Once it had been decided that Leliana would join their party, the young Wardens returned to the bedchamber to retrieve their belongings. It did not take long to gather up their scant possessions and pile them haphazardly into the packs. Cloaks or coats were slung around shoulders; boots retrieved from the dusty realm beneath the bed. Alistair strapped on his sword-belt while resolving to never break his fast unarmed again. Flora checked that the treaties were still tucked beneath her shirt - the parchment rested stiff and rippled against her skin - then reminded herself to retrieve her staff from where it had been secreted in a hollow trunk.
"I swear, Flo," Alistair hissed as they navigated the steps down to the main tavern. "I can't listen to this Leliana woman spouting sermons for hours on end. I spent ten years listening to them while I was in the monastery."
"Maybe she won't sermonise at us ," Flora replied doubtfully, clutching the bannister as her knee gave a twinge. The weak joint had not responded well to her night of wandering the refugee camp. "Maybe she'll just… talk to Morrigan instead."
Alistair immediately brightened, the sculpted lines of his face lifting in a grin.
"And just like that, I feel a lot better," he said, reaching out a long arm to manoeuvre Flora's pack onto his own shoulder. "Why is your pack so heavy? I'd pay good coin to watch the lay sister try and convert the witch. Except you know that they'd probably kill each other."
A solemn Flora nodded; she had arrived at the same conclusion. "Ooh! Who do you think would win?"
"Ha! Maker only knows."
The other patrons of the tavern had returned to drinking with melancholy urgency; the air had a strange, prickling tension. The innkeeper was delighted to see them approach with travel packs slung over their shoulders. He bade them farewell with an insincere smile; his more candid wife glowered openly. Rumours spread swiftly through Lothering, fuelled by the taut, tremulous atmosphere. Mages were unwelcome enough beneath the tavern roof (who knew if they might exhale a stray spark and ignite the place?) but Wardens were another matter altogether, especially in light of recent events.
The unwelcome guests emerged from the tavern into a sallow wash of light. A pale yolk of sun was encircled by a mass of cloud; rain striped in bands across the sky. Lothering appeared resigned to invasion: doors were barred and windows boarded. The scant few who ventured along the roads scuttled with grim eyes fixed on their feet.
Lying in a darkened puddle outside the tavern, facedown and motionless, was the mercenary who had tried to flee. It was a stark reminder that all was not right within the beleaguered town: no guard appeared to make arrests, no priestess was summoned to cleanse the body. The corpse lay leaking where it fell; a bloody stain across the tapestry of normalcy.
Nearby, entirely unbothered, was the woman responsible. Leliana was perched atop a small cart, with the reins of a weary, spackle-muzzled mule wound over her wrist. Such was her straight-backed poise that she might have been seated in some noble's gilded carriage, headed by a well-groomed thoroughbred. The lay sister had abandoned the Chantry robe and was garbed in travelling leathers, her shorn hair braided to keep it away from her eyes. Her yew bow rested close at hand; accessible in an instant.
For Alistair, the old mule and its battered cart was a more welcome sight than any Orlesian palanquin. There were several crates wedged in the rear; alongside long rolls of canvas. Lumpen parcels of wrapped foodstuffs were stacked nearby. Leliana smiled at his raw incredulity, waving a nonchalant hand to the rear.
"I was fortunate enough to gain a little influence in this town, during the short time I was here," she murmured, leaning forward to pat the mule on the side of its neck. "I received some... donations towards our journey."
"We were eating berries and mushrooms on our way here," Alistair replied, wedging his pack and Flora's into the crowded rear of the cart. "We had to scavenge them from the Wilds, while Morrigan flew overhead and laughed at us - ah, you haven't met her yet." The corner of his mouth curved in an involuntary grin. "Our other companion."
"The black haired woman you dined with last night." Leliana smiled back, briefly. "She seems… quite the character. I assume you met her on your travels?"
This time, Alistair made no response. He had cut off a reply and looked around, before retracing his steps to where Flora was still crouched. She had just finished checking the slain assassin for signs of life - there were none - and was now trying to wrestle the corpse away from the tavern doorway, where it had been stepped over by several patrons. Her hair was disheveled and there were two flushed patches of unhappiness on the high points of her cheeks.
He helped her to move the body to the side of the porch, then caught her eye; lowering his voice.
"Flora."
She looked at him, and Alistair could see the downwards curve of the full and generous mouth; like a sickle moon upended. He had the urge to brush the wayward hair away from her face; he kept his arms deliberately stiff.
"Flora," he said again, sternly. "Flo, the man was an assassin. Someone who kills for coin. He would have brought our heads to Mac Tir in a sack."
Flora looked at her boots: in her heart, she knew this. If her general-spirit had been standing before her, the reproach would have been palpable.
The boy is right. He was an enemy.
I know! But… but.
But there was another spirit that clung to Flora's consciousness; one far older, and more potent; one that had cleaved to her a half-decade before her general's arrival. Compassion had woven itself into the fibrous thread of her being before she was old enough to pronounce its name.
"Let me guess," Alistair said, not unkindly. "You're wondering about the circumstances that set him down the path of criminality . Whether he was desperate for coin, had a sick child that needed medicine, or rent that was overdue."
"Missing meals makes any man a murderer," mumbled Flora, speaking word for word what Compassion had once told her. "He could've been hungry."
"Or, he could have been greedy. Not every criminal has a tragic past, Flo. Most are just… opportunists. Remember the bandits?"
She kept staring at her boots and he remembered that she was not used to the harsh reality of life outside the padded walls of the Circle, or Herring's barbed, deliberate isolation. He, Alistair, had seen robbers, rapers and thieves hanged with regularity before the main keep of Redcliffe Castle; their flesh-strewn skulls hung from pikes on the waybridge.
"Flo," he said, more gently. "This isn't the last time that someone will cross our path and end up dead. You can't take each one to heart."
A mournful Flora nodded, still disconsolate. Without thinking, Alistair reached out an arm and drew her towards him in an unpractised half-hug. No armour created an angular barrier between them this time; he could feel the pliable slenderness of her body sinking neatly against his own. The smell of plain soap rose from her flesh: in her own words, she had scrubbed herself that morning 'as though she were stripping scales from a fish'.
When they parted, she looked far happier. He felt a surge of shy, incredulous pride that an embrace from him - awkward, inexperienced Alistair - could cheer her up so visibly.
I was only comforting her, he explained to the reproving spectre that looked at him with coal-black Rivaini eyes. No need to stare.
Flora's spirits were further lifted by Leliana's cart, and the supplies packed within it. There was enough space for her and Alistair to ride in the back, albeit wedged between crates and rolls of canvas. Despite the sulky mien of the sky, the temperature was mild and the wind lacked the usual wintery bite.
"Our journey begins again," declared Leliana, although she seemed to be directing her remark heavenwards rather than over her shoulder to the Wardens. "Allons-y!"
The grey mule obediently set off. Recalling how she was technically a wanted woman within Lothering, Flora hunched down, and wondered if she should put a bag over her head. Meanwhile, Alistair had begun to appraise the contents of the food-crates, delight writ naked across his face.
"Fereldan cheddar, sourdough, butter - look, Flo. Pickled onions!"
"Oooh," replied Flora, peering between the wooden slats. "No more berries and mushrooms?"
"No more berries and mushrooms!"
She drew her knees up and smiled at him, the teeth rattling in her head as the cart lurched over a pothole.
"I'm still going to fish for our breakfast. I wanted to see what southern trout tastes like."
Alistair looked at his sister-warden: bundled incongruously between the canvas and precariously stacked crates. The sleeves on her overlarge woollen coat were rolled up three times. It hung from her shoulders and sagged open near her belly; the fabric seemed determined to arc away from her body at each opportunity. He wondered how warm it was, and where her travel cloak had gone. He then recalled last night's vague explanation: she had given it away.
"Do you want my cloak?"
"Eh?"
Flora was now looking at the houses filing past; shuttered and boarded. The streets of Lothering were desolate, save for a few determined residents following their instincts to either Chantry or tavern. The bell had rung out for morning service a short while prior: a defiant proclamation against the general strangeness. In the distance the windmill leaned like a crooked scarecrow over the town, a spindly silhouette against the jaundiced sky.
"Are you cold?" Alistair leaned across the cart and took her hand in his. Her small palm was soft, the fingers pliable. The nails had been bitten with practised haste.
"No," she replied, as he came to the same realisation. "I'm alright."
"Is it because of your magic?" He eyed her, curious.
Flora shrugged her shoulder, head turning as the cart passed over the small bridge that leapt the river.
"Dunno. Maybe?"
His thumb passed over her knuckles in a single, swift stroke; then, realising, he let her hand go as though it were red hot.
They were nearing the edge of the town now; the buildings were set lower and further apart. Two children ducked and wove within the derelict shell of an old grainstore, careless of their bare feet against the dirt. A fence that skirted the boundary of the town was missing half of its posts; perhaps scavenged by the refugees to prop up makeshift tents. The western road had just come into view when Flora lurched to her feet, clinging to the side of the cart.
"Stop, she beseeched, almost pitching over the edge as a wheel dipped into a pothole. "Stooop."
Leliana, who had been humming to herself as she perched on the front bench, pulled obligingly on the reins.
"Quoi de neuf?"
Flora hoisted herself over a roll of canvas and half-climbed, half-fell from the back of the cart. Her brother-warden eyed her with mild trepidation.
"Where are you going? The last time you went off on your own, you got arrested."
"I almost forgot something," she said, with the slight grimace she wore whenever her spirits hissed reproach into her ear. "I'll be back soon, don't leave without me!"
Alistair watched her scuttle between the buildings, head down and the loose neck of the coat pulled up around her face. The rich wine-red of her hair stood out like a banner against the drabness of her garb. He stared at the space where she had been for a moment, and then sat back down.
"The Maker works in strange and wonderful ways."
He resisted the urge to leap from the cart and follow Flora. Biting back a secondary impulse to make a sarcastic retort- he had no desire to argue with the wickedly spiked array in her quiver - Alistair turned to face the lay sister.
"What do you mean?" he asked, cautiously.
Leliana let the reins settle on the lean, muscled shelf of her thighs, her eyes far clearer and bluer than the sky overhead.
"At first I thought that you both seemed far too young to be defending the nation against the Darkspawn," she said, abandoning reverential artifice. "Your campaign will require a union of political acumen and military expertise: you have neither."
"Right," replied Alistair, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Why did you even want to join us then, if we're such a hopeless cause?"
The woman let out another peal of laughter; the cadence was distinctly Val Royeaux.
"It was the Maker's will," she said, as though it were obvious. "Although I would have been content to stay in Lothering's Chantry and spend my life in quiet reverence, I was destined for something…. something more. En tout cas, I do not believe your cause to be hopeless."
Alistair cast another glance between the buildings. A group of grubby children were squabbling over a scarf in one alleyway; a man slumped nearby, clutching a bottle. The air was so still and bland that it seemed almost impossible that war was coming. He turned his gaze towards the south-west; the Southron Hills were little more than an uneven indigo smear on the horizon.
"You have great strength and presence in combat," continued the lay-sister confidently; unfazed by his silence as she recalled the bench hurled halfway across the tavern. "I believe that soldiers would follow you into battle, even against such a terrible foe as the Darkspawn."
"Thanks," he said, drily. "But I'm no commander. I leave most decisions to my sister-warden."
"Ah, oui. Your 'sister-warden'," repeated Leliana, leaning forward to pat the old grey's sinewy neck. "She looks like a doll that I once coveted as a little girl back in Orlais. My mother wouldn't buy her for me because it was too costly. She was kept in a glass case; and I said bonjour to her each time that I was sent out on an errand."
The woman let her sentence hang in the air. Her eyes grew distant as she summoned her younger self; scampering along the polished cobbles of Val Royeaux with orange blossom crushed beneath her bare feet and the Chant drifting between enamelled spires.
"Anyway," she said then, head jerking in an imperceptible shake. "Your sister-warden is exquisite and armies would travel half the world at her summons. Are you lovers?"
The back of Alistair's skull collided with the cart as he startled.
"Wha- no! Why- why would you -?"
Leliana laughed, deliberate and disarming.
"Forgive me. I was curious."
He willed the crimson flush to stay beneath his collar, squinting purposefully towards the windmill. It leaned like a drunkard over the western part of the town, except it was motionless, one sail bent and broken: Alistair hoped that nobody in Lothering was thinking about grinding flour anyway; not with the horde a thickening line on the horizon.
"She's a good healer," he heard himself say, as Leliana looked at him. "And she has a shield that's saved my life in battle."
"Hein?"
"Everyone gets so distracted by what she looks like, they don't realise how clever she is. Not in the traditional way, but..." Alistair flailed for words, not entirely sure where his sentence was leading him. "But… she's more than just a face."
The corner of Leliana's mouth curved upwards several degrees. She was about to reply, when a minor commotion surged between the row of buildings towards them.
"Let's gooooo!"
Both Leliana and Alistair looked towards the source of the noise. Flora was scuttling towards them, pink-cheeked from the cold air; still buried in the man's woollen coat. The plump braid bounced behind her like a show pony's tail and her staff was tucked beneath her arm. Accompanying her was a vast and scowling Qunari, each stride equating three of her scampering steps.
"Let's go, let's gooo!" Flora beseeched as she approached the cart, half-appalled and half-excited by her own daring. "Quick, quick! Get in, Aspen!"
The Qunari cast a derisive eye over the weary pack mule and laden cart.
"A warrior is not transported like baggage," he retorted, bluntly. "It is a dishonourable way to travel. I will keep up."
"You won't keep up with our blazing speed," retorted Flora, accepting an open-mouthed Alistair's hand as she clambered into the back of the cart. "We're about to go faster than a flying fish in a stiff breeze! Ha! And we're off!"
They were not off. Both her brother-warden and Leliana were staring at her in astonishment. Flora blinked back at them, confused as to why they did not seem to share her urgency.
"Quick," she repeated, a faint line furrowing into her brow. "This horse needs to gallop! Like we did when we left the Circle. We have to go, now."
"This is a mule, Flo," Alistair said, trying not to laugh. "It's not the same as the creatures we rode back then. It goes slowly."
" ARGH! How slow?"
"Walking pace?"
She pulled at her face in alarm. "Oh no!"
The Qunari let out a low rumble of scorn. Alistair stared at his sister-warden, suspicion narrowing his eyes. Flora had twisted around to peer back between the buildings in the direction she had come from, fingers curled over the cart's wooden rail.
"Why? What have you done?"
Flora shot him a doleful look over her shoulder, rubbing her knee.
"Ran through the refugee camp yelling 'GET OUT, GET OUT, THE DARKSPAWN ARE COMING'," she confessed, gloomily. "Then broke Aspen out of his cage. I thought we could make a quick getaway."
Alistair started to laugh. As if on cue, a cluster of angry guards appeared between the smithy and the derelict grainstore. They set eyes on the cart, and Flora perched in the back of it. She hastily ducked her head behind a crate; it was too late, they had spotted her.
"There she is! The apostate!"
"Quick, get her before she escapes! Call the Templars!"
From a particularly zealous one: "Burn the witch!"
Alistair stopped laughing. He glanced to the side to ensure that his sword was still propped up beside a tightly rolled tent - it was - then swung his gaze towards Leliana.
"Let's get out of here."
An: Ughhh I hate DIY so much! Have been working on the flat for ages to prepare it for the market. Though I'm so excited to be leaving London and moving back to Wales! Even though it's all uncertain because I won't have a job when I get back; I can't be away from my family and friends any longer, and I miss living by the sea! I feel the same way about it as Flora and Herring haha
Anyway, I've now spent about 38399374 chapters in Lothering so time to move on hohoho
