-oOo-

Alistair awoke to a soft bed and a sore head. Dim evening light seeped into the room through wooden blinds. Maker, where am I? I thought I… He stopped, too ashamed to continue even in the privacy of his own mind, but the thoughts swirled there anyway, despite his preference.

I thought I drank myself into unconsciousness.

I thought I passed the night in the corner of a seedy inn, or down an alley with the rest of the trash.

This was no inn, or certainly not the kind he frequented. There was a light perfume in the air; the type of delicate flowery scent favoured by young girls in this country, where the intense sunlight and heat intensified all smells to the point of excess.

He shifted, the movement producing a groan as pain lanced through his head. A dim figure separated itself from the shadows and turned into an old woman; shapeless black dress, and a black shawl shrouding white hair. She did not speak, but merely left the room.

Before he could summon the will to react, to once again risk movement, she returned with reinforcements. Now there were three of them, carrying pails of steaming water that they poured into a bath. More pails appeared, passed from unseen hands outside the door, until the bath was full. One of the women turned to him and gestured, indicating that the bath was for him.

"Um, thanks, er… you can go now…please?" His voice was rough, his throat burning. Maker, he needed a drink.

One of the old women turned to the others and said something in Antivan, her voice cracked, her accent too thick for him to decipher. They cackled and turned purposefully to the bed, stripping the covers from him and taking his arms.

"What? No! I mean, stop it. Look I'm a grown man, I can b- Hey!"

The last sharp expostulation was caused by them stripping from him the nightclothes he wore, their bony fingers surprisingly strong as they held him. Where did the clothes come from anyway? I don't own a nightshirt. A bandage on his forearm, the sudden stiffness as he moved it and the distinctive smell of a poultice, distracted him long enough for them to usher him into the bath.

Maker, what happened?

Stick-thin fingers began to scrub him impersonally, and slowly the raging blush, that had risen when he was stripped, subsided. Alistair was irresistibly reminded of the stablemaster's wife at Redcliffe, scrubbing a small boy who seemed incapable of staying clean for five minutes at a time. It was soothing to be treated so, to forget for just a little while that he was a man now, with half a lifetime of errors behind him.

The arrival into his orbit of another elderly lady, this one bearing a straight razor and a bowl of thick creamy lather failed to disturb the peaceful mood that had descended on him. Her hands were steady, the scrape of the razor sure and confident over the beard growth of… how long? Alistair frowned. Months, probably. Certainly since before the sea journey to Antiva, the short-lived contract as a guard that had brought him here. The thirst raged in his throat; but a scan of the room showed no handy bottles or decanters, and the sour fragrance of old ale – soaked into the very boards of taverns – was missing. Not an inn, then. Where in Andraste's name am I? He tried, in his slightly broken Antivan, to ask. It took a couple of tries before he got a response, either because his Antivan was too poor or because they were reluctant to speak to him. The answer was delivered in an accent so thick as to be practically incomprehensible, but Alistair made it out to be la casa di fantasia: the house of… he was not certain of the meaning of the last word… dreams, perhaps?

His musings were abruptly interrupted when the lather was briskly applied to his hair and the razor took its first stroke over his scalp.

"Hey, no!" He struggled to move, to escape the water; a cluster of vein-knotted but surprisingly strong arms seized and held him. "What are you doing? Not my hair!" His struggles narrowly escaped causing an unfortunate collision between the razor and his ear, and the woman holding it stepped back at the same moment as Alistair froze in place.

"Pidocchi." The word she spoke, obviously in explanation, meant nothing to Alistair. At his look of blank confusion, she reached out with two skinny fingers and delved into his hair. He heard a tiny crack as her fingers withdrew past his ear and understood before she held out the broken brown-ish body on a fingernail smeared with blood. Fleas. His face burned anew and he ducked his head, making no further protest as she shaved his head and worked into his scalp some strong-smelling unguent, which reminded him of the scent of an opened wooden chest. Pine? No. Cedar. That was it, the paste smelt of cedar wood. Once Alistair's head felt raw and strange, the razor and the paste moved to scrape over his armpits and a new concern raised its ugly head. Maker, is she going to-? Everywhere? However, after a closer inspection than he was at all comfortable with – and endured with his eyes squeezed tight shut and his fists clenched – he was spared that particular indignity. With a satisfied grunt the razor and bowl were set aside, and Alistair let out his breath in a relieved sigh.

One more vigorous scrubbing of his skin and the small tribe of elderly ladies appeared content. He was encouraged by gestures to stand, to step out of the bath, and enveloped in rough towels which relieved his modesty issues and abraded his blushing skin in equal measure. There seemed no question of his being permitted to dry himself; once again he was reminded irresistibly of his childhood, of scolding women rubbing coarse towels over his small body, with a complete disregard for his yelps and complaints.

Clothes were produced; not the ones he arrived in, filthy with dirt and spilt booze. These were clean and serviceable, the cream linen trousers and white shirt commonly worn here in Antiva, where pale colours and thin fabrics were the norm. By the time Alistair was dressed a tray of food arrived, borne by yet another white-haired woman, as brown and wrinkled as a date. At the sight and smell of the food – a bowl of hearty bean stew fragrant with herbs – his stomach rebelled and he shook his head.

"I'm not hungry; I need- I mean, can I have a drink? Birra, per favore."

A click of the tongue and quick shake of the head. A spoonful of stew hovered an inch from his face. "Mangi." The cracked voice brooked no refusal and Alistair's mouth opened without volition. With a warm mouthful of beans and tomatoes, various systems which had been ignored for too long reared their heads. Taste buds sent signals to stomach and brain and the return messages approved heartily. Nourishment was, they clamoured, a good thing, and Alistair chewed and swallowed under their combined urgings. There was another brief rebellion when the food actually hit his stomach, and for a moment Alistair thought he was going to reject it, but the next spoonful was easier. By the fourth, he'd taken the spoon off them and was eating for himself, his Warden appetite re-emerging from self-imposed famine, tearing into the bread that accompanied the stew, mopping up final juices with the crust.

Washed, fed and clothed, he felt more human than he had since the-

His mind shifted away from that. Better than in a long time. That was enough.

-oOo-

The young man who was ushered into Serafina's sitting-room bore little resemblance to the filthy, unshaven drunk who had bled all over her hall the previous day. The removal of grime and facial hair revealed a square face, strong jaw, and hazel eyes unclouded by drink, but still somewhat bloodshot. No broken veins in his nose or cheeks, and only a tiny tremor in his hands; the padrone was, as always, correct. He was not yet too far gone to be dried out and put to work. Regarding the Maestro Corvo's connection to this one, Serafina quashed her curiosity. Signore Arainai was known to have spent time in cold, muddy Ferelden, before his emergence as one of the brightest new stars in the Corvi firmament. He had his reasons, no doubt.

"You are the one who saved Catarina. You have my thanks." Ugh, the Ferelden tongue was so drab, like cold custard or boiled potatoes in her mouth. Foreign tongues had not come easily to her, but were necessary if she wished her House to be seen as superior.

He bowed in the Ferelden style, with an awkwardness that came from self-consciousness, not low breeding. Interesting. "Um… you're welcome, madam… er, I mean signora."

"I have need of a strong man who may be trusted with my girls. I would offer you a job, as a guard, yes?"

"Really?" He made no attempt to mask his astonishment, or the eagerness in his eyes or voice. There was no artifice here, no guile. "Your daughters, signora?"

She laughed softly. "No, Alistair, my girls." Merda, she'd used his name without realising, drawn in by his own blatant honesty. Fortunately he did not appear to have noticed, so she moved smoothly on. "This is a house of pleasure. A whorehouse for the rich and powerful, under the protection of the Corvi, you understand?" If the rich blush rising from his throat to his cheeks was any indication, then he did.

"There is a condition, however." The wild look he gave her suggested he was getting entirely the wrong idea. Sacro Coure di Andraste, does he think I intend him to whore for his living? "You will not drink. Not now, not at any time you remain in my employ. You will go daily to the sweat baths, purge the poisons from your system. Signora Cosma, in the kitchens, will brew you a posset to quell your cravings; you shall drink this three times a day." The look she gave him was cool and hard. The one he returned reminded her of a puppy crouched by a puddle of piss. "I am giving you one chance. One, and only one. It is up to you what you do with it."

"I… understand, signora. Thank you." His response seemed heartfelt, genuine. It meant nothing. In a month or two, if he kept off the bottle, perhaps she might believe it.

"Buono. Go now; the porter will instruct you in your duties."

-oOo-