Dragon Age: Inquisition fic -- Pavane
Inquisitor Elleth Lavellan has to learn to dance for the Winter Palace. She's the least dancing elf in Thedas. I have kind of a thing about dancing scenes.
short and sweet, Lavellan/Blackwall, with many cameos
The War Council meeting ends late. There is a great deal to discuss about plans for the Inquisition’s visit to the Winter Court at Halamshiral. Even though it isn’t actually a great distance as the crow flies, it is a more considerable journey around the Frostbacks, requiring descending on the Ferelden side along the old pilgrim way and then north to the King’s Road and Jader. From there the road leads straight and true to Halamshiral in the Dales of Orlais, but it’s still a week’s journey with wagons. Elleth Lavellan pushes her annoyance down where it belongs. She and a few companions could do it in four days, but that would not suit the dignity of the Inquisitor. This must be done “properly” as Josephine terms it. That means a baggage train and a good fifty people, including Leliana, Cullen, Vivienne, Cassandra, Dorian and Josephine herself. At least, Elleth thinks, anyone who attacks us will have serious reason to be sorry. Which is the point.
Everyone is starting to flag and the dinner hour is past, and Josephine is still going over logistical details.
“Must we do this in Halamshiral?” Elleth asks again. “Why not Val Royaux? Or somewhere else?”
Josephine and Leliana exchange a glance. “Because our agents tell us the attempt on Queen Celene’s life will be made at the Winter Palace,” Leliana says. “At Duke Gaspard’s ball and the meetings surrounding it. If our goal is to stop the assassination….”
“Yes, I know,” Elleth says testily. “Then it has to be then and there. I know.”
Cullen heaves a sigh. “Then why are we going over this again?”
I hate Halamshiral is not something the Inquisitor can say, though Elleth suspects Leliana feels the same way. The idea of returning there after so many years, with the elvhen parts of the city so recently burned by the queen she’s supposed to protect for the good of Thedas - every bit of this rankles. And yet what’s the alternative if they want to stop Corypheus and the terrible future he intends?
“No reason,” Elleth says. “Josephine, if there’s nothing else, we can reconvene tomorrow afternoon?”
“There is one other thing.” Josephine studiously does not look up from her tablet. “You must be prepared to dance.”
“To dance?”
Cassandra huffs. “The Inquisitor must dance?”
“The Inquisitor absolutely must dance.” Josephine’s voice is stern. “Dancing is one of the graces that any person with pretentions to the nobility must master.”
“I have no pretentions to the nobility,” Elleth says, “And I’m an elf.”
“You represent the Inquisition. And for that matter, all the elves of Thedas. So yes, you must dance,” Josephine replies.
“I’m afraid it is inescapable,” Leliana adds. “The dance floor is where much intrigue will take place, and at least you must be able to competently follow one set. Otherwise you will be at a disadvantage.”
Cullen has a look that says clearly, better you than me.
“I don’t know any… I don’t know Orlesian court dances,” Elleth manages. “Elvhen dances are entirely different.”
“Of course,” Josephine says. “So you must find someone to teach you. Now, if we are done with everything on the list, I will see you all tomorrow.”
“Great,” Cullen says, grabbing his gloves off the table. “Tomorrow.”
“Perfect,” Leliana says, and hurries out of the room muttering something about an appointment. Cassandra follows her.
“Wait,” Elleth begins, but nobody’s left but Cullen. It is past the dinner hour, and this meeting has gone on too long, but this looks like a suspiciously speedy exit by everyone. “Who’s supposed to teach me to dance Orlesian court dances?” Of all the ridiculous…. And she’s talking to a mostly empty room. Everyone else is speedier than Cullen. But surely Cullen can dance. “Cullen?”
“Yes?” He turns around looking like a guilty schoolboy who’s been caught.
“Can you teach me to dance these silly things?”
Cullen blanches. “I can’t dance,” he says. “Templars don’t dance. I mean, I don’t know any dances. The kind they want. Court dances. I don’t know any.”
She supposes it’s just possible that Templars don’t dance. And it’s true that Cullen is from Ferelden and wasn’t nobility to start with. “You can’t dance.”
“Not the kind of dances they mean.” Cullen looks sheepish. “Country dances, maybe. But not these figured slow things with huge skirts.”
“I am not wearing a huge skirt.” That has already been absolutely established.
“You should ask Cassandra,” Cullen says. “She’s noble.”
“A good idea.” Cassandra can’t be too far ahead of her. “See you tomorrow.” She bids Cullen a hasty farewell and all but sprints down the corridor after Cassandra.
She catches her at the door of the great hall. “Cassandra, wait! I have something I need to ask you.”
Cassandra turns, wincing. “I can’t dance,” she says.
“I didn’t even ask you yet.”
“I was raised among the Mortalitasi and went to the Seekers when I was twelve. Unless you plan to dance with the dead, I cannot help you.”
They’re clearing away the remains of dinner in the hall. Cassandra clearly wants some before it’s gone from the way she’s looking longingly at the tables. “You can’t dance at all?”
“Not at all,” Cassandra assures her. “And I have never worn an Orlesian farthingale in my life.”
“I am not wearing one of those things,” Elleth says. “I am dressing just like the rest of you, in Inquisition uniforms. It’s bad enough being an elf in Halamshiral without dressing up as if….”
“As if you approve?” Cassandra’s eyebrows rise. “I, too, do not approve of the Game. It is corrupt and the Orlesian court is a viper pit. But we must go. So we do.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “Thankfully, I do not have to dance.”
“Do you have any idea who can teach me this thing?” Elleth asks. Josephine has made herself scarce and it’s clear that she’s not going to do it.
“Leliana doesn’t dance,” Cassandra says. “And I expect you do not wish to ask Vivienne.”
“No,” Elleth says flatly.
“Varric?” Cassandra suggests. “I would not be surprised if he hasn’t learned courtly dance at some point. It’s the kind of thing he might know.”
“That’s possible.” Elleth considers the possibility of being taught the dances of the Orlesian court by a Free Marcher dwarf a foot and a half shorter than she is, and then allows that probably this is the sort of thing Varric would know. Moreover, he’d be willing to teach her, unlike everyone else who seems to be fleeing as though she has the Blight. Really, anyone would think she was personally frightening! “I’ll ask Varric,” she says. “Thank you, Cassandra.”
“You are quite welcome.” Cassandra nods, and heads off toward the tables in search of a belated dinner.
Varric is probably in the tavern, and there is probably more than leftovers down there, Elleth thinks. Also a drink, which can’t help but improve this dancing process. She’s aware she’s not entirely reasonable about this Halamshiral business. She needs to stop making herself unpleasant to everyone else about it, though. It’s her problem. There is no reason to inflict it on Cullen, Cassandra, and everyone else. So, Varric then. She squares her shoulders. She’ll ask nicely if he can teach her to dance.
The Herald’s Rest is unusually quiet. The Chargers are out in the field and so is Harding’s team. Sera isn’t in evidence, presumably because it’s boring, and there are only ten or twelve people in the entire tavern. Fortunately, one of them is Varric, who seems to be finishing up a pea and potato pie with Blackwall, accompanied by large mugs of cider and some bread and cheese.
Elleth slides into a third chair at the table. “You don’t need all that pie, do you?”
Blackwall looks pleased to see her, which is a change from the War Council at present. “I wasn’t expecting you, my lady. But certainly my pie is yours.”
“It’s our pie, not your pie,” Varric says. “But sure, Dragon Lady. You can share our pie.”
“I said I’d pick up the tab,” Blackwall says. “So it’s my pie.”
“I paid last time,” Varric says, “And I didn’t give away the pie. So…”
“I can get my own pie if it’s a problem,” Elleth says. “I can, in fact, pay for pie. It’s just that the council meeting went forever and I’m starving.”
“Have some pie,” Varric says. “Never let it be said we starved the Inquisitor.”
Blackwall passes the bread and cheese. “What ran so late?”
Elleth dives into the pie, answering through a mouthful of potato and crust. “Plans for this trip to Halamshiral. Which both of you can be thankful you’re not going on.”
“Believe me, we’re thankful,” Varric says.
“Halamshiral used to be a beautiful city,” Blackwall says thoughtfully.
“It’s the ‘used to be’ part that makes this dreadful,” Elleth says. She doesn’t look up from the creamy cheese she’s spreading on the bread. “I lived there two years once. Before Celene burned the place.”
There’s a telling sort of silence from Blackwall. She can almost hear him Not Asking.
“Some good people there,” Varric says. “I expect you know Ric.”
“Everybody knows Ric.” Of course Varric knows the dwarf proprietor of what used to be the most interesting tavern in Halamshiral. Or it was twenty years ago. It’s probably ashes now, along with anyone she knew from those old days, when she was the kind of girl people wrote songs to. She keeps her eyes on the pie. No point in thinking about them. No point in wondering.
“He’s a good guy,” Varric says. “I heard he’s still there. Paid off the Carta during the fire and they protected his place.”
“That’s good to hear,” Elleth says. Her voice is surprisingly even. “Everybody comes to Ric’s.”
Blackwall doesn’t say anything. He never asks about her past. He never tries to pry.
“Yeah,” Varric says. His voice is kind, and he hesitates a moment, like he means to say something and then doesn’t. Instead he takes a long drink of cider and leans back in his chair. “So it’s going to be a great party, right?”
“Would you believe that I have to learn to dance?” She does look up now, back on safe ground. “Varric, I was going to ask you if you could teach me courtly dance. Just one. I only have to be able to get through one thing without falling on my nose.”
Blackwall snorts. “You’re the person I know least likely to fall on their nose.”
“I do not know how to dance,” Elleth says. “Not Orlesian courtly dance. Which this is. Not some other kind of dance, which I may be quite good at.”
“Indeed, my lady.” Blackwall almost keeps a straight face. “I’m sure you’re very good at some dances.”
“Get a room,” Varric says without heat.
Elleth laughs. Varric knows perfectly well she’s slept with Blackwall. Or is sleeping with Blackwall. Or something. Whatever this thing is that ends up in a tumble in the barn a couple of times a week, or less frequently in her bed in the tower. Or sometimes in a tent in the back of beyond. But it’s just an occasional thing. Everyone needs to blow off some tension from time to time. No reason not to, when there’s a suitable person just standing around who won’t get any ideas about this being serious. There has to be something that isn’t part of being Inquisitor. Nobody can stand that all the time.
“Orlesian courtly dance,” Varric says thoughtfully. “I know the pavane. It’s probably the easiest for a beginner because it’s slow. Basically, if you can walk you can learn the pavane.”
“That sounds good,” Elleth agrees.
“When you’ve finished the pie, we’ll give it a try,” Varric says.
They chat about inconsequentials while she finishes dinner. The tavern is really emptying out. Which is good, because if they look foolish there won’t be much of an audience.
She wipes her mouth, and Varric waves at the minstrel. “Ho, Maryden! Would you mind playing a pavane? I’m going to show Dragon Lady how to trip the light fantastic.”
Maryden looks over at them. “Sure, Varric. Everyone in this bar is already asleep.”
Varric gets to his feet. “Well, then. First you take my hand.” He leads her out into the middle of the room in front of Maryden. “Now, stand next to me. Yeah, further apart. No, on the other side. With your hands out to the sides. No, up. Like you’re going to flap. Yeah. Now put your feet like this. Ankles together.”
Elleth raises her arms out to the side. It feels ridiculous. She tries to put her ankles together with her feet turned out, craning her neck to see what Varric is doing.
“Now we walk,” Varric says. “Three steps. With your ankles together.”
“How do I walk with my ankles together?” That seems physically impossible.
“You just… I’ll show you. Ok, now keep your back straight and your arms out. Come on, three bitty steps.”
With her back straight and her ankles together? Arms out. Right. Elleth shifts her feet like she’s taking bitty steps.
Blackwall shakes his head. “You look like a drunk duck. Varric, move. That’s not how the pavane goes.”
“You want to give the dance lesson, Hero?” Varric says. “Be my guest.” He goes over and flops back in the chair. “I’ll watch and provide gratuitous advice.”
“First, it’s not walk with your ankles together. It’s bring your ankles together after each step.” Blackwall turns to stand beside her, straight and neat as a guard at attention. He reaches out his right hand for her left, just letting her fingers rest on his. They touch at no other point. “It’s dignified. It’s slow. It’s precise.” He waits for Maryden’s beat. “Now, step with your right foot. Then bring your left up even so your ankles are together. Hesitate. Then do it again. Hesitate. Then again.”
That’s better. “What do I do about my right arm?”
“Let it hang naturally. Don’t flap it around at shoulder height. Three more steps just the same. Look at me, not at your feet.”
She looks at him and his eyes are warm, a genuine smile on his face. Her fingers rest on his, curving slightly, his hand flat and his thumb tucked in.
“Three more steps. It’s three sets of three. Now turn and face me.”
The music helps her keep the time. Turn and face him, and he goes to one knee with his back absolutely straight, left knee out at a ninety-degree angle, holding her hand up as though he meant to kiss it.
“Now here’s the hard part. Go around me to the right, still doing the three steps with a hesitation between each, three sets of three. When you get even with my left shoulder, I’m going to switch hands,” Blackwall says.
As she passes, the length of their arms means that they get closer, he on one knee at her feet, his head turning to follow her. On the third step his left hand comes up and he takes her hand in it, almost but not quite bringing it to his lips, a passage that nearly brushes their bodies but not quite. And then she’s behind him, turning like an errant moon, his arm rising over his head as he guides her around.
Three more steps brings her back to his side, changing his hand again, this time with her looking down into his eyes, a frisson running between them that has little to do with the music.
“And back out to face me,” he says. “Three steps.” He stands as gracefully as coming out of a lunge. “Now you stand still and I go around.”
It’s the same pattern, only this time he passes around her, his body just barely touching hers as he circles.
“You’re too close,” Varric says. “Not supposed to touch on the turns.”
“Depends on the lady, doesn’t it?” Blackwall replies.
And he’s in front of her again, her left hand in his right, and he bends over it, his lips barely touching her fingertips, his back leg straight.
“That’s a pretty picture,” Varric says.
“Now we repeat it,” Blackwall says, straightening up. “Going down the room. In here we don’t have the space, so we’ll turn around now and go back the other way. In a proper ballroom it’s two repeats down and two repeats back, then bow and curtesy. Turn, my lady.” He turns her about, now her right hand in his left, facing in the other direction. “And we do it again.”
It’s oddly erotic, this restraint. There’s no whirl of bodies, no giving oneself over to abandon. This is precise, like putting ten arrows into a target in sixty seconds, like the drills she watches him teach the recruits. The grace is in the perfection of each movement. She understands that.
Three and three and three again, and he’s on his knees. This time she doesn’t have to think as hard about what to do and can think about how to do it with grace, to pass around him. If she wore skirts they would whisper against him. With breeches instead there is an inch between, close enough to feel the warmth of his body but not to touch. His smile, when she looks down at him as they change hands, has just a bit of a sensual curl to it, knowing she’s doing that on purpose.
The slow music repeats over and over, a mandolin heartbeat. Three and three and three. And now he’s circling her, the slightest improper pressure on her fingers. Elleth can’t help but smile back, feeling that perhaps she looks like the cat that caught the canary.
And bowing again, bending over her hand, this time a kiss that brushes her knuckles as the music ends.
She doesn’t drop his hand. “Where in the world did you learn to dance like that?”
“Would you believe from the most beautiful courtesan in Val Chevin?” He’s smiling, and she has no idea if it’s a joke or not.
“Hero, I wouldn’t believe a it for a second,” Varric says. “The most beautiful courtesan in Val Chevin would have better taste.”
“Very probably,” Blackwall says gruffly. He nods and lets go of her hand. “So that’s the pavane.”
“You make it seem easy,” Elleth says. Her bad mood has definitely vanished. It must have been the pie.
“It is easy.”
Elleth bites her lower lip. “I think I’m going to need more practice before I’m ready for the Winter Palace.”
“I stand ready to assist,” Blackwall says with a totally straight face.
Maryden rolls her eyes. “Count me out of playing for that.”
“I expect we can manage without music,” Elleth says.
“Get a room,” Varric says. “And don’t scare the horses. In this case, literally, since you insist on sleeping in the barn.”
“I like the barn,” Blackwall says. “Warm. Quiet. Nice roommates.”
Elleth links her arm through his. “But not much room for dancing.”
“True enough,” he allows, and lets her lead him out of the tavern and toward the great hall. “Something better to think about when you’re in Halamshiral,” he says, and she leans on his shoulder for a moment before they go in.
short and sweet, Lavellan/Blackwall, with many cameos
The War Council meeting ends late. There is a great deal to discuss about plans for the Inquisition’s visit to the Winter Court at Halamshiral. Even though it isn’t actually a great distance as the crow flies, it is a more considerable journey around the Frostbacks, requiring descending on the Ferelden side along the old pilgrim way and then north to the King’s Road and Jader. From there the road leads straight and true to Halamshiral in the Dales of Orlais, but it’s still a week’s journey with wagons. Elleth Lavellan pushes her annoyance down where it belongs. She and a few companions could do it in four days, but that would not suit the dignity of the Inquisitor. This must be done “properly” as Josephine terms it. That means a baggage train and a good fifty people, including Leliana, Cullen, Vivienne, Cassandra, Dorian and Josephine herself. At least, Elleth thinks, anyone who attacks us will have serious reason to be sorry. Which is the point.
Everyone is starting to flag and the dinner hour is past, and Josephine is still going over logistical details.
“Must we do this in Halamshiral?” Elleth asks again. “Why not Val Royaux? Or somewhere else?”
Josephine and Leliana exchange a glance. “Because our agents tell us the attempt on Queen Celene’s life will be made at the Winter Palace,” Leliana says. “At Duke Gaspard’s ball and the meetings surrounding it. If our goal is to stop the assassination….”
“Yes, I know,” Elleth says testily. “Then it has to be then and there. I know.”
Cullen heaves a sigh. “Then why are we going over this again?”
I hate Halamshiral is not something the Inquisitor can say, though Elleth suspects Leliana feels the same way. The idea of returning there after so many years, with the elvhen parts of the city so recently burned by the queen she’s supposed to protect for the good of Thedas - every bit of this rankles. And yet what’s the alternative if they want to stop Corypheus and the terrible future he intends?
“No reason,” Elleth says. “Josephine, if there’s nothing else, we can reconvene tomorrow afternoon?”
“There is one other thing.” Josephine studiously does not look up from her tablet. “You must be prepared to dance.”
“To dance?”
Cassandra huffs. “The Inquisitor must dance?”
“The Inquisitor absolutely must dance.” Josephine’s voice is stern. “Dancing is one of the graces that any person with pretentions to the nobility must master.”
“I have no pretentions to the nobility,” Elleth says, “And I’m an elf.”
“You represent the Inquisition. And for that matter, all the elves of Thedas. So yes, you must dance,” Josephine replies.
“I’m afraid it is inescapable,” Leliana adds. “The dance floor is where much intrigue will take place, and at least you must be able to competently follow one set. Otherwise you will be at a disadvantage.”
Cullen has a look that says clearly, better you than me.
“I don’t know any… I don’t know Orlesian court dances,” Elleth manages. “Elvhen dances are entirely different.”
“Of course,” Josephine says. “So you must find someone to teach you. Now, if we are done with everything on the list, I will see you all tomorrow.”
“Great,” Cullen says, grabbing his gloves off the table. “Tomorrow.”
“Perfect,” Leliana says, and hurries out of the room muttering something about an appointment. Cassandra follows her.
“Wait,” Elleth begins, but nobody’s left but Cullen. It is past the dinner hour, and this meeting has gone on too long, but this looks like a suspiciously speedy exit by everyone. “Who’s supposed to teach me to dance Orlesian court dances?” Of all the ridiculous…. And she’s talking to a mostly empty room. Everyone else is speedier than Cullen. But surely Cullen can dance. “Cullen?”
“Yes?” He turns around looking like a guilty schoolboy who’s been caught.
“Can you teach me to dance these silly things?”
Cullen blanches. “I can’t dance,” he says. “Templars don’t dance. I mean, I don’t know any dances. The kind they want. Court dances. I don’t know any.”
She supposes it’s just possible that Templars don’t dance. And it’s true that Cullen is from Ferelden and wasn’t nobility to start with. “You can’t dance.”
“Not the kind of dances they mean.” Cullen looks sheepish. “Country dances, maybe. But not these figured slow things with huge skirts.”
“I am not wearing a huge skirt.” That has already been absolutely established.
“You should ask Cassandra,” Cullen says. “She’s noble.”
“A good idea.” Cassandra can’t be too far ahead of her. “See you tomorrow.” She bids Cullen a hasty farewell and all but sprints down the corridor after Cassandra.
She catches her at the door of the great hall. “Cassandra, wait! I have something I need to ask you.”
Cassandra turns, wincing. “I can’t dance,” she says.
“I didn’t even ask you yet.”
“I was raised among the Mortalitasi and went to the Seekers when I was twelve. Unless you plan to dance with the dead, I cannot help you.”
They’re clearing away the remains of dinner in the hall. Cassandra clearly wants some before it’s gone from the way she’s looking longingly at the tables. “You can’t dance at all?”
“Not at all,” Cassandra assures her. “And I have never worn an Orlesian farthingale in my life.”
“I am not wearing one of those things,” Elleth says. “I am dressing just like the rest of you, in Inquisition uniforms. It’s bad enough being an elf in Halamshiral without dressing up as if….”
“As if you approve?” Cassandra’s eyebrows rise. “I, too, do not approve of the Game. It is corrupt and the Orlesian court is a viper pit. But we must go. So we do.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “Thankfully, I do not have to dance.”
“Do you have any idea who can teach me this thing?” Elleth asks. Josephine has made herself scarce and it’s clear that she’s not going to do it.
“Leliana doesn’t dance,” Cassandra says. “And I expect you do not wish to ask Vivienne.”
“No,” Elleth says flatly.
“Varric?” Cassandra suggests. “I would not be surprised if he hasn’t learned courtly dance at some point. It’s the kind of thing he might know.”
“That’s possible.” Elleth considers the possibility of being taught the dances of the Orlesian court by a Free Marcher dwarf a foot and a half shorter than she is, and then allows that probably this is the sort of thing Varric would know. Moreover, he’d be willing to teach her, unlike everyone else who seems to be fleeing as though she has the Blight. Really, anyone would think she was personally frightening! “I’ll ask Varric,” she says. “Thank you, Cassandra.”
“You are quite welcome.” Cassandra nods, and heads off toward the tables in search of a belated dinner.
Varric is probably in the tavern, and there is probably more than leftovers down there, Elleth thinks. Also a drink, which can’t help but improve this dancing process. She’s aware she’s not entirely reasonable about this Halamshiral business. She needs to stop making herself unpleasant to everyone else about it, though. It’s her problem. There is no reason to inflict it on Cullen, Cassandra, and everyone else. So, Varric then. She squares her shoulders. She’ll ask nicely if he can teach her to dance.
The Herald’s Rest is unusually quiet. The Chargers are out in the field and so is Harding’s team. Sera isn’t in evidence, presumably because it’s boring, and there are only ten or twelve people in the entire tavern. Fortunately, one of them is Varric, who seems to be finishing up a pea and potato pie with Blackwall, accompanied by large mugs of cider and some bread and cheese.
Elleth slides into a third chair at the table. “You don’t need all that pie, do you?”
Blackwall looks pleased to see her, which is a change from the War Council at present. “I wasn’t expecting you, my lady. But certainly my pie is yours.”
“It’s our pie, not your pie,” Varric says. “But sure, Dragon Lady. You can share our pie.”
“I said I’d pick up the tab,” Blackwall says. “So it’s my pie.”
“I paid last time,” Varric says, “And I didn’t give away the pie. So…”
“I can get my own pie if it’s a problem,” Elleth says. “I can, in fact, pay for pie. It’s just that the council meeting went forever and I’m starving.”
“Have some pie,” Varric says. “Never let it be said we starved the Inquisitor.”
Blackwall passes the bread and cheese. “What ran so late?”
Elleth dives into the pie, answering through a mouthful of potato and crust. “Plans for this trip to Halamshiral. Which both of you can be thankful you’re not going on.”
“Believe me, we’re thankful,” Varric says.
“Halamshiral used to be a beautiful city,” Blackwall says thoughtfully.
“It’s the ‘used to be’ part that makes this dreadful,” Elleth says. She doesn’t look up from the creamy cheese she’s spreading on the bread. “I lived there two years once. Before Celene burned the place.”
There’s a telling sort of silence from Blackwall. She can almost hear him Not Asking.
“Some good people there,” Varric says. “I expect you know Ric.”
“Everybody knows Ric.” Of course Varric knows the dwarf proprietor of what used to be the most interesting tavern in Halamshiral. Or it was twenty years ago. It’s probably ashes now, along with anyone she knew from those old days, when she was the kind of girl people wrote songs to. She keeps her eyes on the pie. No point in thinking about them. No point in wondering.
“He’s a good guy,” Varric says. “I heard he’s still there. Paid off the Carta during the fire and they protected his place.”
“That’s good to hear,” Elleth says. Her voice is surprisingly even. “Everybody comes to Ric’s.”
Blackwall doesn’t say anything. He never asks about her past. He never tries to pry.
“Yeah,” Varric says. His voice is kind, and he hesitates a moment, like he means to say something and then doesn’t. Instead he takes a long drink of cider and leans back in his chair. “So it’s going to be a great party, right?”
“Would you believe that I have to learn to dance?” She does look up now, back on safe ground. “Varric, I was going to ask you if you could teach me courtly dance. Just one. I only have to be able to get through one thing without falling on my nose.”
Blackwall snorts. “You’re the person I know least likely to fall on their nose.”
“I do not know how to dance,” Elleth says. “Not Orlesian courtly dance. Which this is. Not some other kind of dance, which I may be quite good at.”
“Indeed, my lady.” Blackwall almost keeps a straight face. “I’m sure you’re very good at some dances.”
“Get a room,” Varric says without heat.
Elleth laughs. Varric knows perfectly well she’s slept with Blackwall. Or is sleeping with Blackwall. Or something. Whatever this thing is that ends up in a tumble in the barn a couple of times a week, or less frequently in her bed in the tower. Or sometimes in a tent in the back of beyond. But it’s just an occasional thing. Everyone needs to blow off some tension from time to time. No reason not to, when there’s a suitable person just standing around who won’t get any ideas about this being serious. There has to be something that isn’t part of being Inquisitor. Nobody can stand that all the time.
“Orlesian courtly dance,” Varric says thoughtfully. “I know the pavane. It’s probably the easiest for a beginner because it’s slow. Basically, if you can walk you can learn the pavane.”
“That sounds good,” Elleth agrees.
“When you’ve finished the pie, we’ll give it a try,” Varric says.
They chat about inconsequentials while she finishes dinner. The tavern is really emptying out. Which is good, because if they look foolish there won’t be much of an audience.
She wipes her mouth, and Varric waves at the minstrel. “Ho, Maryden! Would you mind playing a pavane? I’m going to show Dragon Lady how to trip the light fantastic.”
Maryden looks over at them. “Sure, Varric. Everyone in this bar is already asleep.”
Varric gets to his feet. “Well, then. First you take my hand.” He leads her out into the middle of the room in front of Maryden. “Now, stand next to me. Yeah, further apart. No, on the other side. With your hands out to the sides. No, up. Like you’re going to flap. Yeah. Now put your feet like this. Ankles together.”
Elleth raises her arms out to the side. It feels ridiculous. She tries to put her ankles together with her feet turned out, craning her neck to see what Varric is doing.
“Now we walk,” Varric says. “Three steps. With your ankles together.”
“How do I walk with my ankles together?” That seems physically impossible.
“You just… I’ll show you. Ok, now keep your back straight and your arms out. Come on, three bitty steps.”
With her back straight and her ankles together? Arms out. Right. Elleth shifts her feet like she’s taking bitty steps.
Blackwall shakes his head. “You look like a drunk duck. Varric, move. That’s not how the pavane goes.”
“You want to give the dance lesson, Hero?” Varric says. “Be my guest.” He goes over and flops back in the chair. “I’ll watch and provide gratuitous advice.”
“First, it’s not walk with your ankles together. It’s bring your ankles together after each step.” Blackwall turns to stand beside her, straight and neat as a guard at attention. He reaches out his right hand for her left, just letting her fingers rest on his. They touch at no other point. “It’s dignified. It’s slow. It’s precise.” He waits for Maryden’s beat. “Now, step with your right foot. Then bring your left up even so your ankles are together. Hesitate. Then do it again. Hesitate. Then again.”
That’s better. “What do I do about my right arm?”
“Let it hang naturally. Don’t flap it around at shoulder height. Three more steps just the same. Look at me, not at your feet.”
She looks at him and his eyes are warm, a genuine smile on his face. Her fingers rest on his, curving slightly, his hand flat and his thumb tucked in.
“Three more steps. It’s three sets of three. Now turn and face me.”
The music helps her keep the time. Turn and face him, and he goes to one knee with his back absolutely straight, left knee out at a ninety-degree angle, holding her hand up as though he meant to kiss it.
“Now here’s the hard part. Go around me to the right, still doing the three steps with a hesitation between each, three sets of three. When you get even with my left shoulder, I’m going to switch hands,” Blackwall says.
As she passes, the length of their arms means that they get closer, he on one knee at her feet, his head turning to follow her. On the third step his left hand comes up and he takes her hand in it, almost but not quite bringing it to his lips, a passage that nearly brushes their bodies but not quite. And then she’s behind him, turning like an errant moon, his arm rising over his head as he guides her around.
Three more steps brings her back to his side, changing his hand again, this time with her looking down into his eyes, a frisson running between them that has little to do with the music.
“And back out to face me,” he says. “Three steps.” He stands as gracefully as coming out of a lunge. “Now you stand still and I go around.”
It’s the same pattern, only this time he passes around her, his body just barely touching hers as he circles.
“You’re too close,” Varric says. “Not supposed to touch on the turns.”
“Depends on the lady, doesn’t it?” Blackwall replies.
And he’s in front of her again, her left hand in his right, and he bends over it, his lips barely touching her fingertips, his back leg straight.
“That’s a pretty picture,” Varric says.
“Now we repeat it,” Blackwall says, straightening up. “Going down the room. In here we don’t have the space, so we’ll turn around now and go back the other way. In a proper ballroom it’s two repeats down and two repeats back, then bow and curtesy. Turn, my lady.” He turns her about, now her right hand in his left, facing in the other direction. “And we do it again.”
It’s oddly erotic, this restraint. There’s no whirl of bodies, no giving oneself over to abandon. This is precise, like putting ten arrows into a target in sixty seconds, like the drills she watches him teach the recruits. The grace is in the perfection of each movement. She understands that.
Three and three and three again, and he’s on his knees. This time she doesn’t have to think as hard about what to do and can think about how to do it with grace, to pass around him. If she wore skirts they would whisper against him. With breeches instead there is an inch between, close enough to feel the warmth of his body but not to touch. His smile, when she looks down at him as they change hands, has just a bit of a sensual curl to it, knowing she’s doing that on purpose.
The slow music repeats over and over, a mandolin heartbeat. Three and three and three. And now he’s circling her, the slightest improper pressure on her fingers. Elleth can’t help but smile back, feeling that perhaps she looks like the cat that caught the canary.
And bowing again, bending over her hand, this time a kiss that brushes her knuckles as the music ends.
She doesn’t drop his hand. “Where in the world did you learn to dance like that?”
“Would you believe from the most beautiful courtesan in Val Chevin?” He’s smiling, and she has no idea if it’s a joke or not.
“Hero, I wouldn’t believe a it for a second,” Varric says. “The most beautiful courtesan in Val Chevin would have better taste.”
“Very probably,” Blackwall says gruffly. He nods and lets go of her hand. “So that’s the pavane.”
“You make it seem easy,” Elleth says. Her bad mood has definitely vanished. It must have been the pie.
“It is easy.”
Elleth bites her lower lip. “I think I’m going to need more practice before I’m ready for the Winter Palace.”
“I stand ready to assist,” Blackwall says with a totally straight face.
Maryden rolls her eyes. “Count me out of playing for that.”
“I expect we can manage without music,” Elleth says.
“Get a room,” Varric says. “And don’t scare the horses. In this case, literally, since you insist on sleeping in the barn.”
“I like the barn,” Blackwall says. “Warm. Quiet. Nice roommates.”
Elleth links her arm through his. “But not much room for dancing.”
“True enough,” he allows, and lets her lead him out of the tavern and toward the great hall. “Something better to think about when you’re in Halamshiral,” he says, and she leans on his shoulder for a moment before they go in.