boy with a heart like a mosaic, shattered pieces glinting golden in the sunlight

[apostasia]

WHO: Martel Leblanc + Cassandra Pentaghast
WHAT: A meet-cute.
WHEN: Current.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: You snooze, you lose, Varric & Obi-Wan.

Returned - temporarily, probably - from the Western Approach to attend to matters in Skyhold, Martel's routine has resumed with only a few additions, most of them involving what the Leblanc attache requires of him to finalize and formalize his absorption into Orlais. There are papers requiring his signature, information that they wish to have - the familiarity of it is a strange and unfamiliar ache that he isn't entirely prepared for. He'd walked away from much, all those years ago, and carried more of it still with him, but - always he has thought back to Demos, to the Pandion motherhouse, to the knighthood deservedly stripped from him. Francois, long-suffering and determined, is an unexpected reminder of a part of his life he had more readily taken for granted.

He is unsurprised by the implication of new expectation - it is his mother's voice, speculating every time he might be sent further afield than Cimmura if he might not bring a bride home with him - and he is neither particularly distressed by it nor terribly enthused, much as then, but it is not without some relief that he loses his Orlesian shadow to spend his morning pushing himself in sparring matches with the soldiers. Sparring matches that have a tendency, when they lack challenge, to become impromptu lessons; innovations he brought to swordwork himself or techniques learned in his mercenary years regurgitated to give an edge to the men and women he now works alongside.

"Next time," he says, pulling his sweat-soaked shirt over his head and dunking his hair in a barrel of water that might or might not have been originally intended for use by the warriors, "I might get tired for some reason besides my age," as a cheerful parting shot.

"--my lady."

Didn't see Cassandra there.

Comments

[apostasia]

Martel's eyes follow the point of her sword down; he looks back to her, his expression warmly wry. Thedas does do things differently, though come to the thought, Petrana might have been very fetching at the other end of a rapier's blade. She also likely would have been more prepared to prick him with it, even in play, so all things considered perhaps it's best Thedas is Thedas and Eosia is Eosia.

"Quite," he assures her, in answer to the question. "I presume nothing but a meal."

The quality of company and where it might lead -

He shrugs.

"If we find we've nothing to talk about, we'll have been well-fed."

[stabsbooks]

The idea is surprisingly reassuring. No presumptions, no expectations, simply dinner. And if she does find herself at a loss for anything to talk about, or manage to put her foot in her mouth and mortify herself - well, Skyhold is large, and more crowded every day. It should be easy enough to avoid one man. Possibly until the Inquisition itself has served its purpose and disbanded.

Even so, perhaps she would not always have been so quick to accept, but the fact is that she has been terribly lonely lately. Evelyn is gone, and her friendship with Leliana has never quite been the same since Galadriel. Even Cullen has been distant. And of course, Cassandra has proved as unskilled as ever in making new friends to make up for the loss or withdrawal of old ones. Much less anything more than friends.

This - a charming, attractive man, interested not in her name or her title but in her company - this is, perhaps not unprecedented, but certainly rare enough to seem so. It's a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach at the invitation. Nervousness, yes, but also excitement. Anticipation. Perhaps it will be a silent, uncomfortable, and ultimately miserable evening. But perhaps not. Just the possibility of something more, of - of this leading to something -

Well, it's far too early to even consider such things. But she finds herself smiling, all the same, trying not quite successfully to suppress a giddiness she has not felt in years.

"All right," she says, too eager by half, and immediately tries to compensate by going too far the other way, the smile vanishing as she pulls her shoulders back and dips her chin in a formal nod. "I would be glad of your company at dinner, Ser Martel."