It still hurt Fiona to see Alistair in pain. His warranted loathing of the Warden Commander made him miserable, and Hawke's instigating only worsened the fight. The group had ventured into the Silent Plains in an eerie silence. Even without the need to feign ignorance about Nathaniel and Caoilainn's dalliance, Fiona and Philippa concluded in hushed tones that staying out of the dispute was their best decision. Neither had confidence to address Nathaniel or Alistair in their current stewing states.
Fiona had her own concerns. The barrage of questions from Hawke and Alistair about her past left her confused and aversive. She had laid low from the rest of the party to reduce their suspicions, pretending to be oblivious to the Wardens symptoms when the conversation arose. She was grateful for the Silent Plains. Sandstorms and heat drained each person of their will to talk; dry mouths craved moisture. They conserved their energy and continued traveling.
Roaming phoenixes and varghests attacked; the brief battles required the contribution of the entire party with an emphasis on magical power. Within the desolation, precious respite from the desert provided glimpses of the land prior to the first Blight. Remnants of villages arose from the sand, creating a barrier from the blasts of wind and a chance to take off their covered cowls to breathe clean air.
Drinking from her waterskin, Fiona watched her horse sip from the container she had placed on a raised ledge for him. Water, a valuable commodity in these conditions, required diligent moderation to assure enough for everyone and their horses to make it through the Plains. Her horse's visible gratitude for the basic need soothed Fiona as she watched; she only gave vague attention to Philippa's frame entering her periphery.
The woman's high waistband cinched tight and emphasized the sassy swaying of her hips as she walked. Fiona gave a weak smile, appreciating the presence of her unique friend in this journey. Philippa's crass wisdom had become a reliable break from the tension in the rest of their party.
"Dear, I can't stand you being so sullen." Her hands on her hips, Philippa's confrontation only lacked a scolding finger. "Was it seeing Cumberland? Fuck them!"
In their research of the Warden illness, Fiona explained her embarrassment over the encounter with Alexius, the harm it caused so many, and its ultimate end to her career with the College of Enchanters. Philippa gave encouraging words, brushing off the incident as a mistake. She had asked for no further explanations or remorse from Fiona.
Relieved that Phillipa attributed Fiona's current silence to their time near the Circle, Fiona did not answer the question. With a dramatic wave of her hand, the Warden sorceress stepped beside Fiona and nudged Fiona's hip with her own. Looking over her shoulder to the rest of the party, Philippa chatted, "Come now, we must be adults when these dimwits wish to act like children. I've some thoughts on the Wardens."
"Really?" Fiona's brow furrowed; she looked to her side, finding Philippa's amused gaze. Their entire reason for traveling, reaching the Anderfels to remedy the sickness plaguing the order had seemed far from the minds of their travel party.
"Yes, and I'd tell you, but I know I smell worse than a pile of nug dung. I'm going to shed a few layers of these sweat-soaked rags and wash." Pulling a cloth from her pouch, Philippa showed it and her water skin. "You are free to join me to do the same, my dear."
Fiona couldn't hold back a light laugh. She inhaled and sighed. Freedom from the clothes that had been sticking to her skin all day, joined with the feel of cool water sounded decadent in the circumstances. Nodding, Fiona scrounged through her bag for a spare cloth and walked with Philippa far enough from camp.
An enclave created by large rocks gave the women some shade and privacy. They stood a few paces away from each other. With her back turned to Fiona, Philippa talked as she undressed.
"If we hang these filthy clothes for an hour, they might be bearable to put back on." She took off her over-shirt and shook it out, creating a cloud of dust and dirt. She did the same with her skirt and draped them both over a nearby rock.
Following her lead, Fiona removed her layers. Stripping down to her small clothes, she placed her clothes on a different rock, allowing the sun to bake out her sweat. Without clothes on, the faintest breezes brushed Fiona's skin, making the hairs on her arms and legs stand on end. But the heat didn't lessen, with more flesh exposed absorbed more heat; she grew warm and beads of sweat formed on her forehead and lower back.
Just a few steps away, the other woman had already doused her rag with water and started washing. Careful not to pour too much, Fiona dampened her rag. Without wringing it out, she draped it over the back of her neck and sighed. Cool moisture immediately lessened her body's heat. Given the choice, she would have chosen to leave the cloth there the rest of the night, but as it sat, she acknowledged the other areas of her body too dry or clammy, yearning to be washed. She moved the washcloth from her neck to her face, then her limbs.
"Dear, those marks." Philippa's soft and concerned voice brought Fiona's attention back to the present, a reminder she was not alone. "What happened?"
Fiona rarely saw the scars on her back, marks left by her master before she killed him. She cursed herself for her carelessness, forgetting to hide the secret. The furious loss of control of her magical ability had taken his life in an instant. She had no regrets about what she had done, aside from perhaps the wish she could have made him suffer more. But the memory still haunted, interrupting her sleep from time to time.
"It's nothing for us to discuss now." Fiona turned so she faced Philippa. Fewer marks from the same abuser added to those she had gained from her journey with Maric covered her arms and legs. "Another time. Tell me about your thoughts on the Wardens."
The woman's eyes pierced Fiona's, scanning for the story behind the scars. Having long since buried that nightmare deep within, along with many other secrets, Fiona held her neutral expression, an interested gaze, ready to move on to another topic.
With a gentle nod, Philippa's mouth opened a second before words came out. "I… was just thinking of the motto. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death-"
"Sacrifice," Fiona murmured, dragging the damp cloth across her chest. Water droplets dripped down her stomach, making her muscles tighten and retract.
Eyes squinting, Philippa lifted her chin. "Yes… well, Alistair and Caoilainn's departure from the bond did not result from such a sacrifice. Had any other long-standing Warden died serving or to the Calling, it wouldn't have caused this."
The logic made sense and Fiona felt a familiar weight on her chest return. Old shame for her cure joined guilt she carried for curing Alistair. Crossing her arms, Fiona's brow furrowed. "I've wondered if we did the right thing by curing them."
Shaking her head, Philippa scoffed. "It's what they wanted." She dragged the washcloth, taking advantage of whatever contents of water it still held and ran it over her waist, looking down as she did.
"But at what cost?" Fiona put her cloth down on a bare rock. "How many people are suffering because of what we did?"
"This is temporary." With a shake of her cloth, Philippa frowned. "We protected Ferelden by giving Caoilainn and the King a chance to have an heir."
"The crown would fall to someone else and Ferelden would survive. What if something horrible had happened to them in the ritual?"
Philippa's face scrunched and she sighed. "They are fine. It's not so simple, Fiona, my dear. Freeing them from the Bond was the right thing to do. As mages, we have responsibilities to use our magic for reasons beyond what the Circle ordains. Those of us with sound minds, minds that resist the voices luring us in the Fade, we have even greater duties to uphold for the good of many."
"Sound minds?" Fiona's voice rose, she pointed at Philippa with her hand. "You used blood magic in the Arbor Wilds! You risked the Wardens' livelihood and then we allowed Morrigan to use blood magic on my… on the King and Queen of Ferelden with the off-chance they could be cured." She sighed, grateful she caught herself before naming Alistair as her child.
Rolling her eyes in exasperation Philippa huffed, "You have no room to judge me. We all equally accepted the risks when they made the choice to try the ritual. Why do you care so much now? You're not even a Warden!"
"I'm not." Anymore. Fiona withheld the word biting at the tip of her tongue. "But I know that becoming a Warden is a lifetime commitment. The Joining contracts your death. We should not have the power to decide who deserves to be cured and who doesn't."
Giving an embittered laugh, Philippa pressed her index finger into her own chest. "I followed the orders of my commander, and I helped her find what she needed." The same hand turned, Philippa pointed at Fiona. "If you were a Grey Warden, you would understand."
Clenching her teeth to no avail, the words slipped out on their own. Head dizzy with anger, Fiona yelled, "I was a Grey Warden, Philippa! I've felt the Calling!"
Philippa's jaw dropped along with her cloth. Shirtless, the light mist from her towel bath glimmered on her skin. Heavy breaths made her chest rise and fall.
Fiona stepped closer, but Philippa recoiled, putting her arms out to keep her away. Preemptively shushing the other woman, Fiona tried to sooth Philippa. "I'll explain everything," she lied. "Just please, promise me you won't tell the others."
Speechless, Philippa gave a skeptical nod and Fiona closed the space between them.
"We know you both fucked the Queen."
Hawke's words continued to ring in Alistair's ears, making him cringe to consider the depth of intimacy Alistair shared with Caoilainn could remotely compare to what Nathaniel did with her. To her. Stomach-churning pictures of Caoilainn enjoying Nathaniel Howe, pictures Alistair had managed to push down, even when he had received reports of Caoilainn's activities from his spies at Vigil's Keep, now rushed to the surface. It made him nauseous. Multiple times on their trek through the Plains, he had to stop, fearing he was close to retching.
None seemed surprised at Hawke's announcement, confirming Alistair's shameful secret had not been a secret to them.
Worse, breathing was difficult. The cloth Alistair wore smothered his face, and even though it kept the sand and dust and dirt from traveling down his lungs, he hadn't taken a decent breath since they entered the Plains. It was even worse when they fought the violent creatures lurking through the dust storms. Only the places where they found cover, hiding in the remnants of villages, or when they crowded into narrow caves or behind upturned trees could he remove the mask, finding reprieve from the dense and oppressive air, attempting to quench his lungs' thirst for oxygen. The group took every chance they could to utilize moments to breathe, hiding from the storms.
Sand managed to creep beneath his hood and through his face mask, burning his eyes. He had to keep his head lowered when the wind picked up, covering his eyes with his hands to make sure he followed the horse of the person in front of him. When ominous clouds of dust storms descended upon them, they found shelter to protect themselves and their horses from the wreckage.
The land stretched on, desolate, disconcerting; the path behind absorbed into the clouds of sand. It interfered with Alistair's sense of time, forgetting if they had traveled through the Plains for a day or a week. It didn't matter. His only objective was to keep walking, riding, and breathing.
Nathaniel Howe led them. Quiet like the rest, head down to the dust, Alistair suspected the man brooded too. He witnessed Nathaniel silent and curt with the rest of them at stops, even his girlfriend. It made for sweet vengeance, a sick satisfaction Nathaniel now felt just as miserable.
Challenges communicating through the waves of sand required the group to save questions for stops. This time, a decent sized cave gave shelter from the sunlight and consuming clouds of dust. Another wave of dust storm approaches them from the distance. They secured their horses at the leeward side of a large boulder.
Removing the cloth wrap from around his face, Alistair mumbled to the group. "It's been almost three days, hasn't it? Shouldn't we be in Tevinter by now?" He took off his armor.
Philippa nodded at Alistair and glanced sadly at the Commander. "Yes, Nathaniel, dear. I thought we'd be out of this awful desert yesterday." She sat down on a rock, on the opposite side of the cave as Fiona, who sat quietly removing the armored sections of her clothing.
Nathaniel shirked his shoulders and gave an annoyed shake of his head; he put the plated sections of his armor in a neat pile out of the way. "We cannot ride through the storms; the monsters slow us down. It is taking longer than we originally calculated."
Alistair rolled his eyes. "Or maybe we're lost."
Nathaniel squinted. "We're traveling straight north. We can't be lost."
Hawke entered the cave well after them, followed by the young woman Hale. An overconfident stride carried him as he took his cowl off. He wrinkled his brow and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "Those rocks look familiar. Do those rocks look familiar to the rest of you?"
With a meager nod, Fiona spoke up, "I remember seeing them yesterday."
"Oi!" Hale barked to Hawke, tossing her wrap to the ground. "It's a fuckin' desert. There's rocks everywhere."
With his head tilting back, Nathaniel exhaled quickly. "Fuck." Free of his armor, he grabbed the cloth mask and wrapped it back around his head as he walked out of the cave.
Silence loomed over the interior of the cavern. Shaped rocks rose from the ground and hung from the ceiling, a few bugs crawled up the walls. Members of the group passed awkward glances between each other, disappointed by this new information suggesting they were lost.
Raising her voice enough to break through the quiet, Fiona offered an explanation. "The storms can play tricks with the sunlight. It's easy to mistake one's direction."
"...or another's honesty." Philippa muttered from across the cavern. Uncertain he understood the comment, Alistair didn't investigate.
Instead, he laughed, bitter and biting. "Then the one leading the group should know that and pay more attention, shouldn't he?" His eyes scanned the other members who offered back nothing more than shrugs and lowered eyes. "This is ridiculous."
Wrapping his mask back around his face and over his head, Alistair rushed from the cave to find Nathaniel. The man stood on an elevation; he had climbed a few rocks to gain a better view of the surrounding region. One hand planted on Nathaniel's hip while the other shielded his eyes as he looked into the distance. Alistair climbed the few steps of rocks, pushing up to reach Nathaniel's level.
"What have you ruined now, Warden Commander?" Alistair chuckled, crossing his arms as he stood a few paces behind the other man. Nathaniel turned around.
Strong wind blew against both of them, carrying a few lines of sand circling through the air. Their balance tested, they regained composure.
Though the cowl shrouded his face, Alistair noticed Nathaniel's eyes roll. His shoulders tightened. "I don't know, your majesty. I'm still trying to figure that out." He turned back around, looking out into the distance.
Grinding his teeth, Alistair swallowed. Irritated with the dismissive annoyance from this sorry excuse for a man, Alistair laughed. "You know, I am not surprised you couldn't even direct us in a straight line."
Sighing, Nathaniel turned around again. "I made no claims to know this region better than any among us. When none would lead, including you, I volunteered." He stepped past Alistair to the edge of the rock. "I know the way we need to go."
Maneuvering down, gripping the rocks in the right places and stepping his feet into the small cracks between the large stones, Nathaniel returned to the sand with a small thump. Alistair followed, with less grace sliding to each lower level until his feet plopped on the ground. A generous bend in his knees cushioned his descent.
"And what do you mean by that, Nathaniel Howe? Is it bad I'm not willing to pretend I know what I'm doing at the risk of putting us all in danger?" As Alistair followed Nathaniel, he realized the rest of their party stood to watch from the entrance of the cave. Worried looks crossed Fiona and Philippa's faces.
Nathaniel stopped mid-stride and spun on his feet to look down at Alistair. Standing at least a hand higher, Nathaniel spoke down. "This is petty, Alistair. I've apologized to you. I cannot change the past. Let's move on."
Another gust of wind surrounded them with fine sand; the cloud settled to the ground as it subsided. Alistair pulled the mask from over his mouth; the cowl fell around his neck. "Oh! Has it been that simple this whole time? I'll just forget about what you did so we can all go on our merry ways."
A concerned voice called from the cavern, muffled even in the short distance. "Boys!" Philippa waved her hand toward the interior of the cave. "You should stop acting like children and come inside before the storm picks up."
Peering over his shoulder, Alistair observed Hawke shaking his head to Philippa. Alistair couldn't tell if Hawke was grinning or not.
Returning his glare to Nathaniel, Alistair found the man's eyes unamused and neutral, bored with the interaction. It frustrated Alistair more, the urge to goad a reaction from the Warden Commander itching at his skin.
To Alistair's surprise, Nathaniel pulled his mask down also; the grey cowl rested on his shoulders. "You have the luxury of obsessing over the past like a schoolboy. It must be nice to have so little regard for the strength of the Order now that you're no longer a Warden."
Son of a bitch. Though it was a small victory, getting a rise from the stoic man, the comeback made Alistair's blood boil. He snorted. "Your integrity is worse than your sense of direction. Have you forgotten I was a Warden long before you? Before Caoilainn, even." Tightening his fist, Alistair smiled to calm himself.
An annoyed chuckle came from Nathaniel. He shifted his weight on his feet and crossed his arms. "Need I remind you that you left the Wardens to serve as King after you claimed your glory? You are a waste of our resources on this mission."
"Right. Leave it to a Howe to usurp another man's authority. Another man's status." His wife. With just enough self-control, the two words didn't leave Alistair's mouth. "Your father taught you so well."
Nathaniel took a deep breath and stretched his exhale. The hint of a frustrated smirk pulled at his lips. "Truly, I have never met a man with such effective sniveling. She should be here, but your childish wailing got her to leave the Wardens. So keep whining, Alistair. You always seem to get your way."
With a sarcastic laugh, Alistair pressed his palms together and glanced at the sky. "Thank the bloody Maker." A steady, distant wind picked up, drowning out the sounds of their voices. He yelled, "How would you resist the urge to weasel your way back into her bed if she were here?"
Voice raised but expression calm, Nathaniel's brow arched. "She sought my bed, your majesty. Every time. And I couldn't blame her, considering her alternative." Standing straighter, Nathaniel made their height difference more pronounced. "Apparently, you aren't half the man I am."
Anger boiling, face hot, a dizzy, rage-filled rush filled Alistair's head. "Man?" He sounded a single, snide and patronizing laugh. "More like a traitorous little archer boy failing to live up to his daddy's sick potential. Caoilainn begged me to take her back, repeatedly, in so many ways. It is good to be the King."
A quiet snort left Nathaniel's nose; his smirk tightened. "Keep telling yourself that. Does she call my name when you sleep with her?"
Alistair made a small step toward Nathaniel, his hand flexing, skin crawling. A burst of dust and sand surrounded them; it forced Alistair to shield his eyes and look down. He cursed it for giving him an inconvenient chance to think through his temper. The Warden Commander is just trying to get a rise out of me. When the wind passed, Alistair retorted, "Trust me, you're the last thing on her mind."
"Not for long. A ginger king with a black-haired child won't go well in court, will it?" Nathaniel's lip curled. "She'll come crawling back to me, your majesty. She always does. Because you're a sad, sobbing bastard no one can stand, especially not Caoilainn."
Time slowed.
Alistair's fist tightened, harder this time. Back tensed, shoulders widened, the persistent pounding of blood echoed in his ears, muting the wind beating against him. The smug face of the snake before him beckoned impaling, and for the briefest moment, the option to walk away appeared at the front of Alistair's mind and vanished. Succumbing to the instinct to lunge forward and strike, he did.
Alistair drove his fist into Nathaniel's face. Realizing Alistair's move a moment too late, Nathaniel failed to block the hit. He grunted, head going straight back as he stumbled. Regaining his footing, Nathaniel lightly pressed against his nose. Droplets of blood pooled at both nostrils.
The single punch did not appease the decade of contempt Alistair held toward the man. The disgraceful lies Nathaniel had spat, all intended to rile Alistair worked. Too well. Alistair railed another punch before Nathaniel could recover, this time in the gut. But Nathaniel rebounded with his own clenched palm into Alistair, landing haphazardly in his face. Alistair hissed, tasting his own blood.
The Warden Commander kneed the King's midsection. Groaning, Alistair spat a sticky mixture of blood and dirt and then powered back, driving his shoulder into Nathaniel's waist. But Nathaniel bowed in, meeting Alistair's weight with his own.
Sweat dripped down Alistair's forehead; the kicked up sand burned his eyes. His force pushed Nathaniel a few paces back. Nathaniel's long arms gave advantage; he landed a few throws into Alistair's sides before Alistair used his momentum to push Nathaniel away.
Nathaniel fell forward to his knee a few steps from Alistair, gasping for air. "You fight… like… a Chantry boy."
Eyes fixated on Nathaniel, Alistair took a moment to breathe, refusing to lose focus. He needed this; he had waited far too long.
Not giving Nathaniel a chance to stand, Alistair charged him, kneeing the Warden Commander in the face. Nathaniel's mangled garble pleased Alistair, but the satisfaction was short-lived. Nathaniel stood, face bloodied, eyes wide with rage. He grabbed Alistair's shirt and smashed his forehead into Alistair's head.
Head dizzy, vision blurred, Alistair could not defend against the round of punches Nathaniel threw at him, all landing with enough force on his face and belly. The final knocked him down.
Alistair kicked his booted foot into Nathaniel's leg, unwilling to let the fight end that easily. Nathaniel tripped and fell forward.
Alistair's face throbbed with swollen wounds and his racing heart amplified the heat, but he refused to forfeit this opportunity. He continued.
Templar training had given him enough techniques to immobilize enemies without the use of lyrium. Rolling over to his stomach, Alistair crawled in the sand. Nathaniel Howe pushed one hand against the ground to stand. But Alistair interrupted, wrapping an arm around Nathaniel's waist and bringing him to his back.
Straddling the Warden Commander, Alistair smirked at the damage he had caused. Nathaniel deepened his frown; bruises were forming on his face but his proud chin lifted with disdain.
Tired, breathless, clothes loose and covered in dust, the King wiped the blood from his mouth. "At least… I don't…fight… like a prick."
Swinging his arm back in a wide arch, Alistair growled. Before the punch could land Nathaniel threw his weight and used his shoulder to roll Alistair over. The pair wrestled in the building storm around them.
What sounded like distant voices faded in the wind; Alistair assumed it was Philippa or Fiona calling for them to stop, or Hawke and Hale urging them to continue. But Alistair ignored them all. Barely able to see, what was in front of him, he only recognized the muscular limbs of his opponent tangling with his own as both struggled to stay upright.
Both threw their punches when they had the chance, some landing, others not, their vision completely hampered by the bellowing wind. Torn clothes revealed more skin to the needle-like pinches of sand. It hurt to breathe, requiring both to take short shallow breaths through the stifled air as they wrestled, until they both landed side by side on their backs, coughing up the sand from the back of their throats.
Alistair pulled his cowl over his mouth and nose so he could breathe; Nathaniel did the same.
"Are you... done yet?" Nathaniel's voice called through the cloud of dust.
After an inhale through his cloth, Alistair replied, "Do you give up?"
Not receiving an answer from the other man, Alistair sensed Nathaniel crawling on his knees toward a shadowy object in the distance- the rocks they had climbed earlier. Alistair followed, keeping his eyes shielded from the violent blasts and only stopping to breathe when needed. Locating the leeward side of the rock, they took shelter.
Alistair waited with his mouth covered, suspecting the Warden Commander did the same at his side. Minutes stretched on, the threatening sounds of wind beating against the rock echoed in Alistair's ears. He nearly dozed off in the oppressive blaring and darkness, but just as he did, Nathaniel's elbow nudged him.
Blasting wind faded to breezy gusts; Alistair opened his eyes. Sunlight shone again, and the dust settled, revealing the direction of the cavern. Eyes still burning and irritated by the light struggled to focus. A few indiscernible figures walked toward Alistair and Nathaniel.
"If you arse-biscuits are done fucking around, we can move now." Hale, Alistair determined, by the sound of her voice and her lanky shadow. She extended a hand to Nathaniel to help him stand.
"Their clothes are still on and they weren't even cuddling." The other figure, Hawke, looked toward Hale. "Looks like I owe you ten silver." Reaching out, Hawke pulled Alistair to stand up, wrapping his arm around Hawke's shoulders for support.
Snickering, Hale put her arm around Nathaniel's waist, helping him stay upright as they walked back to the cave.
Every muscle in Alistair's body felt sore, beaten. Clothes caked with sweat and dust hung heavy on his limbs. When he looked to his side, he observed Nathaniel in a similar state, trudging in the sand, barely able to keep his balance if not for the help of Hale.
They reached the cavern and Alistair chuckled to himself.
Hawke leaned to look at Alistair and smiled, snickering with him. "Something funny, your majesty?"
"Caoilainn is going to kill me." But I won. Alistair thought to himself. The child was Alistair's, of that, he was certain, and he doubted Nathaniel's desire for Caoilainn. But Alistair had egged on Nathaniel enough to relinquish his stoicism and lie. Though neither Alistair nor Nathaniel defeated the other in combat, Alistair claimed his own victory.
"If you tell her." Hawke tilted his head and winked, just before he passed Alistair to the other women. Hale did the same with Nathaniel. Philippa and Fiona gathered potions and balms to tend to the bruised and bloodied men's wounds.
"Don't heal 'em too much." Hale hollered, picking up her bow and wrapping her cowl. "Leave 'em a good sodding reminder of their fucking wankery."
Holding his staff in one hand, Hawke extended the other to let Hale leave the cavern first. He looked over his shoulder on the way out. "We'll be back with dinner."
**Author's note: Thank you all again so much for letting me know. For those that comment as guests, I wish I could reply to you! So I'll say thank you here instead.