A/N: Very grateful to the people who are still here! I haven't abandoned this, I promise – it lives rent-free in my head too much for that.


The 'Evelyn Effect', it seemed, was in full swing that night – because when all were in their proper place and the grand double doors to the white marble and gold-lacquered ballroom opened up to reveal the Marches' princess, the entire room seemed to take a collective breath in. Were it anybody else, Cullen might've scoffed. Instead, he was too busy staring like an imbecile alongside the King of Ferelden and his assistant (or whatever inane term the royals had for such a role) when the doors opened and Evelyn led her entourage inside.

She smiled at the guests in attendance, her eyes not so much as trailing in the direction of the cameras in attendance at one side of the room. Her eyes did, however, land upon him. So quickly that he wondered if he'd imagined it, she arched an eyebrow teasingly at him, humour glimmering in her gaze, and then she was the prim and proper Princess Evelyn again.

"Did you see that?" Josephine murmured at him, lips barely moving in a feat that the best ventriloquists would envy.

Cullen did not respond. Primarily because she was approaching King Alistair, and he found himself reluctant to miss it. Although that curiosity alone had him piling yet more guilt upon that which he felt near-constantly these days – for did it make him any better than the people who pored over every word of the gossip columns day in and day out?

He pushed it down, and kept his face carefully expressionless as he watched. It was for the job, after all. It would be harder to earn her affection if it still lay with another. Not that that motivation was any better than mere curiosity – in fact, it was decidedly seedier.

All but floating towards the king, her skirts golden and weightless as they glittered about her, she greeted the King of Ferelden with a warm and brilliant smile, sinking gracefully into a curtsey. It was not low enough to be servile, but not shallow enough to be disrespectful, nor overly familiar. Cullen idly wondered in the back of his mind if this was something that had been practised at the bidding of her people. Not those of the Marches, but those of the palace. It wouldn't be a surprise to him, if so.

The room around them was more silent than a packed hall had ever been. Than it could ever be. Or so he'd thought. His hands tightened their grip where they were clasped together before him, and then he forcibly loosened them again. It defied logic, it defied reality. This thing that surrounded the royals, but her in particular most of all. The Evelyn Effect, indeed.

Rising, she accepted King Alistair's hand when he offered it, shaking it and leaning forward at the same time as he did so that they might kiss one another on the cheek. Afterwards, she stepped back and made a little polite small-talk, the smile still fixed to her face. If Cullen hadn't known better, he'd simply have thought them colleagues. Vague friends, at most. In fact, King Alistair appeared more bothered by the interaction than she did, a strange sort of wariness permeating his manner in a way that was entirely uncharacteristic of Ferelden's infamously jokester-like king.

And then she was moving on. She had to do a fair bit of walking to clear King Alistair's entourage, pausing here and there to greet those among them that she knew, and then she finally reached Cullen.

He bowed at the neck and she laughed, shaking her head as she clasped his hand between two of her own.

"Oh, don't start all that. This is your night, I should be curtseying to you."

"I think you had more to do with this than I did," he pointed out.

Filling ballrooms with important people was not one of his skills.

"Your Royal Highness," Josephine added pointedly beneath her breath.

Evelyn heard, judging by how her eyes moved to her, but she smiled and smoothly pretended to take it as a greeting, taking but half a step away from Cullen.

"Lady Montilyet, it's so good to see you. How is your sister? Yvette?"

"She is well, ma'am," Josephine lit up under the attention of the princess, "and she will be delighted to hear that you recall her."

"Her thinly veiled hints that she'd be happy to come to court here made quite an impression," Evelyn teased, and then seeing how Josephine paled, she quickly continued. "And I took her enthusiasm as a great compliment. She has a place amongst my ladies next summer, should she wish it. And should your family agree to it."

Joephine blinked, and then smiled, "That…is a very generous offer, ma'am. I must write to my family and…well, I'm not sure that they…"

"Oh, there's no pressure. The offer is there, but think on it by all means. Although I would suggest doing so before you breathe a word of it to Lady Yvette."

Then, she turned back to Cullen and fixed him with a warm smile, "and you must save me a dance."

"I was under the impression that we were order-bound to do so," he replied.

Evelyn chuckled.

"We are, but it's a bit more fun if we pretend we have a choice."

When she moved further down the line, Josephine sucked in a breath through her teeth.

"You know, Cullen, you are very lucky that she appears to like you."

He wished he didn't agree quite so deeply as he did. Nor that he'd noticed just how keenly King Alistair's gaze was fixed on him, a few places down the line.


The hall was packed, and every person in it was vying for the attention of Princess Evelyn. Even those know already knew her personally. Perhaps those most of all, really, for then they could boast that they had her particular favour if they won some unspoken competition to make her laugh the loudest, or appear the most intriguing conversation partner.

Once he'd done his duty and danced with the princess – something that didn't much feel like the stuff of salacious novels, giving that they could hardly chat under the eyes of all gathered, and he was too busy trying not to trip over - Cullen was happy enough to fall back to the sidelines. He couldn't help but feel that he'd fumbled that too, for he'd been mired in such discomfort that he'd barely been able to look at her without suddenly becoming painfully self-aware of every slight mannerism of his own. The way he breathed, how often he looked at her, how long he did so each time, whether his grip was too strong on her hand, the way his fingers flexed where they sat at her waist.

No, it was safer here. Every so often he'd find himself reciting the charity motto and extolling its virtues to those who approached him despite the aura he knew he gave out of very much not wanting to be spoken to. He couldn't help it, it just came naturally to him. Then again, he didn't really try to help it either. His chaperones had left him to his own devices, too, slinking about the hall and making veiled enquiries in an attempt to sniff out information.

Tearing his eyes away from the sea of black tailcoats and silk gowns, he found Evelyn easily enough – on the other side of the hall, chatting sunnily with a redheaded man. He barely noticed the dark-haired, lanky aristocrat that sidled up to him until he began speaking.

"She called him the love of her life, you know," the lad muttered conspiratorially to Cullen.

Following his line of sight, he amended his words. "Not him. King Alistair."

Said monarch was not currently in sight, but that mattered little to Cullen. He'd seen enough over the course of the evening so far to take the measure of the situation. Neither of the two had so much as glanced in the direction of one another since their greeting.

"The princess often discusses the details of her private life with you, does she?" Cullen replied boredly.

"I'm good friends with the family – her brother, in particular," he scoffed.

As if he thought the notion of his gossiping about Evelyn's personal affairs with her brother, of all people, was some sort of great victory. When Cullen did not respond, he sniffed and continued.

"And you see that man she's speaking to? The kilted wonder?"

"Sebastian Vael."

"Of course you know of him. Few don't. The Vaels are perhaps the second most influential family in the Marches – second only to the Trevelyans themselves. He's a favourite of her parents."

"Perhaps he'll be lucky and they'll adopt him."

"As their son-in-law, if they have their way."

Considering Vael didn't seem overly enthusiastic towards the woman before him, beyond what was polite, his own opinion did not factor into the equation. Did Evelyn's? Her brother had a popularity problem – well, the problem being his lack thereof. The rumblings among the people that they'd much prefer it if he was passed over as heir and she should be made heir to the throne might disappear, or so the King and Queen may hope, if she was to be wifed off and hedged into a life of motherly and maternal bliss, too busy kissing bruises better and walking barefoot hand-in-hand along a beach with the so-called kilted wonder to remain as involved as she currently was with all of her many causes.

But it would be such a waste. Not, perhaps, if it was something it appeared she had any real enthusiasm towards - but even he could see, in their short acquaintance, that she did not. Indeed, she appeared to thrive in her job. The actual job. The charity work, the listening to the people, being there for the people. Not the bits forced upon her by the press.

"Excuse me," he said to the man beside him, turning and making for one of the balconies.

He didn't care if the chit took it as a victory.

There was a distinct grass-like, vaguely minty smell in the air as Cullen stepped out onto the balcony – one he recognised immediately. Elfroot cigarettes. They were a favourite of those in the Order, along those who had once been in the Order. Entirely herbal and with none of the foul stuff found in ordinary cigarettes, plenty used them to calm their nerves, all without having to worry about how it might impact their lungs, and therefore their fighting fitness.

It was oddly comforting to find that he was not the only one who found these events grating. Up until he noticed the source of the smoke.

The King of Ferelden stood, alone, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, the cigarette hanging from his lips. Cullen halted. But it took him too long to decide whether to speak or to leave, and King Alistair turned.

If he'd expected some mindless small talk about the cause that they'd all turned up for tonight, his instincts would have been proven laughably wrong.

"They don't teach you to dance like that in Templar training," he said in the way of greeting. "Although I never completed it, did I? Maybe they saved that for last. You know how to kill abominations, now it's time to learn to waltz. That sort of thing."

Cullen lowered his head in a sort of half-nod, half-bow – then internally winced at the motion. But he supposed the King could take it whichever way he wished, and he himself could not be accused of being rude to Evelyn's former…thing. Still, there was a strange sort of veiled accusation in the words.

"You learned," he pointed out.

"An unavoidable aspect of kinging."

There hadn't been any indication that he viewed that particular dance as such. Then again, there'd been little sign of any real emotions on the faces of either participant – throughout any of the night. The princess' greeting alone had shown she'd be far better suited to Cullen's current job than he was. And ordinarily, the sight would've put him off. The…the blatant display of artifice, so perfectly carried out than any without context would think they truly were just old colleagues. Instead, it just made Cullen sad. For her.

King Alistair clearly expected an explanation, and so he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Lady Montilyet took it upon herself to teach me especially for tonight."

"Good of her."

"It was for a good cause."

He'd already bloodied Evelyn's nose before countless cameras, he didn't want to do the same to her toes now, too.

King Alistair gave a non-committal hum, removing a hand from his pocket so that he could pluck the cigarette from between his lips.

"Yes. Well. If you hurt her, I'll make sure you're never welcome in Ferelden again."

Cullen blinked. "I'm not sure that's an appropriate use of your power. Sir."

"Perhaps not. I confess, I don't really care, Mr Rutherford."

On the contrary, it appeared he cared a great deal. Although not about what was or was not within his kingly rights.

It was difficult to know here to go from there. A furious argument that he had no intention of hurting the princess? Well, that was true, but his intentions here mattered little, and there were times when it seemed an unfortunate forgone conclusion. A bumbling assurance that he did not wish to hurt her? Well, that had the same problem as the first idea, with the addition of being utterly pathetic. What did that leave? A sneer and an insistence that it wasn't King Alistair's place to speak to him like this? That was hardly tempting, either.

He was saved from any of those three grim options when the sound of heels clicking against marble drew near, and Evelyn herself swept onto the balcony. Who it was she sought out here became apparent when, upon seeing Cullen, she did a double-take, looked startled for a split second, and then cast her gaze curiously between the two of them. Then, however, she cast her attention off into the night, not looking at the King Alistair as she addressed him. There was no hint of the breezy, effortless warmth that she'd cloaked herself in before all of the cameras.

"They're about to play our song, your majesty."

Those words were often spoken wistfully by lovers – paired with soft smiles and flushed cheeks – but that was not so here. Sighing, King Alistair dropped what remained of the herbal cigarette, stamped it out beneath his finely polished leather shoe, and turned to let Evelyn lead the way. Instead, she stepped aside so he could pass her in the doorway…leaving so much room that they were in no danger of brushing up against one another.

He did so, his shoulders straightening as he walked. Once he was gone, Evelyn turned to Cullen with a tired smile on her face, her hands fidgeting awkwardly before she finally clasped them before her.

"Are you alri-" he began to ask.

"I'll find you once I get this out of the way. I'm, er, I'm sorry about all of this, Cullen."

"The last thing you owe me is an apology," he said frankly.

In part because of everything she did not know, but also because he could see now that she took perhaps even less joy in this whole night than he did.

"What's the first thing I owe you?" she teased tiredly.

"A drink," he said before he could think better of it. "When this is all over. To celebrate. After tonight, I'm not sure we'll ever need to hold another fundraiser again. Not in my lifetime, at least."

"That's a shame."

"It is?"

"Mm. I've rather enjoyed working with you. I'll miss it."

Maker, she meant it, didn't she? It wasn't just the sort of mindless inane flattery being thrown about inside – there was a tentativeness to her words, and more still to her face as she admitted it.

"Well…perhaps we might discuss how to remedy that over the drink," he said, and was proud at how smooth he thought he'd sounded for all of a few seconds before he winced. "Not – not how to make sure you won't miss me- ahem, it, rather, but er…so that you won't find yourself in the position of…missing…"

It was then that he trailed off awkwardly, but she seemed disinclined to put him out of his misery, watching him with a soft smile on her face as he fumbled.

"I'm no good at this," he confessed with a tired laugh.

"You're charming," she countered – so easily that he really had no idea what to say in return. "And a good dancer, by the way. Despite the nerves."

"Were they that obvious?"

"Only to me. And like I said, it was charming."

"You're kind," he settled for.

"Yes. Well. It's part of the job description."

Judging by the behaviours of others with that same job description – her brother and her mother, to name only a couple – he might be forgiven for not believing that. As well as continuing to hold her care in high regard.

"May I ask you a question?"

She'd been about to turn away and take her leave when he spoke, but she paused and waited patiently. Like she wasn't keeping an actual king waiting for her. Cullen hesitated.

"You're wondering why I called it our song?" she asked with a wry smile.

The fact that she knew what he was about to ask made him feel less foolish for wondering. He couldn't help but smile.

"Yes, actually."

Inhaling slowly, she then sighed.

"Not long after the…well, after the news broke, on our first run-in with one another, actually, we had an official engagement. Of course it was, what else would force us back into a room with one another?"

Cullen, wisely, chose not to answer – but that was fine, for the answer seemed to be a rhetorical one.

"It had been months. Only a handful of months. Everything was still fairly fresh, and it was decided that we had to dance together. To prove that it was all done with. You have to love that logic, don't you? Seems so counterintuitive. Well, we did dance. And we danced to the wrong song. Iris, have you heard it?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, if you had, you'd know it was a terrible choice. The press loved it…and several people lost their jobs over it."

"You're joking."

For a moment, and only a moment, she looked very small – amidst her sea of glittering gold skirts, and the carefully coiled elaborate updo weighing down upon her head. But then it passed, and she was Princess Evelyn again, huffing a humourless laugh.

"I wish I was. Ever since then, we have an allocated song. One that could have no possible implications whatsoever, one that isn't the slight bit romantic. It's carefully slipped into the evening's musical selections, we dance to that and only that, and we leave without further scandal."

"No possible implications? I expect experts analysed every lyric in excruciating detail?" he quipped drily.

"Of course," Evelyn replied – without a hint of joking.

Although she did crack a smile at the dismay on his face.