Chapter Text
When the morning of the assembly dawned, Ellana could barely rouse herself to greet it. Her dreams had increased in intensity and frequency, but perversely she found herself even less able to remember them; consulting the journal she had left by her bedside presented her with nothing but vague, unrecognizable charcoal scribblings. Sometimes she thought she might make out some sensible word, but it escaped her before she could pin it down. She cheered herself with the thought that the last of the rain had cleared away, setting to her preparations in the knowledge that today, she was excused from all responsibilities but her own beautification. A long bath (and a preparation of raw potato for her puffy eyes) would do her good.
A brief moment must be taken here to illuminate the particular circumstances of Redcliffe’s assembly-rooms and the balls held therein. Elves in Ferelden having been afforded more freedoms than their neighbors for much longer, many had risen to such heights of prosperity that they might comfortably pursue some of the leisure-activities of their human superiors. A great number traced their ancestry to the old Dalish clans, or to the Great Wave of Tevinter refugees that had crossed the Waking Sea in 9:30 Dragon Age, and populations of Elves had grown in those cities along the coasts since that time. Redcliffe, having never been great enough in population to support a true Alienage, offered less barriers to peaceful coexistence than other cities, and was further from the coast and from Tevinter hunters looking to reclaim their property. Its Elven citizens had played an important role in its growth from town to city, and were by far the most cultivated (and it must be said, richest) in the realm, as a whole, so when the old town hall had burnt half a century before, they had contributed funds in accordance with their population to rebuild it, complete with a set of assembly-rooms as fine as any in Orlais or the Free Marches.
This contribution secured the Elves’ position in Redcliffe society; namely, it was the only Assembly of its size in that country (or any other) that allowed Elven subscribers and guests to take equal standing with their human counterparts. In Highever the assembly balls were held on separate nights for each group, and in Amaranthine the Elves had built their own separate rooms for the purpose. Denerim, full of the free Elven poor and petitioners for freedom, had few Elves in respectable trade and thus no opportunities for Elves to attend subscription balls at all.
It was to be Ellana’s first ball in mixed company. She doubted that it would be much different to the balls at home, except perhaps she would feel shorter than usual in the room--it was not unheard of but remained rare for a human and an Elf to partner in the dancing, and Cousin Mahanon said that most of the attendees kept to their own circles. Nonetheless the Aviators from the nearby dragon covert had indicated it was their intention to be in attendance, as had a party from the Castle, and recently the matrons of the city had decided to allow the band to play one Marcher Waltz in the course of the evening; she looked forward to the diversion exceedingly and was glad the weather had not resulted in its cancellation.
With no sisters to help her, she put her own hair in curling-papers and drew her own bath in the kitchen so as not to inconvenience Mrs Lenar; she lingered so long in the tub that she was surprized it had not gone cold, and soon scampered upstairs to avoid meeting her cousin upon his return from work, which would be early in anticipation of the evening’s events. The alley-cat, who had apparently taken up permanent residence, dozed peacefully by her windowsill as she dressed her hair, almost now used to seeing a cloud of white whenever she looked into a mirror.
“And how is the little ghost,” her cousin called as he knocked on the doorjamb (the door itself being open). Ellana turned with a dramatic irritated sigh, arms still engaged in pinning curls into place, to see him in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, hair neatly brushed back.
“Still among the living, I thank you,” she responded before returning her attention to the mirror. “The green or the printed muslin, do you think?”
In the reflection she saw him consider the two gowns she had laid out upon the bed. “The green taffeta, I think. It will show your eyes to better advantage--would you help with my cuffs when you are quite ready?” She acquiesced and he left her to finish her toilette. Deeming the effect satisfactory, she gathered her gloves and reticule and went to argue in vain that not a single person would notice if her cousin’s cravat-pin did not match his cufflinks.
The Redcliffe assembly-rooms were much larger than those in Highever, well-lit and well-appointed; they had arrived at a fashionable enough hour to be already crushed in the crowd. A small orchestra played a bright country tune, and in the general din of the festive atmosphere she felt her customary high spirits return to her. Cousin Mahanon had promised not to abandon her for the card-room until she had found her friends, which she now realized would be easier said than done; mercifully, Miss Alerion was wearing an astonishingly high plume of feathers in her dark hair, so the conundrum at hand quickly became finding a way to catch her attention and get to her side.
“There’s old Byrne, already drunk as a wheelbarrow--” “--would it be very improper to dance with him twice--” “--have you heard that Alistair Fitzroy is here? Did you see him?” “and she in Antivan silk, when of course everyone knows she hasn’t a feather to fly with--” “--will not come, I know it--”
Loud conversations whirled around her as she pressed through the crush to her friend, hoping to simply reach Assanera before she was called away from her position next the dance floor, not being close enough to be made heard, and not wishing to wave her fan and make a spectacle of herself. Cousin Mahanon followed diligently, his height affording him the opportunity to take two glasses of wine from a passing tray, one of which he gave to Ellana with a gentle reminder that she “should not spill upon her gown, for the stain would not come out for love nor money.”
“Yes, thank you Cousin, I am not seven--Assanera!”
It took her friend a moment to turn and cry out, “Ellana!,” not having seen her since before her hair had changed. “Your hair is..” The man beside her--obviously her brother, to judge by the similar noses and impetuous smiles--proclaimed it “very bold indeed!” This was little comfort, as the young man in question was dressed so badly that Ellana concluded it must be intentional. Perhaps he was emulating the Dalish poets? She had little time to consider before he was being introduced to her as one Gull Alerion--indeed the brother of her friend. “A pleasure, Miss Lavellan,” he acknowledged with a gracious bow, turning his attention to Cousin Mahanon, who had been his tutor, and leaving her to speak with his sister.
“I wonder at your hair,” Assanera said, snapping open her fan and elbowing a passing human as she waved it frantically to stave off the truly astonishing heat of the room, and continued with a conspiratorial smile, “but of course you will explain later; I have heard Alistair Fitzroy is here, and you must help me find a way for us to be introduced.”
Alistair Fitzroy, the acknowledged by-blow of King Maric (Maker rest his soul), was something of a curious figure in the town. His mother and step-father were considered respectable enough to socialize with the Arl’s family, but they (and he) lived generally in a retired way in a house in the nearby countryside. Ellana had to assume that he would be surrounded with a cloud of young ladies vying for his attention, particularly as the family was said to have an “eye for ears.”
She heard Mahanon give a huff of long-suffering irritation from behind her before she could respond to her friend. “I have known you since you were an inattentive pupil in short pants, Gulliver Alerion; you will have better luck haranguing my cousin into dancing.” Ellana did not laugh at her cousin’s obvious manipulation of the situation, for he had made it impossible for Mr Alerion to demur without seeming rude, but it was a near thing. Mr Alerion did not appear to mind in the least, and his pursuit of her relative must not have been a serious one, because he turned his bright smile in her direction.
“Come then, Miss Lavellan--will you grant me the next set?” She promised that she would do so, and Assanera proclaimed her delight in the situation, for she had promised it to Ghilani, and she should like nothing better than for all of them to all be friends, as four was a better number than three.
“I do not see your younger sister,” remarked Mahanon to the two Alerions, “is she dancing? She must be out of the schoolroom by now.” “Myfanwy has gone to stay with our relations in the Free United Dales, and Mamae will tell you, it was the very devil arranging her pass-port…”
Ellana regarded the assembly, feeling a sort of fog roll over her mind. The music faded, and she had the queerest sensation that she was somewhere else altogether, her vision blurring as the floral wall-paper began to resemble true plants, roots covering her feet--
“And you, Miss Ellana?” She snapped back to reality at once. “Do you think Orlais will allow the Dales their peace this time?”
“Oh, it is surely all bluster and pride, as it usually is with Orlais. I do not think they will dare invade again, not with the Alliance, and not after Halamshiral. ” “There had been unrest for years; I suppose it was simply the last straw.” Mahanon took his leave, and the topic of the recent threats of violence on the Dalish borders carried them until the band took up their instruments for the Highever Reel, and she and Mr Alerion took their places in the line.
“Have you ever danced the reel with someone from Highever, Mr Alerion?”
“I have not--though the song says you will ‘send me reeling,’ which I always thought a very twee sort of reference.”
“I do not think the person who wrote the song could have been from Highever, but the sentiment is true enough. Do try not to be left behind,” she said as the music began, and they shared a grin. As it transpired, he managed admirably, and they even garnered some applause when it was their turn to go down the line. Ellana loved dancing, as she loved any cheerful diversion, and Mr Alerion seemed to share her sentiment. Both were out of breath by the time their feet finally stilled, laughing gaily despite it. They went arm-in-arm to retrieve their drinks, only to find Mahanon awaiting Ellana with a good-looking Elven woman of approximately his age and a tall, blonde human man of Ellana’s own.
“Ah, Cousin--may I present to you Mrs Fiona Duncan and her son, Alistair Fitzroy? Fiona, Alistair, this is my cousin, Ellana Lavellan, and another former pupil of mine, Gulliver Alerion.”
So it was true--King Maric had fathered a side-slip with an Elf. Well, all the better, for now she could be reasonably sure he would not be impolite on that account. Ellana sank a curtsey, unsure exactly how low it should be given his status, which was rather complex, and as she had never been introduced to a human of his standing; he, however, did not seem to stand on ceremony at all, and shook her hand with a smile once she rose. “A pleasure--”
“And it is returned, I assure, you, but I believe my sister is either suffering an apoplexy or trying to get my attention: you will excuse me.” Mr Alerion exited graciously, and Ellana would later swear she saw Assanera hit him with her fan for passing up the opportunity to bring her into the conversation.
Cousin Mahanon looked very pleased with himself for arranging this introduction. “I was Mr Fitzroy’s tutor before I was young Master Connor’s,” he explained, which Ellana supposed made sense. She had heard her cousin called Hahren Lavellan and Master Lavellan by most of the people they met in Redcliffe; he was clearly a respected figure. As the King’s son, Mr Fitzroy would have been afforded lessons with a private tutor, instead of attending a village school, for propriety’s sake if nothing else.
“And I was a shockingly indifferent student,” the man in question responded, cheerfully nodding at his former teacher, “though I have it on good authority that my cousin Connor is a much quicker study.” His manner was all that was amiable, his posture not quite easy, his sideways smile quite charming. Ellana liked him immensely.
“You will hear no judgment on that account from me, Mr Fitzroy--I think my cousin yet despairs of my learning anything of use from him,” she responded, and the laugh it procured from him was as gratifying as it was unexpectedly loud.
“Connor Guerrin is a better student than either of you, it’s true, though he’s of an age to weasel out of lessons and listen at his father’s study door, much as you did, Alistair,” Mahanon said.
“I suppose Arl Eamon must be meeting with plenty of messengers lately,” Mrs Duncan responded, her voice low and soothing, with a hint of an Orlesian accent. “With the Dalish border disputes and all the unpleasantness in Tevinter.”
“Is there unpleasantness in Tevinter?” Ellana asked, adding that she had not seen anything about it in the news-papers, and Cousin Mahanon had the Denerim editions posted down to them weekly.
“It would not be in the news-papers yet,” Mr Fitzroy clarified. “It seems there’s been a coup in Minrathous, and the circumstances are… mysterious, to say the least.”
“It would not be in the news-papers at all: some are claiming there’s a Magister involved.” Talk of magic always spread fast but erratically, as the Chantry suppressed it as heresy, and the government cooperated for fear of inciting panic.
“Of course, someone claims there is a Magister involved every time there is unpleasantness in Tevinter,” said Mr Fitzroy, one side of his mouth quirking up, “and it’s dull talk for a ballroom, in any case. I am promised to another acquaintance for the next set, but perhaps Miss Lavellan would honor me with the Cotillion?”
The attention of such a man made her evening a success: she danced all but one set, and that the opening one she had missed, and made the acquaintance of any body important her cousin had not already brought to her attention. She danced twice with Mr Fitzroy, once with Assanera, another with her brother, and the Marcher Waltz with one Captain Hawke of His Majesty’s Dragon Champion, unknowingly to the displeasure of Hawke’s partner, whom she met afterward, and who insisted that he did not dance. This strange interlude over, she finished the night with various acquaintances, drank a great many glasses of wine for someone who spent so much time on the dance floor, and managed to keep her cousin from taking them home until the ball was quite ended in the wee hours of the morning.
“I confess I do not know if my flush is from the drink or the dancing,” she proclaimed as Mahanon helped her light from the carriage in front of the house, “but my slippers are worn through so it must--”
Mrs Lenar, who they had instructed not to wait up, opened the door before they reached it, quite shocking Mahanon, who had consumed plenty of port at the card-tables on his own, and had reached for the latch already. “Mrs Lenar, what in mercy’s name--”
“There is a… there is a man awaiting you in the sitting-room,” she said, looking distressed, as she showed them in and removed their coats.
“A man? Could you not have sent him away? It’s gone 2 in the morning, woman!”
She placed her hands on her hips, squaring off against her much-taller employer. “If you do not think I tried, you’ve underestimated me, but he would insist, and said he was an old colleague of yours, though he does not look like any scholar I ever saw.” Her tone indicated she had seen quite a number of such persons, though in truth Mahanon was the only scholar she knew. “I told him you were out, but he claimed he could wait, and that it was of great importance--certainly the behavior of a gentleman, for important folk think the world must stop for them--”
“Yes, that is quite enough, Mrs Lenar, we shall see him, I suppose, though I own I do not see why you could not send him away.” Ellana followed him, curious to see the man herself. “I cannot think what sort of a person comes into a man’s home at such an hour and cut up his peace,” he grumbled. They entered the sitting room in succession, and the man rose to bow as if it were the commonest thing in the world.
“Well,” Mahanon greeted him, not bowing himself, “you must be our mysterious visitor.” The man was an Elf, shabbily-dressed, but neat and clean, angular in his features and bald as an egg. Ellana had the strangest impression she knew him from somewhere. “As you are clearly acquainted with us, I would appreciate it if you would acquaint us with you.”
“I must apologize for my intrusion. I am Solas, an itinerant scholar, and I am in fact here to see the young lady of the house.” His manners were surprisingly pleasant, but Ellana frowned, unable to tear her eyes from the stranger and equally unable to respond.
“What business should you have with my cousin?”
“She might best be able to answer that for herself--I have been trying to contact her for the best part of the week.”
“We have received no letters, no messages from anyone we do not know, and we neither of us--”
Ellana realized where she had seen the man before, and shook her head to clear it, reaching for Mahanon’s arm. “It’s alright, cousin--we’ve met.” The man smiled gently, quickly. “Ah, you recall.” “--under a hedgerow,” Ellana could not help but finish, and curtseyed as the man seemed to hold down a laugh.
Mahanon looked between the two of them, stunned out of words. “Well then,” he said, gesturing wildly as Ellana tried and failed not to stare at the man, who looked back at her evenly, “if he was in the hedgerow, then he can’t possibly be any trouble. By all means, make yourself at home, Messere Hedgerow.”
“But Mr… Mr Solas, we have had no contact since that time, and you said you had been trying to speak to me all the week long,” she inquired.
“Just Solas, if you please--and do you not recall any strange dreams?”
Her eyes widened, and then narrowed. “I do not know what game you play, sir, coming here--”
“Has nothing odd happened this week? Pets acting strangely, the dreams? Was your hair not dark when we met? I believe I have the explanation.” Mahanon and Ellana looked to one another, and back to the man by the fire, whose downturned eyes seemed to glow with some knowledge, some delightful secret.
“Miss Lavellan, it falls to me to inform you that you are, in fact, a mage. One of the first in 800 years, if my estimation is correct. I’ve come to offer my services as your tutor.” Whether it be exhaustion, inebriation, or shock, it was at that moment that Ellana Lavellan, first mage in 8 centuries, wavered on her feet and swooned inelegantly into the man’s arms.
After looking at the presented tableau for a moment, Mahanon commented with astonishing equanimity, “well, her parents are going to be immensely put out.”