Nobody wanted to eat in the great hall, which still bore the aftermath of the earlier battle. The tables and benches were a tangle of wood at the far end; ash and smoke smeared the tiles and a lingering acrid scent hung in the air.
Instead their dinner was served in the lesser hall, directly overhead. It was half the size of its counterpart, and left relatively unscathed by the demon. The lesser hall was an unremarkable space meant for private gatherings between the arl, his kin and those he had no need to impress; the decor bore few reminders of Guerrin superiority. The low, beamed ceiling lacked the splendour of its vaulted counterpart. There were no windows and thus no natural light, the chamber was submerged in a perpetual underwater gloom. A hearth spilled skeletal fingers of heat across the stone at the southern end. No complex storyboard of tapestry decorated the walls as they did below: the length of grey stretched austere and unadorned.
A single table ran the length of the hall, the oak scrubbed to bleached paleness and flanked with crudely hewn benches. Although it lacked the refined craftsmanship of the great hall's furnishing, it also had the distinct advantage of being intact and in place.
To Alistair's alarm, the humble meal he had intended for himself and Flora was now shared out amongst a half-dozen people, including the bann and the senior mage Wynne. Time had passed swiftly and winter days were short; it was nearer to dinner than lunch and stomachs were rumbling. Nobody commented on the root vegetable stew's startling hue, beyond a few raised eyebrows and a muffled snort. The yellow stew was augmented with several platters of two day old rye bread brought up from the town, and a wheel of white Denerim cheddar.
"Does it feel odd to be out of the Circle?"
Leliana was sitting beside Wynne. Despite the difference in years, there were a number of similarities between the two women: the diluted blue of the eye was the same, as was the cast-iron straightness of the back.
The senior mage half-smiled, tucking a loose thread out of sight within her sleeve.
"I've been fortunate enough to venture out on several occasions before now. The First Enchanter allows me more freedom than perhaps he ought."
Leliana leaned forward; a consummate listener who had cultivated the art of attention over a decade.
"Have you ever left Ferelden?"
"No," replied Wynne, after a fleeting pause. The hesitation suggested that the elder mage had almost answered differently. "Though I would have liked to see how the real Minrathous compares to its description. I find it hard to believe that such a place exists based on its descriptions. The authors of Tevinter are not known for their modesty, so most likely it is an exaggeration. You, on the other hand, look like a well-travelled young woman."
Leliana's laugh was a rustle of silver bells.
"I am not as young as I look," she confessed, her mouth twisting. "Nor as well-travelled as I would wish."
"Where would you go?"
The bard's smile became wistful.
"I know where I would not go," she replied, and left it at that.
While this civilised conversation was taking place at one end of the table, Alistair was sifting tiny dark nodules from the soup with a spoon; peering into its lurid depths.
"What are they?" asked Flora, mildly curious.
"I think they're cloves," he replied, letting the damp spices slide onto the edge of the plate. "Maybe we were supposed to sieve them out before serving."
The kind-hearted Alistair had used the plural we: in reality, the seasoning had been Flora's responsibility alone.
"Oh." Flora took a meditative bite of stale rye. "Hm."
The bread then almost fell from her mouth in alarm as the Qunari threw down a map before them, a stray spoon swept with a clatter to the floorboards. Sten, who had not chosen to partake in the yellow soup, had eaten independently and was now keen to make plans. Alistair pinned one edge of the map with his tankard, Morrigan - reluctantly - dug her nail into the parchment, pinning it to the wood.
"I have no interest in this quest for pagan relics," he stated with the usual brusqueness, while Leliana twitched at his choice of vocabulary. "Assign me another duty."
For some inexplicable reason, he was gazing at Flora. Flora was bemused: why was the vast Qunari under the grossly mistaken impression that she was in charge? If anyone was in charge, it was the arlessa - she was the highest ranking- and then the bann. Even Alistair was more qualified than she: Duncan had named him junior officer. He had named her nothing; at least, nothing to do with rank.
There are men sent to hunt you, prompted her general. This bann is of a mind to make the way safer.
Flora was able to glean the spirit's meaning relatively quickly: she was grateful that it had spoken plainly.
"There are killers on the road," she said, eyes lifting to meet the Qunari's unblinking gaze. "Sent by Mac Tir, searching for me and Alistair. Bann is already sending out patrols to seek the robbers and bandits. You can join them and find the assassins."
As Flora spoke, she thought how strange it was that Loghain Mac Tir had turned traitor. After all, he was a northerner, despite decades of leading a teyrnir in the south. The grit of the Storm Coast was stuck in his throat; it could not be smoothed out by rehearsed refinement.
Although his dad was born in Skingle, so maybe it ain't surprising.
"We would be grateful for any help, especially with our depleted numbers," Teagan said, then murmured in an aside to Alistair, "does she know my name isn't Bann?"
Sten gave a wordless nod, fingers moving reflexively to his waist as though feeling for something no longer there.
"I will require another weapon," he said, quietly. "I broke the ax."
"I'll show you the armory tomorrow," said Teagan, eyeing the vast Qunari. "There might be something there that would - ah - suit your needs."
Sten nodded, and rose from the table. His action of standing - thrusting the bench back several inches - almost jolted Flora, Leliana and Wynne to the floor. As they clung to the table, Morrigan snickered and then cleared her throat.
"If my presence too is not required on this mountain jaunt, I have a suggestion as to how I might occupy myself."
The witch shifted in her seat as eyes settled on her: she was not used to so much attention, but did not entirely mind it.
Back to the Wilds, back to the Wilds, back to the Wilds, prayed Alistair fervently.
He then remembered how Morrigan had saved his sister-warden when she fell into the lake under the swarm of Darkspawn. They had spent a month in each other's company - had it really been a month since Duncan's death? - and although Alistair could not say that he and Morrigan were civil, they were at least not at each other's throats.
"Unless your Circle grandmother has possession of a crystal ball, then we are in ignorance of what the Darkspawn are doing as we speak. Remember, the Darkspawn? The Blight? Your whole purpose?"
The witch rolled her yell0w cat-eyes and smirked. Alistair ground his teeth and regretted his previous sentiment.
"Sadly, we don't have a crystal ball. Such things have been lost for many centuries, and they shew lies as often as truth."
Wynne's response was polite, albeit wary.
Morrigan glanced towards the hearth, then returned her eyes to Flora and Alistair, who sat facing one another across the table.
"If I travel south, I may gain us some knowledge about the horde and their whereabouts. See how much of the Wilds remain intact, or if all is made smoke and ruin."
Alistair thought privately that burning down the southern swampland would be a marked improvement.
Flora, on the other hand, realised that Morrigan felt the same way about the Wilds as she did about Herring: they were home, and - unlike her beloved, ugly little collection of shacks - they lay directly in the path of the swarming foe. She caught Morrigan's eye, hoping that her face bore some hint of the understanding she bore.
"Yes," she said, simply. "Go."
Morrigan tightened her mouth and looked swiftly to the low eaves: she had seen it.
The witch departed shortly afterwards; like the Qunari, she offered no explanation as to whether she planned to depart in the morning, or at that very moment in the gathering dusk; as the sun began its grateful descent and the birds called out to signal the passing of the day.
Servants came in to replenish the hearth. Before entering the hall, they peered nervously around the doorway as if afraid that demonic conjurations might still be lurking, hovering in the shadows to ambush them. Thus reassured, they came in with wood-baskets and armfuls of kindling; soon, milky orange light spilled across the slate. The smell of pine hung in the air: fresh and sticky.
The bann received a stream of visitors - the steward, the master-at-arms, Isolde with pursed lips - but he did not seem inclined to leave the upper hall, although Eamon's solar was near and free from devastation. He exchanged murmured conversation with each new arrival; nodding or offering brief comment, eyes lingering on the far end of the table. Leliana had excused herself for evening prayer while Wynne was immersed in a leather bound journal, neatly slanting script issuing from the end of an ink-pen.
Alistair drained the last of his tankard and set it down. He looked across the scrubbed oak. His sister-warden was spinning her spoon on the table with a slow deliberateness, her finger pressed in the shallow oval.
"Flora?"
She looked at him.
"Do you want to look at the letters?"
"Yes!"
Flora responded with such uncharacteristic enthusiasm that he felt guilty for not making the offer sooner. Teagan's steward had left behind a few sheets of parchment; Alistair rose to his feet, sliding them closer with a palm. Wynne - always an advocate for education - silently offered the use of her spare ink pen; lifting it for Alistair as he rounded the end of the table.
Flora shuffled herself along the bench to make room. She had learnt that her brother-warden took up even more space than expected: the imposing height and breadth of shoulder seemed to shrink a room. He eased himself down beside her, stretching his legs beneath the table to make them fit.
"Right."
His thigh felt red hot against hers; the closeness set a yearning ache within him. Alistair suddenly doubted his ability to remember the Fereldan alphabet, let alone teach it.
Concentrate, he told himself, fiercely. Remember how much she wants to learn.
He began to write the letters, spacing them a half-inch apart and taking care to make his scrawling hand neat. Flora's dark red head bent closer: she was staring at the emerging characters as though he were producing the ancient sigils of some lost tongue. There was a single crease across her pale brow, her mouth slightly open.
"Didn't they try and teach you the letters at the Circle?" he murmured, tapping the edge of the pen on the pot to shake the excess powder. "I thought the place was full of teachers."
"We offer a range of literacy classes, for children, elves and those like Flora, raised without tutoring."
Wynne was not as absorbed in her journal as it seemed: the senior mage narrowed her eyes.
"I did not listen in class," confirmed Flora, solemn but without contrition. "I learnt nothing."
"Hm," observed an acerbic Wynne, glancing down the table. "And yet it seems that Alistair holds your attention more effectively than Elder Cornelius Eugene. I wonder why?"
"Dunno," said Flora, gazing at her brother-warden and only half-listening. "It is a mystery."
Wynne's nostrils flared.
"Here," said Alistair hastily, setting down the ink-pen. "The letters of the Fereldan alphabet."
She leaned in close as though inhaling them, her pale eyes following the dark flicks and tails of ink. Her thigh pressed to his and he clenched his jaw, feeling each exhilarating pulse of blood. A slender rope of hair had escaped the band; it lay against her neck as though someone had painted a writhing red ribbon on the skin.
"There ain't many of them," she observed, after a moment. "I thought there would be more."
Alistair released the breath he had been holding.
"Well," he said softly, "all the words we speak come from these letters."
"All the words we speak," Flora repeated, astonished. "Ooh."
Alistair had never paid much attention to linguistics, but - as he looked into the wide, mistral grey of her eyes - he thought perhaps it was rather amazing after all.
"It's called kingstongue ," he said, and felt a shiver in his bones as she looked at him. " This is how you write 'Flora'."
He wrote out f, l, o, r, a, on the parchment. Flora peered at the letters, fascinated.
"I could learn that," she said, "it ain't very long. I could learn to write my name."
Although I can't think of a reason why I would ever need to write my name. But it would be good to know, just in case.
"What other words would you like to learn?" Alistair asked, hoping that his face would not betray him if she said Duncan.
"Ferelden."
"Not Herring?"
She shook her head: she did not associate Herring with scholarship , and doubted that the name even had a written form.
"Alright, then. Ferelden it is."
Alistair wrote ferelden below flora, deciding not to bother with the large letters at the beginnings of nouns. Flora gazed at it for a long moment: he saw her lips move as though she were mouthing the sounds.
"How did you learn the letters?" she asked eventually, plucking the ink-pen from his hand with a casual intimacy. "Did you have a teacher?"
As she spoke, she began to copy the individual characters of her name: imitating the strokes as best she could. Losing confidence after the third letter emerged back-to-front and upside-down, she abandoned the attempt and drew a flower.
"Bann Teagan- "
"Just Teagan," corrected the bann, who had been watching them covertly from the tail of his eye.
"Teagan arranged for me to be taught, back when I squired for him for a summer," Alistair explained as a servant collected up the empty tankards. "I wasn't too keen at the time, but I'm grateful for it now."
Flora's small, grubby and bitten-nailed fingers looked astonishingly mundane wrapped around the ink pen. Only the unblemished, marble-pale skin hinted at the nature of her magic: not even a noblewoman had such preservation. It was as though she had been kept behind glass since childhood; hidden from the erosion of sun and drizzle.
"Hm."
She turned the ink pen and ran its wooden end over Alistair's knuckles, up and down along the weathered ridges with careful delicacy.
"Do you want me to spell anything else for you?" he asked, hoping that the words had not emerged in a croak. "'Fish'? 'Boat'? 'Waking Sea'?"
He listed the things he knew to be important to her.
"'Alistair,'" Flora replied, meditative.
"Yes?"
"That is what I want you to spell," she clarified, turning her cold and lovely eyes on him. "'Alistair."
Alistair grinned at her, absurdly delighted. She lifted the pen from his knuckles and held it out for him to take. He wrote his name beside hers, using the small letters again: a, l, i, s, t, a, i, r.
Flora pointed to the end of her name and the beginning of his, thoughtful.
"This is the same."
"Yes," he confirmed. "Flor- ah. Ah-listair."
She smiled up at him.
"I like that."
Alistair did not know what to say and so he gazed at her in stupefied silence; his pulse like the vibrato of a bowstring. Flora eyed their two names, then retrieved the ink pen. She drew a slow and deliberate line between the tail of her name and the head of his; then lifted her chin to bring her lips alongside Alistair's ear.
"This is our fish rope," she whispered, so that only he could hear. "Remember the story?"
Now unable to speak, he gave a wordless nod. Flora patted his thigh, and then returned her attention to the miraculous letters.
Leliana, having finished her prayers a short time earlier, had slipped into the upper hall like a ghost at dusk; visible only when the light fell on her. The bann noticed her as she paused beside his end of the table, a small smile pulling at the corner of her lips. He leaned back slightly to catch her attention - a veteran of the Orlesian court, she noticed the signal immediately.
Teagan then canted his head towards the far end of the table. Alistair had gently adjusted the angle of the inkpen in Flora's fist. The calloused ball of his thumb lingered on the back of her hand and they both stared - transfixed - at the point where his flesh touched hers.
"There's unfinished business there," the bann said quietly.
"D'accord."
"Why hasn't he bedded her yet?"
Leliana pursed her lips. If the question was merely the raw curiosity of one man about the love life of another, she would have either ignored it, or diverted it. She knew though, that the bann's query harboured a political kernel: with Cailan's death, Alistair had been transformed into something other than a bastard.
"He knows that both Maric and Cailan had a certain... reputation in that area. He does not wish to follow in their footsteps."
Teagan inclined his head: after all, his own sister had been lured from Mac Tir by the lust-stuck old king. He did not ask how Leliana knew this intimate information; after all, she was a bard trained in the court of Celene Valmont.
"And she?"
"She still bears some yearning for the late Warden-Commander. The one who died at Ostagar."
This, Leliana could shape less. She had gleaned a little understanding from Flora's idle comments; each time she mended someone, she yielded part of herself to them. Flora had spent a month as Duncan's mender: concern for her patient sunk deep, enduring roots. Inevitably, feelings sprouted that were not purely professional; a sentiment watered by a man profoundly aware of his own impending destruction.
It was neither the time nor the place for Leliana to unspool her thoughts on the matter, especially in their half-formed state. She curved a warm, bland smile at the curious bann: her tone light.
"Did I hear that you had rooms prepared for us?"
AN: Hahaha, you thought the original was slow burn?! Try being almost 100 chapters in and they haven't even kissed (on the lips) yet! Ha! Oh well, I do love writing sexual tension, it's so much fun.
So in this chapter, we have Flora and Alistair practising the alphabet instead of getting it on; we have an excuse to say goodbye to Sten and Morrigan for a bit because fuck writing more than four characters in a party! I think this is why Tolkien split up the fellowship of the ring after about three minutes, too much effort writing about 5+ people at once XD
I love writing about Flora and Duncan's inappropriate, fascinating, unhealthy relationship! I headcanon that because she heals in such an intimate manner (with her mouth and hands, the ultimate breath of life/CPR), she feels a little residual connection to every patient even after they're mended. Since she was mending Duncan every night for a month - keeping his rotting, tainted carcass and mind intact for a little longer, basically - that connection grew into something that blurred with hero worship and naive attraction, since he named her as a spirit healer, and thought her magic beautiful and praiseworthy. On his part, he was VERY aware that it was inappropriate to foster this sort of dynamic, but he's also like 'well fuck it, my entire life has been grim and I'm about to die by sacrificing myself so why shouldn't I enjoy this attention?!'
Of course, Flora does need to get the fuck over the dead man soon because her true soul mate is sitting next to her teaching her letters on a bench :P