Dawn was welcomed with a yawn and a protest, but one does not avoid summons.
Sleepy smiles were met with shrewd glances and Josephine pointedly bringing them large, steaming mugs of honey tea, apologising for the early hour. Breathing deep of the sweetened brew, Evelyn smiled softly. Of the four of them, it's a safe bet she was the only one still asleep. Assuming Leliana or Cullen actually slept in the first place. It's hard to tell with the Spymaster, but her Commander slouches like a man desperate to rest his head when he thinks the others aren't watching him, and his hand strays to rub the tension from his neck often.
Her poor love. She tried to make the meeting easy on him, Josephine ticking off tasks with deadly efficiency as they made their way through the list of lords to appease and missions to undertake. Things that she wishes to debate she tables for later and everything else is handled as swiftly as she can make the necessary decisions.
A second round of tea is called for and delicate, flaky pastries accompany the delivery. Crumbs are spilled over the map, tracing suggested troop movements. But the three of them are good at this, at their respective jobs, and sooner than not everything on Josephine's list has been taken care of and the impromptu breakfast devoured.
Sighing happily and stretching her arms above her head, Evelyn rocked back from the war table. "Morrigan arrives later today, doesn't she?"
"Yes, Inquisitor. Which reminds me..." Josephine shot a worried glance at Cullen before returning her focus to Evelyn. "She is here under orders of the Empress. So naturally we will need to host her properly."
She can almost see the tension building in her Commander as he glared at the Antivan, dreading the next words.
"If it's alright with you, I've taken the liberty of arranging a small soiree for our visiting dignitaries tonight. We do also have to celebrate your lack of engagement, after all."
Voiced marred by a lack of sleep and irritation, Cullen grumbled. "And you thought to mention it only now because?"
"Because at this short notice, it's too late to back out or complain." Evelyn chuckled, appreciating the clever maneuvering of the Ambassador. "Just tell me I don't have to wear that stuffy uniform, though, please." Although the idea of spending her entire evening surrounded by men and women pandering to her and the Inquisition did not appeal, it would appeal less if she were forced to wear the red and gold dress uniform.
Josephine smiled warmly, sharing a look with Leliana. "Actually, since we are holding the event, we thought we would impose upon Vivienne's dress maker."
"It's not often we get to dress up like the ladies we are," the redhead giggled. "I have the most darling shoes I've been looking forward to showing off." The two ignored the grumbles from their left. They'd obviously been planning something like this for a while, and Morrigan's arrival had given them the perfect excuse.
Well, Evelyn couldn't fault them for wanting to relax. And maybe a night of inane drivel would be nice, distract from the gloom and doom that kept sinking back in.
Cullen, however, clearly felt differently.
She watched her three advisers bicker with no small amusement. He was losing against the smaller women, and shot her a pleading look. "I barely survived the Winter Palace! And now you expect me to put up with that behaviour in my own home?"
All she could do was shrug as Leliana teased him. "Oh, just tell a few stories of dashing exploits and look pretty. You don't even have to change out of your armor, if you're so worried about being attacked."
"It would reflect poorly if you didn't at least put in an appearance," Josephine sighed, scribbling something on her board. "I know several families that are only here because they believe in our military might."
Evelyn bit back a laugh as he glared, unwilling to admit his defeat. She should feel bad, she knew. His discomfort in Orlais had been palpable. His discomfort around the visiting nobles was similarly obvious. Slipping around the war table to his side, she took his hand in hers, coaxing it from the fist he clearly wanted to slam into the table. Or the wall. Or something a little more breakable.
"Stay long enough to eat," she soothed, attempting a compromise. "Then seclude yourself away wherever you like. Rylen's still here for a couple of days, so he can talk about all the dashing exploits we might need."
His grumbles subsided, well and truly beat by the three women.
"Fine. But Rylen has to wear the uniform."
Maker's breath, but Josephine is a force of nature. In the time it took Evelyn and Morrigan to discuss matters in private she had the main hall cleaned and redecorated in red and gold, additional tables and chairs brought in, and a band.
A Void damned band.
Cullen narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the room. They had so many other things they could be doing. Important, life or death things. Instead, they were holding a party. And small?
He should have known the Antivan had a vastly different definition of the word.
Cullen grumbled under his breath as he did another head count from the safety of the main door. How were there this many people in Skyhold in the first place? It was an atrocious waste of resources. But, he begrudgingly admitted, it did wonders for morale. In addition to Rylen - who, frustratingly, was enjoying the fit of the hastily tailored uniform - he'd talked several of his more seasoned men into attending. The more attention they got, the less he would be missed, in theory.
Although for now, he was notice free as the Ladies of Skyhold ruled the room. Certainly he cut an impressive enough figure, and Rylen - again, frustratingly - looked more than at ease in the crowd. Dorian owned his own corner, sipping wine nonchalantly and discussing banal trivia with his admirers. Even Blackwall had tidied up to be in attendance, and Varric was showing even more chest hair than usual. But the Ladies, Maker bless them.
They ruled.
And they knew it. Vivienne was resplendent as she held court, all white and dark blue, low cut and hints of long legs, her silver mask hiding her eyes but not the curve of (dis)approval on her mouth. Leliana shone in royal purple, all elegance and hidden secrets as she moved through the room. Josephine sparkled in gold and silver, overseeing everything from the dais with an eager smile and a soft blush. Morrigan slipped through the throngs like a shadow, sparing a nod here and a word there, her skirts sweeping the floor behind her. Cassandra owned her space too, in black and red and practical, a half skirt her compromise to the others as she tried to avoid conversation.
Sera, no doubt, had been banished to the tavern for the night. A wry chuckle escaped him at the thought of the elf dressing up to fit in. He doubted her capable of it, she would probably still be vibrant in plaidweave and haphazardly patched rips and tears. That would not go down well in this discerning crowd.
A crowd that was eagerly awaiting the Inquisitor.
There were rumours she was off with her mysterious suitor. Others, that she regretted turning aside her betrothed and was chasing after Nathaniel. Yet others suggested she was hiding in plain sight behind an Orlesian mask waiting to catch someone's eye, but he knew none of the women here moved the way she did. So, like many others in the hall, his gaze would wander to her door.
That was his excuse for his surprise when Evelyn slipped beside him. He had no idea where she had come from, but it certainly wasn't her chambers, and she shot him a cheeky grin before assessing the room in front of them like a battlefield.
"Leave it to Josie to undersell what she was planning."
Cullen grumbled out an affirmative, taking the opportunity to study her. Dark blue and green cloaked her, all feminine curves and covered skin. It was no Chantry robe but it was modest; a dress worthy of the Herald of Andraste. Still, he had some inkling as to what lay under the soft fabric clinging to her chest and the flared skirt, and that knowledge brought more than a smile to his face.
Her braid was littered with small white blossoms again, and he had to wonder if it was for his sake, or to give the nobles something to talk about. Or perhaps she simply liked the way it looked, independent of any other factors.
He hoped, in part, that it was for him.
Before he could say anything further, the room changed. Her presence had been noticed, a ripple spreading through the crowd as whispers flew once more. Halamshiral on a smaller scale, and he tensed.
At least here he had his sword.
Feeling a nudge, he returned his attention to the woman at his side. A smile slid across her features as she linked her arm in his. "Escort me, Commander. I'd like some time with you before you abandon us to this folly."
He let a low rumble of a chuckle escape him, tugging her forward with him. "Abandon you? That doesn't sound like something an honourable man would do."
Cullen is distinctly aware she's using him as a buffer to avoid conversations as she let him lead her to the dais, but he cannot bring himself to mind when she leans into him ever so slightly. "I wouldn't jest, ser, or I'll order you to stay all night."
Her face is stoic, but her tone betrays the laughter bubbling under the surface, and he can't resist teasing her in turn. "My Lady, surely not all night. How else am I to maintain my charming Fereldan grumpiness if I stay?"
"Surely staying would only serve to increase the severity of your mood? Thereby making you all the more charming to our guests," she shot back, a small smile easing her features.
"Inquisitor, I do hope you aren't suggesting I intentionally be made to suffer for the sake of amusing some nobles." If he tilts his head down and to the left he can whisper in her ear, and he took full advantage of that fact. It takes some effort to keep his face neutral, but at the same time Cullen isn't concerned about rumours. It's not hard, keeping his voice low, to add a growl to the pitch. "After all, I was rather hoping to abscond with you at some point, and I hate to disobey you."
He is impressed that she gives no outwardly obvious reaction, just a sideways glance and a slight tensing of her arm in his. Cullen can tell that Evelyn is trying to come up with a response, something witty perhaps, but his height over hers doesn't afford her the same privacy for her words in the crowded hall. She huffed, a small, disapproving noise, reclaiming her arm from him as she slowed to a stop. There's a twinkle of... something he doesn't quite recognize in her blue eyes as she curtseyed, murmuring a "Commander." It betrays nothing of her thoughts.
He raised an eyebrow, feeling the crowd press close to draw her away, Lords and Ladies clamoring for the Herald, for the Inquisitor. Josephine stood ready for introductions, but for just a moment the two of them had a small circle of calm.
Cullen had read the damn book, cover to cover. It had made him uncomfortable. Not that there were rules - he was a soldier, he lived for the order rules imposed - but that there were so many ways he could go wrong, unintentionally insult her, slight someone else with his efforts. More than that, it hadn't escaped him, much though he'd tried to avoid the conversation, that he had essentially insisted Evelyn consider him for a husband.
Her husband.
Void damned nobles, making everything so much harder than it needed to be. What was wrong with the way they did it back home? Getting to know the person, spending time together, alone, finding out if you fit.
Maker, did she ever fit with him.
No, not his point. The book had made it sound like a contract, a series of steps each party had to take to ensure it was proper and correct and acceptable. The awkward way he had proposed - ugh, no, asked her - if she wanted to be wooed and her subsequent confusion should have given him some notion of what he'd mistakenly said. But Evelyn had seemed comfortable with his ignorance and subsequent refusal to address the end goal of a typical courtship, for which he was thankful. She had even offered him a way out, on more than one occasion, though he'd been too blind to notice it. And she had been happy with his efforts, incorrect though it could be argued they were.
Cullen had done things his way. He was determined to continue doing things his way. Josephine hadn't complained. If anything, the Ambassador had been thrilled that he had kept his interest in their Inquisitor quiet. He knew, on a professional level, that her potential availability for marriage had been a bargaining chip in some of their alliances.
He kept meaning to ask Evelyn, though. If she wanted more, if she needed him to step in. If he needed to be more obvious. Hers was the only opinion he cared to listen to on the matter, regardless of the needs of the Inquisition. But the topic had yet to come up naturally, and she had been content to let him keep what was between them as private as it could be.
A snort almost escaped him at the thought. It had to be a terribly kept secret at this point, surely?
Their moment of calm was almost over, and Cullen's scar tugged up as he smirked, bowing in return to her curtsy. As he did so, he caught her right hand, pressing his lips to the satin covering her knuckles. "To work, My Lady."
Ladies swooned.
Well, almost. They certainly would be when the book came out. A few tweaks here and there and it would be the most romantic and heartbreaking scene in the novel. Two star-crossed lovers, unable to express themselves as they wished because of their positions in the court, sharing a brief moment of connection.
Perfect. Once he made a few edits.
The dress, for starters. It would need to be low-cut; nothing sold like heaving bosoms. A swooshier skirt, for an epic ballroom dance scene. And sheer fabric with lace for the arms. Or maybe bare shoulders and long silk gloves. Little Fox wasn't a prude, he knew that, and she favoured the exact kind of tight leathers his readers enjoyed for her day to day, but every time he'd seen her dress up, it had been too practical. Too proper. Too... Not sensual, not really, not in the conventional sense.
It clearly worked for Curly, mind. And half the court. Maybe it was the suggestion of innocence and purity her dress evoked? She was the Herald of Andraste, so it made sense she would look the part now and again. Well, no matter. Innocence and purity didn't sell novels. The supposed holy figure baring as much skin as scandalously possible would.
Varric scribbled his notes hastily, eyes flickering over the room. Cullen and Cassandra were arguing about something, probably which one of them would get to leave first. Josephine and Evelyn were doing their rounds. That Knight-Captain from the Marches was having a wonderful time with several ladies hanging on his every word.
Hm... Maybe his novel needed a mysterious tattooed man with a captivating accent?
He flipped a page to write that idea down, then flipped back to finish his thoughts there. Soirees like this didn't appeal to him usually - he'd much rather be in the tavern with Bull and Sera - but he'd been curious. The Skyhold rumour mill had been abuzz the last few days, the attention still heavily on the fact that someone had made an impression on the Inquisitor.
Little Fox hadn't helped matters, wearing elderflower in her hair.
But it was good fodder for book ideas, and maybe he'd get some juicy gossip out of it too. Something that would give him an advantage over Dorian, who had been insufferable the last few days. Honestly, Sparkler gets invited to help Curly and the Seeker one time, and he doesn't stop crowing about it.
He glanced up briefly, shaking his head. Thinking about Curly, that armor would have to be changed too. Some kind of dress uniform, probably. Definite no to the fur.
Or yes to the fur, but for a later chapter. He'd have to ask the Seeker for her opinion on that. He couldn't wait to see what shade she would colour at the suggestion.
To work. Work. Only her Commander would think of a party as work.
But, begrudgingly, it sort of was work. Heavy hangs the head, the thought grumbled in her mind as she greeted the assorted guests, Inquisitor mask in place. It figured she wouldn't truly enjoy the gathering, but she had hoped.
Even after her meeting with Morrigan, she had hoped.
She was reminded of her time in the Courts, of standing just so, sipping her drink just so, smiling just so. Duty, do your duty, child. Her mother was never harsh, but always expectant. The time she had spent in Orlais had been worse. Or better. It depended. Certainly better for not having her mother criticising the way she held her knife, but worse for the weight of a mask on her face and the constant attempts at backstabbing. At least she'd had Maxwell.
Her thoughts didn't often wander to her family, to her brother. He hardly ever wrote, and what letters she sent were often short and pithy. He had sacrificed a lot to help her the first time against Nathaniel and she hadn't wanted to draw him into anything dangerous. In turn, he had offered the bare minimum of support to her and the Inquisition, and left it at that.
She hadn't been offended. He had his own life to think about. His own faith, much less shaken than hers. All that had mattered was that he was safe in Ostwick.
Heavy hangs the head, her father's counsel. Duty, her mother's. Be happy, Maxwell had said on the boat back from Orlais. She had tried to balance the three, finding joy in the duty that sent her to the Chantry, finding it not so heavy a burden. It had been harder, being the Herald. The joy had only come when she didn't embrace it, when she spent time not worrying about the burdens of command. It was even harder now, being the Inquisitor.
Or, it had been. Her advisers had become quite proficient at sharing the burdens, as had her companions. What duty relied solely on her - the rifts, Corypheus - she didn't face alone, not truly. And happiness? Happiness was her friends; tea parties and drinking in the tavern and reading smutty books and pushing each other into the river and snowball fights and horse races and fireside chats. Happiness was the flash of silverite across the hall, golden hair and dark fur, a scar tugging a wry smile into something more than handsome.
It was more than she deserved, at times.
He was definitely more than she deserved.
Tomorrow, she would have to talk with them about war. Tomorrow she would have to listen to them arrange for the army to march. Tomorrow -
Tonight she wanted to be happy.
Biting back a sigh she smiled sweetly, murmuring her greetings to yet another Lord.