Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.
Rating: T, but briefly M, M, M, and more M, though 'tis second-hand M, as it were. Blame Varric.
Spoilers: Takes place ten years or more after the events of Dragon Age: Origins, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for Origins, Awakening, and Dragon Age II as well as the novels The Stolen Throne and The Calling.
Chapter Sixteen: Dancing Shadows
First Warden:
Ser;
I write to you in deepest regrets, tendering my reluctant resignation from the ranks of Grey Wardens. This was not a decision I was allowed to make for myself: circumstances beyond my control have found me quite completely devoid of all Taint, and I am no longer fit to perform my proper duties by the Order. I recognize that my abrupt departure from your ranks leaves the Order without an acting Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and I would like to take this opportunity to recommend my faithful Second, Senior Warden Nathaniel Howe. He I will leave in direct charge of the Wardens at Amaranthine until official assignments may be handed down. I would further recommend that if you were to choose instead to install a Warden-Commander from outside of Ferelden, it would be politically apposite not to choose a Brother or Sister from the ranks of Orlais. Wardens are Wardens, we all understand, but Ferelden is not Orlais, and has good reason to mistrust those from that land at this time.
Personal Regards,
Elilia Merwynnan Cousland, formerly Warden-Commander of Ferelden
Elilia finished off this missive with a grand flourish, blotted it, folded the parchment, and sealed it with wax dyed bluish-gray. She fixed that with the gryphon seal of the Grey Wardens. Even if the First Warden was stupid enough to send his own man to take the position of Warden-Commander, it would take months for the message to reach him far away in the Anderfels. Nathaniel was the kind of man who could make good advantage of such time. She addressed another parchment to him, writing to explain the situation with more detail and considerably less brittleness to the courtesy. She also apologized, to him and the other recruits she'd gathered in her years as Commander of the Grey.
When you Joined, I asked of you to stand with me in the duty that cannot be forsworn. It would be right of you to feel I have betrayed my Oath, and all of you as well, for I cannot say with honesty that I did not wish to be relieved of the burdens attendant upon being a Grey Warden. I consider you my Brothers and Sisters still, and though I may now be the family exile still do I consider you the finest men and women I have ever had the honor to serve with, and I am fiercely proud of my Ferelden Wardens. Give the Darkspawn my fondest regards, Friend Oghren, and the next time you raise your glass perhaps you could raise it once in memory of me. Nathaniel, scowl and curse me as you will, but know that I have been honored to serve by your side. There is no one else I trust to navigate the treacherous waters of Command and Politics combined. To each and all of you, serve well and stand true. You are all that is best in the Wardens, and never forget it.
That last line was all the warning she felt it prudent to send, and Nathaniel was a canny fellow. He would know what she meant by it, and no more trusted the external hierarchy of Wardens than she did. It would be well.
Now if only she would be. She turned in her chair to look at the gown spread across the coverlet, awaiting her. If her mother could have seen it, she would have fairly swooned over it. Leliana the Bard would have delighted in the silken skirts and the elegant trimmings, the daring cuts to allow advantageous view of her few "womanly qualities." Even Morrigan might have unbent from her typical cool indifference to say that it was "adequate for the purpose." Elilia thought it a fright. She had been invited once to the wedding of a notably fashionable Lord and Lady Nameless who had done up the festivities in the finest Orlesian style, and the centerpiece of it all was a massive five-tiered cake with sugared crenellations and tower defenses, rock candy rose blooms, and colored icing of a rich emerald green. That cake had not looked either one whit lovely or edible to Elilia, and this dress reminded her of it very much. It was not green but blue - Cousland Blue, despite the threat of garish clash between gown and skin - and though it was done up in something of the way the dressmaker had suggested it bore the stamp of personality strongly enough to identify it as an original creation of one Anora Mac Tir. Granted, Her Majesty's taste was supposed to be impeccable, so Elilia guessed that everyone else at the Presentation would like it well enough, particularly the ones who enjoyed the peephole in the corselet that allowed full view of the inner curve of her breasts. She'd never seen Anora wear anything so revealing.
Anora had seen her in her smallclothes, so presumably she was aware of the fact that below the neck Elilia Cousland was not burnt to a golden tan by the sun, but was in fact as pasty white as any good High-Born Ferelden woman. Perhaps she wanted the unmarried men of the Landsmeet to see that, too, and imagine that the newly-reborn noblewoman's body was as soft and pleasing and unmarred as any other slag's. If they were by that tricked into marrying her they would be in for an unpleasant surprise.
Seanna came in from the adjoining room, where she'd been deeply engrossed in the tawdry romance Elilia had bought at the Circle shop. She was carrying the book with her.
"Listen to this: 'Caught within her web, Freidrich was helpless to resist the dusky pirate goddess, the ideal of woman, the idol of sex. Bared before him in all her glory he allowed her to push him unresisting onto the bed, to strip him of his noble garments. Wordlessly he reached out to her, wanting only to worship at the heaving altar of her bosom, but she laid him roughly by. He allowed her her will, for it was far stronger than his own, and above him she bucked, plunged, reared, rode his pommel with wild abandon until at last he spent himself within her. Then, tenderly, she lifted his head and allowed him his reward. He suckled like a babe until a sudden pain wracked his body, and then another and another. Still he licked and nibbled and sucked, unwilling to relinquish her mountainous peaks even in the throes of what he now knew to be his death. At last he was stilled, face frozen yet in a rictus of pleasure and pain. Æsarella rose, closed his eyes, and smoothed back his hair, then went to the wash basin in the corner of the room and cleansed her nipples of the remaining poison. Task complete, she dressed and slipped silently into the night, to meet her ship and sail away forever from this dark and terrible place. No one could ever say she was unkind.'"
Elilia laughed until her eyes welled with tears. "What utter rubbish!" she cried. "Maker's breath, who comes up with this rot? 'Poisoned nipples?' Apart from the very real danger of the poisoner becoming the poisoned, I suppose any man would be quite willing and happy to die that way."
Seanna giggled, musical notes tinkling away in the air. "I like the reference to 'mountainous peaks.' Do you think they were like unto the Frostbacks, or more akin to the Anderfels?"
"Well they were poisoned, so I suppose that makes them Anders Tits," Elilia said, and both women burst out laughing. "For a moment there I couldn't tell whether it was meant to be a sex scene or the story of a woman breaking an ill-trained saddle horse."
Seanna opened her mouth to make some other commentary on the passage when she was forestalled by a knock at the outer door. She flung the book onto the settee, dropped down on top of it, grabbed up her needlework and began sewing as though the world were in desperate need of embroidered handkerchiefs. A pretty rose blush colored her porcelain cheeks.
Elilia composed herself with difficulty. "Come in."
The door opened and a dainty dark-haired elven woman curtseyed her way inside. Elilia recognized her at once. Erlina, Anora's personal handmaiden and, Elilia was quite certain, personal spy - or worse, if worse was called for. That much didn't bother her, for it was only sensible that the queen employ agents who could walk in the shadows. The fact that the woman was even more certainly an unabashed Orlesian bard did, however, and her eyes narrowed. Anora had brains, undoubtedly, but her attachment to this woman smacked somewhat of a finger wave in the face of her father - "I-do-what-I-want-the-way-I-want" - and quite a risky one at that. Who knew how much information had passed from Ferelden to Orlais through this unassuming little wench?
"Yes?" she said in a voice calculated to freeze.
Erlina curtseyed again, the soul of deference. "My Lady the Queen sent me to help Your Grace dress for her Presentation."
"I can help Elilia dress," Seanna spoke up defensively. Erlina curtseyed again.
"If it please Your Grace, Her Majesty wishes me to make available to you my skills with ladies' tresses and cosmetics."
Elilia sighed. She needed help, that was certain - Seanna wore her red hair in a becomingly boyish fashion, one that would not suit Elilia's oversized noggin at all. Seanna had no idea how to style up long hair, and Elilia herself could manage nothing more complicated for herself than a simple plait. About cosmetics, beyond the heavy, dramatic colors she used to make herself more warlike, Elilia knew nothing and Seanna had never even encountered so much as a pot of lip balm in the Circle tower. "Very well. Thank you, Erlina."
Seanna gave the bard a mistrustful glare but pretended to return to her needlework.
Erlina stepped more fully into the room and stood aside to allow a fleet of servants to bring in trays of Things Unknown. Elilia's heart sank in cold dismay at the array of pots, powders, and things she couldn't even begin to guess at - any one of which could be a far more effective means of poisoning someone than a nipple - curling tongs and papers, hair ribbons, hair pins, and even a box of jewelry, possibly the Queen's own. They arranged these trays upon the sideboard table and ran back out again when Erlina ordered them to fetch hot water for "Her Grace's bath."
"That isn't the correct form of address," Elilia said blandly.
"Pardon, Your Grace?"
"'Your Grace.' I'm nobody's Grace. That title is reserved for Teyrns and Teyrnas, Erlina, not the younger sisters of Teyrns." It was true, though it had not escaped her attention that Arl Eamon of Redcliffe had been called by that honorific, at least during the upheaval of the Blight. She had found it faintly enraging that it should be so, and it did occur to her to wonder if perhaps the man hadn't been lining his nest for an appointment she was most gratified he'd never gotten. She'd never told Loghain about the papers she'd found when they'd made the long, dismal trek back to Ostagar, papers that showed the Arl in collusion with Orlesian sympathizers who wanted Cailan to dispose of Anora in favor of a most horrifying marriage to Empress Celene of Orlais, a plan the foolish young King had seemed to be in favor of. It seemed to Elilia unlikely in the extreme that the Queen could be set aside without enraging her father, so they had probably been planning some form of "disposal" for Loghain as well, of perhaps a more permanent nature - and she also doubted very much that anyone involved other than perhaps the Idiot King himself thought that Anora could simply be divorced. Eamon might have expected to swap out his Arling for a Teyrnir had his plans not been thwarted. Even after so many years she still kept those documents with her, ready and willing to use them the moment the pompous fool stepped out of line again.
Erlina's mouth drew up in a strange smile, a smile that mocked with secret knowledge. "My Lady the Queen instructed me that it was the proper form of address in this case, Your Grace, and I cannot go against My Lady's wishes."
The servants came back then, lugging pails of steaming water which they carried into the bath chamber to fill the carved-stone basin deep enough for full immersion. Erlina clapped her hands sharply and they scurried away, task complete.
"Undress, Your Grace, and have your bath. My Lady the Queen wishes you to look your absolute finest when you are presented to the nobles and take your rightful place as a Cousland heir. While you do this I will choose the proper style and colors for your hair and makeup." She shoved a bar of lavender-scented soap and a jar of something that smelled like apple blossoms into Elilia's hands - after an embarrassingly long moment, she realized it was an expensive lady's hair wash. For years she had simply made do with soap, despite how scummy it left her hair. Meekly, she sidled into the bath chamber and divested herself of the simple, comfortable jerkin and trousers she wore.
Her hot soak would have been lovely had she the leisure to enjoy it. As it was she scrubbed her skin clean with the flowery soap and then gave her hair a good lathering from the jar of hair wash. After she rinsed it out she hesitated, decided that if one was a help then two must be better, and washed her hair all over again. Then she climbed up out of the deep tub, assisted by Seanna, and gratefully allowed her to drape a velvet dressing gown over her bare shoulders. She tucked herself into it and belted it tightly. Erlina gestured her to take a seat on a low stool and began working the tangles from her hair with a fine comb.
More bloody pomp and circumstance. It was all well and good that Elilia should have her proper birthright again, it was less than her due, but after a week of foolishness it was past time to stop with the parties and make with the planning. They'd given the Orlesians something to think about, hopefully, but they weren't going to quit just because they lost a legion. They had more.
He surveyed his appearance in the floor-length looking glass. Bloody awful, but Maker knows it could be worse. The black doublet was as unadorned as it was possible to get a tailor to make it and if the black leather trousers were a bit…fey…then at least they were not the ridiculous poofy striped satin things rich merchants and noblemen wore. Anora had insisted he dress formally rather than wear armor and presented to his eyes a hideous spectacle of the worst fashion had to offer men these days, and he argued her down to this. The smile of triumph that lit her face and eyes once they'd reached an accord could mean only that she'd gotten exactly what she'd wanted from him. Oh well, he didn't mind so much being manipulated as long as his daughter was the puppet master. It was, as he'd told Elilia long ago, "the peculiar joy of parents to be terrorized by their children."
At one of the many ceremonies he'd been presented with a silver sash and a ceremonial sword, and Anora made him wear both now. He adjusted the fabric so that it lay smooth across his chest and belted on the mostly useless but nicely ornamental side arm. He didn't much care to wear a sword at his belt, given the choice, but he could always use the scabbard to trip somebody up, as long as it wasn't himself. Thus outfitted, he made for the Landsmeet chambers after a quick peek in at the children, who regarded this strange incarnation of their grandfather with a mixture of alarm and skepticism.
He took his position before the dais a bit to the left of the Queen's throne and stood at stern attention, one arm behind his back and the other hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. Most of the nobility was already packed into the galleries, talking loudly. He saw Cauthrien up there, speaking seriously to Fergus Cousland. She'd come in for the Landsmeet, leaving her soldiers at the border under the command of a trusted man, but she hadn't come back empty handed - a caravan of supply wagons had come along with her, heaped high with armor and weapons taken from the Orlesian dead, and the outfit was followed by a number of fine horses that had been recovered, as well. It was a nice boon for the Ferelden army, and Cauthrien had told him that the mages who'd slipped away before the army left had returned, seeking employment and safety within their ranks. Evidently they had wanted to keep out of the Revered Mother's gaze, which was only sensible of them. It made him glad to know their forces could still count on magic to assist them.
"They really sped things up for us with burning the dead," Cauthrien told him. "I've got them scrying for scouts and troops on the other side of the Frostbacks, best they can. I've sent the ashes along to Val Royeaux with some dwarven merchants who seemed trustworthy enough to keep the promise they made in exchange for the sovereigns I paid them. They also seemed to understand the overall message we wanted to send, and liked the idea of being in on showing the Empress what all her cozening has reaped for her. They weren't even afraid to suffer for bearing bad news. I don't think they were born surfacers, and the way their eyes glittered when they spoke of 'getting into a little scrap' led me to believe they may once have been Warrior Caste."
The great doors opened, horns sounded, and a puffed-up herald announced "Their Royal Majesties King Alistair and Queen Anora." Alistair wore the golden plate of Kingship and the sight made Loghain growl low in his throat - why does he get to be comfortable? - and Anora wore a regal gown of gold brocade. Arm in arm they swept toward the front of the room and Loghain took a knee as was proper. He marveled at the ease of movement in joints that had grown quite stiff and complaining in recent years, the pain still in abeyance. Those ashes were a wonder indeed.
Her Grace the Grand Cleric was announced after the King and Queen took their places, as the Chantry needed to be represented at such things. Loghain watched her curiously, wondering if she'd received orders from the Divine yet, wondering what she would do about them when she did. The bloody Chantry had no right whatsoever to interfere in matters of Ferelden sovereignty but that was something the Old Bag in Val Royeaux - and many Old Bags gone before - didn't seem to grasp. Ferelden should make like Tevinter and create its own bloody Chantry, separate from the Old Bag. For that matter, Ferelden should have its own independent Grey Wardens, too, because no tin-plated hypocrite a thousand miles away ought to have any power over anything necessary for Ferelden's protection, and the foreign Wardens proved they didn't give a damn during the Blight. There'd been time for scores of Wardens to come in from the Free Marches but all they got was one Orlesian who snuck in to spy.
Ah, in a perfect world. If they had the strength of arms and magic that Tevinter had, they could do whatever they bloody well wanted to.
The Grand Cleric droned on at some length about the momentous occasion of restoring a member of a fine, ancient lineage. Loghain let his mind wander freely and struggled mightily against the urge to yawn. Finally Elilia was called to the Landsmeet Chamber to present herself before the lords and ladies of Ferelden. The doors opened to admit her.
Loghain stared, stunned. The woman who walked with uncertain steps into the great chamber could not be Elilia Cousland. Puffed and powdered and painted, her hair curled and pinned so that it framed her face and fell in ringlets to her shoulders, she looked uncomfortable, unsure, and even a little bit frightened. The gown she wore was a blatant advertisement, from the way it exposed her fine breast to the way the tight corselet cinched in her figure and the velvet overskirt draped her hips, her womanliness was deliberately emphasized, her powerful physique altered as much as possible to make her appear demure and feminine. She looked beautiful, yes, but he thought she looked more beautiful still when she was clad in dragonbone mail and charging pell-mell at her foes.
She drew near, and he could hear her panting. At first he thought it was fright but then he realized by the way only her bosoms seemed able to move, and that upward instead of out, that the damned boning was preventing her from breathing properly. He hoped they'd wrap the ceremony quickly so she could get her girl to untie her and let her take a few good breaths before the ball began. She was already looking a little bit purple underneath the paint and powder.
But the Grand Cleric seemed to be in a verbose mood. She droned away about honor and dignity and noblesse oblige - odd that such a concept would be in Orlesian words, given that they seemed not to know the first thing about it - and Elilia suffered in proper silence. He saw it the moment her eyes rolled and moved to grab her before she could strike the hard stone floor.
"Maker's Breath - Eli!" Alistair cried out. From the corner of his eye Loghain saw Fergus Cousland vaulting out of the gallery box to run to his sister's side. Loghain did the only thing that could help the poor woman and unceremoniously ripped the lacings right out of the back of her ridiculous gown. With her lungs no longer constricted by the high demands of fashion she breathed easily, and in a moment opened her eyes.
Coming to with her corselet unbound, in the arms of Loghain and with the anxious faces of brother and King peering down at her, Elilia was more than justified in the deep scarlet blush that shone through her heavy cosmetics. "I'm fine - I'm sorry, it was just so hard to breathe."
They helped her to her feet, and all the men were careful not to notice the way the cut-away front of the bodice sagged and threatened to allow a bosom to escape. The dress would need to be repaired but the ceremony wasn't over. There was a brief moment of impasse before Loghain cursed under his breath and stripped off his doublet. The Presentation continued with the Lady receiving her just honors wearing an oversized jacket over her fine gown and with the Queen's father in his appointed position, bare-chested and glowering with more ferocity than usual. The Grand Cleric evidently had the wind knocked out of her sails and wrapped things up quickly. It was a fiasco, but it was sure to give the nobility something to talk about for a good long while. As soon as it was over Seanna appeared from the shadows and whisked Elilia away for the needed repairs, and the rest of the assembled went to the Grand Hall for the ball. Loghain wouldn't blame Elilia if she didn't come out of her rooms the rest of the night.
A servant restored his doublet to him and he put it on, ignoring the nudges, winks, and whispers of the idiots who saw and repeated to each other the juicy gossip that had grown in the days since the world found out he and Elilia had slept together. Once. They hadn't even discussed that night again since that moment behind the supply wagons, he'd tried to bring it up but Elilia was dodging. Soon she'd be married off to some fat fool of a nobleman and there'd be no chance of a repeat performance, which was a pity. He had allowed himself to hope…well, never mind what he'd allowed himself to hope. It was a vainglorious thought indeed, the woman was less than half his age.
Anora had taken the debacle with customary aplomb, and acted now as though nothing could have gone more perfectly. As the guests grazed off the great tables set out with dainty treats and began what would undoubtedly be a night of heavy drinking she mingled and chatted brightly, briskly, and wittily with everyone, the perfect hostess. The minstrels were tuning up in their gallery. Elilia arrived, looking embarrassed but undaunted, gown repaired and her waist no longer so tightly laced into an unnatural shape. Arl Wulffe elbowed Loghain in the ribs.
"There she is. Looks a sight better not trussed up like a Harvestmere turkey, don't she? You're a lucky bastard, Loghain, and I hope you know it."
The minstrels gave the cue for dancers to partner. Anora swept up to him and hissed "Dance with her" at him in a harsh undertone.
"Anora, I don't dance."
"You know how. Elilia is taller than every other man here and would look ridiculous towering over her partner when all eyes will be upon her for the first dance. Dance with her."
Loghain sighed and obediently went to offer the Lady of the Hour his arm.
The steps were slow and simple, and the formations not much different to some of the more ridiculous precision drills done for parades. There was grave dignity in the way man and woman circled each other, hands touching, curtsey and bow and back again, but Loghain wasn't feeling any of it. He disliked this sort of foolishness, and essentially the whole thing was ritualized courtship. Given what notions the assembled had in their heads about him and Elilia, this was the last thing they needed to see.
She smiled at him as they went through the motions. "Thank you for the loan of your doublet, Good Ser."
"Pray don't mention it, Milady," he said.
"I am most aggrieved that you were forced to finish out the Presentation thus unclad. I do hope it did not cause you too much degradation. If it is any comfort your chest is so well-furred that it very much appeared as though you were wearing a blouse."
"Thank you, Milady. In future I shall take care to always wear a blouse 'neath my doublet, in case of swooning damsels. Seriously, are you all right? I didn't know bloody corsets were so damned dangerous."
"Men never fully appreciate the torment women endure for their sake. I'm fine, really, thank you for your concern. If I were accustomed to cinching the way most women are I wouldn't have fainted."
"On the other hand, if you were most women you'd be dead a hundred times over by this point in your life. Chin up - "
" - and plod on. Yes, I shall."
They danced in silence for awhile, until Loghain said, "You do look lovely, even though the dress is evidently a weapon of self-destruction."
She colored prettily. "Thank you," she mumbled.
The dance ended, and new partners were chosen. Loghain disappeared into the shadows at the back of the hall to watch the dancers. Elilia danced with her brother and then her cousin Leonas Bryland, and then the music changed into a sprightly tempo and old Wulffe claimed her hand and lead her on a merry romp across the floor with a complete lack of dignity for one so aged. But Elilia seemed quite happy as she capered, so that was something.
Seanna sidled up to him. She had not yet completely gotten over her shyness around him. "You looked very well together," she said. "Her steps match better to yours than to any of the other men she's danced with."
"If she keeps dancing with her older relatives that's sure to remain the case," Loghain said. "How have you found the festivities, young lady, and life at the palace?"
"It is all very grand, Ser, and something I could never grow accustomed to, I think. Though I have enjoyed the experience very much, I shall be glad when we move on from this place."
Loghain sighed. "As will I, my dear. As will I."