Language of Flowers Ask #3
Wisteria: Write a scene where Rook dances with their partner.
Original prompt located here
Thank you for the ask, @elfmaid!
I absolutely went overboard with this one, so it got pretty long.
(Is this accurate to Nevarra culture? Probably not. But I fell into a deep rabbit hole of researching Regency dances and etiquette, so here we are. Just let me have a cute fluffy Pride and Prejudice-inspired scene.
Also: Jerran now has a Swear Jar where it's a bit more limited. It's slipping out in real life and the mini-mes are delightful little parrots right now)
HUGE Thanks to @a-mumbling-nerd for entrusting me with Eleanor and previewing it to make sure that I did her and her family justice, as well as providing some dialogue. I am so honored to be allowed to work with such a wonderful character).
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The crowded Nevarran ballroom’s air of stilted politeness, centuries of tradition, and social sparring weighed upon Jerran as heavily as Davrin’s ceremonial armor. Gold and other precious jewels dripped from the high chandeliers to the wall reliefs depicting the Cycle of Life and Death, to even the human attendees themselves. A few elves dressed in dark clothing stood around the edges of the room, only springing forward to assist when needed.
Glancing around, Jerran subtly tried to slip a finger under his richly embroidered jacket’s collar as it dug into his neck. He accidentally caught the eye of an older woman, who seemed offended at his very existence. She gasped when he winked at her before she turned to whisper with a companion.
A skeleton waiter offered a tray of glasses filled with a mysterious amber-filled liquid. He automatically took one and thinned his lips at the cloying stickiness coating his tongue. Maker’s Breath, I’d rather drink from the Joining Cup again. At least that knocked him unconscious.
A small hand squeezed the crook of his elbow, and he turned to see Eleanor beaming up at him. “Isn’t this so exciting? I’ve always dreamed of attending these. I’ve never been to one, at least, one where I danced with someone. But I've read about them,” she giggled, waving her own crystal goblet.
Jerran smiled back. Eleanor, of course, looked beautiful in a white gown with flouncy gold-trimmed sleeves and a black jacket where matching gold threads shimmered in the candles lining the room. He squeezed her hand, trying to hide the sour feeling at the pit of his stomach.
From where they stood next to disapproving matrons and nervous young people waiting for their turn, he observed couples gracefully bobbing and weaving in a lively dance. As the music ended and the next dance was called, they bowed and scattered, exchanging places with those next in line.
A couple of young ladies paused to speak to Eleanor, who slightly jumped at their attention. “Cousin Eleanor! Oh, it’s such a delight to see you again,” one with hair coiled with golden beads gushed, sounding as overly sweet as the punch. “Such a shame Uncle Khoen and Aunt Yesult couldn’t make it this time.”
“But what an honor for their daughter to attend. You must come again with your… beau.” Her pale-haired friend glanced up at Jerran, amusement in her blue eyes. “He seems… interesting.”
Eleanor made introductions; Jerran instantly forgot their names. He mumbled, “Nice to meet you.”
The young women acknowledged him with a slight head tilts, but they made no reply as they giggled about the fashions this year. Jerran tuned them out.
How the hell did I get here? He absently took another sip of the punch, not bothering to hide the grimace.
Oh yeah. Three days ago, a panicking Eleanor had burst into his room waving a missive in his face. A relative, a great uncle five times removed or something – Jerran’s eyes glazed over while trying to remember all of Eleanor’s extended relations – was holding a very important yearly ball that Eleanor’s parents were absolutely required to attend, due to family obligations and honor.
Or something.
The only problem? Apparently, Eleanor’s parents were neck deep in some sort of Spirit Research (again, Jerran’s eyes glazed over when she tried to explain) and just couldn’t possibly attend.
Perhaps Eleanor and that Grey Warden beau of hers could go in their stead? Dance a few dances, smile at the relatives. It would be easy. Never mind that the gods were trying to enslave everyone with the Blight.
And for Maker and Andraste's sake, be sure to greet the Duchess Isla Ingellvar properly. As one of their patrons, it was of the absolute utmost importance.
It seemed dumb. But what was important to Eleanor was important to Jerran. If that meant dressing in awful clothes and sip sickly-sweet punch for one evening, so be it.
Only Emmrich had gasped when Jerran told him the news. “My dear lad, you would be eaten alive at such an affair. One must know the proper etiquette to avoid offence. And the dances! They are equal parts diplomacy as well as entertainment. Which… please don't take this the wrong way, is not your strongest suit.”
Before Jerran could protest, the Necromancer clapped his hands together as he turned to Manfred. “We must begin at once for you to learn ‘Death Becomes Us’ and at least the waltz. Ironically, ‘Death Becomes Us’ is a lively dance, meant to evoke the fleeting….” He continued muttering under his breath as he pulled out several dancing instruction books.
They'd recruited Bellara as a substitute partner; she’d happily agreed after being sworn to secrecy in exchange for allowing her to use the experience in her budding romance serial. Between investigating suspicious Venatori sightings and haunted candlehops, Emmrich instructed them in his room.
“Dancing is remarkably like combat. There’s a rhythm and pattern to it that once you recognize, you’ll be able to apply to anything. This will help you in battle as well,” Emmrich said as Jerran spun Bellara the wrong way. “Do it. Again.”
Thankfully, Eleanor hadn’t noticed Jerran’s absence. She’d been too busy practicing the proper bowing and worrying over the right words to say to the Duchess. She was representing her branch of the family after all.
Two nights later, Jerran was semi-confident that he might be able to conquer the livelier dances; they were remarkably similar to the folk dances he'd been forced to learn as a child. If drunken nobles could do it, Jerran could do it – Emmrich assured him, pulling out a chart listing Ingellvar relations and how to address them properly.
The social stuff? He was doomed. “Sorry, Doc,” Jerran muttered.
“Hmm? What was that?” Eleanor’s slightly anxious voice brought him back to the present.
“Nothing.” He glanced down at her as she stood slightly on her tiptoes to peer over the other Ingellvars’ shoulders. “Relax, you’re going to give yourself a headache at this rate.”
“I know.” She bit her lip as she curtseyed slightly to a passing older bearded gentleman and greeted him. “Mother and Father put a lot of emphasis on greeting the Duchess tonight. I just want to do it right.”
“I’ll let you know if anyone seems Duchess-y.” He noticed that her cup was empty and took it from her as a stately older woman with sharp eyes and wearing enough jewelry to fill a Minrathous shop window stopped in front of them.
“How unusual to see Khoen and Yesult’s …. daughter here. I suppose they couldn’t make it?” she asked brightly, smiling.
Eleanor’s hesitation told him that she hadn’t recognized the stranger either. Jerran cleared his throat. “Yes, they had some sort of business in the Necropolis.”
The woman’s smile froze for an instant, and a slight look of disdain flashed in her eyes before her face smoothed over. “How … delightful. I suppose this is your suitor, the Grey Warden. Yesult was telling me all about him.”
“Jerran Thorne. And you are….?”
She winced as though he’d stomped all over her fine robes in muddy boots. “My dear, we have not been properly introduced. I would have expected even a foundling daughter of Khoen and Yesult to know her manners better.”
He bit back a choice retort; Eleanor had made him absolutely promise not to swear at this function. It was getting harder to keep his word. “Then I guess you’re not worth —”
Eleanor grabbed his arm, looking absolutely horrified. “Duchess Isa Ingellvar, may I present Junior Grey Warden Jerran Thorne? My suitor and the leader known as Rook,” she blurted out.
So, this was that Duchess. Jerran raised an eyebrow. “Charmed,” he said dryly.
“Mmm.” The duchess’s lips twisted. Then she dismissed him and took Eleanor’s hands. “Eleanor, please extend my courtesies to your parents. Tell them that they were sorely missed and we may need to discuss budget cuts the next time we meet.” The woman immediately turned away and began loudly talking to a matron sitting along the wall.
Jerran glanced down at Eleanor, who looked like she was visibly wilting. “Ellie?”
“That was her. The one that Mother and Father wanted me to greet. I failed to recognize her and now….” She hesitated, blinking rapidly. “Jerran, just let me speak with people, all right? Please.”
Shit. “Ellie, I —-”
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.” She forced a smile, but he could still see a hint of tears in her eyes.
Distantly, he heard a female calling out the next dance: Death Becomes Us. He knew that one.
“Do you want to try to dance?” he asked, desperately trying to salvage anything left of the situation.
“I… I don’t think I feel like dancing now. I’m sorry.” She took a deep shuddering breath. “I think I might need more punch with some chocolate and strawberries.”
“Sure.” He gladly fetched a plate, noting that word must have gotten around. Although not overtly unfriendly, there was just the imperceptible hint of chill from the people surrounding him. Just the slightest avoidance of the shoulder from one lady so there was no chance of his arm brushing up against her as he passed. A bold stare and smirk from the man across the way. A girl seeing him, stopping, and moving in another direction.
His ears – honed from hundreds of hours on patrol hunting Darkspawn – caught snippets of whispers:
What do you expect from a Grey Warden?
How disappointing. I thought he’d be more impressive. Khoen and Yesult spoke of him so highly.
That jacket… Arnfried had one like it earlier. Did he steal it? It wouldn’t surprise me.
When Eleanor excused herself to “powder her nose” (Does that mean those rooms had vats of powder in them?), he waited alone, holding an empty cup as his mind raced through the evening so far. The only thing that could be worse is someone attacking us.
He stared at the ornate gold-rimmed glass in his hand; a set of these could feed an entire family for months. He'd known that Eleanor’s family was well-off, some sort of nobility. But seeing it with his own eyes was different.
I’m a Grey Warden. We improvise. Go with our gut. But this…. this was a whole different world with its own rules and invisible chains.
And now, thanks to him and his big mouth, Eleanor’s parents wouldn’t get the needed funding for their research.
The stupid coat suddenly felt too tight and hot. His lungs struggled to get enough air.
He had to get out. Now.
Slamming the stemware on a passing skeleton’s tray, Jerran escaped to a nearby balcony and leaned on the railing.
The infernal collar choked him; he unbuttoned it, wishing he could rip the jacket off entirely. It wasn’t even his, not really. He’d scammed it off of a drunk Nevarran noble in Minrathous during a game of Wicked Grace the night before.
Now, the richly embroidered clothing trapped Jerran as surely as one of the gold-encrusted sarcophagi standing in the nearest corner. The glinting threads mocked him in the dim light.
For an instant, he was nine years old, cowering in a Vyrantium alley as slumming nobles in embroidered robes surrounded him. They’d tossed him a gold coin covered in dung and laughed at the little liberati as he scrabbled for it.
Eleanor deserved better.
He wasn’t sure how long time passed before Eleanor’s slightly worried voice came from behind. “Jerran? I went looking for you, but you disappeared. Are you all right?”
Jerran forced a smile. “I'm fine.” He nodded toward the ornate garden below where skeletal workers labored below. “Nothing like watching skeletons weeding and carting dirt.”
She ignored his attempt to deflect and joined him at the railing, her shoulder touching his. “No. You're not.” A strand of pale golden hair drifted across her face. She brushed it away, looking at him.
He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I screwed everything up and ruined your night. Now your parents’ research is in danger because of me and everyone’s upset. You didn’t even get to dance.”
Sighing, he scratched the back of his head, looking away. “I tried practicing some of the dances with Emmrich and Bellara to try to impress you. But this society thing, I just don’t get it. I guess I’m just a dumb liberati after all.”
The lightest touch rested on his arm, and he glanced up to see her beautiful forget-me-not eyes glistening. “What matters is that you’re here with me. You took the time to learn all this for me. That is far more special. I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.”
“But your parents’ research –”
“I’ll speak with them. They’re used to dealing with people like her.” She smiled. “The dances – will you show me? I’d love to see.”
Faintly in the background, he could hear the band starting the last song of the night, a waltz. Straightening, he bowed with an exaggerated flourish and extended a hand. “M’lady,” he intoned, mimicking Emmrich’s posh accent. “Would you care to have this dance?”
Giggling, she curtseyed. “Why, yes, my dear Warden. I shall.”
Dancing is remarkably like combat. Pulling her close, he instinctively fell into the pattern that Emmrich had practically beaten into him, guiding her around the balcony. She fit perfectly against him and the tenseness in his body seemed to evaporate.
It wasn’t perfect – he barely managed to avoid her toes with a little hop several times, and he was often out of sync with the music.
But her eyes sparkled as he whirled her around, her dress swirling around them. For those few minutes, he forgot about the gods and the lurking crowd in the room behind them.
All he saw was her smile.
As the music came to an end, she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him softly, tasting like the strawberries that she'd eaten earlier that evening. “That was absolutely wonderful,” she said once they came up for air.
“Next time, I'll take you out to a tavern and we’ll do some folk dances,” he whispered in her ear.