What just happened?
Her eyes snap open at the click of the door closing behind the elf. If she weren't standing on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, sun streaming below the roof overhang making her squint, she'd swear she's in the midst of the most vivid, complicated dream she's ever had. She can still feel the tingling path of Sylvanas's hand across her jaw and against her lips, residual arcane from the caress still swirling inside her. It's too much to think about right now, to contemplate why Sylvanas had touched her like she did, piercing red eyes seeking permission to connect, instead of to dominate. She reaches up with her own hand, fingers tracing along the fading sensation, as she turns and enters her own room.
She drops down onto the straight-backed wooden chair just inside the door- she doesn't want to sit on the bed and soil the linens with her dirty clothes . The room also has a fireplace, a table, and, to Jaina's surprised pleasure, a writing desk and chair against the wall by the door. She has no parchment, nor quill and ink, but the idea that she could sit and write a letter or study a book brings her small comfort. They'd been living like animals. Sylvanas's frequent complaint of feeling like an exhibit at the Darkmoon Faire was more valid than Jaina would acknowledge at that time, for her own sanity.
She's not used to being dirty and disheveled, or sleeping on the ground -but she can do these things, if necessary, and without complaint despite the side-eye and condescending smirk Sylvanas has thrown at her whenever she thought Jaina wasn't looking. Jaina spent most of her young life running the docks or on her father's ship, clothes seasprayed and salt-crusted, rocked to sleep in a hammock on the same ocean that seemingly runs through her veins. She's fully aware Sylvanas believes her a spoiled, pampered princess, but she's Kul Tiran to the very core-rough and tumble, quick to temper, slow to forgive. She's been through worse than a little dirt.
Regardless, she desperately wants a bath and clean clothes and to feel the comforting thrum of arcane energy, to pretend that she's in her rooms in Stormwind and not completely out of control and relatively powerless in a foreign and hostile world. What she doesn't want to admit is that she already misses Sylvanas's presence, even as prickly and belligerent as the elf usually is. The discovery of their new ability gave them a reason to be civil -but that touch. Her fingers press against her lips and she closes her eyes again, the memory of Sylvanas's thumb, feather-light, and the contrast of sharp arcane - a touch as intimate as a kiss.
A kiss she shouldn't, and definitely doesn't, want.
A knock at the door pulls her from her unconvincing reassurances. The door is ajar, so when she turns to call whomever in, she sees the Inquisitor, Commander Rutherford, and Grand Enchanter Vivienne just outside the doorway. She beckons them in with a sigh and debates calling Sylvanas to continue their united front. She has the sneaking suspicion that Solas has told Iron Bull, Leliana, and Dorian that Sylvanas isn't bound to her, or even a demon for that matter. They continue to play the charade, because truly, only the Inquisitor's opinion matters.
She rises from the chair and steps towards the door. "Let me get Sylvanas. If I am hurt, she may sense-"
"I am here, my Lady."
She jumps when Sylvanas appears in the doorway, her usual scowl softened into something more thoughtful. As the elf's gaze moves from her to the Inquisition members, it slips into impassivity, and she moves into the room to stand next to the writing desk so that Jaina and the others are all in her line of sight.
"Before we complete the phylactery, I think it wise to discuss my expectations of you both and your involvement with the Inquisition." Trevelyan's words are laced with distaste. Jaina gets the distinct impression that a conversation was had when the phylactery was agreed upon and that the woman regrets not just killing them when they arrived at Skyhold. She can imagine the deep smirk Sylvanas is wearing but she refuses to turn her head and confirm. The elf rejoices in her ability to annoy and unnerve, completely aware that knowing she could do both puts her in control. "Solas assured me you would be willing to assist the Inquisition against Corypheus and his forces. Essentially, you would serve the Inquisition as mercenaries, similar to The Iron Bull and his Chargers. We would provide your rooms and board, and you would receive a percentage of loot from missions completed. You will have access to our training grounds, your armor, and weapons upon signing a contract that would make aggression or violence towards an Inquisition member punishable by death. Are these terms amenable, Lady Proudmoore?"
She looks back at Sylvanas, but she's as inscrutable as always.What does Sylvanas want besides going home?
"I would like to see the contract and some time to discuss with Sylvanas in private." She stands as straight and tall as she can, and is pleased to see that the Inquisitor would have to tip her head back were they closer.
"I wouldn't want to impose on Commander Rutherford or the Grand Enchanter's time any longer."
"Surely, they can wait a few more minutes, no one wants allies made in haste?" She tips her head and raises an eyebrow at the other two. The Commander doesn't meet her eyes, instead keeping his gaze focused on the Inquisitor. The Grand Enchanter, however, looks her up and down shrewdly. Her voice is rich yet condescending, she peers down her nose at Jaina although they are the same height.
"I have other matters to attend to, but I would rather postpone them briefly for a committed ally than rush and welcome a fool who recants."
No one moves.
Jaina looks at Sylvanas, but her blasé countenance leads her to believe the elf is determined to be useless. She holds out her hand for the rolled parchment and mutters through clenched teeth. "We will be just a minute, if you all would be so kind as to wait outside."
The Inquisitor hands her the scroll with a huff, and turns to step just outside the open door. Commander Rutherford and the Grand Enchanter follow close behind, Vivienne throws a stray glance at Sylvanas as she passes through the doorway, clearly sizing her up. Jaina sees Sylvanas's eyes sharpen, and she flashes a hint of fang -it is clearly a threat, but Madame de Fer simply offers her a smug smile as she steps through the doorway.
"What are you doing?" She hisses, swatting at Sylvanas's shoulder with the rolled contract. "You're going to get us killed."
Sylvanas doesn't smile but her eyes are openly amused. "They have no idea who they're dealing with. I could have gutted the three of them before any of them could have drawn a sword." This time the elf loses the battle with the corners of her mouth-the smirk holds open admiration. "And you…that woman might be called the Grand Enchanter, but even here without ambient mana, your arcane signature overpowers hers."
"We do this then?" It's a rhetorical question, she realizes as soon as it leaves her lips. Sylvanas's eyes roll and she steps back to lean against the desk, elegant fingers caressing the fine, finished wood.
"You know, I don't have one of these in my room."
"Maybe they think you illiterate and dysgraphic." She counters with a small shrug.
A snort, then a low chuckle that brings goosebumps to her arms and a flush to her cheeks. She has never heard Sylvanas laugh in good humor. Derisively, yes many, many times. Maniacally, at least once. Never this-this soft thing, pure and uncalculated-the antithesis of its creator. She wisely chooses to ignore it for fear of changing this easy co-existence.
"Perhaps. But you're the one who picked the rooms." It's a delighted purr, and Jaina fights a shiver. "And yes, we do this."
"Are you planning to stay while they make the phylactery?" She tries her best to sound offhand and not hopeful, but the teasing gleam in Sylvanas's eyes prove her efforts unsuccessful.
"If my Lady wishes." The elf offers a mocking bow, holding Jaina's eyes the whole time, glowing red still alight with teasing. She can still feel the flush on her cheeks and the brush of Sylvanas's thumb against her lips. She doesn't know what they're doing - this bizarre waltz to which she doesn't know the steps or who's leading. She should just refuse to dance instead of trying to get a feel for the music, but fortune favors the bold. She draws herself up as tall and regal as she can, but throws a wink in Sylvanas's direction.
"She does."
s§s
As Thedosian experiences go, the creation of the phylactery ranks low. Not as awful as the Harrowing, but low enough that she's glad it's not something they'll have to repeat. At least they healed her this time. While the concept of the phylactery fascinates her- it is an incredible thing, glowing brighter and brighter the closer one gets to the original owner of the blood inside-the implications for why such a thing was developed sober her quickly. Vivienne had explained that all mages belonging to a Circle had a phylactery, and that they were stored in one of three places: Kinloch Hold for apprentice mages, full mages' and enchanters' at an undisclosed location in a city called Denerim, and all First Enchanters' in the White Spire, a Templar stronghold. Jaina was reminded that hers would be kept with the Inquisitor for quick and easy access should it be needed. It was a barely veiled threat that caused Sylvanas to choke down a snicker.
The Inquisitor had also mentioned that the members of the Inquisition have been requested to settle a dispute between the Empress and her cousin. Since the Winter Palace, home of the Empress, is too far for the Inquisitor to keep proper tabs on them, they are required to travel with the other members of the Inquisition and remain under the watchful eye of Commander Rutherford and Leliana. They are to leave in the early evening, carriages and luggage being prepared at this moment. The Inquisitor had taken one look at the both of them and ordered them to the baths and their clothing to be washed.
Jaina sighs happily, neck deep in a tub filled to overflowing with warm water, her just-washed hair piled on top of her head. She feels human again, skin scrubbed pink with scented soap, stiff muscles and joints eased by the heat and rubbing. Neither her shoulder nor her wrist pain her any longer, but the wrist is still somewhat stiff. She bends and flexes it under the cooling water, soaking up as much of the warmth as she can.
With her eyes closed, she can imagine herself in one of the bathing rooms in Proudmoore Keep, and a pang of homesickness strikes her so hard she gasps. They'll never be able to leave if she allows herself to become complacent, lulled by clean clothes and a bath. She stands with a splash, stepping to the towel, her navy leggings and borrowed tunic warming on a chair near the fireplace. As she dresses, she thinks back to the start of the day and how she was able to hold the wisp of mana from Sylvanas's rogue touch for almost an hour. They should be working on this, essentially charging one another with arcane, but how with Sylvanas in another room? She needs to convince the other woman that rooming separately is detrimental to their training.
There's no way she's grown to enjoy Sylvanas's presence in her periphery. It's impossible that when her thoughts turn to the elf - which they are more and more frequently- that they have a certain fondness to them that is both exhilarating and distressing. So much so that she's now standing in front of her room, and she doesn't remember the walk back. She pushes the door open, shaking her head
"Are you ready?" Sylvanas leans in her open doorway and watches as she laces up her boots. She turns her head and looks up at the elf through the damp twists of her loose hair. Sylvanas had foregone the protective leather and mail sleeves worn under her armor and her familiar leather and metal body armor for a plain cotton tunic and her leather leggings. Amusement curves the corners of her lips as she watches Jaina finish tying up her left boot. "For the first time in
fifteen-odd years, I'll see Jaina Proudmoore in a color other than white."
"What?" She looks over at her skirts, corset, and cloak laid out neatly on the chair by the desk.
Sylvanas follows her gaze and tsks. "Nah, ah, ah, Lord Admiral. We are officially mercenaries of the Inquisition. We will be wearing an unflattering claret military jacket and dark trousers, a travesty, surely, in your case. I'd much prefer the corset and skirts." She shoulders the door jamb pushing herself upright, eyes still fixed to Jaina's clothes. As almost an afterthought she murmurs thoughtfully, "Actually, red may be your color. A striking contrast with your hair and will bring out that frequent blush."
Stunned into silence, she stares open mouthed at the other woman who has made her way over to the clothing and is sliding her fingers along the buttons and buckles of the corset. Is...is she flirting with me? She has no idea what is happening. She snaps her mouth shut and watches dumbly from the bed, mute with confusion and the slight fear of saying something that will sour Sylvanas's obviously good mood.
"So are you?" Sylvanas turns, both hands clasped behind her back.
Jaina is completely rattled, and by the sly smile on Sylvanas's face, she knows it. She shakes her head in a futile effort to refocus. "Am I what?"
"Ready?"
Her boots are laced and tied; she is clean and clothed and utterly confused by the last five minutes of interaction. She just nods and follows a softly chuckling Sylvanas down to where the carriages wait. They are both handed their uniforms and a wrapped sandwich to eat on the road. The procession will arrive at the Winter Palace by tomorrow late afternoon. She climbs into the carriage and settles herself onto the seat facing forward, Sylvanas taking the seat next to her. Leliana gracefully steps in last and gives them both a smile as she perches in the seat across from them.
"I hate this uniform." The Spymaster tosses the clothing on the empty seat and tucks her feet up underneath her. She wiggles and moves until she's seemingly content with her position in the gently swaying carriage. Jaina feels the energy drain from her watching Leliana shift and settle. The other woman seems to have two modes: silent stillness or fluttering chatter, and she frequently flips between the two. It's almost as if there are two different Lelianas battling for control over one body. Right now, it looks like they'll be treated to Jaina's favorite: Leliana the bard, animated storyteller, clever enough to word-spar with Sylvanas.
"Lady Trevelyan is unaware that redheads aren't supposed to wear red, but I guess when one looks striking in something, one assumes it is comme ça for the rest of the world as well. Oh well." Leliana leans back into the plush seat and folds her hands in her lap, usually a sign that the spymaster is returning. The animation tends to leave her, but not her wit. "I must say I am pleased you've both agreed to help the Inquisition despite everything so far."
Jaina can feel her eyes droop as Leliana continues to discuss their roles in the organization, Sylvanas paying rapt attention instead of her usual disinterested sneer. With Sylvanas engaged, Jaina feels like she can tune out of the conversation. She feels herself starting to slouch so she tries to settle back into the seat. The drone of their voices and the movement of the carriage lulls her to half awareness, and she catches her nodding head with a start, jerking awake with a gasp. Both Leliana and Sylvanas look at her with open amusement.
"Sorry." Although she's really not. What a joy it is, to not have responsibilities for a moment, to simply relax while travelling instead of writing correspondence, or supply chain requests, or levitating the fucking ship here or there. The rocking of the carriage is so relaxing, she refuses to waste this opportunity. Throwing caution to the wind, she picks up their folded uniforms and sets them in Sylvanas's lap then promptly folds herself sideways on the seat and puts her head on the impromptu pillow. "Good night to you both." Leliana laughs in delight, perhaps at her boldness or at Sylvanas's obvious uncertainty as to where to put her arm.
She doesn't care. If Sylvanas wants to flaunt her comfort with the new shift in their -association, well she can too. After a moment, the weight of Sylvanas's arm rests against her shoulder and, as the other women resume their conversation, Sylvanas's fingers slowly comb through her hair.
s§s
She wakes, flushed, from a vivid dream to the pleasant hum of arcane coursing through her. Sylvanas's hand rests under her hair against her bare neck, her thumb softly stroking the nape. Her blush deepens when Sylvanas squeezes gently before pulling her hand away with a husky chuckle. Jaina hates the sensation of loss that comes when their connection is severed, but she's far more worried that some of her dream may have made it out into the waking world. Leliana breathes heavy, curled in a similar position across from them.
"Don't worry, she didn't hear anything." Sylvanas leans down to whisper against her ear, cool lips just far enough to hint at contact but not make it. Jaina brings her hands up to cover her burning face and Sylvanas laughs again, quietly. As she pushes herself up out of Sylvanas's lap, she can feel the elf's fingers trail through her hair before falling against the uniforms.
She keeps her face buried in her hands until some of the heat in her cheeks fades then she peeks through her fingers at Sylvanas, who smirks and hands her the uniform pieces that are hers.
"Really, she didn't. Mostly because there wasn't anything to hear."
She pulls her hands from her face and frowns. "Why would you-"
"Because when you blush, your freckles show more." Sylvanas leans forward, self-satisfied smirk still firmly in place. "We're at the Winter Palace I think, or close enough that we should start getting ready. Let her wake on her own. Neither of us needs a dagger in the throat."
She nods, clutching the itchy clothing to her chest. The draperies are pulled over the windows still, shutting out most of the light. She must have slept for hours longer than usual, the sway of the carriage and Sylvanas's fingers in her hair soothing her through nightmares that would usually wake her. She pulls on the woolen uniform, surprised that only the trousers are a bit short. Tucked into her boots, no one will notice. She watches as Sylvanas does the same, and when their eyes meet, she gives her a rueful smile. "Too short?"
Sylvanas nods. "They must save all the long clothing for Trevelyan and Cassandra."
She feels in her belt pouch for her comb, then runs it through her hair, deftly braids it and ties off the end by the time Leliana wakes. The carriage is a flurry of activity as they get closer to the palace. Leliana and Jaina eat, splitting Sylvanas's portion between them. They step down from the carriage with the rest of the entourage, garish in their crimson coats and royal blue sashes, gold epaulettes heavy on both shoulders. Masked attendees flow around them as the Inquisitor approaches.
"Stay with the Commander or with Sister Leliana, whoever has nothing to attend to at the moment." She nods once to Leliana and turns on her heel to meet the men who will announce her to the crowd.
"I should be free this entire evening. My days playing the Grand Game are behind me now. Plus I've heard the most intriguing rumor that I must confirm about the Empress's arcane advisor. It's an impossibility, but I heard it from a reliable source..." Leliana's eyes spark with excitement, then she frowns. "It's a shame I must confirm it in this. I told you red is dreadful for les roux."
Jaina offers the spymaster a sympathetic smile. "This color doesn't do anything good for me either. It brings out all the red in my skin."
"Personally, I rather like it. It highlights my eyes." Sylvanas deadpans.
Leliana laughs behind her hand, but Jaina just smiles. When she puts away the fearsome facade, Sylvanas is stunning with her fine bone structure and silvery-blond hair. She wonders if the elf realizes that she's still beautiful. Vereesa told her once, after enough Dalaran red to loosen her tongue, that when Sylvanas was alive the woman never met a mirror she didn't like and that she didn't want for company to warm her bed either. She's seeing more and more of that Sylvanas than she is of the ruthless person who burned Teldrassil and tore the sky asunder.
They walk behind the crowd, keeping enough distance that Sylvanas doesn't attract unwanted attention from the guests. Jaina admires the beautiful dresses and ornate hair styles, twisted and bejeweled. When was the last time they had something to celebrate like this in Azeroth? When was the last time she'd been able to wear something elegant and spin around in the arms of a dance partner?
Sylvanas's hand closes on her elbow, and she stops to look over at her, brow furrowed. The elf points over to where Leliana has stopped, staring up the staircase. At the top of the stairs, Trevelyan stands stiff and scowling, locked in conversation with a willowy woman whose raven hair is piled on her head. Leliana's pale skin has gone even lighter, except for the blush high on her cheeks and she is murmuring quietly, but not in common. "Mon dieu, c'est vrai, c'est vrai."
Jaina takes a step towards her, but Sylvanas's hand tightens. "Be careful, remember the daggers."
She nods. As they were getting ready, she watched the spy tuck seven blades in various sheathes on her body. Who knows how many others she has. She pitches her voice low and calm. "Leliana. Are you alright?"
The other woman turns toward them, trying to collect herself as they stand off in a shadowy corner near the base of the stairs. "It's true. Incroyable, but true. I would never have thought-"
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
She can see that Leliana is still pale and trembling, so she looks around for a chair. Finding none, she instead leads her to lean against the ornate railing of the staircase. Leliana tucks the ends of her hair behind her ears and draws a shaky breath.
"Maybe I have. It's been ten years hearing neither hide nor hair."
Jaina shoots a puzzled glance at Sylvanas who offers a little shrug in response. Leliana is always collected and controlled, even when she's playing the role of animated bard. Whatever she's seen has shaken her to the core. They stand around her, Jaina unsure of how to offer comfort, except to gently cover the hand that's resting on the curled bannister for support.
"Well, well what have we here?" A low, smoky voice cuts through the drone of conversation surrounding them. "Why Sister Nightingale! A little bird whispered to me that you may be attending."
Leliana blanches and her hand twitches under Jaina's. When the mage turns, she is face to face with the woman who had been locked in debate with the Inquisitor. Another beauty. Her thoughts jump to when they'd met Leliana for the first time and how she wondered if all the women in Thedas were beautiful. So far, yes, and strikingly so. Jaina says nothing, captivated by the woman's gold eyes as they size her up, ruby lips turned up in a confident smirk.
Leliana breaks the silence, finally able to get her bearings. "Lady Jaina Proudmoore, Sylvanas, may I present to you Morrigan, the Witch of the Wilds."