Chapter Text
“Not nice weather, isn’t it?” said a tall man squeezing out a smile. His companion only tightened the hood over her eyes.
Morning really was not the most successful. It rained for days chasing a couple from Crestwood itself, like a curse, and besides soldiers of the Inquisition insistently did not want to let them into the fortress.
“An urgent report for the Lady Inquisitor,” said Mahariel with precision in a stern, but hoarse voice, without raising her head. Paranoia pursued her, however, like the common cold. Ever and anon women heard rumors about the search for the Hero of Ferelden, and this was scary. In these times, it was vital to remain unrecognized — not because she was afraid of responsibility, but because she had took a lot of.
“Such urgent ones in bulk,” the guard said lazily, leaning on his spear. “From whom and in what urgency?”
In principle, they can also be understood — not everyone is happy to stand at the post all day. Especially in such a disgusting downpour. Some say, one of Herald’s confidant died recently, and it is Andraste herself who mourns the loss. The clouds hovered threateningly in the sky, but even through their dense veil the breach gleamed. Mahariel could not stand it, raised her chin, flashing her eyes in the shadow of the hood, and frowned at the overly obstinate guard.
“From the King,” she fished out of her pocket a metal badge of the royal guard, pulled off a long time ago, and brought it to the eyes of the man. “I think that's enough.”
The guard peered at it, straightened up and shouted to one of his comrades to report on the arrival of the ambassadors of Ferelden King. The woman just squeaked. Anyway, she cherished a faint hope to penetrate unnoticed till now... Leliana will surely rouse oneself. Although it is not immediately noticeable, in fact, Blanchen absolutely could not lie. This disadvantage very successfully prevented her from relaxed life.
In the yard a few kids ran playing either in catch-up or in a different kind of this game. Mahariel’s companion even managed to stroke a red cat sitting under a canopy, and it licked his palm. Blanche pursed her lips, it reminded her of the old days when they had to sit in Amaranthine and correct the mistakes of an aristocracy. Many years have passed, but she will never forget that childish delight in Anders' honey-brown eyes when she presented him with the first kitten.
“Aren't you afraid that the King will really roll here? He seems to be friends with the spymaster,” said Anders sarcastically and forged his friend with his elbow in the side. She replied with an angry look frowningly.
“Aren't you afraid to come across Hawke? She seems to be friends with the Inquisitor,” Blanche pulled down his hood, blocking review, and the man pulled away, instantly changing his face. It was as if he had become peaky, aged for several years. His eyes lost their defiant shine, and his ingrained lyrium shone through his skin. Sore. No, not from her joking gesture. Hawke invariably attracted many thoughts, mostly bad ones, and reminded him that it was he, Anders, was responsible for almost all the troubles of Thedas.
As if reading his thoughts, Blanchen herself dived into thinking. Externally, life patted her more, she did not even think that the taint disfiguring her essence is better than any disguise. She was not even thirty, but the elf was too keenly aware of the approach of death. So she is here, so she longed to meet with the Inquisitor. Well, or not at all with her.
In the throne room they were met by two agents. The warden immediately guessed that they were Leliana’s subordinates, there was something different in them from ordinary soldiers. A woman, completely tired, and a very young boy asked to wait a bit and then at the invitation to go to the command rate. “So the meeting with Lely is inevitable,” thought Blanchen.
The gray wardens looked at each other and waited near the wall, trying not to attract much attention. In spite of everything, they both clearly heard the disgruntled whispers of the aristocrats, who were here for incomprehensible reason, and felt their stares. Anders gathering up decided to look aside on the Inquisitor throne, which filled with church and danger. The man shuddered. If the Inquisitor is an Andrastian, it is better for him to run away right now, because she must have heard about the blasphemer who blew up the church of Kirkwall. From Hawke, for example.
“You can come in.”
It sounded like a verdict, and Anders seized again. Without taking off their hoods both of wardens followed the agent, hunched over and bowed their heads. The man did not know what was at the heart of his Commander, but he guessed that she would also like to spit on everything and escape. But for the elf duty is above desires.
“Ambassadors from King Alistair,” the agent informed the command and quietly withdrew, closing the door quietly.
The Inquisitor, the only one who had her back turned, turned around and anxiously looked at the guests. Blanchen noted vallaslin of the same Evanuris as hers, and the willingness of at least two people — a black-haired woman and a steel-clad man — to attack because of any wrong move. The universal sadness did not descend from the freckled face, the Herald herself was draped with black, mourning atlas. On the left hand there is the glove of the same color, but even through the material the mark shone with emerald.
“Milady Herald,” Mahariel began as quietly as she could, deciding to accept the game of fate and to appear as Ferelden ambassadors. For the first time, she thanked her common cold that slightly crooked a voice. “Let’s talk in private. The question is about Fiona the Grand Enchanter.”
Leliana suspiciously narrowed her eyes and exchanged glances with an armed woman. Either she was just afraid of strangers, or she began to guess. At the same time, Anders was noticeably nervous — he was familiar with the Commander of the Inquisition not by hearsay, and consequently the reasons for escaping immediately increased.
The glorified elf, whom you would give for no more than twenty years, folded her arms behind her back, a hint of a smile appeared on her lips. All is as taught. But the trained eye of Hero of Ferelden will not be fooled, even if she did not learn the Game. Lady Inquisitor is clearly not like the person she should be.
“Greetings,” she barely bowed her head in respect. “Since it is so urgent, speak here. I have no secrets from my advisors.”
Blanche shrugged. Oh that elf stubbornness. Even sprinkled with aristocratic education. Noticing her growing irritation the magician gently touched her shoulder, but she flared only stronger.
“I just execute the order of my Alistair, he does not want to-“
“My Alistair,” repeated the Spymaster, barely audible, overcoming the distance to the stranger in a split second, and unceremoniously pulled the hood from her.
Leliana peered into Blanche’s face: shadows lay beneath her faded purple eyes (either the invariable coal liner did her job or it was the taint), rich wreaths shone through the pallor of the skin, sometimes intertwining with vallaslin, it seemed that the blood shed from cheeks and cracked lips. Even bunched white hair, which Hero of Ferelden was so proud of, lost its bygone luster and density.
Such a simple stupid slip of the tongue gave her away. The elf stared calmly at Leliana’s bright eyes and waited silently for a reprimand. Instead of words, Leliana only squeezed her long-time friend in her arms, her nose buried in Blanchen’s shoulder smelling like the rain.
“Leliana, this ...” began the armed woman with spiky inky hair, but the antivan in gold clothes holding her breath because of the importance of the moment interrupted her with a look that did not require words.
“After so many years,” said Leliana not letting the elf out of her arms.
“I came for help,” she honestly admitted, and embarrassedly hugged her friend in response. Tears would have come to her eyes if Blanche had not wept them still a few years ago.
“Do not vanish anymore.”