Chapter Text
At parties, Maric did very little, aside from talking to Loghain.
Before Rowan died, he was often the life of the party, dancing with her for much of the evening, speaking with nearly everyone.
But her death had brought melancholy and melancholy brought isolation.
Parties often overwhelmed him now, even as he was beginning to get better, and Loghain was safe.
He could not speak with Fiona tonight, even if the two had not had not fought before the ball. It would draw too much suspicion to them.
Instead, when he was certain no one was looking, he'd check in on her with a glance.
If she caught his eye and smiled, which she nearly always did, she was fine, and he'd stop worrying for a few minutes.
Celia stood with them.
She wore a gown of dark blue voided velvet; the velvet itself made of silk, and a white fur wrap to keep her warm. She wore a tiara of white gold and pearls, and diamond drop earrings. She also wore a scowl that matched her husband's as they stood atop the balcony.
Maric was fairly certain her scowl was due to pain, and not displeasure, however.
“Would you like me to fetch a chair, Celia?” Maric offered.
Celia looked at him with something he could not name, “If...you are willing, my King,” she said softly after a moment. “They are in that room,” she pointed to one of the rooms behind them. The room to the right of the stairs. Maric walked away from the railing, and to the room she'd pointed to.
He opened a door and pulled out the first chair he could find, and carried it above his head, over to where Celia stood. She sat gingerly down in it, wincing, and after a moment, the scowl had softened a little.
Loghain had not worn his River Dane armor that night, which Maric found surprising. The clothes Loghain wore somehow reminded him of the leather armor the man had worn as an outlaw, but Maric could not voice how.
Loghain wore a black tunic that reached his mid thigh, well-fitting and made of silk. It had a surplice neck held closed by satin frogs and a large belt. He wore fine black woolen trousers that fit well too. A pair of black boots that reached his knee. A jerkin of dark grey leather was the only contrast in color. Maric was fairly certain that the clothes had been made just for the ball; he never recalled Loghain wearing them.
Loghain wore very little jewelry unlike many of the other men, only three rings, one of copper, and two of silver, on his right hand, and one of gold, his wedding band, on his left hand, and a thin, plain silver circlet.
Maric caught his eye, and the two of them both stepped back a foot or two from the balcony's railing.
“You look handsome,” he teased quietly.
“You too,” Loghain said, keeping his voice low.
“Celia looks nice,” Maric said.
Loghain nodded. “She is a beautiful woman,” he agreed. “I am surprised an Alienage tailoress managed to make a dress that fine,” he said, craning his neck to glance down at Fiona now. It was harder where they stood than it was right by the railing.
“Doesn't she look beautiful?” Maric asked, starting to beam without even thinking about it. “Though I know from experience she could be covered in deep roads grime and I'd still think she's beautiful.”
Loghain scoffed, but a smirk stayed on his lips. There was silence for a few moments as they moved back towards the railing.
Loghain leaned with his arms against it.
“How long do you think until your Elven girl starts an argument with someone?” Celia asked.
Maric paused and thought for a moment, “...Two hours, unless one of the Orlesians or someone with family in the Templars starts talking to her. If that happens, immediately.”
Once most of the guests arrived and the names stopped being called, Celia went downstairs to mingle.
Loghain and Maric stayed on the balcony a few minutes longer. Talking.
“Are you and Celia okay?” Maric asked, choosing his words carefully.
“No less so than usual,” Loghain said.
For a few moments they listened as the Bard played an Elven song. If the chorus was anything to go by, it was called 'Vhenan'Ara'. Maric wasn't sure, but he thought it was a love song. He wondered if Fiona knew what it meant. Would it be rude to ask, he wondered. Probably. Better not to.
“Do you think Rowan would- do you think she'd be angry at me for...moving on?”
“Don't be an idiot. She wouldn't want you grieving for the rest of your life. And if you had to pick an Orlesian, especially an elf, at least she has sense.”
Maric smiled a little, still watching Fiona. She was chatting with Lady Aldebrant now. Maric was fairly certain she was the only person he'd seen at an event like this take interest in what the girl had to say.
“Imagine if I'd fallen for an Orlesian obsessed with the Game and the latest fashions from Val-Royeaux and who's related to whom.”
“I'd assume a demon possessed you and send for some Avvar shaman to get rid of it.”
“The Orlesian or the demon?”
“Both.”
Maric laughed
After a few more moments on the balcony, Maric drained his glass, and then walked down the stairs for another.
Loghain followed him.
The pretty elven woman manning the refreshments stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen. It was blocked off by a table, creating something which was sort of, though not quite, a booth.