The dusk gathered around Redcliffe Castle like the incoming tide. Shadow crept the bedrock like a thief, sliding overcast fingers through arrowslits and the gaps beneath doorways. It stole the last remnants of daylight, replacing it with a murky gloom that spilled along the corridors. Chambers with unlit hearths seemed darker than the Deep Roads; half of the castle was submerged in gloom. Most of the servants were either dead or fled, and so braziers went unlit and fireplaces without fuel.
It was a strange, tentative night for those who remained within the arl's walls. Their master lay dying in his mouldering chamber; yet a sliver of raw hope had been ignited by the successful exorcism of the demon. The castle had been retaken and the arl's heir saved; the Circle mages were praised, but so were the pair who had sought their aid. Whispers darted on swift wings along the narrow spur of rock that connected the castle to the cliff. It descended the steep half-mile to the town and then fragmented into rumour and gossip.
It was the Grey Wardens, I heard. The same ones who fought on the barricade last week, remember? Came with the bow-sister and the Par Vollen giant.
Bah, they're not old enough to be real Wardens.
Recruits, then.
Aye. The big one is the spit of - Martha, when did the old king last come by these parts?
Near two and twenty years ago, eh? Hm.
Deep down, Alistair had always known that his return to Redcliffe would end his anonymity. The town had a long memory, and its people were not stupid. He tried not to think too much about it, attempted to ignore the stares of the castle servants and offered his services to the bann's steward instead. There was no shortage of jobs that required the strength of three men: since there was a shortage, Alistair undertook them alone. He was content to be left with his thoughts while chopping broken furniture into firewood and removing debris from a stairwell: he had much to contemplate. Seeing the arl in such a vulnerable state had shaken him more than he had expected; he and Eamon had parted on sour terms and Alistair had ignored all attempts to forge reconciliation.
Come and say goodnight, his sister-warden had entreated as she was led away by Leliana. To me.
While a sweating Alistair threw aside masonry and chewed over his thoughts, Flora had been escorted to her quarters for the night. To her alarm, she was not only to be separated from Alistair; she was also assigned her own chamber. Flora had never slept in a room alone in her life and she was appalled at the prospect. She had slept in a one-room cottage during childhood, a dormitory of six in the Circle, and then in a series of tents with Alistair: now, she would only have the rustling of mice and her own exhalation for company.
Three bedchambers branched off a mid-sized antechamber; stocked with poor quality bedding hastily dusted off from storage. She, Wynne and Leliana - as the women in the company - had been allocated this trio of battered rooms, while Alistair and Sten had been designated chambers on the far side of the tower. Their baggage, or what little they had, had been brought up from the town.
Although the ndiniân bell had been rung and the moon held confident dominion in the sky, they could not retire to bed before heat had been delivered. The damp clung to the skin like a wet cloak. Wynne - although she would not complain about her bones whilst harbouring intentions of joining their number - was determined to see the open mouth of the hearth fed. The elder mage could conjure fire in a heartbeat, but even arcane-ignited flame required fuel, unless she wished to attend the hearth all night.
Still, the bann's steward had promised that firewood was on its way. The senior instructor sat on a moth-eaten chair, journal resting on her knee, and kept an eye on Flora, who looked as though she might walk out.
Leliana was perusing a bookshelf near the entrance, her curious finger leaving a trail along the grimy spines. None of the Guerrins appeared to be avid readers; cobwebs pulled at the books as they were removed from the shelves. Morrigan, although she had rejected the offer of a bed, was also drifting around the antechamber; twitchy at the confines of the stone walls but curious to see more of how Fereldan nobility lived. So far, the witch was not impressed: the castle was damper, draughtier and more dingy than her mother's hut in the Wilds.
Flora's chamber was in the poorest condition; the flagstones hadn't been swept and cobweb clung to the ceiling like loose hair. She yawned, shuffling her feet as she leaned against the empty hearth.
"You've the smallest room, sister-warden," Morrigan observed keenly, after angling her gaze around the three branching chambers.
"Mm," agreed Flora, disinterested. "'Spose so."
The witch's eyes narrowed in gold, gimlet focus.
"It would seem that the noble lady is not an admirer of yours. 'Tis a little ungrateful, considering all you have done for her."
A philosophical shoulder rose and fell. "Eh."
A spider scuttled along the ledge above the hearth: creeping forwards on probing black arms. She watched it climb upwards, clinging without effort to the stone.
The corner of Morrigan's mouth twisted in a sly smile.
"Perhaps she fears for her marriage after learning of your fondness for decaying old men with beards."
Flora's nostrils flared; she shot the witch a malevolent stare. Leliana interceded with a bard's conciliatory ease; her voice soothing.
"Of course the arlessa does not dislike you, Flora. Perhaps the smallest chamber is the least draughty? Or traps the heat better?"
"Maybe."
Flora decided that the best way to avoid further antagonism, accidental education, or nighttime devotion was to ready herself for bed. She had no idea what hour it was - there were no windows within the collection of rooms, and the sun set early in winter - but had no desire for further socialisation.
The bard hastened to the door as Flora wrestled herself free of her layers; an arduous task, considering their number. After a final scrutinising glance up and down the passage - an old habit- she pulled the door shut. Not a moment too soon: when she turned back, Flora was naked and wandering around in search of her possessions. Leliana, who had been raised within the fine craftsmanship of Val Royeaux, thought that the girl's nudity seemed more cultural than carnal: it was as though one of Baradini's sculpted marbles had stepped down from its plinth, albeit with dirty fingernails.
"Beside the desk," Wynne murmured, resuming her writings.
Flora approached her battered pack, which looked as though it had been trampled by a horse besides Leliana's spotless baggage.
"Have you thought about how you might occupy yourself tomorrow?" the bard asked, leatherbound tome in hand. "The supplies for our journey won't be ready until Friday."
Leliana had ambitious plans to devour an entire row of the bookshelf. Flora offered an incoherent mumble in response, removing one of Alistair's vast linen undershirts: she did not like delays, and she had no idea how to occupy free time.
"Dunno. Wait."
Flora briefly contemplated practising her writing, but she had already forgotten the letters that Alistair had carefully scribed. She vaguely remembered what an f looked like; though she had a suspicion that her recollection was either back-to-front or upside down.
"Are you not curious to explore the castle? It must be the first one you have seen. It must seem overwhelming."
The query, which came from Leliana, was delicately poised: a quill hovering above a blank sheet of parchment.
Flora considered the question, her head appearing through the gaping neck-hole of Alistair's shirt.
"No," she replied, after a thoughtful moment. "It don't."
She did not devote any more time to her response, only vaguely curious as to why the vast and sprawling architecture of Redcliffe Castle did not intimidate her. Flora owned no clothing solely intended for wear at night. For months, she had borrowed Alistair's undershirts; they hung to her knees and the sleeves flapped like wings.
Damp stone walls and towers, just like Herring and the Circle. That's why.
Is it?
Yes. Why else?
"It doesn't," repeated Leliana, the corner of her mouth flickering. "I see."
Flora was tired of people speaking in vagaries and allusions; as though each uttered sentence could be stripped of its skin to reveal a different meaning.
"'Night," she said, and crossed the threshold into her chamber.
There was no door, just an arched doorway that led to a space barely larger than the squat, blackwood bed at its centre. It had posts rising at each corner, but the embroidered hangings were crumpled in pleats on the floorboards. The shadow spilled across the floor and cast the room in a mire of gloom. The walls were bare, save for a faded oil of a severe-faced man clad in the regalia of a Chantry brother. The damp had left a smear across the canvas, one eye had dissolved into his cheekbone.
Flora was not tall enough to lift the painting from its fixings and turn it to face the wall. Resolving to sleep with her back to it, she took a seat on the lumpen mattress. It felt like a sack stuffed with clods of earth: the bare boards of the bed would have been more comfortable. Isolde had offered a thin apology for the lack of adequate bedding; the blankets had been retrieved from storage and they had a distinct odour of mildew.
Flora eased herself back warily, aware of the biting tenderness of her knee. She had exerted herself beyond the limits of the damaged joint: it throbbed beneath the leather binding.
Is there no way I can mend it?
It is not an injury, it is the result of your distracted mending. If you break the knee, you can restore it to its proper state.
Flora shivered and turned her thoughts hastily away. Instead, she bent an arm behind her head to act as a makeshift pillow, gazing up at the ceiling. Framed by timber eaves, it was sorely in need of restoration; much like the rest of the arl's seat. The plaster was wreathed in fine cracks like a spider's web. One looked like a character that Alistair had inked carefully for her, though she could not remember which it was.
Wynne and Leliana were talking in muted tones in the antechamber; Flora could hear their voices, but not the shape of the words. She stifled a yawn and deliberately did not think about the day's events: it had been exhausting enough surviving them, let alone reviewing them.
Should I get some socks? Do I have any more socks?
There came the sound of a door opening, and the conversation in the antechamber came to a startled halt. Flora, with a sinking in her belly, wondered if some stray remnant of demonic magic had wandered in: a lurching undead or a Fade imp.
I ain't getting up she thought evilly, rolling onto her stomach and pressing her nose into the damp mattress. I ain't getting up! It can just kill everyone! I don't care!
"I've got wood for you," said her brother-warden, then coughed. "Ahem - I mean, I've brought wood for the hearth. Sorry it's late."
His voice filtered through the doorway; the shadows moved across the floor.
"Merci beaucoup," came the murmured response. "Did you prepare it yourself? Were there none to do it for you?"
"I hope I never get too high and mighty to chop my own wood," Alistair said drily; Flora heard him cross the flagstones and kneel beside the hearth. The following sounds suggested that he was building the fire, stacking the larger logs at the bottom of the grate before adding the lesser ones.
"Thank you, young man."
"No problem, senior enchanter," came the amiable response. "You'd be waiting a long time for a servant. I think the arlessa has commandeered them all."
"Please, Wynne will do."
There followed a rush of flame and amber light spilled from the antechamber: the hearth had been lit with arcane assistance. Flora's bedchamber became a fraction less gloomy. She could make out her own pale feet in the shadow, like fish swimming in the silty shallows. Yawning again, she wondered what the point of having clean toenails was, and why Leliana was so obsessed with the idea.
"Ah - where's my- "
"In her room." There was a sly question in the mage's response; her brows arched. "You must be sorry to be parted."
"Ahem. Is she asleep?"
Alistair was not ready to be baited into discussing the nature of his friendship with Flora; he could not even define it himself.
"No," said Flora, relying on the soft, northern hoarseness of her vowels to carry the word into the antechamber.
The light from the hearth was eclipsed, the room thrown into temporary shade. Alistair ducked beneath the lintel, his lofty, broad-shouldered frame taking up much of the doorway. He almost glanced back as he entered the chamber - was there really no door set on the hinges? - but then his eyes, like the inevitable tug of a lodestone, veered back to the bed.
Flora stared back at him, her mouth slightly open. She felt as though she were bait pierced through with a barb: unable to move. The conversation between Leliana and Wynne shrunk to an unintelligible whispering; though the volume of their voices had not changed.
"Flora," he said, remembering how to shape her name again. "'Lo."
Her skin had a lunar pallor that stood in stark contrast to the gilded olive radiance of his complexion. The dark red of her hair was like the glossy skin of a plum. Alistair could not stop looking at her mouth; her lips were parted and he could see the small white teeth within. He had never wanted anything so badly before: it was a visceral ache that throbbed within the bone.
Flora patted the lumpen mattress. Alistair steeled his resolve and crossed the chamber; covering the short distance in three strides. As he eased himself down beside her, she eyed the fresh growth of hair sprouting the length of his jaw.
"First night sleeping in a castle," he said, lightly. "I admit, it makes a change from taverns and pigsties."
She responded with her eyes. The pale grey irises searched his face; their meaning clear.
I'd rather we were in a pigsty together.
Leaning forward, he said quietly in her ear: "I know."
A second sly voice whispered from within Alistair's skull: but you don't trust yourself to be alone with her, in a bed with drapes, in a room with solid walls. My chamber has a door: I can't have her in there with me.
It reminded him of a time in boyhood when he had lost the reins of an untamed colt he was riding. The leather strap had slipped from his palm and the horse had lunged forward joyfully. For a dreadful, exhilarating moment, he had felt himself rise weightless from the saddle; impotent as a leaf seized by the wind. He had never forgotten that sensation of utter giddy helplessness: it was terrifying and yet strangely serene.
This time, there were no other stable lads around to grab the reins and return him to safety. Flora eyed him, and took pity.
"My soup gave me INDIGESTION," she said in a confessional whisper: solemn as a pious young priestess. "Is your belly alright?"
Alistair laughed in relief, grateful for the mundane nature of her complaint: it was grounding.
"It's alright," he said, reaching for Flora's leg. She slumped back on the rag-stuffed pallet as he began to unwind the leather strapping. "You're probably not used to all the spices. What do they season food with in Herring?"
"Sand," she said and then smiled up at him.
He felt himself lift again, and hastily fixed his attention on her swollen knee: it was red and sore beneath the strap. Flora ground her teeth - despite his attempts to be gentle, the hurt was inevitable - and sought to distract herself. The women in the antechamber were readying themselves for bed: she heard Leliana bid the senior enchanter a restful sleep after the day's exertion.
"Do you think Collin is alright?"
"Who?" He rotated the ball of his thumb in a circle; the tender flesh yielding.
"The arl's little boy."
Flora was aware how fortunate she had been to be found early by her spirits: she could not remember a time when they had not shielded her from the worst parts of the Fade. Demons had made no attempt to approach her, nor had the arcane realm played any trick with her mind. She had spent the nights of her childhood playing oblivious on her green-tinged beach; the storms never reached the shore.
"Oh, you mean Connor. I don't know - his mother rushed him off to his chamber pretty quickly."
"Hm."
"He wasn't hurt, if that's what you mean. Physically , at least."
Flora rubbed the edge of the blanket between her thumb and forefinger; chewing on her bottom lip. Alistair glanced up from her knee, eyes coming to a rest on her face. His gaze softened and he hid a smile, hastily returning his attention to her knee.
"Another detour," he said after a moment, the lightness fading from his face. "It's another delay, really, isn't it? This - this journey to find some religious relic. I mean, what if we can't find them? Or if they don't work?"
"My spirits say they will."
Alistair grimaced and she forgave him for his doubt; he did not know her spirits as she did.
"It's all time, isn't it? Time we could be spending gathering an army. Like Duncan wanted us to. The Darkspawn are swarming in the south, Mac Tir rules the north. And we're still trying to get the arl's help, like when we set out for Redcliffe in the first place. It seems like we've been confronted with… snags and stumbling blocks at every turn. Just one obstacle after another."
Flora did not dismiss what he said; he saw her consider it, turning it over in her mind like pebbles in her palm.
"The obstacle makes us move," she replied quietly, tracing the threadbare pattern. "The obstacle makes the way forward."
Her pale gaze met his and her eye was steel.
Alistair felt a shiver run down his spine; as though the gods had whispered his name in some distant realm of the Fade.
There is nothing I would not do for you.
The thought rose unprompted in his mind. He swallowed, blinking and groping for the reins. There was no noise from the antechamber now but he suspected that at least one of the women - most like Leliana - was still there; poised in silence beside the hearth.
"Right," Alistair said, not trusting himself to stay in the shadows with his sister-warden any longer. "Time to say goodnight."
"Mm." The sound was mournful.
Impulsively, he bent his head and kissed the pale moon of her knee. Despite its pallor, her skin felt warm against his mouth; he lingered there, the blood surging like a Mabari sighting prey. Then a bell of warning rang within his skull and he withdrew, gritting his teeth from the effort.
Maker, give me strength.
AN: Oof, brief chapter notes tonight because my toddler has a cold and is having a miserable time D:
Anyway, vision of a six foot three wood hopping sweaty Alistair = you're welcome!
I wanted to include a bit of confirmation from Flora's spirits to validate the random detour to hunt for magic ashes haha!
Also, the bit that she says about the obstacle becoming the way is adapted from one of my favourite Marcus Aurelius quotes. MA was a Roman emperor who was a master of Stoic philosophy and I think the blunt, no nonsense practicality of the Stoics suits Herring! The original quote is as follows:
The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.