#aromanticronan

Standing on the balcony above the ballroom floor, her eyes attempting to follow the few Orlesian pairs that darted around waltzing to the carefree background tune that flitted happily through the air to the ears of those that chose to hear it, Merlene found an anchor attached to her eyelids, pulling them down in exhaustion every few seconds. It had only been approximately an hour since the affair at the Winter Palace had begun but the combination of both the mental effort of playing the Game, and the physical effort involved with running back and forth between companions, advisors, and clues, were sufficient enough in draining far too much energy from the young Trevelyan. She pined for the trickle of hot bath water upon her skin and a glass of the finest Orlesian wine to glide down her throat, instead of the nightmare she presently found herself within.

However, her duty – which she in no way would have wished upon herself at any moment within her lifetime – seldom allowed for her to have any spare time in which she could indulge in such pleasantries. With a few small, yet incredibly inaudible uncouth words escaping from her mouth, she reluctantly removed herself from her position to continue with the mission that the Inquisition themselves had been tasked with that evening.

Unhurriedly moving around the ballroom, Merlene’s eyes nonchalantly surveyed the vast crowd that had gathered for the occasion tonight. She wandered and contemplated the possibilities of the next move; it was almost certain that what was meant to follow was the investigation of the Guest Garden, yet to fully explore the area meant to clamber up the lattice and she severely doubted the court would greatly approve of her hitching up her dress and climbing the wall to the balcony as if she were a ten year old boy.

Pausing calculations, she glided herself over to rest her hand on the shoulder of Lady Mantillon of the Council of Heralds, softly interrupting the conversation. She attempted to showcase the routine politeness she had seen so many others do. Mantillon turned to face her, nodding to indicate that the Inquisitor could converse with her as she had planned to.

“I do hope you’re enjoying your evening, as I am, My Lady.” Merlene’s words were saturated with such a smooth sweetness, the result of carefully crafted endless lessons Josephine had insisted on giving her before the ordeal, created for the specific purpose of appealing to those she would encounter within the court.

“It is agreeable,” Mantillon replied, nodding her head so slightly. If it were not for the mask, Merlene would have imagined her lips smirking at her notice of the Inquisitor’s attempt at faking the Game. With an echo the same sentiment, Merlene continued her walkabout with slow precise steps; as if they too were as calculated as the tête-à-têtes – as Josephine called them – she had to endure.

Looking around, thoughts of the undertaking that lay in the evening’s itinerary drifting hazily, she found herself walking towards the direction of Commander Cullen, who looked arguably dashing in the suit he had donned for the occasion in comparison to his usual ‘rugged’ attire. The tiniest beads of sweat formed along her hairline as her heart beat with extra persistence; it had only been a few weeks since they’d shared the kiss on the balcony of Skyhold, and the tension between them had undeniably skyrocketed, consequently as a result of her departure towards the Fallow Mire, leaving very little room for discussion to take place on what had transpired. Not even as much as a letter had found its way between the two as Leliana had promptly refused to allow her crows to be messengers for the mission, in case the corpses got to them first.

“Good evening, Commander,” she called out as she neared the golden-haired gentleman. He barely even flinched at the sound of his name, instead remaining stoic as ever as he stared out past the crowd of woman that cornered him as if they were wolves and he, a ram, a ready meal. Merlene’s gaze passed over them and she gritted her teeth to hide the scowl that attempted to push its way through. She exhaled sharply through her nose as a wave of loathing overcame her at the sight of those women that had the audacity to surround Cullen in the twisted hopes of a relationship possibly coming to fruition.

Merlene moved in closer, sidling up next to the commander and greeting him once again. He jumped slightly as he turned, obviously having thought she was a woman of the court, but upon realisation of who she actually was, softened his stance and turned to face her, a smile having crept upon his face. The women surrounding him all crossed their arms and began to whisper amongst each other like a swarm of gnats that never stopped bothering; they were clearly perturbed.

“You’ve attracted a following! Who are all these people?” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, emitting an unpleasant, low groan.

“I don’t know; they won’t leave me alone!” He whispered.

“Not enjoying the attention then?” She laughed gently, trying to make the situation light-hearted. She thanked the Maker silently that Cullen couldn’t actually see how she’d dug her nails into the palm of her hands, stopping herself from giving a gracious slap to each and every one of the nobles that stood like ravenous creatures with no sense of dignity.

“Hardly.” He paused, his eyebrows scrunching them together disconcertedly as he glanced at the others out of the corner of his eye. After a moment, he directed his attention back to her.

“Anyway, yours-” he stopped midsentence, clearing his throat. He looked startled at how loud he’d been speaking, dropping his voice to below a whisper , and nearly causing Merlene to miss what he said. “Yours is the only attention worth having.”

All of the blood that had coursed within her body during that instant, flooded towards her face and caused her to discolour to the same red as the beetroots that the chefs used frequently in the evening meals. She directed her scrutiny to the floor, pursing her lips to refrain from breaking out into a gleeful smirk that would crush and belittle optimistic women that still waited for the conversation between Merlene and the Commander to promptly end.

Shifting her eye line up, she noticed that Cullen, too, had turned several shades darker, yet had done little to conceal his grin that was directed at her. She giggled.

“I should... I should leave,” she stuttered, motioning at the ballroom door. She waved her farewell at Cullen, and the ladies, briskly moving off towards her destination. She stopped after a few steps, calling over her shoulder towards the man she had left behind.  “I don’t suppose you’d save a dance for me?”

“No, thank you.” Cullen’s response was prompt and instinctive; a shield slammed Merlene as her spirits dropped, her face crestfallen.

“Oh.”

“No! I didn’t mean to- Maker’s breath.” Cullen’s eyes widened and he shook his head vigorously, rubbing his neck once again as he did so whenever the situation was less than desirable. He took the few short steps towards her, presumably to sort out the fiasco that had just occurred after the uplifting moment that had just been shared between the two. The wolves watched him with beady eyes as he removed himself from their vicinity – or so Merlene presumed. She wasn’t entirely sure of any emotional reactions due to the masks that covered their entire faces.

“I’ve answered that question so many times I’m rejecting it automatically,” Cullen explained as soon as he was within earshot of the Lady Trevelyan. She smiled sympathetically, hearing the distraught nature within his voice as he spouted his reason within a single breath. “I would, but... I’m not one for dancing. The Templars never attended balls.” His eyebrows scrunched together as his eyes searched for forgiveness within her. Merlene noticed his hand move to grasp hers, but fall at the last second, lest the nobles take offense to the romantic display.

“Then you can make it up to me once we return to Skyhold,” she answered. “How does a dinner with just the two of us sound?”