For T & B
I.
Arrival had gone smoothly, at least by your measurement. Since by that system, smoothly is determined by whether or not you avoided The King it could not have been better. Arriving just scant hours before the ball instead of the day before, as beckoned? Brilliant. Ducking off to your guest room as soon as you'd gotten there with a half-formed excuse that you needed to "prepare"? Equally brilliant.
Lying on the bed staring up at the ceiling ready to go long before you needed to? Not so much.
You sigh, wondering idly what your mother would say if she saw you now, dressed in a gown finer than anything you'd ever seen at court in Highever, lying in a guest room of the royal palace. It feels strange to be put together in such a way, like you're revisiting something from so long ago it barely bears mentioning. This life at court, this world of nobles and grace and manners and custom... once, it had been ingrained in you. Now it just feels foreign and you half wish a Genlock would crash the party so you can behead it and feel at home.
It is strange to consider this shift in yourself. Who you are, where you came from, that origin shaped you and cast you out all at once. You cannot feel at home at court even with your years of experience and training, yet you would not have built the Wardens as quickly as you have without it. Singlehandedly you pulled an order together in Ferelden that you feel confident Duncan would have praised.
A difficult task for one unwilling to associate with The King.
You heave a sigh, the air feeling heavy in your lungs. You'll have to face him tonight, that much is certain. You will face him and smile at him and speak of the glory you found together, of the country you love. Your broken heart will not be obvious and you will make it through the night.
It's a mantra you've been repeating since the day you realized you would have to come to this event.
There's a vague sense of desperation to those words as they go through your mind. It is as though you cling to them to keep yourself afloat.
You do not allow yourself to think on other things. It does not matter that he has not yet married, he is still learning to govern. It does not matter that you've been away on other business every time Grey Warden presence was required in Denerim. It does not matter that the basket in your room is filled with roses or that you're too muscular to fill out a dress the way you once did. None of these are relevant, all that matters is breathing deeply and coming across calm. Confident. Strong.
You are the leader of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. You defeated the Blight and slayed the Archdemon. You freed the people of your land from the threat of Darkspawn and it is for that you are honoured.
Your strength got you here and your strength will get you through.
You hear footsteps in the hallway, servants rushing about. It is almost time to go downstairs and you repeat your mantra to yourself again. Strength. You are strong.
Your legs disagree, feeling scarcely able to hold your weight as you pull yourself off the bed.
One foot in front of the other and you study your reflection in the mirror. Harder than you were, once. The girl thrust into leadership is now the woman who commands obedience. Gone are tentative decisions, terror over making the wrong choice and in their place stands a confident tactician, a capable politician.
You wear the clothes of your childhood life and the face of your hardened adulthood, prepared to see the man who left you somewhere in between.
-- -- --
You are pleasantly surprised by the time the dinner has ended. Things have not been as horrible as you had imagined. The startling lurch in your stomach (not your heart, never) at the first sight of him had gone unnoticed by anyone else, all attention on the entrance of The King.
Realistically, you had known he would not look exactly the same. You had seen paintings, of course. Artists were eager to capture the first years of his rule, exploiting his publicity with the common people for badly rendered attempts to capture him with paints and ink. This had been different, though. This realness of his presence as he entered the banquet hall. For all that you have become harder in your years, it was almost as though the opposite were true in him.
He was still a warrior, that was evident in his every step, his build, his hands. No, he had not gone softer in body. Instead, it was as though all of his roughness was being polished away. His smiles were not as wide, his eyes more guarded than you recalled. Perhaps soft was the wrong comparison? Smooth, then. He was smoother than the awkward man who had once shared your tent.
You try not to watch him, as he gives a speech that closes the meal. Your smile is warm and practiced as you murmur to the gathered Arls and Teyrns of Ferelden. You speak of the Grey Wardens with pride, their upcoming activities and plans. The work you have done to strengthen relations between the wardens in Orlais. So intent on keeping that distance are you that his announcement goes unnoticed, at first.
It is only when you realize conversation has dropped in the hall that you feel all eyes on you.
A blink, and you scan the parted crowd, realizing The King approaches you directly. Your chin raises, just slightly, but your careful expression does not falter.
"A dance, dear lady." Has his voice gotten deeper? Maybe it is just the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. "To begin the celebration."
His hand is extended to you.
Your pause is momentary, caught by no one else, but you force yourself to meet his eyes. "Of course, Your Majesty." And you place your hand in his, hoping your tone sounded as clear and calm as you intended.
You may have gotten through first seeing him without incident, but the feeling of his hand is nearly your undoing.
As if a wave rushing towards the shore, you are flooded in memory. His hand, not clothed in glove or gauntlet, feels warmer than the sun around your own and you recall the way this same hand once felt against your arm, your waist, your hips as you looked down at him. All hands, as he had once confessed you made him feel, and this simple firmness of his clasping yours is bringing back each time in your tent; each time in his. Free of plate or splint or chainmail, his hands on your body, on your face and it's all you can do to walk steadily towards the center of the room.
You feel as though the entire country is watching as he expertly manoeuvres you into position to dance. When had he gotten so trained in the graces of court? Your grip on his hand changes as you fall into the steps you learned before you held a sword. His other hand is resting lightly at the small of your back and your pounding heart drowns out the music. Three steps and you realize what dance this is, why it comes so easily. This is a dance of the court at Highever, traditional but far from the most popular of court dances.
Coincidence, that is all.
Your eyes meet his once more and it is all you can do not to stumble. He stares at you with such warmth, such feeling and you all but panic, thinking you've conjured this face from your memories and maybe you are not as sane as you had thought?
Yet, a moments study and you realize that, no, this is not that face from years before. His eyes still reveal too much, but the rest of him is different. You focus on these differences like they are water to your parched body.
His face is smoother, that is the first thing. While shadow hints about his jaw, it is clearly an expert hand that shaved it. You suppose it makes sense, he is hardly shaving with a spare dagger using a reflection cast onto his shield by campfire. Yes, gone is the rough stubble that had felt so strange and so welcome scraping against your neck, your collarbone, your breasts...
You move on to another feature.
His shoulders seem smaller, as though he is less broad. The fingers of the hand he does not grasp within his own rest on fine fabrics, not heavy armor. Yet, no, his shoulders are no less muscled than they had been before. You are merely unaccustomed to seeing him outside of armor, wearing the finery of The King.
The King.
Your eyes draw upward, to the crown atop his head. It looks perfect there. Maddeningly, his hair still stands up at the front but somehow that serves to highlight the crown even more. It is as though he was born to wear it.
Your stomach lurches and you hear your own voice in your ears. The confidence with which you had spoken of him to The Landsmeet, your conviction as you told them all, many in this room right now, that he should be their king. The crown atop his head is your doing, perhaps more than his own. You had given that push, you had stepped up when he could not, would not, and then...
You bring your eyes down from the crown, unable to look at his once more yet unsure where your gaze should fall. Resolutely, you focus on the room spinning behind him as he leads you so easily through the dance. You focus on the music, on counting the bars until it ends. His hand seems as though it is burning your own and you can feel the heat of his touch through the fabric of your dress as clearly as if you were naked.
And so you count.
It is all you can do to curtsey politely before him when the music ends, all you can manage not to yank your hand away when he brings it to his lips in thanks.
The strength you cling to barely keeps you from running back into the crowd as they applaud and you hope no one notices your sudden departure as they all join in the dancing.
Vainly, you wish your friends were there. You long to hear Leliana's musical voice or even Oghren's drunken laughter. Anything to remind you that something exists other than him, and you, and what you had been. But no, none of them are there. For all the part they played, for all that Ferelden would not stand without them, you are the only one at this banquet. You are the noble, you are the one with a place at court and no Orlesian bard, Dwarven drunkard or Elf from Antiva have a place in this courtly hell you find yourself in.
Your desperate search for the air in your lungs draws you outside onto a balcony. The city of Denerim lies below you and you want to rip off this dress, don your armor, and vanish into the night.
That dance, his hand holding yours, his eyes... Too much, it had all been too much and you are out of strength. You know you must regroup, must return to the banquet before anyone notices, before anyone talks. You are the leader of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, not The King`s former lover. One or the other, not both.
The night air fills your lungs and you think you can hear distant sounds of the city below breaking through the pounding of your heart. Just a few more minutes and you will return, your strength replenished.
From behind you, his voice says your name.
The air is gone from your lungs again and you beg the Maker your ears deceive you.