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

"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."

The way she instantly brightens and then shutters it suggests something has come immediately to mind. In an effort conceal it, Wysteria adopts a strictly cool demeanor and tips up her chin so she might imperiously reply, "That will be sufficient, yes. So long as my other earlier demands are indeed also guaranteed, of course."

The cold fixture of her expression slips just a little, corner of her mouth twitching toward a laugh that she channels instead squeezing his hand as they integrate themselves into the new set of dancers on the floor.

She will only have another drink or two, Wysteria decides, as she must keep her wits about her and make the most use of this leverage he has gifted her.

So, a successful offering. He thinks again of her very serious warning, I'm going easy on you, Mr. Ellis, and considers that she might not go so easily on him when they make it back to their lodgings.

"Of course," he agrees, no hesitation over the assurance because he'd meant what he'd said to her. All of those things were easily promised. Wysteria had claim on more than that, even if she'd yet to realize the full extent of it.

No endearment yet. It will come to him.

The second reel is set to a lighter tune, involves more trading away of partners than the first. Ellis trades Wysteria for a student with ink-stained fingertips who he trades for a tall woman in bright silks and so on and so on, faces blurring together and one eye always on Wysteria's progress around the assembly until the drum-beat brings them back together in time for the ending of the song.

His fingers lace through hers, fond stroke of his thumb hidden by the position of their hands. Ellis keeps a polite distance between them as he questions, "Another?"

Not the end of the evening, but checking that she's still keen to dance, rather than hoping to sit for a moment and catch her breath.

Another indeed, and this too is a boisterous loping thing though they're never required by it to separate—merely to romp between and about the other partners on the floor in a more or less predictable pattern that is simple, she suspects, entirely to encourage a kind of reckless speed. She holds on to him almost for dear life, actually flush now from the effort as they whirl about to the encouraging shriek of the fiddle and a whistle or two from the sidelines. It makes her laugh, first just once and then a great, bright flashing peal of it which rises and falls breathlessly but never fully stops.

No, when they return to their lodgings she will almost certainly prosecute him to the full extent of her abilities.

When the song ends—punctuated by a fiddle flourish and an excitable drumroll—only to immediate transition into yet another rollicking song, Wysteria groans in good natured defeat.

"You know, I suspect it might be the only pace at which they know how to play."

"Let's give them a little time, and see if they tire themselves out."

It stands to reason they'll do at least one waltz. Perhaps when the hour grows later, and the exuberance of the patrons wears down, grows less receptive to the speeding thud of the drum urging them on. Ellis frequents a very different kind of establishment when he's on the road, but he can't imagine the habits of both dancers and musicians are any different.

His hand spreads across her back, just beneath her shoulder blades.

"Go there, by the open doors. I'll meet you after I've gotten something for us to drink."

Which turns out to be two cups, one water, and one of the same beer she'd brought out to him earlier. He weaves from far side of the bar through the impatiently waiting would-be drinkers and the spillover of dancers bouncing off the dance floor to return to her, assuming to find her more or less where he'd propelled her to.

Wysteria is indeed waiting as directed, tucked in by the wall just inside the open barn doors. She is standing with her hands folded at the small of her back, catching her breath in the warm glow of the high lamplight. She is yet a little flush, especially pink in comparison to the robin's egg blue of her bodice and the cream of her high collared shirt, and she is not alone.

In the minutes it's taken Ellis to fetch a pair of drinks, some sandy haired young man who must be—if the cut of his coat is any indication—a student has engaged her in conversation. They are chattering along, in good spirits. He says something. She laughs, bright as a bell and—

"Oh Mister Ellis!" She sways forward, extending a hand as if to draw him in with it. "Serrah Walden was just complimenting our turn on the dance floor. Isn't that right?"

Serrah Walden, who is slightly narrow in every direction but quite tall to make up for it, lifts his cup and after a moment smiles politely in greeting. "So I was."

Wysteria takes the cup of beer with cheery thanks, and takes an appreciative drink from it.

"Mister Walden was saying he is a rather poor dancer himself, and that he always desired to learn otherwise. Shall I lend you my Mister Ellis, sir? He is a perfectly fit teacher."

They laugh again then, Walden's wandering eye clearly in pursuit of an exit strategy.

Serrah Walden has a few inches of height on Ellis. It's marked quickly, alongside the cut of his jacket and the easy, careless swing of his arms, the flash of soft palm.

He made Wysteria laugh. That's noted too.

Her hands draw him in, and Ellis comes to a halt closer than he needs to be. It's a different kind of close than the way he sometimes stands with her, alert to incoming threats and the need to step quickly between her and an incoming knife. This is some quiet familiarity, maybe an easier missed signal than Ellis' first instincts would have been (a hand at her elbow, set gently at the nape of her neck) but there's no need to make Wysteria uncomfortable.

"I'm at her service," Ellis tells him, eyes very steady on Walden. A beat of scrutiny resolves as he raises the remaining cup and says to Wysteria, "I've water as well," in the same breath as his head turns to her, gaze breaking from his study of their newfound acquaintance.

"Water," she scoffs, all good cheer as she takes another sip from the beer.

"I wouldn't dare impose on your lady's generosity then," Walden insists. The man has a charming smile, quick and lopsided. His attention flicks from Ellis to Wysteria— "Though should your Mister Ellis tire and you find yourself at loose ends..."

He smile flexes, almost apologetic. Wysteria, stood in very close to Ellis' elbow (or vice versa) laughs in reply.

"I will take it under consideration, sir. But it is quite against his character. Isn't that so, Mister Ellis?"

She tips her face up to him, the line of her mouth quirking wide.

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