"Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be."
― Shel Silverstein
6. Spring
"Ah! The Secret Language of Flowers!" Dorian exclaimed with excessive enthusiasm.
A few heads turned to look at them, and Blackwall wasn't sure if it was because the mage was being loud or if they were all judging his literary selection.
"Quiet, please!" the head librarian called to them harshly.
"What was that?" Dorian asked her innocently, cupping his ear.
"I SAID—" the woman began again, louder, before realizing she had been had. Again.
She furrowed her wrinkled brow and cast them both a peeved look. Dorian chuckled quietly.
"Gets her every time. But deep down I know she enjoys my holding court here," he winked.
Blackwell felt trapped as Dorian blocked his way out. He was sure he'd appeased his curiosity earlier and had hoped to make a clean exit. Instead, Dorian had practically materialized out of nowhere at his side after he'd checked out the book, obnoxiously peering over his shoulder.
"I have to say, when you mentioned you were looking for books on historic battles and strategies, I thought maybe you would be analyzing and hatching some plan to beat Corypheus…"
Blackwell found himself tongue tied. It was pretty damning, he had to admit. What could he salvage at this point?
"But it's not just any plan, is it?" Dorian grinned winsomely, plucking the book out of his hands and leafing through the pages adorned with delicate floral illustrations. "It's a brilliant plan. Look: first we unleash an attack on Corypheus with 'Rashvine,' " he declared, clearing his throat before launching into a theatrical reading of the text. " 'When days of laughter galore/Are darkened by lovers' war/ Rashvine may help underscore/ What renders a heart so sore. To indicate disapproval and resentment with your beloved, Rashvine should be dried and given in a small bunch tied with brown ribbon.'" Dorian nodded knowingly before falling silent and perusing the book for more. "Oh! And look here: this should be quite poignant, once we are all standing around Corypheus' corpse: 'Freshly cut Andraste's Grace flowers—but only the white ones—'" he emphasized warningly, "'Sweet farewells filled with sorrow/If ne'er more we meet in the 'morrow/ Andraste's Grace offers solace from the flowerpot/ That you, dearest, must forget me not.'" He leaned against a bookshelf with a coy grin on his lips, hugging the book against his chest. "I never figured you could be so ironic!" His eyes widened with delight, as he plopped the book back in his hands.
Blackwall felt completely self-conscious as he swung the leather tome beneath his arm.
"So who are we going a-courting?" Dorian wondered mischievously, dropping into the winged chair he'd substituted the hard, wooden carrel for in the small alcove. Along the shelves lining the walls, he'd arranged the books of interest to him independent of any cataloguing system. He operated his own ancillary library, and added and substituted books at will, much to the long-suffering librarian's chagrin. Blackwell took a steady breath.
"Nobody," he declared firmly.
Dorian blinked back, utterly unimpressed, the lie very clunky and obvious.
"Truly, Blackwell. The Language of Flowers? In this day and age? There has to be a better way, man…"
He felt the blood rise to his cheeks. He was glad for his thick, black beard.
"Unless, of course, you are courting a Dowager?" he asked flippantly. "Although I am afraid to inform you that they don't make Dowagers like they used to. I told you I was goosed by an errant hand at the ball at the Winter Palace, didn't I?"
"You told everyone," Blackwall groaned. "It was, more than anything else that occurred there that night, the greatest outrage," he remarked with dry sarcasm.
"It was all bloodcurdling, I assure you. Especially the music and the decor…But I swear, after the deed, when I turned around, the Dowager was the only one standing across from me. I can hardly berate her on her excellent taste, but one must wonder how she remained so nimble at her advanced age…"
Dorian reached for a crystal decanter resting on a lower shelf along with two glasses.
"Can I interest you in some fine spirits?" he grinned amiably. He leaned forward, past Blackwell and shook the decanter in the librarian's direction. The woman huffed and looked away crossly. "I wonder why she never joins me…She could most definitely use a drink."
"I need to be going now," Blackwall declared gruffly.
"You know, I was only joking about the Dowager comment," Dorian continued, pouring himself half a glass of the tawny liquid. Blackwell nodded appreciatively. "But you know who would, quite literally, eat that all up?" he asked. Blackwell frowned. " A she-goat," he revealed conspiratorially.
"Right. That's my cue," Blackwell said irritably as Dorian burst into laughter. As he began to exit the library, he heard a sharp "Sssh!" uttered towards them.
"We were having an exciting academic debate, my good woman!" Dorian called out jovially, raising his glass at her. "How does one refer properly to a she-goat?" he wondered.
"You would call it a 'nanny,' " the librarian, finally baited, declared.
Blackwell had reached the steps outside when he heard Dorian's voice behind him.
"A nanny? Just as in the child's maid? Really? Ha! That explains ever so much about Fereldans, doesn't it? Especially the smell! The dog lords raised by she-goats…"
He skipped down the steps swiftly, crossing the main hall and down another doorway until he wandered into Skyhold's garden. He found it relatively empty at that time of the afternoon. A few people lingered, sharing conversation on the benches lining the heavy stone walls behind the many arches that ran along the open yard. A Chantry sister read peacefully and two elven children played an animated game of tag up and down one of the archways. A chill lingered in the air, but Elan Ve'mal's crew was at work in the garden and the sweet odor of freshly tilled earth rose to meet his nostrils. He searched the grounds for the familiar rusty-colored head of hair that dipped and wove through the bushes and brambles tending for trees and the many planters strategically placed throughout the courtyard. He found the herbologist friendly and professional. He had relied on her all winter to assist him with a secret undertaking. He reached for his coin purse, carefully tucked away inside his padded vest and discovered her crouching over a small plot of earth pinpointed with tiny dots of sprouting green buds. Upon sensing him standing over her, she lifted a grumpy face, her lips ready to utter a complaint, until she realized who it was.
"You got my note!" she exclaimed.
"Is it ready?"
She removed her heavy gloves and wiped the back of her hand over her forehead, glancing towards the small greenhouse.
"The buds just emerged," she informed him. "You can take a sprig today. Just place it in water and it should bloom beautifully over the next two days." She turned to her helpers. "Space the rows more evenly," she directed them. With a wave of her hand, she beckoned him to follow her. When they reached the greenhouse, she pushed into the door with her shoulder. "Needs repair," she apologized.
Inside the warm stuffy space pots of various sizes held plants of the most different kinds. Leafy stalks emerged forth in bursts of deep, succulent green, and dangling tendrils poured down from hanging planters. Graceful fronds fanned over their arms and legs as they delved deeper into the greenhouse. They were northern plants, from the more amenable Theodosian climates: the northern Free Marches, Antiva, Rivain, and even the Séheron.
"I wasn't sure it was going to make it, but it held in there. One of my assistants is a mage and he was able to stabilize the temperature in here with a clever spell," she explained. "Saved most of these plants, especially on those colder winter days," she remarked admiringly.
She guided him to a smaller flowerpot where a tall-stemmed plant rose above the others with tightly shut buds hanging from its spindly branches. He could glimpse the delicate shade of rose peering out from the nubbly dark green buds. The flowers would erupt in soft clouds of pink that cascaded down the branch charmingly.
Queen Asha's Buttons. A uniquely Antivan flower, he thought, pleased.
He observed as Elan cut a robust sprig for him. She placed it in a small clay container filled with water she scooped up from the improvised fish pond they had stationed inside the greenhouse to shelter the carp from the cold.
"Make sure you keep it in here until you are able to put it into a nicer vase," she instructed him. "Although you should use the same water. It'll be happier in murkier water, like in its natural habitat."
He was delighted with his fragile bounty and gladly left a glinting tower of coins on the greenhouse's workbench.
He was determined not to be caught until he was ready, and he wasn't ready yet. After examining the main hall for activity, he moved swiftly to Varric's table tucked at one of the sides of the hall's entrance. The dwarf was not there, but would be returning eventually, he concluded, since he'd left his quill and parchments scattered on the surface. With a glance around the hall, he sat himself down, carefully setting his sprig before him and laying the book on the table. He was quite sure the dwarf wouldn't object to his borrowing some of his writing utensils. Always keeping a cautious eye on the door leading to the War Room, he began to search the book.
"Queen Asha's Buttons," he whispered, perusing the pages. Upon finding the entry, he studied the different meanings: "The hope, joy, and beauty of spring."
He took the quill, inked the tip, and began to scratch the surface of the parchment.
Dear Josephine,
I thought you would like these flowers from your native Antiva. I find them charming and beautiful as yourself—
He tore and crumpled up the parchment, stuffing it into his pocket.
"Ridiculous," he grumbled, chastising himself.
He focused on the next sheet and began writing anew.
My dearest Josephine,
In the words of the great poet: 'I want to do with you what spring does with the flowering trees.'
He tilted his head pensively. It was an erudite message—a famous quote by a famous poet.
Spring is filled with joy and life and I want to see her bloom with happiness and…
Suddenly the interpretation of the poem became transparent to him. Perhaps it wasn't as innocent as he once thought it was…
Well, not that I wouldn't like to caress that alluring, warm sun-kissed skin, and savor those full, inviting lips…
He shook himself out of his reverie.
Send that and she'll think you are a pervert!
He angrily crumpled the sheet again and reached for a new one.
Hello Josephine,
I hope you like the flowers.
Sincerely,
The imbecile!
Ink splattered all over the parchment where he had begun stabbing it with the quill in great frustration.
"Trying your hand at a murder mystery?" the voice behind him mocked.
He turned embarrassedly to face Varric.
"I hope you don't mind. I had some urgent business to take care of," he muttered.
"I'm just glad I'm not the one receiving that missive…"
Blackwell hastily crushed the parchment, picked his book off the table and seized his sprig.
"You can finish, if you want," Varric called out. "But let me move out of the way. That was quite the performance!"
Blackwell marched off, his pocket stuffed with crumpled paper and his face stuck in a frown.
Keep it simple, he smirked to himself. So much for that.
"Is the Ambassador in?" he asked the sentinels guarding the door.
"No, she isn't. She is in a meeting across the hall."
"Good. I will only be a moment then. I have a delivery," he explained, holding the small container. The sentinels exchanged discreet, knowing glances before stepping aside. As the door shut firmly behind him, one leaned towards the other.
"Skyhold's florist…" the first guard whispered.
"Personal florist," the second corrected, amusedly, as they snickered briefly.
Evelyn Trevelyan paced before Josephine's table in deep thought.
"Wouldn't that just be throwing money at the problem, though? What they need is help clearing the damage and rebuilding infrastructure," she mused.
"That would be better," Josephine concurred. "But that's what the money was going to be for: to secure the muscle to clear the rubble, build the foundations…"
"I don't like the idea of taking out a loan for the reparations."
"It's the easiest solution, the terms would favor us, it would make creditors more willing to work with the Inquisition in the future, and I have no doubt about our ability to repay it—"
"Then let's save it for a circumstance where we find ourselves truly unable to offer more than financial assistance. Redcliffe is not that far away— we can send aid for rebuilding. We can spare Ovolir for a bit…"
"It might be a small blessing to see construction halted here for a little while," Josephine conceded.
The dwarven builder had secured the fortress, but never seemed to lack for projects. His scaffolds littered the halls and his latest push in advancing a proposal to update Skyhold's archaic plumbing systems was causing no small amount of alarm.
Perhaps sending him off for a spell would be a welcome reprieve from the incessant hammering, shouting, and demolitions...
"Very well, I'll let them know. Of course, it would sweeten the offer if you agreed to be present at any ceremonies to inaugurate the new structures…"
"Me…and a small retinue!" Evelyn protested. She didn't revel in the more social aspects of her station and Josephine knew that the comment meant she would have to go also.
"Excellent," she grinned, as she scribbled down a note reminding herself to pen the letter to the Arl before the courier left the next morning.
"These are different from your usual mountain flowers," Evelyn remarked, gingerly touching the flowering sprig. Josephine smiled proudly.
"Yes…They are flowers originally from Antiva: Queen Asha's Buttons. They flower at the beginning of spring…and their scent is divine," she remarked, gazing at the dainty flowers affectionately.
Evelyn arched an eyebrow.
"I knew your 'champion' took off searching for your flowers wherever they might be growing here…but you are telling me now the man trekked all the way to Antiva for these?…" she teased.
Josephine caressed the clay container.
"I do not know where he got them from, but I couldn't believe my eyes when I found them on my desk yesterday. Our garden was filled with these back in Antiva. It reminds me of home, of my childhood…"
"It's a very thoughtful gesture," Evelyn agreed, contemplating her ambassador, who appeared lost in pleasant thoughts all of a sudden.
Happy Spring, the simple, succinct note had stated. Hope abounds, it read.
"You know, I don't understand why you two don't—"
"Blackwall is a gallant man…no matter what name he chooses. Alas, there are too many differences between us in station." Josephine sighed. "It must be 'la splendeur des coeurs perdus.'"
Evelyn grimaced. The "splendor of lost hearts," that old-fashioned contrivance meant to idealize frustrated love because of petty social and heraldic conventions had come up again and again any time she broached the topic with Josephine.
"I suppose so," Evelyn shrugged. "I suppose those are the rules, aren't they?"
Josephine looked up warily. She recognized the tone of mischief in the Inquisitor's voice quite well.
"Who could ever imagine a reformed criminal and a noble ambassador together?" she wondered aloud. "Why, it sounds as nonsensical as…as having a mage head of the Inquisition!"
Josephine inhaled deeply.
"Or a Seeker allying with an apostate! Or a Qunari and a Tevinter fighting alongside each other!" she exclaimed amusedly, observing her. "Or an Orlesian empress having an elven consort! Shall I continue?"
Josephine tried to conceal a grin.
"Or a templar and a mage?..." she finally asked with playful coyness.
Evelyn laughed.
"Actually, that one is far more common than you'd imagine."
She leaned over Josephine's desk, looking into her light, hazel eyes.
"Change only happens if those wishing for it are bold enough to undertake it…"
Long after Josephine had penned her letter to the Arl, pledging aid from the Inquisition and promising that Evelyn would be there for any grand ceremonies, she remained at her desk, leaning back in her chair, staring at the lovely, unexpected and surprising flowers. Her eyes wandered to the note she had pulled out from her top drawer.
"Hope abounds."
She smiled.
A/N: I stole and adapted Pablo Neruda's beautiful line from his poem "Every Day You Play" (Juegas Todos los Días): "I want to do with you what spring does with cherry trees." ("Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos.") Neruda has written some of the most breathtakingly gorgeous love poetry ever. Thedas needs more poets who aren't just rambling on about the Canticle of Light... ;-)
Josephine's line about the splendor of lost hearts is straight from the game. Which I don't own, yes?