Work Text:
The docks reek of fishmonger stalls and bird shite, and his nose wrinkles as he wills himself to block out the offensive assault.
After all, he has suffered worse. He has wrought worse.
The deep acrid tang of blood as it sprays into the air. Entrails spilling onto frozen ground, steaming into the cold night. He kicks an organ aside as he departs. Perhaps he’d overdone it, just a bit. No matter.
He fingers the edge of his glove, pulls at it absently.
Stares out onto the water and, ignoring the early-morning bustle around him, he waits.
***
She’s glaring at him, hazel eyes seemingly attempting to pry past his mask, past the persona of “comte” he so easily stepped into on this fine day in Val Royeaux.
Beside her, the Inquisitor bristles. Jaw set into something of a snarl, the “herald of Andraste” looks entirely prepared to come across the table and make quick work of removing his head from his shoulders.
And he is no fool. He did not come alone, but neither did the Ambassador, and he reads skill well enough to know he and his men are entirely outmatched. He could try, of course. To fight, escape, kill another day.
He would likely fail.
And besides, it is not a day to spill blood. He tells them so; and like a true lady of grace, the lovely Ambassador is kind enough to thank him for delivering this courtesy.
His insides shift when her eyes dull with acceptance and sadness. It is a quizzical thing; men and women, young and old, have cried out for mercy at the edge of his blade, the very last words the Maker deems to hear of them.
He glances at her, rakes his eyes over her form: shoulders tense and yet listless, fingers folded tight against the table, eyes swimming with disappointment and only a hint of latent fear.
She is a brave woman. He does not have to threaten her to know this.
The Inquisitor is…merciful…enough to let him leave with nothing more than a fiery gaze pinned at his back.
He did not lie when he told the Lady Ambassador he hoped to never see her again.
But neither was he honest.
***
It is midday when the ship finally pulls into port.
By then he is sweating, cool trails of salt sliding into the neat Antivan-made tunic he wore (because Antiva craftmanship surpasses all others, as they say; that is the only reason, he will tell himself, that he chose it over something Orlesian.). But again, he has suffered much worse. Once he stuffed himself into the back of a doomed noblewoman’s larder to await the dead of night, the entire kitchen staff completely unaware of his presence even into the early morn, when a young elven servant quite literally stumbled onto his master’s body.
He can tolerate the inconvenience of sweat and fish-stink, even if he doesn’t particularly care for it.
Some moments later his unyielding patience pays off, as his target finally steps off onto the dock.
He blinks, pleasantly surprised.
She is dressed far more…conservatively, than the last time he saw her. A bright blue tunic and vest, brown slacks, rugged and well-used boots. Her family crest blazed upon the heart of the fabric, as well as the sails of her modest trading vessel. She is smiling, gazing up into the sky, and he watches the muscles of her face move beneath skin as she does.
Her hair trails down her back in a tight, intricate braid. Functional. Necessary. Not for impressing, but certainly not for the common.
He wastes no time, positioning himself against the wall of the harbormaster’s lodge to wait for her to pass.
And when she does (alone, he notes. Foolish. Brave, but foolish), he darts out, folds his fingers over her wrist in less than the time it takes to gasp. (And oh, bless her, does she gasp.) His grip is firm as she instinctively yanks back, but he already sliding his hand down into hers and taking a swift knee at her feet,
“Lady Montilyet. On behalf of the House of Repose I would extend an offer…of our services. Should you have need of them, of course.”
Andraste’s cold and rotting toenails, and when did he stumble over words? Ever?
Her fingers are warm and slightly damp, a clear indication that she did not lounge in a cabin on the ship during the entirety of its voyage. She stills at his voice, and he glances up into her silhouette, face slightly blinded from his view by the sun overhead.
“I know your voice, Messieur,” he feels her hand disappear from his in an instant, and he moves to stand straight as she takes a long step back from him,
“The false ‘comte’ from Val Royeaux? The messenger, yes?”
He can see her face clearly now, her eyebrows bent inward, her lips thinned in an attempt to appear neutral. Unphased. Unafraid.
He nods, bends at the waist in a curt, polite bow.
“Allow me to introduce myself properly, Madame. You may call me Philippe.”
“Just Philippe?”
“I am afraid so, my lady.”
“I would hardly call this a ‘proper’ introduction, then.”
She is raking her eyes over his face, studying him narrowly, and he remembers that it is the first time she has seen his face. An overtly masculine part of him hopes it is not displeasing.
He glances down to her shoulders, tightened and raised only just so, and farther down to her hands, balled into fists as if prepared to fight him. He bites his inner lip to stave off an impressed grin.
“Ah. I suppose it is not; I do apologize, Lady Montilyet.”
“And does the House of Repose only employ you as a messenger? This is twice now you have delivered such on their behalf. And to the same person, no less.”
His lips quirk, unbidden. Gone is the somber, listless woman he met in Val Royeaux. She stands confident, regal, even, and unbothered by having an assassin in her midst. Again. He fingers the edge of his glove.
Chuckles, and attempts to ignore the molten pang of desire that shoots like a bolt down his spine. How terribly inappropriate of him. Really.
“Indeed. This situation we find ourselves in is…an unusual one, to be sure. And yet here we are, and my—our offer still stands. It is no great secret that the Montilyets still have rivals in Antiva, and while the Du Paraquettes now call themselves friends, this fact only further ruffles the feathers of those who would do your family harm. The House of Repose deeply regrets that unfortunate business of years past, Lady Montilyet, and is prepared to…extend its own hand in friendship, as it were.”
A beat of silence seems to stretch into days as she appraises him, and he gets the distinct impression she is trying to catch him in a lie.
Were it anyone else, he would feel smugly in his confidence that even if he were, she could never tell. But this woman, a master diplomat, a true player of the game? He will not delude himself.
She can read him as easily as he can her.
His breath stills in his chest for a few painful moments as he prays she does not read all of him, for he is nothing if not a gentleman, and it would shame him to no end for her to think otherwise.
She has crossed her arms, face still displaying an air of neutrality but just slightly softer than before, the muscles of her forehead allowing those perfectly maintained eyebrows to relax if only by the smallest amount.
“Messieur Philippe. The Montilyets have no need or want for the…skills, that your organization is infamous for,” she is steady, unyielding, and his chest feels unstable, as if on the verge of bottoming out into his belly and he wishes to question the feeling, but courtesy demands he begin his polite acceptance of her rejection immediately, and make for a swift and silent departure—
“I do, however, find myself in need of guards. Would the House of Repose be opposed to playing a more passive, defensive role in staving off my would-be rivals?”
His chest stays safely in place and he is thankful for the small mercy, for he is certain the woman before him is smiling ever-so-slightly as she awaits his response.
Astute. So dangerously astute.
He bows with an unnecessary flourish and hides his own upturned lips,
“I am henceforth at your service, my lady.”