InsaneJournal

Preparations for a wedding were, of course, underway. For an event of this magnitude to take place by First Day, the planners were already weeks behind. The hustle and bustle of people hurrying through halls, taking measurements, holding up fabrics and swaths of silk, all grated on her nerves. That they would have the nerve to host something like this here, mere months after her husband’s demise…

Still. She swallowed past the indignation and continued her walk, leaning heavily on her cane, as her slippers tapped against the polished stone of the hallway. The hem of her gown - recently turned back to color from mourning black - swirled around her feet.

Hushed whispers stopped as she approached and she allowed her displeasure to show for a moment before it was once again carefully masked. She had, of course, heard the newest crop of rumors, and she could hardly blame the help for regurgitating them. Especially not when the subjects of one particularly bored gossip were within sight of each other. She did, of course, know Marin Voclain; the nobility were nobility and deserving of the respect of their station regardless of the country that they came from.

But he was not titled enough to merit the kind of attention that so carelessly flew from the lips of the people around them.

“Ser Voclain,” she greeted. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

The chevalier turned his glance away from the grey light outside and gave Isolde a respectful deep bow. Unlike her gardens, at this time of the year, she lit up the room with a charming complimentary color. The beauty of the palace, certain guests excepted. And therein laid a thought he would never say aloud. “Your Grace,” he greeted her with all due respect, “The pleasure, certainly, lays in seeing you.” His tone was the same, respectful, not even a twinkle of flirtation, despite what the words implied.

“You have been a kind host beyond imagination,” he complimented as he joined her side. His arm stuck out just enough, a subtle offer should she wish to accept it. And yet, it was quiet enough Isolde would not need be rude to refuse it. Every consideration for her. His eyes sparkled.

Isolde took the offered arm, careful to keep from transferring her full weight to him, instead using the opportunity to even herself out, walk straighter. “You are too kind,” she murmured, a small smile playing on her lips. “It is the least that we could do when it is we who ask for the mercy of your kindness and aid.” Octavian had not wished to offer up the palace as accommodations, but it was not as though he was around any longer to grumble about it.

Some days, it was easier not to miss her husband than to.

His gait adjusted to hers, steps in time and the same length. Few were the women whose natural pace matched his. But he was in no hurry, and while the duchess had no place at the negotiations, Marin thought it best to touch base with her and show her the proper respect she deserved as hostess. His free hand slipped into a gentle pocket and produced a fresh flower, recently brought across the sea, grown in a greenhouse that stayed warm all year round. A bright pink with six spread petals, he held it out to the duchess, though it temporarily brought them to a halt. “Good friends must look after each other,” Marin replied, “So I believe that calls for more than saving your life, your family, and your duchy. It is a trying time, despite the good news ahead of us.”

Surprise painted her face for a moment as she took the delicate bloom from his hand. An azalea, her favorite. Her gardens had none by design - they were meant to be special. A treat. A gift of something that she adores but did not see often. And now one was in her hand. “Thank you,” she replied. “It is not often that I see these.” Carefully, she tucked the flower behind her ear before resuming their walk.

“I hope that this union does in fact bring about happier news. While I am thrilled,” the word felt hollow on her tongue but fortunately did not come out that way, “for the upcoming nuptials, I fear the longer we wait for help to appear, the more damage the country will sustain.”

The momentary pleasure shown through everything else the duchess felt and hid, for clearly her clean face was too well schooled to reveal most of her feelings, pleased Marin terribly. It was a personal habit to learn what people liked and give it to them, though naturally that had limits. Isolde experienced barely a blush of what was commonplace for Noëlle. “You are welcome,” he replied and let her guide them through the halls where they would, close together side by side. The gossip never bothered him.

His face inclined slightly toward hers, even as they walked. His spatial awareness kept them comfortably within the hall, but that took little effort. No, she was his only focus just then and all the prettier now. “Tevinter is being so kind as to send help immediately,” Marin gently reminded her, “Your worries are well placed, I know, but the Orlesian help will do more good with the proper preparations. Then we can truly save Nevarra.” And then, by everyone’s standards, it would be worth saving. And admittedly, it was better preempted on their lands than his.

Her nod was small and allowed her to hide the flash of annoyance in her eyes. Tevinter was, indeed, being beyond courteous to dispatch troops prior to the wedding, though she was certain that had more to do with the ambassador attempting to save face from the earlier troubles that had cropped up within his delegation. First his brother, then the girl. Both blood mages, both leading to the death of someone close to her.

First her husband, then her cousin. Perhaps her cousin’s death had been worse - killed by his own daughter.

But she was no fool: Tevinter’s troops alone would not be enough to beat back the Blight. Instead, they would be battered, perhaps not as easily as Nevarra’s troops, but the Blight’s resources were seemingly endless, while those of the nations were finite. By the time First Day dawned, she was not sure how much of a difference Orlais’ troops would make.

“Of course,” came the soft reply. “We want our best chance, do we not?”

The best effort would be for the troops to arrive at the same time, whether they were deployed near each other or pressed from two different fronts. Had Marin chosen the timing, he would have had the Imperium’s troops wait for the Orlesian ones. If pressed, Orlesians could move faster, a large deployment took time. It was simply how armies worked. So no matter how much the duchess wished it were different (and he too, though diverging timelines), reality came another way. Honestly, there were some odds, long but present, that he would end up fighting darkspawn on the empire’s behalf. His being on this trip lowered those odds, but he would do what he was called upon for.

“Indeed, it would be best to spend lives judiciously,” Marin’s words were tinged with sadness, but the steel beneath it showed he was willing to spend them. That’s what they were all doing in this palace, during these talks. That, until then, Nevarran lives were lost was not lost on him. Nor was it meaningless. “Help will come,” he stated definitively. No matter what conditions it came under. It would come.

“It will,” came the steady agreement. She just hoped that when it came, there was still something of Nevarra that still stood.