It all belongs to Bioware of course. I'm just mucking about with their brilliance.
Cullen's jaw clenched and he grasped the newel post for support. He hissed out a breath as the burning, aching pain ripped through him and he was suddenly, unpleasantly, reminded of an ill-fated fishing expedition he'd gone on with his little sister when they were both still children. Mia had never been one for tromping through the woods or playing in the streams with him and their brother; but the stuffy weather and sweltering conditions of home during that long ago, too-hot summer had sent her trailing out after her brother, unenthusiastically dragging a little birch fishing rod, and desperately hoping that the feeling of cool water running over her bare feet and ankles would make up for the coming horror of touching a dreadful, wriggly worm. As it turned out, not even the soothing shade of his favorite fishing hole and the mountain-cold stream waters running fresh from the snowy Frostbacks were enough to make up for the traumatizing sight of "Mr. Slimy" being impaled mercilessly on the little bone fishing hook. The moment Cullen had baited the hook for her; Mia had screamed dramatically and run all the way back to Honnleath. He'd never thought much about what it must have been like for the poor worm, but now, caught in the grips of Lyrium withdrawal, he thought he probably had a pretty good idea.
He held still, clutching his post and lowering his head as his vision went foggy with pain. Not much longer now, he thought. He'd been through this enough times now to know that, no matter how implausible it seemed at the moment, the pain would eventually subside. He'd make it up these bloody stairs, and he'd bloody well discuss this issue with the Inquisitor. Unless it kills me, he thought. Maker please, just let it kill me and be done.
After a few moments, the shredding feeling in his gut began to lessen, and he was gradually able to straighten out and loosen his hold on the graceful halla carving decorating the newel post of the Inquisitor's personal stair case. Normally, he would be loath to disturb the intensely private Dalish in her quarters, but she and Sister Leliana had been closeted there for the better part of two days, and he really did need to discuss this matter with her before they headed out to Halamshiral. Depending on the outcome of this conversation, he might not even be going to the Winter Palace, and almost certainly would not be going as the Commander of the Inquisition's Armed Forces. He breathed in deeply, and continued his ascent to what he thought of as the Inquisitor's aerie- open and bedecked in draping, fluttering fabric as it was. On the only two previous occasions he'd been there, he'd wondered if she'd had it decorated to purposely disguise the high ceilings and hard stone walls. It must be difficult, he thought, for one to spend her whole life sheltering under either a cloth and hide tent or simply resting exposed to the elements, and then go to being Mistress of a bloody great castle in the sky.
Andraste's Grace, it was hard for him to adjust to the change, and he'd lived in towers and fortresses for most of his adult life. Cullen sighed at the reminder of how ill-suited he was to his current position. Perhaps once, before Kirkwall, before he knew he could never again be bound, by the Chantry, or anyone else he could have-; but those days were over. He was no longer the eager recruit, fresh from training and resolute in his duty to both protect mages from a world that could be too cruel to them and to protect the world from the dangers posed by magic. Neither was he still the careful Lieutenant, ready to follow orders and make the best of an increasingly bad situation. No, he was done with that. Done with Lyrium, and done with stretching himself past limits that no mortal could hope to achieve. He didn't regret his decision to deal with his addiction, and he would always be grateful to the Inquisitor for encouraging him to rid himself of his last shackles to the Chantry, but it was simply time to face the fact that, addled and sick as he was without his daily dose of lyrium, he was in no place to head the martial arm of the Inquisition.
His musings were interrupted by a rather vicious curse followed by tinkling, distinctly Orlesian laughter. "Inquisitor, it really is customary to let your partner lead the motions. With your natural dexterity, it should not be difficult for you to follow most court dances. Perhaps we should concentrate on other matters. After all, it is highly unlikely that you will be called upon to do more than one or two turns about the ballroom."
"Josephine said that I need to be twice as perfect as anybody else in attendance," the Inquisitor's voice was equal parts exasperation and determination. "They're all already going to expect me to attempt to kidnap their children and pee in their fancy punchbowls. If I were human, I might simply walk in and quietly hold my own without fear of harming the Inquisition's reputation, but I'm not, and we both know that the entire court will be watching like hawks to pick apart the slightest misstep on my part."
"As you wish, Inquisitor," Leliana's voice was obviously amused, and Cullen thought he detected a hint of admiration as well. "I think, however, you will find that we must pause a moment to address the visitor at your door."
"What? What are you- Fenedhis! Come in, whoever you are!"
Cullen quickly pushed the door open, the apology on his lips dying away into openmouthed shock as he took in the sight of the normally placid Inquisitor, hair disheveled and only half pinned into its customary bun, clad in what appeared to be some sort of long underwear rather incongruously paired with a set of decorative, calf high riding boots.
"Well, what is it commander?" she demanded. "I'm a little busy here."
"I- that is to say, I could… come back later," he finished weakly.
The Inquisitor's dusky cheeks reddened beneath the delicate, scrolling marks of her Vallaslin, "No Commander, its fine. I'm sorry. It's just that these Creators-forsaken Orlesian dances are ridiculous. Can't imagine how anyone manages in those preposterous shoes that seem so popular in Val Royeaux."
"Happily for you, Inquisitor," Leliana's tone had cooled considerably at, Cullen assumed, Inquisitor Lavellan's apparent lack of regard for Orlesian footwear, "you will not need to worry about that. All officially attending members of the Inquisition will appear in uniform."
"These boots aren't much better," the elf grumped. "How can they even be called 'riding boots'? It's not as if you'd actually dare sully them with horse sweat."
"Appearances are very important Inquisit-"
"Yes, yes," the Inquisitor cut off the bard's obviously oft-repeated lecture. "That's why I'm flopping around my room like a very proper, very stilted fish, isn't it? A Dalish in the Empress' court," she muttered. "Have you ever heard of anything so ludicrously out of place?" The Inquisitor turned her leaf green gaze on him and asked, rather petulantly, "Did you ever have to learn this stuff?"
Cullen chuckled "My repertoire mainly consists of Fereldan country fare, I'm afraid. Far more spinning, far less stilted, and certainly less fish-flopping."
"The Inquisitor rolled her eyes and turned back to Sister Leliana, "Very humorous commander. Now, before I go back to counting every step I take and attempting to 'make a box with my feet'," she glared at Leliana as said the last bit, "Was there something you needed?"
Cullen took a deep breath, "Yes I- just wanted to inform you that the dress uniforms for the grand ball are on their way now. Apparently, Josephine had them rushed."
The Inquisitor let out a long-suffering sigh, "Wonderful. A stuffy, uncomfortable uniform to go with these stuffy, uncomfortable boots. Well, back to it then, I suppose."
The Inquisitor grasped Leliana's hands and waist and began taking measured, rhythmic steps as Cullen turned and quietly headed back down the stairs. A resolute count of "One, two, three. One, two, three," followed him out. After all, he thought, if a Dalish can dance at the Empress' ball, a former Templar can surely handle a few more days in charge of a handful of troops.
Author's Notes:
My Lavellan surely dazzled at the Winter Palace while strutting around with the Grand Duchess (you just knew the Orlesians would love the snarky replies, right?) but it made me wonder: How on Earth did a Dalish manage to perform a complicated Orlesian Court Dance so masterfully? I mean, sure, she was a rogue, and therefore pretty dextrous, and elves are known to be rather lithe, but even so. It didn't take me long to realize though, that my dear Quizzy had a master teacher at hand. After all, If Leliana managed to teach my hard-charging, no-nonsense, casteless Warden how to be a bard, she could certainly teach my graceful Dalish a few popular dance moves.