Fanfic: The Girl and the Queen
I'm not dead yet! XD
Title: The Girl and the Queen
Words: 1917
Rating: G
Characters: Zevran/f!Tabris (Taniva), Tilani, and Anora
Summary: Anora invites the Arainai family over for a civilized private tea. In retrospect, an obvious mistake.
The Girl and the Queen
Taniva never liked going to see Anora. The castle in Denerim always reminded her of Alistair’s death years ago, and now also Wynne’s. That would start everything off with an air of melancholy, and then she would also have to put on one of her hated “Arlessa dresses.” Today was the first time she would also have to wrestle Tilani into one.
“But it itches!” the little girl roared, running half-naked through their Denerim house. “I want to dress like Papa!”
On cue, Zevran appeared in the hallway, laughing as he scooped the fleeing child up in his arms and looked with mock sternness into her face. “What is all this noise, Principessa?”
Tilani put on her best father-melting pout and gestured back toward her mother, who stood disheveled and annoyed, clutching the velvet and lace monstrosity in one hand. “I hate the dress,” the girl whined. “Don’t make me wear it, Papa.”
Taniva rolled her eyes, but this time, Zevran didn’t cave. “I’m afraid you must. The Queen sent it just for you. She will want to see you in it. You will never have to wear it again.”
“Oh, good,” Taniva muttered. “Do I get the same promise?”
“You see?” Zevran chirped, rather too sanguine about the whole affair. “Mama is unhappy too. We will all be unhappy together!”
“Right. You look very unhappy.”
Zevran swung Tilani into one arm and off to the side so that he could move close to his wife. “Of course I am,” he purred, touching her free hand. “Fereldan dresses are much too frumpy for you.” He gave her a light kiss on the cheek, and she sighed and unwound a little.
But she also handed him the little dress. “Fine. You get her into it, then. I’ve got my own pile of itchy fabric to contend with.”
At least her own dress was a more reasonable color: why Anora had decided that a pale blond child should wear yellow, Taniva couldn’t imagine. She was going to look like a lemon.
When they reconvened - Zevran changed both himself and their daughter in a different room, to give Taniva a respite - Tilani looked better than expected, though already a bit rumpled, and was chattering excitedly about the new toy sword she was going to receive after they were home from seeing the Queen.
“You spoil her,” Taniva said, as always, knowing he didn’t care.
“I pay for obedience,” he smiled, putting an arm around her. “It is the principle I was raised with, and it works.”
Now that they were all absurdly dressed, their procession to the castle drew much more attention than Taniva wanted. The concept of elven nobles was still an oddity, and she was always concerned that there might be violent disapproval amongst the reactions from the crowd they usually attracted. And unlike Zevran, she had to hide a dagger in her boot, which she would have to dig out from under these accursed skirts if she needed it.
On the other hand, other than the worry about her daughter, a fight would at least make sense and be some fun, unlike a visit to the royal court. Taniva’s sigh on reaching their destination was both relief and bitter resignation.
Anora still ruled alone: the twice-widowed Queen was being understandably slow to have a third go at marriage. While this had little impact on the castle itself, over the years the style of dress expected in her court was becoming steadily more elaborate. (It was not for nothing, Leliana had once told them, that Anora was the one Fereldan whom the Empress of Orlais liked.) Even the servants now had relatively fancy skirts or suits, and it took a moment for Taniva to realize that they were not being greeted at the door by some obscure bann’s daughter.
True that the Queen had not gone so far as to adopt the ridiculous wigs and hats Leliana had reported were sometimes popular in Orlais - which was for the best, since Taniva would have drawn a line there. But Anora greeted them in a dusty-blue gown with even fuller skirts than she had required of the elves and shoes that looked like they were covered in beads.
As always, Anora insisted on greeting Taniva like a lady and friend, even though Taniva considered herself neither. She came over beaming and calling the elf by name, grabbing her by one hand and planting a light kiss on her cheek. Zevran she acknowledged with a small, decorous nod. She had taken to calling them both by name, Taniva suspected, because she could not bring herself to refer to the Antivan as Arl despite his marriage to her chosen Arlessa, nor did Taniva tolerate him being called Consort even though Zevran himself seemed to think it was funny.
Tilani bowed rather than curtsying. “Majesty,” she mumbled. They had been unable to convince her that “Your” was necessary.
Anora clasped her hands together tightly, obviously charmed but too formal in manner to make too much of it. “Tilani!” she breathed. “I doubt that you remember me. You could barely walk the last time I saw you. You look beautiful! Do you like your dress?”
“It itches,” Tilani frowned.
Anora glanced up at Taniva with a tolerant laugh. “I’m sure you’re not used to such things. You would be if your mother did not insist on running you all over Ferelden like a vagrant.”
Tilani was nonplussed. “I like running.”
Taniva forced a smile. “That is not quite what she meant.”
“She meant that you should wear more dresses, Principessa,” Zevran interjected.
The girl scowled in confusion. “Perché non posso essere vagabondo in un vestito?”
Taniva could sense Zevran repressing a chuckle as she gave Tilani a warning look. “Common tongue, please. It’s rude to switch to Antivan in front of people who don’t understand.”
“Mi dispiace - ah. Sorry, Mama.”
“But it is very good culture to know more than one language,” Anora added politely. “I would like to see more young Fereldan nobles take up your example. I happen to be better at Orlesian than Antivan.”
Tilani took in this information with a sage nod. “Like Leliana.”
Anora grinned, hands still clutched together - wanting to seem warm, Taniva thought, but far out of her element in dealing with a child. “Shall we all go and have tea? The head cook tells me he made some Antivan pastries.”
Sweets were a sufficient bribe to get Tilani moving toward the dining room. The table was dressed for formal service, practically gleaming with silver, and Taniva sighed. Over the years she’d trained herself to recognize Anora’s insistence on such things as well-intentioned, even if it always felt like a flaunting of privileged upbringing. Anyway, the food was good, and the tea was an Antivan blend - amusing, in a way, how Anora had decided that the way into the elven family’s good graces was through Antivan rather than elven culture. Tilani gulped down one cup after another of tea thick with added sugar, and heaped cakes onto her plate.
This, like so many things about his little princess, made Zevran laugh. “Slow down, tesoro mio!” he chided, holding her hand down for a moment. “Her Majesty will think we do not feed you.”
“But not always pastries, I would assume,” said Anora. “One has to fill up on treats when one gets them. I was a child once. I do understand some of these things.” Then she turned toward Taniva and asked, as if the abrupt change of subject were nothing, “How is Nathaniel doing?”
“What?” This again. Taniva hated being put in the middle of their mutual undeclared interest like this. He should just come to Denerim himself and - “Well, I suppose. He still doesn’t come up into Amaranthine often, so I only see him when I look in on the Wardens.”
“I don’t imagine you would see him much more if he did go to Amaranthine. You still don’t spend much time there yourself. I know you prefer a... wilder life for yourself, but for an Arlessa, it is... awkward.”
Well, whose idea had that been, anyway? “My advisors and I are agreed that it is less awkward if the people are not confronted directly by knife-eared rulers for long stretches of time. I’m not the only one who needs longer to adjust.”
Anora allowed herself a quick, exasperated sigh. “What are they adjusting to if you are never there? What do you expect them to think of you?”
Tilani was suddenly glaring. “Mama is the Hero of Ferelden!”
Zevran took hold of her hand again, this time looking more serious. “Ssh.”
“Era cattiva alla Mama.”
“So, bambino. Io maneggeró.”
No. Taniva did not want Zevran to “handle it.” He probably had sense enough not to mean it in the professional sense, but he never had really liked Anora, so it was hard to feel completely sure. But of course she should have known better, since he was so often the diplomat, the one who held her temper in check.
He raised his eyes to Anora’s, his look sober. “They think that they live in a city that is well-managed and safe, where their needs are not forgotten because of prejudice or greed. They think that they are better off than they were under Arl Howe. My Warden has gone to a great deal of effort to make sure that this is so.”
Anora had the decency to blush as she broke eye contact. “Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”
Taniva smirked. “But you want them to see me standing there in the dress.”
“Symbols mean something, Taniva. You may not want to believe that appearances make a difference, but they do.”
Taniva was, against all common sense, opening her mouth to ask if appearances had anything to do with Anora’s atypical shyness about courting a dead villain’s son, when Anora’s eyes darted toward Tilani, and Taniva’s followed. The girl’s raised foot quickly moved back under the table, and she straightened her back and looked at the queen with a sudden and suspicious primness.
“Do the shoes bother you?” Anora asked, her tone still polite but with just a trace of command brought into it.
Tilani looked back and forth at her parents before answering. Zevran raised his eyebrows at her. “Tsk. Principessa.”
Tilani sighed, reached into her shoe, and produced one of Anora’s spoons.
“Ah, Tilani,” Taniva moaned, only glancing at Anora’s frown of disapproval before giving her full attention to the child. “Now, we’ve talked about this, haven’t we?”
The little blond head dropped forward. “Yes, Mama.”
And that could have been the end of it: Anora leaned back into her seat, content that parental correction had taken place. But Tilani added in a whine, “I thought she wasn’t looking.”
“She wasn’t,” Taniva replied. “But you were so obvious that she had to.”
“All of this with the leg,” Zevran protested, acting the gesture out himself. “Who would not notice this? Now, where should you have put it instead? Do you know?”
Tilani shrugged. “The sleeve.”
“Yes, Principessa. Your nice, long sleeve. Much more subtle.”
“Moving less is always better, even if you think no one is looking,” Taniva explained. Then she added, with a bare fraction of a grin that she should really have contained, “Appearances are important.”
At any rate, it would be a while before they had to take tea with Anora again.
Title: The Girl and the Queen
Words: 1917
Rating: G
Characters: Zevran/f!Tabris (Taniva), Tilani, and Anora
Summary: Anora invites the Arainai family over for a civilized private tea. In retrospect, an obvious mistake.
The Girl and the Queen
Taniva never liked going to see Anora. The castle in Denerim always reminded her of Alistair’s death years ago, and now also Wynne’s. That would start everything off with an air of melancholy, and then she would also have to put on one of her hated “Arlessa dresses.” Today was the first time she would also have to wrestle Tilani into one.
“But it itches!” the little girl roared, running half-naked through their Denerim house. “I want to dress like Papa!”
On cue, Zevran appeared in the hallway, laughing as he scooped the fleeing child up in his arms and looked with mock sternness into her face. “What is all this noise, Principessa?”
Tilani put on her best father-melting pout and gestured back toward her mother, who stood disheveled and annoyed, clutching the velvet and lace monstrosity in one hand. “I hate the dress,” the girl whined. “Don’t make me wear it, Papa.”
Taniva rolled her eyes, but this time, Zevran didn’t cave. “I’m afraid you must. The Queen sent it just for you. She will want to see you in it. You will never have to wear it again.”
“Oh, good,” Taniva muttered. “Do I get the same promise?”
“You see?” Zevran chirped, rather too sanguine about the whole affair. “Mama is unhappy too. We will all be unhappy together!”
“Right. You look very unhappy.”
Zevran swung Tilani into one arm and off to the side so that he could move close to his wife. “Of course I am,” he purred, touching her free hand. “Fereldan dresses are much too frumpy for you.” He gave her a light kiss on the cheek, and she sighed and unwound a little.
But she also handed him the little dress. “Fine. You get her into it, then. I’ve got my own pile of itchy fabric to contend with.”
At least her own dress was a more reasonable color: why Anora had decided that a pale blond child should wear yellow, Taniva couldn’t imagine. She was going to look like a lemon.
When they reconvened - Zevran changed both himself and their daughter in a different room, to give Taniva a respite - Tilani looked better than expected, though already a bit rumpled, and was chattering excitedly about the new toy sword she was going to receive after they were home from seeing the Queen.
“You spoil her,” Taniva said, as always, knowing he didn’t care.
“I pay for obedience,” he smiled, putting an arm around her. “It is the principle I was raised with, and it works.”
Now that they were all absurdly dressed, their procession to the castle drew much more attention than Taniva wanted. The concept of elven nobles was still an oddity, and she was always concerned that there might be violent disapproval amongst the reactions from the crowd they usually attracted. And unlike Zevran, she had to hide a dagger in her boot, which she would have to dig out from under these accursed skirts if she needed it.
On the other hand, other than the worry about her daughter, a fight would at least make sense and be some fun, unlike a visit to the royal court. Taniva’s sigh on reaching their destination was both relief and bitter resignation.
Anora still ruled alone: the twice-widowed Queen was being understandably slow to have a third go at marriage. While this had little impact on the castle itself, over the years the style of dress expected in her court was becoming steadily more elaborate. (It was not for nothing, Leliana had once told them, that Anora was the one Fereldan whom the Empress of Orlais liked.) Even the servants now had relatively fancy skirts or suits, and it took a moment for Taniva to realize that they were not being greeted at the door by some obscure bann’s daughter.
True that the Queen had not gone so far as to adopt the ridiculous wigs and hats Leliana had reported were sometimes popular in Orlais - which was for the best, since Taniva would have drawn a line there. But Anora greeted them in a dusty-blue gown with even fuller skirts than she had required of the elves and shoes that looked like they were covered in beads.
As always, Anora insisted on greeting Taniva like a lady and friend, even though Taniva considered herself neither. She came over beaming and calling the elf by name, grabbing her by one hand and planting a light kiss on her cheek. Zevran she acknowledged with a small, decorous nod. She had taken to calling them both by name, Taniva suspected, because she could not bring herself to refer to the Antivan as Arl despite his marriage to her chosen Arlessa, nor did Taniva tolerate him being called Consort even though Zevran himself seemed to think it was funny.
Tilani bowed rather than curtsying. “Majesty,” she mumbled. They had been unable to convince her that “Your” was necessary.
Anora clasped her hands together tightly, obviously charmed but too formal in manner to make too much of it. “Tilani!” she breathed. “I doubt that you remember me. You could barely walk the last time I saw you. You look beautiful! Do you like your dress?”
“It itches,” Tilani frowned.
Anora glanced up at Taniva with a tolerant laugh. “I’m sure you’re not used to such things. You would be if your mother did not insist on running you all over Ferelden like a vagrant.”
Tilani was nonplussed. “I like running.”
Taniva forced a smile. “That is not quite what she meant.”
“She meant that you should wear more dresses, Principessa,” Zevran interjected.
The girl scowled in confusion. “Perché non posso essere vagabondo in un vestito?”
Taniva could sense Zevran repressing a chuckle as she gave Tilani a warning look. “Common tongue, please. It’s rude to switch to Antivan in front of people who don’t understand.”
“Mi dispiace - ah. Sorry, Mama.”
“But it is very good culture to know more than one language,” Anora added politely. “I would like to see more young Fereldan nobles take up your example. I happen to be better at Orlesian than Antivan.”
Tilani took in this information with a sage nod. “Like Leliana.”
Anora grinned, hands still clutched together - wanting to seem warm, Taniva thought, but far out of her element in dealing with a child. “Shall we all go and have tea? The head cook tells me he made some Antivan pastries.”
Sweets were a sufficient bribe to get Tilani moving toward the dining room. The table was dressed for formal service, practically gleaming with silver, and Taniva sighed. Over the years she’d trained herself to recognize Anora’s insistence on such things as well-intentioned, even if it always felt like a flaunting of privileged upbringing. Anyway, the food was good, and the tea was an Antivan blend - amusing, in a way, how Anora had decided that the way into the elven family’s good graces was through Antivan rather than elven culture. Tilani gulped down one cup after another of tea thick with added sugar, and heaped cakes onto her plate.
This, like so many things about his little princess, made Zevran laugh. “Slow down, tesoro mio!” he chided, holding her hand down for a moment. “Her Majesty will think we do not feed you.”
“But not always pastries, I would assume,” said Anora. “One has to fill up on treats when one gets them. I was a child once. I do understand some of these things.” Then she turned toward Taniva and asked, as if the abrupt change of subject were nothing, “How is Nathaniel doing?”
“What?” This again. Taniva hated being put in the middle of their mutual undeclared interest like this. He should just come to Denerim himself and - “Well, I suppose. He still doesn’t come up into Amaranthine often, so I only see him when I look in on the Wardens.”
“I don’t imagine you would see him much more if he did go to Amaranthine. You still don’t spend much time there yourself. I know you prefer a... wilder life for yourself, but for an Arlessa, it is... awkward.”
Well, whose idea had that been, anyway? “My advisors and I are agreed that it is less awkward if the people are not confronted directly by knife-eared rulers for long stretches of time. I’m not the only one who needs longer to adjust.”
Anora allowed herself a quick, exasperated sigh. “What are they adjusting to if you are never there? What do you expect them to think of you?”
Tilani was suddenly glaring. “Mama is the Hero of Ferelden!”
Zevran took hold of her hand again, this time looking more serious. “Ssh.”
“Era cattiva alla Mama.”
“So, bambino. Io maneggeró.”
No. Taniva did not want Zevran to “handle it.” He probably had sense enough not to mean it in the professional sense, but he never had really liked Anora, so it was hard to feel completely sure. But of course she should have known better, since he was so often the diplomat, the one who held her temper in check.
He raised his eyes to Anora’s, his look sober. “They think that they live in a city that is well-managed and safe, where their needs are not forgotten because of prejudice or greed. They think that they are better off than they were under Arl Howe. My Warden has gone to a great deal of effort to make sure that this is so.”
Anora had the decency to blush as she broke eye contact. “Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”
Taniva smirked. “But you want them to see me standing there in the dress.”
“Symbols mean something, Taniva. You may not want to believe that appearances make a difference, but they do.”
Taniva was, against all common sense, opening her mouth to ask if appearances had anything to do with Anora’s atypical shyness about courting a dead villain’s son, when Anora’s eyes darted toward Tilani, and Taniva’s followed. The girl’s raised foot quickly moved back under the table, and she straightened her back and looked at the queen with a sudden and suspicious primness.
“Do the shoes bother you?” Anora asked, her tone still polite but with just a trace of command brought into it.
Tilani looked back and forth at her parents before answering. Zevran raised his eyebrows at her. “Tsk. Principessa.”
Tilani sighed, reached into her shoe, and produced one of Anora’s spoons.
“Ah, Tilani,” Taniva moaned, only glancing at Anora’s frown of disapproval before giving her full attention to the child. “Now, we’ve talked about this, haven’t we?”
The little blond head dropped forward. “Yes, Mama.”
And that could have been the end of it: Anora leaned back into her seat, content that parental correction had taken place. But Tilani added in a whine, “I thought she wasn’t looking.”
“She wasn’t,” Taniva replied. “But you were so obvious that she had to.”
“All of this with the leg,” Zevran protested, acting the gesture out himself. “Who would not notice this? Now, where should you have put it instead? Do you know?”
Tilani shrugged. “The sleeve.”
“Yes, Principessa. Your nice, long sleeve. Much more subtle.”
“Moving less is always better, even if you think no one is looking,” Taniva explained. Then she added, with a bare fraction of a grin that she should really have contained, “Appearances are important.”
At any rate, it would be a while before they had to take tea with Anora again.