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If there was one benefit to your friend and ex-partner being a monarch, it was the food. Kallian could already smell the roux for the Feast Day Fish, mustard, and Antivan pepper permeating the air, along with spices she didn't know the names of. It would be hours yet before the big feast, but at least she had something to look forward to.
Of course, there was one big downside to Alistair being the King: everything had to be accompanied by a certain amount of pomp. "You have to attend the ball. You're my advisor, and the Hero of Ferelden besides. Teagan will kill me if you don't show up!"
"He wouldn't kill you after everything it took to put you on the throne. That would be regicide!"
"Kallian—" Alistair started, sighing.
"Alistair," she sniped, grateful that nobody else was in the throne room to see her acting like a child. Anora was off, probably plotting their demise. Or charity works. Or charity works that would lead to their demise. Of course, she probably shouldn't be alone in a room with Alistair anyway, regardless of how vehemently she had sworn they were done. For good this time! No more pining looks, no more disgusting yearning, and certainly no more quickies in the garden... Well, maybe a few pining looks. Alistair was going to be wearing ball attire...
"Did I mention Zevran and Leliana will be there?" Alistair asked with feigned casualness, drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne.
"You're such a bastard," Kallian sighed, though she meant it fondly.
"This is true!" Alistair laughed, and she took her leave before she could say anything actually harmful.
Kallian went to her room, intending to at least hide before she had to face the evening. She had saved Ferelden, if not the world, so she had earned a little bit of hiding, hadn't she? That was what she told herself every time she looked at the paper on her desk that asked her to go to some fort in Amaranthine called Vigil's Keep. She was... on vacation, as the nobles called it.
Of course, Shianni was already there, cooing over something on her bed. "Look at this, Kallian! I think you'll be the prettiest woman at the ball," Shianni said, a teasing glitter to her eye.
Kallian was not usually one for fashion, but even she could recognize the dress's beauty. The bodice was a fitted velvet, with golden embroidery like the wink of stars or elven eyes in the dark, and an alarmingly deep neckline. The skirt was not wide in the Orlesian fashion, and when she held it up against her, she noticed a slit on the left.
"That will make you look taller," Shianni said with no small amount of pride.
"Did you help pick this out?"
"I did! Look at the mask!" The mask in question was gold to match the embroidery, though that was as much as Kallian could easily discern. It had ears, and a snout, and...
"Is this meant to be a fox or a wolf?" Kallian asked, tilting it as if a new angle would give her better clarity. The mask remained stubbornly ambiguous. It was probably doing that to spite her.
"A wolf," Shianni winced, "the mask makers, I think, got upset they were making one for an elf, and..."
"Fendehis! You really said 'Oh, I know what makes a good masquerade costume, the fucking Dark Wolf?' What if somebody figures it out? The people I robbed will be there!"
"You said it yourself, it looks like a fox! It'll be fine, Kallian, you'll see. Besides, you haven't even seen the best part."
"There's more?" Kallian asked, ignoring the petulant note that had crept into her voice like it would magically disappear (a strategy that had NOT worked during the Blight, yet one she kept trying anyway).
"Well, there are the shoes, yes, but that's not what I meant. I meant the pocket. And also this," Shianni said, revealing a slightly disheveled gift bag from under Kallian's pillow. Kallian carefully peeled back the thin paper, revealing a beautiful knife holster. It shone, opalescent, in the candlelight, and even the blue thread it was stitched with was shot through with a metallic sheen. It matched the starmetal sword perfectly and was pretty enough to wear as an accessory, even if her mother's dagger, Fang, didn't match perfectly. Of course, it would have to go under the dress, but it would be a comfort to have something of home as she faced the nobles. A sartorial mien'harel, even if she was the only one who knew she was rebelling.
"It's so beautiful. Shianni, I love you."
"I know." Shianni teased, even as she wrapped Kallian in a crushing hug.
"I should give you your gift now, then. Can you leave for a second?"
"You and your hiding places," Shianni sighed, though she obeyed. Kallian waited until the door was fully closed before prying up a loose flagstone. Inside was a brooch with a delicately carved vhenadahl, made of silver with little veridium leaves. It shone, ever so slightly, with an enchantment she had gotten Sandhal to put on it before they left for Kirkwall.
Kallian put the stone back and then crossed to the other side of the room, near the dresser. Alistair had given her a large room, with space enough to store her collection of weapons, and she had found quite a few good hiding places for her treasures.
"You can come back in now!" Kallian called, feeling a little sheepish that she hadn't actually wrapped the brooch, even if everything she tried to wrap somehow ended up torn and concerningly shaped.
Without much ado, she gave it to Shianni, whose eyes welled up with tears. "I thought you needed a badge of office. It's enchanted, so hopefully it will help keep you safe."
"Oh, it's perfect. It'll match my outfit for tonight perfectly, too!"
A timid knock sounded at the door. That was either Laisa or Emma, whom she had hired from the alienage as her lady's maids. She resented the fact that she needed to have lady's maids to keep up appearances, but she supplemented their income generously from her own funds (and supplemented those funds with her work as the Dark Wolf). She might be able to steal some jewelry tonight, in which case Kallian quite approved of masquerade balls.
"Speaking of, it must be time to get ready! Don't hate me! See you later!" And on that ominous note, Shianni all but ran out of her room, giggling madly as she left.
Several hours of primping and prodding passed: three baths, two near-death experiences with kohl, one battle with an archdemon (hair curling tongs) later, and Kallian was as ready as she'd ever be for a ball. After much debate, they'd styled her hair to cover her ears. Between the mask and her hair, she could pretend to be anyone, and the last time she'd gone to a court function as herself, she'd found herself stuck in the corner, talking about killing the archdemon for three hours straight. Even if she struggled to walk in the heels, she looked good.
Laisa giggled as she opened the door. "After you, my lady!" She chirped, ignoring Kallian's glare at the title. Two familiar figures greeted her as she left her room. Zevran leaned against one doorway, spinning a knife idly, though he stopped as soon as he saw her, tucking the knife into one of what Kallian knew to be many hidden sheaths. His suit was dark and iridescent, the way a feather might be, and Kallian understood why the Crows had taken to calling him the Black Shadow.
Leliana could not lean in her fancy Orlesian dress, stuffed into a corset and those silly Orlesian hip things Kallian had never cared to learn the name of (torture devices readapted for fashion, she assumed, and she was something of an expert in torture at this point). The fabrics alone almost certainly cost more than anything except what Alistair and Anora would wear, the Chantry's influence clear in the red-and-white silks, adorned with the sun's rays.
"Mi caro! You look positively ravishing!" Zevran cried, bowing over her hand.
"Zev! Leliana! I could scarcely believe it when Alistair told me you'd be here. How long has he been planning this?"
Leliana kissed the general vicinity of her cheeks in the Orlesian fashion before smiling mischievously. "For quite a while now, actually. I've had this on my calendar since Justinian!"
"I've even agreed not to assassinate anyone tonight," Zevran told them solemnly. Leliana glanced at Kallian, and the corners of her mouth twitched.
"Is that so?" Kallian inquired, studiously avoiding eye contact with Leliana.
"Well, so long as there are no Crows here. And as long as nobody tries to kill me first, then it counts as self-defense, not assassination!"
"I don't think Alistair would see it that way," Kallian tried, failing to entirely stifle a chuckle.
"Good thing he's not my King, then! And he invited me, so really it's his fault."
"Shall we?" Leliana asked, gesturing to the stairs.
"Ah, it has always been a dream of mine to walk into a ballroom with a beautiful lady on each arm," Zevran sighed dreamily.
"I need a fake name, something human," Kallian whispered.
"Oooh, engaging in some espionage, are we? What about Bob?" Zevran deadpanned.
"Ah, yes, the perfect name to be announced by if you want to fit in at a ball. What about Clara? Or Eleanor? Oh, or Mathilda?" Leliana suggested, grinning.
"Mathilda is perfect if I want to shock everyone with my horrible Orlesian accent. 'Oui, ai would love to waltz wiv you monseer!' They'll fall at my feet!"
"I beg of you, never do an Orlesian accent again; it offends the ears," Leliana muttered.
"Vhat if I do a Nevarran ahccent? Do you zink zey'd know it's fahke?" Kallian asked. It was probably a cause for concern that this was the most fun she'd had since before the Blight ended.
"Maker, give me strength."
In the end, Kallian did not do a fake accent. She had been deliberately hamming it up, but she didn't want to cause any international incidents after enjoying the mulled wine. She would go by Eleanor, as it was suitably Orlesian and Ferelden, and would mask her identity just as well as the masque on her head.
The trumpeteer paused as the three of them drew before him. "Ser Zevran, formerly of Antiva, Ser Eleanor, and Lady Leliana of Orlais!"
"Thanks, Emcee!" Kallian said, and he looked at her with bafflement, likely wondering how she knew his name, as they swept forward. They drew quite a few glances, though whether it was due to their fashionable apparel or the odd assortment of titles, it was hard to say. Leliana quickly flitted off to speak to someone she recognized, and Kallian suspected she was still working for all she had implied she was here for fun.
"Shall we get some lubrication?"
"Zev—"
"What! I meant wine. What else could I possibly be implying?" Zevran blinked at her innocently. The horns blared as Alistair entered the room (and she would never think of him as King Alistair, for all that she had made him so. He could only ever be Alistair, as painful as that was). He was resplendent in a white shot-pearl doublet, covered by a golden jerkin with red mabari embroidered onto it. He wore no mask, and it would have been silly to do so anyway, what with the crown on his head. Anora looked like a goddess beside him, her matching gown only enhancing her ethereal beauty. Shianni stood on the dais with the other advisors, and she was wearing pants. Pants! She could fight in pants. Oh, how she yearned to wear pants. Shianni was going to get a mouse in her bed, at the very least. Kallian stifled a growl before returning to admiring the way Alistair shone under the candlelight. It was really quite rude, how good he looked.
"Wine sounds lovely," Kallian murmured through parched lips, and they darted through the crowd of genuflecting nobles to get to the refreshment table. Kallian emptied one wineglass immediately, and Zevran stopped her with a gentle hand on her (scandoulously bare) arm, above her elbow-length gloves.
"Now that we've crossed that one off the list, how about a dance?" Zevran smiled at her with mischief, and Kallian rolled her eyes.
"Zev, do you really think I know a court dance?"
"Pah, you know how to dance with your daggers, and that is much harder. Just follow my lead, and remember that Ser Eleanor knows how to dance. Besides, the allemande is basically just spinning and hopping. You can spin!" Kallian thought she was not nearly drunk enough for this to be enjoyable, but if fending off the end of the world had taught her one thing, it was that some battles truly weren't winnable.
"When I step on your feet and manage to offend a noble, it'll be on your head," she warned, letting him lead her to the dance floor. She had attended a few court functions, so she knew the opening steps in any dance, the acknowledgement of one's partner before moving into the dance. They eked out a space on the corner of the dance floor, the other dancers taking one look at Zevran and moving further away. Whether it was the obvious dagger at his hip, his ears, or the smirk he wore, she did not know, but she was grateful for it all the same.
The allemande was not so easy as Zevran had implied, the bastard. Several times, she went hopping in the wrong direction, almost knocking Zevran over, and eventually she settled for lagging a moment behind, keeping careful track of his eyes and feet. In that way, it was not so different from sparring, and she almost found herself enjoying the tide-like movements of the dance by the time the dance ended.
As the next song started to play, Zevran challenged her with another flourish of a bow, and she curtseyed in response. The courante was faster, more like a typical Ferelden jig (she thought the only difference might be the band playing it), and much more like the frenetic dancing of the alienage, and she gave herself over to the dance, trusting that the familiarity would spare Zevran any truly horrific injuries.
The night passed in a dizzying blur of sensations, all made easier by her guise as Eleanor, who could drink freely and didn't have to worry about catering to the humans. The warm mulled wine, which hugged her with warmth and coated her tongue in citrus and spice, the dance, which loosened her limbs as much as the wine, the delicately crafted bites of canapés, which, despite their Orlesian origin, were made of more Ferelden ingredients such as turnips, mutton, sweebread, pickled eggs, and jellied eels.
Leliana reappeared sometimes, filling them in on gossip on the nobles Kallian probably should have retained the names of by now before disappearing once more into the crowds. She stuck around to eat some of the Feast Day Fish with Kallian as Zevran went off, undoubtedly in search of chaos to cause.
"It is almost time," Leliana said with a small, mysterious smile, glancing at the large clock that hung over the dais.
As if by magic, now that her attention was drawn to it, Kallian could hear it ticking as it neared twelve. And as the first chime rang out over the crowd, time seemed to slow as the doors swung open, admitting a beautiful, dark-haired woman in a burgundy ballgown with feathers, a delicate filigree of lace gracing her eyes and upper cheeks. A hush fell over the partygoers, who parted before the newcomer like something from a storybook. By the second chime of the clock, Kallian was loosed as an arrow, shot unerringly towards her heart. She had to weave through the crowd, stalking her prey like a wolf, the mask never more fitting than it would be in that moment.
"Morrigan," Kallian breathed, as though she was a spectre, as though she might blink and awaken from this beautiful, terrible dream at any moment. The final chime rang out, for some mystifying reason, Antivan tango music began to play, and Morrigan was still there.
"Dance with me, my love," she murmured, holding out one elegant hand, and Kallian was lost. The crowd no longer existed. It was just them, and the music, and her hand on Morrigan's shoulder as Morrigan's hand came to rest on her back, subtly guiding her. If dancing with Zevran had been like sparring, it was the sparring of a youth who barely knew how to hold a weapon. This was power and danger, and sex.
She had not seen Morrigan in over a year, since she had disappeared from the Battle of Denerim, a single raven's feather all she had left behind. She was furious, and one dance would not change that. So as they spun to the music, Kallian let her anger fuel her, pressing close against Morrigan, sliding her leg around Morrigan's to cage her even as she smiled, knife-sharp.
"You left me," she hissed, letting Morrigan dip her back as they moved. "Why?"
"Answers. We all want answers. Tell me, do you still argue that love is not a weakness?" Morgan queried, her voice sharp even as her eyes were soft, trained on Kallian's face. They spun as Kallian formulated her answer. She had tried to prune the parts of her that had loved and lost, had stopped wearing Alistair's rose, and had mourned the rest of her friends scattering like so many dandelion seeds in the wind.
"It is one worth having," she settled on, even if she knew that to be a lie, punctuating it with a sharp backwards kick. She had floundered without love, and she had not liked who she was becoming. But Morrigan had lost the right to know that when she left, even if Kallian still wore her ring most days.
It was Morrigan's turn to slide forward into her space, which she did with all the fluidity of a serpent. "I had to leave. It was better that way."
"Better for us, or for you?" Kallian countered, stepping neatly over Morrigan's foot. It was hard to tell if the movement of their skirts was natural or if a subtle magic was assisting, embellishing their words with each snap and swish. Kallian barely registered the clapping of the audience, who had gathered around the edges of the dance floor to watch, nor the stomping of feet in time with the music.
"You will not understand; 'tis not something I can explain!" Morrigan cried, urging them ever faster as they tumbled about the dancefloor.
"You could have tried!" Kallian said, tracing Morrigan's leg with one heeled foot. Morrigan somehow pushed her to spin away, considering her answer. As Kallian spun back towards her, Morrigan leaned ever so slightly closer, so that their lips almost touched.
"You're right. I'm sorry." Kallian covered her shock with a sharp kick in the general vicinity of Morrigan's skirt, spinning so that her back was to Morrigan momentarily. Morrigan dipped her yet again, lower this time, and Kallian marveled at the trust she still placed in her hedge-witch.
"Then prove it," Kallian hissed, hooking her leg fully around Morrigan's waist, until she spun like a planet around Morrigan, the fixed point of her universe. The music was speeding towards an end, and they were flying too, moving to either a conflagration of an ending or, perhaps, a new beginning, the kind where stars collided to form something new, sending debris flying throughout the universe.
"I will, I promise," Morrigan said, her eyes bearing into Kallian's with the intensity of the richest honey. Kallian had not grown any less feral for Morrigan— she still wished she could consume those eyes, that once she had made a space for herself, she could curl up in one of her eye sockets and see everything Morrigan saw for the rest of their lives.
Her eyes dropped to Kallian's lips, and Kallian nodded slightly, still reeling from the whirlwind of emotions. She could see the clock over Morrigan's shoulder: perhaps three minutes had passed, and yet her world had shifted on its axis. As the music came to a halt, Morrigan dipped her one last time, though this time her mouth chased Kallian, and Kallian melted against her, their chests heaving in their ballgowns.
It was not quite absolution, but it was close. As Morrigan claimed her mouth, harshly at first, as so many of their kisses and conversations were, Kallian returned to her body. She had not been wholly living in it for months now, and she was aware suddenly of the sweat lining her brow, of her feet being sore, of the cheers of the crowd, and a loud wolf-whistle that was almost certainly Zevran. She clutched Morrigan's face, slowing the kiss into something sweeter, a promise of more to come and time for it all.
Shortly after dawn, guards found that the lock to one of the treasuries had been broken open. A dull mirror, elven in make, had shattered in the night, and the guards who had been stationed to guard the treasury were discovered in the courtyard rosebushes, having been knocked out with a sleeping draught. The Grey Warden and hedge-witch were nowhere to be found; Kallian's room had been emptied, except for a few unwrapped, precisely labeled Satinalia gifts, and though Zevran and Leliana recognized her work, they said nothing. The Dark Wolf had gotten away with yet another heist; she had stolen away with her heart.