Chapter 51: Decision Time
They returned through the decimated Carta passages, the remaining residents either dead, or fled. Flora eyed the devastation with mingled alarm and respect, blinking at a standard candelabra which had been used to skewer two dwarves against a door. Alistair noticed her staring, and nudged her ribs with a significant look towards Sten.
"Most of this is him," he muttered under his breath as the Qunari strode before them, face impassive as usual. "He was like a battering ram."
Flora nodded, impressed. They emerged back into Dust Town, where Alistair informed the beggars that the Carta base was open for looting. As the first incredulous casteless began to edge into the hideout; their party navigated the tunnel and narrow steps back to the Commons. Just before they emerged into the lava-lit glow and bustle, Alistair reluctantly clamped the cuffs closed on Flora's wrists once more.
"How did you know where I was?" she asked as they emerged onto the main thoroughfare. The market traders were closing up for the day, metal grilles pulled over windows and stalls emptied of their wares.
"A dwarf named Dulin was in the tavern when we received the note. He knew of the Carta's hideout."
Flora nodded, the discontented rumbling of her stomach growing louder. It was now audible enough for Sten to hear; he shot her a disapproving glare. She did not need to ask how they had navigated the maze of rat-like warrens to locate her; aware that Alistair's senses were more refined than her own at detecting the presence of other Wardens.
They wove their way through the retreating crowds, drawing several curious stares. It seemed as though every dwarf in Orzammar, from deshyr to casteless, knew their identity and purpose. Whispers and darting glances followed in their wake, close as shadows, although nobody spoke to them directly.
Back in their room at Tapster's Tavern, the three of them sat down and shared what they had learnt about the two possible candidates. Flora rested a bowl of stew on her knees as she leaned against the wall, listening to first Sten and then Alistair divulge the results of their investigations. The noise of the tavern rose and fell in the background, raucous laughter occasionally breaking into bouts of song.
Slowly, a picture of the two candidates emerged: Prince Bhelen was the outwardly unpleasant character, who desired progressive change and greater ties to the surface. Lord Harrowmont appeared gentler and more honourable, but his traditionalist policies threatened to stunt Orzammar's growth. There were also distasteful rumours about both individuals- Bhelen's involvement was suspected in several deaths of political opponents, while there was evidence that Harrowmont had been purchasing the support of various nobles.
After two hours of circular debate, Alistair groaned, lifting his hands to his head.
"I wish Duncan was here," he muttered, raising his gaze to the stone ceiling. "He was good at this sort of thing."
Flora shrugged, her brow furrowed in a slight frown.
"Can we support someone else? Sten, I elect you as King of Orzammar!" She pointed at him; he eyed her raised finger with a deadpan stare.
"I am a soldier, not a leader," he replied, his tone neutral. Flora, who had not given up on her quest to locate a sense of humour in the Qunari, beamed. A moment later, she turned her pale grey gaze on Alistair, eyebrows rising.
"So – what do you think?"
Alistair sighed, sitting back on the rug and rubbing his elbows in the linen tunic absentmindedly.
"I just get a… bad feeling from what people say about the Prince. He reminds me of Loghain. Ruthless. Even if he has some good ideas."
Flora thought for a moment, then nodded at him.
"Fine, let's go with the other one. Lord Harrowmont."
As she slumped backwards onto the bed, letting the empty pewter bowl drop to the floor, Alistair gaped up at her.
"Really? We're going with my choice?" His tone was incredulous as Flora nodded, staring at the carved moulding above the door. The crude relief depicted two crossed hammers, etched in granite. Sten grunted in approval, one traditionalist supporting another.
"The wisest choice," he said after a moment, begrudgingly. "Enforced and unnatural progress is not beneficial to a society."
Alistair and Flora both stared at him for a long moment, shocked into temporary silence by his approval. He scowled at them both, rising to his feet.
"If the decision is made; I will engage in discussion with the dwarf Dulin. He is one of Harrowmont's men."
He paused in the doorway, eyeing them both severely. Alistair was sprawled on the rug, light from the brazier illuminating the planes of his handsome, arrogant face. Flora was on the bed, knees drawn to her chest, chin on her arms. Both of them looked back up at him, a vision of innocence.
"I will not be long," the Qunari stated, adjusting one of the ropes stretching across his bare chest. "Do not attempt to engage in intercourse during my absence."
Alistair at least had the grace to blush, while Flora only laughed; flashing Sten a toothy smile as she leaned back against the stone headboard.
"No out-of-hours prayertime," she mumbled, fiddling with the corner of the rough wool blanket. "Got it."
"No illicit hugging in the Potions closet," Alistair added from the rug, the pinkness fading from his cheeks. Flora beamed, while Sten shot them both a look of intense disapproval.
As soon as he withdrew, Flora let out a cackle.
"His face looked exactly like Wynne- " she started, then was abruptly cut off by Alistair vaulting up from the rug, clumsy in his haste. The next moment he was leaning over her, resting on a knee and elbow so as not to place his full weight against her. His hazel eyes were dark, shadowed with raw, focused desire. Flora smiled up at him, the silver amulet resting in the hollow at the base of her neck.
"Warden Alistair," she admonished as he lowered his lips to the open collar of her shirt. "Did you not hear the Qunari's strict instructions?"
Alistair let out a half-laugh against her skin, shaking his head.
"Oh, I heard him," he murmured, his mouth moving over the length of her pale collarbone. "But I've spent my whole life doing exactly as I've been told. I'm tired of it."
He pressed his mouth to her neck, feeling her tangled hair and skin against his lips, warmth emanating from her body. She reached up, touching his chest with tentative, exploratory fingers, and an inadvertent groan escaped him. As he covered her mouth with his own, he felt the deep twinge again within his abdomen, persistent and insidiously persuasive.
"Alistair?"
As if forcing himself to awaken from a dream, he stared down at her, his mind sluggish with desire. She was gazing up at him, additional shades of anxiety clouding her grave grey eyes. He knew her face so intimately by this point that he could interpret the meaning of even the most minuscule of changes.
Immediately he was the concerned brother-warden once more, rolling against the wall and drawing her into his arms.
"My dear," he murmured against her hair, as she huddled beside his chest with a frown on her face. "What's wrong?"
"It doesn't feel right that we're deciding the fate of this city," she murmured, with a helpless half-shrug. "We haven't spent long enough deciding. We haven't learnt enough!"
He sighed, resting his chin on top of her hair.
"I know, Flo, but we don't have the luxury of time. We had to make a choice; and it's not our fault that their society put them in this situation."
Alistair fell silent for a moment, once against envisioning similar scenes in Denerim over Ferelden's succession. He let out an involuntary shudder and Flora nestled closer against him, knowing where his mind had gone.
"As long as we're together, things will be alright," he muttered, feeling her nod against him.
When Sten returned the room was in half-darkness. The two Wardens were huddled on the bed, chaste and fully clothed; he thought them asleep until Flora opened an eye and stared at him.
"What did Harrowmont's man say?" she whispered, carefully moving Alistair's arm from her waist so she could sit up. Sten lowered himself cross-legged to the rug, measuredly removing his pauldron before responding.
"Our neutralisation of the incumbent Carta leader has bought Harrowmont's trust. However, he seeks further reassurance that you are not Bhelen's men before he agrees to meet with you both."
Flora grimaced at the necessity of suspicion, a drowsing Alistair mumbling something incoherent against her shoulder. She patted his head absentmindedly, her brow furrowed in thought.
"How do we prove that?"
"He requests that, since his fighters have abstained, you enter the Proving tomorrow on his behalf."
A restless Alistair muttered in his sleep and Flora pecked him softly on the cheek.
"Ssh," she murmured in his ear before returning her gaze to Sten. "What's a Proving?"
The Qunari, having divested himself of all armour except for a pair of striped trousers, frowned at her.
"Do you take pleasure in your ignorance?" he enquired, and she scowled back at him through the shadows.
"Yes, it AROUSES me," she retorted, for a moment more belligerent adolescent girl than Warden. Then, remembering how he had broken the Carta hideout in two to retrieve her earlier, she relented slightly.
"Sorry. I am but an ignorant Herring peasant, please enlighten me, O master of wisdom and knowledge!"
He eyed her with dislike. "Do not mock me, human. The Proving is an ancient dwarven custom, a medium through which their Ancestors are believed to express their wishes. After a series of trials by combat, the winner is declared to have the favour of the Ancestors, and the Stone."
Flora blinked, her brows drawing together as Sten settled back on the rug. Although it must have been uncomfortable, not a flicker crossed his impassive face.
"Trials- as in fighting?"
"Yes. Theoretically not to the death; just until one participant cannot continue," replied the Qunari, closing his eyes. Flora gaped into the darkness.
"Is this normal? I don't know if this is normal or not," she whispered, wishing that she had asked Wynne to share her knowledge of dwarven society during the journey.
"It is normal for Orzammar," replied Sten tonelessly, gazing up at the stone ceiling. "It is futile to question the entrenched customs of another culture."
Flora sighed, her mind silently echoing Alistair's earlier wish that Duncan was there to advise them.
What would he do?
She already knew the answer: anything, so long as it got them an army. Beside her, Alistair mumbled and flung an arm across her chest.
Stop the Blight at all costs. All other concerns are secondary.
"Fine," she muttered, scowling to herself. "We'll fight in the Proving."
"Not you."
"What?"
Flora sat up as much as possible, staring down at the Qunari's shadowed outline. She could see the dim glow of his reddened irises, stark against his ashen face. He turned the strange scarlet eyes on her, the tavern noise coming to a lull in the passage outside.
"You're a saarebas – a mage. Their ancestors would not approve of magic being used in their hallowed halls of combat. It must be myself and the Prince."
It took Flora a moment to realise that he was referring to Alistair. She gritted her teeth, feeling the same helpless frustration that had overcome her in Flemeth's hut, after Ostagar.
"Fine," she muttered eventually, forcing her mind away from that bloodied valley floor. "He's a good fighter. He'll be fine."
There was silence for a long moment. Flora reached out to slide her fingers between the sleeping Alistair's, resting her cheek on his linen-clad shoulder. He growled softly against her neck in response, drawing her to him.
"He'll be fine," she repeated to herself, finding little comfort in the repetition.
OOC Author Note: Aaaaah, this was the most difficult decision I had to make, both in game and as part of writing this narrative. It's especially hard because I think that Flora would actually approve more of Bhelen's policies, especially regarding the casteless; but I tried my best to not let my out of game retrospective knowledge influence their decision making. At the time, with the limited amount of decision time, Harrowmont seemed the more 'respectable' candidate, and I do believe that Bhelen's arrogance and ruthlessness would have reminded them unfavourably of Loghain. I also made another decision about the dwarves not allowing Flora to participate in the Proving – I know you can in game as a mage, but to me it made sense for the dwarves to not allow this type of 'unfair' combat, since they have no equivalent or counter.
