The wind that had hastened their journey from the Circle to Redcliffe now turned on them. Baring its teeth, it whipped around the buildings and bit at exposed flesh; stealing the heat from a meagre winter sun. The surface of Lake Calenhad was ridged like snakeskin, agitated by the skimming finger of the wind. It was sometime before midday; no one knew the exact hour as the Chantry bells stood silent.
The final preparations for the expedition into the castle were underway. The senior mages were huddled, their backs set to the wind, conversing in low tones. Several crates had been carefully disembarked from the ship, their contents now stood on the ruddy flagstones. A Tranquil, white haired and capable, supervised the array of various paraphernalia. Eight staves were propped against the fence: an incongruous sight in the midst of a rural marketplace. Some gleamed with a shifting, unnatural light; others could easily be mistaken for a walking stick.
The First Enchanter stood slightly apart, his small and clever eyes lost in thought.
While the last of the equipment was readied, the two Warden-recruits sought a place to finish their breakfast. There was a wall mostly intact nearby; Flora leaned against it and picked the skin off a pear with her nails. She did not have much appetite: her stomach was squirming at the prospect of facing the abomination once more. Her only consolation was that the senior mages would be in command during the confrontation itself: neither she nor Alistair were qualified to perform an exorcism.
I don't even know what any of that stuff is for.
'That stuff' was the array of magical paraphernalia set purposefully on the flagstones. There were five lanterns of vastly differing size: the largest nearly reached Flora's waist and the smallest could rest comfortably in her palm. A finger-marked mirror sat on a wooden stand; unremarkable except for the lack of living beings in its reflection of the marketplace.
It is to assist with the exorcism.
Will it help?
Ha! To an extent.
The cloying scent of the pear-flesh made Flora nauseous. She lowered the fruit and blew out her cheeks, leaning her elbows against the wall. Beside her, Alistair was attacking an apple as though it were an enemy: each bite a small act of vengeance. He was staring hard at the thin air of the courtyard, the movement of hand to mouth abrupt. The length of his body stood rigid as the central spine of a tower.
Flora could feel the anger rolling off him in waves. It was mingled with a sour edge of fear: in his mind, he had come close to losing her to Loghain Mac Tir's machinations. She wondered if she ought to say something - perhaps she could repeat that nobody took her where she didn't want to go.
The last time that happened, I was a child and they were Templars; but it won't happen again.
Judging by the scowl embedded like a plough-line across Alistair's brow, Flora doubted that this would make any difference. She exhaled a long and pensive breath, then let her palm drift like a settling leaf onto the ridged knuckles of her brother-warden's fist. The calloused back of Alistair's hand could have belonged to a veteran soldier: a year with the Wardens left scars worthy of a decade in the Royal Army.
Her fingertips slid outwards as though she were drawing the arms of a starfish on the back of his hand; contracted to the centre and repeated the motion, skating lightly over the flesh. Flora felt the beat of his heart quicken and then ease, the blood moving forward in languid, liquid pulses through the narrow channel of the vein. Alistair exhaled as she had done moments earlier, slow and measured.
His elbow brushed against hers; a gentle, intimate nudge. Despite the many barriers between them - four ill-fitting layers on her part and a sheath of mail on his - both were acutely aware of the pressure of the other.
"You should eat something," he said softly, still absorbed by the rhythmic pattern of her fingers on the back of his hand. "You need to break your fast."
"If I eat anything," Flora replied ominously, "I'll be sick."
Like many northerners, she possessed a healthy streak of fatalistic melodrama.
"Why?"
Alistair did not move, afraid that her hand might drift away from his. His sister-warden's gaze flickered in the direction of Castle Redcliffe, and the possessed child who dwelt within its towers.
"When Duncan recruited me, he said that I would be a healer."
He marvelled at how easily the name came for her. She had not hesitated before voicing it.
"A healer ," Flora repeated emphatically, sliding a vehement thumb over his knuckles. "Not a…. a… a ' battle-mage'."
Her mouth twisted as she spoke: Flora had a healer's disdain for combat.
"I know." Alistair watched the gentle slide of her thumb. "Hopefully, once - once this is over- "
He followed her earlier glance towards the castle perched on the rock. It reminded him of a crow hunched on a branch; he could envision the beady white eye of the demon spying on their preparations.
"Once it's over, there shouldn't be any more fighting. We'll persuade the dwarves to help us - and try our best to secure the elves too, Maker knows how - but it shouldn't be a violent negotiation. Not unless something goes really wrong. Knowing me I'll put my foot in it and offend both of them. Though hopefully not enough to provoke an actual attack. "
Flora's thumb paused, then continued its slow meander over his knuckles. She remembered that he had said the same before their disastrous visit to the Circle.
"Eh, I hope so," she agreed, then clarified - "That there won't be any more fighting. After today. Thank you."
Alistair hid a grin. The manners taught by the mages rolled incongruous from Flora's unrefined northern tongue. He wondered if she would abandon the careful, childish politeness if she ever did return to Herring: shedding the pleases and thank yous like an outgrown shell at the village boundary.
But Alistair did not want her to go back to Herring. He glanced around the courtyard to ascertain whether they were being watched. The mages seemed preoccupied with their equipment; the bann and the bard were deep in hurried conversation; the Qunari waited impatiently near the road.
Taking advantage of the rare moment of privacy Alistair turned his wrist, lacing their fingers tight together. Swift and seamless, he lifted their clasped palms to his mouth: pressing his lips briefly to her knuckles. Flora's expression did not change, but a heat rose to her cheeks; a shy pink dappling that struck a chord deep within his belly. She glanced at him from the tail of her eye, beneath the sooty fringe of the lash.
Alistair could feel his sanity breaking against the smooth white curve of her throat. In that moment he saw her beneath him, her hair spread beneath his flattened palms like a fall of forest fruits. He let her hand go abruptly, shocked by the scorching ferocity of his desire.
I'm not my father, he told himself; unconvinced. I can ignore it. I always have.
I didn't follow the priestess where she beckoned, back at the monastery. I played cards with the brothel madam in Denerim while the other Wardens went upstairs. I've always resisted.
I didn't feel like this when I first saw her. I thought she ought to be behind glass in some noble's art collection. You don't lust after the sculptures.
Then why now -
To his relief, reprieve came in a most unexpected form. There was a ripple of consternation from the senior mages, followed by the slow, scraping drag of chained feet. A trio of men clad in Rainesfere green and gold accompanied a sallow, sunken-faced figure who stumbled on every other step. His face had grown out several greasy inches and a fetid, sweaty odour seeped from the grubby robe.
Alistair felt Flora stiffen beside him.
"Jowan," he said, and she gave a gloomy nod. "Bann Teagan must have brought him down from the castle dungeon."
The bann had not been gentle with the man whom he blamed for the misfortunes heaped upon his family. Jowan flinched as the sun fell on his face, dropping a sour eye to the earth. He did not look up as he was surrounded: indeed, he deliberately angled his face away from the First Enchanter.
Irving had a lifetime of experience in navigating Fereldan politics: he could deploy a neutral expression in even the most challenging of circumstances. The last time that he had seen Jowan, the youth had been screaming through a bloody froth of a mouth, his pupils an oily crimson. The former Circle apprentice had declared himself as maleficar, shortly before inflicting a grievous wound on another to facilitate his escape from Kinloch Hold. Neither the First Enchanter nor Jowan had ever imagined that they would meet face to face again; or - stranger still - that they would find themselves once more on the same side.
"Well, well," observed Wynne tartly, her pale blue eyes glinting like shards of ice. "We meet again."
The senior enchanter lacked inclination to maintain the same dispassionate blankness. Jowan glanced swiftly away, his gaze sliding from Flora to Alistair. When Teagan spoke, he flinched and dropped his stare back to his feet.
"I was sorely tempted to leave him to rot in Eamon's dungeon," the bann offered, tersely. "Maker knows I owe the cretin no favour, nor does my brother - nor my poor nephew. But if he's got aught else to share about the demon - I thought I'd better keep a close eye on him. Well? Any more secrets to spill?"
There was an expectant silence. Jowan's shoulders hunched in an unconscious defence, resentment spilling across his face like sour milk. For several moments, it appeared that he would say nothing. Then a response emerged hesitant from his throat, though his voice was a brittle ghost of its former self.
"It's a desire demon. All promises are lies."
The First Enchanter heaved a sigh: desire demons were some of the Fade's most insidious and manipulative creatures. Still, Irving had a plan secreted within his crimson sleeve; one that he had voiced to nobody.
"Maferath's ass!" The bann's eyes glittered like a lizard's scale. "I don't give a damn what sort of demon it is. It'll find no mercy at the end of my blade."
"Your mortal weapons will have little effect, my lord."
This calm interjection came from Wynne. The bann turned towards her, patience waning.
"Eh?"
"Even when the child is possessed by the demon, any wound done to his body will prove as damaging as one inflicted in normal circumstance. And once the demon is expelled, it will be at its most dangerous: you will not be able to approach."
The bann's temper flared.
"The last I checked, Alistair's no mage. Why's he garbed in mail and vambraces?"
Alistair was indeed clad ready for battle: shield propped against a nearby fence post and sword at his thigh. The length and heft of the blade would demand both hands from most men. Yet Alistair had Maric's overgrown blacksmith's build, and blood augmented by the taint; he wielded it with one easy hand.
"The demon may conjure its own defences," Irving replied, softly. "If the ritual is to succeed, we will need to conduct it without interruption."
The bann gave a terse nod: he understood.
"Then let's be off."
During the heated exchange between the bann and the senior mages, Flora had manoeuvred herself towards Jowan. She was not prepared to make conversation - she had not forgiven him for his attempted murder of the Tranquil - but she could not help but feel sympathy for the wasted creature that trembled on the dirt like an old man with palsy.
Flora snared his eye without effort - then wordlessly passed her uneaten pear into his palm. She saw the corner of Jowan's mouth twist, and turned away hastily: she did not know what to say to him.
I'm sorry that you chose the path you chose.
I wanted to escape the Circle too, but I wouldn't have hurt someone for it.
The sky was the whitish green of sour milk: a typical sullen winter morning in Ferelden. Drizzle hung in the air - dampening sleeves and hoods - but never properly descended. The Circle equipment would be relayed up to Castle Redcliffe in the back of a cart; the rest of them would travel the distance on foot. There was no mention of secret tunnels and dungeon passageways: they would enter through the front door.
After some discussion, it was decided that Jowan would accompany them. His chains were not removed for the walk and he struggled to drag his manacled ankles through the claggy red earth. The damp turned the red dust to clay underfoot; soon, everyone's boots appeared bloodied. A crowd of townsfolk watched them leave, trepidation and tentative hope smeared across weary faces.
The Warden-recruits and their companions brought up the rear of the party, their view of the road ahead obscured by the trundling cart. Leliana, bearing the elegant yew curve of her bow over her shoulder, seemed to skate over the claggy earth instead of sinking ankle-deep into it.
"We expected you back last night," she murmured, evading a puddle with the grace of a greyhound. "Were you delayed at the Circle?"
A dry and humourless sound emerged from Alistair's throat. "Well, you know. The mages took ages deciding which robes to pack."
The bard shot him a swift and appraising glance: reading the brittle twist of the mouth and the shadow beneath the eye. She surmised - correctly - that it was a long story, and one that ought to be shared in different circumstances.
"Well, I cannot pass judgement," she replied, deliberately matching his light-hearted tone. "I know the importance of choosing the correct wardrobe. Unlike some, who shall go unnamed."
Flora wondered if Leliana was referring to her and her multiple ill-fitting layers. They had reached the skeleton of the old windmill; its bare sails set dark against the sallow sky. Just ahead, the cart lurched as it failed to navigate a pothole. Alistair strode forward, hefting the corner of the cart upwards with little effort. His brawn and bulk made it look easy: he had not bothered to wait for help from others.
"The breadth of the arm..!" the bard murmured under her breath, avoiding the pothole. "If your brother-warden ever decides to lay down his blade, he could quite easily pick up the bow instead. An arrow loosed from him by that fence post might end up in Denerim."
"Mm."
The towers of Castle Redcliffe were obscured with a bone-white fog; like linen draped over furniture in an abandoned room. The promontory at its foundation appeared severed from the mainland; the narrow rock bridge hidden by the same low-hanging mist. No sign of life stirred the narrow windows, nor were any of the braziers atop the ramparts lit.
The road to the castle was hewn into the ruddy clay of the cliff. The rooftops of Redcliffe shrank in their wake. The company met no one save for an astonished merchant with a handcart; his mouth opening in an O of astonishment as he took in the cluster of grim-faced mages and their Templar escort.
"You know," Leliana began, diverting her words over her shoulder as Sten picked up the pace to avoid conversation. "This whole affair reminds me of a certain infamous incident at the University of Orlais."
"Everything reminds you of something," replied Alistair, checking - for the dozenth time - that his sword hadn't silently fallen off somewhere on the road.
"Where several students were expelled for recreating an exorcism in their room. They dressed up as magisters and pretended at rituals. All while acutely drunk, of course."
Leliana tutted under her breath, though her disapproval was tinged with sly amusement. "Anyway, they were discovered - half-naked and insensible - and sent home in disgrace. It was quite the convenient scandal. Distracted Celene's court from more pressing matters."
Alistair let out a grunt: Orlesian politics interested him as little as Orlesian gossip.
Meanwhile, Flora avoided another pothole - Eamon's absence was noted most strongly in the deterioration of the roads - and frowned, her brow creasing in two places.
"What's a yurt city? Ursity."
"University," Leliana corrected, kindly and without condescension. "It is a place where higher knowledge can be obtained. Men and women journey from all over Thedas to study poetry, rhetoric, moral philosophy and ancient literature - amongst many other pursuits."
Flora thought that a university sounded much like a non-magical Circle. She hoped fervently that she would never have cause to visit one.
Leliana read her face, and the corner of her mouth curved upwards.
"Never fear, mon petite : there is no university in Ferelden."
"Thank the Maker," interjected Alistair, fervently. "Very sensible. Orlais can keep its poetry and moral philosophy."
"Mm." His sister-warden was in complete agreement.
The bard let out a sigh of mild exasperation, raising her eyes to the sallow winter sky.
"I have never met a pair so proud of their ignorance!"
"Eh." Flora peered past the now-stationary cart. "We're here."
AN: I really enjoy putting Alistair through a bit of lust-related angst - all this is pure headcanon of course - but I imagine that he's always managed to restrain himself because he doesn't want to be like his father, who (as far as he knows) had a one night stand with a castle servant, and was notorious for shagging in the Deep Roads - this one of the reasons why he's managed to avoid temptation with Flora so far - as well as the fact that he doesn't think she's entirely over Duncan yet.
Lol this chapter was fun to write - I love how both Alistair and Flora are wholly aware that they aren't intellectuals - they have lots of good qualities, but academia isn't one :P