Title: Ghost Dances
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Summary: When all seems lost, Leliana is visited by one she can always count on. Entry for the "Dragon Age Inquisition Summer Long Contest" by BiowareFanClub
Overall Rating: PG
Pairings: Tabris/Leliana
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

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Ghost Dances

“To the Inquisition!” the guests cried, goblets clashing together in praise to the heroes of the evening. Even in the midst of war, rebellion and the relentless demonic incursions caused by the Breach, the nobility of Orlais would be damned before they would ever disregard the social calendar, especially when it was the Marquise Maurice Cigue making the invitations. His family was relatively new by the standards of the Empire’s aristocracy, having only been ennobled some three generations earlier, but he was wealthy, and rumours spoke that the embattled Empress Celene had recently confided in him. He was a man on the rise, and for the supporters of the Empress, a valuable ally to call upon in such troubled times.

So those fortunate enough to receive invitations did so with little hesitation. They were over a hundred strong; chevaliers and noblemen, great merchants and proud beauties, the cream of Orlesian society, drawn together to make merry even as the world was falling apart around them. They were feted in style, as befitting guests of an aristocrat of Orlais. The great marble stones of the chateau’s ballroom were polished until they gleamed by a host of silent elven servants, and the vast array of guest apartments were made to be fit for an Empress, complete with soft mattresses, hot baths and young women skilled in the arts of pleasure. Chandeliers of crystal and gold sent light bouncing throughout the great hall, reflecting off the innumerable pieces of jewelry won by the more ostentatious guests, and some were so festooned with medallions, rings, medals and bracelets that the light was too strong to look upon. The Marquise spoke highly of his chef, and the praise was well-earned, with course after course meeting the enthusiastic response of the guests; roasted duck with garlic and sage, soft white bread still warm from the ovens, boiled lobsters, imported fresh from the coast this morning, served with melted butter, whole woodcocks drenched in red wine and then roasted fast.

And then, of course, there was the wine. “I hope you will all try the ’37 red,” the Marquise had urged them after the dance had finished and the guests sat down to eat, great jowls wobbling with every word. His family had made their wealth on agriculture, the labour of thousands of tenant famers supplying communities in both Orlais and Ferelden. He was a corpulent man, his well-fed figure straining against his blue velvet robes, and he encouraged his guests to indulge as much as he had. “It’s a very special vintage from at my vineyards to the west, and I’ve been saving it for a very special occasion. And aside from a visit from our fair Empress, what could be more noteworthy than hosting the heroes of the Inquisition in my hall?”

To the regret of some of the guests, the Inquisition had only sent a few to attend, citing Venatori activity near the Ferelden border. Still, for those of a mind towards good gossip (most of them, as a matter of fact), the four who did attend were worth discussing salaciously. There was the dwarf Varric, of course, and for much of the evening, his tales of the Champion of Kirkwall kept the entire hall spellbound. The mage Vivenne moved through the groups of chatting highborn comfortably, her knowledge of the Game respected by all, while more than a few of the female guests sighed longingly at the handsome Dorian, bemoaning how such looks were wasted on one who preferred other men.

Finally, there was Leliana, the red-headed spymaster polite but distant in her close-fitting leather, chainmail and hood. If the other members of the Inquisition were interesting, she was positively salacious by comparison, and everywhere she went through the gilded halls of the chateau, whispers followed. This was a woman who had knowingly taken an elven man as a lover, dismissive of the scandal such wanton miscegenation would cause. Others still said that she had gone native, that her time spent amongst the ignorant, fur-clad barbarians of Ferelden had decayed her morals and warped her sense. She was still a lovely woman, even dressed in her Inquisitorial uniform as opposed to a proper gown, so why had such a beautiful creature ever decided to debase herself by allowing a knife-ear to bed her?

She also seemed to have little appetite, even for the woodcocks. “You alright there, Songbird?” Varric asked, wiping some stray crumbs off his leather duster. “You haven’t really been eating well lately.”

“It’s alright, Varric,” the Orlesian woman replied, eyes downcast. “I’m just not feeling particularly hungry tonight.”

“Try some of the wine at least,” the Marquise suggested. Of all those at the table, Leliana was the only one to abstain from drinking. Even Vivenne, prim and proper as always, had indulged in a goblet of the ’37. “I’ve found nothing cheers a beautiful woman up better than a nice bit of the red.”

“Your offer is a kind one, my lord, but I must decline. Forgive me, but I think it’s best if I turn in for the evening.”

More hushed whispers amongst the guests, even a few barely-disguised giggles, even as the Marquise’s teeth ground, apparently offended. The world was ending, yet the Game continued to be played. Doubtless many would see her early departure as a sign of weakness, but she had no patience for any highborn antics… not since Redcliffe.

Dorian must have sensed it too, for the mage immediately moved to her aid. “Leliana’s work has been a major asset to the Inquisition’s cause, my lord, and it’s helped to keep your lands safe from harm. Truth be told, I don’t think she ever stops working. Besides, I suppose that means more wine for us.”

It was a small jest, but enough to break the tension, and Leliana shot the mage a grateful look as Cigue waved her away, no one bothering to rise as she left. Conversations resumed and once more, the great hall became a place of merriment, but even as she departed, the former bard could feel their pitying eyes on her, their disdain. If she had been smart, she would have simply endured the indignities of the evening, and kept her ears open for any scraps of information that might benefit their cause; it was why she had come, after all. But the inanities of court life in Orlais had not produced anything of value this evening, and she could stomach their endless self-absorption no longer.

Her soft-soled boots falling silently upon the scrubbed floorstones, Leliana wandered the halls, tremors of phantom pain running down her back and sides. It had only been a few weeks since her harrowing experience at Castle Redcliffe, and while the damage inflicted by the Venatori’s tortures had been salved and healed, the mental scars took far longer to fade. Yet there had been no time to recover from the ordeal, with the world in its wretched state. She had thrown herself into the demands of the Inquisition, sifting through the reports of her spies, coordinating operations aimed at disrupting the activities of the Venatori, Red Templars and the other innumerable enemies of her new cause, analyzing every rumour of the Elder One and its plans. She could not be weak now, not when so much was at stake, but the icy persona she had built up around herself was crumbling daily. She was emotionally exhausted, drained to her limit by the torture and Justina’s death and the Warden’s loss and all the woes of the world, and her faith in the Maker could only hold her up for so long. Just one blessed night of rest, that’s all I ask. Just one sleep untroubled by nightmares or reports of some new disaster. Just one dream of my love, happy and at peace, and I can endure anything.

The thought of Sagramor tear open the wound afresh, and Leliana angrily forced back her tears, furious with herself for indulging in a moment’s grief when the world outside was full of it. Much time had passed since his death, but the pain was as raw as the day she heard the news. She and Sagramor had been friends as much as lovers, and while their respective callings kept them apart more than they’d like, their affections had never waned. Only death could truly part them.

And in the end, it had.

The scent of lavender suddenly filled her senses, and she realized her had wandered into the chateau’s chapel without thinking. The room was devoid of any other human life, though she was pleased to see that Andraste’s shrine was well-maintained in spite of everything, the votive bowls stocked with offerings of lavender, lilac and roses, and the Prophet’s statue polished with care. Uttering a weary sigh, Leliana pulled her hood back for the first time that evening, before kneeling in front of the altar, hands clasped in prayer. The chapel was serene, but she needed more than quiet. She needed hope. She needed the world back. She needed him.

“If it pleases You, Maker, I would ask that You watch over those who fight to protect all that You have created. Bless those who fight to defend the innocent, and look kindly upon all those who have gone before us to Your side.” The words came fast, unbidden, born of frantic piety, and Leliana kept her eyes low in homage. “And please, pay heed to the counsel of the Divine Justina V and Sagramor Tabris of the Grey Wardens, for they have been Your greatest servants on this earth and have earned a place at Your side.”

The statue of Andraste loomed over her, silent, its gilded expression unchanging. What did you expect? Leliana cursed herself inwardly. That He and His bride would appear in person to soothe your hurts? That He would deign to speak to you once more? She could not hide the desperation in her voice as she looked towards the heavens, begging now. “You came to me once before and showed that hope still remained in the face of evil, that this world was worthy of Your love. What could have changed to make You turn away from us forever? Please, I beg this of You; give me a sign. Show me that You have not forsaken your children.”

“He’s under no obligation to answer you, you know.”

At the sound of his voice, Leliana froze in shock, neigh-rooted into the ground as her bright blue eyes welled up with tears. This is impossible. Maker’s breath, it can’t be him.

“He should though, of course. Faith and loyalty cannot simply be expected; they should be rewarded, particularly to one as faithful as you, Leliana. Then again, I’m not a theologian. I do know, however, that even the strongest of us need a helping hand after a while. Consider me yours.”

“I’ve gone mad,” the former bard whispered, trembling with emotion. “Or you’re some demon, come to lead me astray, or the result of some blood magic incantation meant to control my mind, or-”

“Or maybe…” said Sagramor Tabris, Hero of Ferelden, raising her eyes up to meet his own with a gentle touch. “Maybe right here and now, I’m just exactly what you need.”

It was him, Leliana realized, drinking in every detail in she would never get another chance. The city-born elf from Denerim stood before her precisely as she always remembered him; pale, gaunt face drawn into a comforting smile, long blue cloak draped over his wiry physique, his grey eyes so deep she might drown in them forever. A slim hand moved to caress her shoulder, and she gave a pleasurable shudder at the warmth of his touch. “You’re not really here, are you?”

“No,” her love admitted, kneeling on the floor beside her, their hands intertwined. “For all you know, I might just be your subconscious, here to offer you comfort and remind you of the truth. And the truth, Leliana, is that you can do this. You can set things right.”

“I don’t know how,” she admitted mournfully. “The Breach, the Elder One… these are threats too great for people like me to stop.”

“Like the Archdemon was? I remember how you were always there for me, Leliana, how even in my darkest days, you refused to give up on me. You believed, my love, and that belief was rewarded with victory. None found you wanting then, and I know that no one will now.”

“How can you be so certain of that?”

“Because I know you, Leliana,” the elf said, pulling her close. “You have never abused the trust that others have placed in you, you have never abandoned those you cared for, and you have never backed down when it came time to do the right thing. That means something to me, and it should for you as well.”

The elf kissed her, and Leliana permitted herself to sink into that kiss, fingers pressing hard into his arms. “You are loved, Leliana,” said Sagramor as the kiss ended. “And your life is worth something, has always been worth something, even before you found the Maker. When all else is gone, remember that, and make hope anew.”

“Will I ever see you again?” she murmured. She was happier than she had been in years, but even the sweetest joys had to fade eventually. Her eyes never left him for a moment, every heartbeat of this beautiful madness indulged in, for deep down, she knew that this would be the last time she saw him until they were reunited at the Maker’s side.

“You will, I promise you. The hurts you have suffered will fade, and you will make a better world in the end. I know this.” The elf cocked his head as a distant orchestra began playing, the Marquise evidently entertaining his guests with another round of dancing. “The bas dance. May I have the honour of it with you, my lady?”

“The honour is mine, Grey Warden,” Leliana whispered, taking the lead. The bas dance was a popular waltz in Orlais, favoured by the nobility since the days of the Emperor Freyan, and one she had taught him during the Fifth Blight. They moved together in silence, allowing the music to sweep them away into a single perfect moment where no words need be said. A flash of white appeared from beneath his cloak, and Leliana breathed in the scent of Andraste’s Grace, Sagramor tucking the flower behind her ear, just as he did when they first courted. “You remembered.”

“How could I forget the way you smiled when I gave it to you?” the elf said, embracing her tightly. “How could I ever forget the day I fell in love with you?”

Within the distant ballroom, the tempo of the music quickened, bard and Warden matching the rhythm effortlessly. Laughing for the first time in what felt like an Age, Leliana drew her lover into a passionate kiss, just relieved that she could be with her heart for a moment… her heart…

“Songbird, wake up!”

Groaning, Leliana picked herself up off the carpeted floor of the chapel, Varric slowly fading into view. “Excused myself from our host’s presence to check in on you, and found you passed out,” the dwarf explained, looking genuinely concerned. “You don’t seem like the fainting type, Songbird. Are you alright?”

“I… I passed out?”

“Completely. I’ve spent the last five minutes trying to wake you up. I was just about to call our favourite First Enchanter to come and have a look at you when you came to.” Quickly, Varric looked her over. “Well, doesn’t look like you smacked your head against anything on the way down, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get Vivenne in here. What happened?”

“I-" Leliana’s voice trailed off, the Andraste’s Grace flower resting comfortably behind her ear. “I heard what I needed to hear, Varric. Nothing more.”

“Huh. Vague, non-specific and not really an answer to my question; that’s a first from you. You feel like heading out? I think we’re all a little sick of this party.”

“Truly?” the former bard asked teasingly. “I thought you loved enthralling the nobility with your wit and charm, ser dwarf. What about Chateau Haine?”

“Hey, at least at Chateau Haine, I could dare to dream that any rude noblemen might get eaten by a wyvern or killed by Hawke. Here, they seem to think they can walk all over my friends, and I ain’t having that.”

“My hero,” she remarked dryly, taking the flower into her hands. The Breach still threatened to consume the world and the Elder One still plotted to make it his own, but at least there was hope now.

There would always be hope.