Chapter 2

It was a muggy night, and I was wearing some ridiculous military regalia. There were even mosquitos, a creature I was convinced that we… no, the Orlesians,not me… that they eradicated. Out of convenience. I guess not, not now, not after everything.

It was nostalgic. Everyone was glittering in the Palace. The air of the ballroom was almost golden itself. I chatted with the Inquisitor, with Josie, with everyone. I felt silly wearing those stupid boots. Those little shoes with flowers on the toe seemed to be in vogue at the time, and it felt like everyone knew that I wasn't wearing any. They probably didn't care, but seeing them all, seeing the quirks of the Game again... it was wonderful.

But it was never right. I talked with so many people, but I found that I knew everything about them already. I wasn't a bard anymore; I was a spymaster. I knew their vices and pains. The masks couldn't hide it, every quiver in their voice when they spoke of their servants, every awkward laugh when elves came up in conversation, every sniffle, every "Excuse me," every eye that found mine with a single tear clinging to it... It was too much.

I was mixed with emotion. It was an awful feeling, deep in my stomach. It was rumbling, with happiness and compassion, half justified, half guilty. I wanted to get my mind away from myself.

I tried to find Josie. If anyone could get what I was feeling, what it meant to be a lapsed Orlesian, it was her. She could take my mind off of things, one way or another.

She was off with some nobles, in an impenetrable circle. It was maddening. I tried everyone; The Inquisitor was off sabotaging some plot, Cullen was moping, Vivienne was bragging, and Sera... I was too smart for that.

Have you ever felt that someone didn't know you, but you knew everything about them? It was boiling in the uniform, and not a single person noticed. I could have them all tried for treason with a single raven, but not a damn eye cared when I ran past, verging on crying.

I found an empty bedroom, one that looked like it hadn't been used for years. Figures, for the Queen, at least. I sat on the bed, and the dam burst. It must've been gallons; I could barely breathe with it all ripping out of me.

The door opened, and I tried to save face, as best that one in my situation could. And she was there.

Her dress hugged the floor, the skirt billowing from her perfect waist. She was older, but not in wrinkles or slights in her skin; her eyes spoke of a maturity that could only come from a decade. They were still as yellow as they ever were, and still as piercing. But they didn't scream as they used too. They whispered.

"Leliana." Her voice was smooth, like a fine billow of smoke rising from a burned home. It was warm, just like it.

I was still flooding the bed. "Mor-Mo-"

"Oh, no, don't... just, please. Don't." It was an order, but only in that I complied with it.

"Wh-why are you.."

"Stop. That doesn't matter. Not now."

I decided that if I was going to blubber I shouldn't talk at all.

"I know. I know it all."

Nothing happened, for almost a minute. I was petrified, almost. My hands were shaking.

"I'm sorry." It was almost as if it hadn't been said, but if I had ran my fingers around the words. It came to me in a way that can't happen through the ears.

"Let me try again." She was walking towards me now, slowly, with each step meaning something new.

She held my hand, and brought my head to her lap. Her dress was the most wonderful pillow I've ever rested on. And that fabric wasn't even in vogue.