Fallow
Mire Interlude: The Tea Party
The
rain fell in buffeted cascades against the walls and roof of the
abandoned shack as the Tevinter mage pushed the door open. With an
amused attempt at impugned dignity as he entered, Dorian, from
beneath his sodden hood, said, "Well, I'll never get the smell of
undead flesh out of this cowl now. And it's Orlesian."
"Move
it, Sparkler," Varric said from somewhere behind the taller man,
"You're not the only lady who wants to get out of the rain."
"Why,
thank you, Varric," said Cassandra, cautious gratitude surfacing
from under the blunt edges of her Nevarran accent as she moved to
enter.
Varric
cut in front of her, "I was talking about Bianca."
"Why
do I even--" began Cassandra, continuing under her breath as she
followed the dwarf inside. She flung water, and not a few bits of
formerly reanimated corpse, from her shield in a gristly arch before
leaning it against the shack wall, missing the quick grin that Dorian
and Varric shared behind her back. As she turned around, Varric
began examining his crossbow's limbs with great concentration,
while Dorian nonchalantly studied his cuticles.
Raven,
or Inquisitor Finhariel, as she was still getting accustomed to being
called, pulled the door shut behind her, and, taking in the dueling
innocuousness of Dorian and Varric, as well the jaw clenched silence
of Cassandra, chose, very diplomatically, to speak about the weather.
"I
think the motto for this place is 'Fallow Mire: Come for the
undead, stay for the weather,'" she offered with a wry smile as
she wrung greyish-hued swamp water from the hems of the surcoat she
wore. Any stealth-enhancing enchantments bound into the cloth were
likely ruined by the tainted water, Raven thought and sighed. She
didn't need to be a mage to foresee more fabric scavenging in her
future. The Inquisition was still establishing major supply lines to
the fortress in the mountains, and, in Raven's mind, addressing the
disrepair of their new home took precedence over her need for
something new to wear.
Though,
Dorian might argue.
Raven
smiled.
"I
do believe this charming little hovel has a functional chimney,"
said Dorian, "And, sweet maker, a stack of dry wood."
After
a moment, though, it became apparent that Dorian did not intend to
actually touch said firewood, much less kneel near the ash-ridden
hearth to start a fire with it. In one corner, Varric wiped Bianca
with a clean dry cloth (where did he manage to keep that, wondered
Raven), while, in the opposite corner, Cassandra had commandeered a
worn bench upon which she laid her sword, gloves, and helmet before
leaning forward to rest her arms on her knees and stare down at the
floor between her feet. Moving to rest her bow against the stone
hearth, Raven knelt, choosing medium sized pieces of firewood to
stack in a single layer across the iron rack, then slightly smaller
pieces over the top of those, perpendicular to the layer below. She
continued this pattern for two more layers before standing to brush
what she could of the dust and ash off her soaked breeches.
"Dorian,
can you..." she tilted her head to her finished work, her dark wet
hair clinging to her shoulders. "Not too much, though. Just
enough to catch."
He
flicked his hand towards the hearth in one of those casually elegant
movements that always made Raven wonder if all Tevinter mages
spellcast with the gesticulatory elocution of dancers, or if it was
just Dorian. Then the fire caught with a merry crackle, chortling
over the wood with pops and hisses, momentarily gathering everyone's
attention to it.
"You
seem rather proficient at that," Dorian said, looking at Raven as
if she were a puzzle he thought he had solved only to have another
layer of clues revealed.
"At
what?"
"Laying
a fire." He added in a tone of revelatory seriousness betrayed
only by the insouciant lift of his eyebrows, "In a fireplace."
"Well,
not all of us grew up as the 'Scion of House Pavus,'" said
Raven, quoting him with a grin. "Though, you managed to overcome
your humble beginnings quite adequately."
Dorian
laughed, a lyrical baritone burst of surprised pleasure that gave
Raven a peak beneath his usual fade of Tevinter hauteur, "Only
adequately? You wound me, dear elf."
Varric
paused his tending of Bianca to watch them, a half smile on his face.
"Do
you know what I was doing at the Conclave?" asked Raven. "I mean,
why I was there, at that particular moment when the whole flaming
mess began?"
Raven
sat on the remaining stack of dry wood against the wall, resting her
hands under the curve of her thighs. She picked at the rough edge of
a piece of bark with the bitten nails of her marked hand before
raising it to study the mark yet again. The fissure of magic
eclipsed the landmark of the palm called the "life line" by the
Rivaini fortuneteller who lived on the outskirts of the Amaranthine
alienage when Raven was a child. Raven briefly wondered what future
the fortuneteller would glean from her palm now.
"Tea,"
she said, looking up from her palm to give Dorian a half smile.
"Tea?"
came Varric's gravelly echo, the cloth in his hand pausing on
Bianca's stock.
"Tea,"
nodded Raven, noting that even Cassandra, who had heard an even more
nonsensical version of the story right after the temple's
destruction, had raised her head to watch the new Inquisitor. "The
Divine wanted tea. I was a servant, brought with the representatives
of the Amaranthine chantry, and I was bringing Justinia tea. That's
it. Of course, I don't remember anything past carrying the tray
out of the kitchens, but I do know one thing: the only thing
responsible for my
hand being close enough to Corypheus to get this mark in the first
place is tea. Not a Tevinter cult. Not Andraste. Not Corypheus.
Not Justinia. Just tea."
"Don't
take this the wrong way, Inquisitor," said Varric, resting Bianca
across his knees as he took a seat beside Raven, "But you're
making about as much sense as Buttercup right now."
Raven
laughed, nearly as harshly as the bird of her namesake, "I know,
Varric, I know. But, if I start blaming people--I
just... It's safer, for everyone, if I blame tea. For now."
Dorian,
whose expression of empathy did not quite vanish under his usual mask
of cultivated urbanity,
flicked a bit of marsh grass from his shoulder before saying with
complete sincerity, "I always believed tea was the source of evil.
Especially chamomile."
"Right,"
agreed Varric. "Can we ban tea from Skyhold? I'm sure Chuckles
would be devastated."
"Are
you serious?" Cassandra said from her bench. "Tea?"
"It
makes perfect sense, Seeker," Varric said going back to polishing
his crossbow. "The warden had the blight. Hawke had the qunari.
The Inquisitor has tea."
Cassandra
made a disgusted noise.
Raven,
trying not to blink the sudden moisture around her eyes into actual
tears, leaned over to give Varric a quick kiss on his stubble
roughened cheek.
"Careful
now," he said without taking his eyes from the crossbow, "You'll
make Bianca jealous."
Raven
laughed.
She
stood and addressed Dorian, a teasing tilt to her head, "I would
give you a hug, Altus Pavus, but I don't know if Tevinters hug."
"Well,"
he said in a considering voice, "I am
in Ferelden. I should probably learn your quaint Southern customs.
To properly fit in."
Raven
grinned as she walked to the tall mage and wrapped her arms around
him.
|