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

Here, Wysteria's hesitation is so pronounced that even she must recognize that there's no real masking it. The coin remains poised between her forefingers for spinning and after a long beat, she confesses—

"There must be a penalty. But I don't remember what it's meant to be. Would you like to suggest one?"

Here, Ellis might say any number of things, skeptical or otherwise.

But whatever he takes from the long moment of quiet study, it culminates in:

"I don't suppose forfeiting the kiss is enough of a penalty."

A joke, really. Ellis knows she expects more than that.

"It wouldn't be fair if I were drinking water and you drinking the wine," is a different sticking point. A neat solution struck from the list of possibilities. "Would you like something off me?"

His hand comes to his chest, rests over the burnished copper fastenings of his gambeson. And with that movement, the assumption: Ellis is the one who will be doing most of the forfeiting.

For a split second, she fails to comprehend exactly what he's suggesting. No, no, of course forfeiting the kiss wouldn't do. That is far too simple, and besides if he refused enough time than maybe she might begin to think he didn't care for her kisses or was being purposefully obtuse and neither of those would make a particularly good foot with which to step into a marriage, now would they?

You know. Hypothetically speaking. If this were a legitimate game and now some foolishness she were making up for her own amusement.

And then all at once Wysteria registers his meaning and in the same moment some flush of color registers at the back of her neck. It rapidly spreads into her ears and hairline, growing briefly very pink.

"Yes, that will do," is quite assertive despite her embarrassment. "Call it if you please, Mister Ellis."

She spins the coin.

Had Ellis spent even a moment considering the possibility of a reversal, he might have mirrored her reaction quite closely.

But it seems inevitable that he loses soundly to her, and so—

"Heads," is said very steadily, as he leans back in his chair. One hand remains on the table, toying with the folded hem of the napkin while he watches her tend to the coin.

If Ellis really is doomed to playing a losing game, he at least starts with advantage. After spinning there there in the empty spot on the table, glinting dully in the candelight, the copper finally falls over with a muffled click on the thin table cloth.

Heads.

Wysteria raises her attention expectantly. The color is still warm on the back of her neck.

Considering the odds, Ellis might have settled on a question. He'd be obliged to ask one sooner or later.

But he hadn't. And so there is a beat of silence as he examines the coin on the table, then lifts his eyes up to her face. Wishes, briefly, that they were sat closer. He'd like to take her hand as they speak.

With table between them, Ellis is resigned to straightening in his chair, setting elbows on the table. Clearing his throat.

"It feels as if you've told me everything I might have asked at a first meeting," he says, a little rueful, a little amused. "What would your parents make of your marriage?"

"That's not true at all. I was very cold to you when we first met, you remember. I would be shocked if I said more than two words to you."

As if Wysteria has ever limited herself to two words with even the most hateful of Tevinter kidnappers.

She has snatched the copper from the table and disappeared it back into the pocket of her skirts. This minor point of outrage has cooled the heat of her flush considerably. And anyway, it's a simple question.

"My mother would dislike it and my father would think it was perfectly suitable. He comes from common—if you'll forgive the term; you know my meaning—stock too, you know. I think she could be swayed over on account of your Warden business being just a little like the northern Hausseurs. Very, very little like it. In the sense that they are both engaged in protecting against threats, and also that they have secrets and so on. And the money might be a point of contention, of course. But if we were there or they were here, I don't see how it would matter. It would sort out either way."

Is this the first he's heard of her father? Thinking back, it might be.

Common doesn't sting, but it does prick the way a splinter might. Some small discomfort, easily set aside.

"Aye, I imagine so," Ellis agrees. "I've never known you to be swayed from a thing once you've set your mind to it."

Why would marriage be any different then the various explosives and contraptions she's been gambling with for as long as they've known each other?

"Do I collect a kiss now, or later?"

She raises her chin by a fraction in reply to that first mark—a stubborn sort of pride flashing in the angle of her face and some brief flash in her very blue eyes. That's true. They'd not managed to stop her when it had mattered before, and it seems highly unlikely that they'd have managed to dissuade her in this either—

"Oh now, I should think. Otherwise we might ask one another questions all evening and never get round to doling out the prizes."

That is a very attractive look on her face. Ellis knows it well. It has preceded arguments before, and it has come in the wake of some proposed idea before, and he has found it attractive each time. He sits a moment considering her in the light cast from the fire in the hearth, before rising from his seat.

He might say something. Wysteria's old rules, instructing: You're meant to ask first.

There is a slight pull of a smile instead, working at Ellis' face as he lifts a hand to set gentle fingers along her jaw. Ellis tips her face up as he bends down to meet her, and set a kiss to her mouth. He takes his time there, lingering close, kissing her thoroughly because there was no mention in the rules as to what sort of kiss he might give her.

Wysteria has shifted slightly in her chair as he'd risen, sitting up straighter and taller as if in anticipation of this very thing, her hands patiently folding one over the other on the table before her. And so she is very willing to have her face turned up at the behest of his fingertips on the soft underside of her jaw. Like someone easily motivated by the earning of good marks or praise, she is all rapt expectation as he bends down to her.

That said, it's a better kiss than she's expecting. If their positions were reversed, she might have kissed his cheek or his temple or only given him a chaste little kiss on the mouth like a playful tug at his tunic hem. This is not that. It's full and sweet and patient. The scrape of his beard is pleasantly chafing. It doesn't bring the heat back into her face. Rather, the kiss serves to cool some nervous impulse. It makes for a fine point on which to focus so that when they do part, the buzzing of her attention has narrowed and quieted considerably.

Nevermind the silly subterfuge and her almost stabbing him to death with a hair pin. The room is very thoughtful, and it's kind that he's gone to so much effort to make her happy.

Wysteria's face remains turned up toward him, her mouth soft. But she doesn't let him withdraw very far before asking—

"Which is your favorite color?"

See. She can be kind too.

The question brings him back down to her as if reeling in by fine threads.

"Generous," is not a color, but it's said almost against her lips, murmured against the corner of her mouth. It's against the rules, isn't it? Stealing a kiss when he hasn't given her an answer.

So he tells her, "Blue," as his fingers slip along the arch of her neck, graze the fabric of her collar, as he kisses her again. It's just as thorough. He braces his free hand on one arm of the chair as he bows down to her.

Maybe these aren't the sort of kisses the game requires. But they are what he has to give, all tenderness and focus narrowed down to every place their bodies meet before he straightens up.

"Do you prefer the Gallows or the Hightown house?"

That's cheating, she doesn't protest, but there is a tell tale slant to her mouth which suggests the only reason she keeps it to herself is because Ellis has already checked himself by that point. The glint in her eye and the arch look she gives him at the next opportunity says he should consider this part where she doesn't demand two questions in a row to he an extension of that preciously mentioned generosity.

"Hightown," she says. Her hands are still neatly folded on the table despite the wandering of his. "But only on account of what's been done with it. Your little garden is very sweet and I like the privacy of my work room and its very amusing to have a little side gate and all that. I don't dislike the Gallows like some people do though. And I enjoy the ferry. Now bend so I can kiss you, or help me up from this chair."

She waggles a hand impatiently at him.

Wysteria is allowed to keep her seat, if only because Ellis has considered alternatives and discarded them in turn. They might move to the bed, where they could sit side by side, but it seems as if it would put a specific sort of pressure on Wysteria. As pretty as she is when she blushes, it is simpler to bend his body down to her.

Their noses bump. Ellis presses his smile once more against the corner of her mouth. His thumb slides along her jawline.

He kisses her again. He takes his time about it. Maybe this is less about the game and more about how good it is to hear that the garden pleases her. All this time later, and he is still glad to hear it.

"Am I allowed to give you a gift on our wedding night?"

Something that risks innuendo, surely, but.

Now he really is breaking the rules. Without drawing back to chastise him for it, and so into that narrow little space barely exists between them, Wysteria says, "It's my turn. Who is your favorite friend? Discounting myself and Mister Stark of course."

And then because it's only fair, she steals a brief kiss from the corner of his mouth. If he's going to be such a cheat then turn about is only fair—

"But yes. I don't see why that shouldn't be allowed."

"Of course," Ellis echoes, body lowering downwards into a crouch so his back might be given some reprieve from bending into her. All amusement in his face as he looks up at her, readjusting the placement of his hands. One turns at the armrest of the chair, and the other laces through her fingers, settling their linked hands in her lap.

It is a surprisingly difficult question.

The fact that he has to think on it at all is what makes him pause. The strangeness of the thing draws out the space between her answer and his, Ellis' thumb running back and forth across her knuckles as he thinks.

"Suppose I haven't a favorite friend?"

Apart from the pair of them, of course.

She is happy enough to be rearranged (and then to make some further adjustments of her own) in deference to him lowering himself there. Partly it's because no one likes to think they're being an imposition and she shouldn't like him to have to twist awkwardly to kiss her, and partly because she finds it pleasant whenever he kneels or crouches or makes any effort to be low near her. It's charming, particularly when Ellis is as a rule a full hand or so taller than she is.

"I'm not counting that as one of your questions." Obviously. "If you really can't rank them, then I will make do with the names of whoever comes most instantly to mind today. I know that some days it can be difficult to pick favorites."

(She's heard, anyway. She could name her preferences at any moment.)

"Generous," Ellis repeats.

She is being gentle with him. Ellis can sense the difference, though he can't quite decide how he might thank her for it.

There is another moment though, where Ellis turns the question over. Considers, casting about until settling up—

"Richard."

Punctuated by a little squeeze of her hand, silent request for payment now that an answer has been provided.

"Oh I think that's a very good pick. And very in keeping with your obvious preferences, you know. Mister Dickerson is very clever and has lots of opinions even if he doesn't say them, and you clearly must find that kind of thing pleasant otherwise I don't know how you could stand Mister Stark. To say nothing of present company."

Ha ha ha we have fun here.

Pleased with herself, she tips forward and kisses Ellis primly on his brow. Maybe this marks the end of her generosity.

Maybe it does. It doesn't deter him from dipping his head to kiss her knuckles briefly in acknowledgement. Yes, he is very fond of the present company. Even when present company means to turn the full force of her wiles upon him.

"I do like to listen when the pair of you discuss your work."

Discuss or argue over the feasibility of any given thing, surely these are interchangable.

But it does delay his next question, his mouth at her knuckles a moment before returning their hands to her lap.

"Out of all that we've done together, which part of it have you liked best?"

And this is a deliberately broad question. He might be asking after all their adventures. He might be asking after all the books they've shared. He might be asking after all the ways he's kissed her. Interpretation is a very subjective thing.

In contrast to his long moment of consideration, Wysteria's answer comes quite instantly: "The little game we play where we leave notes and tokens and so on and it's all very sneaky and I have to slip things into your pockets. I like imagine how pleased you are when you find them, and besides I've never really traded things like that with someone before. It's good fun."

Whether or not she grasps the full breadth of the question seems to have no effect on the thing's sincerity. She is quite chipper when she says it, a sudden burst of twittering good humor and all attempts at subterfuge or coyness more or less momentarily forgotten.

So much for her feminine wiles.

For a moment, briefly, Ellis' expression blooms into a smile. His grip on her hand flexes, tightening while the brightness of these words settles.

"I've no plans to stop, so that's good to hear."

And yes, he is meant to stretch up to claim a kiss, but he follows this response with a question—

"Is there a winner of this game?"

It's the sort of question which shouldn't be counted. But seeing as it invokes some threat to uncover her ruse—

Wysteria archly clears her throat. With her free hand, she draws up the hem of her skirts by the scant inches necessary to expose one of her caramel colored boots with the familiar blue ribbon lacings. They are grown worn and soft now from the great deal and traipsing about Kirkwall she has done in them. One shoe is turned out.

"Unlace it if you please, Mister Ellis. For I have no answer for you."

"Ah, that kind of game," signals Ellis has drawn an assumption that does not say Wysteria doesn't know the rules of the game and more This game comes to an ending of it's own accord.

Not that they'll be following that route, but that doesn't mean the rest of Kalvad wasn't following some approximation of it.

The moment of hesitation passes. His hands catch up her booted foot, heel and then ankle, as he says, "I owe you two questions," while he begins working loose the lacings.

If she feels any relief for his lack of insistence, its briskly filed away. After all, Ellis is right. He does owe her two questions.

"In that case, my first question is how do you intend to persuade the spirit in my house to let you stay in it? And my second question is—" Turning her ankle a little to help his efforts, Wysteria searches for a worthwhile question. "Will you be terribly disappointed if a Rifter can't have babies? I don't know for certain whether or not there is any issue, but I imagine—"

That Madame de Cedoux is young enough still to be having them, is strictly not something she can say because it would imply that she has given Madame de Cedoux's courtship any consideration whatsoever.

"That someone would have made it a topic of conversation by now. If Rifters could."

Despite the potential dreadfulness of the question, Wysteria asks it with all the good cheer of that first easy question. As if this is as straightforward as What's your favorite color.

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