A/N: I'm aware that Alistair broke his mother's talisman himself in a fit of anger, however…left-of-canon. And I don't like Isolde.
There was some discussion, among the gathered group and the two grateful dwarves, after the gift of the bow. Alistair, Leliana, and Nike had talked and come to the conclusion things would be better off if the two dwarves accompanied them, at least for a time.
Being a merchant, Bodhann had access to quite a lot of supplies they were embarrassingly short on. In return, he and his son would be safer in their company than out on their own. As the horde moved further and further into Ferelden, there would be more and more desperate people sharing the roads and byways with them. Desperate people acted desperately, and soon it would not just be bandits seeking to rob him. A larger and armed company would be a deterrent.
It would also serve to further disguise Nike and Alistair as Grey Wardens, if they looked like they were part of a merchant company. The oddness of their little party would actually get less attention that way- merchant companies were often odd, dealing in more exotic wares than could be found at just any local market stall.
The downside to the arrangement, of course, were that merchant companies moved a lot slower than just a small group on horseback, but for the time being it seemed a fair enough exchange. As a bonus, they now had the mounts and weapons the bandits had left behind. Sten would no longer have to run afoot after them and could be armed, and the surplus sold or traded for other items they would need before their task was done.
That night they camped near the shore of Lake Calenhad proper, just north of the village of Ackmere. Morrigan had spent the entire day in her raven form and said not a word to Nike, or any of the others that Nike could see. She had just started to suspect that maybe the apostate had winged her way back home to the Wilds, when Morrigan reappeared after they broke camp, and wordlessly began to build her own fire some distance away from the others.
Nike, happy to see she hadn't gone but still feeling a bit stung, resisted the urge to go over and speak to her. Instead, she set up a few targets on an old length of wood fencing that was overgrown with weeds, and set about testing Far Song's strides.
The bow was surprisingly light for its size. While Nike could fire a longbow of this type, she much preferred the smaller hunting bows for their weight and ease of drawing. Longbows were overkill when it came to taking down rabbits or fox, and were generally reserved for war.
Far Song lifted like a shortbow, and drew like a feather. Nike actually could not believe the ease of her first draw and had to check her string and repeat the draw a few times to convince herself she'd set it properly. Structurally, nothing about this bow could account for the ease of draw, and she decided one of the runes Sandal had put upon it must have been the culprit.
This was confirmed when Alistair and Leliana came over out of curiosity and she gave it to the other warden to try. He lifted Far Song easily, but when he tried to draw, he got the line back only partway with much effort. He could not hold it for longer than a moment or two before his arms started to shake.
"I'm just not an archer, I suppose," he said with a bashful grin as he handed it back.
"It's not you," she said. "Your arms are strong enough to swing a two-handed blade around in battle. Even with a longbow you should be able to hold the draw for a few more seconds than that, at full extension. I should barely be able to draw it, but watch."
Once again, the string pulled back in Nike's fingers easily to full extension, and to prove her point she stood that way for almost a minute without the slightest shake to her arms or hands. When she finally relaxed she said, "I feel like I could hold it like that for hours."
"Give it a fire," Leliana said. "Let's see what else that bow can do."
Nike set arrow to string and drew back, aiming at one of her makeshift targets. She fired, and the arrow leapt home with a satisfying thwack. Nike paused a moment, then lowered it again.
"I didn't see anything unusual," Alistair said.
"Neither did I," Leliana agreed. "I wonder…try missing."
"Missing?" Nike asked, then shrugged. "Why not?"
Setting another arrow, she aimed deliberately past the target and released. The arrow sang just past the target and whispered away into the shore grass and the sand of the lake beach beyond.
"No, no, you did not miss," Leliana said almost immediately.
"I did," Nike replied, but the Sister kept shaking her head.
"No. You hit what you aimed at, you just didn't aim at the target. I was watching your eyes. Keep your eyes on the target, as if you fully intend to hit it, and deliberately keep the arrow off of it."
Nike pursed her lips, and drew another arrow. Setting it the string, she fixed her gaze on the target, and then loosed. The arrow wobbled away, missing.
"Ah, that time you did miss. I think it is safe to say your new bow doesn't automatically hit what you aim at," Leliana said.
"Well, that's a relief," Nike said, teasingly. "I'd like to think my skill actually counts for something."
"Maybe it does other things, when you think about them," Alistair said, his eyes lighting up eagerly. "I mean, other than always hitting what you mean to hit, what are other things that are useful when it comes to archery?"
Nike immediately thought of the silverite arrows that he'd given her that night at Ostagar, and lifted a brow. The arrows weren't silverite, but was it possible…?
She drew another arrow back to her ear, eyes on the target. She wanted it cold. She wanted it so cold it would freeze.
She released. The arrow sank into the target, just off center. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, like fingers of white, she could see ice riming through the old fence post as it slowly started to frost over.
"Ha!" she said, delighted. "I thought cold, and got cold!"
"Fire?" Leliana asked, starting to look just as wondering and delighted as Alistair. Nike grinned, drew again, and this time the point of the arrow burst into flame before she even loosed it.
As she lowered the bow again she regarded it with amazement. "So, how is this not magic?" she asked.
"Runes and runework are something separate," Alistair said. "I can't say entirely for certain how it works but, well, the mages tried to explain some of it to me when I was training with the Templars. I'm not saying this nearly as eloquently as Lady Vermoege said it, but it was something like 'magic uses a living person as a conduit to enact their will, runework uses the runes themselves and once written cannot be altered'. That doesn't make much sense, sorry. I think I said it really poorly."
"I don't think it was said poorly," Leliana said. "I suppose if you think about it in those terms, magic is like a person making up a story over a campfire. You draw from something outside of yourself and weave it through your emotions and thoughts and words until you paint the same picture in the mind of the listener. It's almost a living thing you are conducting from one form into another. You can change the story, depending on your mood, or your memory, or any number of things. Stories told by a master storyteller are far stronger and more vivid than stories told by someone just learning how. Runework, in that case, would be like writing the story down. Once the story is written down, when someone else reads those words, the magic is in the print itself and doesn't change- can't change, because it's bound in the words. Even centuries after the one who wrote them is dead, the words will be there, telling the same story in the same way forever."
"I don't know if that makes it clearer or more confusing," Nike said, and shook her head. "I suppose it doesn't matter. It's for wiser minds than mine. Just so long as it works."
"I think what you write the words with probably makes a difference," Alistair said. "I mean, watching that boy…if he did the same thing with just a normal ink pot and some parchment, I doubt you'd get anything at all. But those paint pots and powders, even those runescales themselves-well. Something to think about on long and boring nights perhaps."
Morrigan probably knows, Nike thought, but at the same time decided she wouldn't be asking her. At least, not tonight. She was still embarrassed, mostly that the other woman had called out her own regrets in that fight and had done so pointedly, unabashed.
She practiced a little longer while Alistair and Leliana chatted, then set Far Song aside as Leliana offered to get her started learning some knifework. Tahja approached at that point to tell Nike that food was ready, and overhearing, also expressed interest in the Sister teaching her.
They ate, but as Nike was getting up to join Tahja and Leliana back over by the fence, she noticed Alistair lingering nearby. As soon as she looked at him, he inclined his head a little in the other direction. He looked nervous, discomfited, and it gave her pause.
"You two go," Nike said, touching Tahja's arm. "I have something I need to talk to Alistair about. I'll join you later."
She headed over toward the other warden, and as she came near, he turned and walked off himself. At first, she thought he might be leading her over to the small lean-to tent that he'd set up for himself, but he stepped past it and to the furthest edge of the camp, just where the firelight gave away firmly to shadows.
"Alistair?" she said as he finally stopped, allowing her to catch up. "Something wrong?"
"No!" he said, a bit too quickly and in that would-be-calm high-pitched tone he tended to get when he was anxious. "No, not at all! Why would you think that?"
She looked at him, dead-pan. "Well, you either wanted me to follow you over here so that we could talk, or so that you could try some random pick-up line you learned from the dwarves to charm your way into my trousers."
He blanched. "W-what? I would never-"
"Never? Maker, Alistair, now my feelings are hurt," she said with a huff, folding her arms.
"I-I-I didn't mean…I mean, don't get me wrong, you're very attractive it's just…I-I-I wasn't suggesting-"
He seemed so frantically contrite that Nike couldn't help but laugh and feel a bit guilty at the same time. "Alistair, relax. I'm sorry, I was only joking. It's all right."
He let out a breath and scrubbed his fingers over his head again before he gave a weak laugh. "I'm sorry, of course you were. I just-I do need to tell you something and I'm not entirely sure how to go about it. Normally I wouldn't even bother, but it's bound to come up when we get to Redcliffe, and…"
"What is it?" she asked, concerned now.
"It's…well, it's Arl Eamon. Or rather, his wife. She doesn't much like me."
"His wife?" Nike felt a smile start to appear. "Alistair, were you inappropriate with the Arl's wife?"
"No, no! Nothing like that either. I just- oh Maker, take it. This isn't going to get any easier and it's best if I just get it out."
He took a deep breath, glancing around a little as if expecting Sten or Morrigan to be spying on them from the trees. Sten was over sitting silently near the Feddic wagon, painstakingly polishing the longsword they'd found in their stores for him, and Morrigan hadn't moved from her own fireside all evening.
"You see, Arl Eamon was King Cailan's uncle, but- I know him. I mean, I lived with him for a while, after my mother died."
"With Arl Eamon," Nike asked, and when he nodded she said, "What were you, his bastard?"
She was only half teasing by the question. Growing up in Highever, she had long ago learned that if a lord- be that lord a Teryn, a Bann, or an Arl- suddenly and with great magnanimity took in an orphan, that orphan was pretty much guaranteed to be that lord's bastard.
"No," Alistair said flatly. "King Maric's."
"Oh, well that's a relief, I mean-" She trailed off, staring at him. "I'm sorry, I think I just misunderstood."
"You didn't," he said. "I'm not Arl Eamon's bastard, I'm Maric's."
"You're King Maric's son? Are you serious?"
"As the Blight," he said and gave a helpless gesture. "My mother as a serving maid. I was given to Arl Eamon- who was Queen Rowan's brother, you know- to raise. To avoid scandal."
Though they were well away from being overheard by the others, Nike took his arm and walked him another few feet away from the rest of camp. "Alistair! Why did you say anything before? Are you all right?"
He blinked owlishly at her. "I'm fine," he said, confused. "At least, I am right now. I'm a bit concerned about how Isolde is going to react seeing me again but-"
"Your brother died," Nike said in a low whisper, searching his face. "Are you ok?"
He stared at her again for a long moment, then shook his head a little. "About that? I'm fine. I mean, I'm devastated that he died, but I'm…fine…with…oh Maker take it. I'm making a fool of myself. I'm devastated the King died, not my brother. I never really knew Cailan. He certainly knew nothing about me."
As she opened her mouth again he held up his hands. "And yes, I realize that makes me in line for the throne, but let's not go there please. I have no interest in it and no aptitude for it. I mean, you know me as well as anyone anymore. Do you think I'm king material?"
She closed her mouth again, regarding him. "So why are you worried about Eamon's wife? She doesn't know?"
He shook his head. "The only ones who knew were Duncan, me, and Arl Eamon. He didn't get married to Isolde until I was already about eight, and her natural assumption was that I was his bastard. She didn't like me from the start, thought I was 'in the way' of Eamon's 'real' family, which of course would be any children they had. She made life miserable for me there. When she broke the only heirloom I had left from my mother I lost my mind with anger. I hated her, I hated Eamon, I hated everything about Redcliffe.
"Eamon was kind to me. He didn't deserve my hate and anger. He tried to put up with it for a time but in the end it was decided it was best that I go and live at a monastery. So I was sent to Bournshire. They trained me to be a Templar, but I didn't much care for it. When Duncan came looking for recruits I jumped at the chance. I didn't have to worry about being someone's problem or secret there. I could just be me. I almost didn't make it. I fought in a tournament to impress him and didn't win a single bout, but I suppose Duncan saw something in me."
Looking at him sadly, Nike asked, "What was it?"
"That he saw in me? I have no idea-"
"No," she said softly. "The heirloom. From your mother. What was it?"
"Oh," he said. He looked down a moment, then said, "It was nothing really. A talisman of the flame of Andraste. There are hundreds like it. Thousands."
"No," she said again, and put her hand on his arm. "There weren't any like it, because none of the others ever belonged to your mother."
He looked at her, and tears shone in his eyes a moment before he roughly cleared his throat. "Thank you. I suppose that's something else we have in common."
"Yes," she told him. So far everything they had in common- lost parents, being Wardens- she really wished they didn't. For both their sake's.
He cleared his throat again, taking a breath. "Well, at any rate, it's bound to come up when we get to Redcliffe. I just wanted you to be prepared."
"I'll tell you what, if this Isolde says anything cruel to you, I'll pop her in the nose just as I did that bandit."
He laughed. "You'd better not. I saw your knuckles. If anything, you broke your hand more than his nose."
"Exactly. I need the practice," she grinned.
"Thank you, Nike, but it's all right. I'm sure she'll mind her manners. If not, I'm hardly an eight-year-old little boy any more. What Isolde thinks of me is her problem. But I appreciate it. And it probably goes without saying but I appreciate you not telling the others…about Maric I mean."
"Of course! I swear to it," she said, and then turned to head back into camp, giving him a final wink over her shoulder. "Your majesty."