Sunlight cascaded around Caoilainn's silhouette standing at a window that stretched from the floor to the ceiling of her office. She looked over the city, silent and unaware of Alistair's presence, observing her from the entry. He appreciated the beams of light shining through her nightgown, highlighting only the outlines of her curves to his advantage. He hesitated to shatter the beautiful simplicity of this moment; he had traveled through the night to get here.
But he couldn't wait any longer, so he collected himself and spoke, "My, but you're lovely this morning."
Caoilainn inhaled. The surprise caused her shoulders to rise, her breath to catch, and almost simultaneously, she relaxed, eager to turn around to face him. Alistair's eyes met hers and absorbed the rest. Her hair flowed around her face, no longer restrained in a braid. And in front of her, part of her, her belly protruded. Somehow her skin stretched over the roundness, and her hands rested over and under as if to protect the contents.
"My King," Caoilainn sang through her smile, "I've missed you."
The blissful image dissolved from Alistair's mind as he sat alone in the dining hall. One hand cupped the edge of the bowl of oat porridge while the other held a spoon, swirling honey into the contents. Despite being cooked in a large quantity to feed many, the breakfast was an upgrade from those they had at camp, and better than about half the inns they had stayed along the way.
Sitting alone, Alistair scooped a spoonful of lumpy grey sludge from the steaming bowl only to let it plop back into the mixture. He stirred again as if further combining the contents would make them more edible. The potent reality of how easy it would be to return home made his meal unappetizing.
In the rush since they had arrived, Alistair had spoken to no one, and the silence invited his mind to wander. The bittersweet fantasy of returning to Caoilainn was his favorite way to occupy his thoughts. But sometimes fears planted seeds that grew to nightmares. Sometimes he told Caoilainn about them in his letters. His writings to his wife currently provided his only meaningful communication to another person.
He realized the reprieve writing to her offered when he had hunted for the Keep's mailroom. Caoilainn passively provided a means for him to speak his mind, to be loving and angry and worried and sad, all without judgment. At least as far as he could tell. If she judged his letters, if she even read the drivel he sent, she likely had opinions of their contents. He had no doubt.
But that did not deter him. He had bitten his tongue for too long, and he had resented Caoilainn for it. His crime to their relationship, his silence, had damaged them both and made his authenticity overdue. It rationalized his overgenerous honesty and strengthened his bout of reticence with the travel party.
Nathaniel, Hawke, and Philippa sat at another table, and the red-headed Orlesian constable joined them, sitting beside Nathaniel. The two seemed to have developed a level of familiarity since they met the night prior. Alistair assumed the detail connected to Hale's absence from breakfast.
Averse to drawing any further conclusions about the Howe's activities, Alistair rolled his eyes and returned to playing with his food. At the same time, a familiar figure entered the hall. The petite woman hurried toward Nathaniel and the others, hands ringing, black hair tucked behind her pointed ears. Fiona.
Alistair squinted as she passed. Fiona met his glare and nodded her head meekly. She did not stop walking.
He observed as she gave what Alistair presumed to be some apologetic explanation to Nathaniel, Philippa, and Hawke. Their lips moved, expressions reflecting the usual banter between these specific members. Philippa replied with something that appeared to be backhandedly rude as she gestured for Fiona to join them. And as Fiona sat, Hawke made what was most likely an inappropriate comment the rest ignored. Nathaniel withheld his warm welcome, and instead only interrogated the elven woman.
Anger burned Alistair's cheeks, and he pushed his bowl away. The nerve of Fiona to disappear and reappear at whim, without any regard to their mission or their group officially ceased his appetite. Uninterested in the bullshit excuse she reported to the others, Alistair scooted his seat away from the table, rose, and turned to walk from the hall.
"Alistair," Nathaniel called. The man's voice resonated above the weak chatter elsewhere in the room, and Alistair could not pretend he did not hear it.
Gritting his teeth, he took a deep breath before turning around. "Yes?"
Nathaniel's expression seemed to say more than Alistair could translate, and he didn't care to try. After a long moment, Nathaniel added, "Fiona has returned," and gestured to one of the many mages sitting at his table.
Alistair met Fiona's eyes for a second, not long enough to comprehend her posture or pose. He didn't want to offer any more attention to the woman than necessary.
"So I noticed." Alistair forced a wry smile to Nathaniel and dropped it a moment later, impatient to wait for the point of this conversation with someone he detested, sitting among a table of other people he detested to varying degrees. "Unless I am needed, Warden Commander, I will be in the training yard… once I locate it."
Nathaniel added, "With our group composed again, I would like to review our next steps— a plan of action. Hale will be down soon, and she has a discovery to add."
"Oh, does she?" Alistair shook his head in a brazen guffaw. He sneered, unable to restrain his bitterness. "I'll assume her discovery is relevant. Maybe she found a cure for the Wardens?"
A deep inhale preceded Nathaniel's huff. The man was annoyed. "No, as far as I know, she has not found a cure. It would simply be advantageous for our group to convene, now that we are all here."
"When shall we have enough convening, Warden Commander? Did we not just convene with the Constable Cohen and the rest when we arrived?" He looked toward the Orlesian woman who gazed back shocked, brow furrowed. "It seems you probably convened with the Constable last night."
Bridgette gasped as she turned a poignant shade of pink.
"Alistair!" Nathaniel snapped, slapping his hand on the table and rising from his seat.
"Oi," a Denerim accent called from the door. Eyes focused, suspicious, Hale's leathers creaked, echoing in the awkward silence as she took hurried strides down the hall to the rest of them. "What's all this?"
Before Nathaniel could reply, Alistair said, "The Warden Commander would like for all of us to convene, yet again, now that Fiona has decided to join us. Apparently, you have some new insights? Perhaps you can have discovered how the former Grand Enchanter can magically disappear and reappear at her own volition?"
The table expressed distaste for his jab with their noises. Philippa's loud scoff preceded her mumbled reply. She dabbed her face with her napkin as she spoke. Hawke rambled about the lack of magic involved in the process. Nathaniel only frowned. The activity occurred as Fiona remained silent, reaction muted.
Hale's face contorted with a lifted brow and curled lip. She lifted her chin, bolstering herself to retort, "Uh… the fuck—"
But before she could finish her question, Fiona lifted her fingers an inch off the table in a gentle signal to end the tension. She gazed up at Hale first. "It's fine, Hale." Her eyes turned to Alistair. "Due to the circumstances of my departure from the Wardens, I needed to consult with Cohen before anyone else could see me here. We managed to speak this morning."
Philippa rolled her eyes as she waved her hand. "It's just a paltry detail at this point. We're all here now, let us continue."
Baffled by their acquiescence, Alistair shook his head. "That's it, then? You're all just going to pretend nothing happened and let everything return to normal?"
"And what choice do we have, Alistair?" Nathaniel sat back down, pulling his seat up to the table. "How does it help to pause our mission to interrogate Fiona? For what purpose?"
The group's dismissiveness infuriated Alistair. They were too willing to ignore Fiona's distrustful behavior, whether out of desperation for another powerful mage or denial of any risk the small woman might pose. He took a breath, preparing his retort.
But Hale interrupted, addressing Alistair with a straight face as she found a seat near Philippa. "Bloke, relax and untwist yer knickers. She's only out a day, and I promise this one didn't bang Nate while she was gone."
Alistair's mouth dropped open, but any retaliatory words disappeared. Speechless, he felt his cheeks burning. The rest of the table had their reactions of snickers and gasps. Bridgette looked confused and tugged Nathaniel's sleeve. With his hand lifted, he shook his head and closed his eyes.
The awareness of the door pulled at Alistair's body, permitting him to leave once and for all and finally return home. But he was frozen, overwhelmed by embarrassment and anger. It kept him standing still.
The group was unconcerned. They quieted down, conversation returning to Hale and her findings as Nathaniel returned to his seat. He invited the young woman to explain her discovery outside the Keep's walls. Aside from a few apologetic glances from Fiona, none seemed interested in the silent Alistair stuck in his awkward stance. After a moment, he sat back down at a parallel table so he could listen.
Reluctant and red-faced, Hale retold the story of stumbling upon the ghouls. Every element of the mishap— none of which emphasized her skills as an archer, hunter, or Warden, made her cheeks brighter. By the time she explained getting away, she had crossed her arms and stared at the table.
Philippa slid her bowl of food, still half full, to Hale as she spoke to the rest of them. "Ansburg should know about their ghoul infestation, should they wish to do something about it."
With a worried wrinkle to her brow, Fiona replied, "Is there any chance a cure might heal them? If any of them were once Wardens, shouldn't we try to save them?"
Hawke's cynical laugh echoed. "Trust me. There's no point. They're too far gone if they've become ghouls."
"I'm going to bet there's more than the three Hale didn't kill out there," Nathaniel said, watching the young woman with concern as she refused to look at him.
The Orlesian Constable nodded agreement. "It is true. Llewellyn should know. He will decide to send men out to eradicate them or send word to the Keep to avoid the water in the moors."
"Well, my dears," Philippa said, putting her hand to Hale's shoulder, to help her rise from the table, "enjoy your time hunting ghouls. I must find this Keep's library for any tomes I haven't already read that could lead me closer to a cure."
"I'll join you," Fiona added, following Philippa's motions.
The group followed suit, dividing to pursue their plans for the day. The mages, excluding Hawke, set off for the library. The rest agreed to find Llewellyn together, assuring safety from the unpleasant man's demeanor with their numbers.
Alistair followed the larger collective. Aside from his loathing, and embarrassment, the group's current mission— as pointless as it may be— could provide a distraction from his disdain. The opportunity to dawn armor and slay ghouls sounded preferable to figuring out what still frustrated him about Fiona.
He watched the woman speaking softly with Philippa as they took speedy strides from the room. She glanced over her shoulder to him as he followed the group out a parallel door.
Books piled higher than Fiona's head as she read inside the dusty, neglected library. Paragraphs covered pages with facts of ancient magic, alchemy, and herbalism. For hours, the women sifted through text, wiping off sheets of dust from every cover, searching for a means to provide a large-scale cure to the Calling for the Wardens.
As Fiona read, Philippa prattled from somewhere else in the library about holy water— blessed by Andraste herself. The sound of the woman's voice faded in and out, and Fiona found it difficult to concentrate on anything.
Tired, eyes numb from so much reading, Fiona's mind wandered as she turned another page. He deserves to know. The thought about Alistair forced a tightness in her read the first sentence of the page, but the words did not register. She read again.
He doesn't deserve the burden of this truth. Again, and again, Fiona attempted to shake the convoluted fantasy from her mind, knowing that she had committed to never telling Alistair of her maternal role. Again, Fiona returned to the text, studying the details about a unique herbal remedy for fevers, but as she read the same sentence, she argued with herself.
On some level, he already knows. The matter-of-fact thought made Fiona's face hot. She slammed the book shut and took a deep breath.
Philippa's head peered around the corner of a bookcase. She wiggled her nose. "While I understand the infuriating nature of herbalism, my dearest Fiona, slamming books is not like you. Are you well?"
Fiona squeezed her hands, taking a moment to compose herself. "Well enough. Would you excuse me?"
"Of course, dear." Philippa closed a book and added it to a designated stack. "I have one more thing to check, but you go on. I will meet you in the hall for supper."
Fiona gave Philippa humble thanks and hurried to pack her things. He needs to know. The truth rang clear as she left, hurrying through the wing back to the main hallway to find if Alistair and the others were back. Despite the weight in her feet, she reached the hall quickly.
It was silent. A few Wardens chatted to each other as they walked toward her, on their way to a different destination. They passed, unrushed and unworried, their concerns not encompassing the ghouls outside. It provided no leads on Alistair's whereabouts. The option to return to their wing and knock on his door seemed as productive as going outside and hollering his name. None of these options addressed her urgency of finding Alistair before her clarity in this decision passed.
She wrung her hands, frozen in indecision in the hallway.
"Fiona?" Alistair's voice inquired from behind her.
She turned around to find him standing at the other end of the corridor, frowning, brows furrowed, incredulous.
"Alistair, I—" She bit her lip and breathed in.
He was intimidating. Even from so many paces away, he towered over her and the beard he had grown since their trip began aged him. Alistair resembled Maric in a way that made her heart heavy. The annoyed lines drawn on his face grew longer with every moment she took to collect her thoughts and find her words. He made speaking harder.
"Can we talk?" She finally managed to form a sentence.
Alistair looked to the side and then to her. "That is what we're doing, isn't it?"
"Not here." She shook her head, and her twisting hands continued. "I need to speak with you privately. I want to explain."
"Is that so?" His embittered laugh undermined the question.
With a run of his hands through his hair— damp reddish strands, recently washed— he looked at the wall. If he had joined the others for their mission to the moors, they must have returned with enough time for him to have already bathed and changed. "Well, lead the way then." Alistair extended his hand, gesturing he would follow.
For a split-second, she closed her eyes. The temptation to forego this uncomfortable conversation gnawed at the forefront of her mind. This harsh version of Alistair did not resemble the loving young man she consoled at Skyhold. And that doesn't make him any less deserving. She nodded for no one but herself and stepped forward to find an unoccupied space.
Double doors opened to an overgrown courtyard; benches made a half-circle around a Warden emblem. Alistair strolled through the grass to the benches, familiar with the area as if he had already been there. He took a seat and waited, eyebrows raised impatiently.
Fiona followed, heart pounding in her ears. She kept her eyes on the ground, watching her feet move one after another toward the benches, toward Alistair, her son.
She sat on a bench next to his. Without looking up, she blurted out, "It was selfish of me to disappear. I was scared."
She couldn't see Alistair's face, but his tone held hints of concern, maybe even kindness behind suspicion. "Scared of what?"
The fear of finding a face that revealed none of what she hoped she heard kept her head down, studying the intricate details of the Warden emblem implanted within the earth. Detailed wings of griffons carved into white stone displayed around the chalice. Fiona explained, "My departure from the Wardens was… unpleasant, to say the least. A cured Warden with no explanation did not win the favor of her comrades." Her eyes drifted up to meet his, and they found a stern grimace and soft eyes. "I was concerned about who might remember me."
The softness vanished. Alistair's eyes narrowed, accusatory, piercing through Fiona's omission. She attempted to recover the moment. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you my fears when we spoke in Tantervale."
"And why didn't you?" He sneered; his hands pressed on the bench adjusted with his weight leaning away from her. "It's so conveniently simple to be afraid of a bit of bad blood amongst your former brethren, but you spoke with Cohen without any hesitation."
"I didn't know how to explain."
"Sure." He said with a disappointed shrug. She could see his ears turning pink. "Is that it then? Are we done?"
Her eyes misted, and a lump in her throat made it difficult to swallow. I can't tell him. "I swear it, Alistair."
He looked equal parts of frustration and hurt. His face reddened, and his voice rose. "On what, Fiona? Do you swear it on the Maker? The Beloved Andraste herself? This explains nothing, and you know it." He stood up, taking a large step away from her with his fist squeezed at his side. Pivoting on his feet, he turned around and yelled, "Tell me what you're hiding from me!"
Fiona's breath caught, and her hand came to her chest— so tight, it felt sore. The dry air of the courtyard seemed more apparent now than ever, parching her mouth, making her throat sticky. She glanced at the emblem again, briefly, urged to focus on the finite details instead of this necessary dialogue, instead of focusing on Alistair. Eyes heavy, sad, watery with the significance of this confession, she glanced up to him. It's now or never.
"I knew your father, Alistair. Very well."
**** WRITER'S NOTE******
Hey All,
Just when I thought I had my groove back, life decided to do its life thing. Pregnancy has occupied way more of my free time than I anticipated, but that's not the half of it. My husband and I decided to try to buy a house and that experience was downright traumatic. But we are done. Moved. Mostly unpacked. Life is still a whirlwind of appointments and errands, but I was able to piece together this chapter.
Also, I am so sorry. When I started MoG, I had TONS of free time to myself and so much energy to write. Life has changed since then and I struggle to get anything completed. I also find my motivation is lacking. Please, please let me know what you're thinking about it. Comments and feedback (the constructive kind that remembers that I'm a human), are such gigantic inspiration. I don't think this is my best work, and it is sadly unbetaed, but gd it took a lot of effort to complete it. Thoughts are welcome.
ANOTHER APOLOGY— I am so embarrassed, but I realized as I wrote this chapter that I had already given Cohen a different name in an earlier chapter and then changed it. That was such a rookie mistake and I apologize. I had tried to search for the name when I picked Cohen and I couldn't find what I had already named him. His other name (that we shall not name) hadn't made it into my outline yet.
So anyway, that's my story. Thanks for reading this novel in addition to Fate of the Order. I hope to not take 4 months to write the next chapter. I'd honestly like to get more fic written before baby is due, but I doubt I'll be able to complete it in time.