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On the Importance of Rituals
The first time Leliana braided Josephine’s hair was on a particularly beautiful and undignified night in Josephine’s life.
She was younger then, barely past her 20th nameday – far too young for such an important position, said her critics, but Josephine had performed admirably during her brief time as Antivan ambassador. To spite them all, she decided to throw a ball. The reasons for this particular act were twofold: She could welcome home a friend she had not seen for years while simultaneously putting an end to anyone who dared to suggest she didn’t know the first thing about politics, diplomacy, and the social niceties that were the vital lifeblood of both. Besides…Leliana liked balls, didn’t she? She loved to dance, and she loved fashion, and shoes…
The party was a disaster.
No, not a disaster. As a political soiree went, she accomplished one of her goals. Everything had been planned out to such minute detail that the politicians in attendance could find little to critique. By the end of the night, the only fault they had dredged up was the fact that there was nothing to complain about at all. That meant, however, that the ball had everything – a beautiful venue in the Antivan-owned chateau she had cleared, the proper drinks, the appropriate music, a guest list more dazzling than the summer Val Royeaux sky – and was thus tremendously boring.
Josephine found herself apologizing to Leliana on the sly when she caught her friend leaning against the wall, swirling her drink contemplatively. Leliana smiled and took a sip of the exotic, heavily spiced punch.
“Don’t apologize,” she said graciously. “Everything is lovely, and I appreciate the homecoming. Thank you for doing this just for me.”
Something about the way she said the latter sentence made Josephine realize that Leliana knew this party was not entirely for her. Josephine blushed hotly, and mumbled something about finding more fruit for the punch to excuse herself.
The longer the night wore on, the stiffer her collar became. She tugged at the tight lace of the thing, feeling wretched and wanting only for this dreadful soiree to end. It wasn’t until midnight when release came in the form of Leliana with slightly reddened cheeks.
“They’re all so drunk at this point that they can hardly see straight,” she murmured into Josephine’s ear, all hot breath that smelled fruity and bitter, a sure sign that she, too, had been enjoying the tangy, alcoholic punch. Leliana reached her thin fingers forward and brushed a loose tendril of Josephine’s hair behind her ear, leaning closer to whisper. A shiver went through Josephine at the intimacy of such heat, and she knew Leliana was smirking. Apparently she still took mischievous pleasure in exploiting the fact that Josephine had once confided to her that she, too, actually fancied women. “Shall we find a real party?”
So they left, sneaking out a door through the kitchen of the chateau, much to the surprise of the servants. Leliana winked at them with a finger over her lips as she brought Josephine along by the wrist.
The party was a disaster.
In the most delightful way. How Leliana had known there was to be a gathering at this particular tavern, with this particular crowd of unruly, charming, artisans was a mystery to Josephine. Leliana had only arrived in Val Royeaux that very morning. Clearly she had invisibly-threaded connections, perhaps a result of her recent appointment as Left Hand of the Divine. Knowing Leliana, she had no quarrel with utilizing those connections to know not only what her enemies were planning, but also her friends and, likely, the local debauchers as well.
A man in harlequin print scooped Josephine up onto the bench beside him.
“Any song for the loveliest lady in the room!” he said gallantly, grinning down at her with painted lips.
Baffled, Josephine suddenly couldn’t think of a single song in all of the Maker’s creation. What was appropriate in such a setting? Should she choose something bawdy, or would they consider that an unfavorable comment on their kind? What if she chose something boring?
Leliana saved her by calling for an Orlesian song by name. The man looked to Josephine, who nodded emphatically as if she knew precisely what the song was about and loved it very much. With a flourish, he began a tune that was quite suited for the sort of dancing that left chests heaving, faces flushed, and (apparently, unless her Orlesian was mistaken; they hadn’t taught this vocabulary in seminar) the whole crowd in riotous laughter. A dwarven craftsman, yes, and…what was that word? Something about heat in a forge? But why would they give it a female name…?
Leliana grinned at her and presented her with a glass of something indeterminately colored and frosty.
“Drink this. Swiftly, now. The whole thing…no, don’t look at me for approval, ugh, goodness, keep going. Good girl. Now,” she said, chuckling at Josephine’s face, which slid from disgust into wonder. “Dance with me.”
She whirled Josephine out into the mass of bodies, all bouncing in a dizzying pattern of swirling skirts and sweat that left her breathless with laughter and exertion. Josephine found herself passed from partner to partner, speaking to various patrons, both masked and unmasked, and plied with nearly endless mugs of that awful drink. The second went down like spider venom. The third, like only recently spoiled milk. The fourth like caramel and the fifth she practically begged for, ignoring Leliana’s cautionary suggestion that she had, perhaps, had enough and should consider slowing down.
It was the first time in years that Josephine remembered the taste of fun, and more than that, what it felt like to be a living person – young and carefree.
Later that night, as Leliana did her best to secret Josephine home, Josephine found herself getting theatrically ill in some poor nobleman’s plants. As she emptied the contents of her stomach onto some newly-cultivated rhododendrons, Leliana held her hair away from her sweaty face, rubbing her back in circles.
“Oh, Maker,” she moaned into Leliana’s shoulder when she came up for air. “Look at me! And I still have to send everyone home with a smile, if there is anyone left to send home. Oh, I’ll have to make an appearance in the morning…”
“Hush,” Leliana said, not at all unkindly. “We’ll manage. Let’s take care of you first, no?”
They snuck back into the chateau the same way they left, but spared a stop in the kitchen to beg for water, bread, and mint leaves – the first two to revive Josephine somewhat, the latter to freshen her breath and hide the evidence of her recent excursion. While Josephine did her best to hold herself together at the table, Leliana ran her fingers through Josephine’s matted hair, separating tangles as best she could. When this work was done, her clever fingers twisted the front away from her face and bound it up into a style suitable for any political soiree.
“There,” she said with a smile, pushing the basin of water over so Josephine could see her reflection. “No one shall ever know the difference.”
Josephine blinked at the wavering semblance of herself in the water.
“It’s lovely,” she said. Then, “I look like something that has died.”
Chuckling, Leliana hoisted her friend from the bench. “I have recently spent time in the close company of darkspawn. You make a marginally prettier picture.”
Josephine frowned at that. “I have had better compliments paid me.”
“And you’ll have many more. Come, let us make our grand re-entrance.”
Their caution was for naught. All of the guests had been seen home, save the few who were staying at the chateau. With a grateful sigh, Josephine retired to her room, and though Leliana had one of her own, she opted to watch over her suffering friend.
In the morning, Josephine curled against her like a miserable child. Her head felt like the Anvil of the Void as pounded consecutively by every dwarf that had ever wandered Thedas.
“Let us never do that again,” she said mournfully. Then – “…Will you braid my hair? Just like last night?”
Leliana was happy to do so, and Josephine was grateful for her care. Leliana had wonderfully subtle fingers that massaged her scalp and turned her to liquid. The time it took Leliana to bind her hair was time she forgot, however briefly, about nobles, politics, and anything but the feeling of Leliana’s hands and the low beauty of her humming.
She was decidedly less grateful when news reached her of the location of her missing smallclothes. After they were unpinned from the Chantry board and returned to her by a furiously blushing servant, Josephine chased Leliana down in a whirlwind of indignant rage. After a very stern lecture, through which Leliana mostly stifled laughter, even Josephine relaxed enough to find the humor in it.
Leliana’s punishment was to braid Josephine’s hair the next day. And the next. By the third, it was a request, and after a week, it was habit. Every morning, Leliana twisted her hair while Josephine complained about visiting dignitaries or just sat and blinked away sleep before most anyone else in Skyhold had stirred. They were both thankful for something simple and familiar with which to start the day. In a world of upheaval, Josephine found that she smiled whenever she caught sight of herself with that distinctive braided twist. It was as if, when Leliana was busy braiding, she left behind some of the necessary hardness and quick-thinking she possessed that Josephine often felt she personally did not. Leliana, it seemed, was grateful for a chance to empty her mind of the dark things that vied for her attention, if only for the duration of time it took to sift through the heavy silken darkness of Josephine’s hair.
There was a brief moment of emptiness that came when Leliana was braiding that kept her, daily, from being entirely overwhelmed. The other moment came every night.
Josephine remembers a time back in Haven when she had gone to open the door to the room she and Leliana shared. At the sound of a crash inside, she hesitated with her hand on the door handle. The crash was followed by another, and then a sound that squeezed at her heart and stole her breath. A small, muffled, miserable noise – like crying.
Leliana never cried.
Josephine was about to turn and leave her be, when something made her pause and reconsider. Perhaps even Leliana could not face everything alone. Perhaps Leliana never cried because she had no one to cry with.
Well, Josephine told herself. If it turns out you are incorrect, you can read the situation and leave. You are a diplomat. Do your job.
She knocked a few times and heard “A moment!” Bright, as if Leliana were doing nothing beyond changing clothes. “Come in!”
Josephine entered to find her picking up the broken remains of what used to be a clay water pitcher. Leliana had always hated the thing; said it made their water taste of mud. Josephine was not surprised that, against whatever flood of emotions Leliana was now concealing, the clay pitcher had been the first thing to go.
“Clumsy of me,” Leliana said cheerfully. “I’ll find us a new one. Oh, and, be careful around your bed, that’s where most of the pieces were. I’ll fetch a broom…”
Josephine said something useless, something like “We have plenty of pitchers,” which was not true. She looked at pieces on the floor and then back up at Leliana, frowning. “Are you…alright?” she asked tentatively.
“Of course I’m alright,” Leliana said easily, expertly. To Josephine, who had known her before the Conclave, before the death of Justinia, it sounded wooden.
Leliana started to say something else, but it didn’t matter. What mattered instead was that her arms were around Leliana, squeezing tight because, despite what she sometimes believed, words couldn’t solve everything.
Leliana stiffened against this embrace. Josephine wondered how long it had been since Leliana had been held, if the sensation was foreign, or worse, threatening. Confining. Still she kept her arms tightly about this tumble of contradictions she called her very dearest friend.
Gradually, Leliana’s arms raised and embraced her in turn. It was slow, like snow melting in sun, and the smell of flowers, smoke, and ink teased at Josephine’s nose as Leliana bent forward to hold her.
“Oh, Josie,” Leliana whispered into her neck, and Josephine felt the hot drip of tears sliding past the ruffles at her neck.
“Come, talk with me,” she murmured in return, caught somewhere between honored and pained as she led Leliana to her own bed. She sat on the edge and patted the coverlet for Leliana to do the same.
Getting Leliana to tell the truth of her own heart, without minimizing or concealing any of it, was one of the most difficult things she had ever accomplished in her career, and she knew with absolute clarity that she was perhaps one of only a few people – still alive, she thought with a wince – who had seen her like this. It took gentle prompting, a series of yes-or-no questions, and finally, a direct: “Why is the pitcher broken, Leliana?”
Staring at her own hands fisting the fabric of her knees, Leliana confessed. “I…was waiting for a letter.”
Josephine frowned. That seemed a poor reason to break their limited pottery, but she waited patiently for elaboration.
There were certain days of the year, Leliana explained, that were designated as “check-up” days. The Hero of Ferelden was to send word just so Leliana might know she was still alive. Today was such a day – “Our anniversary, in fact,” Leliana said with a whispery laugh - and no word had come. She was not naïve, it could have been detained, but then –
“A runner came by,” she explained to the coverlet. “He was carrying a few bushels of herbs. Supplies I had asked for from the Hinterlands. All he wanted to know was where to put them, but…oh, you’ll think me silly for this. One of them was full of Crystal Grace. Of course it was, I had asked for any medicinal plant to be harvested…but, it’s just that…” she stopped. Faltered. Josephine laced her fingers with Leliana’s. Leliana’s lips quirked up in a small smile and she took a breath. “…She used to make tea from Crystal Grace, during the Blight. Dried it and carried it with us so that we would never be without. And then later, she presented me with a bouquet of it on the day she marked as our anniversary, the day we first kissed. She had written the date down in her journal, in case we both survived the Blight. That anniversary, and every one thereafter.” She smiled sadly. “Crystal Grave has such a distinct, sweet smell when brewed and I…can see her. The moment I smelled it, I saw her – smiling through the steam of it, just the two of us by the fireplace in camp, and I…” The tears threatened again and clogged her throat.
Josephine smiled and snaked a hand around Leliana’s shoulders. “I think, perhaps, I may have thrown something as well.”
Leliana laughed, sharp and short, joyless. “I will have to apologize for being so short with him. That was…unbecoming. He ran out only a short while before you arrived. And then, I…” She looked at the scattered pieces of clay littering the floor. “I am sorry. About the pitcher.”
It seemed such an absurd thing to say that Josephine almost laughed. Instead, she guided Leliana down to lay on the bed and held her as Leliana had done for her so many times. Though Leliana did not cry, she did rest, and that was almost as therapeutic. Josephine pushed Leliana’s hood back and ran her fingers through the short, coppery strands of her hair – duller than she remembered, though from exhaustion or lack of sunlight, who could say.
When Leliana sat up, over an hour later, she pulled the hood back up and smiled vacantly at Josephine – a sure sign that she needed to gather herself, to rethread together the mask she relied upon of late.
“Thank you, Josie,” she said, and though her eyes were tired, her voice was warm. “See you tonight?”
Empty words. Josephine often found their little room unoccupied when she came to bed, and equally so when she woke. Leliana came in late, rose early, or sometimes slept in short bursts in her tent.
“See you tonight,” she concurred.
And she did. Hours after midnight, she found Leliana poring over a map in her tent, a little fire the only thing valiantly holding back the bitter wind of the Frostback Mountains.
Leliana looked up in surprise. “Josephine, it’s so late, shouldn’t you be – ”
Josephine set the mug she carried down beside the map and said, “Yes. And so should you. But since you will not, at least keep warm. Goodnight, Leliana.”
She quit the tent, but not before she caught the sudden reflective dampness in Leliana’s eyes as her tent filled with the smell of Crystal Grace.
Every night before bed, she climbs the stairs of Skyhold (why were there so many stairs? Did the Elves of old have no fear of heights? And thighs of forged iron?) to the drafty tower where Leliana sits with the crows, the candles, and the Maker. Every night, the shadows under her eyes are darker, but she welcomes Josephine with a tired, grateful smile. Josephine herself is more exhausted these days.
“And what news have we tonight, Lady Ambassador?” Leliana asks, accepting the mug of tea with a grateful sigh. She breathes in the smell of the steam and her shoulders relax.
Josephine takes a seat opposite Leliana and sips from her own mug. She must admit, the tea is wonderfully calming, and she certainly does sleep better for it. She credits this nighttime habit with keeping them both free of the nasty respiratory sickness that spread through Skyhold a few weeks prior.
“Well…I am sure you have noticed that our lady Inquisitor has been…shall we say, preoccupied?”
Leliana hums and smiles. “Indeed. I caught her at the war table the other day staring out a window while Cullen discussed fortifications in the Exalted Plains. Fortifications she personally requested.”
“Well…surely it has also not escaped your attention that the Right Hand has been equally preoccupied?”
“Yes?”
“Well,” Josephine lowers her voice, though no one is around to hear them. “I was on my way to locate Mother Giselle; I had to ask her opinion on how to please those visiting members of the Chantry who- sorry,” she catches herself at Leliana’s bored expression and goes on, “and as I stepped into the garden, what should I find but Cassandra and the Inquisitor –”
“No!” Leliana’s gasp is unsurprised, but delighted.
“Yes,” Josephine confirms with a blush. “Kissing under the trellis.”
“Oh, only kissing. Well, everyone starts somewhere, I suppose…”
“Leliana!”
Leliana laughs. It’s rough and rare and thin, but still beautiful. Josephine shakes her head with a smile and leans back to start undoing her braid for the night.
Leliana, closing her eyes, drinks her tea. She smiles against the rim of the cup as she feels the heat of it pool in untouched places, sees familiar ghosts in the steam.
Josephine smiles at her, dark eyes sparkling and pins between her teeth.