For @suck-tember Day 15: Choke
This is mildly cursed and a little crack-fic-y. SorryNotSorry?
~~~
"Anora, dear, this is a terrible idea," he protested.
"Nonsense, Father, it's a perfect gesture of goodwill.” The queen of Ferelden grinned wolfishly. “The Hero of the River Dane greeting Orlesian dignitaries? They'll be falling over themselves at the insult but won’t be able to say a damn thing because you’re royalty."
Loghain looked at Cailan, then sighed: he'd find no support in the man wrapped around his daughter's finger. "Fine, but I want it made clear that I am not in favor of this."
"As long as you do it, I don't care what you think, Father."
~~~13 years later~~~
"Loghain? Loghain Mac Tir?" Gaspard de Chalons exclaimed. He glanced between the Warden and the Inquisitor in shock. "You have any idea what a stir you're going to cause?"
The dwarf crossed her arms. "No more than I will on my own. He's useful."
You remind me of my daughter, he thought to himself, and not for the first time. Malika Cadash was ruthless once she had a goal in mind, and didn’t care who or what she ran over or broke if they got in her way.
The Grand Duke stared at Loghain a few moments longer than was strictly necessary, then licked his lips. “I suppose that’s true.”
Damn him, he remembered.
Two men past their prime, sitting in a nondescript inn in a no-name town in Edgehall, pretending not to resent that they’d been sent by their own family to prance and peacock at each other as a show of might. After the rest of the courtiers and ensemble had finished all their pomp and pageantry, they ended up in the barn, rolling around in the hay in what was definitely not a misguided drunken attempt to finally conquer the country that had caused them so much aggravation.
Loghain almost wished he’d worn a mask, but the thought of even pretending for a moment he was Orlesian made the bile rise in his throat. Being in the Wardens hadn’t lessened his disgust for the empire in the slightest, even if it had forced him to hide it better, but there were limits. “Can we get this over with?” he asked gruffly.
Malika arched an eyebrow at him, as if to say, Is this going to be a problem?
He shook his head slightly. Not for the Inquisition, at least. He followed as Gaspard escorted her inside, then slipped away through the crowd. The last thing he wanted was his presence to be announced at the ball. Some puffed up drunk prick deciding to avenge the insult to his country from forty years ago and ending up with his throat slit over the punch bowl was not a good look.
He skirted his way around the edge of the ballroom to the terrace, grabbing a glass of wine off of a passing tray. Avoiding lavish parties like this had been one of the best things about becoming a Grey Warden, and he already needed air.
“Mac Tir.”
He spun around. “De Chalons.” Smug bastard. “It’s been some time.”
“Ah, so you do remember?” Gaspard tapped a finger against his lips and smirked.
Loghain drained his wine and put the glass down on the table very carefully. It would call attention to himself if he broke it. “Don’t push me, Gaspard.”
“Or what?” the other man laughed. “My cousin might appreciate my death, but your Herald is here on my invitation.”
The Warden shook his head and started to go back inside. Noblemen, and this one in particular, made his head hurt.
Gaspard caught his arm. “I asked you a question.”
Loghain started moving as soon he felt the touch, turning to grab his throat and press him against the wall. Hopefully out of sight from the rest of the ball. “Or I’ll do it again, you Orlesian prick,” he growled, loosening his grip enough that Gaspard could breathe.
The chevalier coughed, almost delicately, then cocked his head. “Celene’s address isn’t for another hour.”