Flora felt her brother-warden's presence like a fishhook tugging at her skin; though by the time that she had sensed him, he was almost at her side. She turned and saw Alistair striding towards her, clad in hastily assembled garments. The alchemy of moonlight had transformed his golden hair into silver, and paled the rich hue of his skin. The crease across his brow deepened when he took in Flora's untucked shirt and the remnants of her bindings scattered on the earth. She was mid-yawn, sleeves falling to her elbows as she pulled sleepily at her face.
"Flora," Alistair hissed, unbuttoning his tunic as he came to a halt beside her. "Where's your cloak? It's the middle of the night, and it's winter."
"I ain't cold, I'm a- "
"Don't say that you're a Herring girl who doesn't feel the cold," he reprimanded, frowning down at her. "It's not true. Everyone gets cold, even northerners."
Flora yawned once again instead of replying, rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes. Alistair peered at her for a long moment through the gloom; the reproval writ across his face softening. It had been a careless gesture, but it had caught his attention: the small fingers, the nails freshly bitten. There were still delicate filaments of gold clinging to her palms, like fine blond hairs.
"How many refugees have you healed tonight?" Alistair draped the tunic over her shoulders, knotting the trailing arms together beneath her chin. "You've been out ages."
The sleepy Flora thought for a moment; held up eight fingers, and then four fingers.
"Not just refugees. A soldier too, with a blighted wound. They got attacked on their way out of the valley."
She gave him a searching look, her pale irises lacquered by the moonlight. Alistair grimaced, though - for the first time - it was not due to the mention of Ostagar. Instead, his concern lay elsewhere.
"You ought to rinse your mouth out. Duncan always gave you wine after you healed him, remember?"
For a moment they were both silent. The ghost of their commander stood between them, as solid and unyielding in death as he had been in life. Flora looked at her feet, fingers twisting in the material of his tunic as it hung around her shoulders. He saw then how tired she was; the violet smudges beneath her eyes and the weary droop of her head. The bundle of hair, knotted so confidently on her crown that morning, had collapsed into a chaotic tumble down her back.
"Let's go back to our room," he said quietly, thinking that she looked like an overhunted Mabari. "There are still a few hours until dawn. You need to sleep, Flora."
"I can't let the guards see me," she mumbled through her sleeve. "They tried to put me in a cage."
"I can see that," a wry Alistair observed, glancing at the twisted skeins of metal on the ground. "We'll have to avoid- Maker's Breath!"
He had just noticed the behemoth in the next cage; vast enough to fill the entirety of the barred space and standing in total silence, watching them closely. Alistair gaped - he had not seen a Qunari for years - surveying the giant man from head to booted foot.
"This is Aspen ," said Flora, pulling at Alistair's sleeve to lower his head and bring his ear level with her mouth. "He's our new companion, but he doesn't know it yet."
Her whisper rested warm against his neck; the words sleepy but sure. Alistair looked once again at the silent giant with the implacable scarlet stare, astounded at the sheer incongruity of a Qunari within the nondescript little town of Lothering. He doubted that the hulk's name was really Aspen.
"Him? Join us? Really?"
" Yes," Flora replied, with solemn certainty. "My spirits told me so."
"Hm."
She swayed on her feet and Alistair gripped her elbow, realising that she was more than tired: she was exhausted . He made an executive decision and hauled her up; not into his arms, but over his shoulder, like a recalcitrant child. He heard Flora mumble a protest from beneath a tangle of port wine hair, though she lacked the energy for serious opposition.
"I'm not a sack of crabs," she grumbled, turning her head sideways. "Oof. Hauling me up the beach."
"I thought you fantasised about being a sea creature."
"A fish! Not a crab ." She was scornful.
"We'll be faster this way."
Flora yawned again, abandoning her protest. She weighed far less than the burden of his armour and weaponry; Alistair found that he could bear her weight easily. He swung towards the narrow stretch of road that rose on a gentle incline towards the tavern, relying on moonlight and a few persistent lanterns to light the way. From her upturned position, Flora craned her neck until she could see the caged Qunari.
"We'll be back for you, Aspen!" she said, pointing a tired, determined finger. "Tomorrow. Be ready."
The Qunari ignored her. Undeterred, Flora let the side of her face settle against the lower part of Alistair's back; feeling the coarse weave of linen against her cheek.
The dawn was still a handful of hours away, but a faint thread of grey had appeared on the horizon. Lothering seemed to be holding an apprehensive breath; the air hung still and silent around the clustered buildings. Frost clung to darkened windows as though something vast and unseen had exhaled wearily across the town.
Alistair's 'sack of crabs' fell quiet as she was returned to the tavern; he thought that perhaps she had fallen asleep. He kept an eye out for any lurking guard, but met only an old woman limping past with her head shrouded. The young man wondered if he should greet her - or offer his assistance - but she seemed determined to ignore him.
To Alistair's relief, the heavy bar on the interior of the tavern door had not been dropped into place. Careful to avoid bumping his cargo's head against any hard edges, he made his way between the tables and chairs to the stair leading to the upper floor. An elf clad in worn leathers leaned his elbows atop the railing, a bottle of ale balanced precariously beside him. Alistair suddenly realised how their current situation might appear to a stranger. Flora was now snoring on his back, her hair trailing in their wake like strands of seaweed.
"She's just tired," he said hastily as the elf surveyed them, one eyebrow flicking upwards. "It's been a… long day."
The elf made a I care not gesture, returning his attention to his bottle. Alistair strode down the corridor to the end-chamber, conscious of striking each noisy floorboard on the way. Their chamber was much the same as he had left it; the hearth reduced to embers, the moonlight striping the floor in silver. There was no sign of Morrigan in either feline or human form, a circular indent pressed into the faded seat of the chair where she had been curled. The packs were huddled unceremoniously in the far corner. At first, Alistair thought that their lumpen silhouette belonged to a live creature and almost had a heart attack.
Once he had recovered from his fright, he surveyed the rest of their chamber. It did not even occur to him to deposit the yawning, now woken Flora on the baseboard of the bed and leave her till sunrise. Instead, Alistair let her down gently onto the pallet mattress before the hearth, then went to retrieve his wineskin. He almost fell over a stray cooking pot on his return, biting back a curse. On second thought, he retrieved the offending pot.
Flora was sitting on the mattress, her drooping head resting against the side of the bedframe. She had mustered the energy to pull off one boot, then given in to a yawn that seemed to take up her whole face. Alistair removed the other, handing her the wineskin and the pot with a stern instruction to rinse out her mouth. While she gargled sleepily, he returned to the dying fire and began a dedicated campaign to coax it back to life, feeding in scraps of tinder from the nearby basket. After several hopeful prods with the poker and judicious addition of kindling, the fire blossomed within the grate. A warm, wavering light spilled across the chamber, accompanied by the slow crack of splitting wood.
Once he was satisfied that the fire was not going to fail, Alistair manoeuvred his lengthy frame back across the mattress. Flora had slid the wineskin and pot to one side and was biting her nails; showing no inclination to return to the baseboard above. He sat beside her, leaning back against the edge of the bed and exhaling a steady breath.
"Where'd your cloak go?" he asked, remembering his earlier question.
Flora peered at her feet in the firelight, the woollen socks pulled up over her ankles. They had not borne the days of walking well and several holes had appeared in the seams.
"Gave it away," she said vaguely, eyeing her exposed little toe. "I told everyone I mended to leave tomorrow. I hope they listen."
Alistair gazed at her profile from the tail of his eye: the straight, imperious nose, the slant of the cheekbone and the voluptuous swell of the mouth. The young Warden then felt guilty for admiring it. In some inexplicable way, he felt that she was bound to their late commander, and that admiring her was a betrayal of a kind. Then Flora yawned, so wide that it made her lose her balance and she almost toppled sideways.
Alarmed - he did not want her to hit her head against the dusty floorboards, even if the wound would mend itself afterwards - Alistair reached out. As he gripped Flora's elbow, he noticed that her fingertips were pink and swollen, as though she had pressed them against the curved wall of a cooking pot. He almost asked her about them, then his better judgement prevailed; her eyes were closing, her head drooping like a flower. Her body was following the lopsided motion; slumping to the side like a child's toy left unbalanced. He put his arm around her to steady her.
The fire grew in confidence and volume, consuming a log with vehemence. A crowd of sparks raced each other up the chimney, hot and yellow as ochre flecks from an Orlesian painter's brush. Flora's head tipped to the side and came to rest somewhere near his armpit: their height was too disparate for it to rest on his shoulder. Her body fit alongside his like two Nevarran nesting dolls slotting together; his palm still wrapped around her arm. Alistair could feel the heat of her firewarmed skin through her shirt. When he moved his other hand towards the poker, a dark red filament of hair clung to his sleeve.
After prodding a slithering log into the depths of the fire, he leaned back against the edge of the bed. His sister-warden turned her face into him, her nailbitten fingers curling in the loose fabric of his shirt. Alistair did not move, because he did not want her to move. He decided to stay awake for the few hours that remained in the night.
Immediately, the young Warden felt a lash of guilt; the heat of his commander's accusatory stare blistered his conscience.
There was nothing between them, he told himself with a sort of nervous defiance, or perhaps there was something, but it was only in its infancy; and now he's dead. A dead man has no claim on the living.
Anyway, this is harmless.
His finger moved absentmindedly down her shoulder, tracing the stitching that held the coarse material together. There was a gap in the seam where the thread had slackened; after a moment, Alistair realised that he was touching the bare flesh of her arm and stopped hastily. When he looked up - self-conscious, as though Duncan might be watching them through the Veil - his attention was snared by the gleaming length of his sword. It rested against the hearth, forty inches of freshly oiled steel. Most men would have grasped such a hefty blade with two hands; the scale and power of Alistair's frame allowed him to wield it in a single grip.
Then he saw a slice of Flora's face reflected in the polished metal: her throat, a portion of her mouth, the dark lashes of her eye settled against her cheek. He thought that she looked younger when she slept: the structural beauty softened, the haughtiness stripped away to fine bones. He wondered if the Templars at the Circle had guessed her age correctly; then told himself firmly that it did not matter, because she was his friend, and his sister-warden, and nothing more.
"I have a question."
Morrigan's voice curled out of the darkness, low and amused. Once he had recovered from his shock, Alistair scowled into the gloom.
"How long have you been spying on us?" he demanded, though in a whisper. "I hate it when you… skulk in corners. It's so sneaky."
Alistair could hear the smirk in her responding laugh. He still could not see her, though he could sense that she was nearby. The moon had drifted behind the cloud; the silver stripes decorating the floor had dissolved.
"Are you not going to entertain my question? It is a most intriguing one."
He raised his eyes to the ceiling beams, unwilling to move lest it disturb the girl snoring quietly at his side.
"Fine. What is it? And quietly, or you'll wake her up."
"'Tis rumoured that Grey Wardens are known for their... prowess in the bedchamber," said Morrigan, archly."Current virginal company excepted , naturally. My mother had heard good things of Duncan Rivaini, and often regretted that she had never had the chance to…"
She chortled softly to herself. Alistair felt a vein throbbing in his temple. He was aware of his late commander's formidable reputation - it had been a perennial, raucous topic of conversation at the Wardens' fire - but could not see how it was relevant now. He remained silent, watching the sliver of Flora's sleeping face in the sword.
"Anyway," Morrigan continued, suppressing a sly smile. "My question is this: are two Wardens allowed to bed each other?"
The air in the room tautened. Alistair felt a sweat break out on his forehead. Praying that his voice emerged steadily - to his relief, it did - he replied: "As far as I'm aware. There's no rule against it, we aren't priestesses. Why?"
The witch smirked in the darkness; he could feel her amusement like a thistle against his skin.
"Why? I'm just curious. After all, the Grey Wardens are legendary within Ferelden. I had heard many stories from my mother, and from the Wilder men."
Alistair said nothing, aware that she would pounce on any reply that he gave her and toy with it for her own amusement. He found that his eyes kept returning to the reflection of Flora's face on the blade. Her lips seemed as though they were moving, but it was a mere trick of the firelight. A flicker of movement caught his eye and he saw Morrigan leaning against the hearth, wrapped in her musky old fur from head to toe. Alistair could have sworn that she had not been there a moment ago.
"She's very beautiful," the witch observed begrudgingly, canting her chin towards their slumbering companion. "I suppose that the gods needed to compensate for her simple-mindedness somehow."
"She's not simple,"retorted Alistair, with a sudden flash of real anger. "She's just… eccentric. She sees the world differently. You haven't seen her magic. It's… it's incredible."
"Hm," said Morrigan, and he got the sense that she was pleased by his outburst. "Have you not thought about bedding her?"
He spluttered. "She's my sister-warden!"
"A sister-warden is not a sister."
Alistair mouthed silently into the firelight, suddenly uncomfortably hot beneath his tunic. He wished desperately that the damned witch would change the subject, or - better yet - that she would stop talking.
"I'm surprised that she's still a virgin," Morrigan continued, ignoring the young Wardens's silent plea. "Men must have coveted her for years. Although she seems more interested in blasted fish than anything else; so perhaps 'tis not that strange. I am not surprised that you are a virgin, however. It is obvious ."
Alistair let out a low, almost involuntary groan. He wished that he had continued with his Templar training long enough to learn how to silence a mage; although he was unsure whether this prevented them from speaking, or just from spellcasting. The resentment towards Morrigan felt like curdled milk in his belly: he had been looking forward to sitting before the hearth, with a solid roof overhead, a door between them and the world, and - last but not least - his sister-warden snoring at his side.
Reprieve came in the form of a half-yawned question.
"What if the guards try and arrest me tomorrow?" mumbled Flora, her face still half-turned into his shirt. "I don't got time to be put in a cage. I have to persuade Aspen to join us."
Alistair wondered how much of the conversation she had heard. She made no comment on it, preoccupied with her own concerns.
"I won't let them arrest you again," he heard himself saying, his fingers gripping the warm flesh of her arm. "I promise, Flo."
The witch let out a snort, her gaze gleaming a pale gold in the darkness. Flora smiled - he saw her reflected mouth curve upwards in the length of the sword - and closed her own eyes; her head dropping back against Alistair's shoulder.
AN: Ooohhhh things are so busy at the moment so this chapter took a while to finish! We're putting the apartment on the market so my parents have come from Wales and they're basically doing all the DIY that we're too clueless to understand :P I've been running errands for them, for things like "grout", lol
OK, a few things about this chapter! Firstly, it takes Alistair a while to locate Flora because her spirits are suppressing the taint within her body; so she's not as easy to pick up on through the usual Warden method of honing in on something with the taint.
Secondly, the Qunari introduced himself last chapter as "a Sten of the Beresaad," and Flora misheard it as "Aspen", haha
This isn't the last time we'll be having this conversation about the relationship between Wardens, either! It's inspired by a piece of in game banter.
Anyway I hope you enjoy this little chapter of relationship building!
