#thread: lessons

Buntings and colored streamers of cloth were strung up all around the courtyards, both upper and lower, and a variety of lanterns were scattered about, either nestled in the grass or hanging amid the colorful array of cloth. Everyone was in good spirits not only due to the celebration, or the weather finally turning nice, but the Inquisitor was making good headway in gathering a fair amount of allies. No one had tried to attack Skyhold, the troops were steadily learning new tactics; it all made for a combination amounting to a pleasant buzz.

After a few days’ preparation, Summerday arrived, and the festivities went into full swing. The kitchens were pumping out food as if they were run by a magic force, and both Ambassador Montilyet and the Iron Bull had pulled their respective strings to get in an army’s worth of wines and beers, and even some good brandies and whiskies to go around. Much to Maretus’ delight, there were even some liquors from Tevinter present, and he grabbed an entire bottle of sweetened desi daru he spotted before anyone else could happen upon its existence.

Music drifted through each of the courtyards, minstrels and bards working in unison together for each section to get the people dancing and laughing. It was a right festival, and even Maretus found a smile tug unbidden to his face, and his feet tapping out a rhythm.

As the day dimmed into night and the light of the lanterns multiplied to keep the party going, he saw many familiar faces of soldiers, allies, and members of the Inquisition, though lingered with none of them. He wasn’t much of a mingler in general, and a festive occasion was no different. Luckily, he was much better than when he was younger, being far more at ease with himself and not so stiff---though he was sure that most people would still accuse of being so, he really wasn’t as bad as he was a decade ago, when he was still required to attend political and military balls during his tenure.

So, he meandered his way through the clusters of people, bottle cradled in hand. Though he did not particularly relish the idea of throwing himself in the middle of things, he did find that he enjoyed watching everyone else. It wasn’t like the soirees in Tevinter, where every motion and word was calculated and watched hawkishly, but something much simpler, of people just... having fun. It was refreshing to witness.

That thought sobered him a bit. He’d been with the Inquisition for some time, and still he felt like an outsider. It’d been so long since he stayed in one place for any true length of time, or considered himself part of a group. But, here, he has soldiers to train again, and it almost feels like he could fit in---but then he sees the way some of the people in Skyhold look at him askance, and he remembers that he looks like the face of their enemy. Sometimes, he wonders if he’d never left to begin with, if he’d truly be their enemy now.

That was too sober a thought for the occasion, though, and Maretus did his best to banish it. He took another healthy drink from his bottle, relishing the sweetness of it and feeling the surge of memories from the camps of the Perivantium Legion well in him.

“What’s that you have there?”

A familiar voice cut through his thoughts, and Maretus lifted his gaze to meet with Vanora’s. He lifted his shoulders in an easy shrug. “Desi daru,” he said. “Somehow, I don’t think the locals here truly appreciate it’s subtleties.”

She gave a full, throaty laugh that had his insides shifting strangely, pleasantly, in response. After, a smirk perched upon her lips, she settled on him a truly mischievous look. “What, they don’t want to go blind from foreign alcohol?”

With an exaggerated huff, because he was already nearly halfway through the bottle, he shook it slightly at her. “This is actually pretty decent. It’s not like the things we used to hide in our packs in the Legion. That was some dangerous stuff.”

The light that danced in her eyes threatened to make his heart skip a few beats. His grip tightened imperceptibly on the bottle’s neck. “I can’t imagine you sneaking in contraband anywhere, really.”

Maretus laughed then, too. “Oh, it wasn’t contraband by any means. Out in eastern Tevinter, this stuff was the norm in every local village. Some of it definitely went down like death’s cousin. But this,” he lifted the bottle again, “is actually pretty good. Want to try some?”

She eyed him suspiciously, but eventually accepted, and they took turns passing the bottle back and forth for a while after that, amid more comfortable conversation. Eventually the liquor ran low, and he handed it over to her one last time.

“You can finish it,” he said.

Vanora took the bottle from him, swirled the last of the alcohol, then downed it. “You were right,” she began.

His eyebrows lifted. “I know.”

A chuckle escaped through her nose. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I know what you were going to say.”

“You know me that well, hm? Well, what am I going to say next?” He enjoyed the challenging look she threw his way, so he decided to play along.

“Something about needing food,” he guessed, knowing he was wrong.

Vanora laughed, and he drank up the sound. “Wrong. I like this song,” she said, and he tilted his head to listen more carefully.

The music had shifted since he last paid any attention to it. Somehow, when Vanora was around, she took up nearly all his focus. It wasn’t something he did consciously, but still it happened.

“Do you want to dance?” Maretus asked her suddenly.

She looked at him with her mouth slightly parted, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to answer. He wondered if she was remembering the lesson she’d given him in the abandoned room in one of Skyhold’s towers.

“I suppose,” Vanora ventured, “if you’re not going to step on my foot again.”

Maretus stood from the bench they’d been sitting on for a while, and offered her his hand. “I’ll do my best.”

She slipped her hand, soft and cool, into his, and he drew her to her feet as well. She set the bottle aside and allowed him to lead her a few steps away from their bench. He pulled her closer, settling his other hand on her hip as she slid her free hand up his arm to rest on his shoulder. Immediately, he took the lead, pressing and pulling and directing her with an ease he hadn’t shown during their lessons. That was partially due to the desi daru loosening him, but also because he’d actively worked on shaking the dust off his memory of dances he’d learned while rising through the ranks of the Legion. He wanted to show her he could dance.

So it was with an unexpected grace that he turned them about, leading her in a simple dance in time with the music. She stepped closer to him; his hand slipped further along the small of her back, palm spread against the curve of her spine. Somewhere along the way, she pressed nearly flush against him, a bit breathless, matching the hitch of breath in his own throat. She smelled of fresh soap and lavender, and Maretus felt more drunk off that than any of the desi daru he’s had all evening. He was acutely aware of the way she fit bracketed between his shoulders.

Then, all at once, the song ended, and she stepped in closer at the same time he did, and they closed whatever small gap had remained between them. His heart thudded in his chest, but he chuckled and stepped back, trying to ignore it. She laughed, hand lifting to cover her mouth, and it wasn’t difficult for him to imagine her draped in finer clothes and jewelry. She’d dressed up for the Summerday celebration like everyone else, but the motion she’d made had him thinking she might have been better suited to silks and linens than cotton and wool.

Her voice cut through his wayward thoughts. “Well, that was much better than last time. You didn’t step on my feet at all.”

Maretus found himself staring unabashedly at her face, his attention snagged on the wisps of hair that framed her face, and the way the curve of her neck looked in the firelight. It was then he realized her usual braid was pinned up, exposing the lean line of her throat, and he felt something drop in his stomach at the thought of pulling out the pins that held it in place and letting the dark of her hair tumble down.

“I’m a quick learner,” he heard himself say.

She laughed, her eyes bright in the lantern light. “So I see.”

“It helps to have a good teacher,” he added, immediately recognizing the looseness of his tongue and cursing it.

Another smirk settled across her mouth. “I’m glad to have such an apt student.”

Any lesson you’d give, he thought before he could stop it. What in the endless void did that even mean? Maretus pushed it away, echoing a ghost of her smirk back to her. His held a touch of bashfulness, and he couldn’t stop himself from casting his gaze away from hers. She spoke again before he could think of how to respond.

“I might want to have another go. Make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”