#elatedwarcry

[servesorlais]

ok the kiss on the hand for Elvis

        He encountered Sharidan again in the streets of Val Royeaux, just around the corner from the central folly of the Belle Marché.  ❝ Inquisitor ❞  was the surprised greeting, measured by his own question over whether or not he’d been immediately recognisable ... or memorable, really. There had been dozens of chevaliers around Skyhold by the time Michel left to take up his new position in the capital, and he’d never considered himself close enough to the Herald to gauge whether he was favoured among them. It ... seemed doubtful, if he gave it thought. 

       In any case, Sharidan had not known him in Skyhold as a man masked like one of the new emperor’s personal retinue, formally attired and golden plumed. It would have been gauche to remove the mask and remind him, else Michel would have done so. At least he had written to convey his thanks  ---  that felt like a necessary precursor to this greeting, somehow. 

       They’d drawn a few curious gazes already, surreptitiously given over shoulders and from pairs leaning over balconies; it might have been the greeting, Inquisitor, if Sharidan had not already called attention to himself by virtue of being the only Dalish that would be openly walking these streets. 

       There was a second’s hesitation before Michel gave in to the greeting he’d felt was appropriate. A hand, palm upturned, offered to Sharidan, before he took to a knee. 

       It would have killed him once to be kneeling before an elf, figuratively and perhaps literally as well if enough suspicions were raised about his reasons for doing it. There hadn’t been elves elevated to the status Sharidan had claimed for himself, however, exalted in the eyes of the faithful and a proven tactician and politician beyond that. 

       No shame in reminding him, then, and all the eyes of Val Royeaux that had flickered this way in curiosity, that Michel remained his servant. 

       His lips found their way, briefly and lightly, to Sharidan’s gloved hand, careful not to linger there more than they would be welcomed; from under the new mask, a glance that lacked some of the heavy concern that had weighed on him the last time they’d spoken, not that he expected it would be noticed.  ❝ ... I am glad to see you again, my friend. ❞

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[servesorlais]

!! Elvis obvs

        Sharidan was a contradiction. His reputation had preceded him, and credit where it was due  —  he’d inspired more than one story, and even in his isolation Michel had heard both the version where a powerful Dalish mage had murdered the Divine, and the one where Andraste had touched the hand of a worthy ally and made him her Herald, the enactor of her divine will in Thedas. Both great claims, in their own way, although the former, for being the uglier of the two, was certainly the more plausible. 

       But Michel had also spent the better part of his life in service of a woman who endeavoured to make her reputation a weighty force of its own, something far beyond the reality of a small woman with silver hairs at the temples she pressed when a lack of honey-sweetened tea gave her a headache. Even an expensive and elaborate veneer had its cracks.

       The most obvious of those cracks, in Sharidan, was the heavy dark markings crossing the skin of his face. Homage to some pagan god, a more immediate display than any armor subtly bearing the sword and sunburst of Andraste’s worship. And yet he could, and did, recite the Chant with as much conviction as the sisters in the courtyard garden. Perhaps he was a very good actor; Michel knew well enough how deeply entwined acting was with surviving. But it was a poor act if he made no effort to hide the older faith to some elvhen idol. 

       The man was, at least, not a terrible one; not half as awful as the last Dalish Michel had met, dealing not with magic and with demons in no capacity save to kill them. There was bravery in that, which he could respect. There was also debt in that, which Michel was trying his hardest not to resent. Had things gone differently … Michel very likely would have been dead, though with some service maybe repaid to the empire he loved. Sharidan’s intervention had saved his life instead, hadn’t it? One debt for the demon’s death, a second debt for his own life; twofold obligation to the Inquisition and its leader.  

       In time, maybe he’d even be able to look at the elven man and not have to ask what had gone wrong for him to survive and Celene to die, to wonder what kind of empty-hearted cunning was behind the large eyes and sympathetic words. 

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[servesorlais]

« I think I’m going to feel that tomorrow. » ~ Elvis

        If there was one rule worth following for the etiquette of training, it was that apologies were useless. No one would apologise to an enemy on the field of battle, and to practice it in training would only breed hesitation later; apologising for a lack of effort had been sharply corrected by les maîtres with a verbal slap on the wrist. Don’t apologise, do better. Ah, and maybe the occasional literal slap to accompany it, to see how he could fight through frustration and direct his anger. 

        And of course there had been anger creeping into the ostensibly friendly spar. Mother Giselle’s prayers had been soothing, but Michel wouldn’t so easily forget Sharidan’s failure. 

        ... It was easier to bear, to frame it like a failure rather than a decision; but a man with the power to hold the sky together, to face a would-be god armed with the blessing of Holy Andraste, should have been able to save one woman. 

        ❝ You’ll feel the worst of it in two days’ time, I expect, ❞  Michel answered, offering a congratulatory handshake with the hand that did not carry his blade. As with most of their conversations, he failed to find the energy for a strained smile, but he could hide it behind his sword hand going to dab at the sweat beading his brow.  ❝ Train through it, if you can. It will hurt, but it will help. ❞

sparring & training sentences  /  @elatedwarcry

[servesorlais]

« You think I would lie to you? » ~ from ELVIS

                Ah. 

               At first, Michel gave no indication that he’d heard the response. Just a small pause of his hands where they had been busy cleaning his sword, while he leaned in to investigate the edge. Serviceable, still, but he could probably make a case for it being melted down and reforged into something better. An argument for another time, however. 

               ❝ I think good leaders are careful about what information they share. ❞  With that, he risked a glance up.  ❝ And I think you would withhold information from me, if that suited you ... ❞  A pause, but it was not an invitation for the elf to continue speaking. Michel swallowed back a grimace.  ❝ ... As is your right, as the leader of this Inquisition. ❞

               That answer; not too dissimilar from what he used to tell Celene, when it had felt as if he needed to tread carefully. She always claimed she valued his input, but it was unavoidable that she valued it more when it was in agreement with her own. Ten years was more than enough time to grow used to that fact. 

               ❝ I can tell you how it looks to me. You went to the Winter Palace on the Grand Duke’s invitation, for reasons you did not disclose to me. By the end of the night, the woman I swore on my life I would protect was dead, and the Grand Duke now sits as Emperor. The two of you have mutually pledged support, as I understand. ❞  And there were Orlesians willing to overlook these details? That some ... some knife-ear, holy and chosen or not, might well have conspired against the empress?

               Of course  ------  for the sake of peace, maybe it had to be overlooked. Unity after the war, and in the face of their new enemy. How noble. Michel’s hands had stilled, and he realised he would now be trying to speak past a growing lump in his throat.  ❝ Will that be all, Your Worship? ❞

        questions meme  /  @elatedwarcry  /  not accepting .