation at such short notice?" Leliana asked as she snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing servant.
"Alistair receives an invitation every year," Aryn explained, accepting the offered drink. "He never uses it, but Celene is persistent."
"I should have realized," Leliana laughed. "Have you been well, my love?" She cast a critical eye over the warden's tall, well-muscled form. "You look fighting fit."
Aryn sighed. "Fighting fit is the truth. We've been hard at it. Kal Hirol was overrun by a band of marauding darkspawn not three days after you left. It took us well over six weeks to clear them out, and we lost far too many of the Silver Order doing so. Those lads and lasses own a lion's courage, but with the damn darkspawn, one wound is all it takes. It's been bloody, butcher's work."
Those last five words bore the unspoken weight of the mercy killings Aryn must have meted out to spare the wounded warriors the slow, agonising death inflicted by the taint's corruption. Leliana reached for her hand, gripped it tightly. "I'm sorry for your losses. I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you bear them."
"No, don't be." Aryn grimaces wryly. "Far better that you weren't there to see it. It would have broken your heart. In spite of my churlish behaviour when you left, it was probably for the best that you did. I would have worried about you fighting in those conditions." She stroked her thumb down Leliana's cheek. "Let's not talk about it," she decided. "It's done with, and this is supposed to be a celebration." She raised her glass in salute. "Once again, my love, happy name-day."
"And happy Wintersend, beloved," Leliana returned, raising her own glass in response. They drank, but as the orchestra struck up a new tune, Aryn set her drink down.
"May I have this dance, my Lady?" she requested, framing a courtly bow as she took Leliana's hand.
Leliana smiled as she dipped a slight curtsey in response. "It would be my honour, Warden Commander."
Aryn led her onto the floor and assumed the correct hold, moving Leliana effortlessly into the flow of the dance as the other couples swirled around them.
"You know this dance?" Leliana was astonished. Heretofore, dancing had not featured much in the time they'd spent together, and an Orlesian minuet was not an easy measure to master without practice.
"Of course I do," Aryn laughed, spinning her around lightly. "My mother was adamant that I should learn, and I was adamant that I should not. Which, as it always did, ended up with my learning. My mother, in certain things, was as unstoppable a force as the tide."
"I wish I'd met her," Leliana replied. "I think I would have liked her."
"She'd have liked you," Aryn grinned. "You would have indulged her in ways I never did." She drew Leliana into a closer hold. "Shoes and pretty dresses and hairstyles and suchlike. I'm fairly certain she despaired of me almost as much as she loved me. And she loved me a great deal."
"I can relate to those feelings," Leliana giggled. Aryn chuckled softly, then tightened her arms, drawing Leliana into a closer, more intimate hold as they spun gracefully across the floor.
"You despair of me, do you?" Aryn jibed.
"Constantly," Leliana retorted. "Don't you know how much I'd love to see you in a dress? You'd be even more beautiful. And if you'd let your hair grow…"
"I thought you liked my hair this way?"
"It's very practical, was what I said. That shouldn't be taken for an aesthetic opinion."
"I'll order a dozen songbirds in the morning." Aryn winked. "Well, maybe only eleven, since I already seem to have captured myself a nightingale."
Leliana slapped her shoulder in mock rebuke. "Don't count your chickens before they've hatched, beloved."
Aryn sobered at that. "Maker's mercy. I know you said to wait, but I need to say this. It's been eating at me for months." She took a breath as she swung them into the final measure of the dance. "I'm sorry, my love, for the way we parted. I know I hurt you – it was mean-spirited of me. I was just so disappointed to have so little time with you. Can you forgive me?"
"Aryn, I didn't mean to…"
"I know. It's all right. I'm sorry, love."
"It's already forgotten, for my part," Leliana assured her. "I was hardly blameless – it takes two to make an argument, and I shouldn't have reacted as I did. You are forgiven, beloved – can you forgive me for dismissing your concerns so harshly?"
"I forgave you long since," Aryn replied earnestly. "Thank you, mon coeur."
"Nothing to thank me for."
"I've plenty to thank you for," Aryn declared adamantly. As the melody swept into the final coda, the warden shifted her weight, pulled Leliana flush against her. "But we can discuss that at length another time. Have we made enough of an appearance to satisfy propriety yet, do you think?" She leaned in, her breath warm against Leliana's ear. "I ache with the need to feel your skin beneath my lips."
Leliana suppressed the urge to shiver at the thought of Aryn's kisses upon her body. "Is that all you wish for?" she managed to tease, her mouth going dry as she saw desire darken the warrior's eyes to steel grey.
"All I wish for is to be with you," Aryn replied simply. "Anything else you care to grant me, I will count as a gift from the Maker himself."
A blush sprang to Leliana's cheeks as she floundered for an appropriate response. "I… oh Aryn, Maker, I…"
"Take your time," the warden sassed, and Leliana smacked her shoulder again.
"Blood and damnation, how is it that you always know exactly how to reduce me to a stammering, witless fool?" Leliana demanded with mock petulance.
"That's simple. It's because you love me," Aryn smiled. As the music swelled to its triumphant climax, the warden deftly twirled the bard through one last pirouette, caught her and tipped her backwards, supporting her entirely with one arm. Her free hand cupped Leliana's cheek, and she looked down into Leliana's eyes. "And I love you."
Their lips met, and as the kiss deepened beyond what was probably proper, Leliana hooked an arm around Aryn's neck, her heart swelling with joy. Just for this once, safe in the arms of her beloved, she could let herself believe that the Winter Palace was truly something from a fairy tale.
"She stayed for a month," Leliana recalled reflectively. "She let the court fete her and pamper her and put up with all of the giggling and posturing without complaint. Then she met Vivienne, and it was hate at first sight."
"Truly?" Josephine queried.
"Truly," Cassandra supplied with a grin. "Aryn has little patience for snobbery, and Vivienne was still working to establish her position at court. Poking fun at Ferelden has always been good sport for the Orlesian nobility, and a quick way to earn esteem for one's wit."
"As I recall, it was the phrase 'dog-lord' that Aryn took particular exception to," Leliana remarked.
"Maker, I can't think why," Josephine said wryly.
Leliana chuckled softly. "Indeed." She sighed wistfully. "I keep hoping… I've caught myself watching the door so many times this evening, wondering if history might repeat. Thinking I might just go and look, just in case…"
"It would have been timely, and immensely helpful," Cassandra observed, the astute intervention arresting the fall of Leliana's mood. "Aryn's sword would have been a welcome addition to our cause." The Seeker's smile bore a strong hint of approval. "Your warden is a matchless warrior."
"Better than you, Seeker?" Josephine enquired slyly.
"Yes." The admission was grudging. "Sooner or later, we are all surpassed. Commander Aryn is ten years younger than I," Cassandra defended herself. "She has the superior reflexes and stamina that all wardens seem to enjoy. And she hits like a battering ram."
"You've fought against her?" Josie asked, surprised.
"Thankfully not." Cassandra grinned. "Sparring with her in training was quite enough." The Seeker patted Leliana's shoulder. "Have faith, Leliana. She would never abandon you, not willingly. She will return to you. I believe that with all my heart."
Leliana nodded bravely. "I have my faith, and my hope, thank you, Cassandra. And such is the magic of Halamshiral, that I can find them again even when all appears lost."
Josephine nodded, and was about to speak when the Inquisitor reappeared at her side. "You know that I bow to your expertise in all matters political, Leliana," Sam said breathlessly, "but I really think we should save Commander Cullen. I honestly believe he might be about to crack."
Leliana took one look at the desperate expression on Cullen's face and snickered. "Oh yes, I see. I recognize that look. You're right, Inquisitor. Best to get him out of there, then withdraw with our reputations intact. Cassandra, you enjoy rescuing damsels in distress, yes?"
The Seeker barked a sardonic laugh as she dropped her hand to her sword hilt and nodded to the Inquisitor. "Indeed. Come, my friend, let us rally to our comrade, who is sore beset by his abundant enemies."
Sam grinned. "We'll pick up Vivienne as well, and meet you two at the coach." She swept an arm out in invitation. "Lead on, noble Seeker, an it please thee. Mayhap we shall receive that most pure of rewards for our right action; the chaste and virtuous kiss of a grateful damsel."
"Oh, Maker," Josephine groaned. "Why am I suddenly in the midst of some terrible pantomime?"
"The magic of Halamshiral," Leliana smirked. "Come on, Josie, let's go and make sure our coach hasn't turned into a pumpkin. It's a very long walk to Skyhold."