DISCLAIMER: I base my stories on Intellectual Property (IP) owned by BioWare™ and EA™. I pretend to live in their world.

SPOILERS: I refer to information from the games, the novels and the comics. If you have not played or read, please beware.

Author's Note:

It's been a while, so a summary is in order. When I last posted Lys was settled in Areth, in Hiever, with Kai, Maric and Will. They work with Lys' Aunt Olivia (Liv) at the Anthropological Institute's living history recreation of a Ferelden town. Fiona, Eleanor and Loghain know Lys' story and visit. Fergus still believes she's alive, but is angry because he's also convinced she has run away, leaving him alone to fulfill his duties.

Ali settled in Kirkwall and Joined Bertrand's expedition with Anders, Hawke, Fenris and Varric, returning a rich man. He's continuing to avoid Cullen and Jowan and maintain his identity as Alun, although his expedition companions know the truth, along with Isabela. All have kept his secret, so far. Most recently, Liam visited, and they caught up, but Alistair found himself saying that he preferred his illumination and scrivener work, both the above-board jobs from the guild and the forgeries for Varric and Anders, to mercenary exploits. This chapter will return us to Kirkwall and Alistair's plans for the future.

A SONG IN THE STILLNESS

Chapter 16: Illumination

9:32 Dragon, Firstfall === Kirkwall

"Ahem."

Alistair looked up from his sketching and peered around the corner of the archway between the bedroom, with its single bed, cushioned arm chairs, small hearth, bookcases, and work table and the main room of his flat, with its weapons on the wall, it's open area for forms practice, and the artist's stand and table beneath the window. Varric stood in the open hallway door. "You could try knocking."

"Why? I'm your landlord, now that I've bought the place. I have a key."

"And you know, as my sometime employer, that I have blades and bow, while you leave Bianca behind, so sneak up on me at your own risk."

Chuckling, Varric shut the door and joined Alistair in a chair by the fire, where they began discussing their respective enterprises, joint or otherwise. Alistair enjoyed the banter and, now that Varric knew Alun's identity, he did not mind the dwarf's nosiness. Varric had kept Alun's secrets so far; Alistair had no reason to believe that would change. Varric, Hawke, Fenris, and Anders maintained a loyalty to each other that he had only found with Lys, Zev, Kai, and Liam, and, to some degree, with Cullen and his templar friends at Dragon's Peak. After the Deep Roads expedition, he believed he could count himself among Varric and Hawke's inner circle. As long as Isabela kept his secret and he avoided Jowan and Cullen, he should remain safe in Kirkwall. The irony of feeling safe in the shadow of the Gallows, with Qunari occupying part of a district, did not escape him. He thanked the Maker that he was not a mage.

"I heard from my contact in Markham," Varric said, changing the subject. "As I thought, the University can always use a talented scrivener and illuminator who is not a Chantry brother or Guild member. One of the Masters pursues knowledge about the ancestral Dalish, the Elvhenan, and wishes no interference from templars or priests. Or from Guilds who often have close ties to the Chantry." Seeing Alistair's raised eyebrow, he added, "She often contacts Dalish clans during her studies."

"Ah, no, you wouldn't want to betray a clan to templars by bringing along Chantry folk." Alistair frowned. "I'm not anxious to move again, just yet anyway."

"You don't have to desert us completely. Some jobs will require that you remain there to complete the work; for other jobs, you can return here and bring the work with you. No different than accompanying merchant caravans as a merc. Interested?" He handed Alistair a letter.

The letter explained that Markham's University, known for agricultural research, also sponsored a group of scholars who conducted cultural and historical studies. Ancient documents, discovered by the researchers, needed to be copied by a scrivener, allowing the original to be carefully stored away, while the scholars studied the copy; other artifacts needed to be recorded in drawings. With his talents he could do either task. Depending on the project, the work could be done at the special scriptorium in the historians' library in Markham, in his flat in Kirkwall, or in situ at the research site, which meant he would have to accompany an expedition.

"If you go on an expedition, your skills with a blade may allow you to double as an extra guard, if you wish. It would pay more," Varric added, knowing that Alistair preferred to leave his riches untouched and live off his earnings. "They also have a printing press, but you may not want to reveal your skills as a printer."

"No, not as long as we're keeping our printing efforts here under wraps," Alistair agreed. "I'll stick to ink and charcoal while I'm there."

Varric had acquired the small printing press surreptitiously and, once they completed door between the unused room in the Hanged Man and Alistair's flat, had installed the press and got it working. To conceal their activities, Varric had claimed the room as his storage space, placing chests and crates just inside the locked door to distract any prying eyes and discourage intruders. Now, he only used the new doorway inside Alistair's flat to reach the press. They knew printing anything independently would not sit well with the templars, the Chantry, the Scrivener and Printers Guild, or the Viscount, but Varric had dreams of printing his own work and Alistair thought they should support Anders and the Mage Underground. He created most of the necessary passes and certificates by hand, adding the requisite stamps, wax imprints, and colored ribbons, but some could be printed.

"I hadn't planned on traveling again so soon, but this looks interesting," Alistair said, after he read through the letter. "Thanks for this, Varric. I'd much rather wield pen and brush than blade and bow, and, fortunately, I can get to Markham by ship from here to Ostwick and join up with a merchant caravan there. The overland trip from here to Ostwick, along the coast, isn't as bad as traveling the Wounded Coast to the west, but it passes through some bandit infested land and takes weeks. I'd rather not guard another caravan along that coast."

"Why go as a caravan guard at all?" Varric asked. "You have the funds."

"I had the funds before."

Varric cocked his head.

"I've always had funds, Varric. I didn't leave Ferelden empty handed. I just like to work and, with no mercenary guild in Kirkwall, my blade and bow seemed the most obvious means of support. As I'm neither a Chantry brother or in the Scriveners Guild, I am at a disadvantage when seeking that sort of work. Your help has been invaluable, convincing the Guild here to allow me to complete the small jobs they'd rather not do."

"Happy to help." Varric grinned. "Anders certainly appreciates your efforts on behalf of the Underground, not mention the other documents you…ahem…created, to help me. A document authenticating dwarven artifacts always improves the income from a sale. I don't know anyone else who can, uh, duplicate the imprint and wording of a document from the Shaperate."

"Yeah, well…let's not say too much. I'm sure the university people in Markham wouldn't want to hear I, uh, creatively authenticated dwarven artifacts. They might worry I'll do the same with theirs and then, creatively, sell them."

Varric chuckled. "Well, at least everything we brought back from the Expedition needed no authentication. Those pieces are either so old no one could argue with their value, or they could be broken down into their parts - gems, metals, gold, or silver. Oh, I may have a few letters for you to take with you to Markham, if you don't mind. Just need to go to the Margrave's Seneschal, nothing secret. The young Margrave, Frederic, hopes to rebuild trade after the years of neglect under that Fereldan traitor Rendon Howe, who killed his family."

"Killed his own relations, you mean. Byron Howe's wife was a Markham and she and Byron's children returned to Markham during the Rebellion. As it happened, Byron's son inherited the Margravate. Byron was Rendon Howe's uncle and Howe used the connection, first to secure a place for his son, Nathaniel, to squire and then to claim the title after killing the Margrave and his family. He just used the title, which outranked his title of Arl, and drained Markham of coin. The young Margrave, Byron's grandson, has a big task."

"He does." Varric rubbed his chin and gave Alistair a sidelong glance. "It wouldn't hurt if you nosed around and let me know how the city appears."

"Appears?"

"Are the markets busy? What types of goods do they sell? Mediocre? Good quality? How are the people dressed? Judge the general prosperity and temper." He cocked his head, seeing Alistair's puzzlement. "Yes, I have my own informants, but more details from someone I trust always helps. I'd not turn down a sketch or two."

"I'll see what I can do," Alistair said. "Get the letters to me before I leave and Varric, again, thanks."

The dwarf nodded and left.

x==========x

A week later, his travel plans complete, Alistair made his way to the Hanged Man's common room where, he had been told, Anders waited to see him. Why Anders hadn't just come up to his room he didn't know, but an ale and some company would be nice before his ship left on the evening tide the next day. Estrid, Isabela's friend and lover, captained her own ship, the Gryffon, making regular stops in Kirkwall and Ostwick to deliver and take on cargo. Confirming with Isabela that the Gryffon would dock within the week, he had booked passage to Ostwick, where he would join a merchant caravan and travel on to Markham. He guessed that Isabela and Estrid had waylaid Anders, always ready to chat with a pretty woman or two, and hence the summons.

To his surprise, Anders sat alone against the wall, nursing an ale, and rose when Alistair arrived. "Isabela and Estrid went ahead. Varric's decided we should join him in his rooms," Anders said, looking annoyed. "He must want to raise the stakes of the game."

"I hadn't planned on playing, but," he shrugged, "why would that matter?"

"Showing too much coin in here would invite-"

"-ah, right. I might make it back to my room, but you would either have to use your magic or let yourself be robbed once you left for the Clinic," Alistair said, softly. "Let's go see what he wants to wager. I may drop out if the game gets too pricey."

Anders snorted, knowing full well Alistair's skill at both Diamondback and Wicked Grace, skills learned from Zevran, and his deep pockets. They climbed the stairs to Varric's door and knocked. Varric cracked the door open a few inches and peered out. Raising his eyebrows, he nodded and opened the door wide enough for the two men to enter one at a time. Anders went first.

Quiet shouts of 'Surprise' greeted Alun, as the door closed. Anders stood aside, grinning, as Alun surveyed the room. Isabela slouched in Varric's chair at the head of the table, one leg over the arm, while Estrid sat on the other arm leaning against her lovers' shoulder. Varric stood next to Anders, giving Isabela a side-eyed glare, before turning to Alun with a head-shake and shrug. Isabela remained secretive about her problems, but continued to live at the Hanged Man and, in particular, watch over Merrill, although the elf seemed unaware that she needed any watching over. The two made an unlikely pair, but Isabela seemed truly fond of the elf. Merrill smiled at him from her seat on Varric's bed in the alcove to his right. Fenris, one side of his mouth quirking up in what passed for a smile, reached out to squeeze Alun's shoulder, while Rory, on tip-toe, grasped his arm and planted a kiss on his cheek.

Since their return from the Deep Roads, Varric had sold off the treasure and made each of the Expedition members rich. Rory had regained her family's noble status and fine estate and Anders had expanded the services his clinic could offer, as well as funding the Mage Underground. He had also asked Liam to speak with the Fereldan Regents about allowing willing refugees to return if he funded them using his and Alistair's wealth. Varric continued managing his family business, with its seat on the Dwarven Merchant Guild's council, and writing, and used the expedition wealth to purchase the printing press and the Hanged Man. Only Fenris had made no changes, instead leaving his funds with Varric to invest, and continuing to live in the abandoned mansion waiting for Danarius to return. Alistair and the others rarely visited, making it a secure, secret location for Rory and Cullen's weekly meeting. A meeting that had become more than a simple update on Bethany's status as the two Fereldans' friendship developed. Only Fenris and Varric knew of those meetings. They had a bet on when the friendship would become a love affair, despite knowing Rory would kill them both, if she knew of it.

After the expedition, all the companions tried, not always successfully, to avoid the mercenary activities that had earned them the coin necessary to join Bartrand. Alistair had agreed to help Varric with the press and to assist Anders, when he needed a sword to clear areas in Dark Town or shepherd mages away from the city for the Underground, as long as he could avoid Jowan. The others lent a hand as well, and one such protective foray gave Rory a project of her own, separate from Leandra's socializing and re-establishment of the Amell name and estate. It gave Fenris' mansion another, more acceptable, use.

On one of their sweeps through Darktown the companions tracked and killed Evelina, a mage, who had escaped the Gallows, but become possessed trying to avoid recapture by templars. They learned that, while fleeing the Blight in Ferelden, Evelina had saved a group of orphans, who now found themselves abandoned. Rory had made it her mission to take care of them. She somehow convinced Fenris to let them live in an unoccupied wing of the estate he had adopted, where they could be educated and cared for. Skeptical at first, Fenris warmed to the idea and soon spent time with the orphans, even teaching some of the older ones, who showed an interest, basic forms and defensive moves. Alistair, too, had taken an interest and sometimes came to help, teaching both archery and drawing, as well as tutoring them in reading and writing. Cullen found a Chantry sister from Ferelden, who agreed, with the Grand Cleric's approval, to set up a formal school for the children. Lirene alerted Rory to any other orphans she discovered, providing a small, but never-ending stream of bedraggled young ones. Rory, herself, visited almost daily. With the younger children safe and cared for, she sought to find the older children, some young adults now, jobs or apprenticeships. It also gave Cullen an excuse to openly visit the estate, to check on the orphans for Grand Cleric Elemena and assure her that none had magic. None did, so far, but Anders and Rory already planned to convince Cullen to let Anders train them at the Estate, even if Anders had to conscript them to do so. Bethany might be a prisoner in the Gallows, but Rory had no intention of allowing Meredith to get her hands on any other children under her care. Tonight, however, Rory focused on Alistair.

"We weren't sure how long you'd be gone and wanted to give you a good send off," Rory said, smirking at Alun's reaction to her peck on the cheek.

"And now we know how to make him blush," Varric added.

"So, this isn't a Diamondback game?" Alun said, trying to divert the attention from his flushed cheeks.

"Naw," Varric said. "You won't get to beat me tonight. You and your friend, Liam, play too well."

"I wondered why we hadn't played much," Alistair chuckled. "I was looking forward to extra pocket money for my trip."

"He plays better than you," Varric muttered. "You, I sometimes beat."

"He taught me."

"And you couldn't have whispered that to me before I played with him?" Varric asked. "Given me a warning?"

"Liam's friendship goes back further than ours," Alun said, shrugging. "Sorry."

Varric handed Alun a mug. "Here's to your travels. May they be safe and successful." The others raised their mugs and shouted, 'hear, hear'.

"Thank you," Alun said. "All of you. It's good to know I have friends to come home to."

x==========x

The next day, Alistair arrived at the docks in mid-afternoon with his pack, ready to board the Gryffon. Ironic name, he had thought when he first heard it. Seeing it flying a flag bearing the sleeping dragon crest of House Haris he hesitated. While he had known Captain Estrid, Isabella's lover, sailed for the merchant house the connection to the Couslands gave him pause. Still, he had never met anyone from the merchant house except Lys and the factor in Denerim. No one there would know him as Alistair, much less as Alun.

Much to his surprise, he enjoyed the voyage. Of course, anything would best the voyage from Soldier's Peak to Kirkwall in that crate. Estrid invited him to dine in her cabin, with her and her first mate, where he enjoyed both the meal and the conversation. Both sailors had traveled widely around the Waking Sea and Amaranthine Ocean ports. Estrid, unprompted by Alistair, described the rebuilding going on in Denerim, the resurgence of Amaranthine under the city's Bann, Delilah Howe, and the Arl, her brother Nathaniel. Oddly, she had not stopped at Higheverport, but he knew from Liam and Varric that Highever, which suffered very little from the Blight, prospered again, with much of the thanks going to Arlessa Pippa Broughten-Howe, acting as Regent for the often absent Teyrn Fergus. Estrid mentioned, in passing, that the young Teyrn and his new wife, the Dowager Queen, spent most of their time in Denerim. He did wonder why the Dowager Teyrna, Eleanor, did not hold that honor, but chose not to ask. Liam had mentioned that the Teyrna spent time much of her time with Arl Loghain in Gwaren, which seemed stranger still.

After five days of smooth sailing, the Gryffon docked in Ostwick where Alistair joined a caravan, led by a merchant he had worked for in the past. He paid to join the caravan as a traveler with no guard or patrol duties, but promised to wield his sword in case of a bandit attack. The four-day journey to Markham followed safe, well-traveled roads, but no merchant traveled without protection. Passing through the massive dual gates of the double wall around Ostwick, the caravan followed the coast road until it reached the road that branched north to the pass through the Vinmark Mountains. Beyond the pass, the road turned east and continued the climb to Markham. No sheep dotted the snow-covered upland meadows below the highest peak, as they would in spring. Here and there the steam from hot springs rose into the frigid air. He suspected farm families bathed in them through the winter, despite the chill and the distance to their farmsteads in the lower valleys where they spent the cold months repairing tools, feeding their cattle and sheep with hay stored in their barns, and spinning and weaving the wool and flax from the past year. As the merchant caravan climbed, overnight temperatures dropped, and the company appreciated the many inns standing a day's journey apart along this well-traveled route.

Despite paying for his journey, Alistair found himself observing the countryside, searching for likely spots for ambush. I've been looking at my surroundings through a soldier's eyes since Loghain taught me on the road to Dragon's Peak. To divert himself, he tried to remember the colors and textures of the land they passed through so that he could draw it that night, but his detailed memories always seemed to depict a defensive strong point or potential ambush spot. In frustration, he took to gathering dried leaves and seed pods, unusual stones, and uniquely shaped deadwood to sketch by candle and firelight. If he was going to record artifacts, it couldn't hurt to practice drawing objects.

Finally, they topped yet another rise and, on the far side of the valley beneath them, the city of Markham appeared on the flat top of a plateau. They descended, crossed the valley, and began the climb to their destination. The road curved through several turns, easing the approach to the hilltop city. The city wall appeared through the bare limbs of trees as the road wound its way upward, ending at a large gatehouse, not unlike the one he remembered in Amaranthine City. Pairs of guards peered over the ramparts at intervals. The caravan stopped behind a line of visitors waiting to enter the city. Alistair rode forward to speak with the merchant.

"They're careful ever since Margrave Frederic returned."

"Howe's dead and didn't the attack on his family happen outside the city?" Alistair asked.

The merchant nodded. "'Can't be too careful'seems to be the Margrave's motto now." He held up his own papers. "These cover me, my guards and the trade goods, but you know that. That's how you've entered the city in the past, no? Don't worry, the line moves quickly for individuals, so there's no need for you to wait with us while they search the carts. We can part company here." He peered at Alistair. "You do have papers?"

Alistair nodded, pulling the letter from the University out of the scrip he had slung over his shoulder. As the merchant promised, the individual line moved quickly. Anyone without appropriate documents, the guard pulled aside to be questioned. From what Alistair observed, most failed the scrutiny. Once he showed his letter, however, with the University's imprint in wax bedecked with multicolored ribbons, the guard waved him through with a smile.

On a prior visit, Alistair had discovered a small, family run inn called The Scholar's Rest, close to the south wall, but not far from the University, and had made a habit of staying there. The innkeeper usually had an easily secured, well-lit, if expensive, third-floor apartment available, he served good food and better ale, and he included use of the bath house, fed by a hot spring, in the price. Too costly for students, the inn served wealthier travelers and visiting University masters. While careful with his gold, he found having clean, safe rooms worth the price, even as a mercenary. It's almost like coming home. I'm glad it's close to the university, but not part of it.

He had written ahead to reserve the apartment, leaving the location with Varric, so that the two could exchange letters privately, rather than through the University. Pleased to find it ready for him, he carried his gear up the outdoor stairway in the rear of the inn and left it in the sitting room, before stabling his horses at a smithy some distance away, abutting the wall, where the stone surroundings lowered the risk of fire. He returned in time for dinner in the Rest's main room, where he ate alone, at a small table in the far corner, watching the crowd drift in for the evening's entertainment. He chose not to stay for the bard, but could hear bits of song through the windows of his own sitting room as he laid out his supplies and hung his good tunics and vests on clothes poles in the small bedroom. Zevran had teased him about his neatness and precision, but he felt more comfortable in an organized space. He always had. Once unpacked, he took clean small clothes, a tunic and a large cloth and, wrapping himself in his cloak, he locked his door, crossed the porch and climbed down the two flights of wooden stairs to the rear courtyard. A plank walkway linked the inn to the bathhouse. The planks provided a welcome path above the mud created by spring rains and winter thaws. Crossing the courtyard, hood pulled over his head, Alistair went to the bathhouse to clean up before crawling between clean sheets to sleep.

After a good night's rest, he woke at daybreak. The sitting room, its table pushed against a wall, offered a clear area where he practiced his forms before enjoying a light breakfast of porridge and tea delivered by a barmaid. Arranging for a messenger, he sent a note to the University letting them know he had arrived and where they could contact him, and then set out to reacquaint himself with the city, deliver Varric's missives, and record what he observed for his friend.

Nestled against steep foothills to the south, the city had grown around the University on the west side and the Margrave's keep on the east. A fine wall surrounded the city proper, although settlements had grown up outside, particularly on the less steep and heavily traveled north road, connecting to Ansburg and Wycombe. On the south, the city wall ran along a gorge, across which the land rose to the Vinmarks, where a hot spring steamed. A wide road, called the High Street, ran east from the gate through which he had entered on the Ostwick road to its sister gate on the eastbound Hercinia road. Bisecting the city from north to south, another wide avenue, College Row, ran north to the Ansburg Gate and the road to Markham's sister city on the far side of the Minanter. A less imposing wall surrounded the University grounds along College Row, limiting access, with its gatehouses and porter's lodges, to masters, students, researchers, and workers. The Scholar's Rest occupied a generous plot along College Row opposite one such gateway not far from the southern city wall.

The University straddled the High Street on the west side, with the masters' residences, lecture halls, and student dormitories of the various colleges, each with their own courtyards and walls, scattered across the campus. The colleges filled most of the grounds, while the library, chantry, and history research building, where Alistair would work, clustered along the High Street's south side. Two bridges crossed the High Street, connecting the two halves of the grounds divided by the roadway. Students, masters, and lecturers, garbed in the gowns and hoods denoting their college, formed a constant stream across the two bridges to attend lectures, visit the library, or return to their rooms.

As a caravan guard, Alistair had spent his time on previous visits in the eastern half of the city with its shops, markets and fine Margrave's palace. This time he had a pass to enter the University grounds, but he decided to wait until he heard from the Master to explore there and bypassed the gate into the South campus, instead heading towards the more familiar central square which hosted a market on most days.

As Varric had requested, he explored the offerings in the large market, and noted the permanent shops on the surrounding streets. If the city had suffered under Rendon How, he decided its recovery had been quick. The market, busy on his last visit, had more stalls and a larger crowd purchasing ribbons, pins, cloth, metal work, jewelry, raw wool, hides, and almost any other item he could think of. Fine silks and embroidery from Antiva filled a stall next to heavy woolen cloth from Ferelden. He bought a grilled sausage in a bun, an Ansburg speciality, from a butcher. From a nearby stalls he smelled the hoppy odor of ale and the spicy small of mulled wine.

He knew from his travels that sheep herding provided the primary income in the surrounding area and the clack of looms in the large weaving sheds north of the market confirmed that had not changed. Walking further north and the smell of dye lots on the far northeast corner of Markham indicated how the town kept busy during the winter months spinning, dying, and weaving. To the southeast of the central square and market, the Margrave's residence rose above the city on its own low hill. Behind it, a waterfall fell out of the Vinmarks and formed the gorge with the south city wall clinging to its rim.

As he circled around the main square to explore the street leading up to the Residence, a unit of Guard came through pressing townsfolk back against the buildings.

"Make way," the sergeant leading the group shouted. "Make way for Margrave Frederick and his guests. Make way."

A mounted troop of two dozen soldiers walked their horses along the edges of the cobbled roadway, forcing any onlookers to huddle against the walls of the buildings behind them. Between the line of troops, the Margrave and several others rode towards the Residence. The townsfolk, unfazed by the line of horses pressing them away from the center of the road, cheered the young nobles as they passed, and the Margrave waved and nodded at his people.

He's young, Alistair noted, and well liked, if the cheering is sincere. Suddenly he ducked his head, pulling the cowl he wore over his scriverner's coif, low over his forehead. Nathaniel Howe and his wife, Philippa, rode beside Nate's cousin, Frederick, the Margrave. That's all I need, for Nathaniel or Pippa to notice me. He stayed in place, not wanting to attract notice by trying to walk away through the crowd, but raised his head enough to peer beneath his cowl at the nobles as they road by. The small group soon passed, and the street resumed its business day bustle. Beyond the buildings where Alistair stood, hedges lined the road and the peaks of townhouses rose above them. He watched the Margrave's entourage ride through the gate to the Residence and decided not to venture any closer.

Good thing I sent Varric's letters to the Margrave by messenger instead of delivering them myself.

The next morning, he set off for the University grounds to meet with the researchers who would decide if his skills fit their need. Varric had provided him with two names, Master Olivia and Master Conrad. When he wondered why it wasn't Dame Olivia, Varric said the title denoted the education level achieved, not the sex of the professor. Showing his letter, he passed through the porter's scrutiny at the University gate with no difficulty and followed the directions to Master Olivia's studio.

"Serah Alun," Olivia greeted him, smiling. "You come with high praise from my friend Varric. We found the sheet of illuminations he sent much to our liking. He commends you as a talented scrivener as well."

"I have done a number of small jobs in Kirkwall. Although I'm not a member of the Guild, they do not challenge me. It's a small Guild, so they have more work than they can handle and welcome some help with minor commissions. Will that be a problem here?"

"We can work it out, I think." She stared at the young man sitting across the work table from her and wondered why he seemed familiar. He wore, as most students and artisans did, a coif, which covered his hair and ears, with braided straps hanging down from below his ears. He kept his not quite ginger beard short and well-trimmed, but it did not hide a scar which ran from his temple, along his cheekbone, curving towards his ear. Nor did the coif hide hazel eyes, flecked with specks of green, under dark blond brows. For some reason Lys' voice sounded in her head saying that Will's father's hazel eyes that changed color with his mood and the color of his tunic. She shook her head slightly to focus on the interview. "Varric said you've been a soldier."

"Most men in Ferelden were during the Blight."

"Ah...but you left?"

"Everyone I cared about had died. I had no reason to stay and needed a fresh start."

"So, you chose Kirkwall?" Her raised eyebrow indicated she questioned his good sense.

He laughed. "I knew Varric. He offered to help me get settled. It's worked out."

"I see," she said slowly, her narrowed eyes indicating she did not wholly concur with his choices. "You know the work will require you to be here at times."

"I understand. I have rooms at an inn nearby. Staying here shouldn't be a problem, but I also have commitments to friends in Kirkwall, so I'll return there when the work here is done or if you'll allow me to take copying work with me. You need drawings when you receive artifacts, right? I understood the work would be intermittent. You don't get a delivery every day?"

Olivia shook her head no to his question. "We bring artifacts back from expeditions, so, yes, the work will be intermittent, which leads me to another question. Would you consider joining an expedition? Drawing what we find in place, before we remove it, would also be useful, as would your sword."

"I'd consider it," he said. "but would need to know in advance when, where, and for how long."

"It depends on the expedition leader, but my speciality is elven …Dalish and ancient - and I prefer not to involve the Chantry in my travels. Varric said you were Chantry trained, but not - how shall I say it..."

"Not devout?" He smiled. "I studied at Dragon's Peak in Ferelden, but I'm hardly devout. I love the work, the color, the artistry, the beauty, but not so much the ritual…or the politics. I'm a good scrivener, but I enjoy illuminating more. Scrivening is simply putting words on parchment, they rarely speak to me beyond the simple act of copying."

"Ah…the politics. Yes, I think we agree then." Master Olivia studied the young man, who did not flinch or look away from her gaze. Her lips curved and she nodded. "We've explored the area north of Starkhaven and Ansburg bordering on Tevinter, but I've developed an interest in your homeland, the Brecilian, as well." She saw him stiffen slightly when she mentioned Ferelden. He may not want to go back to Ferelden, but that's not an impediment now. She only said, "We can discuss travel when the opportunity arises." She frowned slightly and bit her lip before speaking, "Aside from your questionable decision to settle in Kirkwall," and then she smiled, "you seem qualified. Would you like to get started today?"

"I brought some quills, ink powders, and knives," Alun said patting his satchel, "but I have more in my room at the inn."

"We have ink powders, charcoal, quill knives, quills, paints and dyes - most of what you'll need you'll find already here. We'll pay you and provide the supplies, so there's no need to use your own, but, before I give you a task, I think a tour is in order."

Alistair stood quickly as Olivia rose and wondered why he had suddenly thought of Lys. He frowned. Master Olivia had bitten her lip, just like Lys did, but so did Merrill and she didn't make him think of Lys. He turned and followed the older woman down a hall and into a smaller chamber where, on the opposite wall, he saw a table, set into a bay formed by five tall north-facing leaded windows. Above him, a coffered wooden ceiling, dark with age, seemed to warm the room. On the table, lit by sunlight through the clear glass panes, stood an angled scrivener's desk which could be moved to capture the best light. Candelabra, on the table and on floor stands, provided additional light sources. A smaller table, at right angles to the stand, provided a space where he could place the artifacts he would draw. He noted that the windows, with their clear glass panes, faced south, providing good light for most of the day.

To the left of the entrance, the doors to a cabinet stood open revealing stacks of parchment, vellum, and even paper, from the water powered mills along the Minanter. On the lower shelves, glass and pottery vials held the powders necessary for making inks and paints of many colors. Another shelf held quills, quill knives, scraping knives, and other supplies necessary to the scrivener and illuminator's trade. On the walls to either end of the room, small braziers stood ready to provide warmth, beneath sconces holding additional candles. Next to one brazier, a chair, piled with cushions, and footstool, stood beneath the sconce next to a small chest.

Alun turned toward the supply cabinet and, reading the labels carefully pasted on the containers, opened a few of the jars, sniffed the contents, and reinserted the cork stoppers. Fresh or well preserved. He approved the quality of the quill feathers, ready for him to cut to his own requirements. He felt the vellum's smooth surface, acknowledging its quality. He smiled. He would enjoy working with materials this fine. Stepping across the room to the scriveners stand, he found he could adjust its height and the angle of the work surface. He could not have designed a better room for drawing or writing.

"Will this do?" Olivia asked.

"Perfectly." He grinned. "Put a cot in here and I may never leave. When may I start?"

Olivia laughed and pointed to a door, almost hidden in the wood paneling next to the chair. "There is a tiny bedroom behind that door should you need it, but I think you'll want to escape to your rooms, particularly at the Scholar's Rest with their baths." She motioned towards the hallway. "Let's look at what I'd like you to draw. You may choose your first project. She led the way down the hall to a larger room where shelves lined the walls. Crates, coffers of varying sizes, and wrapped items filled every available space. Seeing Alun's eyes widen, Olivia assured him that she only wanted the items spread out on the table in the center of the room recorded.

The table held a collection of arrow heads, two bows, one intact and the other broken, with a section missing, some pots and clay shards with designs on them, three swords, and a beautiful dagger complete with leather sheath. Olivia expected him to choose the dagger, but he surprised her and pointed to the arrow heads and the bows.

"I could put the arrow heads into one drawing, if you like, with dimensions? The complete bow will be a second drawing. I can try to determine what the broken bow looked like, draw the pieces you have and guess what the missing part looked like." He waited for her response.

"That would be perfect," Olivia said. "Have you done this before?"

Pursing his lips, he shook his head no. "I had a friend who knew a lot about plants. She had me draw the plant and note its measurements so she could have others gather it. Sometimes I had to draw from her description if she only had one flower." He chuckled. "Or her drawings, which never looked much like the plant. Anyway, I guessed you'd want something similar with the artifacts."

"Your friend-"

"She died."

"I'm sorry."

Alun lips pressed together. "Me too. Now, shall I begin with the arrowheads and bow?"

Olivia nodded, remembering again that everyone in Ferelden, not just her family, had lost friends and family during the Blight and war. She watched Alun take a cloth and carefully wrap the arrowheads. He took those to the work room and returned, with the cloth, for the broken bow. Finally, he took the complete bow, wrapping the cloth around it before picking it up.

"You'll do very well, Serah Alun," Olivia said, following him down the hall.

He turned to face her. "I'll just set these up today and make some sketches to get a feel for the light and the room. I'll be back early to start fresh in the morning."

Alistair laid the arrowheads on the table and lit the various candles to augment the southern light still streaming through the glass panes of the large windows. Gathering the supplies he needed to measure and sketch the artifacts, he smiled. It felt so much better to draw weapons left behind by ancestral elves in the north than fight elves, dwarves, humans, or beasts. As he began to sketch, some of the peace he had felt in the scriptorium at Dragon's Peak settled within his heart. He would return to Kirkwall to see his friends, but he felt no urge to do so any time soon. He wondered if Markham might feel more like home in the future.

A/N: Thanks to my wonderful betas Kira Tamarion and Elyssa Cousland, whose efforts make this a better story. Any errors are mine. Appreciate all who favorited, followed, and gave kudos. I hope you continue to read and enjoy.