Chapter 52: Alistair Proves His Worth

The next morning Sten informed Alistair of the plan, over breakfast in the main tavern. Alistair listened, bewildered at the necessity of trial-by-combat to sway the outcome of an election, but characteristically compliant. He glanced over at a scowling Flora, who was ill-temperedly pushing her eggs around a plate.

"Don't sulk, Flo," he murmured, reaching out to pat her arm consolingly. "I'll be alright. They're dwarves, how hard could it be?"

This earned him several foul glares and muttered remarks from other patrons of the tavern.

After Flora had finished her cooling breakfast, they headed towards the Proving Grounds. The entrance was located in the centre of the Commons, over a narrow stone bridge that stretched above the caldera. An impressive stone edifice towered at the far end, built around a vast dwarven face carved into the rock itself.

They were not the only ones crossing the stone span; many others drifted in their wake. A Proving during a time of such political turmoil held special significance. Entering under the auspices of the lofty dwarf's stare, the Wardens and the Qunari found themselves in a sprawling stone entrance chamber. Vast pot-bellied braziers provided a smoky light, illuminating the overcrowded hall. On the walls, reliefs of past notable victories had been carved into large panels. The audience, milling around in small clusters, were loudly anticipating the upcoming bout. Excited chatter rose to the uneven earthen ceiling.

Although most competitors preferred to remain in the preparation chamber before a tournament, a select handful of fighters had ventured out into the visitor entrance to greet their fans. Crowds gathered around these individuals, many of them cheering or baying for autographs.

After almost being stampeded by a collection of female fans headed towards a blond-moustachioed warrior; Alistair grabbed Flora's dutifully-cuffed arm and steered her towards a harried-looking official in the centre of the chamber. Sten was already there, having had no compunction in barging his way through the crowd.

The official looked up at them through a gold-rimmed monocle, his eyebrows rising.

"Ah, the Grey Wardens! Have you come to see one of Orzammar's oldest traditions?"

"We will be entering," intoned Sten in his usual blunt manner, as the official shot him a look of surprise.

Grimacing apologetically, Alistair hastily interjected.

"We wish to fight on behalf of Lord Harrowmont in the Proving. Um, please?"

The official nodded, checking a note on a sheaf of parchment.

"Of course, Lord Harrowmont's fighters have both abstained from today's fight," he murmured, his eyes moving from Alistair to Sten. When his gaze fell on Flora's bound wrists, his brow furrowed.

"Your mage cannot enter," he informed them, a hint of apology in his tone. "The Ancestors do not recognise topsider magic. She may watch from the viewing balcony. Sufficiently restrained, of course."

It took only a few minutes to register Alistair and Sten for the day's Proving. The official nodded towards an unobtrusive wooden door to one side of the chamber.

"Preparation area is back there," he informed them, raising his voice over a sudden cascade of cheers. A swaggering male fighter had arrived, sweeping a bow to his adoring audience.

"You've two hours before your match; then you'll fight three bouts in a row. I suggest you speak to your own ancestors and pray for their assistance."

The preparation quarters were a smaller replica of the receiving area, except with fewer crowds and more fighters. In further contrast to the shouts and cheers of the public in the previous chamber, the occupants of the preparation area were almost silent. Some of the fighters were engaged in murmured discourse with their retinue; others methodically struck target dummies with freshly-honed blades. The two Wardens and the Qunari retreated to an unobtrusive corner to wait for their assigned match.

Flora, fidgeting on a low stone bench, eyed the plethora of weapons on display and felt her stomach constrict. From where she was sitting, she could see wide two-handed swords, vast block-headed hammers, wickedly curving daggers and even a scattering of crossbows. Alistair's Redcliffe-emblazoned shield, leaning against the bench, suddenly appeared fragile as tin.

Sten was humming quietly to himself, rocking back and forth on the bench to one side of her, lost in pre-battle meditation. Flora glanced over at Alistair, who was sitting on her other side. His finely-hewn face was very still, hazel eyes closely watching the other opponents as they prepared for battle.

"Blackbeard has a weak knee," he murmured, not taking his eyes away from the fighter. "See how he favours his left leg? And the woman over there has poor vision- she's squinting to identify who's talking to her."

Flora was only half-listening to Alistair's assessment of his potential combatants. She wanted to reach for his hand, but her wrists lay cuffed in her lap. Finally he glanced sideways at her anxious face, and slung an arm around her shoulders.

"You've barely said two words all morning! What's the matter?" he chided, as she dropped her gaze to her feet.

"I don't like this," she muttered through gritted teeth in response. "I keep thinking about giant swords chopping off your head."

"Please," retorted Alistair immediately, eyebrows rising upwards. "They wouldn't even be able to reach my head."

Flora scowled at him and he realised that she was genuinely worried. Oddly touched by her concern, he squeezed her shoulders and pecked her on the side of her temple.

"I'll be fine, my dear. Anyway, I'm sure that Sten will protect me with his life."

The Qunari opened a single scarlet-hued eye and shot him a withering glare.

Finally, it was their turn to enter the oval arena. Tiers of stone seating rose up around the perimeter, and vast braziers flooded the sand-covered combat area with warm light. The crowd's excitement was heightened by the previous matches and the rumours that a Grey Warden was going to compete. Flora had been taken to a stone balcony at the far end of the arena, where she was to sit with the Proving Master and assorted deshyr. As soon as the opposing candidates had learnt that she was a mage, they had insisted that extra precautions be taken. Not content with the cuffs around her wrists, they had also instructed that her eyes be bound. This was to theoretically prevent her from interfering with events in the arena through the power of her gaze.

Flora, who had never tried to shield without the customary accompanying gesticulation before, wondered briefly if it were possible. This thought was chased from her head by irritation as the official tied a black cloth apologetically around her eyes.

"I must look pretty stupid sitting here in the prime seats with my eyes covered up," she murmured, as the dwarf gave an apologetic shrug.

"You'll be able to hear what's going on. Stone knows there's enough dissension in the city, I don't want no commotion in these hallowed halls too."

As Flora sat in the wooden chair, listening to the roars of the crowds, she wasn't sure if she even wanted to see the fighting. Despite the fact that at nineteen she had lived through more violence than many men saw in a lifetime; and that she could look upon the bloodiest and deepest wounds without quailing, she still felt uncomfortable watching two creatures attack one another. The act seemed to violate her most fundamental tenet as a healer: to heal, not to harm.

The Proving Master's voice, amplified by the acoustics of the cleverly designed vaulted ceiling, rung out around the stone arena. Flora jolted in her seat as if electrocuted, yet he was only announcing a rivalry bout between two noble houses. As she listened to the frenzied clash of steel on steel, accompanied by the roaring of the crowd, nausea began to rise in her stomach.

Finally there was a primitive shout of pain, followed by a triumphant cry and a deafening roar from the crowd.

"AND THE VICTOR IS GHERIN!" bellowed the Proving Master, inches away from her left ear. "THE ANCESTORS SMILE UPON HOUSE BERAGEN!"

Footsteps and muffled chatter drifted up from the arena as the surface was cleared for the next match. Flora felt bile rise once more in her throat, only to slump back in her seat as the Proving Master announced a dominance match between two Silent Sisters.

This round was over far more quickly, the crowds torn between delight at the skill on display and disappointment at the fleetness of the match. The arena was cleared for a second time, and Flora felt her limbs begin to tense.

"FINALLY! AN HONOUR PROVING, BETWEEN ARISTO, A GREY WARDEN, AND SEWERYN, WARRIOR CASTE! FIRST OF THREE!"

Flora's initial nausea at hearing the dwarf announce her brother-warden was tempered by the butchering of his name.

"It's Alistair," she interjected as the crowds roared beneath them.

The Proving Master grunted in irritation; she heard him take a seat beside her.

"Surfacer names; always hard to pronounce. How should I be expected to know how to say them all?"

Then Flora heard Alistair's voice, ringing out with confidence and authority from the arena below.

"I fight on behalf of Lord Harrowmont!" he announced, which evoked a murmur of interest from the crowd. Suddenly Flora heard a rough male voice in her right ear, hissing from somewhere behind her.

"Harrowmont's lackeys! I can almost see his strings attached to you, jerking you around like little puppets: dance, fools, dance!"

Flora turned her head and glared in what she assumed was the general direction of the Bhelen-favouring deshyr. A moment later, she realised that he would not be able to see her scowl beneath the blindfold. Instead, she retorted with more bravado than she actually felt.

"Why don't you take off these restraints and then say that to my face again, eh?"

A contemptuous snort answered her.

"I don't have much hope for your fellow Warden. Seweryn slaughtered his own father in this arena when he was a mere juvenile."

"Good for him," she muttered in response, feeling the nausea rise once again.

There came a roar from the crowd, and the fight began. Some people were yelling for Harrowmont, others retorted with Bhelen's name. More were just yelling, stamping their feet against the flagstones in a thundering crescendo.

Flora clung to the stone balcony, leaning forward as far as she dared.

"GO, ARISTO!" she bawled, in what she hoped was Alistair's direction.

She heard the sound of blade against blade, then the achingly familiar sound of a blow striking Alistair's shield. There was a grunt, a second blow, and then the sound of a body slumping to the sandy arena floor. Flora gripped the stone ledge with white-tipped fingers. The crowd gave a roar of triumph, and she heard the Proving Master rise hastily to his feet beside her.

"AND THE VICTOR IS – THE GREY WARDEN!"

He continued to bellow about how Seweryn had been knocked unconscious in mere minutes; but Flora was not listening, slumping forward in the wooden chair as pure white relief shot through her. She rested her forehead against the stone ledge, but was granted only a few seconds of respite.

"OUR NEXT BOUT WILL BE A PAIRED MATCH – WARDEN, DO YOU REQUIRE A PAUSE?"

"ARISTO is ready to continue!" came Alistair's yelled reply. Flora listened as the Proving Master introduced Sten as a "solid wall of hulking Qunari,"; then announced their opponents. They would be challenged by Wojech, a popular master-at-arms, and his rogue partner Velanz.

As the Proving Master took his seat, Flora heard the snide voice of Bhelen's deshyr in her ear once more.

"Your Warden friend had better watch out for a knife between his shoulder blades. That's how the last one went. Then his second was decapitated in a single blow from Wojech's hammer. Bam! Smacked his head right across the arena floor."

"Does anyone want to swap seats with me?" asked Flora out loud as the fight began.

The match began with a roar from the crowd. Flora could hear Sten above the cheers; he was a vocal fighter who bellowed in his native tongue during battle. At the edge of her seat once more, she heard the crowd give a gasp and spun her head from side to side frantically. Although their shared blood allowed her to feel Alistair's presence as one would register a slight breeze; she had no idea what was actually happening to him in the arena yards below her.

This battle was longer than the first, but eventually the crowd gave another mammoth cheer and Flora felt the Proving Master leap to his feet beside her.

"ANOTHER VICTORY FOR THE GREY WARDEN AND HIS ALLY!" he bellowed, and Flora slumped back against her chair once more.

The final bout was announced; a group match. Flora listened with increasing alarm as the Proving Master asked Alistair if – as he had been injured – he would need a respite. She heard her brother-warden reply in the negative through gritted teeth, and bile rose in her throat.

"How badly is he hurt?" she spoke to empty air, but her voice was lost in the approving roar of the crowd. It seemed that one of Harrowmont's fighters had returned to assist in this final round, which would be fought against a minor member of House Aeducan and his entourage.

"Piotin Aeducan is one of the finest warriors in Orzammar, honoured by the old King himself," Flora's unwanted informer told her with glee, his voice unnervingly close to her ear. "Cousin to Prince Bhelen. The Stone itself possesses him on the battlefield- he attacks in a mindless frenzy. At the end of his last Proving, there wasn't enough left of his opponent to return to his mother."

Flora fumed silently, too absorbed in her anger at this presumptuous deshyr to notice that the fight had started. The crowd began to shout, but even they could not drown out the sound of collective battle from the arena below. Above it all rose a primitive roar, the sound of one attacking in blind and brutal fury. Weapons clashed like thunder; she heard the sound of a shield breaking and hoped that it was not Alistair's. There came a cry of pain; and a body was audibly flung against the wall of the arena. It was followed by the sound of two more dropping to the sand, then Flora heard Sten's voice escalate in a chant she recognised as one denoting victory. Hope rose in her throat as the crowds came to their feet in a collective roar. The Proving Master's yell was barely audible above the deafening cacophony.

"VICTORY TO HARROWMONT'S CHAMPION: THE GREY WARDEN! THE WARDEN WINS THE DAY! The Ancestors have shown their favour!"


OOC Author Note: ARISTOOOO! Also I hate using so many CAPITALS – but I needed a way to distinguish the shouting. Also, I was researching trial by combat (I know that's not exactly what a Proving is, but it's close) and I found this really interesting Wikipedia article on the ancient Viking tradition of the Holmgang, sanctioned trial by combat. And if the challenged person did not show up, they were known as nīðing