Chapter 10: Getting to Know You

The night drifted on, deceptively peaceful considering the circumstances. There was no sign of Darkspawn, though the night sentries maintained constant vigilance. Scout patrols reported that there had been only isolated movements from the Deep Roads. The Chantry sisters performed their midnight service for the few who were still awake, or couldn't sleep.

Duncan, who rarely slept more than four to five hours due to increasing insomnia, was pacing the battlements of the fortress. His thoughts meandered from topic to topic, as fleeting as a bird moving between branches, awarding each only a moment's contemplation before moving on to the next.

Maker knows this lull is the calm before the storm. The Darkspawn will mass again within the month.

No more recruiting drives for now. With General Mac Tir's troops, we should have sufficient numbers.

Haven't yet managed to dissuade Cailan from this foolish notion of leading his army into battle. Must be firmer tomorrow.

I hope that Alistair is not too uncomfortable with his new charge. It'll be good for him; lift some of the prejudice instilled by the Chantry.

Duncan was no idealist; he was more than aware that there were a significant number of criminals and desperate men who had chosen the Joining as an alternative to the headsman. Those who had volunteered freely to enlist were perhaps even more ruthless. Although many would view their new mage with a cautious, if wary respect; there could be others for whom a pretty face overrode their better judgement. Although she could adequately protect herself, it was better to be safe than sorry.

No, Alistair is the best choice. He's a good boy and his moral compass is sound, if a little rigid. Also, the Chantry have told him for near a decade that lightning will strike him down if he so much as harbours a lustful thought. The lad desperately wants a family and the other wardens haven't fully accepted him; perhaps a sister will suffice instead of brothers.

Five hundred yards to the south on a damp pallet, Alistair was stirring. As an apprentice Templar, he had become used to waking up in the night to check the mages under his guard. Even if he was not on duty, his body still reflexively woke him several hours before sunrise.

He yawned widely and turned over onto his side. A stray elbow dislodged part of his artificial barrier; he grimaced as his helm rattled against a gauntlet. None of the uneven shapes on the surrounding pallets moved, and Alistair exhaled in relief.

Sitting up, he leaned over his breastplate and peered at Flora through the shadows. She appeared to be sound asleep, her cheek resting on the leather of her folded up boot. Quietly, he reached over and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Flora," he whispered, peering at her pale, still face. After a moment she yawned, familiar with the routine. Blearily, she tilted her face up towards a beam of moonlight filtering in through a gap in the canvas roofing. Alistair leaned forwards and squinted at her sleepy eyes; they were still a clear grey.

"Thanks," he muttered, withdrawing to settle back down on his pallet. Flora mumbled something unintelligible in response.

"'Night."

"'Night, Alistair."

Over the next fortnight, the fortress began to escalate preparations for the next assault. More soldiers arrived from Denerim, setting up their encampment in the valley below. A contingent of Surface dwarves began to assemble a series of trebuchets on Ostagar's outer walls. As Kingsway gave way to Harvestmere, the weather quickly and noticeably cooled. Early morning hoarfrost began to form on the crumbling stone walls, and those on dawn duty could see their breath crystallise in the air before them.

Everyone within the fortress reacted to the approaching assault in different ways. Some men sought comfort in the Maker, and the Chantry services grew more crowded. Others – Wardens as well as regular soldiers – became more dependent on the bottle. Duncan reprimanded those he caught drinking on duty, but he did not otherwise condemn them for seeking comfort where they were able.

Alistair and Flora had quickly adapted a routine, as strangers forced into each other's company often do. Mornings were for combat training, which was carried out on a sloping plain south of the fortress. Alistair sparred with the other junior Wardens, repeating the motions until they became second nature. Flora stayed well clear of the thrusting blades, having no interest in becoming a battlemage armed with sword and shield alongside spell.

Besides, there isn't much use for a mage who can't set fire to anyone.

Instead, she stayed in a small corner of the field and practised her barriers on three abandoned scarecrows whom she had named Morris, Boris and Doris.

Naturally the other wardens had noticed her presence, but many of them – after initial interest in seeing a pretty face – had realised that she was a mage and quickly left her alone. Additionally, they noted that she was in the company of the (in their view) unfairly favoured Alistair. The majority now simply chose to ignore her. However a selective few, including Stene, had taken it upon themselves to goad her whenever possible.

A crisp autumnal morning happened to be one of these occasions. Flora, slightly out of breath, had bent over to retrieve some bread from her pack. When she turned back around, one scarecrow had been decapitated and Stene was standing there with a grin, sword in hand. His boot rested firmly on the unfortunate scarecrow's head.

Flora scrambled to her feet, indignantly.

"Hey!" she demanded in outrage. "Give back Boris' head!"

Stene snorted, eyeing her up and down. "Or what? Going to curse me? I don't think so."

Flora flushed at this confirmation that rumours about her lack of offensive magic had spread. Stene grinned, sensing that his shot had hit accurately.

"Sorry, sister. Can't save 'em all."

With a swing of his boot, he sent the scarecrow's head flying to one side, trailing straw.

The head was intercepted by Alistair, who grabbed it out of the air as he approached. He had caught sight of the confrontation out of the corner of his eye in the middle of drill practise.

"Morning, Stene," he said cheerfully, strolling over to the decapitated scarecrow and stuffing the head back onto its lopsided shoulders. "Life is so much easier when you try and get on with people, you know? The power of friendship and all that."

Flora scowled at Stene as Alistair casually positioned himself beside her, draping an arm across her shoulders.

"Look at us! A mage and a Templar. By rights we should be at each other's throats. Instead, we're like brother and sister! Aren't we, Flo?"

Flora leaned her head against Alistair's shoulder, smiled sweetly up at him, then crossed her eyes evilly at Stene.

"Biggest pair of idiots in the Wardens," muttered the older man as he stalked off.

"What's wrong with him?" glowered Flora as Alistair adjusted the angle of Boris' chin.

"Can you heal a decapitated head?" he replied, evading her question and stepping back to admire his handiwork.

"No," said Flora sulkily, shooting a mutinous glance at Stene's departing back.

Alistair and Flora had easily fallen into the camaraderie that develops when two individuals discover how well their skills complemented each other. On the order of Duncan, they had been sent out most afternoons into the Korkari Wilds to accompany new recruits on the first part of their Joining; both had soon realised how effective their partnership was. Alistair was a naturally talented fighter, who had always erred on the side of over-caution. With Flora at his back, the young Templar felt the confidence to charge into the fray and unleash his full wrath upon the enemy; while the potency of Flora's shields had meant that their recruits suffered nothing worse than lacerations.

Darkness came more quickly on the last evenings of Kingsway, the watery sun giving up its hold on the day without protest. The night guard was doubled, on constant watch for the attack they knew was surely coming. The main encampment was still and quiet, blanketed in shadow; while the upper courtyard blazed with light and the sound of men in a jovial crowd. A wooden platform had been erected at one end, flanked by the colourful pavilions of the Royal party.

King Cailan Theirin was in the middle of delivering a speech, resplendent in his golden armour and splendid crown. His voice was brash and confident, his gauntlet catching the firelight as he gesticulated.

"It will be a day that will go down in Ferelden's greatest legends!" he bellowed, extending his arms beatifically to encompass his audience. "The Grey Wardens and the King, fighting side by side to defeat the relentless Darkspawn horde!"

Alistair and Flora were on the half-crumbled ramparts above the King's courtyard, after Alistair had been assigned evening sentry duty.

The junior warden was dutifully squinting over the southern wall, peering into the shadowed valley below for signs of movement, for the approaching torchlight that would signify an impending assault.

Meanwhile, Flora was hanging over the other side of the rampart, staring down at the wooden platform. She gazed in fascination at the blond head beneath the crown, the burnished armour gleaming brilliantly in the torchlight.

"So that's the King?" she asked as Cailan continued to speak, his words only half-distinguishable from her lofty position. Alistair made a noise of confirmation, squinting off towards the woods that covered the southern side of the valley. The trees disguised the entrances to the Deep Roads; it was from here that the Darkspawn would make their assault.

Flora flattened herself against the ramparts and inched forward in an attempt to hear more clearly.

"The people of Ferelden shall have no more cause to tremble in their beds at night! Their children shall grow and live to be old men and women, free from the fear of Blight. I, your King, shall achieve this for you!"

"Well, he sounds very confident," breathed Flora, her chin resting on the lichened stone. She gazed the blond man curiously, her eyes wandering over his finely hewn features and curling, arrogant mouth. "He looks a bit like you."

There was a fractional pause before Alistair gave a little laugh.

"Nonsense. I'm much better looking than Cailan Theirin."

Flora snorted, the wind changing direction and carrying the rest of the King's speech towards the Tower of Ishal. Her gaze moved to Duncan, who stood at the king's right with a neutral expression, the silver griffon on his breastplate gleaming.

"Who commands who?" she asked, leaning up on one elbow to retrieve a bag of squashed plums from her pocket. "Here."

Alistair turned just in time to catch the plum as she threw it. Taking a bite, he wandered over and leaned on the stone wall beside her, gazing down at the crowd below.

"I'd say that Duncan advises the King," he said after a moment. "And usually Cailan listens. Although they've begun to disagree recently."

"Disagree about what?" asked Flora, rolling the plum stone between her fingers. She eyed Stene, who stood at the periphery of the crowd below, and tried to gauge the distance and angle needed to hit him in the back of the head.

"Cailan wants to lead his troops when the Darkspawn make their advance," Alistair replied, reaching over and plucking the plum stone from her palm. "It's not a good idea, since he hasn't got an heir yet."

"Oh. Who's that?" Flora continued, diverted as she caught sight of another figure on the stage. This man stood further back in the shadows of the wall and appeared closer to Duncan's age. Greying hair was pulled back from a grim, gaunt face, while a long scar pulled at the corner of his mouth. He was listening to the King's impassioned speech with a sceptical expression, lips folded tightly.

"Loghain Mac Tir," said Alistair, in a tone that assumed she would recognise the name. Flora shrugged, watching the man glower at Cailan's gilded back.

"Who?"

"Queen Anora's father. Teryn of Gwaren and High Commander of the King's armies." Alistair finished his own plum, tossing the stone over the northern wall.

Flora raised her eyebrows in mild interest. "Why's he looking at his son-in-law like he hates him?"

"He disapproves of Cailan's plan to lead his troops into battle," replied Alistair, returning to his vantage point and staring down into the still-dark woods. "Thinks it's reckless. I'd go so far as to say foolish."

"What do you think?" asked Flora, her eyes returning to Duncan as he stood impassively, in stark contrast to the gilded and gesticulating King. Alistair shrugged, keeping his face turned to the woods below.

"He's the King. He can do what he wants."

OOC Author's Note: I wish we'd seen more of the political dynamic between Cailan, Duncan and Loghain in game - I think it's fascinating. A lot of the history I engage with as part of my job involves usurpers, pretenders and advisers to the English throne - the shifting dynamics of power. I've also chosen to extend the time period between the Joining and the Battle For Ostagar; I know that in game, it takes place literally straight away, but I wanted to try and establish a friendly relationship between Alistair and Flora before I throw them into that tragic mission. I also love writing for Duncan - he's such a cool character.

Character art etc at thelionandthelight dot tumblr dot com