The drizzle resumed once the Wardens found their rooms, and Alistair watched rain collect in puddles in the street from his window. The organized city resembled nothing of Ferelden. Paved streets and tall buildings sprawled around the inn where they stayed, preventing Alistair from viewing the countryside beyond the overbearing constructs. Despite the excess of manicured foliage, Vyrantium failed to exhibit anything natural. Magic radiated from each block of stone and Alistair didn't trust it, but he didn't trust much these days.
He turned from the window, retiring from his active distrust of Tevinter, and found his bag with his necessary grooming supplies. After insisting on growing a beard on his return to Denerim from Skyhold and once the hair filled out, free of awkward patches, he had appeased Caoilainn by keeping it trimmed and oiled. Investing in a collection of tools and products exclusively used on his facial hair gave a sense of satisfaction. But caring for the beard had been inconvenient in his current expedition, and his short beard had grown longer and disheveled. Worse, he found it prone to collecting the dirt and dust that floated in the air.
With a tired sigh he made his way to the sink basin in his room to wash up. Cool water touched his face and he closed his eyes, removing the veil of fine dust that clung to his cheeks and hair. He dragged his hand down his face as he looked up, guiding excess water back to the basin and glancing into the small framed mirror on the wall of his quarters.
Droplets falling into the basin echoed the rainfall outside. Alistair stared at himself. He had aged, and the faded bruising on his face emphasized his weariness. Sad eyes framed by wrinkles stared back. The sloped nose and pensive smile nearly covered by his beard, the bristles of which followed his jaw and grew longer at his chin. Alistair recognized the features because he had seen this man before.Maric.
He inhaled, standing straighter, studying his reflection. Where Maric's blond hair was lined with silver, Alistair's was red; hazel eyes replaced the blue he had seen in pictures of the former king. Minor differences aside, Alistair was a spitting image of his father. If he can even be called father.
The king so loved and admired by his people had abandoned Alistair in Redcliffe with just enough influence on his upbringing to keep him safe. Even when Alistair discovered his father was the king that cold day in Denerim, Maric made no attempts to speak to him, and the following year, Alistair was sent to the monastery. A few years from that Maric disappeared at sea, leaving Cailan to lead the kingdom. Unwillingly promoting me from the illegitimate spare to the heir.
But he recognized a sadness in the eyes of his reflection that he had seen in the king that day. Are all kings cursed to be unhappy? Both men, past and present, were bound to forces beyond their control. The similarity unsettled him.
Or is this a curse upon my name?
The piercing stare reflecting in the mirror wanted answers where there were none. Blinking, Alistair steadied himself with a breath and splashed his face with water again. His hands reached into his small bag of grooming tools to find a small pair of scissors. He leaned forward, selectively snipping the overgrown hairs to create an even line of his beard.
"You're the king, you make the rules." He remembered Caoilainn's statement before she had left him and returned to the Wardens. Words of anger and upset spilled in her desperation for him to take ownership of his power. The information fell on deaf ears at the time.
With a final snip to perfect his facial hair, Alistair located the ingredients to create a lather to shave his neck. Motions followed, one step after another, carefully sliding the blade along coarse skin to remove stubble. His thoughts returned to Caoilainn's declaration. I will not follow in Maric's footsteps.
Alistair cleaned off the excess of lather, rinsed his beard once more, and dried it with a towel. Intent on the newfound ritual, he released a few drops of an expensive oil, this one he purchased in Nevarra City onto his fingers and massaged it into his beard. The spice and wood sent permeated. Brushing his beard down, he took a final look in the mirror to examine his work.
Whether the act of grooming or merely his perception had changed his appearance, the face staring back had altered to his own. Bemused with the shift, his mind playing tricks on him, he chuckled and turned from the basin.
Unrushed, he strolled to the desk in the corner of the room and separated the stationary the inn provided. The crisp blank parchment invited him to write. He dipped the nib of a quill into a bottle of ink and drafted a letter to Caoilainn.
Not a single cloud covered Tevinter's afternoon sky and the sun's persistence toasted Alistair's skin. Wandering chilly breezes through the arid climate forced him to remove his cloak and then put it back on repeatedly as they traveled. The continuous shifting of the other group members in their saddles echoed his discomfort and he withheld from complaining about the symptoms that burdened them all.
Ahead of Alistair, Nathaniel shielded his eyes and looked toward the sky. He made a solemn face, raising a brow in thought before speaking, "We should see the Imperial Highway by morning. Val Dorma is not far."
Hawke snickered, lifting his waterskin to his mouth.
"What?" Nathaniel grumbled, leaning to view Hawke a few horses over.
Witnessing the exchange with curiosity, Alistair lifted his head to overhear the dialogue.
Hawke gave a dismissive shrug, speaking loud enough for the entire group to hear. "It's fantastic news." He made a circle with the index finger of his other hand. "That is, unless we've been going in circles this whole time, right?"
The group had been riding west for two days since Vyrantium City, venturing through the Tevinter countryside as a detour back to the road. Hawke's teasing revisited the incident in the Silent Plains that prolonged their time in the desert.
Philippa called over from behind them. "Shut up, you ass."
"It's fine." Nathaniel lifted his hand to calm the sorceress before addressing Hawke again. "You are welcome to lead if you believe you are better suited." His hand extended in front of him to the expanse of nothing; desolate and rocky terrain spread out from where they rode.
"I prefer to lead in certain situations," Garrett paused and smirked in amusement before continuing, "and I'm more than willing to let someone else take charge… when it's a good fit . I'm sure you can relate." He gave a casual wink and nodded his head in mock respect to Nathaniel. "You go right ahead and lead us to the highway, Commander."
Both startled and amused, Alistair's jaw dropped, and he raised his eyebrows in astonishment. The exchange ended with a bitter laugh from Nathaniel who rolled his eyes and heeled his horse to trot ahead without a reply. Hawke continued his exaggerated smile to the other man's back as the young elven woman growled at him.
"Bollocks, Hawke!" Smacking his arm with the back of her hand, Hale shook her head, cheeks red. She directed her horse away from him.
"Oh, come back!" The mage called after her with a light laugh. "I'm adaptable! We can all take turns leading ."
Alistair wrinkled his nose. "I'll pass."
"Like we would invite you anyway." Hawke flashed his smile at Alistair as he followed closer to Hale.
Philippa rose her voice over the movement of horses. "Do stop talking, Garrett. You wouldn't be able to lead us out of a ditch or into a bedroll if you had a map."
"Are you willing to bet on that?" Puckering his lips toward Philippa, he made a loud kissing noise. She scoffed and rode to Hale's side, not offering a reply to Hawke. He noticed the surrounding vacant circle as the rest of the party ignored him.
Alistair chuckled to himself and returned his thoughts to his next letter to Caoilainn when they arrived in Val Dorma. Depending on the state of Weisshaupt, it could be his last for an indeterminate amount of time.
"The fuck, Hawke!?" Hale blurted as soon as soon as she stepped into Hawke's recently erected tent. She had not offered her help, letting him set his tent alone while she had wandered off; but both understood she would sleep in his bed when they could not rest in an inn. Still some distance from the Imperial Highway and Val Dorma, this was another of those nights.
"Which one?" Hawke chuckled as he loosened his belt, ready to relax for the night and uninterested in arguing with the woman. He had anticipated her anger since the dialogue with Nathaniel that day; she had not spoken to him since. He raised a brow as he glanced at her. "The fuck who has undoubtedly pissed you off for something, or the fuck whose bed you're sleeping in tonight." He waggled his eyebrows.
Hale lowered her voice and leaned closer to him. "Don't mean you've gotta talk about it with him. Don't fuckin' tease him."
"Him?" A forced wrinkle of his brow feigned confusion before nodding in exaggerated understanding. "Oh, your Commander. I'm certain he's aware we're romping around, Hale. I was only trying to lighten the mood."
"Fuck that," she crossed her arms and leaned one leg, "you were trying to piss him off."
"Guilty," he admitted, raising his hands in forfeit to her accusation. "But Nathaniel understands that's what I do. Has it really taken you this long to figure it out?"
Hale exhaled through her nose and she pressed her lips together in an angry pout.
"Look," Hawke sat down on his bedroll, only glancing up to Hale periodically as he removed his boots, "everyone knows you sleep in my tent each night and I'm sure they've heard what we do. I don't know if you sleep with me to make him jealous or only out of convenience and honestly, I don't care."
She uncrossed her arms and put them on her hips, inhaling to give a harsh reply.
Hawke interrupted, unwilling to allow the woman's vitriol to determine his actions. "I enjoy being an asshole." He removed his last boot and leaned back to look up at her. "But that's what you like about me, isn't it? So don't act surprised when I act like one."
Her frown deepened. She knew the statement was true, but her visible anger did not subside. She pointed a finger at him. "Don't talk 'bout me like I'm just some good fucking fit you both shagged . "
With a sarcastic laugh, Hawke stretched on his bedroll and patted the soft blankets beside him. "What are you then? What am I to you? Let's not argue about semantics when we could be doing what we do so well. At best, we are friends with benefits and the benefits are good."
Hale sneered in disdain, lip curling. "You think I like fucking you?"
The words hit, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Face hot and dizzy, Hawke waited for her to continue, but the young woman looked startled by her own words as well. He eventually managed to mutter, "Excuse me?"
She snorted, her mouth opening as if annoyed she had to repeat herself. "Yeah. Yer head's too far up yer own arse! You're a bad plough." The curt statement stung.
Hawke leaned forward to stand, keeping his eyes locked with hers. "That's a lie and you know it."
He had it on several accounts that the information was inaccurate. Yet, petty as it may be, Hale's declaration insulted his pride and it was inconsistent with her actions. Feeling his face growing hotter, he struggled to keep his tone calm as he reminded her, "You initiate it with me every fucking night."
He made no effort to understand her. Callow logic determined Hawke as the fault for her displeasure when she always brought about their forays. The insinuation that his technique was to blame made his blood boil.
She tapped her forehead with the heel of her palm. "'Cause I'm the dumb sod who thought you might magically get better and those other ladies ain't my type."
"Bullshit." Hawke rose from the floor of his tent but stayed a safe distance from her "It's not on me if you're too immature to say something sooner. I can't read your bloody mind."
She laughed derisively and extended her hands in front of her face. "Only a daft arse needs to be told he's bad at ploughing!"
"No," Hawke pointed his finger at her this time, "you're indecisive. Grow up, Hale." He bit his tongue on adding more insults, desiring to throw his own critiques on her bedroom techniques, but he determined the juvenile nature of tallying their successes and failures.
"Fuck you!" She screamed, her fists balling by her sides.
"No thanks." With a cynical, smug frown, he shook his head. "Go find someone else to make bad decisions for you. Fancy we're in Tevinter, I'm sure there are plenty who'd be willing."
Her mouth opened, and her arms tensed to the point she trembled. Had she stood closer, Hawke was certain she would have punched him. Instead, she snarled without words. The look of disdain in her eyes could not be misinterpreted before she left his tent.
Hawke released a long exhale, tracing back the steps of his conversation. Not quick to anger, the experience unnerved him and depleted his energy. She's a kid, he reminded himself, rationalizing her brash immaturity and fault for their argument. Unwilling to overthink the matter, he finished setting the inside of his tent before resting for the night.
The fiery pit in Hale's chest churned as heat bubbled up to her cheeks. Beneath his witty comeback, he had equated her to a slave and she desired nothing more than to make him suffer. But she couldn't, distance in the small tent prevented the blow, she lacked the will to step closer to him even to land her fist against his face. Within the raging fire burning her chest, Hale felt regret for sleeping with this man. Turning from Hawke, she huffed with each step, stomping from his tent without a destination. Chill air smacked her face when she emerged.
Hale gasped, grinding her teeth to save from screaming into the air and calling the attention of the camp. In her silence, voices caught her ear over the sounds of the firepit crackling. The firelight wavered as someone stepped in front of it. Curious and cautious steps carried Hale nearer, gaining a better view before revealing her presence.
The outline of the tall man was unmistakable. His long nose and loose hair made her heart flutter. Nate.
But his counterpart surprised Hale. She squinted her eyes to clarify her vision. Short hair tucked behind pointed ears, Fiona sat down and leaned in to hear Nathaniel. On her turn to reply, she spoke softly.
Jealousy coiled around Hale's chest. It held tight, and she struggled to pace shallow breaths. Every suspicious effort to tune her ears to their conversation failed. She couldn't discern any fragments of what they said. Grateful the shadows of the tents hid her, Hale considered her next steps.
An unmistakable voice rose above the fire. It started throaty like an exhaling breath, but Nathaniel cleared his throat. "Warden?" His question reached into the darkness with measured concern.
He almost said Hale… or Huntress. She heard the slip and caught her breath as her heart sank. It did not surprise her that Nate had sensed her presence, but his question lacked the coldness that had prevailed since the Plains. Instead, she heard caring… and pity. Must've heard us.
She stood in silence, squeezing her eyes shut, desperate and dreading the sound of his voice again. It did not come, and eventually, she heard their whispering resume. Frustrated and angry, she blinked away the lonely sadness that stung her eyes.
Silent steps carried her on the rocky land, balancing her footsteps in the dark to her only option of a bed for the night.
"Philippa?" She whispered from outside the woman's tent, hoping no one else heard. "You still up?"
"Hale?" The woman answered with a loud reply, not bothering to match Hale's volume. "Come in, child. I can't talk to you from the other side of a tent flap."
The title of child made Hale's brow furrow. She closed her eyes again, taking a deep breath in and out, swallowing her pride, and entering Philippa's tent.
Sitting on her bedroll, Philippa had a large book in front of her. A candle burned near her bed and a lantern hung from the center tent pole. Philippa's braids were secured to the top of her head, but her face still appeared pristine. Smooth skin and large brown eyes, free of any makeup stared up to Hale.
She bowed her head. "Ma'am," stalling, Hale stammered, "I didn't mean to bother-"
"Dear girl," the woman waved her hand in front of her, "get on with it. What do you want?" She placed a marker in her tome before closing it.
Dear girl. Hale bit the inside of her cheek, refraining from rolling her eyes, and swallowed. "Ma'am," she attempted again and sighed. "Fuck all. Could I sleep here?"
Philippa sat her book down beside her, brow wrinkling as she studied Hale's down-trodden demeanor. "You want to sleep in my bed?"
Hale's face wrinkled in apology and her shoulders slouched. "I don't mean anything by it. I can't sleep in that arsehole's tent anymore."
"Tell me you decided to leave and that good for nothing lecher didn't kick you out." Her eyes squinted, evaluating Hale's reaction. "I'll make that bastard miserable if…"
Nodding, embarrassed with the circumstances, Hale mumbled, "I left." With a weak smile, she added, "told him he's a bad fuck 'cause his head's up his arse."
"Good girl. I heard the two of you yelling, but I couldn't make out the words. He deserved it, no doubt." She crossed her legs to make room for Hale to sit down. "Fine. You may sleep here." Philippa held up a finger in warning. "On the condition you let me brush out that nest of hair. Maker only knows what's living in it."
Though unpleasant, the terms of the agreement were tolerable. Hale muttered, "I guess."
"That's right. Now go get your bric-a-brac from your horse and bring it in here. Then I'll brush out that woefully neglected hair of yours." Philippa's hand waved Hale away and she returned to her book.
As she was told, Hale gathered her belongings from her horse and brought them to Philippa's tent. She removed the outer layers of her armor and followed the directions from Philippa to sit in front of her. The woman brushed her hair, starting from the ends and working her way up with more delicacy than Hale anticipated from the brassy woman. Philippa was careful and caring and asked about Hale's problems with the Commander as she worked.
Hale resisted the line of conversation at first, giving minimal information, avoiding any depth to the subject. But as Philippa brushed out persistent knots, Hale felt her shoulders loosening, the tightness in her chest eased.
"He only fought the fucking king 'cause he still has it for the Bitch Queen." She voiced her fear to the woman behind her. Listening, Philippa guided the hairbrush through Hale's hair one last time.
"There, there." Philippa tapped Hale's shoulder, issuing her to turn around. Cross-legged, Hale faced Philippa who knowingly put her hands on Hale's shoulders. "Dear child, don't be so stubborn. Nathaniel hasn't had whatever it is for anyone but you. The current and former Warden Commanders respected each other and had their own unique way of showing it."
"Shite on it." Scrunching her face, Hale frowned. "Nate knew it was wrong or he wouldn't've cared if I ploughed Hawke. It's the same sodding thing."
The sorceresses delicate hand reached for the book beside her. She smirked to herself as she opened the book, not looking up to Hale as she posed another question. "Would it bother you if Nathaniel slept with Caoilainn again?"
"Yeah, but-"
"No buts. Hush child. You'd mind because you had it for him too." Glancing to the small space on the pillow next to her, Philippa tilted her head. "Go to sleep now. I won't have any more of you insulting the commanders."
Hale did as she was told. Putting out the flame in the lantern before crawling into the standard issue Warden bedroll. The woolen blankets did not offer the same luxury as Hawke's bed, but the fabric felt familiar, comfortable. Lingering scents of old leather and canvas reminded her of Vigil's Keep.
The sorceress kept her candle flickering, staying up to read from the text perched in her lap. Hale waited, doubting the integrity of sharing a bed with someone holding no intention or obligation of sex. But the mood did not change; each woman remained in her bedclothes and when Hale's side brushed Philippa's it did not initiate sex. Although Hale found it odd and unusual, her mind couldn't dwell. Her eyelids grew heavy and she drifted off to sleep to the sound of the candle crackling.
Movement woke her, and Hale's guard rose, opening her eyes to darkness and defending her body with her fists. She registered no assailant; nothing attacked her in the night. But beside her, Philippa turned. A moment later she turned again.
Hale's tired eyes rolled, annoyed with Philippa's fidgeting. Attempting to make space between them, Hale tried to go back to sleep.
The sleep-ridden whimper escaping the sorceress preceded her whispering "no." Philippa sat up a moment later, gasping quietly.
Eyes closed, Hale pretended to sleep, sensing the movement of the woman beside her. Philippa whispered to herself, cursing a moment as she sat up in bed. She let her head fall in her hands and she hissed in pain before reaching for something behind her bedroll.
The air changed and even with her eyes closed, Hale could not mistake the gentle tug of Veil being crossed and Philippa pulling magic from the Fade. The slosh of liquid followed, and Hale heard the woman swallow.
With a paced exhale, Philippa placed her object down and lowered back to bed. Her breathing deepened a few moments later. Still, void of the tossing and turning from a moment prior, Philippa had fallen into a restful sleep.
The Warden sickness. Hale suspected, recognizing the symptoms after seeing the first-hand cases at Vigil's Keep and listening to the group talk on about the affliction for the last few weeks. Whatever Philippa drank must have protected her from the disease, but knowing the mage to deny propriety, there was a reason she kept the remedy hidden.
Anxious thoughts racked her mind and followed into her to sleep; her options of confronting Philippa or telling Nate seemed equally unpleasant.