faderift | i tried to write your name in the rain

Leliana cannot quite find it in her to repress her quiet amusement. An easy alternative was presented, and the topic was stuck to, rather than simply being set aside for now. It is, Leliana feels, now more than acceptable to proceed however the conversation might lead, rather than being overly cautious with one Morrigan favours.

"Is that right?" She is not offended, because she has met girls of Gwenaëlle 's ilk before. Haughty, tempestuous things, that strike at the air where they can, only to retract to their claws. It was easy to write of Celene with contempt and let it be edited away. It was easy to complain at a Spymaster's interest. (Easier, at least, than try to make a difference and be truly defiant.)

"My mistake," she replies, unfazed and quietly amused, before sipping her tea. "I had thought your convictions to hold some merit. But, if you are akin to every idiot with the sense to be afraid of the sky, I will reconsider my assessment."

What it says about Gwenaëlle that the idea of being thanked for what she'd done makes her equally uncomfortable and is even harder to respond to probably doesn't bear thinking about. Or at least, she isn't going to think about it, and there is spite and sharp claws for Leliana to look at instead of the soft underbelly her awkwardness would have exposed - so no one has to. And that's sort of like it not even existing, isn't it?

If no one looks at a thing, it might as well not be there.

Gwenaëlle wishes no one were looking at her, presently. To her credit, she doesn't flush or fluster; barely reacts at all when her own words turn quick against her skin. Dismiss me, she thinks, curling her fingers around the teacup and pulling it closer. I'm not interesting, there are a hundred of me--

(And that is how she's still alive, the knife edge on which she does not dance but balances precariously; sharp enough to make a spymaster smile, but not enough to cut. Never worth the trouble of destroying.)

"Being afraid of the sky has some merit, too," she says, blandly. "When it tears open and rains demons upon us. We're all standing in the rain, Sister, I only made the observation it's getting us wet." Figuratively speaking.

"Perhaps a kind soul will see fit to equip us with some manner of hat," she replies, faintly dry. This blandness feels—

Out of place, perhaps, with the girl she has observed; so sure and loud and offensively Orlesian, and yet. There were elements to Gwenaëlle that reminded Leliana of herself when she was Lady Cecilie's ward, a young woman who had fancied herself so much a songbird trapped in a gilded cage, a living embodiment of a tired metaphor.

So many are eager to catch eyes, are so ambitious in the Game, that they might relish the opportunity presented by having the Nightingale's ear. She should remember, though, that Gwenaëlle's friend is dying, and that is the sort of thing to put people out of sorts.

Leliana sips her tea. "How do you enjoy Skyhold? It is very different from Halamshiral." (Less charred, for one.)

Few things have ever made Gwenaëlle as uncomfortable as having the Nightingale's ear; to be ambitious in the Game would be, she's known for years, tantamount to suicide. She has no knack for it and no real desire, beyond a futile one to please a dead woman she's never truly believed she ever could, to achieve anything more than being left alone.

Leliana is not leaving her alone, and it's a problem she hopes being dull will solve, because it feels distinctly as if nothing good can possibly come of it.

"I've made the best of my situation, I think," she says, with a shrug, which is not exactly what was asked. "I wouldn't have chosen to come here, but we don't choose everything in our lives." Or indeed most things.

The sad reality is that Leliana knows Morrigan, and Morrigan has little time for dullards. Leliana sees their uses and their practicalities and their masks, just as the Ambassador can. Unlike Josie, though, who charms and soothes, Leliana starts to pry apart their layers with a blade that could slide through skin so easily as to be close to painless.

Morrigan likes Gwenaëlle; why, she wonders? Has she seen the same spark Leliana suspected, reading those pages? What does she endeavour to hide? Some scandal that the Witch of the Wilds would not blink at, but the Nightingale would exploit? is it base fear rather than fascination and the desire to impress? Was it simply that Gwenaëlle had an aversion to nugs, despite their place in the Orlesian court, and was aware of Leliana's hand in their popularity?

She doubted it was the latter, entertaining a prospect as it might be.

"Wise words." She sips her tea. "Some might contend the same could be said of being Empress, of course."

Gwenaëlle's fingers tighten on her cup, white-knuckled. Yes, of course, some might say that it's so terribly fucking hard for Celene, forced against her will, obviously, to take power and to do with it as she has done. It must be such a burden to bear, so exhausting to decide who to burn.

(Secrets, lies, fear; if someone were to ask Gwenaëlle what it is she thinks Leliana exploits, she would simply say people. That is, if she were prepared to give an answer.)

"I will have to defer to you on the likelihood of their doing so," she says; and as with Josephine, she makes no effort to pretend a comfort or an ease she doesn't feel. She doesn't smile at Leliana or try to ingratiate herself - she knows better, knows such poor attempts to be considered insulting. "I'm sure you would know."

Leliana, unlike so many, had seen Celene a little before the order was issued. It was Leliana to delivered the Divine's word that all but demanded it, that some might suspect forced Celene's hand. It did not make what Celene had done right. What she had done was abhorrent, but it had also been necessary.

Leliana is familiar with carrying out acts she despises for a desirable end. She sympathised with Celene, but she did not absolve her. The decision had been made, and the decision had be treated with the responsibility it was due. Perhaps it was only those familiar with the Game who would grasp the sacrifices it must take, or only those with sharp mind even if their interests did not lean such a way. Gwenaëlle is not stupid, but the tension in her hands betrays her.

A young woman from Halamshiral, a human noble, angered by Celene. Did she despise what had become of her city, or did she despise what had been done to the elves? The latter seemed less likely, given earlier comments she had made to her regarding the topics of her writing, and yet—

It is food for thought, something to tease at in between the far more pressing concerns she must address. "I am sure I would," she agrees, in a very noncommittal way that might almost err on dismissive. "Of course, Morrigan has spent much time in her company, serving as Arcane Advisor to the Imperial Court. Perhaps she will have more insights than either of us can pretend to."

There's a long silence.

Gwenaëlle's never asked Morrigan about what that was like - about knowing Celene - and in all likelihood, never will. The simple truth of it being that she simply doesn't wish to know; she admires a great deal what Morrigan made out of taking that position, but she doesn't want insights into Celene or, for that matter, to hear anything that might expose her heroine for anything other than perfect in her eyes. She doesn't think Morrigan cares greatly for the Empress, but -

she wouldn't like to know she's wrong.

Eventually, she says, "Then perhaps she would be a more appropriate person to discuss your particular matters with," very neutrally. "Unless we hadn't got to those yet."

Her hands often betray her. Tensing to set the cup down; her gaze cut towards the stairs. She could just leave.

Gwenaëlle seems, she thinks, not so different from a skittish little doe that tries to walk with the skin of a lion. She seems to have few qualms, from Leliana's brief observations and whispers from her scouts, about flexing her claws even if she does not dig in deeply. Faced with reality, though? The claws fall away, and appear to never have been there at all.

"My particular matters were an intention to thank you," which was ignored, "and discuss your thoughts on Orlesian politics. The War of the Lions, the treatment of the elves, the Grand Game. These topics did not seem to grab your interest," she observes, with a quiet sort of dryness. The glance to the staircase is not lost on her, and Leliana is not entirely without pity. She wonders if Asher still has the strength to eat, or if it would simply make him unwell. "Does he enjoy desserts?"

"It couldn't hurt to let him try."

At this point - she doesn't finish that thought, but she knows where it leads. It's the same thought that had her slipping something extra into the bitter tea the healers were giving him, just to make it easier for him, just to make it a bit ... nicer. What does it matter, now? Let him be comfortable. Let him have the things he wants.

After a moment, she says, "I suppose what I make of all of those things," bar the thanks, which she will continue to ignore as strenuously as she can, "is that I would just like all of this to do very well so that at the end of it I can go back to my own writing and then I would like also to be left alone. Giving you my opinion on the Game would be as a bird giving her opinion on swimming."

It's quiet and honest and a bit stupid, probably, but maybe Morrigan wouldn't let Leliana get her killed.

(And no one wants to hear what Gwenaëlle might say about the plight of elves.)

Leliana pauses, for a moment, quietly peeling apart the layers of Gwenaëlle's words and her tone and inflection, examining as an expert shuffler might examine cards - quickly, efficiently, knowing easily enough how to cut and and get what she wants.

She opts, in this moment, to be merciful.

"Perhaps, then, it would be better that you take these to him. We both of us are very busy people." There is a strange slow, clipped way to how she says the words. "I have no desire to keep you here against your will."

But she will remember, and she will think it interesting, and she will invite Gwenaëlle to tea again.

i tried to write your name in the rain

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