3. "The Bitter Past Is Not Erased"
Okay, folks. I have a request. Tell me what I'm doing wrong here, and what I should do with this next?
And yeah, if you think you recognise the lyrics below as an adapted form of Steeleye Span's "Long Lankin," that's because it is. The Lamkin/Lankin/Langkin ballad tradition is bloody creepy, btw.
"Alistair has been telling me stories about Orlesian minstrels," Aud says, with deceptive mildness.
Leliana's fingers fumble on the strings of her lyre. A child's mistake, but the Warden's words are sufficiently unforeseen to jar her.
They have been sitting shoulder-to-shoulder by the fireside, easy companionship: it is Alistair's turn to take first watch, and neither of them are ready to join Sten and Morrigan in slumber. "Oh?" she says lightly, and forces her fingers back into motion. Not aimless strumming: a tune soothing to the ear and complicated enough to require some portion of her concentration. The Lay of Grey Lankin is commonly heard in Orlais, but she doubts any Ferelden is familiar with the words. "I thought I was the storyteller in this company. Our Alistair must be developing unforeseen talents. Morrigan will be so very shocked, will she not?"
She expects a snort, or perhaps even a chuckle. She does not expect the warm grasp on her forearm, or Aud's careful, considering tilt of the head. "You do that very well, you know," Aud says, still mild. Firelight reflects bloody steel from her gold-dark eyes. "Deflect questions. You're good at it. You're good at any number of things I would not have expected from a simple wandering minstrel turned Chantry anchorite. Just because I was born underground doesn't mean I know nothing of the world, Leliana. So tell me, how many Orlesian minstrels serve as spies?"
And are you one of them? It is unsaid, but Leliana hears it anyway. She has been careless with her cover, let her enthusiasm and her certainty get the better of her - it doesn't help that she has not liked lying to the Wardens, even by omission. The years in the Chantry have not changed what she is, not wholly, but deceit is no longer quite as natural to her as it was once. In another time and place, such negligence would have already cost her her life.
Grey Lankin, that lay of treachery and blood, is no longer so soothing to her ear.
"Some." Leliana swallows. If she lies now, and is discovered, at the very least Aud will never trust her again. So it must be as much truth as she can bear telling. "Not all minstrels are spies. Most are just singers and storytellers. But some... some are what we call bards."
"There's a difference?" Aud's voice is careless, casual, but the Warden has a mind like a steel trap, and Leliana knows her apparent inattention is misleading.
"In Orlais," and she must pick her words carefully now, even more carefully than before, "bards are minstrels, and more. Spies, as you say. Many work alone, or in small groups, doing the bidding of a patron who pays for their services. In Orlais, you see, there is much rivalry among the high-born. They fight over land, influence and the favour of the empress. They cannot do this openly, because it is impolite, and in public they wear smiling faces and pretend to be civil. In secret they plot and scheme to destroy each other.." A trace of scorn colours her tone. There is no reason to hide how she feels about the noble vipers of Orlais, not here. "It is a game completely meaningless to anyone but its players." And its victims.
"You seem to know quite a bit about these bards." A barbed observation, for all its quietness. Aud is still leaning against her shoulder, but Leliana can feel the tension in the Warden's muscled arm. This is the rock on which their fragile trust will root or break, and it hardly matters that it is no longer truly a question.
"I spent most of my adult life as one." Leliana sets her lyre down, carefully, and covers the hand that still holds her wrist with her own. Aud's skin is warm, almost hot: she has admitted before now that she believes it is the taint in her blood, burning her up from the inside like a charcoal-burner's flame. A slow death sentence, in the name of necessity. Necessity is a dirty word. It etches the back of Leliana's teeth with bile. Please believe me. "But I swear to you, I left that part of my life behind me when I came to Ferelden, to the Chantry. The Maker brought me here."
"In my place..." Aud leans her head on Leliana's shoulder. Her breath smells of mint and onions, and something else, some fainter fragrance of granite and old blood. Her voice is layered with many things, weariness and regret not least among them. "Loghain has a price on my head, mine and Alistair's. In my place, would you trust yourself? Could you dare?"
"Loghain has not seen both you and Alistair wake screaming from nightmares of the archdemon. I believe you two are our best hope against the Blight. And be reasonable, my friend." Leliana's lips twitch. If Aud truly distrusts her, the Warden would hardly rest so companionably against her side. Both of them know that, which makes this - what? A test? Or are the stories of the dwarves true after all, that they keep their enemies closer than their lovers? She has the sudden absurd whimsy to lean down and see if Aud's lips are as inviting as they look. Bad bard. That is not the best way to inspire her trust right now, truly. "If I wanted to do you harm, one of us would be dead already, no?"
Now Aud snorts. "At least you're not overconfident."
"I have seen you fight, dear Aud. And you are aware you're nearly impossible to come upon unprepared, yes? I have noticed this, too. What do they teach you in Orzammar?"
A sudden cold stiffness. Leliana's stomach knots. She has overstepped: Aud does not mention her life before the Grey Wardens. Not ever, except to share bits and pieces of dwarven knowledge of darkspawn, their habits, their weaknesses, and how better to kill them.
"Survival," Aud says, without inflection. "Orzammar teaches survival." Then she exhales, as if deliberately letting go of some dark tension, and folds her fingers around Leliana's palm. "That tune you played before, does it have words?"
"It does, yes." Leliana feels her mouth twist, wry. "Though I do not much like to sing them. It is scarcely a cheerful song."
"That's appropriate." Aud grins. "We're hardly a cheerful optimistic little band. Teach me?"
And it is such a relief to see the Warden grin, to find herself still accepted, that she does.
Beware of Grey Lankin, that lives amongst the wood.
Beware the gorse, beware the moor, beware of Grey Lankin
Be sure the doors are bolted well, lest Lankin should come near.
Leliana wonders how many people imagine the words only a tale, with no truth in them. Aud, she thinks, is not one of them.
You can tell the truth with lies, and lie with the truth. And no one ever trusts without the risk of betrayal, or loves without loss.
She knows how she learned that lesson. But who taught Aud, and at what cost?
