Mournful Notes
Fereldans would no doubt be surprised at how many Orlesians mourned King Maric's sudden and tragic death at sea, but mourn him they did. Vast numbers of weeping citizens took to the streets of Val Royeaux in the days after his death was announced, seeking solace amongst one another. They saw no hypocrisy in this behavior, any more than they saw anything untoward about admiring Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of River Dane. Which is not to say soldiers who were at that bloody battle admired him, but the average Orlesian in the street certainly did. And no other nation in Thedas appreciated grand, theatrical gestures like Orlais did. Nothing lent itself more to such a grand theatrical gesture than Maric's death.
To Orlesians, Maric Theirin was a handsome, heroic figure who spoke to their quixotic, romantic souls. They saw Maric the Savior as a young man who had risen above the tragic death of his mother to unite a divided nation and vanquish a mighty foe, thus freeing his people. What could be more romantic and noble than that? He was a living legend and they could appreciate how valiant, how truly glorious his deeds were. They saw this through eyes that were conveniently blind to their own role as the mighty foe, much in the same way they admired the gallantry and bravery of the Chevaliers and ignored the horrendous crimes committed by those same men. It was the act of heroism or chivalry that they found romantic and they simply ignored the inconvenient truths behind such acts. That was the reason that Grey Wardens were treated with such reverence in Orlais. Heroic deeds, regardless of how those deeds were accomplished.
Fights occasionally broke out as those who had lost limbs or loved ones in the war did not appreciate the spectacle of Orlesians mourning the very one responsible for the loss, but those fights were few and far between. After the third day of weeping Orlesians crowding the streets, Leonie avoided leaving the Grey Warden compound.
Her Imperial Highness Empress Celene made a personal appeal to the Divine requesting the Choir of the Grand Cathedral stop the chant for a full day and night. Such a request was unprecedented. Negotiations between the Grand Cathedral and the Grand Imperial Palace continued at a hectic pace until a compromise was reached. They would stop the chant at sunset on the first day of the following week and it would not resume for one hour, at which time they would begin with the Canticle of Trials. Imperial Proclamations declared that day to be a day of national mourning and the criers heralded the news throughout Orlais. The extravagant gesture, the magnificent spectacle would be sure to satisfy even the most romantic of Orlesians. That it further endeared Celene to her people was a happy coincidence, or so she claimed.
Leonie was blessed with a Ferelden mother, which meant she had a strong streak of pragmatism. She was sensible enough to understand how this might affect Duncan and the Ferelden Grey Wardens, so for Leonie, it was a double tragedy. On the one hand, she had greatly admired Maric as a king and on the other, she knew that any further concessions and comprises between Ferelden and the Grey Wardens might have perished along with Maric. She only hoped that Loghain, who no doubt blamed an Orlesian conspiracy for deliberately sinking Maric's ship, would not renege on the one promise they had elicited from the king, that of the warehouse in Denerim now stocked with supplies and equipment. She was also concerned that Loghain would demand the removal of most, if not all, Grey Wardens currently within Ferelden's borders. She could only hope that Prince Cailan, soon to be crowned king, would be strong enough to resist any pressure Loghain exerted in that regard. Only time would tell.
The morning of the national holiday dawned bright and unseasonably warm. Leonie dressed carefully in her ceremonial plate, newly polished for the occasion. Empress Celene wanted a Grey Warden amongst her retinue as she made her carefully staged grand entrance into the Cathedral of the Divine for a special service. Bertran, the traitor, had assigned her to the task.
"Who better than the famous Lion of Orlais?" he had asked with a teasing glint in his eye. She had swatted his arm and rolled her eyes but agreed because he was her superior.
As it turned out, she missed the parade and service. Marliss didn't arrive at her usual time, nor had she arrived by the time Leonie needed to leave. Marliss was always there, arriving every day with an almost military precision. Leonie went down to the servant's apartments and knocked on the door that housed Marliss and her brother Faulon, who was Bertran's man servant but. When nobody answered her knock, Leonie felt the first quiver of alarm.
She knew she should leave for the parade but she found herself in Bertran's office. "Bertie, have you seen Faulon today?"
"Shouldn't you be with Celene right now?" he asked, looking up from his paperwork with a hint of a scowl.
"Marliss did not come to work today and when I went to check on her, she was not in her room. Neither was Faulon. "
Bertie pushed aside his work and stood up, the scowl shifting into a frown. "I don't know if he's there or not, Leo. I came in early to finish up the monthly reports," he said and she heard the edge of concern coloring his voice.
"I will go and check. I would ask that you send Fabian in my stead. He looks much better in the ceremonial armor than I and I need to find Marliss. Something does not feel right about this."
"Wait and I'll go with you," he began but she brushed his offer aside with a wave. Laurent and Teodar were no doubt nearby. She was perfectly safe. It was Marliss who might be in need of help.
Leonie went directly to Bertran's quarters but Faulon wasn't there. She stopped several servants she encountered, inquiring after Marliss or Faulon. A young woman, a servant in the dining hall, began to cry the minute Leonie asked her about Marliss. From the redness rimming her eyes, she had been crying for some time.
"Tell me, Astrid. What is it?" Leonie asked and she fought to keep her voice calm because fear was in the shadows, lurking, ready to take control of her.
"I was afraid for her but Faulon said not to worry, he'd take care of it," Astrid began and then pulled her apron over her eyes and began to sob.
"Please, Astrid, tell me and I will help," Leonie urged, patting the young woman's back gently.
"Philippe Maraville has been panting after her for weeks now. I told her to tell you, Lady Leonie, but she said she could handle herself well enough and Faulon would protect her if necessary."
"Philippe Maraville? Is he not one of the Chevaliers in service to Empress Celene?"
"Yes, my lady."
The fear stepped out of the shadows and into the pit of Leonie's stomach. "Go and find Commander Bertran. You know who he is, yes?" At the young woman's nod, Leonie continued. "Tell him what has transpired. Tell him I have gone to find Marliss."
Without waiting to see if Astrid was following her orders, Leonie turned on her heel and left the dining hall, heading out of the Grey Warden compound. Chevaliers in the service of Empress Celene were housed in lavish apartments on the northern edge of the palace grounds. She hadn't gone twenty paces in that direction when she saw a small figure carrying a bundle in his arms. She was running then, her armor creaking in protest.
Marliss looked incredibly small in her brother's arms, even for an elf. And she looked brutalized, bloodied and broken. Anger, white hot, flamed inside her burning away any vestiges of her fear. "Where is that bastard?" she ground out.
Faulon looked at her seemingly without recognition.
"Take her to our infirmary and have someone find Warden Marcus. Do you understand, Faulon?"
He nodded mutely and continued walking toward the Grey Warden compound. Leonie rushed on, propelled by a growing rage. She entered the Chevalier area at a dead run and halted, catching her breath. She would need calm now. She would need her focus.
"Maraville! Come and fight me, if you dare!" she challenged, ignoring the growing number of Chevaliers gathering in the courtyard.
"You," she snarled at the nearest man. "Fetch that pig Maraville and do it quickly," she commanded in a voice that was steel sheathed in ice.
Philippe Maraville was a tall, broad shouldered man with sharp, aristocratic features and a penchant for Antivan brandy. He came out of his quarters, a sneer on his face, sword in hand.
"Well, well. Leonie Caron. Come to play with the men?" he mocked.
"No, Maraville. I have come to challenge you to a duel, unless you are too great a coward to face me."
She unsheathed her sword and stood, testing its balance, waiting for him to make a move. He laughed.
"You would duel a Chevalier over a common slattern? An elf? he asked, incredulous at such a notion. But she heard the faintest overtone of alarm in his voice.
"Are you afraid, Maraville? You should be. I am not some helpless woman that you can brutalize," she replied contemptuously and raised her sword. She adjusted her stance, standing lightly on the balls of her feet.
Maraville grinned then, cocky in front of his friends and fellow Chevaliers. He gave her a derisive sniff as he bowed. "As you wish," he replied arrogantly.
"If you think this will end when first blood is drawn, you very much mistake the matter. This duel ends when you are lying dead at my feet," she said coldly, her words a promise. Maraville blanched, but his fellow Chevaliers were crowding around, bets being taken and encouragement being shouted. He had nowhere to escape, even if he had wanted to.
"So be it," he agreed and a cheer arose.
They circled one another, sword arms extended, measuring each other. He was much stronger, with a longer reach but she was agile and quick. It would have to be enough, she thought, narrowing her eyes, waiting for him to make the first move.
He lunged. She feinted, extending and then disengaging, leaving him to spin around, dropping his sword hand slightly. She counter attacked, thrusting tight and high. Their swords clashed in a scream of metal on metal. She pressed him with a prise de fer, before he once again danced away. She lunged and he parried. She pressed again, bringing her sword along the inside edge of his, flicking his shoulder before he countered, whipping his sword up and thrusting. She parried. Sweat was dripping down her face, her muscles taut and straining. She saw that he was also sweating. His breath was coming in short gasps. She watched for an opening, knowing that she could outlast him if she could avoid his thrusts.
Men were cheering and encouraging, some even for her, she realized as she circled him, sword arm bent slightly at the elbow. He was once again lunging. Seconds turned into minutes that felt more like hours. Her adrenaline and her fury kept her focused, but her breathing was becoming as labored as his. She would have to finish this soon or he would overwhelm her with his superior strength and reach.
She parried his next move and with a feint, came in close enough to nick his cheek before he was counterattacking and she felt the sting of his sword point high on her neck close to her ear. She could feel a slow trickle of blood mixing with the sweat, slithering down her neck and then under her armor. She pulled away quickly and then brought her sword up, lunging into the move with a quick double thrust that confused Maraville, leaving him open. She did not hesitate. With a swift snap of her wrist, she plunged the tip of her sword into the hollow of his throat and let her momentum push her sword through the flesh to come out on the other side. His eyes widened briefly and he twitched as blood began to bubble out of his mouth. She brought up her foot, resting it on his thigh and pushed him away, freeing her sword.
Silence. Not a sound from the gathered Chevaliers. She held her sword loosely and turned away, without a moment's remorse. No doubt there would be repercussions for his death but Leonie didn't care at that moment. She did not consider his death an act of vengeance, she saw it as a matter of justice and she would face whatever punishment Didier or Celene mandated.
Marcus was bent over Marliss when Leonie entered the infirmary. Laurent was there and he let out a sharp cry when he saw her. No doubt she was a mess. Her face was red from exertion, she was sweaty, her hair plastered to her like a second skin, blood oozing from her neck where Maraville's sword had found its mark. She pushed his concern away and sank down next to Faulon, who was holding his sister's hand, his face twisted with sorrow.
She looked up at Marcus and saw from his expression that Marliss was beyond even his healing powers.
"All I can do is ease her pain until she passes," he whispered somberly.
They sat quietly for some hours. Finally Faulon said tenderly, "Go, Marliss. Go beyond the pain."
Leonie felt tears begin to slide down her cheeks, hot and stinging and futile. As the sweet notes of the Canticle of Trials began to rise from the Cathedral of the Divine, Marliss died.
For the first time in her life, Leonie Caron, the Lion of Orlais, was ashamed of being Orlesian.