Fic: Grace (T)
Nov. 20th, 2011 04:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lenticularstudy{A pre-Blight, pre-Leliana's Song, Leliana/Marjolaine piece. Slightly angsty, set in Val Royeaux. Probably the only thing I've ever written that could be called femslash (though the angst outweighs any romance).}
She cocks her head, watching them with almost innocent interest, feet kicking at the wall below her - half of it is genuine affection, the other part is wondering what rich pickings there will be when their stock is abandoned.
A smile finds its way onto her face as they walk away, and she stands, stretching and dropping from the low roof to the floor; she glances around the square, then, keeping to the back streets, creeps to the meeting point, looking around to see it abandoned. It is a simple job - only the two of them were going to be needed - and she can do it herself, but her heart sinks a little at her lover's absence.
She almost misses the small thump behind her, but has learned to recognise it, and swiftly turns; she sees her bardmaster, walking toward her as casually as if they are exchanging news about the weather - the smirk and the slow kiss the woman places upon her lips tell a rather different story, however.
When they break apart, Marjolaine gently shushes her with a finger. "Let us make sure this deed is done, and then the night is ours."
Leliana steps back with a teasing half-smile. "Oh, I like the sound of that." She finally finds what she has been looking for, holding out the magenta-petalled chrysanthemum, and fights hard to keep the levity in her voice, ignoring the uncomfortable clenching of her heart. "A... little something I found in the Arl's garden."
Marjolaine looks down at it, and there is a short, heavy pause before she takes it, the air between them lightening as she does so. "It is not as pretty as you are," she remarks with a soft, throaty chuckle, recovering her smile. She pockets it, and the two women look around once more before exchanging identical wolfish grins and sidling into an abandoned back street.
It is time to play the grand Game.
Grace
Val Royeaux, Orlais
She watches the lanterns of the stall sellers as they pack up their wares, darkness falling upon the city.She cocks her head, watching them with almost innocent interest, feet kicking at the wall below her - half of it is genuine affection, the other part is wondering what rich pickings there will be when their stock is abandoned.
A smile finds its way onto her face as they walk away, and she stands, stretching and dropping from the low roof to the floor; she glances around the square, then, keeping to the back streets, creeps to the meeting point, looking around to see it abandoned. It is a simple job - only the two of them were going to be needed - and she can do it herself, but her heart sinks a little at her lover's absence.
She almost misses the small thump behind her, but has learned to recognise it, and swiftly turns; she sees her bardmaster, walking toward her as casually as if they are exchanging news about the weather - the smirk and the slow kiss the woman places upon her lips tell a rather different story, however.
When they break apart, Marjolaine gently shushes her with a finger. "Let us make sure this deed is done, and then the night is ours."
Leliana steps back with a teasing half-smile. "Oh, I like the sound of that." She finally finds what she has been looking for, holding out the magenta-petalled chrysanthemum, and fights hard to keep the levity in her voice, ignoring the uncomfortable clenching of her heart. "A... little something I found in the Arl's garden."
Marjolaine looks down at it, and there is a short, heavy pause before she takes it, the air between them lightening as she does so. "It is not as pretty as you are," she remarks with a soft, throaty chuckle, recovering her smile. She pockets it, and the two women look around once more before exchanging identical wolfish grins and sidling into an abandoned back street.
It is time to play the grand Game.
~•~
She slits the lining of the nobleman's pillow with a dagger, sliding into it his compromising letters, primed for his wife to find; then she sheathes the weapon, waiting.
It isn't long before soft, calfskin-booted footsteps sound on the landing next to the room, and she tenses, but it is only the familiar slender form of Marjolaine, sheathing her own blood-stained daggers.
Ah, well - not all can be avoided. After all, where would the fun be in that?
She grasps the windowsill, climbing over and dropping onto the grass with a soft thud, and the other woman follows soon afterwards, dusting off her hands and walking back into the main streets of Val Royeaux.
It isn't long before soft, calfskin-booted footsteps sound on the landing next to the room, and she tenses, but it is only the familiar slender form of Marjolaine, sheathing her own blood-stained daggers.
Ah, well - not all can be avoided. After all, where would the fun be in that?
She grasps the windowsill, climbing over and dropping onto the grass with a soft thud, and the other woman follows soon afterwards, dusting off her hands and walking back into the main streets of Val Royeaux.
~•~
She wakes the next morning, wincing at the morning light, and pats the bedroll next to her to find crumpled sheets empty and cold; she sighs, but it is nothing unusual, and she climbs to her feet, rubbing weary eyes and preparing to do battle with her still-tousled hair.
She cleans herself quickly, pulling on regretfully simple clothes for practicality; she pads across the wooden floor on bare feet, wondering whether anyone else in this latest safehouse has awoken yet, and rummages in her pack until she finds the bread she took from one of the market stalls last night.
She stops abruptly, seeing signs that the fireplace has been lit, bread raised halfway to her lips, and frowns; something lies in the ash, burnt beyond all recognition, and she shakes her head - probably something from one of Sketch's flame experiments gone awry. Then she notices a couple of pink petals on the hearth, as if it thrown there carelessly, and bends to pick them up, her appetite lost. She looks once more at the broken thing in the fire, shaking her head again, more emphatically - she is being foolish. It can't possibly be...
She turns, swallowing the suddenly awfully dry bread, thoughts rising her head that she neither needs nor wants. (She's being stupid, paranoid; she would never... Never. Surely there's no harm in trying to assuage her childish fears, though?)
In the empty silence of the morning, she sits and waits for her lover.
When Marjolaine walks in, smiling at her, she exhales a sigh of relief as she sees the pink flower pinned into the woman's dark hair. It is only as she walks to her to ask about the day, inhaling that wonderfully exotic perfume, that she sees that it is a light pink rose, not the night's chrysanthemum, and keeps her eyes fixed on her lover, not daring to let them stray to the ashes in fire.
She says nothing, fixing a hollow smile back in place. It is a mistake, that is all. An unfortunate, accidental mistake.
She cleans herself quickly, pulling on regretfully simple clothes for practicality; she pads across the wooden floor on bare feet, wondering whether anyone else in this latest safehouse has awoken yet, and rummages in her pack until she finds the bread she took from one of the market stalls last night.
She stops abruptly, seeing signs that the fireplace has been lit, bread raised halfway to her lips, and frowns; something lies in the ash, burnt beyond all recognition, and she shakes her head - probably something from one of Sketch's flame experiments gone awry. Then she notices a couple of pink petals on the hearth, as if it thrown there carelessly, and bends to pick them up, her appetite lost. She looks once more at the broken thing in the fire, shaking her head again, more emphatically - she is being foolish. It can't possibly be...
She turns, swallowing the suddenly awfully dry bread, thoughts rising her head that she neither needs nor wants. (She's being stupid, paranoid; she would never... Never. Surely there's no harm in trying to assuage her childish fears, though?)
In the empty silence of the morning, she sits and waits for her lover.
When Marjolaine walks in, smiling at her, she exhales a sigh of relief as she sees the pink flower pinned into the woman's dark hair. It is only as she walks to her to ask about the day, inhaling that wonderfully exotic perfume, that she sees that it is a light pink rose, not the night's chrysanthemum, and keeps her eyes fixed on her lover, not daring to let them stray to the ashes in fire.
She says nothing, fixing a hollow smile back in place. It is a mistake, that is all. An unfortunate, accidental mistake.
