Chapter 20: I'm Not A Ferocious Lady!
Flora rose to her feet, transparent delight suffusing her features.
"Ste-e-e-n!" she bleated, scuttling across the worn cobbles. "Sten, I thought you'd gone back to… to wherever you're from!"
Flora came to a halt before the lofty Qunari, shuffling from foot to foot. It was clear that she was desperate to throw her arms around his waist – Flora had always been liberal with her physical affection – but likewise knew that Sten would not suffer such a display of sentiment.
Sten gazed down at her with the impassivity of a rock face, his crimson eyes utterly unreadable.
"Clearly I have not gone," he replied, disapproving of the question's redundancy. "I am here. I intend to remain here until the investiture of Ferelden's leader; and then return to Par Vollen with my report."
Flora smiled vaguely up at him, and the Qunari narrowed his stare; both of them fully aware that she had no idea what investiture meant.
"You've grown larger since last I saw you," Sten said after a moment, lowering his gaze further to the swell of the child pressing against her woollen tunic. "Soon, you may be as wide as you are tall."
"Good," replied Flora immediately, her expression earnest. "My feet hurt all the time; I'd love to roll everywhere. Like a ball."
The Qunari let out a grunt, striding past her into the centre of the courtyard. He swept his ashen, assessing stare around the crumbling walls; appraising the monastery's general decrepitude. Leliana, who had returned to the table with her book of homilies, gave him a beatific smile of greeting.
"I noticed seven serious flaws in this building's security as I was escorted here," Sten said at last, and Leliana's ears pricked up.
"The north tower and the portcullis near the drains?"
The Qunari nodded, and the bard gave a soft cluck of satisfaction under her breath.
"So, I hear that Howes are after you again. How is it that you seem to launch straight from one peril to another?"
This was from Sten, who had returned his stare to Flora. The Par Vollen native had clearly learnt the habit of rhetorical questioning during his sojourn on the Ferelden mainland.
"I don't know," replied Flora, slightly gloomily. There had been no more attempts on her life – clumsy or not – over the past week; the monastery bristled with more guards and patrolling soldiers than the Royal barracks.
Sten grunted, lifting a strong arm behind his back. Lifting Asala from between his shoulder-blades, he let the vast greatsword rest carefully against the edge of the table. Instead of his own life-weapon, he withdrew a slender dagger from his pack. It was cut from silverite, the blade itself curved wickedly to cause maximum damage.
"Without your magical talent, your survival in an attack is not guaranteed," he stated, without emotion. "I… should not wish to see the warrior who felled the Archdemon, silenced by a clumsy amateur. I will show you a few counters that even the simplest and most incompetent children could master."
Flora, temporarily enchanted by his description of her as a warrior, took a moment to register what the Qunari was offering.
"Oh!" she said at last as he glowered at her, expecting a reply. "Thank you! I am an incompetent child."
Unfortunately, Flora proved not to be a master with the dagger. Her natural lack of grace, combined with the cumbersome swell of her belly, a stiff knee and sore feet; all conspired to sabotage her efforts. Leliana watched from her position at the table, unable to stop from grimacing. The two Templars looked on without expression; though a momentary spark of compassion had flickered across Chanter Devotia's face as Flora dropped the dagger for the tenth time.
Gritting her teeth against the pain in her lower back, Flora bent over and retrieved the blade.
"You know, there was someone else who tried to teach me how to use a dagger," she offered casually, sweat pouring down her forehead. "Leliana, remember the Rivaini lady from the Pearl? Zevran's friend."
Leliana snorted; she remembered very well.
"I think she was perhaps more successful at teaching you other things though, eh, ma petite?"
Flora let out a cackle, running her thumb idly over the grooved end of the dagger.
"That was a good night," she breathed, wistfully. "Although I did get kidnapped by Howe's men the next morning. Which slightly put a dampener on things."
"Which will happen again if you have no way to defend yourself," snapped the Qunari, demonstrating a singular lack of patience. "Desist with these attempts to distract me."
Flora wiped the end of her sleeve over her forehead, making an effort to mop up the sweat.
"Alright," she said gamely, her feet throbbing inside her boots. "Let's keep going."
An hour later, the gloomy courtyard was losing what little sun it had managed to glean. As the sun lowered itself into the Bannorn, the temperature dropped and a chilly breeze began to explore Revanloch's labyrinthine corridors.
Flora's attempts to master Sten's dagger had proved in vain. Whatever elegance she demonstrated through dance was not mirrored by her normal movement; and this inherent lack of grace, combined with her physical restrictions, served to undermine all her attempts to wield the blade.
The Qunari, making a swift assessment of the situation, reached out to intercept Flora as she went to retrieve the dagger for the fifteenth time.
"This has been a wasted endeavour," he stated, with characteristic, brutal honesty. "Instead, I suggest you focus your efforts on your new role."
"My – my new role?" Flora asked, uncertain.
"Producing the next leader of this nation," Sten clarified, making an irritable gesture towards Flora's swollen stomach. "In your current condition, it is all that you can contribute to this society."
To the Qunari, who lacked any semblance of Theodesian social niceties, this was a mere stating of the fact. To Flora, it was a condemnation of her inadequacy, now that she was trapped in only a single realm.
The only time I'll ever go back to the Fade – and possibly see my spirits again – is when I die.
Sten's right; I can't do anything without my magic. I am useless! All I'm good for is… giving birth.
Flora felt the tears rising before she could arrest them; streaming down her cheeks like a broken dam. Letting out a choked sound of distress, she scuttled between the old basalt pillars and back into the shadowy depths of the monastery. The two Templars glanced at one another wordlessly, then turned to follow her.
A crease formed in the centre of Sten's brow; the only indication of his confusion. He turned to look at Leliana, who was gathering up her book of homilies and tea paraphernalia, with a scowl writ across her features.
"Why is she caterwauling like a wounded child?" the Qunari asked, nonplussed. "I only stated the truth."
Leliana let out a small huff of displeasure, turning her pale blue stare on Sten as she made to follow in the wailing Flora's wake.
"Sten, remember when you lost your sword?"
"Obviously."
"How did you feel?"
"Maimed."
Leliana gave a little exasperated huff, shooting him a final glance over her shoulder.
"Well, that's how Flora feels, without her spirits. And unlike your sword, there's no way for her to find them again."
The bard left the Qunari in the courtyard, looking as thoughtful as she had ever seen him.
As the last egg-yolk sliver of the setting sun disappeared behind the distant hills, the party from the Royal Palace arrived at the monastery. Stable boys came rushing out to take the horses – they had tossed dice beforehand to see who would get the privilege of leading in the king's steed. Alistair and Teagan, escorted by a discreet contingent of Royal Guard, made entrance into Revanloch monastery; the Knight-Commander hurrying down from his study to greet them.
Alistair gave the greying Templar a stiff nod, not quite ready to forgive him for the previous week's grievous broach of security.
"Anything unusual?" the king asked in place of a greeting; his hazel eyes sharp and clear as Fereldan ale.
The Knight-Commander shook his head, falling into step alongside Alistair.
"No, your majesty. I've had guards stationed at the gate-posts day and night, and they report only the usual visitors."
Alistair shot a quick glance at his uncle, who let a shoulder rise and fall in grim acceptance.
"Hopefully your elven friend will return with news," the bann offered, quietly. "Set an assassin to catch an assassin, if you will."
Alistair let out a grunt of frustration, nostrils flaring.
A pair of excitable initiates rounded the corner before them, chattering away with practise wooden swords bundled in their arms. As they caught sight of the king of Ferelden – six feet and two inches of leather clad, fur trimmed muscle, the gold band squarely atop his lofty head – they gaped in alarm and promptly dropped the swords.
Alistair, wondering if he had ever been so young and naïve, bent to help them gather up the swords. The slightly braver of the two offered a squeak of gratitude, a flush rising to their hairline.
Leliana was waiting outside the doors to the Chantry, her arms folded grimly over her chest. Chanter Devotia stood beside her, stern and impassive as the Qunari.
"Alistair," she warned, the years spent in Val Royeaux shaping her distinctive tone. "She's not very happy."
"What do you mean, not very happy?"
"She's been crying, de temps à autre, all afternoon."
Alistair's brow creased in dismay, feeling his stomach drop unpleasantly within his gut.
"Why? I should have been told," he protested, one hand reaching to shove open the door. "I could have come earlier."
"Sten said that her only purpose was to birth an heir for Ferelden."
Beside him, Alistair heard Teagan let out a soft groan, the bann shaking his head slowly from side to side. The king himself flinched, part in disbelief and part in sorrow for his former sister-warden; who had not yet found her place in this post-Blight world.
"My poor girl," he said at last, hand resting motionless on the wood. "Is she in there?"
Leliana nodded, gesturing with an elegant hand.
Tactfully, Teagan murmured that he would take his paperwork up to the guest quarters. Alistair gave a distracted grunt of acknowledgement; shoving open the doors with an impatient elbow and stepping forward into Revanloch's Chantry. The doors closed behind him with a dull thud, and the king inhaled a lungful of damp, musty air.
The sacred space was near-deserted, the echoes of a thousand prayers and hymns clinging to the great stone arches that spanned the ceiling. The empty pews stretched out towards the front altar, where the Andrastian flame smouldered away with a soft, potent murmur.
Knight-Captain Gannorn was standing beside one of the pillars, hands behind his back and stance very stiff. It was clear that the Templar intended to maintain a professional distance from his charge; even if she were distressed and weeping.
Flora sat hunched over in one of the pews – not the Royal pew, since she would not presume to sit there without Alistair – with her shoulders drawn up and her head hanging low.
Alistair, feeling his heart rise painfully into his mouth, made his way down the central aisle. To his surprise, the Knight-Captain bowed his head, withdrawing wordlessly to the rear of the Chantry. The next moment, the wooden doors shut softly in the older man's wake.
Flora barely looked up as Alistair sat on the bench beside her. She had recognised his tread on the tiles, knowing the press of boot against stone as well as the sound of her own contracting lungs.
"Sweetheart," he breathed, and then said nothing more, reaching out to turn her face towards his. Flora let her mournful stare settle on him, cheeks mottled with the remnants of tears. Her boots lay discarded to one side, her bare toes brushing the cold tiles.
"My feet hurt," she whispered evasively after a moment, her voice even throatier than normal. "They ache. And I… I can't make the pain go away."
Alistair stared at the girl who had shaped his life and saved his nation, whose mooring ropes had come adrift with the loss of her spirits. He didn't know what to say to her; wasn't sure what words could possibly soothe such a gaping wound.
"Here, baby," he said thickly at last, unable to adequately articulate the emotion swelling in his throat. "Let me rub them. It might help the soreness."
Flora blinked at him, and Alistair took her silence as acquiescence. Reaching down, he lifted her feet gently up onto his thighs, frowning at their coldness. Unsure if he was even doing the right thing, he drove his thumbs in small circles over the sore flesh; pressing against the joints and kneading away the tightness with his curled knuckles.
"Your feet are half the size of mine," he commented after a few moments, sliding his palm beneath the pale, pink sole. "Does this feel any better?"
"Mm."
Flora nodded, bowing her forehead against his shoulder.
The moonlight – Ferelden's moon was far more luminous than its insipid daytime counterpart – shone through the stained glass windows; illuminating the leaded fragments in tones of dove-grey and silver.
Alistair ran his calloused thumb over her toes, the acoustics of the Chantry taking his soft words and throwing them between the damp pillars.
"My feet are huge," he continued, with a rueful smile. "Remember, I could never find boots to fit when we were travelling? I bet you don't miss having to heal all my blisters."
The king bowed his head and pressed an impulsive kiss to her toes. The next moment, he heard Flora sniff, and wet her dry lips.
"I'm not good with a sword, like you," she whispered, miserably. "I'm not a ferocious lady, like Leliana. Even if you took Wynne's magic away, she'd still be the most cleverest – clever – person in Ferelden. What… what am I without my spirits? I can't do anything."
Alistair paused for a moment, his thumb idly circling the delicate bone of Flora's ankle. She bowed her head, miserable in a way that she had not been since the Templars had first taken her from Herring.
"Darling," he said eventually, the words emerging soft and earnest. "You're only nineteen years old. If you want to learn how to wield daggers like Leliana, or to write books like Wynne – you have decades to learn how to do it. Look at how your reading has improved over the past six months."
Flora gave a begrudging nod; she could see his point. Alistair squeezed her heel gently, gratified to feel the warmth returning to her skin.
"And at the moment, you're still the kindest and bravest girl I know," he murmured, suddenly feeling the tears prickling incongruously in the corners of his own eyes. "Your spirits didn't give you those qualities. They were attracted to you because of them."
Flora turned her face up to his, and because she held her brother-warden's opinion in such high regard, she allowed herself to take some comfort from his words. She reached out to touch the side of his handsome face gently, barely sparing a glance to the regal band resting on his coppery hair.
Alistair stared back at his companion, wondering at how the moon filled her pale irises with silvered light; the gold fleck left by the Archdemon gleaming like a coin dropped to the bottom of a fountain.
"Merciful Andraste," he said wonderingly after a moment, eyes dropping to the solemn, full curve of Flora's mouth. "You're going to be such a beautiful woman, Lo. I'll be the envy of every man in Thedas, walking into a room at your side."
Flora kept her solemn gaze fixed on him, grave and steady. Her fingers wandered down his jaw, feeling the neatly trimmed hair he had cultivated in an effort to look older. After tracing the strong angle of his chin, she let her thumb move upwards, brushing over the deceptively arrogant Theirin lip.
Alistair let out an unsteady exhalation as she touched his mouth, as though he had been holding his breath since leaving the Royal Palace. His eyes dropped to Flora's foot resting atop his thigh, then slowly moved upwards; along her bare calf, up to where her navy tunic had been rucked above her knee. He stared at the inches of revealed skin, eyes heavy-lidded and burning with something indescribable.
With one hand resting possessive on her thigh, Alistair twisted his head around to scan the pillared recesses of the Chantry. The chapel was empty; the only movement coming from the shadow cast by Andraste's flickering pyre. The moonlight trailed ghostly fingers across the face of the Maker's Bride, the lips of the statue almost appearing to move in its shifting essence.
Alistair turned back to his best friend, who was sitting motionless on the bench beside him; her face cast in silvered tones by the muted light.
"Come here," he murmured, manoeuvring Flora gently onto his lap. "My Ferelden flower."
OOC Author Note: This is the second time that someone has tried to teach Flora to use a dagger, and – just like the first time – she's completely useless! She's just not a weapons-orientated person… at least she's always up for a try, though, lol. I don't think Sten was being a dick particularly here, I think he was just being honest!
I hope people aren't getting too annoyed with Flo for still grieving over her spirits – the loss was profound, and I wanted to communicate the seriousness of it.
Also, it's been a LOOOONG time since we had any sort of smut – literally, like seventy chapters, haha! Although Chantryshag is not very classy, haha. Definitely not something that unhardened Alistair would do. But our Alistair is very much hardened by this point, haha
Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you!