faderift | [ closed ] go ahead and cry little girl, nobody does it like you do

As much as certain individuals (...Gwenaëlle) might have preferred to travel by carriage, Orlais is a dangerous place at present and the roads leading into the densely forested countryside where the Vauquelins reside (occasionally, when Halamshiral is doing Emeric's head in or Gwenaëlle can't be trusted to have a civil conversation with her peers) are unlikely to be an exception to that rule, or 'somewhere that a carriage can swiftly maneuver if need be'. Riding, then, and camping rather carefully, and it is so stupid, she thinks, that some ancient Tevinter monster is trying to end the world and she has to worry about being caught in the crossfire of her own countrymen.

She shares her tent with Guenievre. The rest of you can fend for yourselves.

In large part, the trip is largely uneventful.

Or: in large part, the trip begins uneventfully.

It does not end that way. The last stretch of road will wind several more hours before clearing the woods to where earlier generations of Vauquelin nobles had, in fact, cleared the woods for the rolling estate that Gwenaëlle will one day inherit; she is sleepy and irritable and in some small way looking forward to seeing it again. Guenievre will stay there, that's the deal, she'll pick one of the other maids to bring back with her, and her mother will stay, and -

an arrow thuds into the tree behind her and changes everything. The only experience Gwenaëlle has of the Dalish are the unusually socially-conscious ones that run tame about Skyhold picking flowers and fucking, and - these, outnumbering them by a few (by a few more, if one discounts Gwenaëlle and Guenievre as entirely useless in a fight), are not that. Archers, rogues, and leading them a mage -

In the stories there would be some sort of banter. Threats. Someone (Alistair or Lex) would say something they think is clever in response and someone else (Bellamy or Herian) would be ostentatiously unamused.

Fire explodes from the mage's staff.

Councillor Amsel is not a terribly chatty person, perhaps to the preference of almost anyone in the party. She keeps her opinions close to her, will defend them if need be, but does not scatter them as if they were conetti; they are not nearly so bright and joyous, for that.

She carries a staff at her back, a sword and the hilt of a spirit blade at her side, and almost never starts a conversation that is not practical or warning in nature. It is not so much that she is unfriendly as that she is here to protect, here for a reason. And, actually, she is a little unfriendly. A rifter who claims to know what is best for elves, an unknown Templar and a Grey Warden are all amongst her excellent reasons for being less than delighted, and the other members of the party do little to appease her. That it is an Orlesian noble she likes best (or has spoken to the most) prior to this trip does not, perhaps, bode so very well.

Setting up camp has her breathing life into the fire with a touch of her magic, an orange glow starting in the heart of the wood pile that blooms upwards and tangled about the sticks like curls of orange ribbon, or perhaps she's setting up camp. Perhaps you have the misfortune to be her tent buddy. Perhaps she's handing over a rabbit on a stick - for dinner, skinned and cooked, fear not.

On the road she rides on a palomino stallion that was once the property of a chevalier in all places save where the ground is too treacherous, when she chooses instead to walk - or if a member of the party strains themselves and lacks a horse, in which case she offers them her own.

Or wildcard me, bruh.

No.

The thud of an arrow and the sight that greets her when she snaps to look towards there attackers makes a tension roll up her back and across her shoulders. Dalish. Always, unavoidably the Dalish, and she has reached for her spirit blade with no hesitation, the blade of light called into life with strange shimmer that cuts through the air. She wields her staff in her left hand and the blade in her right; there is a snap of energy as the blade deflects an arrow shot to strike her, and Herian moves towards the Dalish. Intercept, keep the party safe. These were things she could do.

She knows he has the information she requested of him. She has likely already guessed the truth of what happened, but he bears the specific details, in all their wretched truth. Not telling her won’t return her daughters, but drawing this out any further will bring only more pain. Or so he supposes.

His horse drifts to the back of the line on the second day, a few steps behind the next-to-last person, just enough space for privacy, and waits for Guenievre to drift back as well.

Near a week spent in close, close companionship with the warden has at least solidified Thranduil’s opinion of him into something that can be explained in a few words: somehow tainted, otherwise enjoyable to be around. The caveat of ‘for a Man’ is stamped on that in big, red letters, but when is it not?

He won’t remember what they were talked about later, once he struggles to recall the memories in the estate. It was a fun conversation, Thranduil will recall, his lips curled in a smile, but then the arrow, and he cannot imagine his horse is well trained for war. Herian is somewhere in front of them, and the ladies two, but he and Alistair are the only two out of the group with big, physical swords. They haven't fought together, which hinders them, but Alistair knows this world better, so it is to him Thranduil looks in those precious split seconds--

The mage is leading. She needs to fall first, and she is an elf, he cannot kinslay.

"Orders?" He asks, because every moment is precious, but a moment of thought here might save them all.

The glance that Guenievre exchanges with Gwenaëlle is hard to read, but the latter has no word of complaint when she slows, letting the others ride ahead of her and listing back until she draws abreast with Thranduil.

"You know how they died."

--there's no beating around the bush. If he had nothing to tell, she thinks, he would do it differently.

"Yes." No reason to drag it out. "Magalie was trapped in their lodgings when the fires reached their block. Alix was slain by a chevalier as she tried to reach him." He delivers the report cleanly, respectful enough to look her in the eye as he delivers the news, reins clasped loosely in his hands.

"I could not find the identity of the chevalier." One of a hundred in the city, and possibly dead after Gaspard took Halamshiral. It would be a pitiful offer, laying the name and offering his sword to right that wrong, but- he cannot.

This is simply how things are in Thedas. All tangled and layered and no way to easily parse things and make them right. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

She absorbs it quietly and without expression, just the barest hint of something awful and resigned. Old hurts lodged deep where she's taught them how to hide, and not be seen.

She'd thought it would help, perhaps. To know more. She isn't sure it does.

"Alix was very brave," she says, in the same way she might say anything else. "She cared for her sister very much."

There is that.

"Yes," he says, because what else is there to say. "I think she was."

Had he really nursed hope that he might find them alive--

but it doesn't matter. Now, it comes down to what Guenievre wants to do, for it is her grief and all he might do to help her is talk. He looks back towards the road, not trusting his mount not to veer off the path if his weight stays shifted for too long.

"Did they live on the estate?"

Although Gwenaëlle and Guenievre both have not yet replaced the masks that Orlesians wear by habit and custom, Guenievre scarcely seems to need it to fold herself up like a fan. She does not wear her grief as would her daughter; that she does not meet Thranduil's gaze could mean nothing when her chin is level and her eyes upon the road.

"They lived with me," she says, neutrally, "when they were girls."

A sparse answer delivered without encouragement to seek more. He has done what she asked, and she does not ask more.

"You know," Alistair says at one point, walking alongside her horse, "it's not very sporting of you, is it? Carrying a sword. Mages can rain fire on their enemies or turn them into ice or--anything, but you still want to put me out of a job."

"When mages are not cut down with their magic blocked and mana drained, I will feel better assured that I have no need of a sword to protect others and myself."

The Spire is well engraved upon her; the sight of children cut down, unable to defend themselves. "In equal turn, I do not think magic need always be the first resort. You are certainly in no danger of my overwhelming desire to become a Warden."

Though, she does give him a second look. The one Sabine has taken a shine to; the one deserving of more than one warning.

She doesn't want him prying. If she wants quiet, she is entitled to it, and so he tightens his hands on the reins and focuses on the horse instead. It is a very smooth path they walk, well-worn and likely more prosperous a few years past.

"I apologize for taking up so much of your time, my lady." He intends to free her from this conversation in the neatest way he can- for surely being with him is not where she wants to be. He watches Gwenaëlle, up at the front, and the color of her cloak as the light plays across it.

The sleek fur wrapped around Gwenaëlle is unusually pale for something in her wardrobe; like as not a gift, worn to please the parent she's here mainly to ensure doesn't get cold feet and say an untimely 'no'. Guenievre follows his gaze to her and hers softens, almost imperceptibly.

"You've done me a service, ser, and I am grateful," she says, not only speaking of her elder daughters. "I will not forget it."

After a moment, "I was present when Solas," whose name comes remarkably familiarly to her lips, "discussed with her the new dangers you face. I wonder if it would be too much to ask that - you will learn them more deftly, I think. I would like to know someone watches my lady after I return to my previous post."

Solas, for various reasons, could not be asked this favour. Thranduil, though. He has a fondness. He will not, she thinks, question hers.

"It was a favor done in kindness," he demures, gaze lowered in a humility he would never show to most anyone other than elves. "You owe me nothing, lady."

Gwenaëlle looks tense, in the set of her shoulders and how she handles her mount. He has seen Orlais, he has known her for as long as he has been in Thedas-- he is glad she has not been at court. But his thoughts are broken, and he looks at her a bit differently as she mentions Solas.

She follows her mistress. It is not odd that she has been allowed to stay whilst Gwenaëlle went to him. He is-- oddly pleased that she has followed through, had taken his advice. He can't help but smile, despite the sober nature of their conversation.

"I will keep her safe, Guenievre. I am ... very fond of her." But she knows, has seen the conversations they've had by note and by crystal. "She bears a heavy burden. I aim to help her shoulder it, if she allows it. Though I wish I knew her better, to offer her advice in a way she might take."

"If it comes as any comfort," the barest hint of something that might be a little wry, "I think those that know her well despair just the same."

Gwenaëlle is nothing if not prone to digging her heels in for the sake of it.

"My lady listens when it suits her to."

"Well," he says, shifting in his seat, careful not to startle the horse as he makes himself more comfortable. "then how am I to know if I have her affection?"

That she still talks to him is a good indication, that he is here.

He thinks to the man he's going to meet shortly, her father, the house she will have been born in, will have lived in all her life.

Bellamy is a good travel companion, which means that he makes the fires and cuts the firewood and hauls it around and tries to do the hunting, which is the part he isn't incredibly good at, but he holds his own. His tent is well-worn and his armor is patchy and equally well-worn; his horse is even-tempered, a hearty mountain horse that answers to Hector.

Not that Bellamy advertises the fact that he's named his horse, because he's a serious Templar. But he has named the horse, and he treats the horse well, because it's an investment, because he takes care of his stuff, and also just because he likes the horse. The horse likes him back. Sometimes Hector bites his hair. It seems like a game.

He'll speak to anyone that speaks to him. Sometimes he starts conversations. It's not like he's bad company or doesn't know how to be around people. Reserved by experience, not necessarily by nature.

And he's good at fending for himself, thanks, and fending for others without seeming too invasive. Good at camping, helping where he's needed, keeps watch, all those little things that make it somehow useful to keep around a Templar used to watching out for threats and stuff. On the road, he keeps an equally wary eye on the countryside. As much as he's heard bad about Orlais, at least the country seems all right. Full of dangers and war-torn and stuff. But where isn't these days.

"You will know if you lack it, monsieur."

Gwenaëlle is many things; capable of feigning affection (--or tolerance, for that mtter) she doesn't feel is not, for better or worse, one of them. All of her father's mercurial temperament and little to none of his aptitude to using it to his advantage; while Emeric plays upon expectations and navigates the game with remarkable deftness for a man who relies upon his manservant to stop up the gaps in his sometimes unreliable memory, Guenievre has occasionally feared losing her youngest child to an ill-timed moment of impulsivity.

It's easier to speak of her than of Alix and Magalie, the careful distance that must be maintained by now an ingrained habit, and not some new thing created by grief. Not a new grief, true, but a wound that hasn't healed, that she can't quite stop herself from prodding at. People shouldn't outlive their children. It isn't natural.

Where, indeed. Gwenaëlle had had no desire to trade the relative and probably illusory safety of Skyhold for the uncertain dangers of Orlesian roads - even ones leading to her home - but it's true that Emeric finds nothing so difficult as telling his only acknowledged child 'no' and that she had promised Guenievre she would see her home, soon, and that this is the simplest method of doing so. It all makes perfect, unavoidable sense that she should be here.

She dislikes it immensely.

In the evening, at the camp fire, she sits down beside Bellamy, pulling her shawl tight around her shoulders, and announces as much: "I do not care for camping at all." In other shocking news that will come as a great surprise to him, trees have leaves, dirt gets on stuff, and Alistair isn't the King of Ferelden.

This whole trip is -

- well, it isn't entirely a waste of time. Alexander will meet her father, and then no Merciers can disapprove if he doesn't. But everything is dirty and it rained yesterday and she isn't used to spending quite so long in her saddle and Thranduil keeps talking to her mother and Herian has a face that hasn't been pleased by anything since probably the beginning of time and she isn't sure if Alistair has stopped throwing things at her because they're on the road or if he's just waiting until she's really not expecting it and she doesn't care if Bellamy thinks she's pretty or charming so he is the perfect person to complain to.

"I'm so surprised," in a tone dry enough that it could be used for kindling if it was a physical thing. A better kindling is the twig that Bellamy was spinning idly between his fingers and now tosses into the fire. Brushes off his fingers on his breeches as he looks sidelong at Lady Miserable, in her haughty huddle.

He decides to humor her. "What's my lady find terrible about camping."

Not that he's going to jump to his feet and run around making changes or anything.

Working with strange mages isn't Bellamy's style. He sticks to his own. But he doesn't have a choice here; there's him, there's others, the big elf and the Warden behind them somewhere, Gwen's probably useless scholar, her maid, Gwen--and in a crisis, Bellamy goes for what is familiar. It's reflexive, force of habit, putting his conviction in his ability to fight with greater effectiveness alongside a mage. Plenty of experience there.

He has nothing against the Dalish personally. The force of his blind anger has always been aimed elsewhere, to threats more present. But this is a very present threat, to his people (which is Gwen, one of the spare few he cares about), so he's got his sword in hand and his shield up as Herian deflects the next arrow aimed at her.

The Dalish mage is readying some attack in response. Bellamy spots it, the clear telegraphing of movement, the pull at the Fade at the edge of his consciousness, something he has learned very well to feel--like someone grabbing on his eyelid and tugging, and he pulls up to mute that spell before it can take proper shape, neuters the mage's magic neatly without interrupting Herian. And without saying anything to her, so, sorry.

The archers are readying another volley anyways, so she'll have plenty to distract her.

"It's dirty and cold and damp and uncomfortable and I can hear everything, everything at night, which I don't like--"

In other words, more or less the everything. Gwenaëlle does not seem, to her minor credit, as if she expects him to do anything about her complaints other than tolerate them, and her; her gesticulations are small, and she leans against the side of his shoulder instead of making any outrageous demands.

(Other than the 'tolerate her' part of this, but the time for him to escape her friendship has passed, this is just his life now.)

"And Percy isn't used to so much work, I feel cruel."

Her horse - a lovely palfrey mare - is in fact named Persistence.

Percy. Bellamy glances mildly across the camp to where the houses are hobbled and eating their dinners in relative peace and serenity.

"Work's good for a horse," he offers, in way of advice. "Even fancy Orlesian ones. That's what they were made for, you know." Thanks to the Maker. He gives a vague deferential shrug upward in indication, lazy about it in a true believer's way. No need to go on about gods.

He's careful to do the shrugging with the shoulder Gwen is not leaning up against. That shoulder is steady, perfect for committing weight to.

"Thought about ear plugs?"

[ closed ] go ahead and cry little girl, nobody does it like you do

ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ.

ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ.

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for guen.

for alistair

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gloms on to your attack

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