A "festival fic" Christmas present for the good folk over at the Dragon Age Writers' Corner Forum.
I wanted to make this any Warden, but the idea that came to me was so firmly planted in my usual challenge-response canon that it was impossible.
This is an homage rather than a straight-up parody on Dickens' novella, and follows little of it - a severe lack of ghosts and Tiny Tim here; distaste for the season is replaced by distaste for the way of its celebration - but there's still a rather grouchy Warden and a freezing Kirkwall.
Let's say we only see a portion of Hawke's manor, considering the size of the DuBois estate, and that this takes place early in Act III, before all hell breaks loose.
P.S: A merry Christmas to all, of course.
~ Satinalia & Silk ~
She finally wears the dress that Leliana bought her back in Denerim; she runs a hand down the unfamiliar silk, looking at the rich navy blue, and swallows.
Ever since she escaped the prisoners' uniform of the Circle's robes, she swore never to wear something like this again.
It takes her a long time to be able to put it on, and when she looks in the mirror, she almost doesn't recognise what she sees there; she's sure it's far too low-cut for her, and considering the last skirt she wore was Chantry wool, the silk...
Only the Warden's Oath round her neck - she raises a shaking hand to it - and the mournful blue eyes staring back at her serve as a reminder of exactly who this strange woman is.
She owns no jewellery except her Oath and Reflection, the mirrored pendant tucked into a pocket she has carefully sown herself - her ex-bard friend would be horrified. She turns away from the mirror quickly. Varel's warning words, said before she set off with on the ship with the few Wardens also making the trip, are still ringing in her head: "This may not be the easiest night for you. There are nobles to impress, and appearances to be kept up... Whatever you see, whatever lies are told, ignore them."
She takes a deep breath, opens the door, and begins to make her way through the winding corridors of the Viscount's Keep; she doesn't miss the slight widening of Nathaniel's eyes at her attire, but he quickly clamps down on it. "A good Satinalia to you," he says, giving her one of his slight smiles that is, for him, a veritable grin.
"And to you," she replies, but despite her effort, it's flat, toneless; the thought of having to pretend to smile, wade through the lies of the nobles, has stolen the season's joy for her tonight.
She sees his look of concern, but pretends not to, walking onwards; he sets off down another corridor, takes a different route, but she knows he will be there also, her - utterly unnecessary, she has told Varel - bodyguard in the shadows. She is a Warden, one of many born from battle, yet there was a mysterious insistence she be watched over. She is a political figure now, she reminds herself, lip twisting at the undesirable thought - she recognises neither this "Hero of Ferelden" nor the miserable woman in the mirror.
One of the guards at the foot of the stairway taps her on the shoulder, shrinking back as she turns sharply, the preparation having frayed her nerves. "Yes?"
"Received this for you, ma'am," the man says, handing her a large, heavy parcel, then tips his hat to her with a tentative smile. "A joyful Satinalia to you." He adds quickly, "Ma'am."
"And to you," she returns, her mind elsewhere as she unwraps the package; she nearly drops the thick cloak that spills out of the paper, and does drop the accompanying note; the young guardsman quickly stoops to pick it up, giving it to her as she hastily hangs the cloak on the banister.
The familiar, surprisingly careful from years under the Chantry's thumb - but hastily scribbled, she can tell - handwriting brings the first smile from her of the night. Thought you might need this. Have you seen the weather yet?
She pockets the note and looks to the guard. "Thank you," she says softly, the smile staying, and it's sincere. She wraps the cloak round her shoulders, tying it quickly, and nods to him before walking to the door.
When she steps into the Kirkwall air, she's glad for the cloak; snow crunches underfoot, a chill wind whistling through the streets that, even with the heavy fur, still manages to cut nearly to the bone. She looks for Nathaniel, but can't see him, the streets seeming eerily empty. She ignores the snow in her hair, and begins to walk, cursing this season, cursing this damned party full of liars for "the good of the union between our lands".
She sees the turn-off for the Hawke Estate, takes in the candlelight shining from its windows and stops; then she finds herself walking past it, her footsteps the only sound on the deserted streets - presumably everyone has taken refuge from the weather. She walks past the abandoned stalls, imagining the hustle and bustle of the square in warm daylight, barely aware of where her feet are taking her until she passes the second, less savoury, set of Kirkwall's stalls, sees the tavern ahead of her. Light and noise spill from it, and... something else.
The strains of a carol, soft but undeniably there, that she knows well; she finds herself mouthing the words, listening to the familiar voice sing them too. She leans on the doorframe, knowing that her old friend, the fugitive, is in there somewhere, probably within arm's reach.
The memories come then, of the boy in the Tower who insisted that Satinalia was a fad, that he didn't want anything, that the templars didn't allow it; then, of course, she'd find the stray book, inevitably stolen from the library, tucked under her pillow, and he'd find the concoction she and Jowan had made, different each year - usually a blend of rosewater and some other fragrant spice. "Sure to attract the ladies," Anders always joked, but it seemed to work.
She remembers other Satinalias, too; ridiculous snowball "sparring" matches with him, delighting in the soaking, freezing, near-solid stuff that was still so very new to her, while other Wardens stared (or, in the case of some - the mages especially - joined them enthusiastically).
She smiles at the thought, even in the chill. Vain, cynical as he was, the man gave her Satinalia, and no matter how he said it was all false merriment, it's him sat in the Hanged Man, singing a carol. She stands there a moment more, knowing what her duty calls for - he ran from the Order; bring him in, forcibly if necessary - then, jolted back to the present by a snowflake on her nose, calmly turns and begins the walk back to the Champion's house, the smile leaving her face and his voice ringing in her ears.
How has it all changed so? Now she is a noble, an Arlessa, and it matters, and he is a "dangerous apostate" instead of her childhood friend.
Pulling her cloak to her and ignoring the urge to turn and run - preferably to find the first ship back to Ferelden, and Amaranthine - she walks onwards, the snow chill against her face, and reminds herself of the other man, the one waiting for her.
She jumps at a voice behind her. "A little change, love?"
She turns to see a woman sitting on the ground, giving her a gap-toothed grin but shivering, and fights with revulsion at herself - worrying about attending a party, in the lap of luxury, with others begging on the streets!
"You can't take refuge in the Chantry?" she asks.
The woman shakes her head. "What's one more beggar looking for space? The templars'd probably rather 'ave me 'ead than help me. I swear, it's Meredith..."
She's assailed with the image of those in Kirkwall's Circle, apparently so much worse than Ferelden's, with poor, demented Cullen as their Knight-Captain...
Again, self-revulsion at her own trivial worries. Fighting bile, she shakes her own head, and gently unties the cloak from her shoulders, draping it over the woman. "No change, but a little warmth, perhaps." She's Warden-Commander of Ferelden - what's one more cloak? She knows he'll understand, she knows it, and suddenly, even as she stands there, the night wind making her shiver, the night seems a little warmer. She'll explain when she arrives, she decides. The woman looks up at her. "Bless you, miss."
She nods and hurries onwards, replying to the woman's call of "Joyful Satinalia!" with, "To you, too!"
The cold and the snow drain her skin of its colour, but she smiles as she makes her way through the streets, towards the lying nobles, the formidable Champion... and him.
The chatter in the house as she walks through the door makes her grit her teeth, and she has to unclench her fists at the loud, false laugh that rings through the room. She takes a deep breath at the lush carpet and the warm fire, remembering the poor woman only streets away, and looks for him.
The talk stops at her entrance, the nobles staring at this shivering, snow-sprinkled woman without an escort; Alistair, too, halts mid-conversation, staring at her with a mixture of relief and horror - he walks to her side, still holding an untouched sherry glass, as the noise hastily resumes.
He raises an eyebrow. "You look lovely. And... cold. Really cold. The cloak?"
Bearing in mind that he is supposedly only her second-in-command and that it's very unprofessional to pull him into a public kiss, she simply smiles. "Lovely, thank you. Someone needed it more than me, it appeared."
He nods, sighing. "I thought so. It is Satinalia, I guess."
She simply looks him over, delighting in how uncomfortable he, too, seems; he is fidgeting, unable to stand still, and he unconsciously rolls his shoulders - noblemen's clothes were made for the perfumed, stiff-collared upper-classes, not soldiers, and must be stifling. He notices her watching him, and gives a small, awkward half-smile. "Sorry. Old habits." He returns her gaze and, seeing her frustration, he leans to her and adds with a devilish grin, "Very nice dress, by the way."
"Insubordination to your Commander," she says, teeth mockingly gritted, glaring at him. He laughs, and she joins him. "Aren't we meant to be better with politics by now?" she asks quietly, smile growing wider.
"News to me," he mutters darkly, then, brightening, takes her hand - even at her frown and the nobles' stares - and leads her to a tall, red-haired woman at the far side of the room, who turns to them. "I should... probably introduce you."
She knows who this is. The woman, she notes with satisfaction, also seems a little edgy, biting her lip and tapping her foot; she stares, recognising the sparkling blue eyes and the Amell jaw.
The Champion reaches out a hand, rousing her out of her stunned stupor, and she shakes it. "Commander."
"Oh, no," she corrects her. "Morgana, please."
The woman, still holding her hand, looks her over in surprise for a moment, then grins. "Morgana it is, then. I prefer Hawke, myself."
Isn't that the Champion's surname? She darts a brief, puzzled glance to Alistair, but he simply gives her a small, encouraging nod. "Hawke it is, then," Morgana echoes.
This "Hawke" raises her glass; Morgana finds a sherry glass pressed into her hand by a sheepish Alistair, and does the same as Hawke says, "To this Satinalia, and others yet to come."
Others yet to come. She fights the image of herself, miserable and grey-haired, pandering to the nobles and their excesses, and shudders. No. Next year will be in her Keep, with her family.
Then she sees the wry look in those blue eyes so very like her own (it suddenly occurs to her that, technically, Hawke, too, is her family). She thinks of the Tower, of the woman with her cloak. She has the warm presence of her partner beside her, a fire and good food - she is lucky, she knows, and it's Satinalia, for Maker's sake. Her smile is this time genuine as she replies, "Indeed. Perhaps in Amaranthine next year?"
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