Chapter 7: A Surprise For Lieutenant Rutherford
After dinner, Flora and Leliana were sitting up on the high ramparts overlooking the ocean. At their backs, the sun was inching itself towards the Bannorn, leaving the sky in a blended smear of pastel hues. The deep glass-green of Amaranthine was desaturated by the lowering light, the horizon melding with the distant water until it was not clear where sea ended and sky began.
Leliana had her nose buried deep in a song-book; the evening service would begin in an hour, and she did not want a single erroneous word to emerge from her lips. Flora was resting her chin in her arms on the ramparts, gazing thoughtfully out at the unbroken expanse of water. There was a small flotilla of Marcher trade ships taking advantage of a westerly wind, and she squinted to see their flags.
"That's Kirkwall," she said with reasonable confidence, more to herself then anyone else. "The one with the red flag. I don't know what the others are."
Leliana gave a little shrug, immersed in her text.
"The navy banner on the end is Ansberg," came a gruff, northern voice from behind them. "The chequered one belongs to Ostwick."
It was the Templar Gannorn who had spoken; his eyes still sharp despite the iron-grey of his beard and close-cropped hair.
"Ansberg," breathed Flora, the name sparking recognition in her memory. "Oh, that's where Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan were raised! They have good horses there."
"Yes, their Margravane is well-known for possessing the best stables in Thedas," Leliana added, eyes still fixed on her prayer book.
Just then, there came the sound of hurried footsteps ascending the rampart stair; the distinctive thud of a man taking them two at a time. Instinctively, the Templars both turned around to face the steps, and Leliana's gaze lifted from her prayer-book, fingers sliding imperceptibly towards her dagger-concealing sleeve.
Flora, however, had other ways of recognising her former brother-warden's approach, despite them no longer sharing the connection of tainted blood. She knew the sound of his tread intimately; could identify his footfall from a crowd just by the sound of his boot striking the ground.
Sure enough, Alistair soon burst onto the monastery ramparts; face flushed and with the golden band of kingship lopsided on his head. His eyes swept the basalt walkway, focusing immediately on Flora as she beamed at him, visibly delighted. Immediately, relief crashed across the king's face, and he raised his arms as he strode across the flagstones.
"Sweetheart."
Flora scuttled, crab-like, across the ramparts and Alistair folded her into his arms, exhaling unsteadily.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Flora replied, as he drew back just far enough to look her up and down, anxiously. "How are you?"
"My brain feels like it's leaking out of my ears after sitting in a room with eight other men all day, but apart from that, I'm fine too."
Flora gave a little grimace of sympathy, reaching up to touch the dark shadows beneath her best friend's eyes.
"Poor Alistair," she whispered, thinking in some ways, you're as trapped as I am now. "You look tired."
Alistair smiled down at her, cupping the back of Flora's head and rubbing a thumb over her ear.
"I feel like I'm awake for the first time all afternoon, being with you. Hello, Lel - how's it been?"
Leliana smiled, waving at him over her prayer-book.
"How refreshing, to be so immersed in the Maker's bosom! I feel my faith revitalised, even during the few brief hours of our residence here at Revanloch."
In the distance, a great bell began to swing back and forth on its hinges, sending out an imperious summons into the dusk. Alistair continue to stare at the bard expectantly, and Leliana relented.
"And, of course, everything has been fine. Florence and I have spent the afternoon in the library, pouring over the great dynasties of Ferelden."
"Valmont, Pentaghast, Valisti, Vael," Flora repeated, dutifully. "Why do so many of them start with vuh?"
Both Alistair and Leliana waited – with baited breath - for her to augment the question with, and why do I have to learn about them?
But Flora had launched herself on a tangent, trying to remember how to spell Celene.
"S-A-L-I-N-E-"
"Not quite, ma petite. Ah, it is almost time for Complines."
Alistair grinned, and suddenly seemed a Templar initiate of fifteen again, instinctively turning his head towards the clarion call of the bells.
"Maker, it's just like the old days," he breathed, peering down into the inner courtyard to watch columns of young recruits streaming towards the main chapel. "I still remember all the prayers. Come on, Flo."
The main chapel of Revanloch was high-ceilinged and commanding; with flying stone buttresses and a massive stained glass window depicting the prophesied return of the Maker. The effigy of Andraste reared up at the altar like a particularly stern schoolmistress, the eternal flame blazing away in a sculpted iron brazier.
The entire populace of Revanloch had piled into the Chantry for Complines prayers; from the lowliest kitchen-servant to the Knight-Commander himself. The initiates were crowded on cramped wooden benches in the back, all craning their necks to see towards the Royal pew. This separate stall had been reserved for the rare occasion when a Theirin would grace the Templar monastery with his presence. This had happened from time to time with Maric; never with Cailan.
The Royal stall, however, was not particularly comfortable – especially considering that it had to house the Knight-Commander, Leliana, Flora and her two Templars, and Alistair with his four Royal Guard escort. Two more Royal Guard had been relegated to the back benches, sitting uncomfortably amongst a horde of snickering adolescents.
The Chantry Mother began the service with the traditional incantation; which called upon those present to prostrate themselves wholly to the Maker. The congregation were expected to kneel, with exception being granted to those too ill, aged, or otherwise unable to descend to their knees.
Flora duly sunk downwards, gazing assiduously at the flagstones. Her weak knee gave a twinge of pain and she scowled, internally willing it to behave. Alistair narrowed his eyes sideways at her, mouthing something that she couldn't quite decipher.
"You don't have to kneel," he whispered, trying not to be heard above the Chantry Mother's sonorous tones.
He then said something that was drowned out by the general murmuring of the congregation. Flora blinked, unsure if she had heard him correctly.
"'You're too fat'?" she repeated, indignantly. "FAT?"
Alistair gaped at her for a second, then shook his head vehemently.
"No!" he replied, wide-eyed; his response muffled by the congregation as they rose to their feet. "I said: 'you can stand'."
The king looked affronted as he reached down to help haul his pregnant mistress to her feet.
"I'd never call you fat, Lo," he whispered indignantly in her ear as the Chantry Mother held out her arms, raising a beatific stare to the heavens. "Not in this Age, or the next. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
Leliana narrowed her eyes at both of them, managing to glower pointedly without moving her head. The Chantry Mother then turned her arms towards the vast effigy of Andraste, her heavy cream sleeves hanging down like wings.
"O, Maker's Bride!" she entreated, voice echoing to the vaulted ceiling. "As we prepare to read Your words, help us to decipher their true meaning so that we might serve You better!"
She turned around with hands outstretched expectantly, waiting to receive the Chant of Light, from which the reading would be taken.
A Templar emerged from a side passage, carrying the heavy tome reverently on an intricately-carved presentation board. Aware that the eyes of the congregation were on him, the young Templar raised his curly blond head and strode with militaristic precision towards the altar.
As Lieutenant Rutherford approached the Chantry Mother, his attention was diverted by the gathering of unusual guests in the front pew. Glancing sideways, he caught sight of a pair of pale grey, Mabari-hound eyes: meeting his like lightning arcing through a summer storm. As she recognised him, the girl with the storm-coloured eyes smiled; the wide mouth that he had dreamt about for so many months curving upwards.
The young lieutenant dropped both tray and tome, the heavy leather-bound book falling to the flagstones with an echoing thud that could have roused the Maker Himself. The initiates in the back rows snickered, nudging each other as the Chantry Mother hissed like an albino bat. Flora, who had not expected her smile of greeting to go so awry, looked anxious.
Now a luminous shade of scarlet, Cullen Rutherford scrambled to pick up the Chant of Light, fumbling to return the book to its correct place on the tray. He presented it with head bowed to the Chantry Mother, rigid with contrition. She took it with a snort of disgust, silencing the giggling initiates with a sweep of her scathing glare.
"He's still infatuated with her, then," murmured Leliana, fondly. "Ah, the first tender follies of the heart can be enduring."
Alistair searched his memory, placing the blond Templar as the one who had been assigned to guard Connor during their stay at South Reach. He also recalled the lieutenant helpless in a desire demon's clutches in Kinloch Hold; and how Cullen had confessed a secret and hopeless passion for a certain young red-headed apprentice, who kept being expelled from class to clean the corridors. The lieutenant had known that Flora frequently broke curfew to sneak down to the kitchens, and that she used to regularly climb up onto the Tower roof, and had not reported either misdemeanour to his seniors.
Cullen, retreating to stand beside the brazier, darted another glance at the Royal stall. His stare moved discretely from the swollen-stomached Flora, to Alistair standing tall and crowned at her side. On the last occasion that they had parted, Cullen had rode back beneath the South Reach portcullis in a clatter of hoof-beats, dismounted haphazardly, and pressed an impulsive kiss to a gawping Flora's mouth. The young lieutenant had been convinced that he would never see this object of his youthful desire again; hence such uncharacteristic boldness.
Now, to Cullen's mild horror, Flora – or the Hero of Ferelden as she was now known – was standing before him, alive and healthy. He knew that she had killed the Archdemon, and had been told that her connection with the Fade had been severed. He had also heard the rumours that she was carrying the Theirin's child; gossip which was now quite obviously confirmed.
Alistair narrowed his eyes, thoughtfully. Leliana made a rare error of judgement, patting him on the elbow.
"You don't need to be jealous of young Lieutenant Rutherford, Alistair," she whispered, reassuringly. "He wouldn't make advances on land already claimed by the king."
"No, no- "Alistair replied under his breath, his reply partly drowned out by some enthusiastic preaching from the Chantry Mother. "That doesn't bother me – Maker knows I'm used to people lusting after Flo – but wouldn't this Rutherford make a good guard for her while she's here? If he cares for Flora, he'd never let a shred of harm come to her."
Meanwhile, Flora knew full well that she owed Cullen both for his discretion at the Circle, and for his instruction in how to resist a silencing spell. The latter had saved her life during an attack by a Darkspawn necromancer, and she had never had a chance to thank him properly. She tried to catch his eye, but Cullen was now gazing fixedly at the vast, stern face of Andraste, his cheeks still pink.
The Chantry Mother finished her reading and made the gesture for a hymn, clearing her throat as she prepared to launch into the opening verse.
"Alistair, that would be tantamount to cruelty," Leliana retorted, turning her hymn book to the correct page. "You can't make the boy watch the object of his desire sleeping, undressing, washing herself in the bath. How is he ever supposed to overcome his longing if you flaunt her before him?"
Alistair grunted, reluctantly admitting that the bard had a point. The opening bars of the hymn rang out, and he duly joined in with Leliana's soaring soprano vocals.
Flora listened to her former brother-warden's rich, clear baritone and admired how well it melded with their bard's crystalline tones. She knew that nobody wanted to hear her frog-croak of a singing voice, and so opened and closed her mouth at random intervals, unable to decipher the words of the prayer book fast enough to mime correctly.
She was relieved when the hymn came to an end and the congregation sat. Her lower back was aching where the child put pressure on it, and her feet also had a tendency of swelling up in her boots when she stood still for too long.
The Chantry Mother advanced once more to the pulpit, her eyes burning with sacred fervour.
"Before we adjourn with a closing prayer," she began, clasping her hands so that her sleeves hung down like cream-coloured altar-cloths. "We must thank the Maker for His superlative generosity, with regard to our own dear Hero of Ferelden."
Still not used to the title, it took Flora a moment to realise that the priestess was talking about her. She looked up with mild trepidation, feeling Alistair stiffen against her arm.
"The lady Cousland once suffered from the terrible affliction of magic, constantly at risk from the malevolent forces of the Fade. As reward for her great service to our nation, the Maker purified the lady and purged her of this… abnormality. Let us all give thanks for His benevolence!"
OOC Author Note: Aaah, poor Flo! Hearing her beloved, now departed spirits referred to as an affliction. I know I said update tomorrow or Tuesday, but I had a bit of time so I was able to update today!
Watched the London Marathon today – AMAZING! Every year when I watch it, I get super inspired to try and sign up for the next year… but my friend and I ran a 10k yesterday and I actually thought I was going to die at the end of it, lol. I think 10k is my actual physical limit!
I'm editing this to a TERRIBLE film on movies4men channel, called NYC: Tornado Terror. It's SO BAD! Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!