heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

A considering hum in answer, more for the We are a well lubricated people than for the matter of suitable celebration.

"I'd thought we might raise a glass to your triumphant return to Markham," Ellis settles on. "Seems a bit more noteworthy than raising our cups to good health."

Though Ellis is understandably more interested in preserving the latter than the former, he suspects it would lack the kind of flair Wysteria might expect out of a toast.

"Oh very well, if you insist. Though let us at least add —and this time with better company, for I doubt you are likely to leave us or reveal yourself as a rogue agent any time soon. And perhaps we might also hope that the next time we go off on some adventure which leads us to civilization, that it is somewhere new. All this time in Thedas, and I have managed to see only three of her cities. It is the greatest travesty when you consider all the traveling we do. Jungles and wilderness truly do abound."

Nonetheless, she flashes him a broad smile and raises her cup.

"Don't rule me out yet," Ellis deadpans, tapping his cup against hers before his serious expression softens into a smile. If anything, he's a rogue Warden, though as Vance and Adrasteia seem unconcerned, Ellis has resolved to set that problem aside for another day.

Toast accomplished, he sips from his cup, then shifts it to his opposite armrest and stretches a newly freed hand out to her armrest in silent request.

"Where would you go, if you could?"

North, Ellis assumes. Antiva City, maybe. What are the chances of Wysteria spending time wholly sight-seeing rather than tying some aspect of her journey into her work? He can't imagine she hasn't already traveled to Val Royeaux, considering Riftwatch's business, so that guess is ruled out. And Ferelden is dear to him, but he has few illusions about it's draw to anyone else, even Wysteria.

And he's interested to hear what she'd seek out under her own power.

She sip from her cup and then, pleased by the distinct tang at the beer's back end, takes a more enthusiastic drink of it as her spare hand bends to that silent inquiry. It is sweet—how often he reaches for her hand, to touch her side, or to set his hand quietly at her neck. It is monumentally sentimental.

Or maybe it is just a habit of Fereldans. Regardless, it's a very easy thing to reward with the touch of her own hand (particularly when the arms of the chair are so low and he is sat near enough that no one else is likely to see them being so ridiculous in public).

"Val Royeaux, first. Though I'm nearly positive I will dislike it. The only Royan I've met who wasn't by some degree intolerable is Bastien, and I count Lady Alexandrie Asgard in this though you must swear never to repeat it. She is very dear to me, but I sense that around others she can be somewhat overbred. But I should like to see the University and the—oh, what is the Chantry there called? I have heard the art there is remarkable. Let also include Cumberland with it, for technically I have been there briefly following the business in Nevarra City but I can't say that I was particularly of a kind to appreciate it. Nor to see much of it to begin with."

She takes a deep breath, then continues without relent.

"Otherwise, I should very much like to see Denerim, then Antiva City and Dairsmuid. And I hope very much that when de Foncé and I go looking for pyramids that we will have the opportunity to poke our noses into Qunandar. Every account I have read of it makes it sound quite spectacular. All this to say nothing of Minrathous! But I imagine that will come in due time, assuming we do our jobs correctly."

Here, finally, a pause. Wysteria squeezes his hand a little, leaning toward him so this next statement may be told quietly like a secret—

"Remind me when we return to Kirkwall and I will outline for you my ideal itinerary.

Idly, he turns their fingers together, thumbing along the soft stretch of her palm as Wysteria rattles off her wish list.

Val Royeaux is a surprise to him, but the rest—

"Aye, I will."

Is it transparent to answer so sincerely? The motivation behind it is likely very easily puzzled out: maybe he cannot take her so far north, but Denerim is close at hand, and doesn't Riftwatch have plenty of reason to visit Val Royeaux and Antiva City? How hard would it be to arrange? (Easier, maybe, with Tony in the Division Head's seat.) Ellis is quiet for a moment, taking a slow sip from his before speaking again.

"Maybe in the meantime you can tell me how you'd like to spend the rest of our time here, outside of the lecture," he questions. "Visiting some of the market stalls?"

"Oh certainly, though I have almost no spending money at present given the new papers throughout the downstairs of the Hightown house—oh," she says, flushing and hurrying to add—"Pretend I said nothing at all about that. I will be very cross if you find some means of sneaking around it, Mister Ellis. That is a personal matter and in any case, I am far more interested in sight seeing than in the markets."

She shifts forward a little in her chair, quickly gulping down a bit of beer between breaths in an attempt to both drink and speak at a clip all at once.

"The Chantry in Markham is evidently very picturesque, with lovely series of stained glass and some very remarkable gardens. And there is an excellent cider house who partners with one of the orchards outside the city which is rather well know for its great presses I should like to see if I can talk myself into it so I can look at the machine for myself. And I've heard very good things about certain Markham cheeses."

Is all said on more or less a single passionate breath, Wysteria's prodigious lung capacity stretched to its limit. She pauses only very briefly afterward, and that only because she is required to suck down a bit of fresh air before she can ask,

"And you, Mister Ellis? What should you like to do."

The answer that comes to him first: Accompany you.

But he knows instinctively that in spite of how true it is, it's an absence of an answer. It will disappoint her. So he takes a moment to scrounge for preference, rotating his cup on the arm of the chair.

"I'd like to see their library," is what he comes up with, after some consideration. "And their market."

Less precise, but honest.

"When I travel, I don't tend to have time to stop and look at the sights," he tells her, by way of explanation. "And I've never spent very much time thinking on what I'd do if I were given the possibility. So I'm happy to be guided by your preference."

"Never? Good gods, Mister Ellis, it's a wonder you've not wasted away!" She cries, quite mortified on his behalf. "If I were in the position to see so many of Thedas' great cities, but doomed to eternally pass through them, I would have lain down in a ditch out of protest. Or all my life force would have drained directly out of me."

Having taken a further fortifying drink, Wysteria sets her cup aside. She squeezes his hand.

"Not to worry. After tomorrow's lecture, we shall slip away and investigate the college's library."

"There are Wardens who spend time circulating in cities, or there used to be," Ellis tells her. "But I wasn't one of them."

The crooked little grin directed towards her is all easy amusement. It's no mystery why not. Ellis is Forces, not Diplomacy, for much the same reasons as he was not among the Wardens who would move through society to try and rekindle old loyalties or at least shore up support where it had inevitably waned.

But Ellis isn't given to the kind of slick, wheedling bargaining that he assumes goes along with such assignments. Passing through, on his way towards the next rumor of darkspawn or overrun village, had suited him better. Prompted now to think back, Ellis can't drum up anything he feels he'd missed out on in particular. It seems to him he's better inclined to appreciate small pleasures with company, though instead of saying as much to her, he questions, "You won't be bored?"

"Bored in a great library? It's as if you hardly know me, Mister Ellis."

She shoots him a very serious sidelong look. Beyond his shoulder, the chatter of conversation from the throngs of university scholars rises and falls; and inside the converted barn, the whine of the fiddle takes a turn toward actual music rather than only sound.

No rebuttal, just a gentle pass of his thumb along her knuckles again as her reassurance is accepted. It's settled. The library, then her list of things.

"Finish your drink," Ellis tells her instead, leaning forward to set his own cup down on the tabletop. "I want to dance with you."

Slowly, his fingers lace through hers. There's no sense of urgency. They have time. All evening, he's realizing. It's a very different thing than the dances he'd set aside for her at Satinalia, stealing her away and returning her to the festivities. There are no demands on her time.

A little teasing, Ellis continues, "And I won't count tonight against what I promised you for the next Riftwatch event."

Whatever that event might be. Next Satinalia? There hadn't been much occasion for parties recently, and Ellis doesn't foresee that changing.

"Oh, Mister Ellis," she chides, sympathetic but quite firm like patting a cheek. "You must know you've retreated from position by now. I've stopped keeping a tally of that sort of thing entirely."

If he is not obligated to dance with her at all the Riftwatch functions from now on, then what good is any of this? Honestly.

The line of her mouth quirks just a little to match the glint of mischief in her eye, her hand squeezes his, and then with the practice of a sauced sailor or jaded soldier thirsty from the front lines Wysteria downs what is left in her cup.

Joppa would have liked her. The thought falls like a stone, echoes around in Ellis' chest as he watches Wysteria set down the emptied cup.

"Then I'll need the practice," Ellis counters, good-natured in the way of a man who hasn't quite considered the full implication of how much dancing he's agreeing to.

It's not quite something to worry about. He's never asked, but Wysteria has never pushed him past the point where he'd need to make an excuse to get away. It's easy to be flippant about the prospect in the face of that tenet of their relationship.

His thumb slides gently over her knuckles before he rises, and draws her up with him.

"Now tell me, as you've been here and I have not, what kind of dancing are we to do this evening?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," she declares, quite sunny indeed as he helps her up. Her smile flashes wide as her spare hand claps to his elbow. "Or rather, I don't recall the details. But from the sound of it, I expect we will be in for a rather brisk lesson."

With a turn of her hand in his, Wysteria gives him a gentle tug of encouragement in the direction of the open barn doors and the lively music.

They're not the only pair to turn in that direction. Now that the tune has solidified, there's been a general shift in the assembly toward loitering in the doorway. And there in the old barn, the occupants of the interior tables have either pivoted to watch or are leaned closer together so they can shout their conversations over the music and the stamp of footfalls on the boarded dance floor from the handful of couples already in motion.

Like many things in Markham, the dancing is hardly high brow. This in particular, led by the tempo set by a tan, sandy haired young woman and an exceptionally ginger and freckle faced fiddler, seems to be some spirited cousin of a country dance.

There is an element of disorganization in the dance, as if everyone knows a variation but no one knows exactly where all these variations originated from. Everyone is either a half step ahead or a half step out of time, but it all seems fitting. Ellis stalls a minute considering whether it's a Marcher attitude or if it's just inherent to this kind of establishment, before he catches the hesitation, marks it for what it is, and tightens his grip on Wysteria's hand before drawing her into the fray rather than wait for her to propel them forward.

It reminds him of the first time they'd danced together. Maybe he'll tell her that on the walk back; it seems like the kind of recollection that would make her smile to hear. But now isn't the right moment, both of them a little breathless keeping up with the tempo and out of the way as more pairs make join the dance.

Ellis' smile starts small, broadens as the fiddler plays on and the pace picks up and wisps of Wysteria's hair come loose from her updo and their palms warm to each other as they trade glancing, tapping touches: his hand at her hip, her shoulder, her back, his thumb grazing her neck as they turn.

It's good. Any reason to touch her is good, and this is easy, uncomplicated. Or it is, until they turn left instead of right and the ensuing collision knocks Wysteria into him hard enough that they both stagger backwards towards the edges of the crowd. Ellis' arms come up around her on instinct, keeping them from toppling.

"Alright?" is the first question, immediate, even though this isn't really a rough bar, even as people squawk and readjust their momentum to avoid knocking into them further.

Dancing is such a pleasure all on its own that she would be hard pressed to not enjoy herself. Even the worst partner allows one to trot around the dance floor in a flutter of skirts, and she would happily accept dangers like trod on toes in exchange for being whisked about. But it must be said that Ellis is hardly a poor dancer (rather the opposite, as she has so often informed him), and further that there is something to this whole dancing with a partner repeatedly nonsense. There is a specific, almost secret kind of delight in things like being able to catch his hand without looking, or knowing exactly the measure of his stride, or how he leads with his shoulder and what the faint shift of an angle there means. And it is good, always, to see him so transformed into such a state of good humor.

So the collision comes hard. Wysteria, thumping solidly against him with her own honk of dismay, scrabbles at him in an awkward attempt to neither lose her footing nor trample his. It's Ellis' sturdy hand that keeps her upright. The girl from the other couple is already calling back her apologies, thumping her partner hard on the shoulder, who is begging off with a perfectly justified 'What? I turned the right way!'

In the circle of his arms, Wysteria laughs and then covers her mouth with one hand. And then laughs again, unable to help herself.

"Poor steering, Mister Ellis."

No harm, no foul. Having been jilted near the edge of the swirl of passing dancers, Ellis is free to linger a bit, take in Wysteria laughing, raise a hand to her cheek before gently brushing the stray wisps of curl back from her face. His expression is all consideration as he tucks the locks behind her ear, palm returning to cup her face.

When he leans in towards her, it's only to drop a brief, chaste kiss on her cheek. They are in public. Whatever else he might feel compelled to do, he hasn't forgotten that they aren't unobserved here. Even in the midst of dancing and music and the overlapping laughter and conversation, there are still people who might turn to look and Ellis isn't sure whether or not Wysteria minds that.

"Should I try again?" he questions, penitent. "I promise I'll try to absorb the impact of the next misstep."

It's a perfectly charming question, and a reasonable offer—

And she hears very little of either, a buzz that is equal parts mortification and pleasure filling her ears. Her off hand—which might ordinarily be set at his shoulder or adrift during a line—catches him in the chest. The shove she gives him is a small thing, all surprise and the sort of squealing embarrassment of a young woman with a great love for gossip. She is very pink and not at all offended, though she should be as his wretched beard tickles even during the brief kiss to the cheek.

"Mister Ellis," Wysteria hisses. "You are making a scene. Imagine my surprise—removed from Kirkwall and suddenly all your propriety flies fully out the window! Come, now we are required to rejoin the dance or everyone will wonder why we haven't. I can hardly believe you possess so much cheek."

This grumbled as she moves to steer him back around from the edge of the dance floor.

While the complaint is taken seriously (the line has been observed, and Ellis won't tread over it again) the scolding draws a burst of laughter from him anyway as he is obligingly nudged back into the churn of dancers. It's a barn dance, the kind that necessitates weaving turns in time, but at a less frenetic pace.

Not necessarily conducive to conversation, but still—

Well, there is little that stops Wysteria from conversing.

"Forgive me," is easily offered, however sincere the reaction to his offense. The smile hasn't faded as he takes up her hand in his own, right hand glancing along her waist to settle at a respectably middling point. "And advise me how I should make it up to you."

Apart from the dancing, which is something due to her now.

Said in bits and pieces in the snatches of moments where they're close enough to be in contact and to speak over the sound of the rambunctious fiddle and drum while they wind along their various lines—

"I will have to think it over. It is an audaciously bold thing and can't be taken lightly, sir. And you, so pleased with yourself over. I wish you could see your face; your expression is utterly unrepentant. Forgive you," she mutters. Really.

"Maybe I will make you buy me something quite extravagant before we leave Markham. Or demand that you refer to me only by some silly term of endearment, if you're so keen for the whole world to know your business." Adopting a gruff tone in a very poor imitation of him: "'Now my dove, remember to open the vent before experimenting with the caustic soda.'"

"Here's the trouble," Ellis tells her, when he's more or less certain she's finished. "I was planning on doing all of those those things."

Maybe not the endearments. Or maybe not that particular endearment. It doesn't sit right, but in time something will fall into place, and it will likely be so quietly offered that it might not be noticed.

Not that he says any of this. After they've broken apart, looped, and returned again, he continues, "But I am sorry."

Which might be the end of Ellis' contributions, but after a passing round of hand clapping and revolving amongst their fellows, he returns to her with a clarification—

"Only to have embarrassed you. Never to have kissed you."

She can think of no other time when she might be so sincerely thankful for those moments where their conversation is interrupted. It is so much easier to absorb so much pleasantness when it comes along in drips and drabs, punctuated by a whirl of dancers and clapping hands and stopping feet. If he were to say all of it at once--and in the midst of so many people no less--, her face would go such a sustained shade of scarlet that onlookers might grow concerned she was overexerting herself.

As it is, the flush is kept to a perfectly manageable level. It is no more suspect that one might expect dancing to yield (if the young lady weren't so quite accustomed to vigorous work such as hiking all throughout Kirkwall and the surrounding Free Marches, to say nothing of the many long journeys taken by foot throughout jungle and desert in the name of Riftwatch's work).

She is even level headed enough to reply, quite primly indeed, with "Be that as it may, I choose to hold my forgiveness in reserve Mister Ellis." Breaking apart again to serpentine past the dancers to their immediate rights— "In fact," says insists when they join hands again. "You have this evening done me wrong twice over. First making a scene and now undermining my requests by insisting they've already been guaranteed? It's very bad form, sir."

As Ellis lifts their hands, high enough for the adjacent pair to duck through before he circles Wysteria, he manages to school his expression into seriousness. Some bright amusement lingers around his eyes, impossible to completely dispel, but it's a fair approximation of someone concerned about his transgressions.

"No allowances for my Fereldan sensibilities?" is a question with an easily guessed answer. He can hear the ghost of Absolutely not even before he finishes. "Or for honesty when we're considering my penance?"

The flash in her eyes following him round must confirm his suspicions all on its own without, "The first I can give no credit at all, Mister Ellis. But you make a fair point with respect to the second. I suppose it is honorable in a very crude sort of way to beg for a more fair punishment if what I've proposed isn't severe enough."

She offers her hand to have it caught, and then they're off—rollicking down the formed column of dancers.

"What do you believe would be more adequate?"

Nothing is said for a time, as the last weaving rounds between columns ends and the fiddler ends on a squeak of strings. The drummer behind him gives a few experimental, thudding beats before they strike up again and the dance floor breaks between those scattering towards the bar and newcomers wedging themselves into the newly cleared space.

"I don't know," Ellis admits, taking her hands and drawing her back to him. It doesn't sound as if a waltz is forthcoming, but he spins her in a little, improvised box step. He's learned where exactly to set his hand at the bend of her spine, a good middling position, carefully unobjectionable. "What if I give you a promise? I embarrassed you, so later, after we've danced and drank and walked our way back together, you ask me something that will embarrass me."

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notifs why

betrayal from dw

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