Tartle
((Scottish) - the act of hesitating while introducing someone because you've forgotten their name)
Alistair loathed grand balls. He'd been king for a decade, but some things never got any easier. Keeping track of whom he'd spoken to, and how often, who was feuding with whom, whose polite asides were genuine and whose contained veiled insults-and contrary to popular belief, he could tell the difference. He hadn't been unknowingly insulted in months. That he knew of.
He did still have trouble ensuring his words properly matched his thoughts, once he'd translated them into something coherent. Maker forbid if this led to accidentally insulting some visiting personage! He could do it on purpose, if they deserved it-a king had some prerogatives-but if he felt someone needed a more subtle nudge, he quietly informed Anora. She was very good at being politely snide, and saved him from having to try.
But balls! One long string of vague niceties that often weren't, food in portions too small to be filling but too large to eat neatly, and hours wandering the palace in too-warm clothes and shoes that never seemed to fit. He preferred private meetings. Or hunts. Or darkspawn.
Well. Probably not darkspawn.
Still, every now and again, someone interesting would show up.
No one seemed to know if Michel de Chevin had come on behalf of the Inquisition or Orlais. Both had other, official ambassadors already present. Yet Michel mingled with the rest of the guests as if he belonged there. Only, when he thought no one was looking, his brows drew together in faint annoyance, and he smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from his doublet.
Alistair could relate.
When an opportunity presented itself-when everyone who didn't know better had given up trying to trick him into unwitting agreements or concessions-he circled around the Great Hall and stopped beside the Chevalier. Michel was absorbed in watching the festivities and did not immediately notice he had company. Alistair watched as his eyes roved the room, alert for any trouble, probably a habit from his days as Empress Celene's Champion.
When a passing servant offered drinks to both of them, Michel couldn't quite hide his surprise. He covered it well, greeting Alistair with a courtly bow. "Your Majesty. My apologies, I did not notice you there."
Another might have turned that into an insult with a faint twist of tone-and many others had tried. Michel sounded genuinely puzzled. Ah, but there was a hint of that annoyance again. So Ferelden's king bothered him, hmm? Well, he was hardly the first.
"If I tried that, I'd spill my drink," Alistair commented. "Michel de Chevin. You've quite the reputation. I'd be curious to test myself against your swordsmanship, but my tailor threatened murder if I ruin his best work." He sipped his wine, waiting to see how the Chavalier would take him.
Michel mostly ignored the self-deprecation. Smart man. "They say you bested the Arishok in a duel. Surely I would be no challenge."
"Funny. 'They' usually aren't nearly so complementary. To be fair, I don't think the Arishok believed I would fight an old ally without holding back. And I didn't have much choice but to win, or he'd have killed me." He shrugged. "So what brings you to Denerim, Ser Michel? You serve the Inquisition, now, yes? But they've already sent a representative."
Michel took a drink, staring out through the crowd. The question was too direct to dodge, Alistair thought, and sure enough, after a moment the Chevalier answered. "I was . . . sent, Your Majesty. Unofficially. The Nightingale heard a rumor an . . . old acquaintance might make an appearance. The Inquisition wanted someone present to pass on a message, should it prove true."
An acquaintance of Leliana's? Interesting. "And you drew the short straw, hmm? Did she say-"
A silence rippled through the hall. It started by the entryway and spread toward the dais, where Anora stood, ready to welcome late guests. Whispers followed on the heels of the silence, excited and suspicious.
Alistair craned his head and caught a glimpse through the crowd of a face that knocked the wind out of him. The surprise roaring in his ears drowned out the herald's announcement, and he remained dimly aware of Michel only because the Chevalier kept asking if everything was all right, apparently oblivious to the impossibility that had just walked through the door.
He patted Michel's arm and said something that was supposed to be, "I'll be back in a moment," but might have been, "Windy cheese dog bother," and headed in the direction of the throne.
By the time he forced his way through the crowd, his Queen stood alone.
"What- Where-?"
She smiled, amused, almost secretive-that unbelievable composure made him want to scream, sometimes. Couldn't she be a little excited? But no, that was foolish. Ten years hadn't changed who killed her father. At least she could smile.
Some things changed, at least. Ten years ago, it wouldn't have bothered him-much-if she couldn't.
"East courtyard. You can yell in private."
"Yell? I'm not going to-"
One graceful brow rose in challenge.
"All right, I kind of want to yell about it. Years, without so much as a note!"
Chuckling, she gently nudged him in the right direction. "Go on, then."
He leaned in to kiss her cheek. "Hold the fort while I'm gone, m'lady."
"Will you go already?"
He let her shoo him away.
Michel met him at the door leading to the east wing of the palace.
"Ah, begging your pardon, Ser, but this should probably be a private reunion."
"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but I have my orders," Michel replied, smiling faintly. "And, no offense, but the Nightingale is far more intimidating than you are."
"That's-" Alistair thought a moment and rubbed his forehead. "Unfortunately true. I wouldn't want her angry with me, either. I suppose there's no harm in introducing you."
Michel followed without another word.
The east courtyard was a small, relatively secluded garden, little more than a few old apple trees and some shrubs that brewed into a half-decent tea. Several stone benches clustered around a shallow pond near choked with lilies.
A mabari trotted around the pond's edge, batting at the water, probably giving the poor fish heart failure. Nearby, a familiar figure in Warden armor stood, laughing quietly at the dog's antics.
"I'm not consoling the gardener if his precious fish are all dead of fright by the time your dog is done with them, just so you know."
"That would be a shame." The Warden turned, and seemed surprised that Alistair wasn't alone. "Well. Apparently I lost my bet."
"What bet?"
"That the first thing you'd do was shout at me. I even came right out here so you wouldn't have to do it in front of the whole court. And then you bring company."
Alistair snorted. "After so long, we'd started to think you'd forgotten how to find the palace." He beckoned Michel forward to join them. "The company insisted on coming. Hard to blame him for not wanting to disappoint Leliana. Ser Michel de Chevin, former-" Surely the man didn't appreciate constant reminders of the post he'd lost. Best to leave that out. "Well, Chevalier, anyway, and-what is it you do for the Inquisition these days?"
Michel was looking back and forth between them with the barest hint of panic. Apparently Orlesian court training didn't extent to reunions between jumped-up kings and Thedosian heroes. At least, not informal ones.
"I help train their soldiers, for the most part," he answered. "And occasionally accompany delegations to Orlais. Of late, I also carry messages." He bowed deeply.
"Now you can deliver it," Alistair said, glad Michel at least had some sense of humor. "Ser Michel, this is the famed-"
His mind went blank. The name he was about to say vanished from the tip of his tongue.
But he'd been king for a decade, and if he'd learned one thing of the years, it was how to roll with these moments when his brain deserted him. He barely missed a beat. "-Hero of Ferelden."
For a moment, he thought they didn't notice.
The Warden raised an eyebrow.
Michel opened his mouth, snapped it shut again almost at once, resisting some clever response by the skin of his Chevalier discipline. Potentially hazardous to one's health, cheeking a king.
Alistair had that effect on people.
Unfortunately, Michel was the only one under such illusions.
"Alistair Theirin. Did you just forget my name?"
"I-what? No. Of course not."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I've gotten better at it."
"Not enough to fool me."
Alistair crossed his arms and tried to look superior. He couldn't tell if he succeeded. "After years of hearing you called nothing else, what do you expect? You want called by name, try showing your face around here every few months!"
"Does that count as shouting?" Michel asked.
"Maybe, but it wasn't the first thing, so I still lost the bet."
"Will you two stop-"
"Your message is from Leliana, Ser Michel? We should probably get that out of the way quickly. I certainly don't want her upset with me! And perhaps I should properly introduce myself." The Warden passed Alistair with a pat on the shoulder and a conspiratorial wink, reassuring him there were no hard feelings, and the teasing was meant in good humor. "Are all the parlors in the same places, 'Your Majesty,' or have you rearranged the place since I was last here?"
Alistair followed, with half a mind to direct them to the scullery, but that wouldn't be very nice to Michel.
For the rest of the evening, they called one another nothing but "Your Majesty" and "Warden." Poor Michel's dignity held out until Alistair started calling him, "Chevalier," at which point, he gave in to the absurdity with an air of bemused resignation.
Note: I was challenged to write this with a completely anonymous Warden. Hopefully, that didn't make it too awkward! ^_^