Fool's Errand
by R2s Muse
Disclaimer: The Dragon Age setting and its characters belong to Bioware. I'm just borrowing.
A/N: Usual thanks for my beta for reading this chapter. Twice, since I kept fiddling with it!
Chapter Summary: Hawke, Cullen and friends succeed in crashing Alistair's ball, and it goes both better and worse than they expected as they encounter some familiar faces.
Chapter 13: One Step Forward, Two Steps Back
Royal Palace
Denerim
Ferelden
"His Royal Highness, Prince Sebastian Vael, of Starkhaven."
A dull roar of murmurs greeted the announcement as Sebastian stepped into the royal ballroom. Magnificently dressed in white and gold and wearing a simple gold circlet, the prince commanded every eye as he swept down the grand staircase.
Spotless white marble steps, accented with gilded banisters, led down to the black and white tiled ballroom floor. The massive staircase split halfway down into twin flights of steps. At the foot of the steps, nestled between the two curving staircases, a fountain tinkled in welcome. A golden statue stood at the center of the fountain, a golden trio of nude women with outspread wings and linked hands. The golden ostentation in the ballroom's design suggested an Orlesian influence, a sign that the occupation would never be completely erased in Ferelden.
Unnoticed, the companions peeled off from the rear of the Prince's entourage and regrouped at the pale marble balustrade surrounding the landing at the top of the staircase. Cullen adjusted the unfamiliar ribbon of his black satin mask where it pressed uncomfortably behind his ear. He couldn't understand how Orlesian chevaliers could abide the loss of peripheral vision to such masks. He already found himself warily glancing over his shoulder to check his environs, a habit not usually seen among the carefree gentry attending the King's ball. He forced himself to relax and not break their cover.
It didn't take long for Sebastian to reach the ballroom proper and the flurry caused by the handsome, unmarried prince was easily visible from their vantage point. "I think it's safe to go in now," Varric said.
Hawke nodded. "One challenge down," she murmured under her breath. She grabbed the massive skirts of her green ball gown in two white-knuckled fists before starting her own descent down the polished stone steps, teetering precariously in the ridiculous, heeled shoes Sebastian's tailor had provided. Encumbered with both the shoes and the heavily layered skirt, she was earning her nickname in spades tonight, much to her increasing annoyance and Cullen's not-so-secret delight.
"May I give you a hand down the stairs, Grace?" Cullen asked while trying not to smirk.
He held out his arm, but she pointedly ignored it, still holding her gown in two hands. "If I wanted help falling on my ass this time, Cullen, I would ask for it," she said through clenched teeth, concentrating on each step.
Cullen flushed at the gibe while the others all looked away in amused discomfort and Fenris coughed in an unconvincing attempt to smother a laugh.
Cullen and Hawke's temporary truce had ended shortly upon leaving the Prince's estate. In the days since, she only spoke to him when necessity required, or to share similarly passive aggressive barbs. He should address the situation, apologize or something, but he was too ashamed of how he had acted at the pond that day. So, instead, he avoided the issue as well, like a coward. He wished he could escape to the Chantry in the vain hope that Andraste's grace could help cleanse his guilt and ease his conflicted thoughts. But every time he tried to slip away, Hawke's wordless scowl of disapproval forbade him.
Cullen rolled his eyes at Hawke's wobbly steps down the slippery staircase. The woman's pride was going to get her killed. "For pity's sake, the banister is there for a reason," he growled.
"And if we can avoid any further unsolicited and unnecessary advice, we should do well," she snapped without looking at him, setting her jaw mulishly as she continued down on her own. She kept her eyes fixed on the step below her and so was completely oblivious to Cullen's hand hovering against her wishes just behind her elbow.
In contrast to Hawke, Merrill floated down the stairs, as surefooted as if she wore shoes every day. The elf's face had been frozen in a smile of incandescent joy since entering the Royal Palace, and her smile had only grown since stepping into the glittering ballroom. Varric finally had encouraged her to keep her dark blue sequined mask in place so she wouldn't stand out so much.
Hawke successfully reached the main floor without incident, allowing Cullen to retract his steadying hand with her none the wiser. She made an attempt to brush out the wrinkles she'd crimped into the skirts, swearing softly at the "foolish pretension" of her costume. Unfortunately, Cullen couldn't quite agree with her about the dress.
True to Sebastian's word, each of them was elegantly dressed at the height of fashion, blending in perfectly with the Denerim elite. But in Hawke's case, the tailor had done his job too well. While the others were dressed in more neutral black and, for Merrill, dark blue, Hawke's dress was a vivid green, like the dressmaker had tried to match the exact shade of her eyes. The shiny confection fit her like a glove and was crowned with a slim green mask adorned with an ostentatious fan of peacock feathers. Apparently no one had apprised the dress's designer of their interest in avoiding attention. But, at least for once, Cullen wasn't the only one having a hard time keeping his eyes off of her.
Unaware of the scrutiny, Hawke squared her shoulders. "Let's figure out where the King is and get this over with," she grumbled, trudging onward into the crowd.
Cullen had to force himself to look away from the mesmerizing sway of green satin in front of him. After the foolishness at the pond, he could no longer delude himself that his preoccupation with her was purely professional, but it had been more difficult than expected to stop his traitorous eyes from constantly seeking her out. Tonight it was well-nigh impossible, even with the chilly distance that had grown between them.
With a disgusted shake of his head, he tried to survey the room. The checkered dance floor was filled to capacity with masked couples dancing a lively country reel. Some wore traditional masquerade masks that complemented the wearers' costumes while others wore more Orlesian-inspired aristocratic designs bearing ornate sigils and coats of arms.
The companions skirted around the dancers and soon discovered Alistair.
The blond king was easy to identify since he was unmasked and, like Sebastian, was at the center of a lively crowd of well-wishers, all jostling for a chance to congratulate the happy royal father. Stern guards stood discretely behind him, discouraging the overzealous who tried to jump the queue.
"This may be more difficult than we anticipated," Fenris commented. The elf looked unexpectedly regal in jet black velvet that made a striking contrast with his silvery hair and tattoos.
"We just need to watch for our chance," Varric replied. He turned to Merrill and bowed. "Would you like to dance, milady?"
"Oh, yes!" Merrill said, taking Varric's proffered hand.
"What happened to watching for our chance?" Hawke said sourly.
"Watching is what templars are for." Varric clapped Cullen on the arm and then led Merrill out onto the dance floor without a backward glance.
Hawke barely stifled her bark of laughter. Cullen shook his head and sighed, resigning himself to watching for an opening with the King amongst the sycophantic devotions of Denerim's glitterati.
Varric and Merrill joined the colorful swirl of couples moving through complicated patterns on the dance floor. Merrill obviously knew none of the steps, but she made up for this with her preternatural grace and contagious enthusiasm. Varric watched the Dalish woman with glowing eyes.
Hawke was also the subject of numerous admiring and curious glances, but no one dared approach her with Cullen glowering from behind her shoulder. Or, almost no one. One short-sighted Orlesian aristocrat minced toward them, too lasciviously focused on Hawke to notice Cullen's quelling stare. The man was dressed in a foppish surcoat of lilac and his mask was so large and ostentatious that a servant was forced to walk at his side carrying it with two hands. The Orlesian simpered at Hawke and launched into a confusing and slightly risqué metaphor about her beauty. But before Cullen could send him packing, Hawke cut the man off with an expletive-laden rejection that was so crude even Cullen's ears burned to hear it.
After the courtier had fled to nurse his offended pride, Cullen leaned over Hawke's shoulder. "My Lady Hawke, is that how you were taught to mingle in high society?" he said drily in her ear.
She turned around and scowled at him. "I am not a lady. And, you know when he praised my shining orbs, he didn't mean my eyes! He's lucky he didn't get a blade between his orbs."
"Please don't tell me you came to the King's ball armed, Hawke." He tried to sound shocked, but it came out more amused.
"A girl is always prepared," she said primly.
"Are you suggesting that you have room in that dress for a weapon?" Without thinking, he let his gaze slide down her figure, trying to imagine where it could be hidden.
She waited for him to look her in the eye again, and he flushed at being caught ogling her. "Are you suggesting that my dress is too snug?" she asked in a soft voice at odds with the dangerous glint in her eye.
His next rejoinder froze on his lips as a familiar woman with short red hair approached them, her bright blue eyes boldly unmasked. She stopped in front of Hawke without even glancing at Cullen, and the corners of her lips turned up in the impersonal smile he remembered from his interrogation. "Champion, so lovely to see you again," she said warmly in her Orlesian accent.
"Sister Nightingale," said Hawke with a marked lack of enthusiasm. "I should have figured that a mask wouldn't fool a bard."
The sister wore an elegantly beaded dress of pale pink, its simplicity and subtle sunburst design almost mimicking a Fereldan Chantry robe. Around her neck was a delicate silver chain suspending an amulet in the shape of a silver sword of mercy. "For one versed in the Game, a mask does not conceal, but illuminate."
Hawke grunted. "Strange to see you in such a public setting."
"I might say the same thing about you," the sister replied. "So, what brings the elusive Champion of Kirkwall out of hiding?" She tilted her head to side as if she didn't already know the answer. "Royal births are prodigious, certainly, but far from earthshaking." Cullen held his breath, wondering what game the woman was playing. She still hadn't acknowledged his presence.
"My business is my own," Hawke replied, her tone barely civil.
"Ah. I am sorry. I did not mean to pry." The sister's expressive lips pouted a moment before she continued. "When last we spoke, it was the eve of considerable earthshaking, no? All eyes were on Kirkwall, as I told you at the time. And what a show you gave them, before you slipped into the night." She gave Hawke another faux smile. "Like a criminal."
Hawke's nostrils flared. "Yes, how embarrassing that the Chantry needs criminals like me to help curb its own radicals." Their eyes locked and Cullen could only watch helplessly.
Why was the woman needling Hawke after all the effort she'd spent maneuvering the hero into doing her bidding? This Sister Nightingale was even more dangerous than he'd supposed.
With a trill of laughter, the sister was the first to look away. "I did not come over here for a quarrel. I only came to say hello to an unexpected face. Whatever the cause that brings you back into the world, I hope that it is worthy. Always a pleasure, Champion." The sister turned to the companions, nodding her head in parting, but stopped when she seemed to notice Cullen for the first time.
Her eyes lit up appreciatively, but also with an unfortunate flicker of recognition. "And, who is this you are hiding away at the wall?" She laughed again and took a step toward Cullen. "Strange to see a crusader for mage rights keeping company with a templar."
"You know each other?" Hawke asked in surprise. Her too-curious eyes bounced between them before settling on Cullen, demanding answers he couldn't give.
His mouth worked silently as he struggled to answer. Why would the sister reveal their connection? Did she want Hawke to suspect him? A cold trickle of sweat worked its way down the small of his back.
The sister gave another trill of laughter. "Ah, my manners. Ser, you are too polite to admit that you've forgotten our acquaintance. We met at the Circle Tower in Ferelden, albeit under rather dire circumstances. I was with the Hero of Ferelden when she liberated the Tower from Uldred. I am Leliana."
Cullen started in both surprise and relief. So that's why she looked familiar, he mused. He knew Solona hadn't been alone that night, but his memories of it were still imperfect. Another tiny piece of his past snapped into place.
"And you are . . . Cullen?" she continued. "Did I remember that right?"
"I-I-I am," he stammered. "I-I apologize. I didn't recognize you."
"Not to worry. We have all come a long way since then. Do you still see Solona much?"
Dumbfounded by her banal small talk, he was grateful when Hawke came to his rescue. "Did you know her well?" she interjected to Leliana.
"As well as any of us could. Isn't that right?" Leliana said to Cullen, giving him a peculiar look like she was sharing some inside joke with him. "Now, be a dear and lead a partner-less chantry sister for a dance? I'm sure the Champion won't mind." She shot Hawke a bland smile and then grabbed Cullen's hand without letting him respond, dragging him toward the dance floor.
Caught off guard, he followed for a few steps before looking back at Hawke for permission. Hawke's face had gone completely still.
"H-Hawke?" he asked.
"By all means," she said in a clipped, emotionless voice.
Caught between his two masters he could only follow the sister—Leliana, he corrected himself—to the dance floor. Joining in the stately procession, he was thankful for the slow pace which allowed him time to delve into his childhood memories for the steps to the Fereldan country dance. The Orlesian woman said nothing, so he asked, "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Dancing? It is a ball, Cullen. Not so unusual, I think."
He ground his teeth. "I mean dancing with me. It's a foolish risk."
"Ah yes, but now we have the excuse of reminiscences to share. Plus, you clearly have not looked in a mirror of late. You clean up quite nicely and templars have always been a weakness of mine." She smiled absently, leaving him tongue tied again. "So. It seems you and Hawke are getting along well."
"Isn't that the point?" he said brusquely, thankful she hadn't noticed the friction with Hawke.
"And your social charms are coming along, too," she said, pursing her lips ironically. "That must be Hawke's influence."
"What do you want?"
"What we all want, Cullen," she said in a voice suddenly full of steel. "An end to the war. You are in her circle now, but your job is far from over. Do not let a pretty dress distract you from your mission. And your freedom."
He cursed himself that even the Orlesian could see his unhealthy fixation on Hawke. "I've done what you asked," he said sullenly, unable to look her in the eye. "It's up to Hawke now."
"No, you must now ensure she convinces all parties to come to the peace table. Alistair is a sensible choice as host. He is a good person, universally liked and not generally considered a threat. You will need to move quickly to invite the others. I am told the templars are basing themselves in Jainen. And the mage leadership has been rumored near West Hill. I will feed this information to your friend Varric's associates so he may inform Hawke."
Although Cullen was no stranger to following orders, he chafed at her tugging his puppet strings. He might have escaped his cell, but he was still her prisoner. "If you know all these people so well, why aren't you doing this yourself?"
"It is as I have told you. We cannot have the Divine implicated in this. Not this time."
"So the rumors are true then? She did side with the mages at the White Spire."
She sighed. "Justinia seeks a real, workable solution for the mages in Thedas. Some of her activities recently have been discovered, causing the Seekers to withdraw their support from the Chantry. Now more than ever it is imperative that we work through intermediaries like you, Cullen."
Hearing it confirmed by an agent of the Chantry suddenly made it all too real. Most Holy Justinia, Fifth of Her Name, Heir to the Sunburst Throne, Exalted Servant of the Maker, had sided against her own knights and effectively upended the centuries old institutions that stood at the core of his duty.
His stomach clenched in a feeling strangely like betrayal. I have no duty. I am not a templar. This is not my problem, he tried to convince himself.
Not a templar . . .
"May I cut in?" a hard voice suddenly interrupted. It seemed Hawke had finally settled on a reaction, and her mouth was drawn down in a thin line.
"Just when we were getting to know each other better," Leliana purred in disappointment. "His accomplishments at Kinloch Hold are impressive, no?" If Cullen didn't know it was all an act, he would have said Leliana sounded besotted.
"I hope you're not trying to swipe my templar from under my nose. He doesn't work for you anymore," Hawke said.
"People cannot be stolen, as well you know." Hawke paled behind her mask and Cullen's anger flared that the sister would remind Hawke of her capture, however unknowingly.
"The Maker has given us all free will," Leliana continued, "in the hope that we will exercise it wisely. Your friend Cullen has some interesting choices to make with his future. I wonder how it must feel to have such freedom lie before you. I must say, I will be watching with some interest." She looked him in eye, her message clear, his reward dangling just beyond his reach. "Champion," she said with a nod at Hawke before disappearing into the colorful sea of dancers.
A stately waltz began to play and so he dutifully reached for Hawke, placing a hand on her waist. She stiffened and flinched away. "What are you doing?" she demanded.
He frowned. "I thought you wanted to dance."
"I don't dance." He just caught an intriguing flash of panic in her eyes before she settled back into a scowl.
"Then why . . .?"
"I thought I was saving you from an awkward situation." Her chin jutted out belligerently. "But if you would rather go dance with that . . . that woman, then be my guest." She spun to leave and the abrupt move caused her foot to slip out from under her. He quickly grabbed her arm before she could fall.
Her eyes darted to his hand on her arm and there it was again. The panic was back. He almost smiled. "Marian Hawke, may I have this dance before you tumble to the ground and embarrass yourself?"
She glared at him. "I don't dance," she hissed.
"That much is clear, Grace," he said, chuckling and slipping an arm around her waist. She stiffened in his arms. "Trust me."
"Where have I heard that before?" she muttered, but she didn't move away again. He tightened his arm around her, took her hand in his, and started the movements of the dance.
Cullen was far from the best dancer but he had always been a strong lead. His mother had made sure of that. Hawke tried to follow, her steps stiff and calculated, her spine rigid under his hand, and she couldn't stop looking down at her feet.
"Relax," he whispered in her ear, earning himself another glare. He grinned to himself over her shoulder, settling in to enjoy her discomfort. "Don't watch your feet, watch me."
She glared at him again, so he pulled her closer to his chest, enveloping her in his arms. She resisted the close embrace at first, holding her shoulders away and craning her neck to see her toes. Each time he would patiently draw her eyes back to him while instructing her movements with the subtle pressure of his hands and the turn of his body. It took several turns around the dance floor before she started to relax and trust his lead, listening only to his physical signals. With her slim figure pressed fully to his, finally they began to move as one, their bodies communicating through touch alone.
Not unlike at the pond, he thought with a rush of heat. He held her closer still and delighted at the rapid fire of her heartbeat against his.
He should worry at how easily his resolve crumbled, but he couldn't bring himself to regret the feel of her in his arms again. He had longed to get close to her all night—or if he was being honest with himself, every night since he had kissed her. Even if it was a terrible, terrible idea. He smiled down at her and decided to enjoy the moment.
ooXXoo
Hawke had no time to second-guess her rash decision to dance because it was all she could do to keep up with Cullen, while reminding herself to breathe and not watch her feet. The foolish heels on her shoes finally made sense as she tried to stay on her toes. She had only stepped on Cullen's feet twice so far.
Damn it.
Make that three times.
She concentrated on learning to follow Cullen's lead now that he had stopped whispering breathy taunts in her ear that shivered down her spine.
One-two-three. One-two-three. Breathe. One-two-three.
With more patience than she would have expected, he wordlessly guided her through the steps, his hand splayed against the flushed skin of her back. The warm pressure of his fingertips, the shifting of his weight, the turn of his hips against hers, all became an unspoken, highly stimulating choreography of movement across the floor. Her attention narrowed to just the close press of his body as she anticipated his cues and blocked out the stirring parallels with their last encounter.
One-two-three. One-two-three
No longer watching her feet, she locked onto his masked face, now so close to hers. Her pulse drummed loudly in her ears, drowning out the music so that her only gauge of timing was him. The rhythm of his step, the beat of his heart. She fixed on the command in his golden eyes and obeyed instinctively, her body answering every subtle shift and nuance in his.
One-two-three. Breathe.
Unexpectedly, he smiled at her. Not his usual lopsided smirk where the right-hand corner of his mouth pulled slightly higher, like it did when he mocked her, like it had all night so far. Instead, both sides curved up softly in approval.
Breathe. One-two-three. Breathe.
She drifted closer, caught in the thrall of that smile, her heart fluttering in apprehension. Just one step would close the distance. She slowly raised up on her toes, leaning in, and took that step. And fell.
"Damn it," she said out loud.
He caught her easily when she stumbled. "Easy, Grace," he said, chuckling and disentangling her feet from his. He set her back on her feet, spinning her once in place and turning her misstep into a flourish.
The right-hand corner of his mouth hitched up in amusement at her expense. She ground her teeth. At least, he seemed unaware that she had almost kissed him again.
Damn it.
She ducked her head and forced herself to think only about the steps, while trying to regain her composure and her pride.
One-two-three. Turn-two-three. Breathe.
In spite of what he might say about her, she was a naturally graceful person and so eventually the steps became more natural and his steadying grip less necessary, although he still held her close.
She was relieved when she could stop looking at him and instead scan the room and the spinning couples who miraculously avoided crashing into one another. Cullen took her hand and spun her in a circle, her green skirts swirling around her, before taking her surely in hand again without a missing a step, pulling her back against his broad chest.
"Nicely done, Grace," he murmured without even sounding ironic. He smiled down at her, another of those rare, natural smiles, and for a brief moment the detestable nickname almost sounded like an endearment. Her pulse sped up.
Breathe. Damn it.
In spite of the praise, she reminded herself that she couldn't trust him not to drop her again. All he had given her recently were mixed signals: the mocking gibes, the accusatory silence, the heated glances. Why should today be any different?
One-two-three.
"Shouldn't ballroom dancing be second nature for a daughter of the nobility?" he asked, smirking.
It was several moments before she felt confident enough to speak and dance at the same time. "I wasn't born into the nobility, you know."
One-two-three.
"But your mother was an Amell."
"And my father was an apostate pretending to be a farmer. Not much call for dancing skills in a backwater like Lothering."
Unaccountably, he frowned at this. "Even small town folk dance, Hawke. They're not savages."
"I didn't mean . . . We just never did that. Fugitives looking to blend in don't flaunt their noble roots, so I never learned."
"I think being unable to dance is more the anomaly."
"Why? Where did you learn to dance?"
"I was taught from an early age. Every gentleman learns how to dance, whatever his station."
She snorted. "Who told you that? Your templar finishing school?"
"No. My mother."
"Oh," was all she could say. Her gaze dropped back to her feet.
One-two-three. One-two-three. Breathe.
"She was Fereldan, your mother?" she asked, trying to find some neutral ground.
"She was," he said curtly. His expression had closed off again and a muscle jumped in his jaw. Everything she said seemed to set him off.
Why even bother? You're not speaking to him anyway, she reminded herself.
One-two-three. Turn-two-three.
"S-so, you met Sister Nightingale at the Tower in Ferelden?" she found herself asking. "Leliana, I mean."
"Apparently," he muttered.
"You don't remember?"
He shook his head. "I'd been confined in that cage for so long at the point when Solona came to free the Tower. All I remember is her. Thinking she was another vision sent to torment me."
No wonder he didn't want to talk about Solona Amell. "You had visions of her?"
"The demons, they dug into every sinful thought I'd ever had and exploited them. Eventually I couldn't tell what was real anymore."
"But, why her?"
He licked his lower lip. "Um, well. It was one of the ways they tried to break me. Through my, um, impure desires."
"I thought it was just a crush," she said, hating how catty she sounded. When he didn't respond, she added, "Besides, desire itself isn't impure."
"It is for a templar. Temptation conflicts with duty."
"Oh, more wicked temptations?" she said, her bitterness seeping out of its own accord.
One-two-three. Breathe. One-two-three.
His eyes became distant, picturing another time, another woman. "Yes."
Her anger rekindled. "So I was just another of these wicked temptations, then?"
"What?" he said, his brow crinkling in puzzlement as he came back to her.
Breathe. One-two . . . "Damn it." She stepped on his foot as she started to lose the rhythm of the dance. He grimaced and tried to recover by taking her hand and spinning her out in a circle.
When he pulled her back in, she stepped on his foot again. "Careful, Grace," he warned, his hand again pressing firmly against the small of her back.
"Is that why you so rudely rejected me?"
"Why I—?" His jaw dropped and then promptly snapped closed. "This is neither the time nor the place to discuss that," he said in a low growl.
"And you get to decide what is the appropriate time and place?" she snapped, pushing away from him altogether.
He glanced self-consciously around them at the nearby couples who observed their spat with curious disdain. "In this case, yes." He grabbed her arm and tried to lead her off the dance floor.
She yanked her arm out of his grip just as Varric walked up to them. The dwarf nodded amiably to a sour-looking old woman in purple who frowned down her nose at them.
"Ahem," Varric said discretely. "While Templar was abandoning his watch, our opening has presented itself." Varric jerked his head toward a raised dais where the king and his retinue watched the dancing from behind an elegant marble balustrade. The crowd around the monarch had dispersed with just a few stragglers being admitted by his over-attentive body guards. "Fenris and Merrill will keep an eye on our exits. Meanwhile, it's show time."
Hawke took a deep breath and then another. The hot flush in her cheeks started to cool along with her temper. She felt Cullen watching her, like he always did, but she focused instead on the blond head of the King above the bob and sway of dancers. "Show time," she said while promising herself that her discussion with Cullen was far from over.
A/N2: Next up: Ch 14: Collaboration. We find out if Hawke's gamble in approaching Alistair pays off, and Hawke and Cullen finally have their Come to Andraste moment. Thanks for reading!