Chapter 37: Andraste and the Arl

Wynne was perched on a stool beside the Arl's bedside, bathing his forehead with a cloth. She looked up as they entered, giving a tight nod of greeting.

Alistair inhaled in dismay on seeing how the man's condition had deteriorated. He appeared to have lost no more weight but dark veins now crept over the entirety of his skin. The flesh around his eyeballs had shrunk away, and his lips were drawn back over his teeth, as though he were snarling. His fingers were curled rigidly towards his palms, the nail beds blackened.

"He looks so much worse," Alistair breathed, coming alongside the bed and staring down at the lifeless man. The Arlessa gave an unsteady sigh, ushering a suddenly-silent Connor away.

"I know. I am so afraid, I cannot think that he has much time left."

Zevran, who had no idea who the man in the bed was, sauntered over to a weapon stand in the corner and began to inspect an enamelled dagger. Leliana murmured a quick prayer.

"We cannot waste a moment," snapped Wynne tersely. "Do you have something to mix the Ashes with?"

Ser Perth went in search for some wine, while Leliana looked at Flora expectantly. Flora blinked back at her for a moment, then realised why both the lay-priestess and the Arlessa were staring expectantly.

"Oh!" she said, then flushed slightly. Lifting one foot, she pulled off her boot and tipped the folded silk handkerchief into her palm. Somewhat shamefaced, she handed it to a gaping Leliana.

"Blasphemy," muttered the Arlessa under her breath while Flora retreated to the corner of the room, gloomily.

Ser Perth brought back not only wine, but also Bann Teagan. The auburn-haired man greeted them quickly, new lines of strain creased around his mouth.

Having slit Flora's knots with a small knife produced from her corset, Leliana poured the Ashes into the wine, her mouth moving in silent prayer.

"You have to give it to him one sip at a time, or it'll come back out," murmured the Bann, watching Alistair tilt the older man's head back gently. Wynne lowered herself to a small stool beside the bed and raised the goblet to the Arl's mouth. With meticulous care the senior enchanter dripped some of the liquid between the sick man's parted lips. The Arlessa watched, her pale eyes wide and fearful.

Meanwhile, the Arl's son had caught Flora's attention. He had crept into a side-chamber, and was beckoning frantically for her to join him. Flora stared and looked around, but everyone's attention was focused on the bed. Connor eyed her, then gave another imperious wave. With one foot still bare, she followed him into the small room. With a lurch, she realised that this had been where Jowan had died.

"You're a mage too, aren't you? From the Circle?" the Arl's son asked curiously, staring up at her in the darkness. She blinked at him, then nodded. The boy sat down on the bed, his small face suddenly pinched and drawn.

"Will there be others my age there?" he continued, an unsteady note in his tone.

Flora peered down at him and realised that he was nervous, that the summons from Kinloch Hold had prompted trepidation as well as excitement. She smiled at him, now able to see the child behind the fine clothing and air of superiority. Sitting down beside him and crossing her legs on the mattress, she raised her eyebrows at him confidentially.

"There are lots of children there," she replied, nodding her head solemnly. "They have a dormitory all to themselves."

From the way that the boy searched her face eagerly, Flora sensed that she had struck the right chord. She had seen many servants and knights in the Arl's castle, but no other children.

Connor smiled hopefully at her, then a shadow fell over his face once again.

"But if I'm a mage, then… It might happen again, mightn't it? The- bad thing. Where you lose control."

Flora stared at him for a moment, seeing the fear throbbing deep in his wide, dark eyes.

"There are little things you can do to keep yourself focused, when the magic feels overwhelming," she said carefully, raising her hand to show him her nailbitten fingers. "One of mine is touching this. It helps calm me down."

The small boy looked at the initialled gold ring, then up at her face curiously.

"What's another one?"

"Reciting the fish of the Waking Sea, from biggest to smallest," she told him, with a nod. "Hagfish, lamprey, halibut, dogfish, kitefin, thresher…"

She trailed off, shrugging a shoulder. "By the time I get to pilchard, I know that everything's real, and that I'm in control of myself."

Connor gazed up at her, thoughtfully.

"I could list all the villages and farmsteads that my father owns," he offered, and Flora gave a solemn nod.

"Yes, that… is a good idea."

She didn't tell him about the third thing that anchored her to the waking world – the dull pain of her injured knee.

Just then Zevran stuck his head around the door, peering down at them.

"My petal, you are requested at the invalid's bedside," he said, a faintly impressed look on his face. "I must say, Antiva has the best poison makers in Thedas and even they could not rival the tonic that has been given to this unfortunate creature."

Flora got to her feet, following him into the main bedchamber with some trepidation. The empty goblet rested on the bedside cabinet, Leliana pacing back and forth across the rug while the Arlessa clutched her husband's limp hand. Teagan's brow was furrowed in confusion and disbelief as he stared at Alistair, who wore a similar expression.

"Didn't it work?" asked Flora, gazing down at the still Arl. The black veins had faded from his skin, but he still lay white and unconscious.

Wynne exhaled, rising to her feet.

"The Ashes have cured the poison, but its prolonged residence in his body has taken his toll. The man is exhausted, I don't think his heart can hold out."

The senior mage raised her eyebrows at Flora, who grasped her meaning immediately.

"I don't know if I can revive him, if his heart is gone," she whispered, feeling a little ridiculous standing there with one bare foot on the rug. The Arlessa rose, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"You will try, girl!" she ordered, and Flora dropped her head even as Alistair opened his mouth to protest.

"Hey!" he hissed, rising from the bench where he had been slumped. "You can't order her around. She's a Warden."

Flora was already taking off her other boot, not wanting to dirty the fine silk sheets. She clambered up onto the bed, kneeling beside the Arl and peering down at his face. Despite the tension and gauntness, there was a kindness about his frail features. She suddenly felt very sorry for him- if he awoke, he would learn that his castle had been ransacked, his son possessed and his village assaulted, all while he lay unconscious.

Carefully peeling open his sweat-soaked tunic to reveal the greying hair on his chest; she tucked several loose strands behind her ears and leaned forward. The smell of odour and sickness did not bother her, she felt only sympathy for the dying man who lay before her through no fault of his own.

Flora closed her eyes, feeling the golden mist building up on her tongue. She opened her mouth and exhaled, feeling the vital energy pass from her to him. Spreading her palm over the left side of his chest, she envisioned the lifegiving substance rolling down the man's throat, through the channels and fleshy passages of the body.

Flora then pictured her own heart, pumping in all its glorious endurance, essential yet unassuming. She had tried and failed in the past to heal hearts damaged by blade and by arrow, and had an idea of what they looked like, with their strange bloody chambers fitting together neatly like the rooms of a house.

This man's heart is weak; but it is not broken. It can be revived, as surely as one can be roused even from a deep sleep. It can be made strong again.

As Flora hunched over the exhausted man, Wynne turned to the Bann and the Arlessa.

"I predict that this will take a while," she murmured diplomatically, glancing towards the door. "You may wish to put the child to bed and have something to eat."

Zevran perked up, glancing over at Leliana.

"Shall we see if we can locate some fruit, sister?" he queried, pushing himself up from the chair expectantly. "I doubt my stomach can handle any more meat today, I clearly am not cut out for the Fereldan diet."

Leliana nodded, gracefully rising in a fluid manner that caught Bann Teagan's eye despite the circumstances. The Arlessa retrieved her sleepy son from the side chamber, the leaded glass windows now completely dark. Ser Perth had already left to oversee the night rounds of the castle.

After a while, the only people left in the chamber were Flora and the Arl, Wynne and Alistair. Flora was oblivious to the world, her eyes clouded and golden as she bent over the man's chest, her fingers moving in slight, incomprehensible patterns. Wynne watched Alistair as he slumped in a chair beside the bedside, his expression defeated.

"Why the long face?" she asked archly, taking a seat on the bench opposite him. He gave a shrug, letting out a small sigh.

"I thought this at least would be straightforward," he muttered, glancing over at the bed. "Everything else is so complicated."

Wynne raised her eyebrows, following his gaze.

"People are complicated," she replied mildly. "Life is complicated. The Darkspawn are simple in their single-mindedness to destroy. Is that what you'd prefer?"

He shot her a sour look, returning his gaze to the floorboards.

"That's not what I meant and you know it, granny."

Wynne let out a piercing laugh, the sound not appearing to register with the hunched Flora.

"Fine. I have had some good news from Denerim; several of the other nobles are challenging Loghain and Anora's claim to the regency. They look elsewhere for their leader."

Alistair groaned, putting a hand to his head. "How is that good news?"

"Because it means that they would be willing to support even a bastard's claim, and if that does not please you, it casts doubt on Loghain's legitimacy. Questions lead to dissension."

"Perfect: civil war. Just what Ferelden needs during a Blight," he responded, gloomily. Wynne steepled her fingers together, laying out her winning hand.

"What if the choice was Loghain becoming King- or you?"

Alistair paused, grimaced. Wynne smiled, dropping her eyes to her now folded fingers.

"And I have my answer. Thank you."

"It's all too complicated," he grumbled, shifting slightly in his seat. "I wish I was born the child of a fisherman, like Flo."

"Hm," replied Wynne, unconvinced.

Another candle burnt down, wax pooling at its base. The night watchman called ten hours, the guard changing shift on the ramparts outside. The Bann returned to the Arl's chamber, to find Alistair asleep in the chair alongside the bed. Wynne was busy scribing a letter to Irving at Kinloch Hold, but even her tireless hand was slowing. Flora was still hunched over, weary but determined. She knew the beat of the Arl's heart intimately now, heard it as a song in her own head; she could almost hum the erratic rhythm of it. She had been timing her exhalations to its weak pulsation, coaxing the golden energy through each bloody chamber in turn with the small movements of her fingers.

Then the Arl gave a hoarse cough, his throat thick from weeks of disuse. The man opened his eyes, which were clear and bright, and blinked up at the tented bed canopy. Flora, who had recoiled in shock when he had coughed in her face, slid clumsily off the bed and backed up against the window. Alistair jolted awake as if he had been electrocuted, jumping to his feet.

"Eamon?!" Teagan strode to his brother's side, wild and tentative hope contorting his features. The Arl sat up, still gaunt and hollow-cheeked, but with his skin a healthy, ruddy shade. He glanced around the room, his brow furrowed.

"Teagan? What's happened? Where is Isolde, and my boy?" His gaze fell on the figure in battered Templar mail beside him. "Alistair?!"

Teagan squeezed his eyes together for a moment, murmuring a prayer of gratitude to the Maker. He sunk to the stool beside the Arl, exhaling slowly.

"They are both well, brother. But I have a lot to talk to you about; and much of it is not good. Alistair too, needs to speak with you."

Arl Eamon glanced over at Alistair, who was hovering nervously at the foot of the bed. His brow furrowed, and he nodded for his old ward to approach.

"Teagan, tell me everything."

Wynne, seeing a nervous Flora hovering beside the window, went over and took her by the arm.

"Bedtime, I think," she murmured, nudging her subtly across the chamber. "Let them talk."

Flora, terrified of interacting with the Arl now that he was conscious, nodded mutely. She allowed the senior mage to guide her out of the room, and down the main passage.

"Well done, Fiona," Wynne said after a moment, showing her into the same bedchamber that they had stayed in previously. Leliana was nowhere to be seen, presumably still in the kitchens with Zevran. "Are you exhausted?"

This question was pertinent; overworked mages were more susceptible to possession. Flora thought for a moment, then shook her head, surprised to realise that she was sleepy, but not drained.

"No," she replied with a yawn, divesting herself of shirt and breeches and changing into a set of plain cotton nightclothes. Drab and functional, they reminded her of those she had worn in the Grey Warden tent. "I'll be fine."

"Now." Wynne was letting down her own skein of white hair, combing it out before winding it back up in a tight bun. "I know that Alistair will be in soon enough. Allow me to stay here and chaperone you both. To prevent gossip."

This was said in a tone that brokered no argument. Flora didn't know what a chaperone was but assumed it was something akin to the role performed by the Templars at a Circle Tower. She gave a mild shrug and slumped back on the blankets, her body overwarm from the energy channelled through it earlier.

"Where's Leliana?" she mumbled, turning her face against the cushion. Wynne gave a delicate harrumph of disapproval.

"Well, I last saw her disappearing into the pantry with the Antivan elf so I assume that she will be indisposed for a while."

Flora, not quite having the energy to laugh, let out a muffled snort into the blanket.

"I thought they hated each other."

Wynne raised her eyebrows, leaning over to blow out the candle and settling back on the couch.

"That means nothing."

Several hours later, Flora was drifting in and out of a light and dozing sleep, when someone shook her arm gently. She yawned and sat up, squinting into the darkness. The room was dimly lit by a sliver of moonlight creeping in through the gap in the long curtains.

"Alistair?" she whispered, conscious of the loudly snoring Wynne on the couch. He was already in his linen underarmour, and appeared somewhat unsettled, staring at her with shadowed eyes. She shifted over on the bed and leaned over to the extinguished candlestick, fumbling with the flint and tinder. He sat down on the bed as she lit it, letting out a slow exhalation.

Flora sat cross-legged on the bed, pulling her bare feet up onto her thighs, and waited expectantly. Alistair paused for a moment, then glanced at her.

"Why'd you leave?" he asked, keeping his voice down. Flora shrugged, self-consciously.

"I was tired. And I don't know how to act in front of nobles; I don't want to do something wrong and get into trouble. What did you talk about?"

Alistair sighed, slumping back on the blankets and staring up at the wooden ceiling beams. Flora looked down at him curiously, tucking loose ropes of hair back into her untidy braid.

"Everything. About the maleficar, Connor's possession. What had happened to the village. You'll like this bit: he's planning a thank you feast for the villagers tomorrow evening. Show them that order has been restored. Coincides with Satinalia."

Flora beamed, reaching out to fiddle with a loose thread on the cuff of his linen sleeve. She knew that he had not yet finished; but knew her brother-warden well enough not to press him.

Eventually he closed his eyes, with a small grimace. "He's going to give us a caravan and supplies, for our journey to Orzammar. He'll go to Denerim once we return. Call for a Landsmeet."

Flora remembered Bann Teagan mentioning the Landsmeet in Redcliffe Chantry, the morning after the fourth assault. She nodded slowly, pulling at the loose thread to draw it out further.

"I'd hoped that he was going to put himself forward as a candidate for the throne," Alistair said after a moment, his voice hollow. "But he says that won't work. The nobles won't support such a tenuous claim."

He trailed off, a bitter edge to his voice.

"I never asked for this," he said to the ceiling, his eyes hardening. "I didn't have any choice in who I was born to. I can barely make decisions for myself, let alone an entire country!"

His voice rose slightly and Wynne stirred on the couch.

Flora let out a small sigh, settling back onto the blanket beside him with a grunt. The thought of Alistair becoming King of Ferelden was so strange that she could not fully comprehend it, and so simply chose not to.

"Tell me one of your Herring stories, Flo," he mumbled, glancing over at her as she lay beside him. "About fish, or sharks, or eels- I don't mind. I just can't think about anything else tonight."

"An eel is a type of fish," she replied drowsily to the ceiling, reaching out a finger to catch a bead of wax as it rolled slowly down the candlestick. "Alright, then. This story is called How the Salmon Got His Fin."

Neither of them had noticed that Wynne's snores had stopped. Alistair rested his head back against the blanket, feeling Flora's head resting against his upper arm.

"Long ago, when the Maker had made all the living things in Thedas, He grew hungry," she whispered, lifting her hands in front of the candle. The Chantry's sunburst symbol emerged on the ceiling, cast by the enlarged silhouette of her thumb and splayed fingers.

"He asked his advisor, a small robin, what was the tastiest animal that He had created." Here her fingers moved again, the shadow twisting into a bird flapping against the white plasterwork. "The robin knew that the chicken was the tastiest, but he didn't want to sacrifice one of his fellow brethren."

Alistair smiled despite himself, watching the bird flap it's wings across the ceiling. "I wish men had as much loyalty as those birds."

"So instead the robin told the Maker that the salmon was the tastiest creature in Thedas. The Maker searched the Waking Sea until He found the biggest, most delicious looking salmon." The shadow reformed into a fish, swimming lazily back and forth between the beams.

"But the salmon did not want to become a meal for the Maker. So when the Maker tried to grab him, he swam away as fast as he could. The Maker only managed to pull on his back before the salmon escaped. And that is how the salmon got his fin."

Flora lowered her fingers and shot a sideways glance over at Alistair. He propped himself up on an elbow and peered down at her, noticing how the reflected candlelight made her grey eyes appear almost golden.

"What an interesting story. Do you think it could be true?" he asked her, a teasing edge to his voice. Flora rolled her eyes, shaking her head against the blanket.

"No!" she whispered scornfully, her brows drawing together. "As if chicken is tastier than salmon! Chicken!"

The sheer incredulity in her tone made him want to laugh. Alistair stared down at her, saw her lips beginning to turn up in a smile, and then abruptly he didn't want to laugh anymore.

"Nothing wrong with chicken," he murmured, reaching down to move a loose strand of mahogany hair away from her eyes.

The strange sensation that Alistair had felt in the tent on the way to Haven, a tight coiling deep in his abdomen, returned in full force. He looked at her wide, curving mouth and found that he inexplicably couldn't move his eyes away. The inside of his own mouth felt dry and coarse, a hard pulse throbbed in his throat. He could feel the same nervous adrenaline rising within him as when he had faced down Darkspawn, but there was a different type of urgency about it.

Flora was gazing up at him curiously, her smile fading. Without thinking, driven solely by the mounting pressure in his core, he lowered his face towards hers.

"Fiona!" Wynne's voice rang across the room suddenly, sharp and imperious. "You've left your staff in the Arl's bedchamber. It's irresponsible, especially with an untrained child in the premises."

Alistair recoiled so rapidly he almost fell off the bed while Flora sat upright with a grimace.

"But what if the Arl is in there?" she asked, plaintively. "I don't want him to try and talk to me."

"He's not; I heard him and the Bann descend to the ground floor a short while ago."

"I can get it," offered Alistair, helpfully. Wynne shot him a glare, the fierceness of which he could perceive even in the darkness.

"Nonsense," the old woman retorted immediately. "The girl has legs. I remember her using them extensively in the Tower. Tragically, to descend to the kitchens rather than ascend to the libraries."

Grumbling under her breath Flora shuffled out of the room, creeping barefoot down the passageway. Wynne, knowing that the journey would only take a minute, spoke quickly.

"A word of caution, Alistair. You have obligations – both of you – to the Wardens, and to Ferelden. You cannot afford to be distracted!"

Alistair spluttered indignantly, unable to meet her stare. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled, grateful that the low light hid the flush creeping across his cheeks. "I think of Flora as a sister."

"A man does not look at his sister in the way that you were looking at her just now," replied Wynne, softly. "Have a care."

When Flora shuffled back in clutching her staff, Alistair was under the covers with his back turned, subdued and unresponsive. She climbed beneath the blankets beside him, stubbing her toe on the wooden bedpost and hissing quietly beneath her breath. For a few moments, as she lay wide-eyed in the darkness, she wondered if he had fallen asleep. Then, beneath the blanket, his hand reached out for hers. Flora took it, and their fingers wound together tightly.

"'Night, Alistair," she whispered, resting her cheek against the cushion.

"Goodnight, my dear," he replied, squeezing her fingers between his own.

When Wynne spoke, it was with the malevolence of an Archdemon.

"Go to sleep!"

OOC Author's Note: I did a lot of research about fish legends and mythology – I know that the fish getting it's fin is from Celtic legend originally, but I can't find a source. There was a really interesting one called the Salmon of Knowledge, which was fascinating but a little too complex for Flora to relate.